011 - Parade, 1974, France; Dir. Jacques Tati.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

011 - Parade, 1974, France. Dir. Jacques Tati.

Do you have a favorite artist from when you were younger, whom you still love to see perform today?

What if you could watch The Rolling Stones perform "Start Me Up," the Eagles perform "Hotel California," or U2 sing their entire Joshua Tree album live in concert this year.  Willie Nelson is still on the road singing "On the Road Again."  Bob Hope first sang "Thanks for the Memory" in 1938, and he was still singing it in 1990.

When Jacques Tati aired the television variety show Parade in 1974 featuring his performing of acts that had put him on the map in the 1930s, it was special.

He had played tennis and ridden horses in real life.

He had an act where he mimed playing tennis and riding horses.

This act catapulted him to stardom in the French music halls and opened the doors for him to be a filmmaker.  Now at the end of his career, he is bringing it back to the people.

Parade is a filmed variety show, with a circus, in an intimate venue.  It feels as though perhaps we are getting a taste of the music hall, taken back to the 1930s but with 1970s characters.  It includes miming, juggling, magic tricks, acrobatics, donkeys, a classical band, a rock band, dancing, audience participation, and children.  It also showcases Jacques Tati, performing for his fans again, for new ones the first time, and generously sharing with his fellow performers and audience.

It begins with audience members lining up outside.  Two of them, a young man and woman, pick up orange traffic cones and put them on their heads, instantly transforming themselves into clowns.  People take their seats.  They are dressed in the hippie clothing of the time, vibrant with color, like clowns in the audience, creating a backdrop suitable for the show.

The show itself is fun, light-hearted, innocent, and full of energy.

Tati is himself, not Francois from Jour de Fete, not M. Hulot from everything else, but Tati, as if he is everyone's Uncle Tati.  You could call him Mon Oncle Tati.

The performers play off of one another in creative ways.  A hockey team watches the classical brass band and then spontaneously begins tumbling over the piano--which turns out not to be the piano but a tumbling horse.  The hockey team turns out to be the acrobats who will return throughout the show dressed as various people.

One magician shows a trick.  The second one tops it.  A man in the audience stands up and does even better.

Some painters begin juggling their paint brushes, and it turns into an impressively accomplished juggling act.  A woman juggles three brushes.  A man walks up behind her and joins her, reaching to the left, reaching to the right, back and forth, sharing the brushes with her.  Then he steps in front of her, taking over the brushes.  Then she steps in front of him.  The two rotate positions without the objects ever changing their arc.  The woman backs up.  She comes forward between his legs and stands up.  They keep it going.  Then he backs up.  He runs forward and jumps over her head, landing in front of her, keeping the objects going.  Throughout the act, the objects keep rotating in the air in the same fashion, as the man and woman move back and forth with one another, working together in tandem, with no hint of tension or difficulty.  They just keep it going effortlessly.

Then a man stands on top of another and the woman stands on top of the two men.  They all juggle paint brushes seamlessly at the three levels of height.  Magically, paint begins to appear on the wall behind them as if their juggling paintbrushes are painting the wall.

How about this one: two men are playing musical instruments.  They play a few measures and get to a pause and one of them shouts, "Hey!"  The other one looks at him disapprovingly.  Everyone laughs.  They play a few more measures and get to a pause.  The second one looks over disapprovingly in anticipation but the first one says nothing.  So they start again.  Then the first one shouts, "Hey!"  It is so simple, so childlike, so silly, and yet it is carried off with such finesse that you cannot help but laugh.

Here, try it yourself.

Da da da da da da da da da, da da da da da da da da da.   Hey!   (Glance.)
Da da da da da da da da da, da da da da da da da da da.   (Glance.)   Hey!

Another funny act is when a woman brings a donkey into a ring and asks the audience who would like to volunteer to ride it.  Various people try, but the donkey is irascible and knocks them over in humorous ways.  A middle-aged man stands up in the audience, wanting to take a turn.  His wife grabs him and makes him sit back down.  He tries again.  She stops him.  Finally, he breaks free from her and runs on stage.  The donkey starts to kick him, and he flees in fear.  He trips over the ring and falls on his face.  The audience laughs.  He goes to his seat and misses, landing on the concrete step beside his wife.  The audience laughs.

Another donkey comes out, this one even harder to ride.  More people try.  A child approaches and runs back.  The man in the audience tries again.  His wife tries harder to stop him, this time chasing him halfway down the steps.  He makes it into the ring and onto the donkey, and the donkey drags him around the ring like a rag doll.  Everyone laughs.  Clearly he is a plant, a staged performer pretending to be an audience member, but it is carried off with such believability that you either do not realize it or do not care.  They sell it, and it feels real.

Jacques Tati's miming is exceptional.

When he plays tennis as they did in the 1930s, he dresses up a little bit, and he affects the posture and physicality that you believe you have seen your whole life--either in old pictures or old movies.  He transforms himself.

When he plays soccer, he is the goal keeper, and you can see him growing bored when the play is at the other end of the field, trying to stay engaged.  Suddenly the ball comes and he perks up.  He makes a save and puts it back into play.  This goes on for a bit until he is scored upon.  Suddenly, he is morose and feigns injury, limping off the field.

When he rides a horse, he portrays the horse from the waist down and the rider from the waist up.  This is why critics would call him the human centaur.  He affects different steps of the horse as well.

When the rock band starts playing, Jacques Tati comes out and dances.  He has not choreographed it.  He is just having a good time.

At the end of the show everyone has exited except two children.  Their individual parents remain in the seats watching them as they play with the objects on stage, one painting, one blowing the trumpet.  They speak to the innocence and generosity that Tati has placed in his work.

There is an underlying sadness that comes from his personal life, but we will leave that for another time.

Tati has given the world something unique.  This show is a fitting tribute to cap a life of wide-eyed wonder-filled artistry.

Hey!