TRAFFIC Movie Review

With the exception of a short, minor television documentary that followed it, the 1971 Traffic was to be Jacques Tati's last feature film. Tati's concern here, as always, is the depersonalization of modern society. He settled on a perfect visual metaphor, too—man ensconced in his private automobile, rushing off hither, thither, and yon at the same moment and often in the same direction as millions of other travelers, but all of them are completely isolated from each other. (The actual destination here is Amsterdam—Tati's Monsieur Hulot is a car designer on his way from Paris to a big auto show.) Traffic was conceived as a slimmed-down, four-wheel version of Tati's ambitious Playtime, in which a modern Paris was divided into glass-and-steel cubicles symbolic of “progress,” but which instead simply succeeded in making human contact and meaningful communication impossible. Traffic is looser and less painstakingly organized than that earlier superproduction, but the gags (not all of them are on wheels) are less uninspired and less urgent. It's a handsome film and Tati/Hulot is such a sympathetic character that you try to like the picture, but it becomes gradually less funny and less vital as it ambles slowly along, as if someone had let the air out of the tires.

NEXT STOP … Playtime, Citizens Band, Weekend

1971 89m/C FR Jacques Tati, Maria Kimberly, Marcel Fraval; D: Jacques Tati; W: Jacques Lagrange, Jacques Tati; C: Eddy van der Enden, Marcel Weiss; M: Charles Dumont, VHS HMV