Ménilmontant (1936)
Directed by René Guissart

Film Review

If you thought Norman Taurog's Boys Town (1938) was screen slushiness at is most abject, René Guissart's Ménilmontant will make you wish cinema had never been invented. Indeed, it's hard to sit through the entire film without a large sick bucket and a sharp implement to stab repeatedly into your head as you do so, just to take away one pain and replace it with another that is slightly more bearable.  The film was made at a time - the first few months of the Popular Front government - when France was in a state of collective euphoria bordering on insanity.  It was thought that a hastily cobbled together leftwing coalition could solve all of France's problems - economic, social and political - in a spirit of solidarity and general good will.  The Popular Front did achieve many great things when it was in power but the scale of the challenge meant that it would be short-lived, and by the autumn of 1938 the party was over.   Like Duvivier's (superior and more realistic) La Belle équipe, Guissart's film captures this moment of insane optimism well, and its heart is definitely in the right place, but as a piece of cinema it is frankly dreadful.

René Guissart owes his place in film history not to the dozen or so mostly lacklustre films that he directed, but to the many more that he worked on as a cinematographer.  His most notable work was in American during the silent era, including several important early films by Maurice Tourneur - Victory (1919) and While Paris Sleeps (1923) - and some big productions such as the original Ben-Hur (1925).  Guissart began directing films on his return to France at the start of the sound era, his best work, arguably, being his mischievous satire L'École des contribuables (1934).  Ménilmontant was one of his later films, and given how half-heartedly he directs this film, it looks as if he can't wait to get out and do something more constructive with his life.

Adapted from Roger Dévigne's 1924 novel of the same title by Yves Mirande (who also directed a few interesting films), Ménilmontant is a well-meaning attempt at social realism that somehow ended up as the treacliest of third rate melodramas. The action is situated in the popular district of Paris after which the film is named. Here, three amiable old men live together in a modest abode, earning an honest crust making and selling toys for small children.  They live with a fourth, younger man, Roland, who aspires to be an artist and is in love with Julie.  One day, two of the old men - Jos and Chinelle - find a lost diamond ring in the park.  Realising that the ring must be worth hundreds of francs, Chinelle insists that they return to the park and wait until they see someone looking for it, so that they may return it to its rightful owner. This is the point at which the film's credibility takes a sharp nose dive.

Right on cue, a well-dressed man appears looking for the ring and when they present the ring to him Jos and Chinelle are invited to the superb town residence of the wealthy Madame Collinet to receive her gratitude.  Impressed by the men's honesty, Madame Collinet offers them a reward, which they duly refuse.  Instead, they accept her offer to do something for the poor children of Ménilmontant.  Chinelle's dream is to see an area of wasteland converted into a public garden for children, and with his benefactor's money the dream can now become reality.  But, thanks to the city's administrators, there are delays and setbacks, and it looks as if old Chinelle will not live to see the fulfilment of his dream. If you have vomit, prepare to shed it now.

This really is a muddle of a film, and it's hard to dismiss it out of hand, despite the dire plot. What is most striking is the mismatch between the authentic-looking location exteriors and studio-filmed interiors, which gives the impression that it is actually two films that have been badly cut together.  The sequences filmed out of doors in Paris (of which there are surprisingly many for a film of this era) give Ménilmontant an astonishing realism and modernity, anticipating not only the neo-realism movement (which began in France in the mid-1930s before flourishing in Italy in the 1940s) but also the French New Wave of the late 1950s, early '60s.  Among the children playing in the streets we instantly recognise little Marcel Mouloudji, whose budding screen career would soon be eclipsed by his phenomenal career as a popular singer.

It is when the cast and cameras move into the studio that the film loses its credibility, helped by some dodgy set design (which shows a distinct lack of money) and appalling script, which reduces every character to the worst kind of caricature.  The film has an impressive cast consisting of notable character actors of the period, all of whom would have been utterly convincing had the script been of better quality.  But hampered with the most cringe-worthy, mawkish dialogue, not even the combined efforts of Gabriel Signoret, Pierre Larquey, Josette Day and Valentine Tessier can save the film.  It is only Larquey's presence that prevents the film from drowning beneath a tsunami of cloying lachrymose sentiment.  As ever, this most likeable of screen actors anchors the film in something approaching reality and brings a welcome note of scepticism that it badly needs to offset the deluge of sickeningly false bonhomie.  Larquey's final line 'Let's hope' brings a cautionary note to the film's unconvincing happy ending.  Along with the doubtful look on the actor's face, it leaves us feeling that perhaps France's newly discovered Utopia may turn out to be mere delusion.