To deny the pleasures of director John Carney's soaringly sublime, impetuous Once is to not only deny oneself of an absolutely divine film, but a simple ambiance—filled with music, compassion and delectation—to escape to. Once plays out, though it may be a bit premature to say so (to me at least), as the finest romantic musical I've ever seen—a film constituted by fine characters, warmheartedly brilliant songs, and the catharsis of the characters. For the first, and maybe the only, time this year, one can finally derive sheer cinematic pleasure from a film—one can finally feel safe in the character's songs, emotions, and actions. Indeed, in all honestly, the work done in Once is that of true sortilege; even at first sight, the film is such a small miracle that it torpedoes anyone's initial misgivings within seconds. How many films can do that?
Screw Once's generic title, as well as its hijacked tagline. The film is as loyal to its primary country and source as they come. Its unpretentiousness is also clearly visible at first sight: the film truly has nothing to prove—even Carney has said so—yet such ideology is what ultimately aids the film. Without any hesitance, coyness, and pretentiousness, Glen Hansard plays the guy and—also without any hesitance—Marketa Irglova plays the girl. Proof of the point illustrated above is exactly this: they don't even have names in the credits. (Who needs them, anyway?) The sweet son of a dying vacuum repair man, the guy, while earnestly trying to make a living as a guitar player, meets the girl on a street in Dublin. From there, their friendship picks up almost immediately, as he now now discovers her skills as a singer and a piano player. Narrative wise, one ought to think, at first site, that such a simple, clichéd narrative would fall on contrivances; yet with a firm, keen, and undeniably opulent grip, the young Irish director is able to masterfully pull it off, taking scenes and overflowing them with lusciousness: from script, to its perfect video-shot aesthetic, every scene that ought to be contrived is not, and every scene that is not contrived breathes with a pulse of pure and picturesque originality. Also shot with compulsory, often brilliant feel of the French New Wave (Umbrellas of Cherbourg, anyone?), Once is so pitch perfect in the realization of its characters that, much like the rest of its perfect whole, one could even think it's a dream.
Music also plays a supremely important part in Once's tone. Carney recognizes these songs not as random, ludicrous obligations, but as a way for characters to let their feelings go away from
This said, the end of the film comes like an enthusiastic, yet extremely heartbreaking blow: emotionally satisfying, because one lingers in the feelings of the characters, but sad, not film wise, because of their parting. Essentially, as Ella Taylor magnificently puts it, "you come out of it not wanting to switch on your car radio, make small talk or do anything but shelter in its beguiling ambiance for as long as you can to avoid re-entering the real world. " How often can one find such films as these? How often can such films manage to create such an emotional release inside? How often does one see such a film as this one? Once.
