TOUT LES MATINS DU MONDE
[Spoilers]
A film review by jwimp@mcs.drexel.edu
Copyright 1993 jwimp@mcs.drexel.edu
Comments on TOUS LES MATINS DU MONDE, SPOILERS!!!!
When I think of the predicament of French cinema, I envision a delicate Columbine doll labeled ART being torn apart by a mastiff labeled THOUGHT AND REASON. The tendency towards philosophical abstraction has been the curse of French film since Renoir, culminating in the soporific headiness of such master anaesthetists as Bresson and Rohmer. My own list of the 12 greatest films contains a single French entry, Clement's FORBIDDEN GAMES (1951). That film spoke movingly of the horrifying effect of war on children; no philosophical meditations crippled its direct and harrowing message.
But in French film, such achievements are rare, and seem almost to have to apologize for their presence. There was a time when I thought French film might be rescued from its philosophical diaspora. I welcomed Godard's BREATHLESS (1960), and even WEEKEND (1968), but that director began to descend into bombast and politically trendy rant. Once in a while a filmmaker such as Cocteau in LES ENFANTS TERRIBLE (1950) would approach a robust subject, then scurry away in cant and confusion, leaving an unwatchable film. The promise of LA FEMME NIKITA and DELICATESSEN remains to be fulfilled.
It is remarkable that French cineasts admire from afar a completely different approach to filmmaking, the American film noir genre, with its frenetic sense of doom and its headlong momentum. I think randomly of four fairly recent American films, THE GRIFTERS, KILL ME AGAIN, SHATTERED, ONE FALSE MOVE. None of these films is free from flaws, but each grabs the viewer by the scruff of the neck neck at the beginning and at the end propels him/her out of the theater wondering how 1 1/2 hours could have passed so quickly. The momentum films in this genre are capable of building is truly marvelous. The noir spirit of these films is the antithesis of what the French filmmakers themselves usually achieve. French filmmakers are like the acnaed high school computer whiz who fantasizes about the cheerleader he can never have.
The recent film, TOUS LES MATINS DU MONDE (All The Mornings of the World) is, alas, in the reflective tradition. The film details the relationship between the baroque composers Marin Marais (1656-1728) and M. de Sainte Colombe, played by Gerard Depardieu and Jean-Pierre Marielle, respectively. Marais is best known, perhaps, for his unearthly "Les Sonnerie de Sainte Genevieve du Mont-de-Paris" which is often played on the classical music stations. I am uncertain about the historicity of Marielle's character. He is certainly obscure, not even being listed in my Slonimsky. However, some recordings of his music have begun to emerge. In the film Marais is depicted as his protege, but in reality Marais studied the viola da gamba with Hotterman, and composition with Lully. Their relationship is the usual protege relationship enshrined in filmdom: melodramatic, filled with sullen abrasiveness, temperament, posturing, and in this case with a seduced, pining and ultimately suicidal daughter.
The film is langorous and atmospheric, and the interplay of the haunting baroque music with the pastoral scenery is effective. The actors handle their duties adroitly, particularly Marielle, and that reliable fireplug of an actor, Depardieu. French actors are, I think, the best film actors. Everything comes from the face, and everything is nuance. French actors and directors both have obviously studied the great American film actors of the past. It is interesting that Stephen Frears, the director of LIASONS DANGEREUSE, cast that film with American, rather than French, actors because "American actors are better with their faces." I don't think so. More than once, during the films JEAN DE LA FLORETTE and MANON OF THE SPRING I burst into spontaneous applause at the intense subtlety of the performances, particularly those of Daniel Auteuil and Yves Montand. When I saw LA FEMME NIKITA, there was a unified intake of breath from the audience during Jeanne Moreau's bravura turn as the aging crone. I could name many other equally thrilling examples. Marielle in the present film is so uncanny that one could easily watch him read a telephone book, or Descartes' "Discourse on Method," which is an asset, because in this movie that's about what the viewer gets.
Yes, unfortunately that age-old succubus of French film, THE IDEA, is at work. Seeing the device called "faction"--- historical figures in an imagined narrative---in the hands of a French director is ominous, like a toddler playing with a handgun. It means the characters can be anything, in particular, puppets, from whose mouths can me made to issue maxims, alternatively opaque and sophomoric. The motivations and consistency of character in the movie are really non-existent; Marais' dialog could be given to Sainte Colombe or vice versa with no discernible effect. The characters are pegs on which to hang a series of ruminations about art and life. The character of the young Marais, played by Depardieu's real life son, makes no sense whatsoever. He weeps when upbraided by Sainte Colombe and denounces him as a cruel man, yet, with no hesitation, walks out on his pregnant lover. "Our bodies are no longer right for each other."
There is no historical evidence that Marais liked to dally destructively. In fact, he married at the age of 20 and had 19 devoted children. More faction, I suppose.
The film culminates in a ultra-slow-motion Socratic dialog between St. Colombe and his errant pupil Marais on the nature of art and life.
"What is music for?" St. Colombe asks, pensively. The scene is filmed in near darkness, the actor's faces fill the screen, an encyclopedia of facial expressions is exhibited before each word of dialog emerges.
To this question, Marais offers a languid series of abstruse replies, each of which is countered by a severe "NO!" from St. Colombe. Finally, the secret is revealed.
"Music is for before we are born, before we breathe, before we see the light."
Watching this philosophical paint dry became excruciating, unendurable. I estimated my distance from the exit doors. I found myself conjuring up new muffin recipes. I found myself thinking of imaginative ways to re-wire my house and reappraising the promises of that morning's junk mail. I renewed my promise never to shout "FRENCH CINEMA!" in a crowded fire station.
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