The 400 Blows is reckoned one of the greatest films ever made. I beg to differ.
I won’t give a spoiler alert because there’s nothing to spoil. Nothing happens. This was François Truffaut’s directorial debut. I don’t know. If I had been around back then I would have gotten in touch with him urging him to stop making movies, for everybody’s sake. Mercifully, the movie is in French so that will warn off most of the unwary. Camera Girl and I decided to watch it tonight after I recorded it from TCM last month during its “Thirty Days of Oscar” celebration of Academy Award winning movies. Which goes to show you that the Oscars have been selecting bad movies for well over sixty-five years at least.
Wikipedia says that all of these famous filmmakers (Akira Kurosawa, Luis Buñuel, Satyajit Ray, Steven Spielberg, Jean Cocteau, Carl Theodor Dreyer, Richard Linklater, Tsai Ming Liang, Woody Allen, Richard Lester, P C Sreeram, Norman Jewison, Wes Anderson and Nicolas Cage) think this movie is one of the best movies ever made. Well, that’s too bad.
A 12-year-old boy is bored and gets in trouble at school, runs away from home and gets sent to reform school for trying to steal a typewriter from his father’s office. At the end of the movie, he escapes from the reform school and runs until he finds himself on the beach at Normandy. The End.
When the credits came up at the end Camera Girl looked at me and asked me, “That’s it? What the hell kind of a movie is that?” I said, “It’s abstract!” She was not happy. That will probably be the last French film she will be watching. I think she holds me directly responsible for this movie. I think I’ve lost some stature in her eyes because I recorded it and didn’t warn her off.
While at the reform school the kid gets in trouble and one of the men in charge slaps him in the face brutally hard. So, I was afraid the title was about some horrible beating the boy receives. But that was the only violence in the film. The real violence is against the audience. After watching this film there are ninety-nine minutes I will never get back. It should be called the “The Ninety-Nine Blows.”
I know I’m just a philistine and I don’t understand art for art’s sake. But I contend that a motion picture has to amuse the audience in some way. It can excite or frighten or sadden or confuse or fill the audience with mirth, nostalgia or lust or almost any emotion or intellectual state. But at the very minimum it cannot bore the audience to tears. That’s the one feeling it cannot summon up in the audience. That’s the one unforgiveable sin. The lights cannot come up on an audience that looks at each other and says, “What the hell was that?” That unfortunately was our reaction. If I had seen this in a theater I would have pounded on the manager’s office and demanded our money back. That’s how bad it was.
Maybe it’s the French. Being beaten by the Germans in three major wars over the course of less than a century may have done something terrible to their souls. Maybe this film is a form of revenge on a world that has beaten the snot out of them, physically, psychologically and spiritually. If that is the case, then I think they went overboard. No one, not even the Nazis deserves to watch this film. There are limits to revenge.