Look How Modern

A rainy evening called for an escape and my second French film in three days.

That, and having to go eat to earn a living afterwards.

The Anderson Gallery showed the second installment of their February film series in conjunction with Brian Ulrich's consumer exhibit, "Copia."

Tonight we traveled back to Paris in the mid-'60s with "Playtime," a film by Jacques Tati that looks at the obsession with material goods.

Ahh, there was the tie-in to Ulrich's show.

Tati also starred in the movie as the bumbling Monsieur Hulot, who never seemed to talk but always managed to be in the middle of activity that had nothing to do with him.

His rumpled raincoat and unlit pipe only added to the sense of an absent-minded comedic fool.

Before the film began, the gallery's director Ashley spoke about the elaborate (and costly) specially constructed set, so massive it needed its own power plant.

So costly Tati had to stop and start making the film three times just to break to raise money.

The result was a visual masterpiece, always stunning to look at and inevitably with scores of things happening in the background.

The kind of film best seen twice to catch what you missed the first time.

During the opening credits, the one that caught my eye was "Dialogue anglaise...Art Buchwald."

In last week's Anderson Gallery film, "The Store," Buchwald had been the speaker at a Neiman-Marcus event near the end of the film.

Tonight, here he was again, providing English for a French movie.

Funny how you can not think about someone for years and then you get a one-two punch to jog your memory out of nowhere.

One of the big reasons I relish old movies is the cultural references and I was sure a French movie made between 1964 and 1967 would be full of archaic details.

And it was (nuns in long skirts and "flying" hats) but not nearly as much as I'd expected because the film looked at a futuristic Paris where all the buildings are tall and made of glass, furniture is straight and uncomfortable and people move in straight lines.

It's not a particularly appealing vision of the future and sadly, a lot of it came to be.

The opening scene takes place at Orly Airport and a woman is fussing over her departing husband, making sure he has everything necessary for his trip and his health,

"You've got your vitamins, you've got your cigarettes and your pajamas," she reassures him.

What else could a man need?

A Frenchman I know sat in the front row, laughing loudly at all the physical humor, but eventually cutting out before the movie came to its conclusion.

The M. Hulot character was the everyman, coming up against all this modernity (pleather chairs that squeak, speeding elevators, control panels) while seeking nothing more than human interaction.

One scene of a trade exhibition has a group of women tourists enthralled as they enter.

"Come on, girls, look how modern it is," one exclaims, leading her pals into the exhibition. "They even have American stuff!"

It's all our fault. We're the ones who led the world astray and here was the proof.

The movie played like a silent film, with all the sounds unnaturally amplified as if they were dubbed in.

Wiping feet on a doormat, you heard every bristle of the mat move.

An office worker coming down an endless linoleum hall made distinctive tap sounds with every step of his shiny shoes.

For sheer comedic value, I'd give high marks to the 45-minute restaurant scene that defined the movie.

In it, a restaurant is abuzz with construction workers, trying to finish the details before opening night when people start arriving in droves.

As it is, the host is seating people while things are being nailed, pieces slid into place and food hurriedly served.

I couldn't help but wonder how often this scenario plays out in a new restaurant, although probably without the comedic flourishes of Tati.

When part of a wooden structure hanging from the ceiling partially falls, a guest makes the most of it, cordoning off a private dance party for only those he "allows" into the area beyond the hanging pieces.

With music wildly playing, he opens and closes the "gate" to his own private soiree in the middle of a restaurant exploding with people, servers and construction workers.

Meanwhile on the real dance floor, mod looking couples with girls in short cocktail dresses and opera length gloves, are doing the jerk and shaking their booty incessantly.

It was 1967, after all.

Needless to day, I got no mid-century shots of Paris' quaint neighborhoods or historic landmarks because "Playtime" was all about what came after that.

Clearly, Tati could already see that the future wasn't looking especially appealing when he imagined it way back when.

Tant pis. It sucks to be right sometimes.