Tous les Matins du Monde (All the Mornings of the World.)

Subdued but ravishing, this Alain Corneau film makes the case for music not just as the essence of human feeling, but as a way to raise the dead, literally a resurrection of spirit. Gerard Depardieu is court composer to Louis XIV, and though resplendent in ribbons and lace amidst the Baroque splendor of Versailles, he owes his soul to his severe mentor on the viola da gamba. He recalls his teacher in extended flashback in which his character is played by Depardieu’s own son, Guillaume. Jean-Pierre Marielle is the old Jansenist who becomes even more hermetic on the sudden death of his beautiful young wife, and neglects his two young daughters except for their musical education. Anne Brochet is the elder, who falls in love with the younger Depardieu, who insinuates himself into the master’s household but lacks the feeling to reciprocate in full. Later, after success at court, the older Depardieu is mortified into renewed submission to the tutelage of his master, now stripped of all human connection except through his music. A still life painting figures in the story as a parallel to music in art, nature morte indeed, and the cinematography by Yves Angelo is painterly in the extreme. Though I put together this “Age of Claude: Films of Painting and Performance in the 17th Century” series rather casually around a tenuous hook, it turned out to be much more powerful and coherent than I expected, with this film offering a perfect summation. (1992, dvd@cai, r.) *8+*