از طرفِ
شهریار حنیفه

It may seem unprofessional and unnecessary, but I must say that, to begin the discussion about ‘Breathless’ by Jean-Luc Godard—or rather, even before actually starting the discussion—I feel the need to clarify my personal understanding and meaning of certain cinematic terms right here at the outset of this text. I need to share my mental definitions with the esteemed reader of this piece. These points absolutely require explanation and elaboration to establish a more comprehensible dialogue with the reader of this article. And while I acknowledge that one could probably scatter these explanations throughout the article in a less obtrusive manner so that they might seem less bothersome, well… I am not such an accomplished expert to claim that level of finesse.
So, before delving into any discussion centered on ‘Breathless’ by Jean-Luc Godard, I want to first extract and articulate certain ideas from my mind: 1- What I refer to as mainstream cinema? 2- What I mean by cinema of attractions?

***
Although what is generally referred to as mainstream is that which, through the aid of time and the insistence on repetition, establishes its rules and understanding for the audience and becomes favored, the author of this text prefers to slightly amplify the deviation from this statement in their own mind. I will say how, but I will not say why!
To tell you the truth, I wrote down the reasons several times, edited them, rewrote them, and edited them again. However, in the end, no matter how I examined them or from what perspective, I always reached the same conclusion: their presence serves no purpose other than to make this text, which is already lengthy in and of itself, even longer. Therefore, I decided to remove the reasons—the simplest solution.
That said, if I were to briefly comment, I must say that the definition presented earlier is often a workable and acceptable one when examining popular films that, incidentally, become immortalized in history. However, when delving deeper into historical data—such as examining lesser-remembered films that are also mainstream—this definition itself leads to contradictions and the emergence of ambiguous questions rather than resolving contradictions, which would require a lengthy explanation.
Or, for instance, when analyzing a film like ‘Breathless’, none of the patterns used in it were familiar to audiences of 1960. One could list a hundred reasons and claims as to why the film is avant-garde and fundamentally not made for an audience unfamiliar with cinema history. Yet, on the other hand, we observe that the film managed to create widespread appeal within its own society, and audiences, in an oddly compelling way, overlooked its challenging form and watched it until the very end. Therefore, we are compelled to acknowledge that the film, besides being on the list of avant-garde works, also belongs on the list of mainstream films, even though its composition lacks the two elements of time and repetition. So, should we reconsider our initial definition, or not?
In my opinion, there have been films in the history of cinema that, through their direct or indirect avant-gardism, have become part of the audience’s growth process. These are films that serve as gateways to a vast structure built from countless mainstream movies. It cannot be said that just because these films did not initially adhere to established rules and concepts—or even rebelled against some of them—they are not Mass Appeal films and are instead contre-courant (as the French say, “Contre courant”).
In fact, it would be more accurate to describe these works as turning points (or potential turning points) that prevent old, time-tested cycles from repeating endlessly. From a certain moment, from a certain point in time, the audience’s understanding steps onto another level of the uphill path of perception.
To put it more simply: Godard’s ‘Breathless’ sold close to 500,000 tickets in Paris alone—a city where, at the time, the population of moviegoers (aged 15 to 65) was approximately one million. To add context, films in Paris during that era typically sold fewer than 100,000 tickets on average—about one-fifth of what ‘Breathless’ achieved. Can such an event be attributed solely to the allure of pure avant-gardism and the support of niche cinephile audiences?
Thus, my definition of mainstream cinema connects to the initial definition with an additional clause: any film that has the potential to be swiftly accepted within the audience’s mental framework—within the first twenty percent of its runtime—through any means (even at the cost of the audience finding its techniques or outcomes distasteful, albeit a palatable distaste) and through any logic (even if untested in the real world), I, the writer, would label as mainstream.
But cinema of attractions—a term that may not be particularly familiar to students of cinema.
The world of mainstream cinema, before Jean-Luc Godard, had undergone three eras of “great forgetfulness.” The first was the introduction of color to films, a change that was seen as a deeply disruptive transformation by filmmakers. A significant number initially rejected it, and a small minority never accepted it—ever.
The second was the arrival of sound in the form of dialogue, which, similarly, went through a challenging and controversial period of adaptation.
And finally, before these two, further back in time, was the introduction of storytelling to cinema—a shift towards literature, transitioning away from a kind of cinema that some theorists today refer to as cinema of attractions.
But what is my interpretation and understanding of the cinema of attractions?
It was a form of cinema whose primary life stretched from the early 1890s (the first years following the invention of the Kinetograph) to the early 1910s. This was a cinema made with films that were not shot in constructed studios but rather in urban spaces as their natural locations. The filming often had an improvised quality, with no elaborate props or setups. It was as though one were looking out of a taxi window, seeing everything exactly as it was—nothing placed there specifically for the viewer or the film. Image after image.
People did not go to the cinema to hear stories. Instead, cinema created a space where they could watch their city from a different perspective—and themselves, too—as they went about woodworking, bricklaying, exercising, reading newspapers, eating, or staring intently into the lens of the camera.
A cinema in which people did not play roles or pretend to be something they were not: people were simply themselves. (Interestingly, the word “Hypocrite” in Greek means an actor, and in English, it translates to someone who is disingenuous!) A time when people had not yet realized that instead of simply being ordinary, they could go to film studios, get paid, and pretend to be ordinary.
Films in the era of the cinema of attractions were a collection of performative actions (a term used by Tom Gunning) designed to astonish the audience; a spectacle built from the material of urban images; real images (with emphasis: not fabricated).
Now, consider these eras of great forgetfulness in your mind. Which of them, on a large scale in mainstream cinema (and not experimental cinema), was revived in the years following?
It’s clear that none of them! Sometimes even artists from earlier periods couldn’t revive themselves in the new era, let alone the entire period being revived! We remember films like ‘Sunset Boulevard’ directed by Billy Wilder, ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ directed by Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen, and ‘The Artist’ directed by Michel Hazanavicius—films about these very challenges.
Nevertheless, I, the author, believe that Jean-Luc Godard, the French filmmaker, while not achieving a complete revival, managed to cleverly integrate fragments of the cinema of attractions into mainstream cinema. In doing so, he cemented his name in the history of cinema as an exemplary filmmaker in this regard. I think such a phenomenon—a return to a forgotten era in mainstream cinema and its propagation—has not been similarly repeated in the hundred-plus-year history of cinema.
This discussion is not solely about a particular film but rather about a multi-year movement that began with the recognition and appreciation of two or three films, eventually leading to the phenomenon known as the French New Wave, which radically altered the trajectory of filmmaking. The New Wave, influenced by its flagship work, ‘Breathless’, was an extreme reference to the cinema of attractions. It should be noted that this extremity did not detract from its experimental nature. Perhaps this excess was a kind of fury—a fury that, surprisingly, was accepted by the public. (Experimental films, due to their break from convention, are rarely seen or embraced by the masses.)
The New Wave was a direct and uncompromising defiance of the slogan of “returning to normalcy,” a normalcy that had itself become abnormal! It was a return to a forgotten cinema, a hidden life—concealed behind the studio system—and the reintroduction of a forgotten convention (not a break from convention) into the mainstream cinema of France. However, it was done in a manner… in a manner… I believe the term furious I mentioned earlier is an apt description for this group of filmmakers!
Furious, with strange behavior! As Godard recounted in his 1978 spring interview with Télérama:
“To fight against the cinema we despised, we went so far as to attack even the people involved in it! We didn’t even spare their appearance or how they tied their ties!”
At this point in the text, I imagine the reader of this essay might feel that examining the French New Wave through the lens of the cinema of attractions is a sort of conflation or a misleading detour. After all, this was a form of cinema that had ceased to exist many years earlier and might not even have been watched by the New Wave filmmakers themselves! A cinema with primitive ideas that could hardly captivate the variety-seeking audiences of the media and television era—ideas that depicted people going to offices and factories in the morning, boarding trains, arriving at stations, and so on. What connection could this possibly have to the New Wave?
On the other hand, the cinema of attractions had no narrative structure, while the New Wave filmmakers were staunch admirers of literature! Is this connection and claim not an unwarranted generalization about this movement? Does it not overlook many things? (It is evident that Godard’s ‘Breathless’, unlike the attractions, has a deep connection to literature, and it is equally evident that Godard’s works, unlike the attractions, are profoundly critical.)
To address these hypothetical criticisms, I, the author, can say that I have no intention of forcibly drawing this connection. I suggest you stay with me until the end of this essay to better understand what I mean by these hypotheses.
It has often occurred to me in my conversations with film enthusiasts that, as we delve a little into the past and scrutinize it, I realize the French New Wave filmmakers they are familiar with are limited to Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, Jacques Rivette, Éric Rohmer, Agnès Varda, Claude Chabrol, and Chantal Akerman. However, what is evident and indisputable—easily discoverable with just a bit of research—is that the French New Wave, given the vast number of artists in France and its extended timeline (spanning over a decade), was accompanied by a multitude of films and filmmakers, both prominent and obscure, much like any other long-lasting and significant movement in cinema history. (Not to mention, the seven filmmakers mentioned collectively made nearly 400 films over their lifetimes, and undoubtedly, many enthusiasts haven’t even seen half of them.)
What’s particularly noteworthy about the French New Wave is that this diversity in films and filmmakers was not only remarkably striking but also a fundamental appeal that drew audiences to cinemas to watch these films. The novelty of first-time filmmakers, their variety, and the unique dynamics of film production became a significant part of the attraction! First-time directors whose debut films often became box office successes, with their very status as “first-time” filmmakers serving as a form of advertisement. As Jacques Doniol-Valcroze, one of the founders of Cahiers du Cinéma, recalled, producers would flock to the magazine’s offices, requesting: “If you know any young aspiring directors under the age of twenty-five who haven’t made a film yet, we’re willing to invest so they can make one.”
These young filmmakers, with their distinctive and unconventional approaches to filmmaking, created a ripple effect in which other contributors to their films—actors, cinematographers, editors—also gained unexpected fame and recognition. Soon after, these contributors would go on to make their own films, while audiences flocked to theaters to see a new work from someone who had been part of a previous notable production.
So, how could such a movement possibly be reduced to, say, just seven filmmakers?
I quote Jean-Luc Douin from an interview with Nouvel Observateur (January 1977):
“Jacques Rivette filmed ‘Le Coup du berger’ at Claude Chabrol’s house and cast Jacques Doniol-Valcroze as an actor. François Truffaut directed ‘Une histoire d’eau’, and Godard edited it. Éric Rohmer cast Godard as an actor for ‘La sonate à Kreutzer’. Rohmer’s next short film, ‘Véronique et son cancre’, was produced by Chabrol. Eventually, Rivette began filming ‘Paris nous appartient’ with an 80,000-franc loan from Cahiers du Cinéma’s fund, paying for shooting and lab costs after the film was released. Claude Chabrol provided some leftover raw film stock from his production of ‘Les Bonnes Femmes’, enabling Rivette to complete his film. These new filmmakers created something far greater than just a wave”.
Watching their works became widespread among the public, and their films achieved high box office sales. There were films that failed commercially (such as ‘Lola’ by Jacques Demy, ‘Un singe en hiver’ by Henri Verneuil, or even ‘Une femme est une femme’ by Jean-Luc Godard), but overall, the success of these films brought a renewed vibrancy to French cinema—compared to the years before—and completely sidelined the so-called old and repetitive filmmakers, as described by the critics of Cahiers du Cinéma. These included directors like Marc Allégret, René Clair, Gilles Grangier, Claude Autant-Lara, Louis Daquin, Jean Laviron, Raoul André, and others.
What’s particularly noteworthy is that this phenomenon—where new filmmakers pushed aside the older generation and revitalized cinema sales—was something that did not apply, at all, to other cinematic movements that emerged in various countries during certain periods, where a group of filmmakers and critics would label themselves as a “New Wave.”
There is little need for proof, but to provide a small statistic in continuation of my other research and numerical analyses—some of which were previously mentioned—I must note that in French cinema, between 1960 and 1965, approximately forty percent of the films produced were made by filmmakers who had directed fewer than four feature films in their careers up to that time! A staggering figure for any country, and astonishing for mainstream cinema to be dominated in such a way by newcomers! Therefore, it is not surprising that the perspective of older French filmmakers toward the younger generation was often defensive (another difference between the French New Wave and other so-called waves! For example, in Iran and other countries, older filmmakers generally approve of and are fond of their nation’s New Wave, and, of course, they are aware that the newcomers pose no real threat to them).
For instance, Raoul Coutard, in an interview with Vincent Rogard, remarked:
“The worst thing, in my opinion, was that the New Wave damaged cinema as a whole, in the sense that it made everyone think they could make a film.”
Regarding the producers’ preference for the New Wave filmmakers, the early retirement of older directors, and the unexpectedly rapid generational shift, I can quote a portion of Claude Autant-Lara’s interview with René Prédal, the French historian and writer:
“Let me begin by saying that the New Wave was a completely harmful interruption to French cinema… [A bit further on:] I have made sacrifices for French cinema, and none of these young people have done anything comparable. I laid the professional foundations of this field, but now these so-called new filmmakers have arrived, strolling down the path I paved, and they’ve pushed us aside… [Later:] Now, a bunch of young people have entered the scene whose only skills are smoking cigarettes and chatting; they aim to replace us—people like Godard, Robbe-Grillet, Duras. They’re dragging producers into the mud… [Later still:] I agree that we must make room for the younger generation, but not to the extent of declaring, ‘Death to the old!’”
It is clear that what drew producers so strongly toward the young New Wave filmmakers, and what so infuriated the older directors, was not avant-gardism—after all, avant-gardism could never survive a decade in any madhouse! Avant-gardism poses no threat to mainstream filmmakers; everyone knows that audiences consistently gravitate toward works that are logical, established, and grounded in the safe cinema whose rules they already understand (perhaps with a touch of forgivable innovation).
Moreover, wasn’t France already home to modernist artists and innovative filmmakers before the likes of Godard, Resnais, and Rivette? Just shortly before the period under discussion, Jacques Tati directed ‘Mon Oncle’ in 1958, and Robert Bresson directed ‘Pickpocket’ in 1959—films and filmmakers who, it was said, were even admired by the mainstream cinema establishment! Crucially, these works posed no threat to their box office success.
Thus, one might more confidently argue that in the works associated with the New Wave filmmakers, there was either no avant-gardism at all (which allowed them to gain popularity), or if there was, few were interested in assigning such labels to these films or viewing them through an elitist lens. (Whether this lack of interest stemmed from deliberate indifference or simply because they were not deemed significant enough to merit such attention, I cannot say. Or perhaps audiences simply failed to recognize such elements when watching these films.)
Given this context, it is unsurprising that, after being knocked out by their rivals, one would feel utterly disheartened—left without a clear analysis of why they lost, why Tati and Bresson, who were undoubtedly more original, did not defeat them before, and why these upstart young filmmakers managed to knock them out instead. Such frustration would only lead to greater anger.
Consider this quote from Robert Benayoun, a French-Moroccan filmmaker and writer who also contributed to Positif: “The film ‘Breathless’ laid the foundation for a chaotic, haphazard style that undoubtedly stemmed from a deep dissatisfaction with traditional cinematic language. However, this rebellion and agitation remained at the level of sloppiness and disarray. Even if one were to accept it, at best, it amounts to cinema-hotchpotch.”
Or take Michel Faber’s comment: “One could say that in every film of the New Wave movement, I see traces of a filmmaker afflicted with epilepsy.”
And Jean Cau, the French journalist: “Even if I were burned at the Place de Grève or excommunicated, I would still doubt the existence of the New Wave cinema and the genius attributed to it.”
It must also be considered that among the filmmakers of the New Wave, no shared influences or common occurrences emerged that could explain this defeat or justify this anger through analysis and linking them together. Let’s assume that, for some unknown (or perhaps unknown to us) reason, people were drawn to the works of a distinct filmmaker like Godard. Well… his avant-gardism is entirely different from Rivette’s avant-gardism! So why do both gain popularity and sell well? And Alain Robbe-Grillet too? And the others? Does this mean that, at the same time, the tastes of all people in a single period suddenly turned toward all avant-gardists—of every kind?
Even looking at this statistically presents an improbably strange possibility that doesn’t add up, and there are counterexamples that disprove this notion. For example, why were the works of Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet not welcomed by the general audience during the same period? Or the works of Marguerite Duras? Or Chris Marker? Or René Laloux?
Pierre Kast also pointed to this lack of alignment and the absence of shared traits among these filmmakers under a single label:
“Among those of us gathered under the banner of what is called the New Wave, there was neither aesthetic commonality nor ideological unity.”
To summarize: from here, I think that within this movement (whether among its challenging films or its more accessible ones), there was a hidden, shared element that managed to draw people toward it. Something so obvious that it was overlooked in analyses and never identified or introduced at that time as a distinct element. Something that filmmakers like Tati and Bresson lacked—or perhaps had, but in a more specific and less perceptible form.
So, I repeat once more: the reawakening of the spirit of attractions—in a way that was collective and inclusive.
In the continuation of this text, I will discuss Godard’s ‘Breathless’ and, from my perspective, highlight the elements/incantations that served to summon this lost spirit. A unique way of looking (likely influenced by Roberto Rossellini and Jean Rouch) that tore away the artificial veneer of Paris (the real Paris: with all its chaos and exasperation) and asked people once again to freely and willingly gaze directly into the lens of the camera.
In order of my personal preferences, I’ll list them:
One. Several urban spaces are repeatedly mentioned in the film, giving it a unique identity. In other words, the act of naming transforms a street into something more than just a street. This street is not merely an ordinary one meant to be consumed—it has an identity of its own: the Champs-Élysées (once even referred to as “Champs” by Michel, drawing from a sense of collective history and familiarity), the repeated appearances of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, the mention of the Royal restaurant (around the 9th minute), the mention of George V Avenue (around the 11th minute), the display of the Jardin des Tuileries tower (around the 50th minute), the interview sequence with the writer (played by Jean-Pierre elville) at Paris Orly Airport, the mention of Monte Carlo, and so on.
The funniest part comes at the end of the film when Patricia betrays Michel and gives the police the complete address: 11 rue Campagne-Première! It seems normal, of course—she’s just giving an address! But due to the unfamiliarity introduced by studio films, it feels oddly uncommon!
Would you agree that there are very few films in which the director strives so intensely to provide the audience with addresses and introduce a city? Even in the sequence where Michel is in a hurry and wants to reach his destination quickly (at the 63rd minute), he tells the taxi driver to take a shortcut through the Châtelet area!
The posters on the walls, the names of the shops, the billboards, and even the shouts of the shopkeepers advertising the brands of their goods—all of it stands out. The newspapers shown range from The New York Herald Tribune (which is not only shown but also highlights the newspaper’s headquarters) to Paris-Flirt (at 01:06) and France-Soir (at 13:00 and 55:00).
Paris exists in ‘Breathless’. A Paris whose voice is constantly heard!

Two. The integration of cinematic storytelling with city materials; for instance, when Michel’s name is displayed as the murderer on the city center’s electronic board, or his photograph, which appears in all the newspapers, providing city-visual data that justifies multiple dramatic needs in the screenplay. Or the scene of the motorcyclists’ maneuver, which causes chaos in the city, enabling Patricia to escape from the police. Even the moment where Patricia, in a gesture of excitement after kissing the journalist, leaps over the illuminated streetlights on the pavement, conveying her emotions to the audience (minute 27).

Three. I love the dialogue-heavy sequences set in the city; the characters are familiar with their environment. There’s no sense of awkwardness in the way they walk, sit, or stand. Interestingly, even in the simplest shots within these scenes, the camera is never static—it moves gently, resembling the filming style of an amateur or an ordinary person recording their family or the events around them. Alternatively, it feels akin to documentary filmmaking. I’ll quote Raoul Coutard, the cinematographer of ‘Breathless’, who, in an interview with Vincent Roussel, mentions that during filming, Godard told him, “Think of the cameraman here as a reporter following the characters.”

In all of these scenes, people look directly into the camera. There’s even a moment (at the 18th minute) where Michel gazes at Bogart’s photograph, and through the reflection in the glass, we can see a man walking behind Michel. The man pauses briefly and stares directly into the camera lens through the glass reflection.
The best example, in my opinion, is the film’s final scene. Here, the almost carnival-like presence of the crowd blends with the narrative as Michel, after being shot, walks down the entire street. The bystanders step aside, watching him and the camera, as if Michel is performing in a piece of street theater with the audience present on stage. Their astonished gazes, at the climax of the story and the most dramatic moment of the writer’s imagination, loudly declare the reality to the audience: This is just a film.

Four. Some of the actions performed by the people in the film, whether staged or not (it doesn’t matter), feel improvised. For example, around the 17th minute, there’s a moment when the girl in the hotel informs the police of Michel’s presence and then mimics gestures for her colleague at the hotel, who stares at her dumbfounded. It’s an excellent piece of acting that doesn’t change the story whether it’s included or not, but its presence makes the people in the scene feel more real.
And, of course, the frequent gazes into the camera throughout the film. The best example, I think, is the scene with the motorcyclists’ maneuver, where Michel walks past the police, holding a newspaper in front of his face to avoid recognition. But the officers are neither focused on Michel nor the newspaper he’s hiding behind—they’re instead looking directly at the film camera, completely engrossed! (Around the 70th minute).

The presence of such elements can be found in almost all works by filmmakers associated with the French New Wave—this goes without saying. And I even believe that the death of the New Wave began when Paris was lost, and films were once again directed inward, toward homes and artificial spaces with artificial people (Jean-Luc Godard himself and his political films set in colorful rooms are an example of this). This way of looking at life, at people, at dialogues, and using urban elements… to be honest, it only reminds me of what I mentioned earlier: the attractions.
Many years ago, I read in Eric L. Santner’s ‘Stranded Objects’ that rural people don’t need images, whether photographs or films. Because they live among signs themselves. It is civilization, in fact, that needs images to relive a forgotten experience in the form of an image.
In other words, from the paraphrasing of the above paragraph, one could conclude that films can sometimes serve as substitutes for a lost village, a lost land, a lost past… and, well, the writer believes this is why people were drawn to and welcomed the New Wave works: the revival of Parisian life. Not avant-gardism, nor anything else.
I’ll quote again from Godard’s conversation with Tom Milne (Sight and Sound, No. 36): “I don’t work improvisationally; I only do everything at the last minute!” And I recall reading somewhere that the making of Alphaville—which I think is his masterpiece—took only two weeks! With this in mind, I think the secret to the success of the New Wave lies here! The longer the film took to make, the more artificial it became; and the quicker it was completed (probably due to budget constraints and the carefree, lighthearted approach of these young filmmakers to cinema), the more accessible and delightful it became. Working in the last moments, changing things at the last minute, and constantly welcoming changes and environments: attractions; it’s as if you’ve gotten a last-minute ticket to see Paris, and completely unexpectedly, you have no plans for where to go, what to eat, or what to do.