Bcmg-l-Gotcha!

Is Paris Burning? "Well, what the hell," said General Eisenhower, "I guess we'll have to go in." The Supreme Commander was talking about the liberation of Paris in late August 1944, and his remark quite properly categorizes that event as a military sideshow. In this Franco-American production, how, ever, the liberation is celebrated as a military epic, the greatest victory of the Gallic spirit since Roland held the pass at Roncesvalles.

Gratified by this interpretation, the French government advanced the moviemakers substantial quantities of war material, cordoned off large areas of Paris while the cameras were rolling, and sponsored the U.S. premiere. The producers for their part contributed a big budget and a vast cast: Jean-Paul Belmondo, Charles Boyer, Leslie Caron, Jean-Pierre Cassel, George Chakiris, Alain Delon, Kirk Douglas, Glenn Ford, Gert Frobe, Yves Montand, Tony Perkins, Simone Signoret, Robert Stack, Orson Welles.

The stars all look wretchedly unhappy, alas, and with reason: Paris is just possibly the most drastically disorganized war movie ever made. For one thing, the script, adapted by Gore Vidal and F. F. Coppola from last year's bestselling piece of pop history by Larry Collins and Dominique Lapierre, tries to tell the story from about 60 points of view at once--some German, some American, some Free French, some Vichy French, some utterly unidentifiable. The result is a 161-minute non sequitur in which the spectator is shrapnel-splattered by bit parts and bitty scenes until he can't for the life of him figure out who's who or what's what.

In the big action scenes the Gaullist heroes--ludicrously misdirected by Rene Clement, who made his reputation with a film about children (Forbidden Games)--look so much like a platoon of preschool toddlers playing bang-I-gotcha! that instead of glory they get mostly guffaws. After an hour or so of this, most previewers were badly rattled. Some tried plugging their ears, but then the action looked completely incomprehensible. Some tried closing their eyes, but then they could still hear the lines--e.g., "Fifty kilometers to Paris? Hm. That's about 30 miles." Finally, a few coony old film critics discovered the only way to get through this movie with a minimum of discomfort: close both eyes and ears, and think about something pleasant--like chasing Director Clement around the Bois de Boulogne in a 30-ton Sherman tank.

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