You don’t have to speak French to love the language. “La Vie en Rose” brings us
the music of the language and of the songs of Edith Piaf, a combination that
becomes indelible imagery for those of us who do not know France.
Why is the
movie so engrossing? Primarily because it is true. If it were fictional, it
would be impossible. Forgive any liberties the filmmakers may have taken; we’re
talking here about the essence of a big life presented in a patchwork of
non-chronological flashbacks that mimic the chaos that colored Piaf’s whole
life. Marion Cotillard has caught Piaf absolutely. Her daring performance is the
central wonder of the film. Everything else, including the supporting cast is
just fine, but all of it is background to Cotillard’s Piaf.
Piaf’s mother
abandoned her as a child, leaving her in a brothel where she grew ever more
sickly and fragile. Her father, a destitute circus contortionist, scooped her up
and took her to the streets. “Do something, just do something,” he pressed her.
And so, at nine, Piaf opened her mouth and sang “La Marseillaise.” From the
streets to a gin mill to music halls, she sang for her supper until Paris took
notice.
As a woman,
she became the sum of these early parts – drug addict, alcoholic, prematurely
aged. The emotions of early abandonment and later entitlement simply poured
forth, outsized and unchecked, from her fragile soul. Even after she assumed the
mantle of entitlement befitting a legend, Piaf seemed a heap of broken pieces in
a fragile package that stood 4’8”. She died at 47 – wrinkled, worn, and bent
from years of abusing herself with drugs and drink. And yet she continued, in
that strong, clear voice to sing songs of the despair that reflected the
physical and emotional darkness that engulfed her. Commanding as this was, she
retained always, the slightly awkward, timid aspect of the early street singer.
But she was made of gumption and talent.
And Marion
Cotillard? If you take the time to go to YouTube, you will find short clips of
Piaf singing live and will grasp quickly the brilliance of Cotillard’s
performance. There are the hand movements, the frightening range of emotion that
plays across her face from radiance to petulance to rage, the street singer who
was at her core. Whether watching Cotillard or Piaf herself, it is impossible
not to think of the awful instability that was her landscape. She knew real joy
only with the boxer Marcel Cerdan (Jean Pierre Martins) who died in a plane
crash that covered the front pages. After that she became addicted to morphine
and aged precipitously; improbably, the voice remained and she propelled herself
to a last performance. I see I have mixed up Cotillard and Piaf yet again and
that is simply because on screen the actress has become Piaf in a dazzling
performance that is a gift to the audience.
Copyright (c) Illusion