Under the Roofs of Paris, We Live with Passion
Note: This is the hundred-and-fifty-ninth in a series of historical/critical essays examining the best in film from each year. Essentially, I am watching films from the beginning of cinematic history that interest me and/or hold some critical or cultural impact. My personal, living list of favorites is being created at Mubi, showcasing five films per year. All this being explained, what follows is an examination of my fourth favorite 1930 film, UNDER THE ROOFS OF PARIS, directed by René Clair.
In resisting the coming of sound, French filmmaker (and growing favorite of mine) René Clair made one of the most distinguished sound films the world had yet seen. Upon its release in 1930, UNDER THE ROOFS OF PARIS (Sous les toits de Paris) was a novelty in its home country and even abroad. Although it was advertised as all-talking, Clair’s picture embraced silent moments, or at least moments without spoken dialogue. He scored fluid cinematography with delightful music, accompanying the musical numbers and brief bits of back-and-forth to tell a story of passion and spontaneous decisions.
When I say “passion,” though, I don’t invoke the feeling of the conventional romances of the day. No, UNDER THE ROOFS OF PARIS actually feels a bit disjointed. Its blend of silent technique with the new technology of sound actually leads to a procession of sudden changes and even, at times, a whiplash of soundtrack absence and then fullness. But this structure serves the story and characters at well, echoing their emotional, reactionary decisions. The film does not foment a cerebral response, at least in its plot; of course, the masterful way that plot is visually told merits a response as cerebral as, say, a full essay dedicated to it.
UNDER THE ROOFS OF PARIS follows a group of working-class characters, led by Albert (Albert Préjean), who is joined by Pola (Pola Illéry), Louis (Edmond T. Gréville), and Fred (Gaston Modot). These form the principal “love rectangle.” Albert is a street singer, Pola is a Romanian immigrant, Louis is Albert’s best friend, and Fred is a forceful gangster. This is nearly all we need to know about the characters, at least in terms of their backstory. Fred is enchanted by (and controlling of) Pola, but Albert falls for her as well. Albet and Pola spend an awkward night together, but when Albert’s crook friend leaves a bag of stolen silver at Albert’s apartment, he is arrested and sent to jail until the crook is caught and admits that Albert had nothing to do with it. Meanwhile, Louis and Pola have begun seeing each other, and upon leaving jail, Albert fights Fred (with Louis’ help) for Pola’s affection. Finally, Albert finds that Pola has left him for Louis. But he leaves the two to be happy, returning to the street where he always sings, under the roofs of Paris.
This synopsis is necessary to explain the key moments that reveal Clair’s appreciation for, or paternalistic nostalgia for, the lives of Paris’ “little people.” Albert, Pola, Louis, and Fred live in the moment. Albert proclaims that he and Pola will be married after only one night together, a night during which they mostly bickered about who got to sleep in his bed. Pola seems to go with the tide of the men around her; she may appear to have minimal agency, but she isn’t totally happy with everyone. Once she is with Louis, it is made more clear than ever that her relationship with Albert was, although softer, not unlike her reticence in seeing Fred. Pola is friendly with Albert, sure, and there was clearly some positive sentiment, but she reacts more strongly to staying with Louis than returning Albert’s affections. Louis, by the way, quickly takes to Pola after she tells him that Albert has been jailed; later, he professes not to know that Albert loved her. That is probably true. He just didn’t think about it. Finally, Fred is the ultimate hedonist. He apparently pursues a life of crime simply to revel in the music halls and take the, as he puts it in a letter to Albert, “women he likes.”
From my perspective, the spontaneity of Albert, the distance of Pola, and the earnestness of Louis are nearly off-putting. There isn’t much consideration or exploration of their motivations or thought processes. But as with the best films, UNDER THE ROOFS OF PARIS’ logic isn’t necessary to feel the emotions of the characters. The story progresses swiftly just like their decisions, and this is a portrayal of passion, at least in the sense of giving in to one’s strong emotions. Not the least important facet of this portrayal is the relationship between Albert and Louis. They are shown to constantly fight, literally coming to blows, to accommodate each other, when it comes to dealing with a rude bar patron, fighting Fred, and even who gets to stay with Pola. Ultimately, however, Albert sees the feeling between them, and just as passionately as he fought for her, he dispassionately and pleasantly steps out of the way.
After this sacrifice, however, we see the singer crooning once again, delivering the titular song we’ve heard so many times throughout the film with assured feeling. A crane shot lifts us up above the roofs of Paris, just as it took us under them at the beginning of the film, and we get the impression that the feelings of UNDER THE ROOFS OF PARIS are multiplied across and below the skyline we see stretching before us.
