Elizabeth (1998. dir: Shekhar Kapur)is in its way a stunning achievement. Had there been any doubts about Cate Blanchett's genius before her astonishing embodiment of that great queen, certainly everyone was genuflecting thereafter. (She even manages the tiniest nod, in a particular facial gesture, towards Glenda Jackson, which endears me, as Jackson will always be the face of Elizabeth to my generation.) The movie carries an air of astonishing veracity while wearing its moments of blatant dubious historicity garishly and without shame (the idea that Mary of Guise died because she took Walsingham into her bed is preposterous, but so satisfying a turn in the story that we cheer it). And it is not just Blanchett's Elizabeth who shines, but everyone, from Christopher Eccleston's intimidatingly charismatic Norfolk to Geoffrey Rush's strangely likeable Walsingham, down to the smallest handmaiden roles.
But when I revisit it, as I have again recently, it is not for these factors but for one particular segment which emits a sort of siren's call for me: the bit in the middle with Eric Cantona and Vincent Cassell.
This was the first I ever saw of either (I was never, and, with all due respect to Sir Alex, never will be, a Manchester United fan). Who can resist the ridiculous charm of Cassell's impish and completely unsavory Duc D'Anjou, come to court the maiden queen? ("Yes, yes, I am wearing a dress.") Cantona, as the unfortunate French ambassador tasked with igniting passion between these two unlikely royals, strikes just the right notes of strength and subtlety.
Which brings us nicely round to the point about Cantona: that he's a good actor. Remember, this was long before I fell in love with football, and, as an American, I was easily ignorant of his massive celebrity and august skill set. He was a French actor doing a good job, and that was all. It was only in retrospect, after I read Roy Keane's memoir and watched an old Cup final, that the weight of it hit me.
French Film (2008. dir: Jackie Oudney) proves that his turn in Elizabeth was not a one-off: that in a completely, unjustifiably unfair way, this man who was one of the great strikers of his era, maybe of all time, is also a very good actor. Not the Joe Namath kind of good, where you go, "That guy does OK for a football player," but the kind where he a) seems like a real actor, and b) is good. His pretentious French director is spot-on here. The other actors are also very good, incidentally, and the film itself has surprises and good writing, but I am sufficiently jaded now against films about finding and keeping love that I cannot be bothered to care. Except about Cantona. He has a particularly adept way with a sly, sidelong glance.
*SPOILERS AHEAD*
The Cantona-est of all Cantona films is, of course, Ken Loach's Looking for Eric from 2009. Another movie from a genre that generally leaves me cold, this is the story of postman, Manchester United fan, and all-around good-hearted loser Eric (this is an example of England's cottage industry of heartwarming underdog-makes-good-but-it's-his/her-mates-that-really-count movies) on the verge of a breakdown who gets his life together with the help of imaginary playmate Eric Cantona. The family stuff is hit and miss, but at least unconventional (the postman is single parent to two teenaged boys, both stepsons abandoned by his second estranged wife), but I'll tell you what this film gets exactly right: the mindset of the football fan. It flames brilliantly to life when Eric the Postman is walking around reminiscing with Eric the Footballer about great moments from the latter's career, which Loach very kindly shows us. The football is exciting, and the moment Cantona chooses as his greatest ever ("It wasn't a goal. It was a pass. A gift.") is so beautiful as to take your breath right away, a Messi/Fabregas type of chipped pass into the box, perfectly weighted and brilliantly aimed to the foot of his full-speed team-mate, who fires it into the corner of the net where the keeper has no chance of stopping it. The best joy of this movie is in its love of football, and that's a thing to celebrate. It's hard, as well, to resist the climax, in which three caravans full of Man U supporters in red shirts and rubber Cantona masks take on the wicked wide boys who have been endangering the postman's family. Or its denouement, when the celebrating lads are reboarding their buses and the leader calls out to a laggard, "Come on, Cantona, you dozey git. I hope you haven't been robbing." We, of course, know what this fellow does not, that when the Cantona mask comes off, the real mccoy will be beneath it.
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