Ask George Lucas, who has been struggling to rehabilitate one of the silver screen’s greatest villains for over thirty years. Or ask Stan Lee, whose Marvel characters are subjected to ill-conceived “reboots” on a nearly annual basis. Just don’t ask Sylvain Chomet, the insane genius behind The Triplets of Belleville, whose recent animated feature, The Illusionist (L’illusionniste), makes it abundantly clear that reinvention is not only possible, but worth the effort.
Based on a script from the legendary French director and comic Jacques Tati (whose cinematic alter-ego, Monsieur Hulot, appeared in a quartet of influential films during the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s), The Illusionist tells the story of The Great Tatischeff, an aging stage magician struggling to survive in a world increasingly disinterested in his threadbare sleight-of-hand. Dismissed from his most recent Paris engagement as a result of profound audience indifference, he embarks for the British Isles in a last-ditch effort to resuscitate his moribund career.
Coming briefly to rest in a tiny village pub on a small Scottish island, he acquires an unexpected follower: Alice, a credulous young char-maid who is convinced that his trite conjurings are truly magical. Unfortunately, her fellow townsfolk are less enamored than she is, and Tatischeff is obliged to head for the bright city lights once again. Unbeknownst to him, Alice follows along behind, aglow at the opportunity to accompany such a bewitching celebrity.
Upon arriving in Edinburgh and discovering his unexpected disciple, the magician grudgingly takes the young Alice under his wing, but the results are far from pleasant. Juggling his dwindling illusionary career with the practical jobs he must pursue in an effort to pay the bills that result from his new devotee’s naïveté, Tatischeff is forced to confront his own social deficiencies.
The similarities between Tati’s Hulot films—Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot (1953), Mon Oncle (1958), Play Time (1967), and Trafic (1971)—and Chomet’s most recent work are many. The character of Tatischeff himself, in addition to the obvious patronymic reference, is strikingly similar to Hulot in look, feel, and behavior, even down to the bemused, slightly awkward way in which he moves through the crowded city streets. Like Tati’s films, The Illusionist is nearly entirely silent; dialogue, when it does occur, it is garbled and indistinct. For Chomet and Tati alike, inflection and mood are vastly more important to their storytelling than words. This lends an unusual—as in rare – Chaplinesque power to their images.
Chomet’s unusual artistic genius was stunningly showcased by The Triplets of Belleville, but his tendency towards bizarre surrealism often overwhelmed the message he sought to convey. The Illusionist, on the other hand, is a quieter, more mature work—no doubt the result of Tati’s subtly written characters and the mildly playful mood that permeates every frame of his films. While it retains much of the visual artistry of Triplets, the overall product is far more accessible.
Chomet’s offering, however, breathes exciting new life into a dauntingly legendary icon, and in an extraordinary way: The Illusionist is deeply faithful to Tati’s original characters and concepts, yet it advances the French master’s ideas into unexpected and intriguing places.
Chomet’s work reflects much of the awkwardness and melancholy embodied by Tati’s Hulot, clearly recognizing the corrosive effect of technology on the world of The Great Tatischeff. The growing disdain for the illusionist’s time-honored skills is tied closely to the advent of more modern amusements. Tatischeff’s departure from the small Scottish town, for example, is a direct result of the enormous electronic jukebox that appears at the local pub moments after his final performance. When the time comes for the illusionist to make the final fateful choice that will determine the course of his life for years to come, it is a decision thrust upon him by a society that grows more obsessed with shiny new gadgets than with the men who make them possible.
Yet The Illusionist also highlights an important question that Tati never adequately addressed in his films: Is it possible that only part of Hulot’s inability to interact with the modern world is the result of external technological influences?
At times, Hulot seems to struggle with the modern world because he wants to. He relishes being seen as awkward and out-of-place because so much less is required of him—an ennui driven in large measure by his inability or disinclination to interact with other humans. Hulot (and Tatischeff after him) is often childish rather than childlike; his simplicity a façade that masks an unbecoming reluctance to interact with others. Recognizing the dangers of modern technology is one thing; asking how one can best overcome those dangers is something else altogether.
Tati never allowed his Hulot to confront that question, but Chomet does.
The answer is profound in its simplicity: the dehumanizing effects of technology are defeated by renewing one’s commitment to human interaction. Young Alice, immature though she may be, gives Tatischeff a lens through which to view his own life, where he discovers the need to live through and for others. Technologically-advanced man does not grow increasingly self-sufficient; he grows less so. The notion that technology somehow lessens the need (or the opportunity) for human interaction is simply an excuse to retreat into one’s shell.
The Illusionist is more than simply the next artistic step along the Journey of Tati. It is the next moral step, as well. With the aid of Monsieur Hulot, we can identify the tendency of modern technology to isolate us from one another. Armed with that knowledge, we can set about Monsieur Tatischeff’s task of deepening and enriching the very relationships that lie at the core of our humanity.
If those human relationships are strong, no amount of technology will drive us apart.