Do we really want to hear the truth about ourselves or do we perhaps prefer self delusion? Illusion, fact and truth (there is a difference) is what lies behind Xavier Giannoli’s heartfelt tribute to an Emperor who has lost her clothes. As in the Hans Andersen tale, no one dares tell the Baroness Marguerite the bitter truth. In a world of sycophants, that truth can hurt, can be a mortal blow.

The plot, like many an opera, is disarmingly simple: the absurdly wealthy Marguerite Dumont (is there a sly joke on the name of Groucho Marx’s foil?), thinks she can sing. The truth of the fact is that she has a voice like a howling hound with a toothache. In post First World War Paris, she gives private soirées to other rich folk, none of whom dares to reveal that her voice murders Mozart and simply cannot get a handle on Handel. When she attempts to sing that most difficult of arias, The Queen of the Night from The Magic Flute, her off-key trills are laughable – except no one laughs.

Will anyone tell Marguerite that she can’t sing?

Oddly for a movie packed with operatic notes, it is rather one-noted. Who will tell Madame the truth? Not her faithful servant and avid photographer Madelbos (played with glowering intensity by the wonderful Denis Mpunga); not her two-timing husband (André Marcon); not even her washed-up old has-been of a singing teacher, Pezzini. One of the high spots of the film is a truly hilarious sustained shot of Pezzini’s face, as he hears his rich student’s terrible voice for the first time.

Will anyone tell Marguerite that she can’t sing? On the face of it, that is the whole movie. But there is much more to it than this: we are encouraged to look into the diva manque’s heart and soul. Catherine Frot is quite splendid as the haunted Marguerite, the little girl who loves to dress up and pretend that she is a true princess. There is a delicate beauty beneath the wailing; a damaged heart. Even so, you can’t help wish that someone would tell her the truth.

There is much to enjoy in this costume drama – many lovely bits of music not mauled, a fascinating insight into a world on the turn, that of Avant Garde Paris with its smoky night clubs, Dadaist happenings and La Vie Boheme. Though the joke runs a bit thin, and a bit of paring from the score would be useful, the tragic heroine story does engage. It works as a cautionary tale about image and delusion, it has a fine central performance and if you don’t mind a bit of musical massacre, it passes an entertaining couple of hours. That’s the truth.

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