Movie Chile Review

The Rabbi's Cat

By: Jon Bowman
Published online: Friday, January 25, 2013
Appeared in: Pasateimpo

Capsule review

After snacking on a parrot, a cat acquires the power of speech. And he’s not just a talker but also an acerbic wit with an earthy, salacious outlook on the world. All the better to guide his kindly rabbi master, living in a byzantine time and place, an Algerian port city in the 1930s. This animated feature from France offers shimmering hand-drawn scenes that give a dreamy hue to the exotic setting and story. It’s quite special — more for adults than children — but ends on a less satisfying note as the rabbi, cat, and friends venture off into the desert in an Indiana Jones-style escapade, seeking a mythical Jewish kingdom. Not rated. 89 minutes. In French with subtitles.

Full Review

The Rabbi’s Cat, animated feature, not rated, in French with subtitles, CCA Cinematheque, 3 chiles

Echoing the wisecracking telepathic dog in Harlan Ellison’s novella A Boy and His Dog, the central character in The Rabbi’s Cat happens to be a talking cat with a stinging wit, an amorous streak, and a passion for theological debate. Being a rabbi’s cat, the frisky feline announces he plans to convert to Judaism. But when the rabbi informs him that circumcision is out of the question, the cat bargains downward, insisting he be bar mitzvahed.

In addition to its cheeky, kosher-approved humor, this French animated feature benefits immensely from its expressionistic, hand-drawn scenes depicting an exotic milieu — a teeming, multicultural Algerian port city where Muslims, Jews, and Christians mingle under the watchful command of French colonizers in the 1930s. The stars sparkle in the nighttime sky like they were painted by van Gogh, casting a clean and penetrating light on the cityscape below, accentuating the mosaic perfection of its architecture.

Other scenes recall the artwork of Marc Chagall, combining an explosive blaze of colors and textures to shape a series of dreamy, folkloric tableaux. The rich details, the sumptuous curved forms, and even the throwaway doodles underscore how much we’re missing now that computer-driven animation has come to dominate the craft, rendering it more generic and generalized. The Rabbi’s Cat is a much quirkier and more personal work, which is hardly surprising, considering the source. It originated as several episodes of a graphic novel by Joann Sfar, who stepped forward to co-direct the film version with Antoine Delesvaux.

While not strictly autobiographical, the story draws upon Sfar’s mixed Jewish heritage. Born in Nice, France, the 41-year-old comic artist and film- maker is the son of a Sephardic Jewish father and an Ashkenazi mother with roots in Ukraine. Sfar has imagined a tale in which a wise, gentle-hearted rabbi from Algeria provides sanctuary for a dislodged Jewish painter from Russia, driven from his home- land in a pogrom. The cat serves as their interpreter and helps us interpret the clash of customs and rituals as these Jews encounter Muslim scholars, Tuareg warriors, and sundry desert nomads.

But the cat doesn’t merely act as a Greek chorus, politely framing the action. He can be a mischievous cad and scoundrel, for instance, shamelessly lying about devouring a pet parrot — the act that gives birth to the cat’s power of speech. This cat also harbors an unnatural crush on Zlabya, the rabbi’s voluptuous daughter. As she smothers him with kisses, he stretches ever closer to her breasts.

The Rabbi’s Cat is really two films grafted together at the hip, although one of the films seems fully rounded and structurally sound while its companion piece is more rushed, episodic, and less successful. Sfar plays his strongest hand in the opening half, introducing the rabbi’s household and circle of close friends while illustrating his amiable, home- spun approach to expressing his Jewish identity. Sometimes he wrestles with matters of life and death, but he’s usually preoccupied with more mundane issues. He frets a lot over whether he can improve his French and pass a spelling test. If not, he’ll lose his job and be put out to pasture.

The film builds momentum as we come to know the characters more intimately and likewise the polyglot society they inhabit, tenuously held together by the derisive French authorities, who treat Jews and Muslims alike with disdain. True, the pacing in the first half is slow, the action muted, but it has a ring of authenticity about it that’s compelling. Less so the chaotic second half, in which the rabbi, the Russian artist, and various colorful sidekicks embark on an Indiana Jones-like excursion across the heart of Africa in search of a mythical Jewish kingdom, a fabled homeland ruled over by descendants of Queen Sheba and King Solomon. This quixotic road trip gives the animators free reign to pile on the adventures — including scraps with crocodiles and scimitar-wielding Bedouins — but somewhere deep in the Sahara, the movie begins to lose its focus and its luster.

While there’s suddenly a swirl of activity, the narrative begins to spin out of control. And, one wonders, is this barricaded, militarized kingdom meant to be some sort of metaphor for present-day Israel? If so, it’s out of place, because it breaks the illusion that we’ve been transported back in time to the 1930s.

How much does this lack of restraint damage The Rabbi’s Cat? Not enough to neuter it, but enough to render the film less purr-fect than a potential classic ought to be. We’re left with a movie that looks dazzling but whose overall impact has been diminished by a helter-skelter storyline.

Go see it for the shimmering visuals, the magical setting and the always-valuable message: we’ll never get along unless we learn to tolerate our religious and cultural differences. Just don’t go expecting everything to fit seamlessly together.

Deservedly, the film won the 2012 César award — France’s equivalent of the Oscar — for best animated feature. The vocal talents, who are all quite good, include François Morel as the cat, Maurice Bénichou as the rabbi, and Hafsia Herzi, the star of The Secret of the Grain, as Zlabya. The Amsterdam Klezmer Band performs the musical score.