I couldn’t write La Haine and neither could you
Why everyone says you should write what you know
It’s not because my French is bad. I mean, my French is bad but that’s not why I couldn’t tell this story.
The opening credits of La Haine pass in a whirlwind of black and white reportage — scenes from what we learn is a violent riot that took place the night before the film begins. These, we discover later, are the images that the rest of France has seen. They’re the story. But later, as Vinz, Saïd, and Hubert watch the news in disgust, we realise (if we haven’t already) that these images are not the whole story. As the three young men recount their own experiences, they add swagger and bravado — but also pull at some of the threads conveniently left out of “official” reports.
I always thought the axiom “write what you know” was intended to make my life easier. It’s why every Stephen King book includes a writer — it’s like a shortcut to creating deeper characters. I’m sure that, sometimes, it’s why many artists take the advice. But Mathieu Kassovitz proves there is more to it than that. You write what you know because you’re the only one who can.
Later in La Haine, a reporter and her camera crew pull up while Vinz, Saïd, and Hubert chat in a park. What’s the point in talking to her, they wonder aloud. She insists she wants to tell their side of the story, but it’s not enough — she’s not from their world and she wasn’t there that night. She doesn’t know what they know.
Neither do I.
Neither do you.
