Mon Oncle (Jacques Tati, 1958)

Tati's films are fairly difficult to bracket: they occupy a middle ground between social satire and slapstick that comes across as quite opaque at times. My Uncle is Tati's strengths and weaknesses in a nutshell: it's sprinkled with charming moments of whimsy and sly observations on people's unconscious mannerisms and foibles, in particular as we return again and again to a bourgeois couple's ultra-modern and ludicrously sterile home. Naturally, Tati as Monsieur Hulot, the wife's phlegmatically eccentric brother, turns up soon enough to provide a chaotic counterpoint, enchant his stifled young nephew and generally make a nuisance of himself in a Mr Bean-lite fashion. And here I encountered a serious concern: I found myself actually wanting Rowan Atkinson, with all his irritating gurning, rather than Hulot, who's just a cypher, a blank in the middle of the film. He's more an obstacle than an active participant, neither funny in his inefficacy nor particularly endearing when he does act. The film only breathes whenever he's off-screen. Tati as director is clearly full of ideas: he should have stayed behind the camera, on this outing at least.

5/10