In the spirit of the Entente Cordiale, let's start with the positives. The final act of the opening ceremony was a triumph that showcased France's technological ingenuity and theatrical brilliance.

Multi-coloured laser beams lacerated the Eiffel Tower's rusting framework and the Olympic flame floated skyward on a golden orb to the strains of Celine Dion, who had cast ill-health aside to belt out a classic Edith Piaf ballad.

By then, however, I'm afraid it was far too late. After suffering through 210 minutes of tedium, confusion and Clouseau-esque cock-ups, and looking ridiculous in their handout plastic macs, the watching world leaders and celebrities had become Les Miserables.

Or rather, those who were still there. Soaked to the skin because the grandstand's cantilever roof covered only the upper seats, half of the VIPs – among them a Team GB-raincoated Sir Keir Starmer – had slipped away long before the end.

The thunderous expressions on the faces of King Felipe and Queen Letizia of Spain betrayed a longing to escape to the Costas.

As they gazed through their plastic sheets, one wondered if they noticed that the Olympic flag had been hoisted with its five rings upside down. Or that the fireworks display had been hastily cancelled to avoid the embarrassment of soggy pyrotechnics misfiring.

All this after the vast French security operation's failure to prevent a railway sabotage attack that stopped thousands of spectators – some might say fortuitously – from watching the pageant on the banks of the Seine.

Though president Emmanuel Macron looked down on the spectacle with the apparent hubris of an emperor at the ancient Olympiad (shielded from the rain, naturellement), behind his rictus grin he must have been smouldering with anger and humiliation.

For with France riven by political turmoil and social unrest, he knows the importance of these Games goes way beyond the number of gold medals the nation might win. Their success is fundamental to France's future.

As unrest simmers in the grim city suburbs and with the rise of radical Islamism, Macron – whose popularity is at its lowest level in his seven years in office – had called on the Olympics to 'light up people's hearts' and reunite them in 'a summer of French pride'.

Will his prayer be answered? The truth is that it would require a leap of public faith of world-record proportions. Only last month, after rashly calling a snap general election in a desperate bid to rally the nation behind him, Macron was warning gravely that a victory for extremists on the Left or Right could spark a 'civil war'. As matters transpired, his political gambit backfired spectacularly.

Though the far-Right won the first of two ballots, a hotch-potch Left-wing alliance was formed – many would say undemocratically – to prevent them from controlling parliament.

So, as the Games get under way, France is in governmental limbo, being run by a caretaker prime minister presiding over what opponents deride as a 'zombie cabinet'.

Macron has pleaded for a political amnesty during the Olympics so the world will see the country in the best light, yet opponents have met this entreaty with cynicism. Attempting to use sport to project his virility is a well-rehearsed Macron tactic. He has cultivated a bond with France's star footballer Kylian Mbappe, likes to be seen playing tennis, and during the Olympic countdown was pictured in a sweat-stained boxing kit.

He even suggested that the Olympics, with its supposedly noble values of honest endeavour and comradeship, should serve as a 'metaphor' for the way politics ought to be conducted. Perhaps, then, with a billion people watching, Macron should have gone to greater lengths to ensure that the opening ceremony, which cost £115 million and was years in the planning, ran smoothly.

He might claim the many excruciating glitches were nothing to do with him. He might equally seek to absolve himself of blame for the decision to stage the event outside a stadium for the first time in Olympic history, instead of forcing athletes from 85 countries to endure a drenched boat-ride down a muddy river.

A quick check of the capital's annual weather patterns would have told organisers that, on average, it rains on 11 of the 31 July days, with a total monthly fall of 2.5 inches. Faced with a one-in-three chance of a downpour, surely the risk was too great?

True, Macron didn't plan the ceremony. It was conceived by avant-garde director Thomas Jolly, a darling of bien-pensant Parisians whose appreciation for its ethereal themes, dripping with wokery, is unlikely to have been shared in traditional corners of the country.

But even the engaging Macron can't charm his way out of this mess. His fingerprints are all over it.

From the moment he came to power in May 2017, he placed himself at the centre of France's Olympic bid, and has been only too quick to make political capital from Paris being chosen as host.

Some will no doubt admire his boldness. But one consequence of Macron's audacity was that dozens of statesmen and women – the very people he needs as political allies – got dripping wet for an interminable display which they could only see on screens because their view of the river was obscured.

Another result was that he once again appeared out of touch, aloof and incompetent. Across Paris, people grumbled about no-go zones that prevented them reaching their homes and getting to work.

In the suburbs, where many of the events are taking place, I have heard yet more complaints about noise, pollution, disruption, exorbitantly priced tickets and the unaffordable apartments that will replace the Olympic Village.

And yet, for the president, there remains a glimmer of hope. At the London Games 12 years ago, there were also teething problems, and enthusiasm was slow to ignite.

But after a few days and British gold medals, Olympic fever caught on and rapidly spread, bringing perhaps the most joyful period in living memory.

Hosting a hugely successful Games also did wonders for Britain's global reputation and the popularity of our government. Macron must pray the same thing happens in Paris.

For if the greatest show on earth can't restore the public's faith in their president, and heal France's frightening divisions, heaven knows what will.