For the most part, there are two kinds of teachers that we tend to remember long into our adult years – there are those who were exceptionally strong at their craft and treated their profession with nothing but pride, and then there are those who fall victim to the laziness and apathy that sometimes comes upon those who are in the same kind of career for their entire life, to the point where many lose passion and it becomes less a matter of educating people, and more just the act of repeating content to a changing group of people over time. Artists tend to love stories about teachers, since (as has often been stated), teaching is the profession that makes all other professions possible, and we all remember both the good and bad educators we encountered throughout our lives. Marcel Pagnol, the great master of French theatre and literature, is not an exception. As made abundantly clear in Merlusse, he is interested in paying tribute to the hardworking people who dedicate their lives to raising the next generation of professionals, as well as those who become so apathetic, that their very presence is viewed as almost destructive to the young, impressionable minds that they have been asked to safeguard and uplift. Telling the story of Monsieur Blanchard, otherwise known as “Merlusse” due to the apparent stench of codfish that follows him around, the film focuses on his relationship with a small group of students at a boarding school that are forced to stay behind over the Christmas holidays for various reasons, and it is our protagonist, who is viewed as a strict, harsh educator without any redeeming qualities, that is tasked with looking after them – and while they start combative, they all seem to find common grand as the days progress. A wonderfully sweet, witty and heartfelt comedy with a lot of soul, Merlusse is a wonderfully endearing film about not only the importance of education but also the power of friendships that often come from the most unexpected of places.

Pagnol is an artist whose work we have discussed on occasion – his films, in particular, are incredible and poignant, and whether being adapted from his existing work (such as in the case of the duology Jean de Florette and Manon de Sources, which many consider being his magnum opus as a writer) or where he helms a production himself, there is always something so incredibly enchanting about his work, which is concise, neat and always magical in a way that is singularly unforgettable. Merlusse may seem like a minor work in comparison to some of his entries into the cultural canon like the aforementioned pastoral drama, or his Marseilles Trilogy – but this doesn’t disqualify it from being included in discussions of the incredible mastery of his craft that we find scattered liberally within this film. It may seem simple (and running at only an hour, there’s not much time for it to explore anything particularly daring), but its earnest sense of humour and willingness to look at some serious themes while still being a delightful comedy earns it a lot of credibility, especially considering this was a story that aimed to touch on a kind of universal experience, that of the carefree days of childhood and how our formative years were aided (and sometimes derailed) by those people who were tasked with preparing us for the future. This is where the film is at its most charming, since it proves to be quite a fascinating examination of life from different perspectives, never coming across as overly compressed in terms of the subject matter, but still having the space to develop a number of integral themes that feel genuinely quite complex when we look at it from a distance, but not in a way that complicates the narrative or makes it any less endearing, since simplicity will forever be a virtue when it comes to such a film.

Despite its seemingly straightforward premise, Merlusse is a film that took a lot of work to get right – we often find that the simplest and most compact films are usually the ones that take the most effort to get right, especially since there isn’t much time to waste, and that everything comes down to the barest, precise minute. Yet, it still feels like such an easygoing film – there isn’t much of a structure of the story for the most part, and it mainly takes the form of a series of vignettes in the daily routine of these characters (who are portrayed by an exceptional ensemble cast mainly consisting of about a dozen brilliantly talented child actors, and led by Henri Poupon, a veteran of stage and screen, as well as a longtime collaborator of the director, who brings such nuance to the proceedings in this fascinating part), carefully pieced together to tell a loose story that leads to a heartfelt and oddly moving finale that underlines the immense compassion that exists beneath the surface of this film. Pagnol’s approach to storytelling is always extraordinary, and whether utilizing different kinds of comedy – we find this film containing the frequent oscillation between slapstick humour and sardonic wit – or touching on the rawest nerves of the human condition, he creates such a profoundly moving examination of these characters and what they represent. He also rarely allows the emotions to become too overwrought – he understands that he may desire a reaction from the audience, but he avoids making the film a heavy-handed melodrama since the only way this story would be effective would be as an effervescent, upbeat comedy that concludes on a charming but heartfelt note since any other conclusion would feel like a betrayal of the natural progression of both the story and its tone, which is always a vitally important component in all of Pagnol’s magnificent work.

There isn’t an awful amount that can be said about Merlusse outside of remarking how it is a truly lovely, compelling comedy with tremendous performances delivered by a strong cast that works together to bring to life this delightful and heartfelt story by arguably the greatest French playwright of the 20th century. Compared to the rest of his oeuvre, the film is significantly more minor and was likely viewed as a brief diversion from his bigger productions, especially since the 1930s was his most prolific era, where he made not only The Marseilles Trilogy but other films like The Baker’s Wife (one of the greatest pieces of cinema ever produced as far as I am concerned) and The Well-Digger’s Daughter, which are historically significant and genuinely important pieces of art. Yet, the same deep message is present here, and it takes the form of being a beautiful tribute to teachers and their hard work, which sometimes either goes entirely ignored or is viewed as being too harsh, when in reality what an unruly student need is some firm discipline to set them straight, which often means that educators need to put themselves in precarious positions from time to time to enforce the rules. It’s a pleasant and earnest comedy that has a lot of complex ideas woven into its fabric, and while it undeniably doesn’t spend too much time investigating any of these ideas beyond what was necessary, there is still something incredibly magical about how it achieves such a charming, invigorating tone – the madcap energy interweaves with the slight melancholy, creating a film with numerous layers, and the execution is sharp and lovely, leading to a wonderfully endearing experience that is both heartwarming and outrageously funny, often occurring in tandem, which is exactly what we’d expect from a filmmaker like Pagnol.