playing with time
by Douglas Messerli
Jacques Tati and Jacques Lagrange, with
additional English text by Art Buchwald (screenplay), Jacques Tati (director) PlayTime
/ 1967
PlayTime,
Jacques Tati’s 1967 film, is perhaps his most unusual, in part because the
director/actor as the famed Monsieur Hulot alternates between the lead and a
supporting figure, and seems to be walking throughout the film through a maze
of high-rises that did not truly exist during the time of Tati’s filming. Tour
Montparnasse, the tallest building in Paris other than the Eiffel Tower, for
example, was not built until 1973, and Tour First was not built until the
following year.
The film also, a bit like Mon Oncle, takes us through a
gadget-crazed world, with moderne black plastic chairs covering Styrofoam
so that after sitting upon them they pop back into shape, improbably complex
entry buzzers that even the doorman hardly knows how to use, brooms with
headlights, and apartments with large glass windows without curtains which even
the most voyeuristic or exhibitionist-inclined New Yorkers might never have
imagined possible.
The movie begins in a medium-sized high-rise, which at first site, with
nuns walking down the hall, a couple whispering consoling words to one another,
the entry of what appears to be a woman in a wheel-chair being taken down the
corridor, and a military officer anxiously pacing the hall, seems to be a
hospital; yet soon after, when a gaggle of mostly middle-aged American tourists
suddenly appear, we recognize it as Orly Airport, and the fun begins, the women
mumbling the absurd truisms of so many US travelers—in this case penned by humorist
Art Buchwald: “I feel at home everywhere I go,” “Look at how little their cars
are!” and “It’s the same everywhere.” Surely Noel Coward had this touring group
in mind when, a few years earlier, he wrote his satiric musical about travel, Sail
Away.
These women might just as well have stayed home to look at pictures of
that beautiful city instead of traveling to it. Indeed, to save money in this highly
expensive work (Tati went bankrupt making the film), he often used pictures of
the major tourist spots instead of filming them; he saved his camera expenses
for elaborate studio-built constructions, described as “Tativille. Besides, his
tourists seem more impressed by the futuristic airport light fixtures than in
seeing the older Paris neighborhoods. And like small children on a school
outing, they are constantly being counted by the tour-guide as if he were their
somewhat frustrated teacher having to deal with their stupidities.
There is no real plot to Tati’s movie. Rather, when he’s onstage, Hulot
simply wanders. Why he is determined on visiting the first high-rise, we never
quite discover. Yet he must be expected, since an endlessly heel-clicking (a
sound device the director had previously used in his Mon Oncle)
assistant travels a very long hallway to temporarily retrieve him.
The
clumsy, always umbrella-toting Hulot, is left alone in a large reception room, but
still gets lost even in the building’s elevators, and wanders away, much like
Barbara—a parallel surely intended—from whatever destination he might have
intended to arrive at.
Yet the small office units, much like cargo containers, he witnesses in
his voyage through corporate France says nearly everything. This is not a world
big enough to contain the lumpen Hulot and his umbrella.
In scene after scene, Hulot stumbles through the world in which he
seemingly lives, attending with another mad gathering of tourists (this time
Japanese businessmen) into a trade exhibition where he, mistaken as a salesman,
successfully selling one of the lamps; and later a brand new (they literally
finish the décor as the first guest arrive) trendy restaurant, where the
waiters serve up food that is never eaten, sprinkling it again and again with
lemon and pepper, and in other occasions simply forgetting to serve the orders
up.
After a brief visit to a friend in the house of windows—perhaps another
kind of version of the city of light—Hulot meets up again with Barbara, presenting
her with a couple of small memories of his city, primarily a scarf which she
proudly dons as her tourist bus back to the airport and numerous cars make a
seemingly endless circle as opposed to the wandering paths of their former
voyages, that can only remind one of Tati’s later film, Trafic.
At
first, I didn’t know what precisely to make of the film’s title. Of course,
“play time” reminds one immediately of children—which all of these characters,
in one way or another, are—being allowed to simply “play,” an important
development of children in their transition to adulthood. Yet, I finally
realized, Tati was also talking about playing with time, allowing oneself to
move through space with utter freedom, lacking any certain goal. The characters
here, not one of them, know where they are going, only wandering through a kind
of new wonderland without knowing the good or bad of that world into which they
have entered.
The
openness of Barbara and the gentle, often witless charm of Hulot, are
exceptions to the way all the others play with time. And in Hulot,
particularly—a role evidently that Tati had tired of playing—everyone seems to
recognize someone from their “playing” at life who they know. Throughout Tati’s
film people keep coming up to raincoat, umbrella-carrying figures (a British
traveler, a black man, a miniature version of Hulot) to greet him, as if in
fond-farewell for the bumbling innocent in all of us.
Los Angeles, Thanksgiving, 2019
Reprinted from World Cinema Review (November
2019).
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