KICK UP YOUR HEELS
Jean Renoir's FRENCH CANCAN (1955) is that rarest of filmic beasts: a "musical" that doesn't cloy, doesn't look stagey, and doesn't ram its musical numbers down the viewer's throat. It's got sly humor, honest sexuality (compared to Hollywood flix from the same era), and even a healthy dose of cynicism. And of course (like this should be a surprise!) it's got the best cancan finale ever filmed, hands down, bar none. Better than the Sinatra/MacLaine CAN CAN. Better than John Huston's MOULIN ROUGE. (Only thing that even comes close was a Benny Hill episode with a French edition of the Hill's Angels, and if anyone out there's got a good VHS copy of it, lemme know!)
Jean Gabin is Danglard, a belle epoque showman enjoying the success of his latest venture, an Arabic-flavored nightclub featuring the bellydancing of Danglard's current paramour Margot (Maria Felix, sort of a Gallic Ava Gardner). Always one step ahead of his creditors -- and one step behind his creative muse -- Danglard is constantly on the lookout for his next big triumph. He finds it one night when he, Margot, and friends go slumming at a Montmarte dance hall. They join the locals in a genteel folk dance, which quickly becomes less genteel when Nini (Francoise Arnoul), a local laundress, breaks into a spirited cancan. Danglard is immediately smitten, much to the annoyance of both Margot and Nini's hotheaded boyfriend Paulo (Franco Pastorino). The next day, the showman has a brainstorm: he will build a new nightclub on the site of the dance hall, featuring a new star and a new dance exhibition -- respectively, "The Red Windmill" (Moulin Rouge), Nini (soon to become Danglard's bed-buddy), and the cancan.
But the road to Montmarte is paved with le boobytraps. On at least two occasions, Danglard's backers yank their funds, leaving the impressario insolvent (albeit with a bemused "c'est la guerre" stoicism worthy of Pepe Le Pew). At one point, Nini and Margot get into a vicious catfight, during which Danglard's ankle is broken when he is assaulted by the jealous Paulo. A lovestruck Russian prince (Gianni Esposito) tries to commit suicide when Nini will not return his affections. And the night of the Moulin Rouge's opening, Nini catches Danglard playing lovey-dovey with another girl and furiously locks herself in her dressing room, refusing to go on. (It spoils nothing to reveal that, yes, the show DOES go on, and with Nini; how Danglard gets her out of the dressing room is one of the greatest "reading of the riot act" scenes ever.)
If all this smacks of high Parisian soap opera, Renoir pulls it off with the lightest of touches. He may not film ALL that goes on with his star-crossed lovers, but shows enough of the warm afterglow of their lovemaking to make this film (by Eisenhower-era American standards) pretty damn racy. Cinematographer Michel Kelber uses lushly saturated Technicolor to help create an amazing real 19th century Paris. (The only other film I can think of that so convincing recreates a bygone era is Roman Polanski's CHINATOWN.) In its "musical" mode, FRENCH CANCAN shuffles its offstage tunes into the deck so subtly that the few times a character -- primarily Danglard's gawky, rubber-limbed assistant Casimir (Philippe Clay, a dead ringer for Jeff Goldblum) -- breaks into song, it seems like the most natural thing in the world.
In Renoir's world, everyone wants to be in show biz, and Danglard is constantly on the lookout for new talent. Nini may not be impressed by Danglard's initial come-on, but her mom, upon hearing what performers earn, all but pushes her daughter into Danglard's arms. Casimir, initially a clerk sent to help reposess Danglard's furniture, is so honored to be in the same room as the great impressario that he promptly auditions his singing and contortionist skills. Danglard recruits singer Eugenie Buffet (the great Edith Piaf in an early, dynamite performance) after hearing her voice through an open window. And as Danglard circulates through the Moulin Rouge crowd at the end, he overhears a pretty girl singing along with the dancers and asks her "Would you like to be on the stage?" "Oh, yes!" she exclaims, and a smiling Danglard mentally files her away for his next big production...
More importantly, FRENCH CANCAN is the only film I know of that actually depicts how the cancan itself was created. Early on, Danglard and Nini visit the studio of dance instructor La Genisse (Dora Doll), a veteran cancaneause some decades before. (Demonstrating her past talents, she nearly throws her back out with her first split!) In subsequent scenes, we watch the dancers as they struggle to stretch their muscles enough for the requisite high-kicking; before long, they are flinging their limbs about at the barre with happy abandon.
When the cancan makes its Moulin Rouge debut, it is literally explosive: the dancers surge out of the crowd, shimmy down ropes into unsuspecting patron's laps, burst through posters, even (in Nini's case) leaping off a balcony into a waiting blanket. The dance moves through four or five separate "movements," with different musical numbers (including, but not limited to, Offenbach's famous "Orpheus in the Underworld" theme) and highlighted dances. (Surprisingly, Nini's "spotlight dance" is the weakest of the bunch; some of these ladies are animals.) The whole thing goes on for eight or nine minutes and, if you're a guy, may cause some serious zipper stress, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Meanwhile, all the film's previous romantic entanglements resolve themselves, most wryly between Margot and Barjolin (Albert Remy), Danglard's financial backer (and rival for Margot's affections):
Barjolin: I have an idea. Tomorrow, we get married.
Margot: An end to everything?
Barjolin: A beginning. The Stock Market will have more confidence in the husband of a Baroness.
Margot: Aaaah!
But it's Nini who gets the film's last word in, when one of the dancers leans over in mid-skirt-swirl and shouts "Alors! Still thinking of quitting?" Retorts Nini, "Are you mad?" She's gotten her first taste of applause and she is hooked. And so am I. And so, hopefully, will you. Non-romantics and haters of subtitles stay away. Everyone else, grab your glass of champagne and clear the floor -- the dance is about to begin.
Now, to go "off 'n' back" (Offenbach, geddit?) for more info:
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