Jacques Tati’s films should be universal,

They have so little dialogue and chat;

Yet, for some, his cinema bewilders,

The satire and comedy fall flat.

Perhaps it is the Frenchness of it all –

A supposed intellectual conceit –

Or maybe it’s down to Monsieur Hulot,

Whom he chose to interpret and repeat.

Is there not a hint of pretentiousness,

Do miming and humour...

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Behind the crouching silence,

All human life is there.

The règlement de comptes,

The murderous affair.

The husband’s racked with jealousy,

The lover’s gripped by fear,

The old men play their dominos,

Now tragedy is near.

The policemen bow their heads

And lift the bodies up;

The wife flicks back her hair

And sips her coffee cup.

The lights blaze in...

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