J'ai vu tuer Ben Barka

---

Did anyone see the killer?

It was him!

He killed him!

Yes, it was him...

Surrounded by cops. What a way to go.

After the life I've led and would lead.

You don't always choose your end,

nor your beginning.

You don't real Iy choose much.

You choose to believe

and that's something.

Hope helps you live.

It can kill you too.

this proves it.

It's me, boys, it's me here.

the scandal-maker.

the loudmouth who saw too much.

Me, Georges Figon, the crook,

the liar and sh*t-stirrer

wanted throughout France.

Go on, turn the place upside down.

Don't mind me.

I SAW BEN BARKA GET KILLED

Life was more fun back then.

At the UN, this is how

the Soviet president disagreed.

In Cuba, Castro made the people laugh

and terrified the Americans.

In Vietnam

Ho Chi' Mi'nh had his beard pulled.

In Peking,

they waved Mao's little red book

and he looked delighted.

there were uprisings everywhere,

above all in the South

in the third World.

their most legitimate right

is the right to dignity.

Only then

will a new age have dawned in Africa.

American political

and economic domination is at its peak.

This is a tri-continental challenge,

a way for the people of three continents

to band together against imperialism.

the third World.

the former colonies...

the energy came from there,

from the "damned of the earth"

who were getting organised.

At General de Gaulle's press briefing...

France was run by an old general

and, officially, put on a stern face.

But life was great,

times were good, people had friends.

I had just got out of jail

and had become a TV star.

for one night and incognito,

but a star anyway.

You may have met on the street

but that's all you share.

Otherwise

you live in different worlds.

You don't live, think or feel

in the same way.

You and he are on different sides.

You'd only come into contact

if this man shot you to rob you.

He's a hood.

Would you write the screenplay for me?

Why not, if you pay me well.

Of course. We won't haggle over money.

Could it interest someone?

Maybe.

It could be a subject for Franju.

Georges Franju. Eyes Without A Face

with Pierre Brasseur. Great film.

And Thrse Desqueyroux

from Mauriac's novel.

He's a good director.

He's a "regular guy".

That's what hoods call each other.

A good title. The Regular Guys.

What do you think?

Of your car? Perfect.

Good engine, English elegance,

Swiss precision.

What more do you want?

Fewer parking fines.

This car's a magnet for them.

You needn't worry about that soon.

We'll all be rich.

No more parking fine worries.

No more hard times and seedy schemes...

Didn't you get rich in photo novels?

Aren't they outdated now?

I like them.

Marguerite, can I borrow your car

to run some errands?

Bring it back by six.

I promise.

Take good care of it.

And you take care too.

Mr Figon...

Lemarchand, the lawyer, is here.

I'm sorry, Pierre.

I was with Marguerite.

Duras? You're inseparable.

We were discussing a film project.

Getting into movies now?

It's her idea. We'll see.

I hope you do better than in show biz.

- Heard from the Vatican?

- You bet.

His Holiness's lawyers

could clean you out.

This pope is no fun.

Can you imagine kids

splitting their sides

to Hail Mary? Forget it.

I was counting on it.

These are all overdue.

Anything you can do?

You don't do things by halves.

I lost my French distributor

for the Swiss watches.

You can't count on honest people.

Can't you call these guys?

A Gaullist politician should calm them.

Look at this -

unsold, not even unwrapped.

Spiteful show biz gossip.

Wasn't it a good idea?

It could have worked.

A Mr Le Ny called, sir.

Big Dd... What does he want?

- Be careful, Georges.

- I'm nothing but.

Remember my passport.

I'll see to it.

See you at the Pam-Pam.

You don't know the Pam-Pam.

Claude Luther, Sydney Bechett,

New Orleans...

Pop's all that counts now.

Madame Duras. Red wine?

- Beaujolais, as usual.

- Have a seat.

Photos from the set?

What is it, Georges?

Is something wrong?

I have no memory of this photo

and yet that's me there on it.

Reading a poster

to the glory of a dead soldier.

A soldier from the '14-'18 war. Dead.

That's almost a pleonasm.

It's as if this were someone else

in the photo.

My double.

It's a sensation...

A visual sensation. A vision.

A hallucination?

Do you mean I'm mad?

Calm down, Georges.

It's our job to see what others don't see

and to speak about it.

But my films don't interest anyone.

Because you talk about the dead,

not the living.

Take an interest in them

and they'll see your films.

Life is amazing, Georges.

No writer will ever have

as much imagination as life.

Why do I write all these reports

for news magazines?

For the money? Not only.

What can I do?

Make a film with that ex-con of yours?

Figon. You'd get on well with him.

He hates priests and the army too.

You're a documentary filmmaker,

even when you make fiction.

Thrse Desqueyroux is Mauriac

as a news report.

Was this Figon

really jailed in Villejuif?

The Villejuif penal centre, yes,

at the age of 18.

His parents' idea, to spare him

the dishonour of a conviction

and the bad company of prison.

He met all of today's leading crooks there.

It was the only way for them

to escape the guillotine.

But it was worse than death there.

Everything was permitted -

shots of apomorphine,

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