Jared White's Movie Love

FILM

Column

Column

MOVIE

LOVE

I'm not certain when the idea of "pure cinema" first trickled its way I into my moviegoing life. Who knows what the term even means, as if certain images are fitter, more satisfying and more urgently needed on film than on any other medium, or as if celluloid can relate beauty better than anyone else. I'll be the first to admit that there is something a little preposterous about it; can anyone really imagine a "pure sculpture" or a "pure poem?"

I doubt I'd believe in the value of pure cinema at all, except that, three or four years ago, I saw a little French film from the 1960s called The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. The idea for the film sounds a little strange when I tell it: a love story that's also a French musical and a slice-of-life melodrama in old Hollywood style. I was a little hesitant to make my first "movie love" rave a French film--it just seems so pretentious. But, well, so it's French. So kill me. Of course there is something a little off about talking about a French movie to talk about any kind of love, as if those crazy Gauls have an monopoly on romanticism. But if I want to talk about love--and not only movie love, like it reads at the top, but all sorts of love--I can't think of a wiser or more poignant film than Les Parapluies de Cherbourg. After all, that is just what this film is about: the reality of love, and how sad, powerful, and fulfilling love can be. The film avoids easy sentimentalities, but it's not the least bit jaded.

The plot itself is marvelously simple--an elegant story about an auto mechanic (brooding Nino Castelnuovo) drafted to fight in the 1950s French-Algerian War and the girl (achingly lovely Catherine Deneuve) back home. It could be a country song, or a classic short story, or a Doctor Zhivago epic. But the film's sense of place--capturing the wetness, char and sadness of provincial Cherbourg--and its compassion for all the characters sets it apart. I would love to say it's the story that gets me. But when I recall the film, that's not what comes back to me.

Instead, I think of the images, every one suffused with emotion, freshness and loveliness. I could write a whole book about the colors in the film. The film was shot on location on the Normandy coast, but it looks like the greatest stage set ever. In fact, the rainy town of Cherbourg was transformed during the production of the film with an incredible makeover of primary toned paints; every wall, streetlight, automobile and shop window harmonizes perfectly with the beautiful costumes of the characters. Sure, the art design would be several shades of twee, if it weren't so damned delightful.

Most of all, though, there's the impossibly supple jazz. Every word in the film is sung. Every word: both the reliable arias of love and the tiny trivial moments that most musicals always forget. There's a great moment when a character is interrupted mid-sentence by a man asking directions--in tune, of course, with the jaunty melody. The effect is startling and a little humorous at first, but after a while you forget the novelty. Instead, you have the majesty of a truly great film score, with undulating chords that shimmer gloriously.

I can't quite imagine how the project got off the ground; who would fund an idiosyncratic collaboration between untested Nouvelle Vague director Jacques Demy and French jazz composer Michel Legrand? Chalk it up to the experimental spirit of the '60s or the audacious spirit of the French New Wave. But what has emerged is unlike any other dated document of the time. It's astonishing how fresh it remains. It's like a fantastic kiss--it never gets old. Even the first time I watched the movie (with a smile of such shocking wideness that my roommates thought I'd gotten married) it felt like home. I couldn't help wondering if I'd already seen it before. Hmm. There ought to be a French term for that.