Consistently voted as one of the best movies in history, this film is indeed an amazing feat. Despite its arduous length—almost three hours—I never once felt like the plot was languished or beaten thin. When the film was finished, I marveled that Carné was even able to cut it down to that length. The story was told with an ironic brevity: three hours, but what a three hours. It was a monumental feat of breathtaking imagery and scripting: I was absolutely astounded by it.In the most simplistic terms, the film was the story about love—its starting, its ending; its being and its very lack of being, mostly its lack. The whole mise-en-scène is startlingly rich with metaphor and symbolism—and also rampant with socio-political undertones that cried out during the years of the film’s production, during the Nazi Occupation.
The story revolves around (and this is an understatement) a woman called Garance—aptly named after a type of flower, properly alluding to her ephemeral nature—who is loved enormously and simultaneously by four separate men: an actor, a mime, a writer/murderer, and an aristocrat; each man loving her in a unique way, and she responding to each of them in her own unique way; creating a beautifully delicate summary of life and love.
There is Baptiste Deburau, the pale, elusive mime who works at the city’s circus. His interpretations are layered and diverse. Instantly, his very occupation mirrors well the strengths and weaknesses of his life: the mime, a man who works without words, which are the basic unit of human communication. It is no surprise that in his walking/talking life is also so stunted and voiceless. It’s hard for him to express himself to people, and when he does, it often comes out awkwardly raw and uncouth. When describing his love to Garance, she smiles, a little patronizing, saying that no one talks like that in real life, only in fiction and dreams. But Baptiste blends those two, being neither here nor there, seeing all and seeing nothing; as his later-wife describes him, “…un somnambule sur le toit,”--a sleepwalker on the roof. He is ambiguous, androgynous, unfulfilled, voiceless, and full of yearning (no doubt the most fully projected character of director Carné’s homosexuality). His life within the film could not be better expressed then by a scene from his own play. Loveless and heartbroken , the character he is playing mimes walking. Walking in place, it is the set behind that moves, giving the illusion, the mere illusion, of his walking. As he feigns progression, it is the world around him that is morphing and changing. Also in the play-within-a-film, he tries to hang himself, though is constantly thwarted by people who need the rope (a girl for a jump rope, a woman for a clothing line), referencing back to his own miming as a cathartic crux used for some for entertainment, and other for use and profit.
Attached to Baptiste, quite literally, there is Nathalie, poor and horribly tragic in her undying love for Baptiste, who consistently pushes her away physically and emotionally. The first half of the movie is spent with her goggling and sighing over him, yearning for his affection. The second half of the movie—now married to Baptiste for several years, and having had a child—still sighing over him; still yearning for that complete devotion with a love that is perhaps even stronger than Baptiste’s love for Garance. Nathalie knows that she can never compete against Garance’s beauty. She knows that Baptiste will never love her the way he does Garance. But her character is punctuated by strong passion and an inability to comprehend anything but that. At the end of the film, when she finds Baptiste and Garance together and she runs into Baptiste’s arms who, in turn, runs after the fleeing Garance, she stands, motionless save her raised arms as she softly whispers “What about me? What about me?”.
We have the count/aristocrat, who attempts to woo Garance with large bouquets and poetic clichés. There is little chance Garance would have even considered him if it weren’t for the moment that she is wrongfully accused of being an accomplice to murder, and she retreats to the count’s protection. The count is enamored, even, as he says, “killed,” by his desire for Garance, who he continues to love even though he knows she yearns for someone else. He lavishes her with affection and gifts, though he looks for any chance to kill whoever he thinks is the object of his jealousy. He is prideful, sensitive, posh and impulsive, and in the end, it is these traits that get him murdered.
There is the actor, Frédérick Lemaître, who loves Garance and lives with her for awhile, but she grows weary of him. Although she leaves him too, it is only he who truly is in possession of Garance, as he is the sole person who is able to use her. With her initial leaving, and her return, he is able to harness his feelings and passions for her and use them to his ability- using the feeling of loss, affection, and jealousy to aid him in his acting, becoming the best actor in all of France. He is the one that, when left, is still able to function, and function better at that
Then there is Pierre-François Lacenaire, the poet and criminal, a venomous and vengeful man—hampered and enhanced by his cerebral nature. He is a phantom, as the first scene introduces him as he writes a letter begging for his beloved to return to him, only for us to discover that he is in fact writing the letter not to but for someone; employed to wear a mask. He goes by so many names that when Garance approaches him after not seeing him for a few years and calls out his name (Pierre-François), he is confused and hesitant, until he remembers that that is indeed one of his many identities. He is dangerous and calculating, scheming large elaborate plans, and twice almost getting Garance arrested through his own criminal activity.
And finally, Garance: secret, ephemeral—always seeming to be everywhere and nowhere; unattainable. She is the only one who never wears the masks, and although elusive, never lies. It is that, more than anything, even her good nature and beauty, which is most attractive about her. She is real…fleeting yes, but always honest. It is interesting to notice how she introduces herself to people. For those who do not know French, it is important to understand how they give their names. For one to say, “My name is John,” one would say, “Je m’appelle John,”—literally “I call myself John.” However, Garance introduces herself at “Ils [or sometimes “les autres”] m’appellent Garance,”—translated as, “They (or, “other people”) call me Garance.” Garance is woman prized after by everyone, pursued by everyone, and so it’s no doubt that she identifies herself as the way people see her. It is only when she is confronted by a police inspector that she reveals her true name: Claire Reine. “Claire”—light, clarity, truth. “Reine”—queen, veneration, power.
The Children of Paradise is a beautiful film, and unsurprisingly an international classic. It appeals to all nations, all individuals, as it speaks about the cruel turns in life; the inexplicable passions; the unattainable yearnings. It speaks of forbidden desire, and the price of love. In one scene, Lemaître, angered, frustrated, and unable to express himself, throws a cardboard chicken onto a metal sheet made for the sound of thunder—a sly thematic pun for the French phrase for love-at-first-sight, “un coup de foudre” (a clap of thunder). Instantly the flustered stage manager bursts into the room, with a pen and finance book in hand: “Who rang the thunder? That’s a three franc fine!”
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