CHILDREN OF PARADISE. Crowning achievement of poetic realism

It is hard to believe that the monumental film Children of Paradise was made in German-occupied France. At the time, securing the necessary materials and funds for a project so ambitious and escapist was a serious challenge. By the time it reached theaters, however, the country had already been liberated. Its premiere became a perfect symbol of patience, resilience, and duty. The International Critics’ Prize in Venice for Marcel Carné and the Oscar nomination for Jacques Prévert’s script brought it global attention. The work is often called the greatest film in French cinema history—and I will not argue with that. This review is, therefore, another euphoric one.

Children of Paradise is the crowning achievement of poetic realism, yet very different from Port of Shadows, Carné and Prévert’s earlier masterpiece. The director shifts away from contemporary issues, transporting the audience to the July Monarchy (1830–1848). Still, this is not a historical film, but a beautiful homage to theater and pantomime, two art forms beloved in the nineteenth century, later overshadowed by cinema.

A romantic thread is central to the story, yet the love of theater seems even more important. Theater is life, and true acting is not imitation but the release of authentic emotions, an opening of the heart, a revelation of one’s genuine nature.

The “paradis” was the gallery in the theater affordable to poorer citizens. For them it was a true arcadia, a refuge from everyday struggles. Much happened on stage: artists could soothe nerves, stir hearts, provoke reflection, or leave audiences in awe. Emotions could be shouted aloud, teasing the wealthier part of the crowd, distracting or encouraging the actors. Theater had one clear advantage over cinema—the actor could watch the audience’s reactions, the truest form of critique. Theater was therapeutic not only for viewers but also for the artists themselves.

The title says little about the film’s essence. Within its 190 minutes lies much more than the play of strolling players. This costume melodrama tells of passions, fascinations, and disappointments; of life as carnival; of theater as a golden realm. It shows both silent pantomime and spoken drama like Shakespeare’s. It depicts fairs and masquerades meant to drown misery.

Its framework consists of grand crowd scenes on the Boulevard du Crime, alive with thousands of extras chasing after pleasure. Between the rising and falling of the curtain, life itself unfolds—a theater of joy and sorrow, promises and betrayals, laughter and heartbreak.

Jacques Prévert created a gallery of characters from many social classes. Jean-Gaspard Debureau, known as Baptiste (Jean-Louis Barrault), is a dreamy mime, eager to move audiences without words. His opposite is Frédérick Lemaître, craving Shakespearean roles overflowing with monologues. Both are historical figures, like Pierre-François Lacenaire (Marcel Herrand), a criminal and writer, proof that even rogues can long to create art.

All are bound by their relation to Claire Reine, called Garance (Arletty). She is not just a symbol of dreams, but a living woman who adores the stage. At one point she sums up her change in striking words: “The spring in the music box has broken. It still plays the same melody, but the sound is different.”

The film is brilliantly photographed and staged. One cannot look away, as eyes, ears, and mind are absorbed by this feast. The dialogues are wise, sharp, sometimes witty. They reveal passionate, spirited characters with vivid personalities. During one show a spectator shouts, “Quiet, I can’t hear the pantomime!”—a funny yet meaningful line, for silence can also speak volumes.

Acting here is first-class. Pierre Brasseur, irritating in Port of Shadows, creates a charismatic chatterbox who is never dull. Alongside excellent leads (Arletty, Barrault, Brasseur), Pierre Renoir shines as Jéricho—the son of painter Auguste Renoir, father of cinematographer Claude, and brother of director Jean.

In Europe’s difficult wartime years, Carné used cinema as a magical time machine, taking audiences a century back. Set designers Léon Barsacq, Raymond Gabutti, and the hidden (for his Jewish heritage) Alex Trauner recreated the Boulevard du Crime of nineteenth-century Paris. The name may sound grim, but the place was lively, popular, and safe. Of course, one had to beware of pickpockets, yet the risk was worth it—the impressions unforgettable. The film itself is just as lasting: grand, impressive, unforgettable. Let us, then, journey back to Balzac’s era and discover the entertainments people enjoyed before cinema was born.