111 minutes is a long time to watch people walking into lampposts and Mon Oncle joins the canon of films that has missed the lessons of the two-reeler.
It makes the mistake of having too many environments. They are not wholly convincing and they lead to a mishmash of styles and ideas that, in a film without a plot, helps to produce a feeling of disengagement.
To watch Mon Oncle and to see slapstick comedy accompanied by sleek, multi-coloured Cadillacs is a strange experience. It makes one yearn for monochrome and the sound of a backfiring jalopy, or just any environment that is more suitable for foot-in-bucket humour.
Hire Hulot’s Holiday instead. It’s simple, it’s short, there is a continuity of environment and, far more importantly, it’s funny.
If you have already seen it, don’t besmirch your opinion of Jacques Tati by watching this protracted disappointment.
It makes the mistake of having too many environments. They are not wholly convincing and they lead to a mishmash of styles and ideas that, in a film without a plot, helps to produce a feeling of disengagement.
To watch Mon Oncle and to see slapstick comedy accompanied by sleek, multi-coloured Cadillacs is a strange experience. It makes one yearn for monochrome and the sound of a backfiring jalopy, or just any environment that is more suitable for foot-in-bucket humour.
Hire Hulot’s Holiday instead. It’s simple, it’s short, there is a continuity of environment and, far more importantly, it’s funny.
If you have already seen it, don’t besmirch your opinion of Jacques Tati by watching this protracted disappointment.
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