Focus Features

Cinematographer Henri Alekan

The French cameraman, Henri Alekan, was unparalleled when it came to black-and-white photography – just look at any frame from Cocteau's La Belle et la Bête (Beauty and the Beast).

He also worked on Marcel Carné's La quai des brumes (Port of Shadows) and William Wyler's Roman Holiday. For Wim Wenders, he lit The State of Things and, most notably, Wings of Desire.

On his death in 2001, Wenders penned this tribute:

“Dear Henri.

If someone would ask me
which professional collaboration
I have cherished the most,
during the 20 films or so that I have done,
or what I'd be most proud of, in hindsight,

I wouldn't hesitate for a second to answer:
The two films
I had the privilege of shooting with you.

I have learned from you all that I know
about lights and shadows,
that's for sure,
but much more than that.
You showed me something very precious,
some sort of principle
that nobody would dare to pronounce,
let alone teach,
but in my book
it's still the most beautiful lesson of cinema:
'Every shot done without love
for its subjects and for film itself
isn't worth a red nickel.'

You taught me that,
but probably without being aware of it.
You were the living proof yourself
that each and every gesture on the set,
every use of the camera,
every movement of a crane or dolly,
in short, every little act of our craft,
could be done with tenderness and care,
with curiosity
and a never-ending eagerness to learn.

I still see you
standing next to the camera,
always beaming with enthusiasm,
with either a smile on your face,
or that slight concern
that meant
you were about to change something.

I see your bushy eyes,
full of all that experience,
yet those of a big kid's...

I see you putting your heads together,
you and your marvelous gaffer friend,
Louis Cochet,
with whom  you worked together for sixty years!
You didn't even have to talk about the light!
Just a few indications with your hands,
a couple of nods,
and off he went running,
eighty years old,
but younger than all the other electricians on the set
with their age of thirty or forty...

I see you measure the light
just by squinting your eyes.
You trusted them more than your spot-meter
which you only carried,
as you jokingly said,
to show that you had one
and even knew how to use it.

I see you next to the camera,
your attention always glued to the actors,
never on the operator or the dolly grip.
You would look at me,
when I'd say 'cut',
and I could tell what you thought,
even if you'd always refrain
from expressing an opinion.

I see you
and it all comes back to me:
YOU yourself,
you were the most beautiful lesson of cinema.

Dear Henri.”

Extract taken from Projections 12: Film-makers on Film-making edited by John Boorman, Fraser MacDonald and Walter Donohue (Faber & Faber, 2002).

Cinematographer Henri Alekan

The French cameraman, Henri Alekan, was unparalleled when it came to black-and-white photography – just look at any frame from Cocteau's La Belle et la Bête (Beauty and the Beast).

He also worked on Marcel Carné's La quai des brumes (Port of Shadows) and William Wyler's Roman Holiday. For Wim Wenders, he lit The State of Things and, most notably, Wings of Desire.

On his death in 2001, Wenders penned this tribute:

“Dear Henri.

If someone would ask me
which professional collaboration
I have cherished the most,
during the 20 films or so that I have done,
or what I'd be most proud of, in hindsight,

I wouldn't hesitate for a second to answer:
The two films
I had the privilege of shooting with you.

I have learned from you all that I know
about lights and shadows,
that's for sure,
but much more than that.
You showed me something very precious,
some sort of principle
that nobody would dare to pronounce,
let alone teach,
but in my book
it's still the most beautiful lesson of cinema:
'Every shot done without love
for its subjects and for film itself
isn't worth a red nickel.'

You taught me that,
but probably without being aware of it.
You were the living proof yourself
that each and every gesture on the set,
every use of the camera,
every movement of a crane or dolly,
in short, every little act of our craft,
could be done with tenderness and care,
with curiosity
and a never-ending eagerness to learn.

I still see you
standing next to the camera,
always beaming with enthusiasm,
with either a smile on your face,
or that slight concern
that meant
you were about to change something.

I see your bushy eyes,
full of all that experience,
yet those of a big kid's...

I see you putting your heads together,
you and your marvelous gaffer friend,
Louis Cochet,
with whom  you worked together for sixty years!
You didn't even have to talk about the light!
Just a few indications with your hands,
a couple of nods,
and off he went running,
eighty years old,
but younger than all the other electricians on the set
with their age of thirty or forty...

I see you measure the light
just by squinting your eyes.
You trusted them more than your spot-meter
which you only carried,
as you jokingly said,
to show that you had one
and even knew how to use it.

I see you next to the camera,
your attention always glued to the actors,
never on the operator or the dolly grip.
You would look at me,
when I'd say 'cut',
and I could tell what you thought,
even if you'd always refrain
from expressing an opinion.

I see you
and it all comes back to me:
YOU yourself,
you were the most beautiful lesson of cinema.

Dear Henri.”

Extract taken from Projections 12: Film-makers on Film-making edited by John Boorman, Fraser MacDonald and Walter Donohue (Faber & Faber, 2002).