The Illusionist: movie review
Sylvain Chomet鈥檚 animated feature 鈥淭he Illusionist鈥� is a breathtakingly beautiful achievement in every way. The 2-D graphics seem to beckon from an earlier, less complicated time when animation had a hand-drawn loveliness and simple stories contained complex emotion.
The history of 鈥淭he Illusionist鈥� is almost as fascinating as the film itself. In the late 1950s, the late great French auteur Jacques Tati, beloved as the gangly, pipe-puffing Monsieur Hulot in such films as 鈥淢on Oncle鈥� and 鈥淧lay Time,鈥� wrote an extended treatment for a movie about an aging, small-time magician and then, for reasons that remain unclear, shelved it.
The script reverted to Tati鈥檚 daughter Sophie Tatischeff (the family鈥檚 actual surname), who admired Chomet鈥檚 preliminary sketches for what became the marvelous 鈥淭he Triplets of Belleville鈥� and surmised that perhaps her father鈥檚 script, redone as animation, could be realized after all.
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She died a few months after passing the script on to Chomet, who, though an admirer of Tati, initially resisted the idea of adapting anybody鈥檚 else material. But the script struck a deep chord within him and, seeing 鈥淭he Illusionist,鈥� you can see exactly why.
It鈥檚 a Chomet movie and a Tati movie and somehow it all comes together as a perfect whole. At its most touching, it鈥檚 even Chaplinesque, and this makes sense: Charlie Chaplin was a great inspiration for both of these French artists. There are moments in 鈥淭he Illusionist鈥� that match the piercing melancholy of 鈥淐ity Lights.鈥� It doesn鈥檛 get much better than that.
The magician of 鈥淭he Illusionist,鈥� set in 1959, goes by the stage name 鈥淭atischeff鈥� 鈥� an obvious indication of Tati鈥檚 personal connection to the character. But this conjurer, although he visually resembles the spindly Hulot, doesn鈥檛 quite have his physicality. Hulot鈥檚 prancing pirouettes were comic exaggerations of addled indecision.
Tatischeff is sadder and grayer and less nimble. He鈥檚 a relic from the days when vaudeville clowns and music hall magicians were headliners. Now he is reduced to playing third-rate shows to tiny audiences in far-flung towns.
In Scotland, he meets a waifish chambermaid, perhaps 13 or 14 years old, who tags along until he relents and unofficially adopts her. Wide-eyed, she sees him as the dazzling magician he wishes he could be. She believes in magic. He fills out her fantasy by 鈥渃onjuring鈥� gifts for her 鈥� new red shoes and dresses to replace her threadbare garments. What she doesn鈥檛 know is that, to pay for the gifts, he slips away each night from the ratty apartment they share in order to work low-end jobs at gas stations and department stores.
Chomet, who also wrote the supernal score, is such a limpid storyteller that he doesn鈥檛 need dialogue to clue us in. As in Tati鈥檚 own movies, the characters for the most part speak, when they do at all, in occasional nonsensical riffs and blurts. (The dialogue is a species of sound effect.) Chomet is brisker than Tati, though, who often spaced out his comic sequences with seemingly aimless longueurs that tried the patience of even his most ardent admirers. In 鈥淭he Illusionist,鈥� you have the essence of an artistic vision without any undue attenuation.
Chomet鈥檚 visual style, which is capable of expressing the most subtle gradations of daylight, summons up not only 鈥淭he Triplets of Belleville鈥� but also more somber, Edward Hopperish shades. This is entirely appropriate. 鈥淭he Illusionist鈥� is not some heartwarming family-entertainment fable.
Although 鈥淭he Illusionist鈥� contains peerlessly comic moments, like the scene where Tatischeff believes the girl has cooked his stage bunny for stew, it鈥檚 also irredeemably sad, but in a way that honors the truth of its characters鈥� lives. The chambermaid, becoming a woman, attracts a suitor and moves beyond the magician, who, Prospero-like, renounces his magic. He lets us know that 鈥渕agicians do not exist,鈥� but 鈥淭he Illusionist鈥� is undeniable proof that they do. Grade: A (Rated PG for thematic elements and smoking.)
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