Las vacaciones del señor Hulot

It's probably easy to see this as just a relatively late occurrence of classic slapstick. In fact, the slapstick dimension is quite masterful. But there's a lot more to this movie than the comedic value of seeing someone get kicked. Part of the charm comes from the structure of the movie. Instead of a linear narrative or a series of sketches, it's a multi-dimensional portrait of different aspects of human nature. The "point" of the movie, if there is one (there's more likely a large array of "points" in this apparently simple comedy), isn't put out ostentatiously throughout the film. For instance, if Tati intended to admonish people to have some fun in life, it's not by showing how Hulot's having fun but by showing the respect fun may have with some people. There's also the purely aesthetic pleasure derived from a well-crafted movie. This one's fluid enough that nothing appears superfluous, from sun rays passing between drapes to one of Hulot's "accidental" gestures. Of course, there's a nostalgic value in watching such a movie. Not for 1950s France but for another era, however long ago, when insouciance might have been acceptable.

A French classic every bit as funny as "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

Except for missing the wonderfully amusing sound effects, this nearly silent film could be viewed with the sound on mute. Its plethora of homages to the great films of the silent era, meticulously executed slapstick and sight gags make me grin, smile broadly and laugh out loud every time I watch this Gallic masterpiece.

On a visual level alone, this movie works. Kids too young to understand anything about how movies are supposed to work laugh at the kayak, the fireworks, the tennis, at M. Hulot's gawky awkwardness, etc, etc.

It takes a bit more maturity, or perhaps immersion in Gallic sensibilities, to get all the underlying humor.

Whereas Monty Python takes more obvious pokes at the French, Tati's Hulot takes subtle swipes at the Brits and the Americans. It's 1953. The English speaking world has saved France from the Germans, but the French are losing the cultural battle not only to their liberator's language, but to their mechanized world. Hulot, the old French owl (note Tati's birdlike mannerisms), has become the awkward outsider in his own seaside resort. In that context, much of what might appear disjointed, takes on an appealing continuity. Ferreting it all out is like peeling an onion, layer by layer. Each viewing finds something new.

A film which improves with age and frequent viewing.

Jacques Tati's first Monsieur Hulot feature is an enjoyable throwback to the days of silent comedy, with plenty of Tati's own style thrown in as well. The series of vignettes passes by at a well-timed pace, and for all that there is little in terms of plot development, it's not long at all before you feel as if you know not just Hulot but the other characters as well.

The vacation setting makes for a pleasant, leisurely atmosphere that makes a nice setting for Hulot and the others. Each scene has plenty of good-natured humor, and most of them also contain some amusing details that are hard to catch the first time you see it, making it well worth re-watching.

The opening sequences are easy to identify with, for all that the story occurs in another time and place, since some of the numerous snags faced by the vacationers are common experiences. Then, from the time that Hulot leaves the door open as he enters, there is a non-stop stream of good comic material that highlights Tati's own character.

By keeping the dialogue to a minimum, it emphasizes the visual gags (with occasional sound effects), some of which are also amusing yet wordless comments on human nature. Tati's style would have worked very well in silent comedy, yet he also has his own character, not an imitation of Keaton or of Chaplin or of anyone else. He made even better use of the character in "Mon Oncle", but this one well deserves to be remembered and enjoyed as well.

"M. Hulot's Holiday" is one of those films that you either get or you don't. Jacques Tati was a fine physical comedian, in the same rank as Buster Keaton, and his Hulot character is perfect. If you like your comedy silent and beautifully observed, you will enjoy this film.

Watching M. Hulot play tennis creases me up every time I see it. The character's whole physical demeanour indicates that he is not wired up in the same way as other humans, even when he is standing still. You could put this oddball in any normal situation and expect him to raise a smirk.

Tati does not carry the whole film and there is enough gentle comedy from the other characters for you not to get bored with his silent shtick. M. Hulot does not overstay his welcome.

I guarantee that you will be humming the theme music for days afterwards. You won't have picked up any catchphrases from its eponymous star turn but it's an enjoyable, thoroughly French movie. If Steve Martin ever tries to remake it, he deserves to be shot.

It's not surprising that most folks either love the movie or hate it. In fact, few films are more unlike today's comedy style than this one. It's neither manic, nor in-your-face, nor aimed at the belly-laugh. Instead, it's leisurely paced, subtly structured, and aimed at the mild chuckle, while the closest the set-ups come to the scatological are boys ogling the lovely Martine. So, all in all, don't expect to see its like at the neighborhood Cineplex anytime soon.

Tati's unusual brand of humor comes from observing life's minutiae—simple things, such as swinging doors, balky cars, and exaggerated social graces. In short, he manages to remark on the unremarkable in an amusing way. Of course, this kind of ground-level humor is not everyone's cup of tea. For me, not all the set-ups work; at the same time, the humor tends to wear thin over the 90 minutes. Still, there's a subtle charm working its way through that's quite compelling and unlike anything else I've seen. Perhaps the reviewer who finds an underlying innocence puts his/her finger on the secret of the appeal. And when the camera lingers at the end on the now deserted beach, there's a sense of some kind of wistful loss. But I've never been able to figure out exactly of what.