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Innocence of musli © David Noir

Coptic bacillus: "The innocence of Muslims"

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Seen or not seen. Good or bad, that's not the point.

Innocence of the joke

Innocence of musli © David Noir
There are only good things in tradition! | Innocence of musli © David Noir

Concerned, saddened, a little disgusted by the kind of reactions to the Innocence of Muslims film affair that have been seen and heard in the media and obviously dismayed by the tragic consequences and aftermath of the events.

I only heard Brice Couturier this morning on France Culture talking about it as I would like to hear more about it. This is not to polemicise on the "good" or "bad" Islam, about which I know nothing, any more than about any religious matter. I'm only talking about my point of view and what shocks me in the treatment given by the media and the comments read here or there. I put aside the vile assassination of the US ambassador or any other person fatally caught up in this turmoil. Vile as all assassinations are, no matter what claim to legitimacy they make. No, I want to talk here about a theme that is dear to me and directly concerns my artistic preoccupations.

Most analyses and commentaries afflict the film with a devaluing description based on the preconception that it is ugly, provocative and in bad taste. It is then argued that the actors are pathetic (which is not true), that it is a baseless piece of crap, full of crude tricks, shot by a director who has no talent...

I don't like, or rather I abhor, these hasty judgements, soaked in bad faith as much as cowardice, which take refuge behind the implicit and supposed nullity of a film whose only objective is to provoke or make fun of the Sacred It's a shameful reflection of the critical spirit that a free country should be proud of. What a pitiful reflection of the critical spirit of which a free country should be proud, these poor feathers soaked in the copy and paste of the most stupid and grovelling clichés that exist!

So to hell with the cinema of John Waters, the Monthy Python and their "Life of Brian", the films of Sacha Baron Cohen... all oxygenating alternatives to consensual stupidity that we are quite happy to applaud when the weather is not too stormy.

What bothers me, to say the least, is that in our democracy, which is rightly proud of its freedom of expression, parodies and mockery are appreciated and even praised in the name of the rebellious spirit, as long as their consequences are confined to the family framework of 'respect for limits'. If, by some unfortunate chance, they are more than just a 'hit', they become political acts which are then a matter for 'grown-ups'. Understand that in such cases, clowns and children are asked to go and play somewhere else and not to interfere in serious matters; otherwise, it is mum and dad who will have to sort out the mess and pay the price. And the creeping press follows, like a good servant on the side of the handle, disguised as a sanctimonious vigilante, with its ready-made catchphrases, its well-behaved hats and its biased articles under the guise of the objectivity of Mr and Mrs Everyman.

The standard, the ugly animal, is always in fashion.

It is very good and so much in the air, to be indignant, revolted, to show oneself taking sides with an identity of one's own and so much to everyone else.

Somehow this story, which conceals so many others, reminds me of the perverse argument that so offended me at the time of the release of Tim Burton's film "Ed Wood", narrating the life of the director of the same name. Everyone cried genius, unequivocally valuing Tim's brilliance over Ed's mediocrity, as I suppose was expected of the Hollywood filmmaker. We laughed about it, and that was quite normal, since the genius Tim possessed what the unfortunate Ed had never expressed: talent. And the brave film buffs, years later, just like the press of the time, would peddle without further thought the observation of this formidable presentation by know-how at the expense of the filmic poverty that inspired it. For my part, I did not shun the film for the pleasure it gave me in revealing the marvellous fantasy of dear Ed Wood, but I thought no less of it. Since his discovery, I believe that a certain number of critics and enlightened spectators have been able to see in Ed Wood what he had so hoped to be recognised during his lifetime: a true and profound universe whose clumsy productions contributed totally to the quality of the subject matter contained in his films, whose sole subject was the right to be different.

So maybe today, in order not to look too stupid later, it would be good, on the part of anyone who claims to have an artistic culture, to be cautious about looking down on productions that look shaky; not to draw their critical arguments from the use of cheap effects or green backgrounds that are easy to conspute, at the risk of knowing how to recognise art only in the 100% well-crafted quality. Good faith would lead one to refrain from a cookie-cutter analysis, and intelligence would aim to take a look at Pierre Kast, Jesús Franco or anyone else who does not limit poetry to what is acceptable.

For my part, I can't distinguish between Jerry Lewis, Molière or Godzilla; I like all three.

I would have a lot to say about this subject, as I am so exasperated and irritated by it that I have often been the victim of convincing stupidity and lack of audacity.

To return to this film, which is a pretext for more bloodshed than ink, I have only seen the montages circulating on the Internet. It is true that, in order to corroborate the statements of the performers, who are understandably fearful and play the abused indignant in order to protect themselves, some passages seem to be post-synchronised without ambiguity, with the aim, no doubt, of making them say words other than those they pronounced during the scenes. The process is amusing if a little cavalier. But do we blame Fellini for sometimes dubbing his actors?

The subject is obviously not there. The point is quite simple: it is not about the subjective concept of "beautiful" or "ugly", "bad" or "good", which is used to shield the problem, nor about a meritocracy of "talent" which would justify that some are more authorised than others to play the satyr. In my opinion, it is not even a question of freedom of expression alone, nor of the Islamic religion.

No, the subject is in the intellectual responsibility of weighing its words correctly and honestly in the face of a blackmail of fear that is falling on the freedoms to say and represent.

Because the freedom to laugh, to criticise, to mock, to create, even to insult... is simply freedom itself.

From then on, the law is there to settle disputes and not the rocket launcher or terror hovering as an unbearable threat. I know that by saying this, I am not solving anything - that would be too simple - about the problem of those who feel insulted and who must not be put aside because we must live together. Nevertheless, it is the business of those who speak on the airwaves, the Internet or on television - and it is to them that I am addressing myself - to clearly identify what they are defending in this matter. This cannot be done half-heartedly, nor can it be done in such a way as to imply that the subject of the debate can be condemned on the basis of scriptural or aesthetic rules, which would then become "relative".

There is no relativity to the freedom of representation or enunciation.

Do we need to recall such fundamental bases of our achievements?

It is the responsibility of every public speaker, whether a politician, journalist, educator, artist or Internet user of any kind, not to undermine this unshakeable imperative to democracy by an ambiguous discourse that might suggest that some forms of expression have less right to be heard than others.

A line in a film, a sentence in a book is not an act, but a thought put into form. It does not matter how stupid or brilliant it is. In no case does it deserve acts of repression leading to death, and above all, it must not be banned under any pretext, if only for what it reveals of a vain and 'superior' feeling towards it through human judgement.

Everyone is free to like it or to find it detestable, but if we reject it on spurious principles, then let's throw all the poetry produced in the world out with it. And this is also the war that seems to be at stake. The movements based on intolerance want only one thing, the annihilation of the cultural in favour of the cultic, be it political, dogmatic or religious. There is no question here of crossing the limits given by the law in terms of incitement to racism or other. This is not the case here. A film, good or bad, stupid or clairvoyant, remains a work of art; nothing else should be attributed to it. And God knows we are fed the most cretinous ones every day that television makes. It is very important, and even vital, to hold on to this vision in my opinion.

Representation, I know something about it since I am a director, is one of the keystones of our common well-being. It is the translation of an individual's views into a language accessible - sometimes painfully - to others. It is a bond. It can be absolutely harmful - the proof is in the aggressive advertising on our walls - but it is, by putting into words, sounds and images, the only alternative to group solitude.

To represent oneself is to speak; it is to say who one is, in all Innocence

I don't know the director of the offending film. He has been called a porn director (again, big deal!) and goes by the curious pseudonym of Sam Bacile. If his statements about being afraid of being killed are true, he seems to me dangerously naive, because anyone who follows the news, since the bounty on Salman Rushdie's head, the Prophet cartoons affair and the murder of Theo van Gogh, must know that it is notoriously risky to openly denigrate Islam.

However reckless or daring he was, and however talented he was, again, I don't think he should be looked down upon by the press; any more than the girl dressing 'too' short deserves to be despised or condemned for exciting macho violence.

Physical violence remains, in my eyes, serious and without excuse. It needs no other pretext than itself to justify itself.

Despite the sadness that our humanity and its painful evolutions inspire in me, my pun-hungry mind cannot help but be sensitive to the astonishing and incongruous homonymy existing between the pastor Terry Jones, a convinced anti-Muslim, brutal and hardly inspiring sympathy, apparently having some interest in the film and the director-actor of the same name, creator of, among other things, "Life of Brian" with Monty Python, mentioned above. It's a coincidence for the time being, as sad as it is funny.

As unforgivable and dangerously provocative as the film that is the subject of this conflict may seem, it had to be sought out to emerge from its anonymity and unleash the fury we are witnessing. Like everyone else, I am aware of the nauseating manipulations carried out on purpose, both to initiate chaos on the one hand and to respond to it on the other.

This is why I will only deal here with this aspect of things that is dear to me; the only one on which I can very modestly influence those who will read me: to plead for the freedom of representation in all circumstances and the rejection of what believes itself to be eminently serious; and this, whatever the aesthetics, the thought and the quality, because in matters of art, this is a principle superior to that of the value of the apparent content. I am not the one saying this; the history of artistic practices is a simple statement of this. Let us not forget this intermittently and according to events.

Even more than in the case of art, which is big enough to defend itself, there is, in my opinion, nothing more serious in the world than to threaten humour with extinction by summary execution, under the pretext of its bad taste or its weak scope.

And all the more so if it is gossipy, infantile or labeled with the most convincing imbecility. No matter how much we enjoy it, its existence is vital because, more broadly, we all know that much genuine humour cringes in the ears, turns the stomach and touches on scabrous subjects.

I know what intolerance is, because 90% of the things I see or hear make me sick; in life, in the metro, on the airwaves, on the screen, in the newspapers, on stage... wherever there is human production. And yet, I tolerate them anyway.

And yet, they attack me more than I can say. Nevertheless, I don't slit the throats of the advertisers who do me more harm every day than any philosophy or religion, nor of the people in charge of the RATP who deserve the pillory for making me pay a second time, in addition to the price of my ticket, by the dumbing down of my neurons and the monstrous effort of resistance I have to exert to make no room for the stupid injunctions that my eyes cannot avoid on the walls.

Doesn't the imposition of this mercantile stupidity deserve death for the pollution it generates in each of us? Yes, I have this intolerance to ineptitude and demagogy, in the purest sense of the word, that of a physical intolerance to the most toxic compounds.

And yet, like most of us, I don't kill any of those responsible for the degradation of my mental landscape. Yet what is more serious for a man than to damage his brain?

Do I have a second life to let it be spoiled by the parasite of other people's idiocy? Certainly not. But effort is the key word in our civilisations. This effort, I make it, that's all. To be a human being, to continue to live, I tolerate. It's not very glamorous, it's true, but to my knowledge there is no other solution, apart from psychic oppression or bloodshed, to live within the multitude of opinions, educations and behaviours that may seem hostile to me. I accept this effort, but not at the price of abdicating what makes me strong and relevant.

In the same way that many of us must wish that, at least in our innermost being, each individual admits that the other is simply other and that this is so, I wish to explain what constitutes my limit. This limit is that I am not forced to respect symbols that I have not chosen. I had already reacted to the decree - oh so much less resounding than this current dramatic affair - legislating on the contempt of the flag and voted discreetly last summer. (Read here.) Somewhere the same ingredients are to be found. And it occurs to me, along the way in the course of my little reflection, to ask myself who, of the state or religious institutions of the world, have the concern to respect the icons of my own atheism and in all matters, which are: the silence of the claim of beliefs and the clean slate of the liturgical sound elements that all the churches of the universe provide.

It will indeed be another world when the Sunday bells that I never wanted to hear ring in my ears will no longer be ringing. So that's how it is, and we have no choice. It is indeed on the heap of History that culture is made; as much by its waste as by its jewels.

Culture is a matter of compost; everything that is produced must ferment there, without distinction. Burlesque pantalonnades as well as the most sublime stories.

It's just a matter of remembering to look before you judge who has their finger on the trigger right now.

Late, late ! Like Alice's rabbit, the defenders of seriousness will always be late... for a war or two.

David Noir

David Noir, performer, actor, author, director, singer, visual artist, video maker, sound designer, teacher... carries his polymorphous nudity and his costumed childhood under the eyes and ears of anyone who wants to see and hear.

This Post Has 2 Comments

  1. Anne

    I came across your comment on France Culture (Chronique de Brice Couturier)
    Your analysis also gives a little air! What we hear these days is so distressing. Thank you for this step out of line.

    1. David Noir

      Thank you. Yes, it is indeed a story of "small steps for humanity", because what else can we do? Nevertheless, we can sometimes hope that a few million small steps will force us to move the lines towards less polluted air. In any case, it is up to each and every one of us to think about this.

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