'Matins' Strikes a Chord of Love Lost

In "Tous les Matins du Monde," the story of Monsieur de Sainte Colombe (played by Jean-Pierre Marielle), as narrated by his student, Marin Marais (Gerard Depardieu), is ultimately one of inspiration through lament. Had it not been for the death of Saint Colombe's wife, he would not have withdrawn into a tiny shack on his property where he invented mournful compositions and added a seventh string to the viola. Sainte Colombe is a consummate artist, but also a madman.

The opening scene is a magnificently long take of Marais drifting in and out of some hypnogogic state while giving a lesson in the court of Versailles. Depardicu, looking teary and weary, summons a deep brooding energy which seems to be the result of all his regrets. Unsatisfied by his students, he asks the shutters to be closed so that he can be surrounded by darkness. He's prompted to be introspective and then proceeds into the story of Sainte Colombe. Plot sequences flow effortlessly like Sainte Colombe's playing.

Sainte Colombe's life is one of supreme sobriety where his only pleasure comes from exploring the boundaries of his grief. At times he can be a wickedly brutal father as when he locks his daughters in a cellar. Yet his daughters see their father as a hero making their relationship seem all the more Freudian. One touching moment comes when Sainte Colombe and his two daughters are giving a recital and Madeline, the oldest girl, eagerly tries to make her father smile while he maintains his mask-like grimace. As a patriarch, teacher and companion, Marielle's Sainte Colombe is a stolid and laconic figure, and it is only through listening to his sounds (played by Jordi Savall), the cries and tears made by his viola, that we get to know him.

Then one day the young Marais (played by Depardieu's son, Guillaume) shows up on Sainte Colombe's doorstep asking to be his student, Guillaume Depardieu possesses an angelic beauty and the camera dots generously on his face, studying it and worshipping it. His square jaw is offset by soft, plump lips, a long nose, and a lion's golden mane that cascades around his face like honey. He is able to be at once fey and masculine, crude and innocent. Few actors' looks are so captivating that all they have to do in a scene is give a certain stare while being magnetic and conveying a realm of desire and needs. The younger Depardieu is one such actor.

Sainte Colombe is characteristically harsh on the boy and in one deafening scene smashes his violin. Amidst these lessons, Marais also receives lessons of a different sort from the master's daughter, Madeline (Anne Brochet). The two actors display a shy desire for each other that's beguiling. Marais and Madeline's love sours and when Marais finally leaves her to play with the royal court, she perishes.

Interestingly, while the memory and apparition of Sainte Colombe's wife sustains him and even works as a muse while he's playing, the memory of Marais emaciates Madeline. Her line, "I've let myself be destroyed by the memory of you" has acute resonance because she is an emaciated sack of bones. By this time, the elder Marais (Gerard Depardieu) is plump and flashily clad.

The contrast between the modest asceticism of the Saint Colombe's and the grand opulence of the court of Versailles shows two different versions of dress and costume of France in the 17th century.

The tableau-like settings are meticulously rendered as if the characters were part of a still-life painting, and at times the director Alain Corneau (who co-wrote the screenplay with Alain Quinard) makes them seem too stiff and doll-like for their own good. Most of the interior shots are done in warm, gentle lighting, making the tones subdued while the textures are palpable. The velvet and silk costumes are nothing short of sumptuous. Indeed, the entire film is a lavish production which has been a huge success and garnered many awards.

While today these figures might be on Prozac, back in the Grand Siecle they were content to ease into a life of darkness and solitude both environmentally and physically. Their mourning is done behind closed doors to keep them within their own world. Pining is a type of beauty and art form.

Whether they are stroking the strings of an instrument or wasting away from unrequitted love, their heightened sensuality associates them with a fiercely romantic period vividly brought to the screen.