Anyone who has ever sung in a choir: church, school, music
theatre or opera will enjoy the memories evoked by Christophe Barratier’s début
feature film, The Choir. The power of fine music has been known for
centuries. It has the ability to transcend natural disasters, wars and well-meaning
script writers (in this instance Philippe Lopes-Curval and Barratier), who play
fast and loose with the mechanics of how music is actually made. Both know that
as school boards everywhere continue to crave curriculum “efficiencies” and art
institutions dumb-down their products, the vast majority of viewers, while unaware
of those sleights-of-hand, will never fail to react positively to artistic
excellence when it “stares them in the ear.”
With more clichés than a John Williams score—the youngest troubled child Pépinot (Maxence Perrin) waiting every Saturday for a father who’ll never come; the red-haired hellion Mondain (Grégory Gatignol) who is beaten with relish by headmaster Rachin (François Berléand) then dismissed for apparent theft after fighting back; and the failed musician
cum school supervisor, Clément Mathieu (Gérard Jugnot), who finally finds love
(Marie Bunel) but his intended never sees it—the script, nonetheless, bounces
merrily on its way, yet leaves us wishing the writing would improve as
miraculously as the truant choristers who morph from illiterate tune hewers to
four-part harmony, diction-meister vocalists as fast as you can sing doh re mi.
Mathieu is the boarding school’s newest teacher and shows up for duty
with a sheaf of unperformed manuscripts. He tries to bring order to the
institution by starting a choir. The seldom-performed composer’s eyes are genuinely
enthused with his craft, but his hands fail to bring any phrase to a graceful
conclusion. Yet, as he draws his charges out of their tormented shells and into the mysteries of Kyrie e leison, manages to turn this gig-from-hell into a personal musical
renaissance.
As the villain of the piece, Rachin, outfitted
in bowties and the subject of a hilarious ditty composed by the boys that offers
insight into which private appendage might be put to best use to prop his coffin
open, is the worst of the characterization deficiencies. The evil outlook
convinces at first, but his mantra “action-réaction” is used so often it soon has the same impact as elevator music. Then he gradually mellows out—even throwing paper
airplanes and playing soccer, but his sudden recession to physical brutality
confuses more than drives the story to the coda. Oh maestro, another chorus
please.
However, when called upon to sing, the
real-life chorus and soloist—Jean-Baptiste Maunier—immediately wash away any
difficulties with the plot and make everyone believe in the metamorphosis of the
boys from delinquents to artistes. One of their number, Pierre (Jacques Perrin), goes on
to become “The World’s Greatest Conductor” and opens the film with some Johann
Strauss Jr., where the musicians wisely ignore his directions—now that was totally
believable!
Prior to the screening, we heard that the actual chorus, Les Petits Chanteurs de Saint-Marc, has been touring France since the release of the film: Bravo to
them; undoubtedly, they’ve left the script behind.
N’importe de quoi! See this film—it
will warm your heart and, perhaps, lure a few present-day wayward souls into the
concert hall. JWR