The (Dis) Illusionist: Sylvain Chomet’s L’Illusionniste

It’s “curtains” for Sylvain Chomet’s Oscar-nominated film, L’illusionniste (The Illusionist) -- or so it would appear. In a cheeky poke at the rickety, magical, make-believe world of entertainment, Chomet’s beautiful animated movie opens with a French-accented, disembodied voice’s presentation of “Ze Illusionist,” while an unseen figure struggles to draw the stubborn stage curtains. Thus, with cinematic sleight of hand, the French director deftly sets the tone for his adaptation of writer-mime Jacques Tati’s semi-autobiographical tale of illusions and disillusions. Against this backdrop, Chomet, creator of The Triplets of Belleville, spins Tati’s father-to-daughter love letter into a plaintive ode to the fantastical, fragile worlds of art and parenthood.

The action begins in France, in 1959, with a French musical score to boot. At the Music Hall of Paris, we are introduced to the besieged, passé magician, Tatischeff, whose plight is extensively illustrated, literally, through the bites and attempted escapes of his renegade rabbit. In what amounts to a poignant commentary on the lack of understanding of artists and their art, a theater worker finds the rabbit and returns it, after which he, seeing no difference between the animals, tries to hand Tatischeff a rat.

Having been fired, the magician heads for England, a setting that gives Chomet the opportunity to present us with a stunning, impressionistic view of a rain-soaked London. This imagery draws, so to speak, a self-conscious connection between the art world, and the film, as both an animated piece, and a movie about artists. It is in this environment that Tatischeff faces further disappointment, being upstaged by the “Britoons,” a flashy, youthful rock band for whom the curtain always rises -- again and again, by way of encores.

Upon the recommendation of a kilt-clad, perennially soused, but lovable Scotsman, Tatischeff next takes a job in Scotland, this voyage also providing the audience with breathtaking animated cinematography. Here, we are introduced to Alice, who becomes Tatischeff’s unofficially adopted daughter. She and Tatischeff, speaking different languages (Scots Gaelic and French, respectively), communicate through gestures of kindness and humanity. His gifts, along with circumstantial coincidences, lead her to believe that he is magical. The young girl decides to follow him to his next destination, indicating, once she is aboard, that he should magically provide her with a ticket, which he does, or so it seems.

Throughout much of the film, Tatischeff finds himself “pulling rabbits out of hats,” as an artist-father -- succeeding, failing, and taking on sundry jobs to provide Alice, who is coming of age, with those little material things that set a young lady’s heart aflutter. He attempts to disillusion her by saying that he is “pas magique,” not magical. This line is a cleverly pithy encapsulation of a father’s desire to correct a child’s mistaken view of his superhero status, a line that intrinsically undercuts itself, punning on "Pa Magique," magic father. Indeed, Alice is not ready to hear Tatischeff's intended meaning, choosing to remain in the realm of illusion, or perhaps, delusion. Indeed, the visual, which she associates with the tangible, exerts a stronger influence on her. Who cares about words when a father can seemingly produce, “out of thin air,” and at her will, the high heels she has had her eye on for some time?

As the ending credits roll, Chomet’s wonderfully bittersweet, yet comical waltz is sung by various quirky-voiced “characters.” Thus, in a move that is poignant, tongue-in-cheek, and thoroughly French, the animator-composer sustains the magic of art and make-believe, even as he reveals the very people who made this whole “illusion” possible.

- Lisette Atiyeh