Playtime (1967)

Playtime (Jacques Tati, 1967) If I were asked to describe Jacques Tati's masterwork (and the one that broke him...or made him broke), I couldn't tell you. Episodic and eccentric, it covers 24 hours in a section of Paris near Orly Airport where everything goes like clockwork—at least that is the intention. That's a good 10 second summary; the details take up the whole two hours of the film. And more, actually, because Tati is not working at a standard joke a minute. He is overlapping strings of comedic incidents that will have their comedic pay-offs at different times during the six geographic sections that make up the film. 

Now, I could tell you what the film is about, but that would take the fun out of it. And fun is what Tati, the filmmaker, is all about, despite the fact that it looks at the world and its absurdities with a somewhat jaundiced eye, and that he sets up his movie with such intricacy (especially this one) that the making of it seems like a lot of hard work...for a comedy.

Three bus-loads of tourists—the American one contains Barbara (Barbara Dennek) the main recurring character of the film—come to the airport and begin a tour of Paris, but instead of the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre, the tourists are taken out of the heavily regimented airport, and taken to a heavily regimented office building, where they can arrange for transport or hotel changes...if they can find where such conveniences are. Like the airport, you have to know where you're going, and despite an abundance of signage, one can't know where one is going...unless one has already been there to know the way.

Mr. Hulot (Tati) has the same problem: he has a meeting with an associate (probably an Army buddy, he meets several acquaintances from his past) at the very same office building—not that you could tell any of them apart. All steel with floor-to ceiling walls, one would think that the rule of glass houses would apply and one could see everything, but the building is set up to resemble a maze of cubicles and partitions so one could easily get lost while not being found. It becomes clear that Tati's definition of "ultra-modern" is that it's too modern to work, no matter how uniform and regimented the architecture is—Hulot never does have his meeting.

He does, however, get considerable mileage—not only in terms of foot-wear but also in comedy. The absurdities of cubicle working are well-documented, with proximity not being the guarantor of efficiency—the cubicles are just more road-blocks to getting things done, and obstacles to one-on-one communication and transactioning. It's no wonder Hulot gets so lost; the people working there are lost, as well.

The confusion is complicated by the layout of the office building that is given over to sales kiosks where new "modern" products are offered for sale and demonstration, presumably to improve lives, but look to be merely pretentious, whether it's garbage cans that look like Greek columns, or sonically-enhanced doors that promise "Slam Your Doors With Golden Silence." The products scream innovation, but are merely silly in trying to make issues of things unimportant in the extreme.

The tourists and Parisiennes wander through the displays as things go right and go wrong, with mixed signals, mistaken identities, and the natural comedy of the self-important mixing with the clueless.

The fourth section of the film gets out of the business district and into nearby modular apartment buildings that are alarmingly transparent, as they have floor to ceiling windows overlooking the street. It's a voyeur's dream with all the privacy of putting renters into a zoo. Tati makes a great deal of the pantomime inherent in the juxtaposition of neighboring apartment owners and their activities.

This segues seamlessly into the fifth and longest section of the film featuring the opening of a new restaurant, The Royal Garden—that, even as the first guests are arriving, is still in its final stages of work applying the finishing touches. It's an impressive looking restaurant, if a bit on the tight side between tables, and there are design flaws...like the bar decorations that prevents the bartender from seeing the top shelf liquors or retrieving them without getting beaned. The chairs are designed with an impressive crown design on the backrest that creates little patterns on the backs of the female diners in backless dresses. There are electrical issues—like the neon sign in the front that leads folks to the door...or should, anyway.

The segment is a wonderful example of the "incredible mess" conceit where things than can go wrong, will in an increasingly cascading fashion. Before too long it becomes apparent where Tati's heart lies—the ones who enjoy their night out the most are the ones who can ignore the chaos and make the most of it, those folks who can bend with the hurricane winds and have a good time while things are going wrong and the best laid plans of men and architects fall flat.

It's a wonderfully odd film with a lot of detail (and Tati shot it in 70 MM to show it off) and the overriding view of the world that scoffs at organization and regimentation and celebrates the individual's effort to enter the "Exit" door.

Barbara can only find "the real Paris" when it is reflected in doorways.

Most comedy can be classified as the contrast and juxtaposition of two disparate philosophies, the surprising, unexpected ways that oil and water can mix; you can either be sane in an insane world, or insane in a sane, complacent one. In those instances, however, there is usually active resistance contrary to the status quo. 

Tati changes the game by not being resistant, but observant, and by that observation of the absurdity of its world and the ability of its denizens to navigate it...or not.

No matter how regulated in stance, or monochromatic in color the world may be, the most celebratory signs of life are the ones that step out of line and bring color to a world made dull by misguided efforts to bring it under control.

Now, that's comedy...as God laughs all the time.