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 cross cultures well?

Playtime, his famously big budget flop,

Contains no real plot or story to tell.

 

Or is it that we don’t look hard enough,

So the skill and subtlety go to waste?

His films demand some effort from the viewer;

He is, more than most, acquired as a taste.