La Nuit La Plus Longe / ‘Sexus’ (José Bénazéraf, 1965)

Of all the eccentric directors who roamed the hinterlands between art and exploitation in European cinema through the ‘60s and ‘70s, the Moroccan-born, Paris-based José Bénazéraf (1922 – 2012) remains one of the more elusive. Lacking either the poetic earnestness of Rollin or the grindhouse ubiquity of Franco, denied the arthouse cred of Alain Robbe-Grillet, and without ever achieving a breakthrough hit like Larraz’s ‘Vampyres’, Bénazéraf is very much an outsider even within this crew of outsiders, and if Tombs & Tohill hadn’t seen fit to allot him space alongside his aforementioned peers in their definitive Immoral Tales, it seems likely that his work would have been entirely forgotten in the English-speaking world - instead of ALMOST entirely forgotten, as is currently the case.

Naturally, this very obscurity along piques my interest, and, having recently found a source for a few of Bénazéraf’s early movies, now seems a good point at which to jump in and see how this cat stacks up against the aforementioned pantheon. First up, 1965’s ‘La Nuit La Plus Longe’, also known as ‘L'enfer Dans La Peau’, which hit American shores the same year, distributed by Radley Metzger’s Audubon Films under the name ‘Sexus’ (a title perhaps pilfered from the Henry Miller book of the same name?)

‘La Nuit..’ was actually Bénazéraf’s fifth feature film as producer/writer/director – a fact that greatly surprised me, given that what transpires on screen often seems more like the work of some nineteen year old firebrand who just saw a Godard movie and grabbed the nearest camera, rather than that of an experienced independent filmmaker in his forties.

Thus the opening minutes here give us sharply angled, quasi-verité street footage, with a foxy dame (Virginie Solenn) wandering around Paris as bongo fury erupts on the soundtrack. For a while we’re completely in the dark re: context and genre, but when two guys eventually appear and poke a gun in her ribs, it becomes clear we’re looking at a CRIME STORY.

Bénazéraf’s potential inclusion in the nouvelle vague may be questionable beyond his appearance as “man in white car” in ‘À Bout de Souffle’ (thanks IMDB!), but hey, check out what we’ve got here so far: a girl and a gun. Like it or not, the sort of brutal, chauvinist minimalism that can be found peeping through the corners of Godard and Chabrol’s early work is delivered here in spades, as if José had taken Jean Luc’s famously misquoted maxim and run with it… even if the question of whether he was pursuing it for the sake of artistic expression or easy dough remains open for debate.

Soon, we’re settled into a familiar kidnap scenario at a criminal gang’s rural hideaway, and there is a certain audacity to the way that Bénazéraf, before even establishing his credentials with a glimpse of excitement or drama, already has us literally clock-watching along with his blank, cipher-like characters, as they sit around smoking, cracking open beer cans with a screwdriver and staring at the oversized cuckoo clock whose tick-tocking dominates much of the film’s soundtrack, awaiting the arrival of their boss.

In its early stages, the film seems at pains to evoke the contrived, poker-face pose of a street corner tough guy, as characters speak in muttered non-sequiturs, ignore each other’s questions, and generally fail to give us an inch. Except when they do, breaking the spell to clearly explain for our benefit that so-and-so will here in an hour and that the ransom must be paid by 4am and so forth – which is all a bit disappointing, given the gimlet-eyed audience stare-down that has proceeded it.

Gratuitous boobs and mildly eroticized violence proceed to push things firmly into the sexploitation/roughie bracket – Bénazéraf really spreading his net wide in terms of saleable genre elements - and basically at this point the whole thing becomes a cynical, psychosexual free-for-all; a kind of suspense-free ramble through the kind of “killers & victims in a confined location” set-up that would later be perfected in films like Polanski’s ‘Cul de Sac’ and Frederick Freidel’s ‘Axe’/’Lisa Lisa’. Thus, a series of menacing gestures, slow stripteases, theatrical knife fights and stammered confessional monologues ensue, with any thread of emotional/dramatic coherence rendered largely incidental.

Throughout the film, Bénazéraf taps straight into the core of base gangster movie instincts. The women dance and get naked, the men take care of business and get violent. Delighting in that peculiarly ‘off’ sense of fake-ness that seems to characterise action scenes in many low budget French films (though it looks like they put a lot of effort into the choreography of the big knife fight, bless ‘em), the intent seems to be to make clear that everything here is *performance* - vaguely pushing toward the very same kind of hipster-gangster metaphysical revelation that led former Paris resident Donald Cammell to cook up such extraordinary results just a few years later.

But anyway; that sad-eyed, sympathetic-yet-creepy looking fellow playing the gang boss - he looks familiar, doesn’t he? Why, yes, it’s Jean Rollin regular Willy Braque in an early role! What a lovely surprise. It’s always nice to see him. And the younger, handsomer dude swinging a touch of Delon-like charisma, he’s a pretty strong presence too. He actually looks a lot like an older version of John Moulder-Brown from ‘Deep End’, but he isn’t, obviously. (He is Alain Tissier, for the record, and he didn’t appear in any other films I’ve seen.)

Despite a music credit for Chet Baker being prominently displayed on posters, the soundtrack here seems like a pretty rum business too. In between stretches of silence and that infernal tick-tocking, we get snatches of mambo, jazz and African drumming that sound like they’ve probably been pulled straight from LPs in the director’s record collection, and copyright be damned. Baker’s own music only appears in the film’s more, uh, ‘sensuous’ moments, adding a touch of arty mystique to Solenn’s gamboling naked in the woods, and so forth.*

A particularly freaked out passage of exotica-esque tribal percussion and dissonant piano-bashing can be heard when the film takes a sudden, unscheduled leap away from the isolated kidnap scenario into a Franco-esque risque lesbian bondage act, observed by a bunch of people we’ve never seen before in the middle of one the most cramped looking faux-nightclub sets you ever saw. This thing really comes out of nowhere - no reason, no convincing context - but I’m kinda glad it did, because the psycho-sexual kidnap drama thing had just about run its course by this point, and, as with Franco, such kinky material really seems to kick-start Bénazéraf’s engines, leading to some wild low angle shots, snappy editing and coldly classy Helmut Berger-esque b & w photography, as a pair of dancers play out their act in the middle of the bar-room floor, with the louche patrons carefully stepping around them.

Whilst the faux-new wave pillow-talk sometimes gets a bit much, the film’s final twenty minutes, in which the kidnapped girl and the more handsome gangster evolve a kind of oblique relationship as they await their inevitable demise, works very well, achieving a kind of simple, utilitarian poignancy that almost manages to salvage the film’s more high-brow aspirations, in spite of its numerous instances of boredom, sleaze and silliness. As if realising he’s suddenly hit the right note, Bénazéraf then sadly proceeds to overplay his hand almost immediately, ploughing straight into cliché, as the sound of Baker’s lonesome horn accompanies Tissier’s existential, head-bowed walk toward across bare fields to greet his machine gun-delivered doom, at which point we freeze-frame, ‘Platoon’ poster style, as the credits roll. A little on the nose, you might say.

Overall, ‘La Nuit la Plus Longe’, gives the impression of José Bénazéraf being a bit of a chancer, but not necessarily in a bad way. More than any of the other loosely defined ‘art / exploitation’ directors, he really is poised on the knife edge between the two impulses, never really allowing viewers to settle safely into one mindset or the other. Those with a pre-existing belief that the director is a neglected visionary may take this as an uncomplimentary review, but that’s really not the case. Cynical though I may be about Bénazéraf’s true intentions, I enjoyed this film a great deal, and, though the results may be nowhere near as powerful or challenging, the general thrust of Bénazéraf’s approach strikes me as being as close to a madman like Koji Wakamatsu as it is to someone like, say, José Ramón Larraz.

Like Wakamatsu, Bénazéraf’s films (in this time period at least) have a free-wheeling, “anything could happen next” sort of vibe to them that I really appreciate. They seem like films made entirely out of sight of industry or authority, brazenly biting the hand that feeds them as they plough whatever miniscule amount of dog-eared cash was invested in their production into a kind of “we’ve got nothing to prove, we’ll film what the hell we like” anti-methodology that feels bracing and fun compared to the more tightly structured and critically picked over work of the era’s better known filmmakers.

That’s not to say that Bénazéraf is anything less than a canny technical operator – he has a great sense of filmic rhythm and a good eye for framing and photography – but there is nonetheless a kind of steely absurdity and uncertain, amateur hour thuggery to ‘La Nuit la Plus Longe’ that verges into an almost accidental kind of ramshackle movie poetry. Though difficult to really defend in terms of its artistic merit (however much it may strive for such recognition), this is strung out, marginal b-cinema at its finest – a warped postcard from the unmapped badlands of ‘60s Paris, where Cashiers de Cinema feared to tread - and I look forward to catching up with more of this peculiar filmmaker’s oeuvre post-haste.

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* Chet Baker’s music here, I should add, is certainly an exquisitely ragged example of the trumpeter’s particular art, even if the clichéd visual accompaniment here perhaps does not showcase his talents to their best advantage. Music by Baker actually turned up in several early Bénazéraf films, presumably recorded whilst he was living in Paris, but I’m not really sure of the nature of their collaboration. Maybe they were best buddies and close collaborators, or maybe José just turned up at Chet’s hotel room one day with a tape recorder and a wad of smack money? Who knows. Answers in the comments please if you can enlighten us further.

Rollinades: Jeunes Filles Impudiques/Schoolgirl Hitchhikers(1973)

The genesis of “Jeunes Filles Impudiques”, aka “Schoolgirl Hitchhikers”, and of Jean Rollin’s subsequent parallel career as a reluctant director of sex films, can be traced back to discussions that took place during the production of 1971’s “Requiem for a Vampire”, as succinctly recounted in Jeremy Richey’s review of the film:

“Rollin recalled to Peter Blumenstock in Virgins and Vampires and Video Watchdog that producer, "Lionel (Wallmann) obliged me to put some sex scenes in Requiem-during the dungeon sequence. I told him that I wasn't too fond of that kind of thing, and he answered, "But you do that kind of thing very well. If we made an entire film like that, I bet it would be successful. You may not like it, but you know how to do it." Rollin continued with, 'Okay, I'll do it, but I won't invest any of my own money into it.' Well he raised the money, we made the film and he was right." Hence, the first Michel Gentil film was born and shooting commenced right after Requiem wrapped.”

It seems odd to me that Wallmann was apparently impressed by the sex scenes in “Requiem..”, because watching that film today, Rollin’s unhappiness with this material seems clear. Whilst the eroticism of his first three vampire films arose naturally from their surrealistic, counter-culture milieu, the more minimal, haunted tone of “Requiem..” is quite different. My theory is that what Rollin really wanted to explore was the more innocent take on vampirism that he would later return to in 1997’s “Les Deux Orphelines Vampires” and his accompanying series of stories. But, as confirmed by the quote above, he found himself already pigeonholed as ‘the sexy vampire guy’, and erotic content was part of the deal. As such, “Requiem..”s main ‘sexy scenes’ (Marie Castel’s coupling with that dude on the clifftop outside the castle, and the scene with her tied up in the dungeon) play out like pretty routine and half-hearted sequences in what is otherwise an inspired piece of work.



It is an irony typical of Rollin’s troubled career that this diminishing interest in sexual content ended up inadvertently sparking a career in pseudonymous pornography. But however much fans might see his Gentil/Xavier films as an undignified blot on the director’s copybook, and however sad the oft-repeated stories of Rollin setting up shots then fleeing the room in embarrassment for the more hardcore films he was pushed into making may sound, it’s hard to deny that his opening gambit in the genre is an unexpected delight.

Plotted with all the depth and complexity you’d expect of such a production, “Jeunes Filles Impudiques” stars Joelle Couer, who went on to give an extraordinary performance in Rollin’s “Les Demoniaques”, and Gilda Arancio, who didn’t, as our titular hitchhikers and/or impudent filles. Sneaking into a remote house they assume to be abandoned and spending the night (in the same bed, natch), the girls encounter sad-eyed, moustachioed Rollin regular Willy Braque, an incompetent jewel thief who leads them into a series of tangles with mildly sadistic villainess Marie Helene Regne, incorporating copious nudity, tasteful humping, a great deal of light-hearted running around and poorly staged gunfights, the introduction of the world’s laziest hipster private eye and his unconventionally attired secretary, a thoroughly goofy happy ending, and even a cameo from M. Rollin himself!



The film’s sexual content is fairly mild and, appropriate to the director’s pseudonym, refreshingly gentle in its approach, meaning that, with the exception of a rather jarring torture scene, there is little here to offend anyone.. unless you’re offended by the very idea of sex being portrayed on screen.

(Or unless you object on principle to the inherently patriarchal values expressed through heterosexual male-aimed sex films I suppose… in which case, well, sure - I get where you’re coming from, but I like to try to view these things from within the cultural contexts they emerged from etc etc, and as such “Jeunes Filles Impudiques” is about the most good-natured ‘70s sexploitation films you could hope to find, made by a director whose work I enjoy, and featuring less objectionable content than any one of hundreds of more ‘respectable’, mainstream movies I could name, so I’m gonna watch it and review it and feel no shame – ok, thanks, bye.)

In lieu of sleaze, scripting, or any discernable point, the filmmakers thankfully do their best to cram this movie with a wealth of other aesthetic virtues, the nature of which I shall attempt to elucidate below.


First off, if you happen to be a fan of late ‘60s/early ‘70s fabrics and interior décor, let me just say that this film is the shit. Honestly, no lie – some of the floral pattern dresses the actresses wear here are so lovely that I was quite sad when they inevitably took them off, and even the sheets on the beds are plenty groovy. And maybe this is just me, but I also thought the house in which most of the film takes place was just too cool. Far from ‘abandoned’, it looks pretty much like the house I’d like to live in in an ideal world - walled off on its own in the middle of the woods with big, slightly dilapidated old rooms, furnished with a winning combo of baroque cast-offs, homemade hippy/bohemian touches and pleasantly weird art choices. I loved the dusty entrance hall with what look like Phillipe Druillet prints blu-tacked up the staircase, the dark wood and blue tiling in the hallways, and the psychedelic wallpaper in the master bedroom just plain blew my mind!

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I’m thinking maybe this house actually belonged to someone in Rollin’s circle – it looks pretty genuine and lived in, more-so than the overtly kitsch interiors you tend to see in more generously budgeted ‘70s Eurocult films, and I’d love to get some further info about it. In fact, forget the shagging and the gunfights, I could have happily watched people just wander around this environment silently for 70 minutes.

Making “Jeunes Filles..” even more visually appealing, Rollin and his regular cinematographer Jean-Jacques Renon seem to have had a lot of fun putting the film together, indulging themselves with bright colours, interesting visual textures and some distinctive and memorable images. The back-lit stained glass in the windows of what the baddies refer to as the ‘Chinese house’ is a particularly striking touch, reminiscent of the exaggerated lighting effects used in “Le Frisson de Vampire”, imbuing what is otherwise a pretty plain (by ‘70s Euro-sleaze standards) production with a welcome dose of otherworldly wooziness, leading up to an actually-quite-brilliant shot that sees Regne’s character slowly emerging from the pitch-black woods clad in bright purple, as the red and yellow of the ‘Chinese house’ pulses like a UFO to her left.



It doesn’t get much more ‘Rollin-esque’ than that, and indeed, despite the director’s decision not to put his name on the film, nobody else could have made “Jeunes Filles Impudiques”. From the opening shot of the two girls strolling hand in hand through the forest, to the familiar pattern of dreamy, aimless wandering, the brilliant use of found locations, the expressionistic, silent-era style performances and almost fairy tale-like naivety – Jean is dans le maison, if you will.

Pierre Raph’s original music for the film is real highlight too – Finders Keepers put out a lovely 7” EP of it last year that I did a review of on my other blog, but I’ll repeat myself to the extent of saying that I very much enjoyed the opening/closing theme, featuring low register brass, flute and jaunty jazz percussion that puts one in mind of the most uncharacteristically upbeat spaghetti western ever made, and the cavalcades of prog rock drumming that accompany the ‘action’ scenes are great too. In fact all of Raph’s various licks here are near absurdly catchy, reflecting the inexplicable feel-good atmosphere of the film perfectly.



Another thing I really liked was the introduction of the aforementioned private eye – a sublimey goofball character who had me cracking up on several occasions. After escaping from the baddies, Coeur somehow finds her way to the nearest town (perhaps she HITCHHIKED?), where instead of alerting the police, she runs straight to this dude, who is chilling with his feet up of an afternoon, enjoying his artfully scruffy demeanour and the silent presence of his ‘secretary’;


Good work Joelle!

Later in the movie, after Joelle has been captured again and whisked off to be tortured and possibly killed by the baddies, scruffy-detective-guy proves himself the most lovably lazy crime-buster in film history, insisting that the best course of action is to enjoy a good night’s sleep and a leisurely breakfast, and hope that perhaps the villains might return at some point. Watch in delight as he gracefully slurps from one of those big bowls of chocolate the French seem to like so much, and stirs sugar into his tea, a look of simple, bleary-eyed bliss upon his chops, assuring his anxious companions that it’ll all turn out right in the end. My kinda guy! (Amusingly, the bad guys have only decamped to the ‘Chinese house’, which prior continuity has established as being about 50 yards from the main house.)


And he’s right too, everything turns out splendidly – nobody dies, and our heroines frolic happily off into the middle distance, the temporary inconveniences of sexual assault and moderate nipple torture long forgotten in their endless enthusiasm for life and adventure!

I’m guessing nobody actually paid the detective for his questionable services, but hey, he got some quality snoozing done and had a kick-ass breakfast, so who’s complaining? Back to the office, futuristic secretary-girl, the day’s work awaits!

Above all, “..Impudiques” gives the impression of being that rare thing – a sex film in which everybody seems to be having a good time. With production values even more threadbare than Rollin’s ‘official’ releases, it in some ways has the feel of an enthusiastic student film – all of the cast and crew seem thrilled with idea of making a movie, regardless of the subject matter, and throw in their energy and ideas accordingly, doing whatever they can to create something worth watching.



For all the elaborate praise I’ve bestowed on it above though, it would be wrong to suggest that “..Impudiques” is some kind of lost masterpiece. All else aside, it is still a cheap and cheesy sex flick, probably shot over a couple of weekends with a story they probably made up as they went along. Even if *I* found it uproariously entertaining, that doesn’t necessary mean you will - in fact many more discerning viewers will likely have difficulty making it past Gilda Arancio’s wig, and the English voiceover narration that sounds like it’s been run straight through Google translate.

Within its own humble sphere though, the film is a whole lot more worthwhile than it has any right to be – a testament to the charm and natural talent of Rollin and his collaborators, and a unique time capsule of an era in which it was possible to make an ‘adult’ movie that was humane, funny and genuinely enjoyable. For a thoroughly depressing experience, I recommend watching this as a double-bill with some soul-sucking late night TV ‘erotic thriller’ and weeping bitter tears for the way the human race has gone astray.

Speaking of bitter tears, I’m not usually one to get fussy about print quality etc., but I can’t end this review without a quick word about the new DVD of this movie released by Redemption. The film has been cleaned up nicely as promised, but unfortunately the disc suffers from what I guess must be a botched digital transfer or something. Played on the computer to get some screengrabs, the film was merely a bit fuzzy and pixelated, but on my stand-alone DVD player it was barely watchable, with jerky movements and picture distortion throughout. If this was a bootleg DVD-R or something I wouldn’t mind, but for Redemption to go to all the trouble of remastering an extremely obscure movie then fuck it up like this is incredibly frustrating, and for them to put it on the market as a definitive edition with a price to match is utter bullshit. I don’t know whether this is some kinda ‘first batch’ problem that the forthcoming(?) Region 2 release will sort out, but I don’t fancy laying down the cash to find out. If you’re absolutely desperate to see the movie or you happen across this disc really cheap somewhere, give it a whirl, but otherwise – not recommended.