a sleepwalker on a roof
by Douglas Messerli
Jacques Prévert (screenwriter),
Marcel Carné (director) Les Enfants du Paradis (Children of Paradise)
/ 1945
“I would give up all my films to
have directed Children of Paradise.”
—François Truffaut
Much has been written about the
miracle of the making of this film during the Vichy rule of France, when the
director and cast feared not only censorship but Gestapo arrest: one of the
leaders of the Resistance was arrested as an extra on the set, and the film’s
set designer, Alexandre Trauner and one of the composers, Joseph Kosma, had to
remain in hiding because they were Jewish. Starving extras, so Carné revealed
in an interview, made off with food to be filmed on the banquet table, even
going so far to hollow out the bread from beneath the crust of a
baguette. That the openly homosexual Carné survived without arrest is a
wonder.
Yet Carné insists that it was a work largely free from internal tension, which
can only be attributed to the high level of professionalism among the entire
cast, at the center of which stands the beautiful and calm Arletty, playing
Garance Reine, a woman loved, each in their own manner, by three very different
men, a shy romanticist who acts as a pantomime (Baptiste, played by the
unforgettable Jean-Louis Barrault), a loquacious and self-assured actor
(Frédérick Lemaître, acted by Pierre Brasseu), and wealthy and snobbish Count
(Comte Édouard de Montray, performed by Louis Salou). A fourth man, the true
villain of the piece, Lacenaire (Marcel Herrand) might also love Garrance if he
had a heart, but he is so selfish, so locked within himself that when he
finally acts out his jealousy by killing the Count, it represents more of a
meaningless murder than an act of honor.
Surrounding these central characters are numerous other actors, including the
gentle Nathalie (Maria Casares) who deeply loves Baptiste, various street
figures—in particular the ragman Jérico (Pierre Renoir) and a blind man who
turns out to have perfect sight—and a cast of thousands who throng the
Boulevard du Crime and the audiences, particularly those “gods” hovering at the
top of the grand Funambules theater. These “gods,” the poor who shout, clap,
boo and openly evaluate the performances below, are the “children of paradise”
who make or break the actors’ careers, and ultimately through the course of
this more than three-hour epic, bring both Frédérick and Baptiste to fame.
The only statement of morality Garance utters, when Lacenaire declares
“I’d spill torrents of blood to give you rivers of diamonds,” is the muted “I’d
settle for less.”
Frédérick,
on the other hand, may be suave and handsome, but is also a rake, willing even
to bed his landlady, Mme. Hermine, in order to keep his room and double bed.
The actor, like Garance, is also quite self-centered.
The
Count, with whom Garance ultimately and unhappily settles into a relationship,
is dismissive of almost the entire world of the everyday people who make up
this movie, and is willing to duel with almost anyone at whom Garance smiles.
Even the self-centered and despicable Lacenaire is more honest than the
self-deluded Count.
It is
Baptiste, finally, who we realize is the true “hero” of the piece. He is the
only one who, when he speaks of love, truly means it, even though he has never
comprehended love’s often superficial simplicity, perceiving only its darker
difficulties, which he plays out time and again in the great pantomimes he
performs before us. Like his character, Baptiste is a willing lover, but has no
ability to effectively express himself; he is mute, able to express his
seriousness only through comic gestures and the pained expressions of his
beautifully gaunt face. In short, Baptiste is himself almost the Pierrot
figure he portrays, an eternal outsider always swooning for a woman with whom
he can never hope to consummate his love, associated not only with the eternal
outsider but with the homosexual. Yet, strangely he is the only he who wins the
love of the two central women of the work, Garance and Nathalie.
But for that very reason, for his inability to accept his difference from the
others, even the likeable Baptiste is dishonest, if not with others, at least
with himself. He is a dreamer always, a man of the moon, who, as Natalie aptly describes
her fears for him when he finally does attempt to consummate his love with
Garance: “He is a sleepwalker on a roof,” a man who if he is not carefully left
to awaken himself may fall to his death.
But
also, I think we feel the work is slightly truncated not only because of its
narrative density, which seemingly demands, in turn, more and more stories, but
because we never do observe Baptiste’s awakening. At work’s end, the lovestruck
“clown” goes rushing after Garance’s carriage as she, a seasoned cynic when it
comes to love, determines to awaken him by rushing back to her wealthy Count—without
knowing he has been murdered. The great film ends only with Baptiste’s pleading
gestures, the welling tears in his eyes (as well as in the audiences’ eyes
surely); he remains a sleepwalker, a dreamer rather than a skin-and-bones
character who might come to terms with the love of his wife and son. The
theater of Carné’s world, in short, does not even come to a close with the
curtain’s fall, and certainly everyone in those 1945 showings must have
realized that the world it was depicting, the allegorical presentation of a
golden pre-War France, had in fact died. If love was still possible, it was
only through the cold vision of more open eyes. Our hero’s love represents an
impossibly romantic and idealized concept of what simply keeps the human race
warm and excited. He remains a fool, and for that reason maintains his outsider
status. A man in the real world is not permitted such complexly gentle and
confused emotions.
Just as Proust’s vision, Carné’s was a remembrance of things of the past,
allowing little in the way of direction for what lay ahead.
Los Angeles, June 18, 2013
Reprinted
from International Cinema Review (June 2013).
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