‘The Super 8 Years’ Review: Annie Ernaux’s Celluloid Memories

The film’s images have faded, but the memories they’ve stirred up are vivid and full of feeling. In one shot, a tiny boy pushes a big wheelbarrow. In another, an old man and woman pose with the awkwardness of an earlier generation that never learned how to look at ease before any camera. And then there is the vision of the young woman at a desk, a pen resting in one hand, who gazes at the camera with a tight, unwelcoming smile. I like to think that she’s impatient to get back to the papers on the desk, to get back to her writing and to herself.

The woman — the French writer Annie Ernaux, who was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in October — doesn’t smile much in “The Super 8 Years,” a wistful memory movie that she made with her son David Ernaux-Briot. On Dec. 7, in her Nobel Prize lecture, Ernaux spoke about her roots in provincial France, her love of books and desire to write, a yearning that was thwarted by her position as a woman. “Married with two children,” she said, “a teaching position and full responsibility for household affairs, each day I moved further and further away from writing and my promise to avenge my people.”

You see that woman now and again in “The Super 8 Years,” which was made before she became a Nobel laureate — what timing! Directed by Ernaux-Briot, and written and narrated by Ernaux, it consists of somewhat degraded-looking home movies from the early 1970s to the early ’80s. In the winter of 1972, as Ernaux explains in voice-over, she and her husband, Philippe Ernaux, bought a Bell & Howell Super 8 camera and projector. Years later, she and Ernaux-Briot revisited these fragile mementos and, with some deft editing, sound effects and music (the original material is silent), created this short, potent, quietly elegiac feature.

For Ernaux and her husband, the Super 8 camera was “the ultimate desired object,” more coveted than a dishwasher or even a color television. “Film truly captured life and people,” Ernaux explains, though how it captured life and people was complicated. That’s evident the first time you see the younger Ernaux in “The Super 8 Years” entering a house while carrying two cardboard boxes. She’s wearing a dark, hooded coat and an awkward, inscrutable smile, as if she were ill at ease about being (caught) on camera. Or maybe she’s embarrassed by (or for) Philippe, who, as Ernaux explains, shot most of the home movies.

Ernaux writes about this image and its complicated smile in her exquisite 2008 memoir “The Years,” which works as a companion piece to “The Super 8 Years.” In her book, Ernaux asserts that there is “something ascetic and sad, or disenchanted” about her younger self’s expression in this scene, adding that her smile lacks spontaneity. I instead see shyness or just self-consciousness, especially in how she looks at the camera only to cast her eyes downward. But this isn’t my memory, and as Ernaux writes in “The Years,” one of the greatest ways to foster self-knowledge is “a person’s ability to discern how they view the past.”

For a time, Super 8 was a way for many to view a present that would soon be the past. Introduced by Kodak in 1965, the film format was a significant player in the moving-image revolution that swept the 20th century, turning amateurs (who could afford it) into moviemakers and everyday life into a global celluloid archive. This archival impulse dovetails with Ernaux’s approach in “The Years,” which is partly organized around photos of her from different eras that prompt cascades of words about her life, her family, its town, the region, the country and beyond. A similar impulse shapes “The Super 8 Years,” in which Ernaux insistently tethers images of her former domestic life, with its gentle and agonized ebb and flow, to larger world affairs, to questions of feminism and other liberation struggles.

Instructively for a memoir, Ernaux almost entirely avoids using “I” in “The Years,” preferring “we” and often referring to herself as “she.” In “The Super 8 Years,” the “we” usually seems to mean her family, and she switches pronouns freely as if to suggest the mutability of identity. In one section about a vacation in Morocco, Ernaux says, “I thought of the finished manuscript in my desk drawer.” Soon, though, over images from Germany, she refers to her younger self like a friend. “She is 33 and doesn’t yet know,” Ernaux says, that the manuscript she’s submitted “will be published as ‘Cleaned Out,’” referring to her 1974 debut novel.

At one point in “The Super 8 Years,” Ernaux ponders what story is being told in this “parade of images” as the movie cuts from a child to her and then to exploding fireworks. Words were needed, she continues, to give meaning to these “snippets of family life invisibly recorded inside the history of the era.” This reminds me of her observation in “The Years” that memory never stops. “It pairs the dead with the living, real with imaginary beings, dreams with history.” Memory is also, I think, one reason we watch movies like this, which with its lapidary narration and melancholic images — with its laughing children, its difficult smiles and its ghosts — movingly pairs you with Ernaux and with the world that she has so brilliantly made.

The Super 8 Years
Not rated. In French, with subtitles. Running time: 1 hour. In theaters.