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Don’t thought to examine this film and then go out for a entertaining night on the town. You will be so spent after the one hundred forty-one minutes of this gut-wrenching film that when the lights approach on at the destroy, you’ll need a microscopic to figure out where you are, and then additional downtime to process all you’ve seen. Days later, you’ll detached be thinking about this gash of life–and Edith Piaf.
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Piaf’s memoir is well known to her long-time fans–brought up in a brothel, wrested from the only life she knew by her father so they could join the circus, her teen years on the streets, her “rescue” by a crime figure who gave her the begin to her career, and, ultimately, her international success and final illness. She was always worn, sickly, malnourished, and wildly morose. She was often on drugs or alcohol, and she was always in search of accurate savor (not finding it till behind in her life) . All this is depicted here with its horrors and its rare moments of tenderness, the cinematography (Tetsuo Nagata) so lustrous that the realistic, shaded settings invite the reader’s emotional entry into them and exploration of them.
Marion Cotillard becomes Piaf, a physical likeness that is uncanny in its realism (one wonders if she can ever play another section without conjuring up Piaf’s image), and her emotional connection to Piaf’s music is total. Her song performances are absolutely flawless, as are her gestures, and the only clue that she is lip-synching is the unmistakable Piaf lisp the emerges from her mouth. Louis Leplee (Gerard Depardieu) as the nightclub owner whose cancel by organized crime draws Edith in for questioning, shows the salubrious care he has for Edith and the tough face of a man who has seen and done it all.
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Marcel Cerdan, the middleweight boxer who captures her heart (Jean-Pierre Martins), gives her something to live for, besides her music–at least for a while–and it is genuinely affecting here to gape how earthy and unaffected he is in her presence. The supporting actors, all French, are outstanding, and few viewers will forget Emmanuelle Seigner, playing prostitute Titine, who cared for Edith as a child.
The film belongs to Cotillard, however, and all aspects of the film, from the knowing writing of Olivier Dahan (who also directed) and Isabelle Sobelman, to film editing (especially the lip-synching to Piaf’s songs), and the sets, costuming, and makeup, are designed to enhance her performance. The film follows no chronology, jumping from her childhood to her former age and then to some of the high points of her career, creating an impressionistic film of some of the signal moments in her life. It is difficult to imagine any biopic that will ever near conclude to this one in its power, but then, again, it’s difficult to imagine any singer who will ever purchase the world’s imagination in quite the arrangement that Piaf did. n Mary Whipple
I wouldn’t be comfortable calling La Vie en Rose (La Mome), the life of Edith Piaf, one of the vast biographical films until I have a chance to eye it once or twice more. What I’m certain of is that Marion Cotillard’s portrayal of Piaf from Piaf’s early teens until Piaf died at 47 is one of the most astounding performances I’ve ever seen on a movie conceal. Piaf had an astonishing life, was an wonderful personality as well as being perhaps France’s greatest singer. Cotillard simply remakes herself into this willful, self-destructive, selfish, qualified, melodramatic, small creature — Piaf was only 4′ 8″ spacious — of dramatic vocal genius.
Piaf grew up on the streets of Paris. Her life was one crises after another, some of her making, some not. We meet her as a child, when her mother abandoned her. Her father, a soldier in WWI and a contortionist in diminutive traveling circuses, disappeared for long period of time. At one point before puberty she lived for quite a while with her paternal grandmother, who ran a brothel. She helped her father work at one of those circuses. They survived as street entertainers in Paris. She finally had enough and struck out on her beget, making a minute money singing on the streets, giving noteworthy of it to a local pimp for protection. She had a child who died of meningitis. When she was 20 she was discovered by an “impresario” who ran a nightclub. Louis Leplee renamed her Piaf. When he was murdered in what seemed to be a gang hit, she was set through the public wringer by the police and the French press. Her fame grew. During WWII she agreed to stammer at POW camps so the French prisoners could be photographed with Piaf by the Germans as evidence of how elated the prisoners were. Piaf was a member of the Resistance. She took copies of the photographs and arranged for the Resistance to compose deceptive passports for 150 prisoners. She returned to the camps with the passports and managed to have them distributed to the prisoners under the eyes of the Germans. She was either valorous or willfully fatalistic. The Germans never seemed to realize what this slight, internationally known singer was doing. After the war, she was acclaimed. She had renowned cherish affairs, including Yves Montand and French middleweight boxer Marcel Cerdan. Cerdan, whom she loved, was killed in a plane fracture. She drank heavily, took drugs, and her health continued to deteriorate. She suffered from rheumatism, severe arthritis, a liver that barely functioned. She became addicted to morphine and continued to drink heavily.
And she sang and sang and sang. She could gain a child’s jump-rope song sound like an obsession to lost fancy. Piaf had a colossal shriek and she knew how to employ it. She preferred simple dismal dresses and a spotlight when she performed, creating a highly dramatic image of this limited, unlit face and her two expressive hands. Her songs were about appreciate, loss, death, memories, hope that was glimmering and hope that had died. She had a vibrato that seemed to throb in the heart. When she died at 47, the drink and the drugs, the losses and tragedies, the self-destructive willfulness and the arthritis had turned her into the ruined shell of the teen-ager who sang on Paris streets. Not a life I would have wanted, even if I’d traded for her talent, but it was her life and it became a tremendous melodrama powered by her novel relate.
For Americans, perhaps her most familiar song is La Vie En Rose. With Mack David’s soppy lyrics, there was a time when it couldn’t be avoided, including Piaf’s French version. But the song that evokes the most memories, and the one that closes the movie and summarizes her life, is the song Piaf first sang unbiased three years before her death, “Non, je ne regrette rien.”
Non, rien de rien,
Non, je ne regrette rien,
Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait,
Ni le mal, tout ça m’est bien égal.
Non, rien de rien,
Non, je ne regrette rien,
C’est payé, balayé, oublié,
Je me fous du passé…
The song roughly translates as “I don’t regret a thing. What has happened has happened and has been paid for. Neither the sterling done to me, nor the bad;
to me, they’re all the same. No, I regret nothing. Because my life, because my joys, today, start with you.”
The movie La Vie en Rose is dramatically and almost lushly photographed. We don’t have a simple linear chronicle line; we preserve intriguing assist and forth among the times of her life. The juxtapositions between the child, the girl, the young woman, the star, the prematurely stale force of talent and willfulness, makes us need to pay attention but it also gives us some notion of the chaos of her life. Marion Cotillard is astounding as she makes us own in this self-destructive and lively person. We really forget about Cotillard and can only focus on this itsy-bitsy body, huge recount and an irregular, attractive face made up of large eyes, blood red lips, and plucked, thin-lined eye-brows.
Personally, self-destruction after awhile makes me impatient and irritated. There are too many things to do to ruin one’s life on a diet of willfulness and selfishness, even if one is gifted with ample talent. I was mesmerized by Piaf, her life and her songs, but at times I felt like telling her to ease up on the drama. I jabber, given her life, grand should be forgiven or at least understood. As Roger Ebert has said, “Nothing in her early life taught her to count on permanence or loyalty. What she counted on was singing, champagne, infatuation and morphine.” La Vie en Rose is a movie well worth seeing.
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