Sylvain Chomet’s A Magnificent Life

It isn’t easy being a national treasure, especially if you’re France’s national treasure. For Marcel Pagnol, that meant being in the public eye during the National Socialist occupation and the post-War malaise. However, his working-class Marseilles roots largely kept him grounded. Reluctantly, Pagnol takes stock of his life and career, with the help of some ghosts from his past (including the spirit of his younger self) in director-screenwriter Sylvain Chomet’s animated film A Magnificent Life, which opens tomorrow in New York.

Thanks to Matthew Gravelle’s rich, Richard Burton-esque Welsh voice in the English dubbing, American viewers cannot appreciate Pagnol’s Marseilles accent. Evidently, the Southern dialect could be rather baffling for 1920s Parisians. That is why his early plays written in dialect were such a risk. Yet, they were surprise hits, establishing the fame of Pagnol and his featured actor, Raimu (who developed a persona as sort of a Marseilles Archie Bunker). Years later, Daniel Auteuil remade three of Pagnol’s Marseilles plays, The Well-Digger’s Daughter, Maurius, and Fanny, which all had American distribution.

Contracted to write a serialized memoir, the blocked Pagnol claims to remember little of his life, particularly his early years. However, the manifestation of childhood-self starts to pull the memories out of him. His eventual literary success represents the fulfillment of promises made to himself and his beloved mother, who tragically died during his childhood. She too often looks down on Pagnol, like a guardian angel.

The ghosts of Pagnols-past will have much to watch over. As a playwright, he enjoys great successes, as well as a few bombs. However, he shows the vision most of his theatrical colleagues lack, by embracing cinema just as sound and other technological advances were allowing a more robust dramatic experience. Rather slyly, Chomet frequently incorporates archival film clips within his animation (yet, these too, alas, were also dubbed for the theatrical release).

Chomet does not quite convey the magnitude of Pagnol’s status as an early movie mogul—one who vertically controlled the cinema process from studio to theater, even including the labs that developed the film stock. However, he partially explains how Pagnol sandbagged his own business during the occupation era, which allowed him to sell out to Gaumont rather than surrendering his company to the Vichy authorities. Yet, he still faced collaborationist charges, which were ultimately dropped. Chomet addresses these controversies, but in a rather rushed manner that clearly glosses over considerable drama and angst.

Tati Magic: The Illusionist

He was France’s favorite uncle, “Monsieur Hulot.” Indeed, the gentle but ever so sly physical comedy of Jacques Tati enchanted audiences the world over in classic Hulot films, like Mon Oncle and Play Time. However, Tati would have taken on a new role as a father figure in a screenplay he completed yet chose not to realize on film. With the blessings of his estate, renowned animator Sylvain Chomet sensitively adapted Tati’s unproduced script as the pitch-perfect The Illusionist (trailer here), which opens Christmas Day in New York.

As the film begins, the perhaps once great Tatischeff (Tati’s given name) schleps his mean-spirited rabbit and assorted magical gear to and from dilapidated theaters and middling private gigs. In a pleasant surprise, one of his best bookings turns out to be a small pub far up in the Scottish Highlands. The locals are all friendly in their strange Gaelic way and appreciate the show well enough. Alice, a shy young maid in his public house, is particularly fascinated by the Illusionist and his illusions. Something about her touches him as well, inspiring an act of kindness on his part. So when she invites herself along with the Illusionist, he begins to act as a kind of surrogate father.

While there is a gentle wistfulness to most of Tati’s comedies, Illusionist reaches a poignancy of a far greater order. Time passes the Illusionist by, both professionally and personally, as the girl matures and his magic falls even further out of vogue. Yet, like a truly Chaplinesque figure, he indomitably carries on as best he can.

Simply seeing Tati come to life as the scuffling vaudeville magician Tatischeff is a joy. Chomet’s animated rendering is absolutely spot-on, capturing the look and mannerisms of the French cinematic mime to a tee. His Illusionist is a gentle soul, a clown more apt to make us cry than laugh.

From the rugged Scottish landscape to the vintage 1959 city settings of Paris and Edinburgh, Illusionist has a richly detailed, handcrafted look. It even sounds impeccable, sparingly employing dialogue that matches the disembodied resonance of Tati’s great comedies. Completing the elegant ambiance, Chomet’s own appropriately wistful themes nicely suit the on-screen drama, while evoking French Chanson chanteuses, Josephine Baker, and Hot Club Jazz.

Illusionist is one of fifteen films to qualify for Oscar consideration as best animated feature and “Chanson Illusionist” is one of forty-one tunes to eligible in the best song category. Frankly, in a just world it would win both awards in a walk. Tati’s Illlusionist, by way of Chomet, has far greater soul and humanity than anything cranked out by Disney or Pixar this year. It is so good it deserves easily quotable superlatives like: “wise and sad, but touching and beautiful.” Not just the best animated film of the year, The Illusionist is one of the best films overall, which fittingly opens Christmas Day in New York at the Landmark Sunshine.