Thursday, June 12, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Film: The road not taken

The Man on the Train is a flimsy but charming piece of French whimsy

By Jeannette Catsoulis

In modern movies, an opening shot that features a stranger alighting from a train is often the dramatic equivalent of that old Western cliché: the lone cowboy riding into town, taciturn and troubled and nameless, trailing the baggage of a shady past. Like a small flurry of recent films (The Man Without a Past, Spider), The Man on the Train opens in just this way; but this time the vintage Hollywood connection is no coincidence.

At a time when Franco-American relations might euphemistically be described as strained, Patrice Leconte's gentle tale of an unlikely male friendship is an unabashed admission of his country's love of American culture. The man himself is played by none other than French pop icon Johnny Hallyday, who made his name in the '50s doing covers of American hits. From the moment we see his smooth, carved features and coathanger shoulders, his wary eyes and Eastwoodian impassivity, we don't need the dissonant background music--or his fringed leather jacket--to tell us he's probably up to no good.

His name is Milan, and he has come to this little provincial town to rob its one and only bank. But first he needs some aspirin, and a place to stay while he waits for his accomplices. The local pharmacy has nothing suitable for a migraine, and the hotel closes early out-of-season, so he reluctantly accepts the offer of a room from Manesquier (Jean Rochefort). A chatty, retired poetry teacher living on the crumbling family estate and tied to the memory of his dead mother, Manesquier is a lonely dreamer intrigued by Milan's air of mystery and danger.

Over wine and cigarettes on Manesquier's ancient patio, and haphazard dinners in his dusty kitchen, the men slowly become friends. Polar opposites, each sees in the other's life the allure of chances missed and choices not made. For Milan, the sight of Manesquier's worn slippers symbolizes the comforts of home and the security of a daily routine; for Manesquier, all the risk and glamor of a life on the move is embodied in that weather-beaten leather jacket. Sneaking into Milan's room, he slips it on with something close to reverence. "I am Wyatt Earp," he announces to the mirror, eyes shining with regret.

The Man on the Train is a low-key, rather delicate movie that relies completely on the simple chemistry of its two stars. Hallyday, who always wanted to be an actor, underplays his role to stunning effect. And Rochefort, with his mischievous, melancholy face and lingering fragility (he became seriously ill filming Terry Gilliam's The Man Who Killed Don Quixote in 2000), is the picture of wistful yearning. "My life's all wrong," he complains, marching into his local barber shop to demand a new haircut. "Something between fresh-out-of-jail and world-class soccer player," he tells the startled stylist.

In his best films (The Widow of Saint-Pierre, Monsieur Hire), Leconte has explored the damage caused by profound obsessions. The Man on the Train is a lighter, altogether flimsier work. At times a little too obvious, and a little too close to maudlin, it nevertheless unfolds with the smooth professionalism of a man sure of his craft and comfortable with his characters. Wry and charming--and with an ending that could not be more perfect--the movie plays like a valentine to America's cowboy soul from a Frenchman with no need to hide his love.