Reviews

Georges Gauthier is an ordinary working class young man who lives with his mother and sister but who dreams of becoming a professional singer. His dreams are dashed when his sister elopes with her boyfriend, leaving him to look after his mother. Then he gets an audition at his local music hall. Impressed, the director engages him and Georges embarks on a successful career, under the name "Papillon". Fearing that his fame and success will upset his mother, his girlfriend and his best friend Jules, Georges must keep his singing career a secret - but for how long...?

One of the most famous and best-loved of French film musicals, Romance de Paris is probably the closest that French cinema managed to get to recreating the glamour and charm of the traditional Hollywood musical of the 1930s and 40s. It was directed by Jean Boyer, the best (if not the only) French director of the genre. The film musical is not well represented in French cinema-lack of popular appeal for the genre meant that there was never going to be the funds to compete with the Hollywood films which starred the likes of Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. However, the few musical films which were made in France, mostly in the 1940s, are generally well made and have a whimsical Gallic appeal.

With its enchanting airs and loveable characters, Romance de Paris is one of the most uplifting and enchanting films made in France in the 1940s. This is quite remarkable when you consider that it was made during France's darkest hour (during the first year of Nazi occupation). It is a good example of the light, diverting kind of film which was popular with the French nation during this bleak period. The film's popularity was heightened by giving top billing to Charles Trenet, a stroke of genius as it turns out.

The ginger-haired, blue-eyed Trenet, the "fou chantant" was among the most popular of singers at the time and today has an international reputation as one of the great entertainers of the Twentieth Century. Romance de Paris is one of the few films Trenet starred in, probably his best. He is both convincing and enthralling as the typical working class lad who has a lucky break and who is not corrupted by his success, a latter day fairy tale which, despite its naïve simplicity has genuine warmth. It is interesting to note how close his character in the film resembles the real-life Trenet - both being passionate about music, both respecting the bonds of friendship and family, both shunning needless publicity. To a very good approximation, Charles Trenet and Georges Gauthier are one in the same person.

Although he is clearly the star of the film, Trenet works well with his co-stars particularly Jean Tissier and Sylvie, who play respectively Trenet's friend and mother in the film. The three lead characters have a pleasing rapport, and Tissier's performance is very nearly as entertaining as Trenet's.

Although perhaps overshadowed by the monumental, more sober films which were made at the time, Romance de Paris deserves its place in French cinematic history. With its ceaseless optimism, it served as a cheerful antidote to the penury of everyday life, a distraction from the grotesque business of war. It is no less effective when watched today, a testament to the genius of Jean Boyer and Charles Trenet.

Gérard and Hélène are set to begin a new life together in Argentina. At the last minute, Gérard decides to separate and leaves his partner stranded at the airport. Unwilling to turn to her sister and emotionally traumatised, the abandoned Hélène makes the airport her home. She makes money by working as a prostitute and strikes up a friendship with a café worker Marco. It is a precarious lifestyle but she has mastered her dependency on men - or has she?

Astonishing that this powerful film should pass almost unnoticed when it was released in the summer of 2000. Fortunately, it has enjoyed a second lease of life following Dominique Blanc's best actress award at the 2001 César's ceremony, shortly before director Roch Stéphanik was awarded the prestigious Cyril Collard.prize.

The film takes a familiar theme, the break down of a relationship between a strong male partner and a dependent female partner, and traces the resulting trauma experienced by the latter in coming to terms with her abandonment. All this takes place within the oppressive mausoleum that is Orly airport in Paris, providing a suitably surreal, yet disturbing familiar, backdrop to one woman's psychological collapse and subsequent reconstruction.

There are two things which mark this film most. First, there is of course Dominique Blanc's very creditable performance - and it is not too difficult to see why she was awarded a César. The actress shows a remarkable range in what is a very demanding role, appearing alternately vulnerable and dangerously seductive, the child and the tiger, but always with the utmost conviction. Secondly, the cinematography is also noteworthy, particularly the scenes where Hélene finds herself alone at the airport, which look as if they have been shot in another world, so haunting and menacing is the spacious neon-lit setting.

The film's length and drawn out ending count against it a little. Towards the end, you wonder if the director at the heart to finish what must have been an intensely personal work. By contrast, Hélene's sudden transformation at the end of the film appears contrived and unconvincing, although this is certainly the way the film should have ended. However, these quibbles aside, this is a riveting and sombre drama, with a smattering of dry comedy and irony, well worth seeing.

It is deeply frustrating that what could, and should, have been a great period drama, with some fine acting talent, should end up a dull, mediocre piece of cinema. The film lacks structure, has a lacklustre script, whilst the acting performances are generally lame and, in some instances, quite awful. There is some graphic and totally unnecessary violence, and vulgarity is used as a substitute for wit. To garnish this unhappy ensemble, the background music is repetitive and feeble to the point of nausea. I couldn't get out of the cinema fast enough.

First, the acting. Uma Thurman appears to be totally miscast in the role of Vatel's secret admirer, and her performance is dull, emotionless and sometimes irritating. By contrast Gérard Depardieu, a great acting talent, is wasted completely. All he is required to do is walk about the sets barking out orders to his servants and occasionally looking a bit miffed when one of the aristocracy gets his gander up. One suspects that he has already realised that the film is a turkey and so feels no enthusiasm to waste his energies trying to lift the film out of the pit of mediocrity in which it is well and truly lodged. And one can hardly blame him.

The film's only saving grace - indeed the only reason for seeing the film at all - is the magnificent depiction of the royal entertainment designed by Vatel. The scale of the activities is quite breathtaking, brilliantly executed, and offers an interesting insight into the life of the royal court at this time in history. Unfortunately, we are not allowed to enjoy the legendary fireworks scene because a servant is brutally and explicity killed in the process. This is probably the one true great moment in the film, but it seems to get in the way of the one piece of entertainment on offer to us and the tragic impact is lost completely.

On balance, it is the ending that is the greatest disappointment. This should be a deeply moving and tragic finale, but it fails completely to have any effect. The film just loses momentum after the fireworks scene and gradually shrivels up to nothing. It looks as if the entire cast and production team gave up and went home early. The final scenes lack any emotional impact or integrity and overall the film appears shallow and insubstantial.

A totally wasted opportunity.

One of the best-loved and most memorable of all French films, Les quatre cents coups established François Truffaut as a great film director and launched the acting career of Jean-Pierre Léaud.

This is a poignant story about the life of a young teenage boy who seeks escape from his loveless, lonely existence by committing minor crimes and creating fantasies. We now know that the film is a semi-biographical account of Truffaut's own troubled childhood. He too lived with an adoptive father and a mother who resented having a child. (Truffaut himself was born in secrecy, to avoid the scandal of a birth outside of wedlock, and parcelled off to his grandmother for the early years of his life). Indeed it is difficult to see where the autobiography ends and the fiction begins - a characteristic which is noticeable in virtually all of Truffaut's subsequent films. It is probably Truffaut's intimacy with the subject of his films that imbue them with such warmth and humanity and guarantee their emotional impact.

Jean-Pierre Léaud was cast by Truffaut himself, having advertised the role. There is an uncanny similarity between the two men, both physically and in their mannerisms. Léaud became Truffaut's friend and protégé for a substantial part of their careers, with Truffaut reusing the character of Antoine in a series of films spanning 20 years. Indeed it is difficult to watch Léaud without seeing something of Truffaut in his performance. In Les quatre cents coups, Léaud plays the part of the unhappy teenage boy à la perfection. His futile attempts to please his parents, his empty fantasies, his loneliness when he takes to the streets of Paris - glimpses of a broken childhood that immortalises the young Antoine as possibly one of the most sympathetic figure in French cinema history.

Henri Decae's black and white photography appears the perfect medium for Truffaut's wistful tale. Location filming is used extensively, creating an impression of expanse and freedom which depicts what the young Antoine is looking for but which is constantly denied him. The scenes when the young boy is ultimately confined in a police van being driven the night streets of Paris have a deeply tragic poignancy. The final shots, with Antoine apparently finding his freedom on a vast expanse of beach, but leading no where but to the open sea, are similarly very moving.

Decae's photography and Truffaut's script are very well complemented by Jean Constantin engaging musical score, having a child-like simplicity that seems to underline the futility of Antoine's aspirations for a better life.

Les quatre cents coups was instantly successfully when it was released in 1959, winning Truffaut the Best Director award at the Cannes Film Festival. It was one of the first and most influential films in the New Wave of French films. It was and remains a popular film all over the world, but especially in France. It is - simply - a masterpiece.

Les Cousins is definitively part of the French New Wave of the late 1950s. Whilst slightly more polished than the films of his contemporaries (notably Godard and Truffaut), Chabrol's film bubbles with an insurgence of new cinematographic techniques and fresh acting talent. The sense of newness is reinforced by presence of so many young actors, dressed elegantly in tuxedos and evening dresses, but acting somewhat delinquently for the most part. The film appears almost like the christening party for the birth of a new era in French cinema.

Both the direction and photography are of a high calibre and capture very well the changing mood of the central character, Charles. The film starts cheerfully and optimistically with the young man's arrival in Paris. Like him, we are enchanted by the bright lights, the wide boulevards and the historic monuments. But then, little by little, the mood changes to ennui and disappointment when the shallowness of the Paris jet set is revealed. Finally, a much darker mood prevails as Charles' best efforts to succeed are brutally crushed by a combination of circumstances, partly of his own making but largely as a result of the hand of fate. This ability to alter the mood of the film so subtly and effectively is one of Chabrol's great skills as a director and is used to far greater effect in some of his subsequent thrillers.

Both of the two central characters, Charles and Paul, are played admirably by Gérard Blain and Jean-Claude Brialy. Blain manages to capture the innocence of the outsider and offers a sympathetic and memorable performance. Brialy seems to revel in his role as the extravagant city student, hosting his parties with the gusto of a true bon-vivant, whilst exhibiting a more complicated and sensitive persona in his conversations with the characters Charles and Florence.

Both actors were used by Chabrol in an earlier film, Le Beau Serge, which, in some ways, is the mirror image of Les Cousins. In Le Beau Serge, Brialy played a city boy who returns to his home in a provincial town where he met up wih a childhood friend played by Blain. Brialy's character was the outsider and ultimately he was destroyed by his alien surroundings. In Les Cousins, the situation is cleverly reversed. Here, Blain's character is a country boy who joins Brialy in the city of Paris. It is Blain's character who is now the outsider, and who is finally destroyed by his unfamiliar environment. It is interesting to watch the two films back-to-back, to note the similarities and compare the differences. Both films seem to side with the outsider and condemn the society that rejects him, although it is perhaps disappointing that, in both cases, that the outsider is destroyed without having any significant impact on the society that crushed him. At least, in Le Beau Serge, the victim's fate was sealed by an altruistic desire to do some good for the community that rejected him, whereas in Les Cousins, the victim brought his destruction on himself by trying to attack the society he felt so repulsive.

Les Cousins lacks the emotional intensity of Le Beau Serge and appears in some places a little too stage-managed. (The ending is particularly stagy, but it works perfectly to the film's advantage.) On the plus side, Les Cousins benefits from a far superior musical score, a more interesting set of characters, and some impressive location filming in Paris. It is an engaging and accessible film which still appears fresh and vibrant.

At a time when skeletons were being found in the cupboards of a number of well-known celebrities in France, Chabrol created this film which asks the simple question: what lies beneath the mask of an apparently pleasant and sugar-sweet public figure? Can such a person be utterly wicked, capable of fraud, deceit - even murder - and get away with all that unnoticed? How far can the public image and the private reality differ?

For the subject of his analysis, Chabrol could hardly have chosen a better actor than Philippe Noiret. In his role, Noiret is so successful that it is virtually impossible to believe that his character could harm a fly - until the truly disturbing scene when his daughter shows him a bird in a cage, triggering a phobic reaction that causes the mask to slip - albeit for just a moment. After that, the mask stays firmly in place, until the last possible moment. But when the mask does fall, as it has to, and Legagneur turns on his television viewers, we see the truth in an instant and ask ourselves: how could we have been so blind? More disturbingly, we begin to question - as Chabrol intended we should - whether any real-life TV presenters have similar dark secrets.

Whilst not quite in the league of some of Chabrol's other thrillers (most notably the superb La Cérémonie), Masques is a film which does have some gripping moments and some sparkling dialogue. The ending is as funny as it is tragic, and, as a thought-provoker, it achieves its objective a little too successfully. I for one will never be able to watch a silver-tongued TV presenter again without thinking: what lies behind this mask?

La Chinoise, possibly Godard's most political work, is very much a film of its time. The mid-1960s was a period of great social change and political tension. America was at war with Vietnam, relations between Russia and the West were growing ever cooler, and the Far East was awakening to the hymn of the Chinese cultural revolution. Nearer to home, there was increasing tension between the French government, public-sector workers and the student population, which would come to a head in the following year with the student riots. It would have been more surprising if a French film director had not created a film like La Chinoise.

Here, Godard's method of film-making is at its most primitive and extreme. In a sense, it is hardly a film at all, but a series of sketches nailed crudely together, interspersed with some pretty wild pop-art like imagery. The end result is raggedy, colourful, a bit rough round the edges, but also quite witty.

It is not clear from this film where Godard's political allegiances lie. We can see that he is against the hypocrisy of the Amercain interventionalist policy, which he suggests are derived from imperialistic motives. However, it is less certain where he stands with regard to the Maoist communist ideal. The discussion between the students appears incredibly naïve, didactic, to the point of self-mockery. And the fact that the students are evidently from a middle class background seems to further underline the contradiction between their personal circumstances and their apparently deeply held beliefs.

It is probably safest to regard La Chinoise as Godard's view of how students consider the politics of the time rather than as a portrayal of his own political views. With that in mind, the film reads as a very perceptive study of the naivety of young adults. For these people, freed from the need to work for a living as they pursue their studies in comfortable surroundings, it is easy to contrive a woolly-minded simplistic picture of the world, and to believe that a few bombs in a few school classrooms will solve everything. As the film reveals in its final segment, the dream ends as soon as the degree course has ended. Godard seems consciously to be admitting that his film will change nothing but that it is nonetheless valuable to at least make his statement.

If one had to use just one word to sum up Alphaville¸that word would have to be weird. It is a film that constantly challenges our preconceptions, our expectations, and, as a result, manages to be both deeply disturbing and very funny at the same time.

The film begins as what appears to be a pastiche of the American detective movie of the 1950s, but then suddenly takes a dive into the Twilight Zone. What follows is a perplexing 100 minutes of cinema that manages to be classic film noir, imaginative science-fiction, an action-packed and suspenseful thriller and - most surprisingly of all - a very entertaining black comedy, in the mould of Dr Strangeglove. By trying to blend so many contrasting elements, the result could have easily been a disaster. That the films succeeds, and succeeds admirably, is down largely to two factors.

Firstly, Eddy Constantine plays the part of Lemmy Caution, the private detective, throughout with total conviction, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he is playing a complete parody (and a very funny one) of a character he had made his own in the preceding decade. In the 1950s, Constantine played the hard-nosed detective in a series of French films of the traditional American detective genre. It would have been very easy for a lesser actor to ham the part up or downplay the character, but Constantine does neither, and the result is utterly brilliant.

We have a familiar character transposed from a familiar milieu into a parallel universe, where everything appears to be superficially familiar but then is shown to be a distortion of what we see in our own world - a kind of Humphrey Bogart through the Looking Glass. Over and over again, we are surprised at how easily we are tripped up and misled by our own preconceptions. This would not have been possible without a strong central character who is firmly anchored in our world - and Eddy Constantine serves this purpose brilliantly. The fact that he works so well with his co-star, the superb and very stylish Anna Karina, is a bonus.

Secondly, Alphaville's creator, Godard, appears to be at the height of his powers as a director. He shows complete mastery of the revolutionary cinematographic techniques which he thrust onto an unsuspecting world in the early years of the New Wave (the late 1950s). Far more accessible than some of Godard's contemporary films (such as La Chinoise and Weekend), the style is nonetheless distinctive and fresh, somehow giving the film an extra dimension that constantly surprises and entertains. Godard is also responsible for the script, an adaptation of a novel by Peter Cheyney, where he manages, quite cleverly, to draw parallels between the futuristic soulless society of Alphaville and contemporary France. (There are more than a few direct statements to suggest that Godard regards his own country as Alphaville - for example the infamous HLM joke. Godard appears to see France ending up as an isolationist state, seeming to have imperialistic ambitions, with its language under strict state control - not an uncommon caricature of the country in the latter years of the 20th century.)

Popular concerns about the impact of computer technology on society are also exploited by Godard who suggests that widespread dehumanisation and total state control will be the outcome.

Paul Misraki's enigmatic background music adds to the eerie other-wordly atmosphere of the ensemble.

Overall, an amazing film that never ceases to surprise and shock. A dark and very frightening thriller, a comic pastiche of detective films, a love story, a sci-fi movie with a power-mad (and asthmatic) computer... how Godard managed to pull this one off is probably one of the great mysteries of cinema history. Watch, listen, laugh and be amazed.

The bringing together of two great comic actors of the calibre of Jean Gabin and Bourvil could not fail to be a great success, but this film surpasses the audience's expectations by several hundred kilometres. For both actors, this is a real tour de force. Bourvil is the hapless stooge to Gabin's outrageously forceful character, and the double act is unbelievably funny. One can't help but have pity for the poor unemployed Parisian as his night-time trudge across Paris is turned into his worst nightmare.

Whilst much of the humour is in the performance of its two stars (joined by Louis de Funes in that amazing cellar scene near the start of the film), the script is well-written and genuinely funny in places. The menace of the Nazi threat is there all the same, and this is heightened by the darkened sets representing a deserted Paris, resounding with the distant tread of the German patrols. The last twenty minutes of the film is a distinct contrast to what preceded it, and the humour appears to fade very quickly into drama. Luckily, our heroes emerge unscathed (possibly), but the threat of what might have been substantially changes one's view of the film.

Needless to say, when this film was released in 1956, scarcely 10 years after the end of the Second World War, it was widely reviled. It presented a view of the occupation that, whilst honest and accurate in retrospect, had never before been seen in French cinema and which was simply too much for many to stomach. Gabin's character was a particular target for scorn, representing a cynical free-thinking attitude that could only be regarded as dangerous and anti-Republican. The film's director, Claude Autant-Lara, should be credited with immense courage in presenting to the French people his perception of the war, unadulterated by the constraints of convention. That he should achieve this through one of the funniest of French films is a remarkable achievement.

Through a series of dove-tailing love vignettes, Max Ophüls offers us an enchanting film replete with some of the greatest acting talent French cinema has known. The brevity of the individual segments of the film does not greatly impair the quality of the characterisation or acting performance, and there are some very impressive moments, particularly the scenes with Jean-Louis Barrault (best know for his role in Les Enfants du Paradis) and Simone Signoret (Les Diaboliques and Casque d'Or).

The film is surprisingly - for a film of its age - pretty explicit about the sexual proclivities of the aristocracy and military men. That a respectable middle-aged married woman should seek an amorous adventure with a man half her age, whilst her wealthy husband carries on with a young woman barely out of her teens most probably caused a few raised eyebrows when the film was released in 1950 - particularly when the film is very much in the velvet-lined mould of the traditional pre-war French romantic film.

The most impressive aspect of the film, above the great acting and splendid direction, is its humour. This is a film that is unable to take itself seriously. The mysterious raconteur (superbly played by Anton Walbrook) endeavours to keep the merry-go-round of love happily on its course, but has a few technical problems on the way. It's reassuring to know that even all-knowing deities have their off-days.

Another strong point is Oscar Straus's musical score, particularly the raconteur's merry-go-round ballad which accompanies the film throughout, not unlike the cheery music of a real merry-go-round in a fairground.

This has all the ingredients of a great film. It is a fanciful waltz across the ephemeral ballroom of love, and it succeeds admirably.

This is a film that plays on Mathieu Kassovitz's strengths as both an actor and a director. As an actor, he is well-suited to play the half-hearted, rather feckless criminal, a tragic-comic role that Kassovitz seems to excel in. In the director's seat, Kassovitz creates a film that is energetic, vibrant, dramatic, and visually very impressive. The three lead characters are well-used, with some fine performances, particularly from veteran actor Michael Serrault who acts out the paradoxes of his day job as a professional killer with great conviction and sincerity.

Where the film falls down is in the plot structure and the unnecessary overuse of violence. The film begins well enough, with Wagner recruiting Max and training him to take over his job. Then, about two-thirds of the way through, the film abruptly changes direction and seems to go off on some kind of crusade to educate the world about the dangers of video games on impressionable young boys. At that point, the film loses its momentum and the violence which ensues appears senseless and gratuitous.

There are some similarities of style with Kassovitz's earlier film, La Haine. However, whereas that film seemed to have a fairly clear statement to make, Assassin(s) does not and appears ambiguous and confused. As a result, what could easily have been a very powerful and successful film will probably be remembered as a rather confused film revelling in violence - not unlike the computer games that it seems to revile.

This is actually rather a good, but not particularly noteworthy, detective movie. Chabrol re-uses a character of an earlier film, Inspecteur Lavardin from Poulet au Vinaigre, which was probably the most successful ingredient of that film. This later film is more entertaining and accessible than Poulet, primarily because it benefits from having a much better script, with more than a smattering of humour. In addition, the main characters are better drawn and acted than in Poulet. Of particular note are Jean-Claude Brialy playing Lavardin's outrageously camp and eccentric host, and Jean Poiret, now comfortably installed in the role of the unconventional, if not to say dangerous, detective Lavardin.

The plot is quite sophisticated, with some clever twists and turns. The unmasking of the murderer and the transfer of guilt are quite cleverly engineered, although the conclusion does raise some questions about Lavardin's (and Chabrol's?) own personal morality. That, coupled with Lavardin's somewhat brutal technique from extracting truth from the witnesses and suspects, can only serve to undermine his position as the good guy in any subsequent film.

Whilst this film does occasionally impress in a few scenes, it is overwhelmingly a major disappointment. The plot is faintly ridiculous, although it might just have been possible, given the right mood and the right actors, to convince the audience that a woman can fall for the murderer of her boyfriend. The trouble is that the film does not seem to have either the right mood or the right actors, and the end result is rather like an unconvincing melee of film noire out-takes.

The acting is noticeably below par throughout, particularly from the lead characters Adjani and Depardieu - all the more surprising that both are now recognised as actors of no mean standing in France. The chemistry between the two lead characters just doesn't feel right, and it looks as if Téchiné made a great error of judgement to cast Depardieu in the role of both Samson and his killer. Certainly, Depardieu makes little effort to differentiate the two characters except by wearing a wig and, as a result, the underlying premise of the plot is lost completely.

However, it is the general mood of the film that is the most irritating aspect of this film. It is just so relentlessly grim and dark that it seems to stifle the plot and imbue the moments of great tension with an air of third-rate melodrama.

It is difficult to believe that, with such a wealth of talent on both sides of the camera, such a film could have failed so badly to hit its mark.

This is a powerful film with a genuinely epic feel. The backdrop of a post-war battle field is movingly sombre, with sets scattered with the last remains of soldiers, some hastily dug graves, and hoards of women mourning the loss of husbands and sons. There is no sense of victory or joy after the war, and its central character, Delaplane - brilliantly played by Philippe Noiret - portrays the mood of grim realism of what the war has done to his country and to his life.

Unfortunately, the film is let down by a somewhat feeble love story involving Delaplane which has an unsatisfactory and unconvincing resolution.

At way over two hours in length, the lack of a substantial central plot is more than noticeable. Towards the end, the film becomes slow and almost boring, despite some impressive visual images. It is almost as if the grimness of the subject matter has completely overwhelmed the film. However, considering how grim the subject matter is, that is hardly surprising.

This is a pretty conventional crime thriller of the 1980s, with some criminally dull characterisation and limp acting performances. None of the principal characters, except the formidable Lavardin, appears to have any substance, and the end result is by and large lacklustre and plodding.

Thankfully, the film does have its saving graces. Firstly, the character of Lavardin is well played by Jean Poiret. The police inspector's methods and persona are so unconventional that he comes across as more frightening and sinister than any of the murder suspects. Then there is Mathieu Chabrol's eerie background music which imbues a sense of menace into even the (few) lighter scenes. But the strongest selling point is the camera work, heavily embossed with Chabrol's style. This film has some very chilling moments which are achieved through a clever combination of lighting and camera angles. The style is that of a very sophisticated suspense thriller, even if the content isn't.

Although the films does succeed to some extent at a technical level, the shallowness of the characterisation and the overly complex plot drag the film down to the ranks - almost - of a somewhat mediocre television movie.