Few feature film debuts so perfectly encapsulated the themes and obsessions that would define the rest of their creator's careers as did Jacques Tati's Jour de Fête: gentle contempt for modernization, a preference for an idealized and pastoral rural lifestyle, a fondness for sight and audio gags. The film takes about 20 minutes to get going, but afterwards Tati treats us to surprisingly advanced slapstick. So many of the repeated jokes cracked me up: the cross-eyed gentleman who tends to throw or hammer things too far to the right; the stretch of country road infested by particularly aggressive mosquitoes. There are even quiet subplots filling up the corners of the film that go nowhere but make the soul feel happy for their inclusion, such as an abortive romantic relationship between a local villager and a traveling fair worker. The last 30 minutes, when Tati's postman character (and how weird was it to hear him talk?) decides to deliver his mail "American-style," is slapstick worthy of Chaplin, Keaton, and Lloyd. Tati would go on to make better, more important films. But pound-for-pound, Jour de Fête is his funniest.
8/10
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