Film Review: A Man Escaped (Un condamné à mort s'est échappé, 1956)
Robert Bresson occupies a singular, almost revered position in the canon of 20th-century cinema. Known as the "heretic" of French filmmaking for his rigorous rejection of conventional acting and narrative structure, Bresson is celebrated for a minimalist style that strips away sentimentality and glamour. This aesthetic is generally perceived as the hallmark of the arthouse drama, suited only for cerebral, introspective works. However, one of Bresson’s most celebrated achievements shatters this pigeonhole entirely. A Man Escaped, released in 1956, is a World War II drama that belongs firmly to the genre of prison escape films, yet it stands as the grand classic of that subgenre. It is a work that demands to be watched not for its spectacle, but for its profound, almost mystical economy of expression.
The film is based on the memoirs of André Devigny, a French Army officer who joined the Resistance during the Occupation. The narrative is rooted in the brutal reality of 1943, when the major resistance network in Lyon was compromised. Devigny, along with many of his comrades, was arrested and tortured by the Gestapo, led by the infamous Klaus Barbie. After months of captivity and learning that his execution was imminent, Devigny undertook a daring escape. Bresson reconstructs this event with a fidelity that respects the source material's intensity, grounding the drama in the historical fact of Devigny’s survival.
In the film, Devigny’s character is slightly fictionalised and renamed "Fontaine," played by François Leterrier. The film opens with a stark visual proximity to history: a memorial plaque set in Montluc Prison, where a total of 10,000 people were held as prisoners during the Occupation, with 7,000 not surviving. This opening establishes the weight of mortality that hangs over the protagonist. We are introduced to Lieutenant Fontaine as a man in transit, handcuffed and being driven by Gestapo agents. His initial attempt to escape is thwarted by collaborationist French policemen, a small but significant detail that highlights the precariousness of his position.
Once inside Montluc Prison, Fontaine is subjected to physical brutality and psychological interrogation. His life gradually calcifies into a rigid routine. Left alone in a small cell, he becomes intensely focused on deciphering his prison. He uses the help of fellow prisoners to gather information and relies on meticulous resourcefulness: a pin to pick his handcuffs, a spoon to chisel through a wooden door, and makeshift rope and a hook. This process of preparation is the meat of the film. The escape of another prisoner, Orsini (Jacques Ertaud), serves as a grim study in failure; Orsini is executed after his attempt, and Fontaine uses his mistakes to refine his own plans.
The narrative becomes more complex when Fontaine is given a cellmate, François Jost (Charles Le Clainche), a 16-year-old boy who deserted from the Wehrmacht. Fontaine is initially unsure whether to trust him, but necessity forces a bond. When Fontaine springs his escape, he takes the boy with him on a short, dangerous route that leads outside the prison walls. This partnership adds a layer of tension and moral ambiguity to the escape.
One of the great ironies of film history is that A Man Escaped shares thematic DNA with John Sturges’ The Great Escape (1963), another dramatic reconstruction of a similar real-life WWII event involving escape from captivity. However, the two films represent antithetical approaches to cinema. While Sturges’ film is a "larger-than-life" Hollywood spectacle featuring lush colour cinematography, likeable music by Elmer Bernstein, and a star-studded ensemble cast including Steve McQueen, Bresson made his film in stark black-and-white. He employed barely any music—save for Mozart’s "Kyrie" from the Great Mass in C minor, which plays at the beginning and end—and cast the film with unknowns and non-professional actors.
François Leterrier, who plays the protagonist, was himself a non-professional. He was a philosophy student cast by Bresson during an accidental encounter in Morocco, where he was serving in the military. Leterrier carries the film bravely on his shoulders because the camera is restricted to Fontaine’s solitary perspective. The audience sees nothing but his cell, brief glimpses of the prison courtyard, and enigmatic sounds of the outside world, including occasional shootings. Leterrier does not show Fontaine to be particularly emotional; in the absence of everything else, he is focused on the practical task at hand. Despite his lack of training, Leterrier displays a remarkable talent that would allow him to continue his acting career and later become a director in his own right. His son, Louis Leterrier, is a much better-known figure in the 21st century, having directed high-profile Hollywood blockbusters.
Bresson’s austerity extends to the narrative structure. The audience learns next to nothing about Fontaine’s background; we know he is an officer and a prisoner, but his history remains a blank slate. Ironically, the transient characters of the other prisoners—who come and go and whom Fontaine refers to as "ghosts"—are better fleshed out. We see Terry, an elderly prisoner who smuggles messages to the outside world via his daughter, and Pastor Delerys, who despairs after the Germans take his Bible. These peripheral figures add a layer of human tragedy and resilience that the protagonist lacks, making them more vivid and memorable than the central figure himself.
This austerity is most evident in the actual escape scene. While there is genuine suspense, Bresson deliberately avoids making it a "cool" action set piece. Fontaine takes a cold, emotionless, pragmatic approach. When he takes out a prison guard, this act of violence occurs off-screen, emphasising the mundane, gruelling nature of survival rather than the heroics of combat.
Bresson was partially inspired by his own World War II experiences, having been captured by Germans and held for a year in a POW camp. However, an even more important source of inspiration was his deep Catholicism. The film is peppered with brief discussions Fontaine has about God. Bresson uses the text "The wind bloweth where it listeth" from John 3:18—which refers to the mysterious force of the Holy Spirit that could bring salvation to the protagonist—as the subtitle for the original French title, Un Condamné à mort s'est échappé. The wind becomes a metaphor for this divine, unpredictable intervention in human affairs.
If there is a flaw in the film, it is probably in the title itself. "A Man Escaped," and even more explicitly the original French title A Condamné à mort s'est échappé (A Condemned to Death Has Escaped), gives away the ending at the very beginning. The premise is so specific that it reveals the protagonist’s ultimate fate before the story even begins. Similarly, the use of Fontaine’s voiceover narration—while a very convenient and effective tool for exposition and insight into his inner thoughts—undermines the suspense. It tells us what Fontaine is thinking, rather than allowing us to discover it through his actions and expressions.
Despite these structural concessions, A Man Escaped remains a masterpiece of restraint. It proves that a film does not need Hollywood gloss or star power to be gripping. Through its stark visuals, rigorous editing, and profound depiction of faith and pragmatism, Bresson created a prison escape film that transcends its genre, standing as a testament to the power of the cinematic spirit.
RATING: 8/10 (+++)
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