Jacques Tati’s films should be universal,

They have so little dialogue and chat;

Yet, for some, his cinema bewilders,

The satire and comedy fall flat.

Perhaps it is the Frenchness of it all –

A supposed intellectual conceit –

Or maybe it’s down to Monsieur Hulot,

Whom he chose to interpret and repeat.

Is there not a hint of pretentiousness,

Do miming and humour...

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