As I get older, I notice something interesting about my childhood memories. They don't just stay in the past. Instead, now that I am in my mid-forties, they seem to circle back around me. It feels like things in life connect in ways you don't expect.
My loop started in the 1980s. I was born in 1978, so I grew up watching a lot of French cinema on TV. However, my appreciation for these films didn't come from being a fan of Jean Marais himself. My true cinematic idol was always Jean-Paul Belmondo, and if I had a favorite in the Fantômas trilogy, it was Louis de Funès. Watching de Funès in those movies is actually what made me a fan of his work, leading me straight into his iconic Gendarmes series. Still, I fondly remembered watching Jean Marais play the journalist Fandor jumping off trains, and the masked, blue-faced villain escaping in helicopters. I was just a kid, totally captivated by this larger-than-life actor who did all his own stunts.
Years passed, and those movies became just a distant childhood memory. But a year ago, things started coming around. My girlfriend and I decided to rewatch those old 1960s films together. When we sat down to watch all three Fantômas movies, I approached them the way I prefer to watch everything: in total focus. I strictly avoid spoilers, I never watch trailers, and I never check IMDb before I watch a movie. I want the film to exist purely as it is, without any outside noise.
Because of that focus, a massive illusion stood right in front of us for three straight movies, and neither of us saw through it.
To me, Jean Marais was simply Fandor, the serious journalist chasing the villain. I had absolutely no idea he was also the man beneath the heavy, blue-green rubber mask of Fantômas. The disguise was flawless. It wasn't until after the third and final film ended and I opened IMDb to look up the details that the reality hit me. Marais was playing both the hero and the villain. He was effectively fighting himself on screen. When I told my girlfriend, she couldn't understand it at first; she was completely surprised.
There is a strange, beautiful feeling in learning the reality of something forty years late. On one hand, the childhood illusion vanishes completely. The magic trick is explained. But on the other hand, it gives you a deeper respect for the mechanics behind the art. It forces you to realize that sometimes, the things we think we are seeing clearly are actually hiding a completely different layer underneath.
Around that time, I also discovered that Marais was an accomplished painter and sculptor, defying my initial skepticism about celebrity hobbies. The circle closed when I read Marcel Aymé’s 1941 short story Le Passe-Muraille (The Man Who Walked Through Walls) and learned that the bronze statue of the character emerging from a Montmartre wall—crafted using Aymé's own face—was sculpted by Jean Marais himself.
The hands I watched in Fantômas and under the blue mask were the same ones that shaped this Parisian sculpture. Picasso once told Marais he should quit acting to focus entirely on his artistic talent with materials. Ultimately, while Aymé's story features a man breaking physical walls, these connecting memories showed me that true talent breaks time itself.
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