The Golden Coach

In the 1950s, internationally acclaimed director Jean Renoir delivered a trio of splashy, colorful period pieces dominated by strong international leading stars and all revolving around the themes of theatre mirroring life. With this trilogy, artifice and immediate joy win out every time as the social concerns of Renoir's more famous early films are subsumed by color and visceral emotion. In 1953's The Golden Coach, a Peruvian engagement in the early 1800s for a group of comedy actors proves challenging for the tempestuous leading lady, Camilla (Anna Magnani). However, she soon finds her resistance to the strange environment tempered by the attentions of three very different men: a devoted Spanish soldier (George Higgins), a macho bullfighter Antonio (Riccardo Roli), and most prestigiously, the distinguished but thick-headed Viceroy Ferdinand (Duncan Lamont) whose golden coach from Europe has caught the eye of his people - as well as his possessive mistress. When he decides to bestow the lavish prize to the preening actress, pandemonium ensues. Beautifully mounted from its meticulous framing (with even the real life scenes appropriately smacking of staged compositions) to its exquisite color design and jaunty Vivaldi score, The Golden Coach (based on a play by Prosper Merimee) would be little more than a diverting trifle were it not for the chance to savor an unadulterated vehicle for Magnani, who performed the role for variations in Italian, French, and English (the last of which is presented here in accordance with Renoir's own preference). She's a wonderful presence; though not a typical cinematic beauty, her radiance and star power carry off a wonderfully showy role as an actress on every possible level. Made two years later, French Cancan (also released as Only the French Can) offers a fictionalized look at the Moulin Rouge and its cultural influence through the tale of Nini (Françoise Arnoul), a gifted woman working as a scullery maid. Fortunately she's discovered by a promoter, Henri Danglard (Jean Gabin), who's trying to launch the Moulin Rouge. Romantic complications ensue between the pair, with the presence of Henri's prior lover - spitfire dancer Lola (Maria Felix) - offering even more comic twists and turns as amour complicates the path to success. Designed primarily to showcase its splashy musical numbers, this equally colorful thematic successor offers less star power than the other two films in the set but compensates through sheer technical virtuosity and a freewheeling spirit that keeps one distracted from how little is really going on. Equipped with barely enough material to keep a sitcom episode afloat, Renoir loads up his tree with the finest ornaments imaginable (including a singing cameo from Edith Piaf and an entire third act devoted to the music hall's opening that feels like a French counterpart to Visconti's ball in The Leopard) and pulls off a sumptuous entertainment from start to finish. It takes quite a stretch to connect the third film, Elena and Her Men, with its more theatrical companion pieces, though one can connect the dots thanks to its fascination with role playing, perception, and dissembling as a way of life. Here the artifice belongs not in the theater but in the real world where Polish noblewoman Elena (a luminous, French-speaking Ingrid Bergman) keeps her eye out for wealthy eligible men despite her technical engagement to a footwear entrepreneur (Pierre Bertin). Among her suitors are the dedicated Henri (Mel Ferrer) and the most attractive prospect of all, General Rollan (Cocteau regular Jean Marais), whom she meets on Bastille Day and quickly entrances with her beauty and charm. The various lovers real and frustrated circle each other in a series of comic misunderstandings as political forces intervene to control the actions of Elena and the military man she could either make or destroy. Inspired by the life of noted French general Georges Boulanger, this film was intended as a music-studded romantic drama but transformed at the last minute into a frothy bedroom farce. The strain shows at times, but Bergman's charisma keeps the film afloat even when it doesn't all hold together. Some of the mishaps and bedroom shenanigans could have slipped in as Pink Panther outtakes, not what one normally expects to find in a Renoir film. That said, it's an aesthetically stunning film and proves the director could guide even a damaged vessel into port. Despite a solid pedigree in the arts thanks to biology (as the second son of renowned painter Auguste Renoir) and environment (growing up in Paris at the height of its cultural post-Impressionist revolution), Renoir suffered quite a bit throughout his motion picture career. Even his undisputed masterpieces, The Rules of the Game and Grand Illusion, were beset with difficulties and rocky receptions, while his years in Hollywood proved frustrating as well. With these three films marking his return to France, one senses Renoir cleansing his creative palette by diving into fantastic worlds filled with color, beautiful women, dashing but vulnerable men, and unexpected laughter around each corner. Though not really milestone works, these are enjoyable romps that show a master kicking back and enjoying his craft within the confines imposed by the producers. In a box set dubbed Stage and Spectacle, Criterion gathers the three films in superlative transfers boasting razor-sharp detail and vivid color better than one would probably find in most revival screenings. The quality ascends with each title; Golden Coach looks solid but reveals some inconsistent blacks and occasional fluctuations in color; French Cancan looks excellent; and Elena and Her Men features one of the most dazzling Technicolor transfers on DVD to date, rivaling many of Warner's elaborate restorations. Extras are modest but enjoyable, putting these films in their proper context. In keeping with his frequent practice, Renoir filmed introductions for two of the films (The Golden Coach and Elena and Her Men) in which he chats with the viewer about his working relationship with the leading ladies and his general intentions for the project. Martin Scorsese turns up for a new video appraisal of The Golden Coach in which he understandably focuses on Italian screen goddess Magnani as well, while the ubiquitous Peter Bogdanovich offers his thoughts on French Cancan. (Fortunately he's more bearable here than on his Hitchcock DVD supplements.) Other extras include a three-part series hosted by Jacques Rivette, "Jean Renoir parle de son art," spread out over the three discs, along with a segment of a BBC documentary, "Jean Renoir - Hollywood and Beyond," and an interview with French Cancan production designer Max Douy. For more information about Stage and Spectacle, visit Criterion Collection. To order Stage and Spectacle, go to TCM Shopping. by Nathaniel Thompson