THE ILLUSIONIST directed by Sylvain Chomet, written by Chomet from an earlier script by Jacques Tati. A Mongrel Media release. 80 minutes. Opens Friday (January 21). For movie times, theatres and trailers, see Movies. Rating: NNNN
The Illusionist suffers from a poorly chosen title that puts people in mind of that leaden Edward Norton period piece from a few years back. Fortunately, that’s just about its only flaw.
Beautifully animated by Sylvain Chomet, The Illusionist is a lovely, quietly melancholy affair in the style of his first feature, the exquisite Triplets Of Belleville. This one’s based on an unproduced screenplay by French screen legend Jacques Tati, creator of M. Hulot’s Holiday and Playtime. It’s a gentle pas de deux between a paternal old stage magician and a wide-eyed girl as they navigate a changing world, and any subtext you may choose to read into their dynamic (Tati wrote the original script as a gift for his own daughter) merely enhances the experience.
The magician – who shares Tati’s real name, Tatischeff – is very good at what he does, though the audience for his art is dying out. He’s made a living performing all over Europe and the UK in the Continental version of the vaudeville circuit, but theatre managers are booking mop-topped rock acts now, and the engagements are drying up.
Playing in a tiny Scottish village – in the pub – Tatischeff befriends a chambermaid who’s still young enough to be dazzled by his sleight of hand. When he leaves for a city gig, she follows him, and the two end up travelling together.
As in Triplets, dialogue is minimal the characters’ faces do most of the storytelling. The pacing this time is less frantic, and perhaps a little too slow for contemporary audiences. But the movie takes its time for a reason: Chomet wants us to study the crinkles in the chambermaid’s eyes and the turns of Tatischeff’s mouth. The drawings are acting for us.
It makes for a marvellously dry and rewardingly subtle comedy, though The Illusionist is not without big laughs – mostly provided by Tatischeff’s cranky rabbit, a tiny marvel of anthropomorphism.
And, like Triplets, as the details accumulate and the narrative indicates its ultimate direction, what seemed like a modest little entertainment ends on a piercing note of emotional honesty – though in this case, at least some of the credit must go to Tati.
normw@nowtoronto.com
