Philippe Nahon... by Gaspar Noé
Philippe Nahon by Gaspar Noé: to you who will no longer speak to me
The director of "Irreversible" pays tribute to the actor and friend who died on Sunday, the main character in his films "Carne" and "I Stand Alone".
"Philippe, my dear friend, I just learned that you have passed away, that you are no more, that your memory and your life have melted into the great void, where there is no longer any meaning, no time, no space. I will no longer have the sweet chance to hold you in my arms, as I did a month ago, on the eve of the general lockdown. Since that afternoon when we were able to laugh together one last time, time has stopped. An invisible enemy has turned our city into a strange, ghostly, melancholic paradise. We sleep. We eat. We sleep some more. We follow the news. We count the sick. We count the dead. And today your name is added to this long list that keeps growing. We are like in a dream, a repetitive one, which we believe in without truly believing in it. From now on, the time that shaped you and that allowed me to meet you will continue for others, who will pass away in their turn."
We met thirty years ago. I dreamed of having fun making films, like Buñuel or Franju. You, twenty-five years my senior, had already been making them for a long time. After returning from that dirty colonial war you hadn't managed to desert, which earned you three years in a disciplinary camp, you had started making films with Reggiani and Melville. I wanted to make my first film with a male character who was the epitome of what I believed to be a normal man—complex and often lost. This "hero" had to be much older than me. He had to be a real man, around fifty, with a universal and timeless face like Jean Gabin's. I wanted a Frenchman, straightforward and sentimental. I saw a photo of you, and it was love at first sight. You came to my place, a little tipsy, and laughing at this young foreigner with his inaudible speech. You dreamed of real roles. To act, to transform yourself, to have fun, to make new friends.
As a child, you and your family survived the Second World War, and later, this time alone, the Algerian War, in which you were forced to participate. You survived the pleasures of alcohol and tobacco. And even the frustration of not being able to portray other men as charismatic as yourself. We took to each other immediately, and I introduced you to the woman who would play your daughter. In no time, the deal was done. We were leaving victorious! We did Carne . You had become my confused and human butcher, all too human. You brought so much grace to this character who, through his actions and thoughts, was your antithesis, that after that first crime, rather than making a feature film with real resources, I wanted only one thing: to continue the same story with you, a sequel, whether short or long, but with you, and pushing this cornered and enraged man, whom one couldn't help but love, even further. The title came very quickly: Alone Against All. It was supposed to be another medium-length film, but after two years of small, scattered, and low-budget shoots, this sequel became a full-fledged film. Even more than before, we had become great allies, true friends who could ask each other anything, except for the money we didn't have. The film would once again be driven by the butcher's chaotic thoughts, with that spectacular, deep, warm, and anachronistic voice that was yours. And the only time you said no to me was when we recorded that voiceover that was supposed to say: "Love, friendship, they don't exist. It's all nonsense."
You believed very deeply in friendship, and it seemed inconceivable to you to utter those words. I agreed with you, even though I protested that the butcher was a depressed man and that, in any case, he wasn't you. You recorded it anyway. Our eyes met, and I understood at that moment that this character was actually a blend of the two of us. That we were fighting together, among everyone and against everyone, to fully enjoy this realm of transgression that cinema can be. We proudly finished that film, and then you made many others, mainly with young directors who also identified with you. And when I was able to make my first commercial production, Irreversible , I insisted that the film open with you, and with closer shots than for any of the other characters in the story. We remained close all these years, like two brothers or a nephew and his favorite uncle. Browning had met his Lon Chaney, Scorsese his De Niro. And me, far from these giants, I still had the pleasure of meeting you, and I could never have wished for anything better.
A few months ago, I bought a new camera to film a semi-documentary epilogue to our butcher's life. After your accident, you had trouble remembering words. So I enjoyed imagining a film without pre-written dialogue.
But the world had a huge surprise in store for us. In these last few days, you may have glimpsed a future that doesn't quite work out. Our streets are empty, and under the sun, people are afraid of the present as well as what lies ahead. This inanimate virus that feeds on the life of others made its way to your body, already weakened by other ailments, and took you away. I hope your last moments were peaceful. Painkillers sometimes bring a peace that one doesn't find otherwise. In the current situation, there were no final embraces; you had to leave alone. There is no funeral, no ceremony. I won't be able to mourn with your loved ones. For now, each of us will grieve alone, in our own way. Alone, and without you.
Life goes on. But not the love of your wife Elisabeth, nor of your daughter Nelly, nor of your grandsons Gabin and Nino, nor my unfiltered friendship, nor the empathy of the viewers, filmmakers, and friends who were lucky enough to discover you on screen or in life. People come and go, but with a little luck, some of their traces remain. Your voice will no longer warm us, but its echoes will always resonate within me.
Ah, Philippe, what fun we had! Friendship does exist. You were right." GN