Quand j'étais chanteur

In Xavior Giannoli's film, an ageing lounge singer (a magnificently ramshackle Gerard Depardieu) seduces a pretty young woman; and then falls in love with her. She quite likes him, but with the gap in their ages, it's unlikely that either can be a long-term solution to the problems of the other. He then gets a chance to revitalise his career; and doesn't take it. I spent most of this film wondering when something was going to happen; in fact, almost nothing does, beyond what is predicted by the premise. Although there is sexual contact, the film can be thought of as a French equivalent of 'Lost in Translation', although without that film's annoying sense of self-reverence and faux-profundity. It makes good use of the singer's repertoire which serves as both soundtrack and commentary, the performances are nicely judged, and at the end, in spite of the absence of obvious content, I found myself oddly moved.

On the basis of this one film, Xavier Giannoli seems like a limited director, one who can coax a good performance from an actor--or simply stand out of the way when it's the monumental Depardieu--but who shows little sense of style or drama. I lost count of the number of scenes that go nowhere, that serve only to bring out another of Alain Moreau's foibles. Why does the singer have to share scenes with a goat, for heaven's sake? Poor Mathieu Amalric: here's one of the most interesting actors in France, and his character can only open doors and make introductions.

Gerard Depardieu is splendid, it's one of his five best career performances. He's entirely at ease, spinning his stories to the enchanted but watchful Cecile de France. To play Marion, she has had to turn down the Audrey Hepburn gamine quality; she's very effective in a few scenes.

In a rather disappointing fortnight, „Quand J'étais Chanteur" was the nicest discovery at the Cannes film festival: a simple story, beautifully told and acted. A middle-aged, overweight and worn-out ballroom singer (Gérard Depardieu, in his best role since "Cyrano de Bergerac" in 1990) falls in love with a tormented woman half his age. And although both know that more than a brief affair is almost impossible, there's is a chemistry between them that has become rare in movies. The unknown director Xavier Giannoli displays a phenomenal sense for atmosphere and is clever enough not to spell everything out. You might actually feel that you can breathe more freely during this movie - and certainly afterwards. Merveilleux!

'Quand j'étais chanteur' (or 'The Singer') is a lovely, funny, bittersweet film which gives Gérard Depardieu an excellent leading role as cynical, arrogant, washed-up singer Alain Moreau, who sings love tunes for middle-aged lady dancers who adore him. He meanwhile searches for love and finds something akin to it in the person of damaged, deep, prickly Marion (Cécile De France), many years his junior and out of his league.

Depardieu, even approaching his sixties, brings a mix of bravado, charm, and vulnerability to the character of Moreau. Sometimes you can see where he is coming from, sometimes you sympathise, sometimes you laugh, sometimes you are irritated - a well rounded character, believable, and just that little bit broken from a lost chance to rebuild a marriage, the idea that he just might be a nicer guy than the ladykiller he has become.

With Mathieu Amalric as Bruno, friend, estate agent, adversary, and Christine Citti as Michèle, former wife and backing singer, muse and manager, 'The Singer' is an intimate portrait of where life can take you if you just stop and let it. It does not shy away from poignancy and the ubiquitous happy ending, but on the way it makes its creations real and their problems and preoccupations realistic.

The songs, incidentally, are sung by Depardieu and although the lyrics may be lacking in style (certainly in their translation), the delivery and ambiance proves there may well be life in the old dog yet, making it understandable why Moreau has become the obsession and fixation of lonely single, divorced, or widowed women. But under the gloss and the stagecraft is someone just as lonely, just as envious of the passing of time, and this is the ultimate strength of the film, making that obvious.

One of the more remarkable things about Xavier Giannoli's French film The Singer is that it predates Aronofsky's The Wrestler by about two years. Like The Wrestler, Giannoli's film is about a man people of a certain age within the film's universe would no doubt look back on with fondness when thinking back to specific people within the annuls of a very specific, rather popular medium; that of music rather than professional wrestling entertainment. It is the tale of that man, much more older now, at a point in which dishevelment and old age appear to have kicked in; a realising of one's loneliness and one's stone cut chances passing one by. It is first and foremost a love story, a fascinating study of the duality that exists between the lead and another woman, whom, is rounded enough and suffers enough from her own problems to keep her from being a one dimensional love interest.

The cut and dry figure of Gérard Depardieu is that of whom embodies the lead, the titular singer named Alain Moreau; a man we first see occupying a small and dingy little dressing room the local establishment appear to additionally store the vacuum cleaners inside of. Outside in the main hall, his portrait on a poster paints a far more positive image of him in his looking happy and holding a rose in the process as the place fills up with elderly people ready for a night of entertainment and socialising. The item of the strained differences in the man's existence as to what the public see and what's honestly lurking underneath, here, being the two different things which are brought to our attention. His life sees him work through the night with a band; their coming to an end with the conclusion of another gig seeing Moreau leave the establishment upon payment in the morning, both bleary eyed and a little shell shocked at the bright early light to an accompaniment of gentle electronic music. Moreau appears lonely, he sleeps at a relatively large home by himself and lives a generally muted existence with what seems to be nothing bar a pet fawn of some kind, whom totters around the house his closest form of company.

The sense of life generally passing Moreau by is highlighted by way of a number of amusing quips to do with the distinction between young and old; the then and now; the modern and the classical. The item of 'older' people attending his shows is verbally illustrated by a character whom deems his audience members "too old for nightclubs" and so they attend Moreau's shows whereas Moreau's own views on the contemporary item of karaoke and the ability for any swinging-guy to have a bash at singing up on a stage, however badly, is dismissed. The greater extent of this particular statement enabling us to draw on comparisons to similar contemporary opinions extended to other art forms and mediums, namely television and cinema in the form of the rise of more online based opinions which hardened academics often state are trivialising forms of journalism if they aren't already destroying it.

Through an old friend named Bruno, played by the ever dependable Mathieu Amalric so-much-so that he just appears to blend into proceedings, who used to be a bit of a gambler and now owns an estate agency; Moreau meets Marion (De France), a divorced woman who's dishevelment and downbeat nature matches that of our lead's and whom works with Bruno at the company. The subject matter and material the film eventually comes to cover is handled in a methodical and mature manner by director, also the writer, Giannoli. Moreau's organising of house visits purely to see her and the manner in which he keeps coming back neither as lecherous nor as misjudged as it might have been following the early spending of a night together. Principally, the two of them are linked more intrinsically by way of the nature of their jobs; Moreau the singer on stage at a designated place so as to guide customers through their nights out involving drinking and socialism, as Moreau himself verbally identifies that "they come here to drink champagne, that's all". In regards to Marion's role, her turning up to another designated establishment so as to show potential customers around a home they might buy bring to attention the fact that both people are present in their jobs, but not crucial; they add a dimension to an experience but appear largely unnecessary to proceedings as the greater extent of the trip unfolds around them.

The character is explored in a fashion that sees come across as so much more than a mere photogenic supporting act, whom cannot get a man despite these qualities, and must act purely as the subject of another man's attraction. Their coming together is well observed and nicely unfolded; complications linked to Marion's own life situations involving grief additionally given ample attention. The film as a whole cracks along at a right old pace, its internal music propping everything up with a series of belting tracks which hop between fast and punchy numbers to slower, more resonating ballads nicely echoing the film's own ever-shifting atmosphere as the lead attempts to get to know his supporting female around the ever present Bruno. Giannoli's film is a mature mediation on middle age, a wonderfully involving tale of romantic affection and a well constructed study of two people at respective points in their lives.