For a long time, when asked what my favourite film was, I’d delay and defer. Be more specific, I’d say: name a genre, director, or movement. But now I just say Playtime.
There are many reasons to love and revere Jacques Tati’s 1967 masterpiece which, in human terms, is most identifiable through the appearance of the director himself as his famous character Monsieur Hulot. With his crumpled hat, long coat and umbrella, Hulot is an aloof presence: not blundering like Mr Magoo or pitiable like Chaplin, but gently drawing humour and absurdities to the surface with a drifting absentmindedness.
However, this complex, yet giddily enjoyable film is most easily defined by its absences – for despite Hulot’s presence there’s no protagonist, or a single plotline. There is no three-act structure, nor even any close-ups. The director starts in the clouds, a light blue and milky white sky opening a film that indeed evokes a feeling that one is observing its world from above, and is packed with famous images, including an iconic shot of Tati as Hulot, surveying clean cubicles in a sterile office workplace. A shot like this might now be compared to Apple TV+’s acclaimed series Severance, about employees who eradicate memories of their day job. But where Severance saw dystopia in those cubicles, Tati sees almost Baudrillian farce: evidence of a consumer-driven world full of weird inventions and simulations.
The most expensive French film in history at the time of its production, Playtime takes place in a giant set constructed on the outskirts of Paris dubbed “Tativille”, depicting a futuristic version of the city with sleek modernist architecture. There’s only a small number of locations including an airline terminal, an office building and a restaurant – the latter the setting of an extended sequence detailing the disastrous opening night of a fancy eatery, where the diners’ moods improve the worse things get. But despite this, Tativille still feels like an endlessly expansive playground.
The film rewards repeat viewings like no other, offering the viewer multiple storylines to choose from, often unfolding simultaneously in the same frame. Early in the runtime, we see a married couple discussing mundane matters such as vitamins and pyjamas. Do we keep watching them, or observe the janitor with the broom and dustpan? Or the uniformed man patrolling the hallway? Or the pair of elderly women? Or the priest? Or the group of schoolchildren?
Tati’s trick is to give the various people drifting in and out of vision relatively equal dramatic and spatial emphasis. This has a remarkable effect, transforming the viewer from passive onlooker to active participant, with the power to choose which stories to follow. In a sense, Playtime is conceptually similar to real-time computer art (such as video games, VR experiences and other interactable virtual worlds) that offer potentially infinite versions. Just as no video game is ever played in exactly the same way, Tati creates a work unique to each individual viewing.
You could argue this is broadly true of other films; the viewer’s mind might wander, for instance, or notice something they didn’t see previously on a second viewing. But Playtime is different, even revolutionary, eschewing the director’s set of dictatorial controls (such as the close-up) in favour of a much more liberating experience. Tati directed other lovely productions, such as Mon Oncle and Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot, but Playtime is on another level.
I’m usually against messing with classics, but I’d love to see Tativille recreated as an interactive virtual environment, truly making good on the film-maker’s promise of a different kind of screen storytelling. Tati’s primary achievement isn’t telling a narrative, but constructing a virtual story world in which any number of narratives can take place. The ultimate limitation he faced was the physical boundaries of the screen itself, what Peter Greenaway memorably described as “the tyranny of the frame”.
A rich vein of academia reflects Playtime’s uniqueness by exploring it in an architectural context. For instance, it’s been interpreted as an exposé of urban living; a rumination on technology and urban design; a satire about the modernist movement; an exploration of urban spaces through flânerie; and a mobilisation of spatial and temporal understanding. But don’t let the spiffy language imply a dry intellectual exercise intended for the ivory tower. The film is an unparalleled delight, full of imaginative possibilities, so much more than the sum of its parts. Viva la Tativille!
