Children of Paradise

By Rom Watson
c. July 26, 2015

In the days before videotape, (which was prior to the days of DVD’s), if you wanted to see old films you went to movie theatres called “revival houses,” which screened older and often classic films.

In the early 1980’s I went to a revival house to see Children of Paradise, a famous and revered 1945 French film directed by Marcel Carné.  The film was so impressive I went back five nights later and watched it again.  I probably would have gone back a third time but it played for only one week.  The fact that Children of Paradise (French title Les Enfants du Paradis), is a three-hour-and-ten-minute black-and-white film in French with English subtitles, will give you some indication of how much the film impressed me.  And there’s mime.  Did I mention mime?  The main character is a mime.

Many years later, on November 19, 1996, I saw it again and had a different reaction.

When I read it was going to be screened at the Bing Theatre at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, I told my wife, whom I met in 1985 and married in 1988, that we had to go see Children of Paradise because it was one of the great films of all time.

Children of Paradise is often referred to as the French Gone With the Wind.  Not only is it a lavish, epic period piece that took a long time to shoot, it’s also a great film that draws you into a bygone era and tells an engrossing story filled with unrequited romantic longing. And, like Gone With the Wind, Children of Paradise was deliberately made in two parts and is always shown with an intermission.

During intermission, we discussed the film.  My wife agreed that it was very well made, but didn’t understand why I thought it one of the great films of all time.  And surprisingly enough, my original reaction puzzled me as well.  Though I was enjoying seeing it again, the connection to the film that compelled me to see it twice in one week was absent.  However, since it was only half over I thought perhaps the magic would reassert itself in the second half.

When the film ended and the lights came up, I had to admit the magic was gone.  It was still an impressive achievement, it was still a work of art, and yet it did not affect me the same way.

At first I didn’t understand why.  The film may have been restored but it had not changed.  It was still the same film I saw all those years before.  So why had my reaction changed?

And then the realization came: I had changed.

When I first saw Children of Paradise, the romantic longing in the film resonated strongly with me, touching and filling the empty place in my heart.  Years later I had a different reaction because that empty place in my heart was no longer there.  My relationship with my wife had filled it with love.

As we slowly walked up the aisle of the theatre to the exit, glancing at our paper programs provided by the museum, I had a number of feelings.  First I was sad that my reaction to a work of art had diminished.  Then I was proud that I had grown to the point where unrequited longing no longer resonated with me.  Then I was grateful that my wife and I had found each other and built a life together.  I was particularly grateful and touched that she didn’t get angry with me when I dragged her to three-hour-and-ten-minute French black-and-white films with subtitles.  And mime.

Though I was disappointed with my reaction to the film, I couldn’t be disappointed with the film, as it was blameless.  I decided to be glad I saw it when I needed to see it, that my first viewing of this particular piece of art happened at a time in my life when it had the greatest possible impact on me.

Though I have not seen the film since, I am satisfied knowing it served a purpose in my life, and will go on to serve a purpose in the lives of many others.  As great works of art always do.