Princesse Tam-Tam

Watching Princesse Tam-Tam is an experience of profound ambivalence, evoking both unease and fascination as it oscillates between the unsettling and the enchanting. Enchanting in its generous showcase of the ultra-talented Josephine Baker, one of the first Black actors to secure a leading role on screen — a feat made all the more significant against the backdrop of entrenched racism in the United States, from which she had escaped to find greater recognition in Paris. It is an absolute delight to witness the alluring, vibrant, and exuberant Josephine Baker as she acts, sings, and dances throughout the film, embodying the role of Alwina, a naïve yet sharp-witted Bedouin. Unsettling because, while the film offers a racially charged portrayal and a biting satire of the ingrained elitism, racism, and ostentation of a decadent Parisian society, it remains steeped in a colonial gaze, laden with deeply trivializing imperialist assumptions. Call it a “performative contradiction”, a “trapped critique” or an attempt to address, what Homi Bhabha calls, “colonial mimicry”, the film ends up embodying and reinforcing the very things it critiques — if it ever aims so.

The story follows Max de Mirecourt (Albert Préjean), a French novelist struggling with writer’s block and despised by his aristocratic wife, who values higher status and grandeur. Seeking sanctuary and inspiration to write his next best-seller to impress his wife, Max travels to Tunisia with his manager Coton (Robert Arnoux), where he meets Alwina, a free-spirited, mischievous girl surrounded by urchins. Fascinated by her “natural” charm, he decides to mould her into a sophisticated Parisian lady, using her as both the model and the muse for his new novel. When he sees in the newspapers that his wife is befriended by a Maharajah in his absence, Max sets out to finish the novel in a single day. In the novel, Max brings Alwina to Paris, introducing her to high society as an exotic princess from a fictional land. Despite Max’s wife’s disdain, Alwina captivates audiences with her energy and charm, particularly during a dazzling dance performance in an extravagant show that highlights her difference from the restrained European aristocracy. However, despite her temporary success in Paris and her love for Max, Alwina is told — both by the Maharajah and by her witness to Max and his wife’s passionate reunion — that she does not truly belong in their world. In the end, Max reconciles with his wife, and Alwina returns to Tunisia, restored to her original status. The film concludes with her dancing happily in her “natural” environment, reinforcing the colonial narrative that non-European subjects may entertain or inspire but are ultimately meant to remain in their “proper” place. Although Alwina never went to Paris and her journey was entirely part of Max’s novel, the film ends in a similar way.

This, among many other aspects, is one of the film’s most problematic elements. Alwina tells Max that she too wants to go to Europe with him, but he of course rejects her request, assuring her that everyone belongs where they are — which is an ironic stance for a colonialist who travels along exotic lands freely. In the end, we see Alwina staying in the mansion Max has granted her, having had a child by Dar (played by yet another French actor with his face painted black, just like the Maharajah), the local butler who previously attempted to beat her. This fatalism is exacerbated when we see Alwina transform the main hall of the mansion into an animal farm: ducks enjoying the fountain, chickens running around, and a donkey eating the book Max finally published, Civilization. This satire may soothe the audience with the satisfaction that their so-called “civilised” world can be devoured and vanished just like that — reduced to a worthless fiction in comparison to life in “freedom” and “nature.” However, this “animal-like” freedom of Alwina and Dar is also contingent upon the permission and benevolence of their white masters. As Max signs his new best-selling books, he ironically wishes that Alwina were there, but then dismisses the notion by saying, “Alwina is better off where she is.” This is further emphasised by an earlier scene in which the Maharajah shows Alwina his two windows: one facing west, showing Max and his wife in their private life, and one facing east, showing Dar — strictly separated from the West. This stark binary contrast remains as the leitmotif of the film.

I understand why many celebrate this film as non-racist, especially due to its generous embrace of the legendary Josephine Baker. However, it does so within a framework that objectifies and restricts her character’s agency — as though the director said to Baker, “Showcase all your talents at once,” yet still offering a troubling example of how early cinema projected fantasies onto racialised women. Ultimately, Princesse Tam-Tam is a story of a couple using “exotic others” (the Maharajah and Alwina) to make each other jealous. So, the question “What should we do with this movie in the 21st century?” lingers. But perhaps it would also be worthwhile to enjoy the ride and appreciate Josephine Baker's brilliance.