Forty years after his death, the Centre Pompidou in Paris hopes to correct that with the first Cocteau retrospective. “Jean Cocteau: On the Thread of the Century” (through Jan. 5) displays not only a staggering number of his photographs, writings, films, drawings, even menu doodles, but also tries to re-create his world, with pictures of his friends by his friends at work and play. The goal, it seems, is to educate the public about his boundless talent and vast influence. And while the show certainly succeeds in illustrating his immense output, it ultimately fails by providing only negligible introductions to each section–and no explanation of the works on display. Cocteau remains an enigma.
His life story cries out for illumination. Born in 1889 to a haute bourgeois family in a tony Paris suburb, Cocteau was taught early on that the pursuit of literature, painting and drawing was “a sport, an exercise like fencing,” as he later wrote. His family took him to the Comedie Francaise twice a week to see the French classics. His mother was a Parisian socialite with a questionable reputation; it was even said that Cocteau was a love child. When he was 8, his father, a lawyer, killed himself. Cocteau later suggested that his father may have committed suicide because he was a latent homosexual. In the aftermath, Cocteau grew extremely close to his mother, and became obsessed with death and the myth of Oedipus. Later he mounted several plays, including Sophocles’ “Antigone,” that dealt with those themes.
A poor student, Cocteau failed the baccalaureate examination twice and never received a diploma. But he began to write poetry and, thanks to his mother, was invited to Parisian salons, where his works were read. In 1909, when he was 19, his first volume of poems, “Aladdin’s Lamp,” was published. His second, “The Frivolous Prince”–which later became his moniker–followed in 1910, and his third two years later.
During World War I, Cocteau served as an ambulance driver on the Belgian front. Upon his return to Paris, he struck up friendships with Modigliani, Max Jacob, Guillaume Apollinaire and Picasso, who particularly fascinated him. “I admired his intelligence and clung to everything he said, for he spoke little,” Cocteau wrote. Immersed in this avant-garde clan, Cocteau penned “Parade,” a ballet for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes with sets by Picasso. The “Parade” section of the Pompidou show contains delightful black-and-white snapshots of Cocteau and Picasso’s 1917 trip to Rome to work with Diaghilev on the production.
Cocteau explored the arts like an insatiable lover. He tried every medium and blended them like colors on a palette. But he wasn’t a master; his drawings and watercolors are facile, more caricature than beaux arts. He wasn’t part of a movement, either: he dabbled in Cubism and hung out with the Dadaists, but held fast to his own narcissistic, intensely dark style. Cocteau’s greatest talent was orchestrating, encouraging young artists to pool their talents to shake up the establishment. He didn’t just keep up with the Zeitgeist–he created it.
In 1918, the restless Cocteau formed a band called the Group of Six, which pushed music in a more modern direction, and also founded a publishing company called La Sirene. That same year, he fell for a 15-year-old named Raymond Radiguet, and they moved in together. Cocteau’s life was shattered five years later when Radiguet suddenly died of typhoid fever. He sank into a dark depression, fueled by opium and work. In 1928 Cocteau wrote “Opium, the Illustrated Diary of His Cure,” which details the perilous addiction he called his “horizontal fall.” Two years later, he made his first film, “The Blood of a Poet,” a talkie starring Enrique Rivera as a poet and Lee Miller, the heavenly assistant of Man Ray, as a statue. A two-minute-long clip of the film is shown at the Pompidou, with Miller, in white, beckoning Rivera to cross through a full-length mirror into a black void.
In 1937 the 48-year-old Cocteau met the strapping Marais, and quickly cast the then unknown actor in his new play, “The Terrible Parents.” Cocteau weathered World War II in Paris by staging plays that the Vichy government generally disliked. Following the liberation, Cocteau directed “Beauty and the Beast,” and with that came true fame. Cocteau discovered that film was the ultimate tool for his artistic expression. He and Marais made a half dozen films together, including “Orpheus,” clips of which are included in the exhibit.
In addition to creating, Cocteau inspired. He posed for countless portraits by his friends and peers, such as photographs by Man Ray and a vivid, angular painting by Modigliani. Here the Pompidou’s impressive collection shines: dozens of these portraits are on display in one room, showing the many facets of Cocteau, from high-society playboy to dandy gardener. Perhaps the most telling work of the show is a seriograph by Andy Warhol that perfectly captures the hopelessly vain artist by invoking his own parochial single-line style of drawing.
In the 1950s, Cocteau was forced to slow down due to depression and ulcers. He was heaped with honors, including an induction into the Academie Francaise. He took up pottery and painted frescoes. On Oct. 11, 1963, upon hearing of the death of his dear friend Edith Piaf, the 74-year-old Cocteau declared, “Now I can die.” He promptly succumbed to a heart attack at his home outside Paris. The house will open as a museum next year. Perhaps there, Cocteau will finally be understood.
