Jacques Tati is a big man. Not, one would have thought, all that easily lost. But a moment before he was due on stage to open the London Film Festival at the National Film Theatre this week, the organisers suddenly missed him. They looked in the foyer, the lavatory and the cloakroom before hurriedly venturing outside. There, they found him, quietly relieving himself against the building. Somehow, one of the searchers said, it was a perfect image of M. Hulot, Tati╒s alter ego, who is inclined to lose his way, or be taken short in a crisis. It was all done so charmingly, however, that nobody could possibly have taken offence. He didn╒t, you see, want to pollute the Thames.
Hulot, says Tati, is now completely part of himself. So much so, in fact, that people in the street in France say ╥Look, there╒s M. Hulot╙ when he passes. The recognition gives him pleasure but he says he is even more pleased when people tell him that they saw somebody else just like Hulot the other day. His humour, he maintains, lies first and foremost in accurate observation. And if they have seen bits of Hulot in others, he has been telling the truth. That is important to him. He aims to show things as they are. ╥How could I be so ambitious as to want to make people laugh,╙ he once said after failing an audition, ╥when they themselves are marvellous mimics, when the least passer-by knew more than I?╙
╥Why is something funny?╙ he now says. ╥It is funny because it is true. Listen, I will tell you a funny story which might one day be turned into a Hulot story, who knows? I once visited the country house of Madame Tati╒s uncle. All round it was this big garden, with a shed here, a chicken hutch there and other out-houses scattered about. There was a railing round the whole lot and a gate. After dinner on Sunday we all sat down to play cards ╤ actually I didn╒t because I do not care for such things, but I watched them. After a time there was one little chap who begged to be excused. It was getting late and he had a train to catch.
╥But as he left there came this, how do you call it, thunder and lightning storm. There was rain and bang, bang, bang. Fully three-quarters of an hour later we hear a gentle knocking on the door. It was that little chap. He was wet through like if he has taken a bath. TrÅs miserable. ╥Excuse me,╙ he says, ╥but I couldn╒t find the gate.╙
╥You don╒t think that funny? Ah well, I do. You see, you have to think ╤ about it. Remember the large grounds, the shed, the chicken hutch, the storm in the dark.╙
