Jean Cocteau's Fuzzy Valentine

When Walt Disney released its animated version of "Beauty and the Beast" in 1991, the moviegoing public was enchanted. The film was a box office success and critics unanimously praised Disney for its originality and innovation. Yet while the Disney version had undeniable charm, behind it stood the specter of an immensely superior film, Jean Cocteau's 1946 "La Belle et la Bete."

"La Belle et la Bete" remains the definitive film adaptation of the familiar story, an extraordinary and profoundly influential movie. Disney, in fact, "borrowed" the look and many other aspects of its cartoon from Cocteau's film. To see Jean Cocteau's "Beauty and the Beast" is to see why movies were invented. Cocteau's oneiric masterpiece is a perfect demonstration of what movies can give us that other media can't; it is a dream that seizes us and pulls us into a world that operates under its own logic. We find ourselves in a landscape where beauty seems as perfect and eternal as it did in bedtime stories. For the space of two hours, we inhabit a universe where imagination is paramount.

The first part of the film, which takes place on the farm where Beauty's family lives, is a tribute to the Dutch painter Jan Vermeer. Cocteau achieves a heightened sense of realism through careful composition and austere lighting. He presents a vision of simplicity and common sense, the antithesis of the world inside the palace of the Beast, where fantasy reigns supreme. There, candelabra are held by human hands protruding from the walls, a magical mirror contains the visage of a beloved and an enchanted white steed roams the halls. The palace in the midst of the dark woods is a creation straight out of the work of Gustave Dore. Christian Berard's sets and makeup, the music of Georges Auric and the peerless cinematography of Alekan make the Beast's domain more real than reality itself. In this realm, anything can happen, even love between a maiden and a horrifically hairy creature.

Their hesitant courtship becomes an exquisite pas de deux between Josette Day and Jean Marais. Cocteau was blessed to have two such accomplished actors playing the lead roles. Day, with her delicate cheekbones and tremulous lovliness, is radiant; the other-wordly image of Beauty in a dark cloak stays in one's memory for days. Marais is triumphant as the Beast. In Berard's makeup and ornate costumes, he displays a flair not present in any of his other performances. He looks at once noble and ridiculous, menacing and silly, and his resonant, incantatory voice is unforgettable.

An old story has it that, upon seeing the Beast turn into the affable, if somewhat bland, prince (played again by Marais), Greta Garbo exclaimed, "Give me back my Beast!" It is true that the wholesome prince is no compensation for the loss of the Beast, and Marais looks diminished without the leonine make-up and trailing cloak. Fortunately, this section of the film doesn't last too long.

Cocteau's movie is the sort of dream you would have if you fell asleep with your head on a deluxe illustrated edition of Grimm's tales. It is perhaps the most sumptuous and satisfying version of a fairy tale ever put on celluloid, candy for the eyes and a banquet for the aesthete. Above all, it is a swooningly romantic film graced with many visual miracles. And, like love, "Beauty and the Beast" is a dream from which you never want to wake up.