Sylvain Chomet has made one of the most delightfully whimsical animated biopics you’re likely to see.
French novelist, playwright and filmmaker Marcel Pagnol — 1895 to 1974 — was an imaginative, forward-thinking Renaissance man in every sense of the term.
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| Whenever Marcel gets stuck, trying to extract a key event from long-ago memories, he's assisted by a ghostly apparition of his adolescent self, who vividly recalls every detail. |
After shrewdly dismantling everything during World War II, in order to keep his work out of Nazi hands, in 1946 Pagnol became the first filmmaker elected to the prestigious Académie français.
And he wasn’t done yet, by any means.
Chomet continues to be remembered in this country for two marvelously imaginative animated films, 2003’s The Triplets of Belleville and 2010’s The Illusionist. Long an admirer of Pagnol, Chomet was delighted when asked by the man’s grandson, Nicolas Pagnol, to make a film based on Sylvain’s four-volume memoirs, published between 1957 and 1977 (the last one posthumously).
This film is the result: not quite full documentary, and not quite docudrama, propelled by a charming gimmick.
Events begin in 1956 Paris, as Pagnol (voiced by Laurent Lafitte) is approached by the editor-in-chief of a women’s magazine, who desires a literary serial that will recount the events of his childhood, his memories of early 20th century Provence, his first loves ... and everything else that captivated him, at the time.
Pagnol initially declines, musing “What’s the point of writing things, that people no longer wish to read?”
But that statement underestimates both the evocative, emotional power of his writing, and the degree to which he’s admired by the entire French population ... along with a rising fascination with the process of trying to recall all of his important moments and feelings.
The story bounces back to 1905 Marseille, and the impact Pagnol’s grandfather had on the 10-year-old boy. Then tragedy five years later, as his mother Augustine (Géraldine Pailhas) dies from a chest infection. The saga moves swiftly through the next years, as Pagnol studies literature at the university in Aix-en-Provence, marries Simone Colin (Elsa Pérusin) in Marseille, becomes an English teacher, then continues that occupation until 1927. During this time, he also writes his first plays: 1924’s Merchants of Glory, in collaboration with Paul Nivoix; 1926’s Jazz; and 1928’s Topaze.
Ultimately unhappy in Paris, he returns to Provence as a full-time playwright; 1929’s Marius is the first of his plays to be turned into a film two years later.
By this point — and this is the film’s clever gimmick — the older Pagnol’s memories are being enhanced during visits from his childhood self: a ghostly representation of “memory” who helps the older man recall and recover long-ago events.
The resulting saga is both an appreciation of Pagnol’s life and career, and a valentine to cinema. (As Chomet comments, in his film’s production notes, Pagnol was born just before the debut of Auguste and Louis Lumière’s The Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat Station, one of the world’s first 50-second silent documentaries.) Although unimpressed by silent movies, Pagnol quickly embraces the medium upon the arrival of sound.
Intriguingly — and this is another running theme — Pagnol also is fascinated by the concept of perpetual motion, and constructs all manner of gadgets in an effort to prove this (now wholly discredited) concept. This metaphor further amplifies the design of Chomet’s film as a loop: the eternal return of things, as the ghostly adolescent Pagnol reappears to assist his older self.
Fans of Triplets and The Illusionists will immediately recognize one aspects of Chomet’s animation style: His characters always have big noses. That touch adds droll personality to all of these characters, who behave like real-world people in a way not often seen in animation. They frequently pause: to breathe, sigh, smile or reflect upon a comment or situation.
This film also differs from those two predecessors in a significant way: Triplets is entirely silent, and The Illusionist — based on an original script by Jacques Tati — has very little dialogue. A Magnificent Life, in stark contrast, is laden with dialogue: whether Pagnol muses to himself, is coached by his ghostly young companion, or joins a spirited on-stage discussion about how a particular play scene should be presented.
We also get to know key characters from Pagnol’s life, starting with best friends/colleagues Raimu (Thierry Garcia) and Fernandel (Vincent Fernandel), both actors, and second wife Jacqueline (Olivia Gotanègre).
The World War II years are covered briefly, but tellingly: most notably when Marselle is bombed in June 1940. Confronted by the possibility that his work may not survive the conflict, Pagnol muses, “Beautiful things are not meant to last.”
But he rebounds in style.
These on-screen events are complemented perfectly by Stefano Bollani’s Golden Age Hollywood-esque score, which blends the style and music of early 20th century Paris with jazz and other orchestral and folk elements. A recorder is heard frequently, backing moments both joyful and sorrowful. (“Music helps you travel back in time,” Bollani insists, “[to] reconnect with childhood.”)
The overall result is by turns charming, poignant, melancholy and triumphant: a reverential examination of a man who (by most accounts) had no idea how much of an artistic impact he made on French culture.
More of an animation tone poem, then, and probably not for viewers who prefer the rat-a-tat pacing of Zootopia or Hoppers. Lovers of theater, cinema and the written word, however, likely will be enchanted.
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