‘Law and Order’ (1968) at Cannes: Cinema and Police Violence

The screening of Law and Order (1969) at Cannes Classics was meant to be an exercise in historical reflection—a return to Frederick Wiseman’s seminal documentary on American policing. But the echoes of the past became unbearably present later that night when I witnessed French police violently arresting a Black woman outside a bar in Cannes.

Wiseman introduced his film with his characteristic bluntness, but also with the nuance that defines his work. He recalled the resistance he faced when filming police in Kansas City in 1968 and the assumptions many had about his intentions. “People expected the film to be an outright condemnation, that it would prove the police were all pigs,” he said. “But when you spend time inside the system, you see the mechanisms that keep it running—you see what people do to each other that makes police seem necessary.” Then, after a pause, he added dryly, “Fuck the pigs.” The audience laughed, but the weight of his words lingered. The film, shot over six weeks, was meant to expose a system, to show both the justifications and the abuses, but its relevance has not faded. Watching the restored version in a packed theater, it was clear the brutality captured decades ago was still eerie and resonant.

Cannes, during the festival, is a blockaded fortress. The heavy police presence is impossible to ignore—officers patrol the Croisette, crowd control barriers are everywhere, and security checkpoints control movement from building to building throughout the festival. And this summer, the power of the police has been on full display beyond Cannes. On university campuses in Los Angeles and across the country, law enforcement suppressed peaceful student protests against the genocide in Gaza. It is widely felt that the repression of voices speaking out against injustice remains a constant in our world today.

That night, several hours after the screening, that presence made itself violently known. Outside a small bar full of festival revellers, a verbal dispute between two men had drawn attention. Police intervened but soon targeted a woman nearby on the edge of the confrontation, pulling her away from the crowd to a darker side street. The encounter escalated. They shoved her against a wall, restrained her, and when she struggled, one officer grabbed her by her hair. She was clearly in distress, begging them to stop, yet her words were ignored. She was forced to the ground and handcuffed. Within minutes, more officers arrived, and she was dragged to a police car.

On the pavement lay her torn braids, a silent testament to what had happened.

Sitting through Law and Order, I had watched 1960s officers pin down bodies, dismiss cries for help, and assert their control through fear. The justifications then and now remain the same. But the larger question lingers—why do we accept that police must exist at all?

The restored print of Wiseman’s Law and Order gleamed on the Cannes screen, crisp in its presentation of the past. But regrettably we must confront that this is not restoration, it is repetition. It is not history—it is now.