Poetic Beauty of THE CHILDREN OF PARADISE

The Children of Paradise is my favorite movie and its ultimate truth has eluded me. Like a deeply layered painting or pearl, one reaches one texture or color to discover another lies beneath. I return to the Children of Paradise, year after year like cycles of the Moon, drawing water and wisdom from a poetic well.

"What is the true nature of love," The Children of Paradise, asks? Does poetic mime, Baptiste Debureau have the answer? Or the elusive, beauty, Garance? Can actor-artist Federick Lemaitre articulate love most succinctly or are there glimmers of dark truth in the knife of philosopher-criminal Lacenaire? I have watched this film from the viewpoint of each of these characters and finally reached my own conclusion as to which character embodies love itself.

The Children of Paradise was shot during the years of occupied France, and Nazi seconds acted next to members of the French Resistance. That this film ever came to exist is a testament to the human spirit and the courage of filmmaker, Marcel Carne.





The poem that I mostly directly correlate with Children of Paradise is, "A Thing of Beauty," by John Keats.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.