Micmacs

MICMACS
Directed by Jean-Pierre
Jeunet
Runtime: 105 min.

When JANET MASLIN reviewed Elvis Costello’s Armed
Forces, she pinpointed it brilliance: “Costello gets away with
being so clever only by being so clever.” The same is true of Jean-
Pierre Jeunet, who delights in intricately designed amusements like Amélie,
City of Lost Children and the new Micmacs. Jeunet redeems
his excessive cleverness by outcharming and out-inventing himself scene
by scene. Turns out the fantasy-comedy of Micmacs is also a sort
of Armed Forces. Jeunet’s story of Bazil (Dany Boon)— whose
father was killed by a landmine and who becomes the victim of a stray
bullet— is also an extremely clever protest against weapons of war.

Bazil is handicapped by
the bullet lodged in his brain; it implants a purpose almost
coincidental with the idealistic Old Hollywood imagery abhorred in the
video store where he worked. Bazil’s post-op idiosyncrasy puts him in
the company of other social misfits: a female mathematician (Marie-Julie
Baup), a struggling poet (Omar Sy), a diminutive strongman (Michel
Crémadès), a daredevil (Dominique Pinon), an ex-con (Jean- Pierre
Marielle), a distracted widow (Yolande Moreau) and a contortionist
(Julie Ferrier). They band together in a junkyard where they repair
unloved knickknacks and appliances—social discards like themselves—and
help Bazil’s complicated plan to expose and destroy two weapons
industrialists, Fenouillet (André Dussollier) and Marconi (Nicholas
Marié).

Although
Jeunet comes from the world of TV commercials, he earns genuine
filmmaker status by his display of visual breadth and imaginative depth.
Jeunet’s elegantly efficient filmmaking is not impersonal
technique—like Ridley Scott or even David Fincher—it’s panache.
Exactitude is evident in Jeunet’s combination of moodiness and humor. He
can shift from pathos to absurdity on a dime—like the Coen Brothers.
And he can draw a bead from an action scene to a beatific face—like
Spielberg. His signature burnished style remains, despite working with
different cinematographers (here, Tetsuo Nagata). All this makes his
fables expressive, despite their abundant cleverness.

Micmacs is a
group-effort suspense comedy like Mission Impossible, but its
tone suggests a live-action cartoon circus. This is peculiarly French, a
nearly surreal work of enforced drollery that kicks into gear when
Bazil and friends rendezvous at the grave of the great Sacha Guitry.
Jeunet’s imagery is poetic more so than his language (his script was
written with City of Lost Children’s Guillaume Laurent), yet the
repetition of motifs and emotions (as in the Micmacs and Industrialists
tantrums) is lovely and coherent.

Through Bazil’s clown-like sincerity, Jeunet draws a
portrait of whimsical yet deep longing. (Yolande Moreau’s kindliness is
as palpable as Cherry Jones’ in Mother and Child.) Micmacs condenses
the best elements of both his cultural catalog Amélie and his
exhausting WWI epic A Very Long Engagement. But where the latter
was overly serious, Micmacs has mime-perfect humor and pathos.
Jeunet’s state-of-theart virtuosity doesn’t rebuke the technique he uses
(as does James Cameron’s stupid anti-militarism in Avatar). Rather,
Micmac’s awe of technology and process makes Bazil’s love of
strategy and abhorrence of weaponry poignant and sophisticated. This
makes tactician-clown Bazil the most moving anti-war figure since the
toymaker/ bomb-builder in Spielberg Munich.