Here comes Monsieur Louis Feuillade, respectable
bourgeois and film director for the Gaumont company. But something seems to have furrowed his brow with worry! And— do I sense someone skulking in the bushes? Could there be some unnamed mystery that haunts him, some secret society of criminals at this very minute conspiring against him?

Kino is releasing
a new version of Les Vampires this month, which demonstrates how far Feuillade has come in the last decade or so. When I was a kid reading about early film, Feuillade was one of the most elusive and mysterious figures himself, his films unavailable in any form in the U.S., the screenings limited to dreamlike 7-hour marathons in Greenwich Village art houses (only later did I realize that part of what made them so dreamlike was what the hepcats writing about him were smoking before the show). At that time the Museum of Modern Art distributed only a single chapter of Fantomas... which was a considerable disappointment when I saw it in college, a random middle chapter with what seemed to be primitive filmmaking technique.
That finally changed with David Shepard's
release of Les Vampires on VHS and laserdisc in 1998, and now we have Les Vampires, Judex, Fantomas and a range of his non-serial work in the
Gaumont Treasures set with him, Leonce Perret and Alice Guy Blache. So how do we judge Feuillade now? He was a skilled filmmaker for the time but clearly, part of what we respond to in his work is the inadvertent surrealism— the way he seems to be recording in almost documentary fashion the France of 1915, only to suddenly introduce fantastic, and often quite disturbing, elements. In some ways the Feuillade cult was a precursor of the Ed Wood one, where the heightened movieness and the reality of a somewhat low budget collide bizarrely (but with utter conviction). I can't help but wonder what he would have made of what we make of his movies now, in a way I wouldn't about one of his successors like Lang. I feel like this polite-looking, well-dressed gentleman would be a bit baffled that his crime fantasies for his time have such resonance for our time as exposing the reality, or the surreality, hidden just underneath the surface of that starched and proper past.