A wistful ode to a now long-dead era, Sylvain Chomet's The Illusionist is a film sure to both delight and frustrate fans who have spent years awaiting the return of the madman responsible for Belleville Rendez-Vous (aka The Triplets Of Belleville) back in 2003. The delight comes simply from Chomet's long-awaited return and the obvious artistry poured into every gorgeous frame of his latest feature. The frustration? Despite the lengthy production cycle and increased budget, The Illusionist is, in many ways, a much smaller film than Belleville and completely lacking in the sort of mad-scientist wizardry that drew most to Chomet in the first place. Though very clearly the work of the same man - the visual style is unmistakable - this is a very different film and those hoping for more of the same... well, you're just not going to get it.

The titular illusionist - never referred to by name - is an aging stage performer at the tail end of the vaudeville era.  Despite the carefully honed skills of the stage magician and his numerous performing partners live stage performance is being quickly ushered out by the arrival of the motion picture and rock and roll and their days are clearly numbered. As the grand old stages where they once plied their trade closes to them, the illusionist and others are forced to move away from home, traveling from city to city, from venue to always-smaller venue as their livelihood is slowly stripped away.

From Paris to London he goes, and then from London to the Scottish Highlands where a show to celebrate the arrival of electricity in the local pub introduces the illusionist to Alice, a poor young girl who will change his life. Or, perhaps, more accurately, we should say that he will change hers.

Completely engrossed by his act and not at all understanding that it isn't actually magic at all, Alice follows the performer to Edinburgh and keeps house for him in exchange for a series of increasingly expensive gifts. The illusionist, for his part, harbors no ulterior motives towards the much younger girl - he is just thrilled to have his skills valued once again and, unable to break the news that he is not magic at all and that the money is running out he slowly pushes himself towards bankruptcy.

Playing almost entirely without dialogue - and with what little there is being in mumbled French and some incomprehensible and possibly invented Scottish dialect - The Illusionist is a wistful ode to the passing of time and the lost arts that time simply washes away. Chomet works here from an unproduced script by Jacques Tati and while some of Chomet's signature moments do still peek through - the drunken highland Scotsman is a definite highlight - the Tati influence pushes him into some very new and different ground.  The level of craftsmanship here is astounding, every frame a bona fide work of art, but with such a melancholic and down tempo story at its core it is hard to imagine The Illusionist finding a widespread audience. Chomet is an undeniable master of his craft, though, so here's hoping he finds at least enough success to avoid the fate of his title character.