Mar­guerite

Mar­guerite is poignant to any­one inter­est­ed in the painful gulf that can exist between an individual’s cre­ative ambi­tion and their tal­ent. Xavier Gian­no­li gives a ​’20s Parisian spin to the case of wealthy Amer­i­can soci­ety singer, Flo­rence Fos­ter Jenk­ins – who is receiv­ing her own biopic star­ring Meryl Streep. Giv­en the extreme empa­thy that Gian­no­li shows for his laugh­ing-stock lead­ing lady, it feels cru­el to report that his life, while not ful­ly imi­tat­ing his art, pos­sess­es a shad­ow of a par­al­lel. Mar­guerite suf­fers from a sto­ry­telling tame­ness that erodes the pow­er of its subject.

At the cen­tre of the film is a huge­ly sym­pa­thet­ic per­for­mance by Cather­ine Frot. Marguerite’s delu­sions about the qual­i­ty of her singing con­tin­ue because of a con­spir­a­cy of silence. Hus­band Georges is dis­tract­ed by his affair, manser­vant Madel­bos wants to make his name from her far­ci­cal fame and is also black­mail­ing a singing teacher. Although she con­ducts her­self with grace and dis­cre­tion, Frot’s sad eyes and sor­row­ful paus­es sug­gest that she feels the per­son­al dis­ap­point­ments that sur­round her. The more acute­ly this is felt, the more impor­tant singing her heart out becomes. And so, the tragi­com­e­dy of her sit­u­a­tion intensifies.

Gian­no­li has spent effort to recre­ate the deca­dent fur­nish­ings and cos­tumes of a wealthy woman from this era. Yet there is a stul­ti­fy­ing empti­ness to the cav­ernous inte­ri­ors and an iner­tia to the story’s pac­ing which caus­es near­ly all scenes to drag. Frot’s bad singing is a joy that re-ener­gis­es the peo­ple watch­ing inside and out­side the film. The enter­tain­ment val­ue of her inabil­i­ty is almost an art unto itself, although her inno­cence as to the audience’s true source of plea­sure makes her a vic­tim of exploitation.