A tortoise trundles along the floor of an empty classroom. It’s a strange piece of footage for a documentary to include when the bulk of the film focuses on a group of charming, energetic children. Yet the shelled reptile’s measured, oblivious promenade is representative of the world in which we are being immersed—one that is slightly behind the urban, adult world many of us are accustomed to, one that is paced to benefit its inhabitants’ natural progress as opposed to forcing them along at a set speed which will advantage the few. For To Be and To Have (Être et avoir) is not an indictment of failing education standards but a celebration of a young community learning together.

When it comes to the movies, it would appear that school is almost certainly out. Well, elementary schools and kindergartens, anyway. We just do not make, or watch, any significant amount of films set in the arena that nearly all of us spent five years of our life in. High school teen movies are abundant yet generally focus more on social and sexual awakenings than education and uniformity. Movies featuring five to ten-year-olds are released every summer, but these by their very nature are grown-up prescribed fantasies set as far away from the classroom as possible. Whether in summer camps, beaches, or the suburbs they usually depict uncannily mature prepubescents gaining the upper hand against adult-sized babies, à la Home Alone or Big Fat Liar. Adult writers, directors, and producers may feel that neither kid nor parent desires to see representations of school life. Both this or that filmmaker’s memories and understanding of this long abandoned world are so fuzzy and wistful that they see no drama, conflict, or disruption around which to base a feature-length narrative. Perhaps this avoidance of satchels and packed lunches is because film is too expensive and too complicated to allow children creative control. Yet that is exactly what Nicolas Philibert does in To Be and To Have. He allows his subjects, 13 children aged between four and ten who all share the same classroom and teacher, to grow accustomed to his camera and then captures their development in this shared environment.

This look at a year in the life of a rural school is refreshing after the recent slew of self-aware documentaries. There is no voiceover forcing our understanding, no vox pox for subjects to justify their actions in hindsight, no documentarian leaping in front of the camera to interrupt the action to make a name for themselves (Nick Broomfield, Jon Ronson, and Michael Moore, please sit down). Obviously a camera in a room full of sugar-fueled anklesnappers is going to create some exhibitionism, and it is to Philibert’s credit that scene-stealers like mini-James Dean, JoJo, and self-righteous Marie avoid dominating the proceedings, but Philibert’s presence is almost invisible. He keeps his frame at the height of his subjects, colluding with them to behave naturally. Despite the intimacy created by sitting the audience at desk level, we never feel the repulsive voyeurism that directors like Ulrich Seidl and the reality TV of Big Brother often inspire. When we witness a private moment, like teacher Georges Lopez’s concerned conversation with terminally shy but clingy student Nathalie, it feels as though we have wandered across it by accident rather than as an incident some fly-on-the-wall interloper has instigated. Philibert is not bothered about exposing the problems in this system; he is concerned with capturing it for us. His insistence on using film, as opposed to more accessible DV, only emphasizes his priorities; he wants to do M. Lopez and his class justice, he wants to compose their colorful classroom, wintry outdoor trips, and mismatched wardrobes in the most distinguished aspect possible.

Postmodern technique is subdued in favor of an observant naturalism. Many articles on the film have exaggerated the amount of footage shot; 600 hours is often falsely suggested as some kind of documentary badge of endurance. The truth, according to Philibert, is that only around 60 hours were shot. His interest lies in the daily interaction and marked progress of the students from one season to the next. 600 hours may give plenty of exceptional highlights, but Philibert’s intention is not to show the rare incident where M. Lopez loses his composure or when Nathalie is particularly outgoing. What he has crafted is an emotionally involving paean to everyday-ness. He has no time for the disruptions. While the film often leaves the school gates (to a dinner table where some incorrect homework has engrossed the whole family or to the regimented secondary school to which some of the older students will be graduating), Philibert does his best to represent the classroom as its own little universe. Windows are often looked into—never out of. When the entire class travels to the “big” school, Philibert distracts the audience away from the tour for the older students and places us with M. Lopez as he teaches the little ones in the corner. The focus remains on one man’s achievements with his growing wards. What happens next is left unspoken.

The results are, of course, heartwarming. As with the best French cinema of the moment, there is a certain sentimental, nostalgic twee-ness. Jeunet’s Amélie, Ozon’s 8 Femmes, and Tavernier’s Safe Conduct all were effective, efficient national celebrations which fetishized the last century in response to the punk, philosophical ordeals of Gaspar Noé, Catherine Breillat, or Baise-Moi. To Be and To Have sits easily within the first group. It is not attacking anything. And while cinema that tears at its audience leaves its indelible mark and gets the top headlines, films that comfort and caress their audience with a discreet but expert method deserve as much attention. Having said that, the incident in which Johann retaliates against the hood-pulling scamp JoJo with a well placed left hook, yet cannot remember the reason for his attack once reprimanded, is a moment as full of intrigue and tension as anything Hitchcock, Dassin, or Pakula ever produced.
—Bob Carroll