It’s no accident that the full name of the lead character in French director Xavier Giannoli’s Marguerite is Marguerite Dumont. That’s also the name of the actress who played the clueless dowager in the Marx Brothers comedies of the 1930s – Margaret Dumont. But in this brilliant, eccentric French movie, the name works as both a hint and a deception.
Marguerite may seem like a fool with more money than sense, but there’s an integrity and a tender beauty to her character that the lunatic Marx Brothers never imagined for the foil they toss around like a beach ball.
This Marguerite (played by a thrilling Catherine Frot) devotes her life to music and song, but she’s a terrible singer. The screeches erupting from her mouth make the abrasive honks of the peacocks wandering her grand estate sound gracious. Worse, when Marguerite prepares to unleash her yawps upon friends and strangers, the movie takes forever to get to the anticipated terrible moment. Marguerite approaches her performances slowly, and the movie observes every single step as she makes her deliberate way to the front of the room or the stage – wherever she’s about to perform.
Marguerite falls into the clutches of two young men, one a critic, the other something of a Dada artist, who arranges for Marguerite to perform in a Paris club. It’s 1921, when the Surrealists and Dadaists are feeling their oats, and staging theatrical experiences designed to upend and infuriate the comfortable bourgeoisie.
The Dada young man appears on stage and sings out a series of attacks on all levels of society. Next, Marguerite enters in front of a sheet with film images of World War I horrors projected on it, and she sings her raspy, hideous rendition of The Marseillaise. The good people storm out of the theater; soldiers in uniform run for the street; there’s rage and chaos and recrimination in the air. The anarchists in the crowd love it. You start to wonder if just maybe Marguerite has some hidden sense of absurdity, or a feel for blowing away convention. Or maybe she’s none of those things.
You never really can get a bead on Marguerite. One moment she seems utterly bizarre, foolish and unaware of herself, and in the next you’re overwhelmed by her profound sincerity and graciousness. She has genuine love for her unfaithful husband – who also lives on her money. In a club scene, she dances with one of her young male friends, with a foxy look on her face that radiates complete joy in her own being. You also root for her – maybe this time actual melody will spring forth.
The film toys with the questions of what determines the quality of art; who makes up the standards for good and bad singing. But it’s also perfectly clear that Marguerite is not the victim of arbitrary taste – it’s impossible not to either laugh or stuff cotton in your ears, like her servants do at home.
Marguerite surprises constantly; characters do things you never expect. A heavy-set black butler reveals his training in ancient Indian ritual dancing. A bearded lady is simply part of Marguerite’s social set – and no one pays particular attention.
One thing the film doesn’t have, though, is an ending. It just runs out of gas. It has no more ecstatic tricks up its sleeve to pull the film and the character out of the fire. For almost two hours, the picture balances the possibilities about Marguerite – whether she’s crazy, whether she has an incredibly subtle sense of humor, whether in her way she’s a brilliant social critic, whether she’s utterly self-aware or completely naïve.
The magic of this lovely film slides away, and after all the delight and touching affection, Marguerite slumps to a dull conclusion. But it’s still worth staying to the end.
