La Vie en Rose

I went to see La Vie en Rose today at the Broadway. Marion Cotillard is outstanding as Piaf, portraying the singer's ferocious talent and more than spirited personality with a vitality and accuracy that has to be seen to be believed. The film is fabulously photographed, terrifically well acted, and smartly directed too. But for all that, it is in some ways a rather unsatisfying film. It is perhaps too disjointed in its attempt to be more than a straightforward biopic. The quick jumps from one time slot to another – some of which don't seem to have a valid excuse – create a certain confusion and lack of continuity, making it sometimes difficult to establish who was who and what they meant to Piaf, and at which particular time in her life they featured. Furthermore, there wasn't enough (in my view) of the triumph of Piaf's singing; too much of the tragedy. Notwithstanding that, I enjoyed it so if you haven't seen it, don't be put off.

It reminded me of a Bastille Day party we gave many years ago when we were living in Brighton. We'd invited loads of friends and had hired a cabaret act to perform in the garden. The performer was a strange little guy whose act was to impersonate Edith Piaf. He wore a black wig and a little black dress, and belted out her famous numbers with incredible enthusiasm and an accuracy to the voice that was worthy of Mademoiselle Cotillard. We loved him, and I just regret that we didn't have video cameras in those days (8mm ciné was such a faff) or that I didn't interview the artist afterwards to explore his motivation for such a bizarre performance. It was a great party – the invitations stated "Tumbrils at 2:00 a.m." which I don't think anyone understood at the time, but never mind.

However tonight's film also reminded me of something else. A lonely teenage boy who for some reason didn't quite connect with The Grateful Dead, or Jimi Hendrix, or Cream, and so would sit alone in his bedroom playing Edith Piaf records at high volume, much to the bewilderment of his parents and his peers. I remember that teenage boy, and how he thought he was unique but didn't know why, and how he wondered then what marvels the world might bring to him. I wonder what happened to him?

So, tonight's film was evocative to say the least. I've actually been a bit unwell recently and so my slightly sensitive disposition is my excuse for shedding a few tears at the poignancy of it all. But I'm still not sure whether I was crying for Piaf – the gamin of the gutter - or for that lost and lonely teenage boy sitting in his bedroom, dreaming.