At some point, people realize words are a small facet of communication. They are sprinkles of detail dashed onto an entree of facial expressions and gestures. Humans, to some extent, have a common body language and know the seasons of the eyes. Transcending the confines of the tongue, Sylvain Chomet's The Triplets of Belleville speaks in smiles, stomps, whistle blows and muted teacher-from-Snoopy-ish honks. Oh yeah, it's animated too.
While occasional background speech vies for attention, the language barrier stalls the viewer's attention. That is, unless you're a Francophone. The characters themselves don't speak. As former comic strip artist, Chomet didn't use speech as a crutch in character development.
The Triplets of Belleville revolves around Champion, a bizarre little boy living with his grandmother. He sprouts into an ueber-lean cyclist dreaming of the Tour de France, but not without reveries of pain as he trains on Parisian hillsides. The film's beginning forecasts Champion to be the protagonist. Albeit he is the lynchpin of Triplet's plot, the grandmother and dog play the essential roles.
Chomet's work may strike some as bizarre. Visually, it breaches avant-garde. The plot, minus a few French touches, is of typical construction. Bruno, Champion's obese dog, nullifies any element of sadness with his comic relief.
Once the storytelling engine is hot enough, Chomet inserts new characters, like the frog-devouring triplets of Belleville. The French mafia plays the part of antagonists. Complete with rectangular thugs and strawberry-nosed bosses, they kidnap Champion and other cyclists for a gambling operation.
The animation defaults to the kinks of Disney's 101 Dalmatians. Accentuated noses and overblown proportions mark just a few of Chomet's retro aspirations. Focus falls on fences, gashes in train tracks and the endearing imperfection in normal things. Perhaps that's why Triplets has no dialogue. While the plot is likeable, each character's idiosyncrasies help bridge the gap between a children's animation feature and a twisted adult film.
In lieu of showering audiences in words, Chomet commands the audience's eyes. Triplets follows the French rule of subtle color schemes--no Technicolor neons. Like Amelie, color straddles permutations of green and red. More importantly, it steers away from deeper blues.
Honestly, Triplets is the rejuvenation theaters need, especially in the post-Oscar season. In the midst of hormone-driven plots about stealing the SAT and vapid hip-hop dance thrillers, we have an alternative to satiate your cinematic palate.
Triplets is not the best film ever. Still, it's a refresher from the many pop-culture cliches that produce good ideas as often as bad ones. Unfortunately, it's only playing at the Shea 14 complex.
Chris Kark is a reporter for the Web Devil. Reach him at christopher.kark@asu.edu.
