Félicie Nanteuil (1945)
Directed by Marc Allégret

Film Review

For a man who reputedly loved actors as much as Marc Allégret did, it's hardly surprising that two of his most revered films should be whole-hearted tributes to those who devote themselves body and soul to the histrionic profession.  In contrast to Entrée des artistes (1938), a contemporary film about drama students struggling to make their thespian dreams come true, Félicie Nanteuil is a full-blown period melodrama that serves as a dark critique of the fragile, storm-tossed world of the professional actor.  The latter film is an inspired adaptation of Anatole France's 1900 novel Histoire Comique and whilst it is set at the height of the Belle Époque it is every bit as pertinent as Allégret's previous actor-themed drama.  Both films portray actors as a breed apart, autonomous marionettes driven by some demonic force that risks ruining their lives in the relentless pursuit of artistic self-actualisation.  Allégret not only loves actors, he also seems to pity them and even look upon them as martyrs.

Félicie Nanteuil revolves around a young woman of that name who catches the acting bug when Fate brings her into contact with what she initially considers to be an actor of considerable esteem.  Micheline Presle plays the former, Claude Dauphin the latter, and it is curious how the fictional characters mirror their real-life counterparts.  Dauphin's best days as an actor were behind him when he made this film, and Presle was only at the start of her incredible career, although she was already a major star of French cinema.  Both actors were at the height of their powers around this time, and it is undoubtedly their shared input into Félicie Nanteuil that makes it the enduring classic that it is. Dauphin manages to be both hilariously funny (as the worst specimen of ham actor you can imagine - sans nez ou avec) and heartrendingly poignant.  In a made-to-measure role, Presle is simply stunning, and every shot does justice to her unparalleled beauty.

Daupin is the proud Aimé Cavalier, a man who sees himself as a Titan of the Parisian stage, and Presle is the provincial ingénue who plays Trilby to his Svengali.  Being a man of philanthropic nature, Cavalier is all too willing to lend his undisputed talents to a school revue in some godforsaken backwater.  His recital as Cyrano de Bergerac goes down a treat (you might say he has a nose for the part), but he is too preoccupied with the enchanting ingénue who has caught his eye to appreciate all the well-earned praise that comes his way afterwards.  Félicie Nanteuil's little stage number may lack polish and sophistication, but Cavalier sees in this carefree innocent an actress of immense potential, so he takes it upon himself to adopt her as his protégée.  Naturally, Félicie is delighted to have such a peerless thespian take an interest in her career, and it is through Cavalier that she is recruited by Monsieur Pradel, the manager of the Odéon theatre in Paris, against his better judgement.

As Cavalier's career stalls, Félicie's suddenly takes off and she becomes a major star of the Parisian stage.  Now basking in success, the young woman sees Cavalier for what he really is - an egoistical old ham who only took an interest in her so he could ask her to be his bride.  It is not this pathetic actor that Félicie loves, but a handsome, young Don Juan type, Robert de Ligny (Louis Jourdan on a sponsored yawn-a-thon).  When he hears of this liaison Cavalier is devastated.  Consumed with jealousy and loathing, he calls on his former protégée at Robert's grand residence and, having bid a final adieu to his beloved, he kills himself in front of her eyes.  The mess he makes on Robert's doorstep is unforgiveable.  Far from bringing Félicie freedom to marry whom she chooses, Cavalier's death fills her with remorse.  Haunted by the man who once showed her so much kindness she knows now that she can never be happy in love.  All that is left to her is her life as an actress....

With its unremitting descent into darkness in its final act, Félicie Nanteuil would appear to fit more readily into the grim oeuvre of Marc Allégret's younger brother Yves than his own.  Certainly, there is a sustained bleakness in the latter third of the film that makes this an unusually dark entry in Allégret senior's long and varied filmography.  Louis Page's seductively stylish cinematography acquires an unmistakable note of film noir despair and anguish as the drama builds to its dramatic climax, and the subsequent scenes showing the heroine gradually succumbing to a crushing mental derangement are among the eeriest you will encounter in French cinema of this time.  It's a film that periodically wows you with the stark visual power of its mise-en-scène and production design, and yet it is also a film with some pretty obvious shortcomings, not least of which is Louis Jourdan as possibly the lamest Don Juan in cinema history.

Jourdan was near the start of his career when he lent his fairly modest talents to this film, although, like Presle, he was rapidly becoming a French screen idol (helped the departure of more capable actors for safer climes outside Nazi occupied France). No doubt, it was his presence that helped to make the film the box office hit that it was, with almost two million spectators in France.  Jourdan had already appeared briefly alongside Presle in two other films - Marcel L'Herbier's satire La Comédie du bonheur (1940) and Marc Allégret's highly entertaining anthology film Parade en 7 nuits (1941).  In his youth, Jourdan had good looks and charm aplenty, but he was a pretty dull and expressionless actor.  He did, however, improve with age, and like Bette Davis, he was at his best in his later years, when his villainous screen portrayals resembled poisonous caricatures of his earlier self.  In Félicie Nanteuil, Louis Jourdan receives third billing but you hardly notice him - he is totally eclipsed by the far more charismatic duo formed by Claude Dauphin and Micheline Presle.  It is Jourdan's inability to shine in this film that prevents it from being the outright masterpiece it deserves to be.

There are, fortunately, strong contributions from the supporting cast, notably Marcelle Praince as Presle's concerned mum and Jacques Louvigny as a theatre impresario beset with artistic egos on all fronts.  Right at the start of her legendary screen career, Danièle Delorme crops up in a minor role - she was one of Allégret's many 'discoveries' who went on to become major stars of French cinema.  In fact, given Allégret's preternatural aptitude for talent spotting, it is hard not to make a connection between him and the tragic figure played by Claude Dauphin.  It is the star who gets all the glory, not the star-maker, and few directors made more stars than Marc Allégret.