In fact true to musical form, while there is a showstopper, Le Million’s is contradictory in that it’s subtle, accidental, and we feel we stumble upon it in the same way as our characters do. During the film’s opera in the final act, Sopranelli and his leading lady belt out a gorgeous song but our attention is diverted from their polished performance to a different part of the stage as Michel and Beatrice, hiding from the sight of the audience, seem to fall back in love right before our eyes, the only cues being the feeling the music gives us and the delicate touches in the cinematography as flower petals fall and it’s given a fairy-tale like glow. Seeing a shot as elegant, exquisite, and understated like this one not only made me nostalgic for black and white photography which sells the moment better than color perhaps could have—possibly making it more surreal or “precious” with pastels—but also felt like the ultimate antidote to viewing too many pre-packaged romantic comedies which end with a literal chase, the obligatory snappy one-liner, and a clinch.

While film can never actually be mistaken for real life, especially in an expertly choreographed 1931 French musical comedy, it heightens life. Moreover, in Clair’s simplicity, especially in scenes such as the one I just described, it somehow engages us in recognition and identification by its subtlety, making one relate even stronger to the gorgeously restored Criterion Collection classic than most contemporary films in the genre at your local multiplex. Thereby, although when films like The Love Guru and Meet Dave try their best to murder the medium, the late Rene Clair and his marvelous cohorts breathe much needed life back into the dwindling art of cinema when viewers ignore scatological, juvenile fodder and take the pains to seek out something like Le Million.