There was a movement in the early part of the 20th century, where people from all around the world descended on Paris, which they saw as the epicentre for creativity and artistic expression, more than any other city on earth – New York City was too harsh, Los Angeles a cesspool of crime and debauchery, and London far too stuffy for its own good. However, the colourful landscapes and iconic architecture of the French capital (as well as the people who occupied it) were somehow conducive to a more radical, liberated way of creating and consuming art. When Gene Kelly and Vincente Minnelli made the near-revolutionary masterpiece An American in Paris, they helped establish the city as one of the most stunningly beautiful in the world, despite not even filming on location – and in the process that kickstarted a few decades of American fascination in European cities, which had always existed but was never seen as commercially viable or a worthy artistic choice until the enormous success of that film made it clear that there was value in investing in this city, more than ever before. This brings us to a film that was made exactly a decade later, whereby Martin Ritt (one of the great journeyman directors of his generation, and the filmmaker behind some of the most cherished dramas of the period) worked with screenwriter Walter Bernstein to make Paris Blues (based on the novel by Harold Flender), the story of a quartet of Americans that find themselves in Paris for an indeterminate amount of time. Two of them are career musicians, trying to make a living through playing jazz in any of the small clubs that litter the city, the other two tourists hoping to enjoy the experience of a few days in the capital – and all four of them soon learn that there is a reason behind Paris being known as “The City of Love”, as well as discovering that pure passion simply can’t sustain even the most meaningful of relationships, a harsh lesson they only learn from experiencing the heartbreak that comes along with falling in love.

The most distinctive aspect of Paris Blues, or at least what strikes as most obvious from the start, is how Ritt seems to be showing a very different side of the famed city. It is still quintessentially the Paris we all know (or at least the version we saw in the films of the French New Wave, which was reaching its breakthrough around this time), but it is filtered through a distinctly American lens, which is not a criticism, but rather an observation of some of the film’s more unconventional approaches to exploring the city. However, this doesn’t mean that Ritt was doing anything less than constructing a spellbinding and beautifully poetic examination of one of the world’s most famous cities – we encounter the same streets and avenues traversed by a century of famous actors (some of the more famous landmarks we see in this film still being present – not only the exceptionally famous icons of the city, but the smaller but still very recognizable buildings and locations that have made the city so visually distinct), and the director captures the essence of the city in a way many of us may not have ever seen before, at least not at this time. A lot of Paris Blues is set in tiny jazz clubs and squalid apartments, which always feel like they are plucked from a different time and place, possessing a degree of being both universally recognized and deeply uncanny (since it evokes a feeling that we have been in these places before, which is quite a rare sensation), which Ritt and his cohorts use to tremendous effect in constructing this fascinating drama. It’s a charismatic and very intriguing film that seems much more simple in theory than it does in execution – and even when it is at its most straightforward, there is a slight complexity that keeps it engaging, with the artistry that went into constructing this world being astonishing, every frame brimming with vivacious energy and a sense of unimpeachable beauty that seems almost unearned for a film with such a simple premise – but yet, it’s this striking beauty that keeps Paris Blues feeling so alive and vibrant, Ritt making the most of every scene.

The aspect of Paris Blues that many cite as being its most significant cultural contribution is the pairing of two of the most acclaimed and celebrated actors of their generation, in a film that draws on their talents almost equally. Paul Newman and Sidney Poitier were at their peak as actors here, and while both had previously collaborated with Ritt, it was their first and only time working together – and the results are as dynamic as you’d expect. Their careers as actors were almost entirely defined by their ability to command the screen while still having insatiable chemistry with every one of their co-stars, so their collaboration here is certainly not anything short of extraordinary. It’s not challenging work for either actor, especially since they’re given roles that are very much within their wheelhouse – Newman is the dastardly playboy with a heart of gold, and Poitier is the stoic and disciplined patrician who yearns to break free of his principled life and just surrender to his artistic ambitions, which is done through his music. The chemistry between Poitier and Newman is fantastic, which is mirrored directly in their work across from Joanne Woodward and Diahann Carroll, both being just as gifted and managing to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with their co-stars, turning in performances that match their energy and complexity. The knowledge that there were real romantic connections that existed between the actors only heightens the themes of the film, which centre very much on exploring budding romances and showing the challenges that come with maintaining them. The performances reflect these deep emotional and spiritual connections and the joy that exudes from every frame feels entirely earned, as do the more melancholic moments, which are controlled through a very simple but evocative sense of awareness by the actors, who understand the value of underplaying certain scenes to find the truth simmering just below the surface, which guides most of the film.

Unlike other films that centre on the city and how it encourages an almost bohemian, devil-may-care lifestyle in terms of both its natives and visitors or residents from outside the country, Paris Blue is not a film about the decadence of the wealthy, nor is it a mindless story of wandering the streets in the hopes of coming to some enormous realization about the nature of existence, achieving some life-changing epiphany that alters the course of one’s entire life. Instead, it is a forthright and dedicated glimpse into the lives of a quartet of people navigating the challenges that face young migrants in a country that is willing to accept them (and sometimes even celebrate them, which is a common method of major cities that aim to welcome new residents to boast about their status as urban “melting pots”), but where they need to make their way around, earning their living and establishing a future for themselves in a place that is hesitant to do the work for them. There’s an emotional and intellectual bandwidth that governs Paris Blues and makes it such a peculiar and enigmatic slice-of-life drama. Firstly, we need to take into account the social and cultural milieu that drove this film – the film is led by four American actors, two of them being black, which is an important theme considering the disparity between the harsh laws that were based on race throughout the United States, and the more welcoming, unbiased surroundings of Europe, which was far likelier to welcome in characters like those played by Poitier and Carroll, who openly discuss the issue of race while walking through the gorgeous streets of a city that was seen as a haven for people who felt their future in America was limited. The fact that the film manages to balance both emotional themes with more intellectual concepts is masterful and proves to highlight some of the lesser-known qualities that governed Ritt’s career, the director doing some of his finest work in putting together this intimate but stunningly complex portrayal of searching for one’s identity.

Paris Blues is certainly a major change of pace for Ritt, who usually thrived in more urbane American environments, but with a gorgeous script, terrific actors and some striking cinematic techniques, it’s quite an impressive film on its terms. It is easy to overlook since its cinematic dominance outside of the presence of the two lead actors and their equally gifted (albeit not quite as celebrated) paramours is virtually non-existent – but yet it still has gradually made its way through the culture, becoming a charming gem that many viewers discover almost by accident, and one that is certainly extremely joyful (despite the title hinting at something more downbeat – “blues” in this case refers to both the musical and emotional connotations, which is very well-balanced throughout the film) in the moments that are somewhat less convincing, but yet still so endearing. Ritt had a tremendous touch when it came to developing stories that feel unique and compelling, and every moment in Paris Blues reflects this same sensibility, coupled with his exceptional ability to draw out incredible performances from his actors. Undeniably, putting Newman, Poitier, Carroll and Woodward in Paris and having them engage in deep discussions about every subject, ranging from the philosophy of love to the politics of race, was never going to be anything short of exhilarating, and every moment of this film carries this same sense of nuanced complexity that feels so genuine, but also almost enchanting. There’s no city quite like Paris, and this film carries itself with wit, sophistication and nuance, enough to earn its place as one of the defining works that set off to explore this magical city and succeeds wholeheartedly.