Studies in French Cinema

ISSN: 1471-5880 (Print) 1758-9517 (Online) Journal homepage: https://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rsfc20

The end of transcendence, the mourning of crime:

Bresson's hands

Brian Price

To cite this article: Brian Price (2002) The end of transcendence, the mourning of crime:
Bresson's hands, Studies in French Cinema, 2:3, 127-134, DOI: 10.1386/sfci.2.3.127

To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1386/sfci.2.3.127

Published online: 06 Jan 2014.

Submit your article to this journal

Article views: 101

View related articles

Full Terms & Conditions of access and use can be found at

https://www.tandfonline.com/action/journalInformation?journalCode=rsfc21
The end of transcendence, the
mourning of crime: Bresson’s hands
Brian Price

Abstract
This article examines hand imagery in the films of Robert Bresson. Specifically, it is argued that
close-ups of the hand in Bresson’s films serve, amongst other things, an intertextual function. By
looking at the hand in close-up, we are able to see a movement from the celebration of crime as an
act of social liberation to the failure of this criminal, and anti-social dexterity. This failure, it is
argued, is an indication of the emergence of a repressive social formation rather than the submission
to the will of God, as has been so often supposed. In this sense, this essay stands as revision of the
transcendental tradition of Bresson criticism, which has often understood his work as preoccupied
with questions of grace and predestination. By contrast, this essay is an attempt to understand
Bresson as a social critic.

Images of the hand in the films of Robert Bresson are constant and diverse. The hand is
often employed metonymically, as in Au hasard Balthazar/Balthazar (Bresson, 1966)
when Arnold’s alcoholism is represented by a close-up of his hand repeatedly picking up
consecutive glasses of liquor, suggesting he is nothing more than a will to drink. Images
of the hand are also central to the fictive psychology of the Bressonian protagonist. The
deadpan visage of Bresson’s models and their monotone delivery has given rise to the
presumption that Bresson’s characters are psychologically inscrutable, almost Brechtian
in their refusal of dramatic expression. However, Bresson often allows the hand to
communicate what the face conceals. Such is the case in Pickpocket (Bresson, 1959),
when Michel is picking the pocket of a woman at Longchamps. A close-up of his face
reveals nothing; however, it is followed by a close-up of his fingers working her
pocketbook, at once tentative and sly. Michel’s emotions and intellect are revealed only
through his hands. Images of hands quite often overwhelm character psychology, as is
the case in L’Argent/Money (Bresson, 1983) when Lucien is fired from the photo-shop.
As Lucien walks away with his peers, Bresson does not bother with what Lucien’s face
may reveal about the dismissal; instead, he provides a close-up of Lucien’s hand pulling
two keys from his pocket. What matters, the shot implies, is not how he feels about
being fired, but what he plans to do about it.
A complete taxonomy of Bresson’s hand imagery would require much more space
than I have here. Instead, this essay will not simply detail the many functions of
Bresson’s hands, but the way in which these images resonate intertextually. Bresson’s
close-ups of hands often allude to the work of another. In Le Diable probablement/The
Devil Probably (Bresson, 1977), for example, we are shown a close-up of hands sneaking
a pornographic image into a religious text. This image calls forth an identical sequence
in Dostoevsky’s Demons, a novel steeped in issues of nihilism and revolution that are also
central to Bresson’s film. Most often, though, the images of hands in Bresson call forth
similar images from his own work. As such, the hand in close-up not only contributes
to the meaning of the film to which it belongs, but is often linked by scale and content
to similar images from his previous films. Thus it is possible to read Bresson’s hand
imagery vertically, to see these images as participating in a series that extends beyond
the horizontal axis of a single film. Or as Bresson put it in Notes on the Cinematographer,

SFC 2 (3)127–134 © Intellect Ltd 2002 127

‘An image must be transformed by contact with other images as is a color by contact
with other colors’ (Bresson 1997: 20). This essay is an attempt to chart the way images
of hands in Bresson’s late work transform, and are transformed by, images of hands from
his early work.
What such an investigation reveals is a different understanding of Bresson’s world-
view than has been continually rehearsed in Bresson criticism. Bresson, of course, has
been celebrated for his stylistic and philosophical consistency. His films have, since the
early 1950s, been continually understood as the product of a Catholic, particularly
Jansenist, film-maker, as one preoccupied with questions of grace and predestination.
The formal austerity of the work, his tendency to elide images of the social world, has
led many to suggest that Bresson’s films are concerned with problems of the spiritual,
rather than the material, world. The despairing tone of Bresson’s later work, the
increasing frequency of suicide, has posed no impediment to the transcendental
tradition, as Mirella Jona Affron once suggested while surveying all of the endings of
Bresson’s films. Affron writes that ‘all (...) end in death, all end happily. For each the
“drôle de chemin” is the unfathomable way of grace; it culminates in redemption. The
denouement cannot be tragic for the saved’ (Affron 1998: 170). Affron is writing in
1985, yet her reading of death in Bresson as an expression of grace and redemption,
things which are necessarily left off-screen, rehearses the sentiments of Bresson’s earliest
religious critics. For example, in the early 1960s, Amédée Ayfre would address this
vexing question of how God’s will is represented in early Bresson. Ayfre writes: ‘We are
dealing with immanent transcendence, or even, one might say, radical invisibility. For
the invisible world remains invisible, or rather appears invisible’ (Ayfre 1998: 53). This
seeming paradox is resolved by Ayfre in the deadpan visage of the Bressonian model. He
continues: ‘By expressing nothing, the masks express precisely what is beyond
expression’ (Ayfre 1998: 53). As this brief comparison should suggest, and many more
could be added in concert, Bresson’s world-view remains constant, impervious to the
social and political shifts in the five decades in which he worked. Indeed, in an effort to
demonstrate the moral and stylistic continuity between Bresson’s first full-length film
Les Anges du péché/Angels of Sin (Bresson, 1943), and his last, L’Argent, Tony Pipolo has
recently suggested that ‘The image of the world may have changed radically between
the former and the latter, but that is too simplistic a conclusion’ (Pipolo 1998: 207).
At the risk of just such a simplistic reading, I want to turn to a closer examination
of hand imagery in early and late Bresson in an effort to point out what the
transcendental argument has overlooked. To do so, I will show how in L’Argent, Bresson
revisits the hand imagery of his earlier work, especially Un condamné à mort s’est
échappé/A Man Escaped (Bresson, 1956), and what it might suggest about the substance
and alleged constancy of his world-view.
L’Argent is Bresson’s last and arguably his bleakest film. Based on Tolstoy’s novella
The Forged Coupon, L’Argent tracks the effects of a forged 200-franc note introduced
into the economy by Norbert, a greedy young bourgeois student. We follow the note
as it is pawned from hand to hand and arrives at its final destination: in the hands of
Yvon Targe, a young worker employed by an oil company who is arrested, and
ultimately loses his job, for unknowingly passing the counterfeit note in a café. The film
then follows Yvon as he turns to a life of crime (an option more appealing to him than
apologizing to his employer), and becomes, upon losing his wife and child amidst three
years in prison, a cold-blooded murderer. As befits a film about the deleterious effects
of the exchange of money, L’Argent abounds in close-ups of hands. Our introduction to
Yvon comes just after we have seen the counterfeit bill put into circulation by Norbert.

128 Brian Price

Just prior to our introduction to Yvon we are provided with a series of close-ups of
hands exchanging, examining, and making change for the note. We watch it pass, in
close-up, from Norbert to the shopkeeper’s wife, to Yvon and then to the waiter in the
cafe, a scene punctuated by a close-up of Yvon’s hand spread wide open, having just
struck the waiter who has accused him of forgery. The order of exchange articulates a
repressive social formation: the upper class (Norbert and his parents) exploit the middle
class (the shopkeepers) who then exact their revenge on the worker, Yvon, whose only
recourse is to violence.
At the centre of this chain of events are two consecutive close-ups of Yvon’s hands,
dressed in saturated red work-gloves, tending to an oil pump. Our first glimpse of
Yvon, the central protagonist of the film, comes through a close-up of his hands at
work. It is not until the end of the scene that Bresson will pan up to Yvon’s face. In his
recent study of L’Argent, Kent Jones has suggested that Bresson restricts our attention to
Yvon’s hands here because ‘it’s a scene that involves the actual tasks and materials of a
job, moreover a job as a human activity rather than as an exchange of labour for capital’
(Jones 1999: 46). It is a compelling argument. The very notion that these working
hands are evidence of a non-instrumental labour, a kind of work for work’s sake, recalls
Michel’s thieving hands in Pickpocket. Michel’s ability as a pickpocket, the dexterity of
his hands, is a talent and a passion that allows him to live, for a time, outside the
working world where one is forced to sell one’s labour. Consider, for instance, the scene
from Pickpocket where Michel and a fellow pickpocket practise their craft. The scene is
mainly composed of close-ups of their hands as they slip in and out of each other’s
pockets, unbuckle watches, and fold newspapers meant to conceal the thefts. In this
scene we witness the hands of two men practising their work, a form of work injurious
to the healthy functioning of a capitalist economy. Bresson’s exposition of this practice
is highly aestheticized; the hands are only preparing to work, but the act of practising is
as compelling as the work itself.
Moreover, these practising hands, slipping in and out of each others jackets, have an
obvious homoerotic import. Michel, is, in one sense, undergoing an initiation into a life
of pickpocketing, schooled by one of the very best in the field (and it is worth noting
that Michel’s teacher/accomplice is played by Kassagi, who was, in fact, a known
pickpocket). But that initiation is as sexual in nature as it is criminal. Michel meets his
accomplice in a café. Seated next to one another, they realize, without uttering a word,
that they are, in some sense, the same, and leave together on their way to a more private
space where they will ‘practise’ their crime, a crime that depends on the sensitivity of
touch. The scene is, in other words, as much a bout a sexual pick-up as it is about
crime. And that is precisely the point. Bresson very subtly links pickpocketing with
homosexuality. And both identities can be understood in France in the 1950s as
criminal acts: one involves the rejection of a capitalist economy; the other stands in
defiance of public, and legalized, notions of sexual conduct. Finally, the beauty of
Bresson’s hands-in-motion here is inseparable from the larger social provocation that this
scene enacts. Crime and beauty are thus linked in an effort to effect a larger social
transformation.
By contrast, Yvon’s working hands lack the finesse of Michel’s. If this image of
Yvon’s red hands evokes Pickpocket, it is to suggest that such a lifestyle, exploiting the
rich with style and finesse (not to mention pleasure), is no longer possible. For Yvon is
not, contrary to Jones’ suggestion, working for the sheer sake of it; he is a manual
labourer employed by an oil company. Moreover, his red hands, so shocking at first
sight, differ from the others we have seen up to this point. The redness of the gloves

The end of transcendence, the mourning of crime: Bresson’s hands 129

suggests that there is blood on the hands of the worker, as there literally will be by the
end of the film. Moreover, by refusing to show us anything other than Yvon’s hands,
Bresson suggests that Yvon is nothing more, in a capitalist economy, than a set of hands.
Unlike Michel, Yvon’s hands are not an instrument for the transformation of his
existence; they are, on the contrary, what binds him to a system bent on his
degradation.
Yvon’s inability to transform his existence, writ in the very lifelessness of his hands,
is perhaps the most compelling difference between early and late Bresson. It is a
difference most clearly detectable in the prison sequences of L’Argent. Prisons, of
course, are a central location and motif in Bresson’s early work. Les Anges du péché, Un
condamné à mort, Pickpocket, and Procès de Jeanne d’arc/Trial of Joan of Arc (Bresson, 1962)
are all set, in varying degrees, in prisons. The prison motif has been central to the
transcendental reading of Bresson. For example, in his discussion of prisons in Un
condamné à mort and Pickpocket, Paul Schrader avers: ‘In Bresson’s films, as in Christian
theology, transcendence is an escape from the prison of the body, an “escape” which
makes one simultaneously “free from sin” and a “prisoner of the lord”’ (Schrader 1972:
93). Likewise, Ayfre has recognized prisons in early Bresson as a privileged space, a site
detached from the social world. As such, it is a space that allows Bresson’s characters to
overcome their isolation, to forge a connection to others and, of course, to God.
Indeed, Ayfre, in his reading of Pickpocket, would go so far as to suggest that ‘the
diabolical dexterity of Michel’s hands, (...) ultimately serves only to rebuild the enclosed
space [by which Ayfre means the social world], all-enveloping and lonely, of which he
is the sovereign lord’ (Ayfre 1998: 51). In L’Argent the prison is neither literally nor
figuratively a site of transcendence. Yvon is stripped of his family and his earthly
attachments in a Job-like manner; yet, it is not an act of self-mortification, nor is Yvon
transformed into a dutiful servant of God in the face of loss. The depravation
experienced by Yvon is caused by the greed and deceit of the upper class and results in
his becoming a murderer, not one of the redeemed. But also, prisons in the cinema, and
especially in Bresson, are not simply spiritual metaphors; they are, much more literally,
things to escape from, a place to exercise the physical intelligence manifest in one’s
hands. In fact, the oppressiveness of the prison scenes in L’Argent is partly due, I would
argue, to the way in which they summon forth the memory of Fontaine’s able hands in
Un condamné à mort, Bresson’s film from 1956 about a French prisoner of war.
In L’Argent, Bresson refers to Un condamné à mort most explicitly in the scene when
we see Yvon seated with his fellow inmates at lunch, listening as they gossip about how
his wife has left him. This scene alludes directly to a similar one in Un condamné à mort,
where all of the prisoners gather around a large basin of water to wash. In one of the
first washroom sequences in Un condamné à mort, the pastor gossips to Fontaine and
others about how Orsini has learned that his wife has been cheating on him. Like the
lunch-table scene in L’Argent, the washroom is one of the only communal spaces
afforded the prisoners. The conversations, in both places, are merely a cover for the
more important event: the exchange of notes and objects. For example, in a later scene
at the washbasin in Un condamné à mort we witness Fontaine handing a note to Orsini
that describes his escape route and instructions for disassembling the door. Bresson
renders the exchange in close-up as we watch Fontaine’s hand sliding the note into
Orsini’s hand. Bresson repeats this close-up of exchanging hands in the lunch sequence
of L’Argent. Here we see the hands of men exchanging cigarettes for meat. The first
image of hands suggests a sense of community, Fontaine’s benevolent desire to help his
neighbour escape. Repeated in L’Argent, it now suggests self-interest, the coveting of

130 Brian Price

goods. By alluding to this sequence in Un condamné à mort, Bresson reveals the extent to
which the ethos of capitalism has infiltrated the prison; rather than help each other
escape, the prisoners now merely bargain their wares, thus reconstructing on the inside
the very system of consumption and exchange which, as we know through Yvon,
produced their criminality in the first place.
The most striking difference between L’Argent and Un condamné à mort is to be
found in their respective sequences of Yvon and Fontaine in their cells. Hand imagery
is central to both. In Un condamné à mort, the cell is a dynamic space; it provides the
objects and solitude Fontaine needs to engineer his escape. As such, Bresson largely
devotes these sequences to close-ups of Fontaine’s hands as they dismantle the door,
construct ropes, and reassign new functions to old objects – turning, for example,
spoons into wedges, door frames into hooks. In these sequences, Bresson’s close-ups of
hands are only rarely combined with shots of Fontaine’s face. Consider the scene where
Fontaine constructs a hook and loop out of the wire, frame and cloth of his bed. The
sequence is composed of two consecutive close-ups of Fontaine’s hands at work, shots
that focus our attention on this act of construction. Bresson never cuts away to a view
of Fontaine’s face. Indeed, Fontaine’s hands reveal the depth of his intelligence in a way
that facial gestures or dialogue would not. There is, however, something larger at stake
here than simply a resistance to conventional modes of rendering character psychology.
His resistance, in these moments, to cutting between the hand and the face brings to
mind an idea Benjamin Buchloh once raised about Richard Serra’s hand films, a series
of films which consist of nothing more than single shots of hands catching lead,
gathering scraps and freeing themselves from bondage. Of Serra’s refusal to link these
hands with shots of the face, Buchloh writes:

The reduction of the cinematographic segment, showing, for example, only the
hand and arm of a person as the veritable actors of the film, points to an essential
element of the process to be visually represented. On the other hand ... it delimits
the subject’s boundaries of self-perception. Therefore no subject-object relationship
is established between viewer and actor; the viewer experiences the bodily activity in
an optical frame that remains within the limits of his own self-perception, which
seems extended by the filmic image. Fragmentation here thus means the deliberate
abolition of the separation between subjective perception and objective
representation. From this abolition, however, results the elimination of any narrative
or dramatic quality in the representation of a sequence of actions, reducing it to a
self-referential activity, a self evident representative function without any meaning
whatsoever. (Buchloh 2000: 15)

Of course, this is not precisely the case in Un condamné à mort. We know to whom these
disembodied hands belong, and what their function in the narrative is. However, in the
sequence described above, Bresson does retain just such an interest in freeing our
perception of the hand at work from the conventions of character psychology. We are
meant to see these hands as evidence of what the hand itself can do, and more
importantly, what we can do with our own. Moreover, the voice-over in these
sequences, coupled with the title of the film itself, tell us that the images are in the past
tense. We know, for example, that Fontaine has escaped, and thus this segment does not
add suspense to the narrative itself. By giving away the ending, Bresson can assign these
hands a different function. Fontaine’s careful step-by-step explanation of what his hands
are doing, offered in voice-over, becomes a lesson in prison escape. What matters, as the

The end of transcendence, the mourning of crime: Bresson’s hands 131

absence of shots of his face suggest, is not how he feels about his work, but that we
learn how he did it, so, in effect, we can do it ourselves. We are meant to see these
hands, as Buchloh says of Serra’s, as extensions of our own.
Indeed, Bresson delights in such anti-social provocations, repeating such lessons for
the hand in Pickpocket, as we have already seen, but also in L’Argent when the camera
lingers on Lucien’s hands removing shims he has placed in a cash machine. The scene
begins as Lucien circles behind a man using the machine in an effort to detect his code.
The man takes his cash and the machine goes out of order, thus trapping his bank card
inside. Lucien, we learn, has placed two shims inside the slot, which forced the machine
to shut down. When Lucien returns to the machine, we learn just how to remedy the
situation, and, more importantly how to complete the crime. Bresson cuts to a close-up
of the machine. All we see of Lucien are his hands as he inserts a tweezer into the slot
and retrieves the shims and the man’s bank card. Bresson then cuts to a shot of Lucien’s
hands as they enter the code and steals cash. Of this scene, Kent Jones has asked:
‘Question: did anyone follow suit and actually rob cash machines in just this manner
after seeing L’Argent?’ (Jones 1999: 64). Jones’s question is playful, indeed, but also
reasonable. He can ask this precisely because Bresson has shown us how to do it. As in
Un condamné à mort before it, Bresson never connects these shots of hands to Lucien’s
face. We know that they are his, of course. But in refusing the connection, Bresson
once again suggests that the hands could also be ours. In this sense, it is a moment of
optimism in a film that will otherwise document the failure of such potentially
liberating acts of physical intelligence.
I am inclined to describe this tendency in Bresson in terms more familiar to the
Surrealists’ celebration of crime than as evidence of the transcendent. Bresson’s film-
making career is, after all, literally indebted to Surrealism. Bresson’s first film was funded
by Roland Penrose, a British artist who was at one time both a member of, and a patron
to, the Surrealists. Made in 1934, Affaires publiques/Public Affairs (Bresson, 1934) partakes
of the major aesthetic strategies of Dada and Surrealism. As Keith Reader rightly
observes: ‘Affaires publique evokes not only Chaplin and Keaton – both among Bresson’s
favourite film-makers – but also the Vigo of Zéro de conduite, the Prévert brothers of
L’Affaire est dans le sac and the René Clair of Paris qui dort’ (Reader 2000: 12). Moreover,
Affaires publique is literally about the humiliation of the chancellor of an imaginary
country. As William Johnson has noted, the film involves the total disruption of public
ceremonies:

When a statue of the chancellor is unveiled, its wide yawning mouth sends everyone
in the country to sleep. At a fire-fighters’ demonstration, the building to be set on
fire rolls off-screen and the chancellor’s coat-tails smoulder instead. At the launching
of a liner, the champagne bottle refuses to break; when shot out of a gun it blasts
through the metal plating and causes the ship to sink. (Johnson 1998: 189)

This ludic, and obviously anti-social film is consistent with the Surrealist critique of
bourgeois existence. It is consonant, for example, with André Breton’s most
inflammatory, if easily misunderstood, claim, as offered in his ‘Second Manifesto of
Surrealism’ in 1929:

The simplest Surrealist act consists of dashing down into the street, pistol in hand,
and firing blindly, as fast as you can pull the trigger, into the crowd. Anyone who, at
least once in his life, has not dreamed of thus putting an end to the petty debasement

132 Brian Price

 and cretinization in effect has a well-defined place in that crowd, with his belly at
barrel level. (Breton 1972: 125)

Breton, obviously, is not actually advocating violence so much as validating fantasies of

violence as a just response to a repressive social formation. For Breton and the
Surrealists, the visualization and celebration of crime (especially in Feuillade) is essential
to their desire to imagine a better world, one free of exploitation and the deadening of
the senses and of the self. Bresson’s chancellor-on-fire partakes of this imagination; and
so do his lessons in crime, as offered much later in his hand imagery.
However, by the time of L’Argent, those hands begin to lose this power of social
transformation. Fontaine’s facile hands, the exuberant display of criminality, linger over
Yvon’s cell scenes in L’Argent. Only this time, Bresson’s close-ups of his prisoner’s hands
suggest that much has changed since Un condamné à mort. Consider, for example, the scene
where Yvon has been placed in solitary confinement and has just received two more
sleeping pills. The final close-up of this scene is of Yvon’s hands holding a pile of blue pills.
The shot reveals that Yvon has, like Fontaine before him, been accumulating the materials
given to him in prison. And like Fontaine, he will put these objects, these pills, to a
different use than is normally intended. He hides them away, like Fontaine’s strips of metal,
in his bed. However, the memory of Fontaine’s hands, his ingenuity, ultimately lend this
scene its gravity. For the close-ups of Fontaine’s hands revealed a physical intelligence, one
which allows him to master the world before him. Yvon’s hand likewise reveals a kind of
physical intelligence, an ability to imagine a different use for an object. However, unlike
Fontaine, Yvon’s intelligence is put in service of his own self-destruction. This image of the
hand suggests, ultimately, that it is no longer possible to alter the conditions of one’s
existence. The best Yvon can do is attempt to remove himself from it.
So what does this shift in Bresson’s hand imagery suggest? The immobility of
Yvon’s hands, their sharp contrast to the able hands of Michel and Fontaine, suggests a
declining will, an inability to effect change. But should we read this, as the
transcendental tradition would, as evidence of Yvon’s surrender to God’s will? To do so
we would have to ignore, it seems to me, the fierce social critique mounted in L’Argent.
For consider one last image from the film. In it, we see a blue police truck backing into
the frame. From it, the prisoners, all handcuffed, are marched one after the other, each
pausing to pick up his belongings. The men move as if in an assembly line. Indeed,
Bresson will repeat this sequence a second time, when Lucien is brought to prison, thus
emphasizing the machine-like function of prison. This image suggests that prisons are
nothing more than factories, a business that profits from the denigration and
exploitation of the working class. The hands of the workers are cuffed, as if to stifle the
efforts of would-be Fontaines, and so as to submit those hands more readily to the will
of the state. And so, if we read Bresson’s hands intertextually, we witness a different
trajectory for Bresson’s career than has been previously supposed. For the images of
hands analysed here suggest a sensibility more materialist than spiritual. The immobility
of Yvon’s hands, in light of Pickpocket and Un condamné à mort, is mournful. Moreover,
Bresson’s allusions to his early work via the hand in L’Argent opens a new perspective on
these earlier films, drawing our attention to the way in which these films celebrate the
criminal’s anti-social style, and to how the hand, when put to proper use, can deliver
one from the repressive, indeed fatal, conditions of one’s existence. In other words,
these hands are not, as Ayfre has said of Pickpocket, an impediment to the acceptance of
Grace. They are instruments, Michel himself admits in Pickpocket, which allow him to
master the world before him.

The end of transcendence, the mourning of crime: Bresson’s hands 133

References
Affron, M. (1998), ‘Bresson and Pascal: Rhetorical Affinities’, Robert Bresson (ed. J.
Quandt), Toronto: Cinematheque Ontario, pp. 165-87.
Ayfre, A. (1998), ‘The Universe of Robert Bresson’, Robert Bresson (ed. J. Quandt),
Toronto: Cinematheque Ontario, pp. 40-55.
Bresson, R. (1997), Notes on the Cinematographer (trans. J. Griffin), Kobenhavn: Green
Integer.
Breton, A. (1972), Manifestoes of Surrealism (trans. R. Seaver and H. Lane), Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press.
Buchloh, B. (2000), ‘Process Sculpture and Film in the Work of Richard Serra’,
Richard Serra (ed. H. Foster), Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, pp. 1-19.
Johnson, W. (1998), ‘Affaires publiques’, Robert Bresson (ed. J. Quandt), Toronto:
Cinematheque Ontario, pp. 189-91.
Jones, K. (1999), L’Argent, London: British Film Institute.
Pipolo, T. (1998), ‘Rules of the Game: On Bresson’s Les Anges du péché’, Robert Bresson
(ed. J. Quandt), Toronto: Cinematheque Ontario, pp. 193-209.
Reader, K. (2000), Robert Bresson, Manchester: Manchester University Press.
Schrader, P. (1972), Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, Berkeley:
University of California Press.

134 Brian Price