Recently, I stumbled upon an old Empire magazine article with a list of the “100 Best Films of World Cinema.” [First of all, there are issues with the denotation of “world cinema” in any kind of authoritative list. Purportedly catering to a more academic audience than the average film zine, this British magazine goes so far as to tag any film not in the English language as “world cinema.”] Empire nominated Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai as #1—which seems like a sensible move—but made what seems to be a miscalculation in placing the French film Amelie at #2.
While the second slot in such a vaunted list of films is unlikely (other films include The Seventh Seal, 8 ½, and Metropolis), I must admit that Empire at least correctly identifies my own fascination with the film. By most accounts (including the sages Roger Ebert and Elvis Mitchell), the film is light-hearted—a romantic comedy—a fairty tale. Ascribe to it whatever genre or cheery description you will, but both Empire and I recognize that the film manages to be much more than that.
Empire’s blurb points out something that has bothered me about Amelie for some time, noting that the film “is a strange beast, a whimsical fairy tale that has more darkness under its skin than most usually want to admit…after all, Amelie [Audrey Tautou] engages in malicious practical jokes and stalking behavior in her attempt to help the other lonely souls of Paris—and herself.”
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Most of what Amelie’s ploys to help these other people do, indeed, rely on careful, even outrageous acts of deception. Her role as a “guardian angel” (I quote this term from the film despite its connotative danger) begins when she finds a tin box of childhood toys hidden behind a tile in her apartment bathroom. Determined to return the box to its rightful owner, she questions her neighbors and tracks down the former occupants of the apartment. Placing the box in a phone booth, she waits until the box’s owner is passing by and then calls the phone. Upon the discovery of the box, the man rejoices and tearfully reflects on his childhood (director Jean-Pierre Jeunet helpfully provides flashbacks). Amelie is already waiting in the bar next-door when the man enters. He sits down on a nearby stool and confesses to her that the discovery of the box has convinced him to reconnect with he estranged family. (See clip below)
It’s a lovely moment; most of the moments in the film are. But what the film doesn’t do is ask the question of what might have gone wrong. I don’t mean in the sense of: what if he didn’t find the box? I mean more along the lines of what if his childhood was one that he would rather not remember—what if it was a childhood full of depression or abuse? And that’s not even considering what might happen when this man goes and visits his estranged family. Neither Amelie nor we have the slightest idea of why they’re all estranged in the first place. Maybe there’s some terrible family drama that she has unknowingly stirred up.
Some of you may be wincing at my line of questioning; these appear, after all, questions that we should not ask about the film. But even if you’re convinced the film is merely a fairy tale, I don’t think you can write away Amelie’s actions as light-hearted or sweet. If anything, she exists in a mode of pragmatic idealism—believing not only that all people should be happy, but also that all people are capable of being such.
Amelie’s solution is the lie. The lie, in her mind, is the only avenue to happiness (or fulfillment). Are we content with that notion? And, in a line of questioning I’m sure you’ll enjoy even more, we might ask about the nature of the film itself in terms of a lie…Picasso is helpful: “Art is a lie that tells the truth.”
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