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.