Somewhere on the other side of Paris sits the small neighbourhood of Porte des Lilas (“Port of Lilacs”), in which many of the city’s working-class citizens reside, making it their home after a long day’s work. Two of its residents in particular are the focus – L’Artiste (Georges Brassens) is a penniless musician who makes a living playing songs for anyone who will listen, oscillating between humorous and nostalgic, depending on what the situation calls for. The other is Juju (Pierre Brasseur), an equally-broke man who would be homeless if it wasn’t for his tendency to weasel himself in the lives of those who are foolish enough to fall for his eccentric charms. The two men meet by chance in a tavern one evening, and strike an immediate friendship, based on their shared interests and fervent desire to move out of this dreadful social position they find themselves in. However, they come to realize that they are going to need to work even harder together when they find their now-shared home occupied by a third resident, Barbier (Henri Vidal), a criminal wanted by the authorities for a number of crimes. They are reluctant to help him, since they are technically harbouring a fugitive – but when it becomes clear that this man holds no remorse for his actions, they realize that they are in danger if they don’t comply. They gradually realize the extent to which one will go to save themselves, and they do their best to not only keep their new visitor out of public view, but also attempt to get him out of their lives as fast as possible – but it’s only further complicated when it turns out that Barbier is also in a relationship with Maria (Dany Carrel), the beautiful young barmaid that Juju has been madly in love with for years, and who is willing to do anything to show his adoration.

It’s a familiar storyline – someone who is considered undesirable by society (based on factors out of his control, such as his economic status in a culture driven by consumerism) finds himself drawn to the more conventional way of life through falling in love with someone who he knows will never be able to love him back, based solely on his social status that causes most to avoid him, in fears that they will become like him. This is the base-level premise of Gates of Paris (French: Porte des Lilas), René Clair’s wonderful adaptation of La Grande Ceinture, the novel by René Fallet, which depicts the struggles of a small group of working-class folk in a less-popular region of Paris. Porte des Lilas is a well-known neighbourhood usually associated with the “wrong side of the tracks”, which makes Clair’s fascination with the area and its many occupants all the more compelling. A film that wears its heart on its sleeve, and blends together a number of different genres, Gates of Paris is an enthralling and captivating comedy with broad overtones of melancholy, which makes it a worthwhile endeavour for any viewer with an appreciation for stories that occur just outside of the mainstream, being recognizable enough for us to relate, but not so much that we lose the raw impact of the story being told. Certainly not a stranger to ambitious projects, Clair is working at a slightly smaller scale here, handcrafting a delicate little drama that takes its subjects seriously, but shows a willingness to be reflective of reality by showing the inherent absurdity that comes with life and its many odd surprises.

Gates of Paris presents us with a very different kind of Paris, situating itself in the well-known City of Love and showing a radically unique side of it, without losing the beauty associated with it. It shows us a neighbourhood that isn’t often found in more populist portrayals of the city, where the Eiffel Tower is never in view, and the action takes place mainly in derelict buildings and narrow alleyways, rather than in the many beautiful bistros and idyllic routes through the city. Clair handcrafted a melancholy love letter to the working-class community of a city that isn’t often represented fully in cinema, especially those that prioritize a particular image of the French capital, rather than its underlying nuances that are so much more compelling. The sun and moon shine on this side of Paris just as much as any other, with the lives of its occupants being as interesting and compelling as the most intimate romances that take place in the more traditionally beautiful parts of the city. It takes a great deal of talent to morph something as raw as the image Clair presents here and turn it into something so achingly beautiful – much of it has to do with the genre, but even the filmmaking conventions, with the striking cinematography by Robert Lefebvre, and the gorgeous score (including several performances by the iconic musician Brassens himself, in his first and only film role), allowing the director to turn in a film that is an absolute joy from beginning to end, captivating but with a remarkable depth that most might not have expected.

Clair – who had a great deal of experience working with different kinds of stories, understood the key components that go into the making of such a film, and gradually unveiled a peculiar but heartwarming little story of friendship, romance and mystery. Gates of Paris is a film governed by an atmosphere more than anything else, and Clair goes to great efforts to set a particular mood for the narrative. This is a film caught squarely between eras, taking place just after the advent of Italian neo-realism, but before the height of British kitchen-sink realism, being inspired by the former, and being something of an indirect influence on the latter. Something shared commonly between these movements that they took raw, unflinchingly honest looks at very human stories, especially those of people who existed on the margins of society. Clair finds the perfect balance between joy and sadness in this film, as made very clear by the epigraph of the film, which claims that Gates of Paris was designed as a comedie tragique, which indicates that a clear blurring of genre conventions went into this film’s creation. The intertwining sub-plots take the form of a series of different narratives, such as an irreverent comedy-of-manners, a delightfully sweet romance, and a hard-boiled crime drama, which are woven together by a director who clearly have a strong grasp on all the genres that went into the fabric of this story. Yet, they all point towards the common theme of the persistent, underlying sadness that pulsates throughout this film, forming it into a melancholy, quietly meditative exploration of poverty from the perspective of a group of people who have had a great deal of experience existing on the outskirts of society, doing whatever they can to move forward, to very little avail.

Gates of Paris is a tremendous film, a varied assortment of lives thrown into a single story of overcoming poverty when the odds are hopelessly stacked against you. Clair finds the poeticism in the most unexpected of situations and manages to reconfigure a narrative about harbouring a fugitive as a sweet, sentimental drama that appears poignant under his hypnotic guidance. Films like this have the potential to be absolutely dreadful, or entirely charming, depending on the approach taken by the director and his cast – needless to say, Gates of Paris is a film that takes very little effort to enjoy since it captivates us from the first moment, where the literal musicality becomes a guiding force for this sentimental little fable about life and love. From the first resounding chord of Brassens’ guitar, we’re launched into the lives of a small group of working-class patrons to the game of life, of which they are currently losing, but not void of their hopes just yet. Clair captured the inherent ennui of the situation with poise, tact and humour, and gradually unveils a poignant story of individuality in a time when it seems important to hold onto the qualities that we cherish. Beautiful, poignant, funny and touching in all the ways that matter, Gates of Paris is a delightful, irreverent journey into the heart of existence, taken from the mind of someone with a profound interest in consistently representing it on screen.