Filed under: Life
Last night, we watched La Femme de Gilles. Set in a small French town in the 1930s, the film explores the complex relationship between Elsa, played beautifully by Emmanuelle Devos, and her husband Gilles, who is having an affair with her younger sister Victorine. After confirming that Gilles is having an affair, Elsa does something surprising. She doesn’t leave him, she doesn’t erupt into a rage. No, instead, she remains steadfast and loyal to the man who is so passionately “in love” with her sister. And when Gilles thinks Victorine is seeing someone else, she helps him find out who it is in a feeble attempt to calm his furious jealousy. While some might be initially surprised by Elsa’s stoic acceptance of the affair between Victorine and Gilles, the film’s shocking end shows the meek and humble housewife to be cunning and deftly shrewd in her quest to defend her role as Gilles’ wife/woman.
I hate that the English translation of the title is Gilles’ Wife because, since in French “femme” can be translated as either “woman” or “wife,” the original title lends to the sense of ambiguity over who really is the woman in Gilles’ heart. That was absolutely the only thing I hated about the movie. It is a fabulous film, a dramatic tour de force. One of the most striking things about the film is that hardly anyone says ANYTHING. But how powerful this silence turns out to be! The lack of dialogue is masterfully effective in portraying the tension between Elsa and Gilles, and, moreover, the inner battle going on inside Elsa’s head and heart. The silence not only exposes Elsa’s inner turmoil better than any words could, but it also gives us, as viewers, time to process and think about what is going on. Inasmuch, we feel her anxiety, we feel her angst. Through the silence, we see that she has no words for what she is feeling and experiencing, yet we understand just the same.
One scene from the film that still stays with me takes place after Gilles and Elsa take their family on a picnic. On the train back to their village, a woman seated across the aisle from Elsa and her family gazes at them and smiles sweetly, as if she were thinking, “Isn’t that woman lucky!” Indeed, from the exterior, any bystander would think that Elsa’s life is perfect—she lives in a large house, has a handsome, hardworking husband, and is the mother of twin daughters and a new baby boy. How deceiving appearances can be. . . .
Filed under: Life
Yesterday I read an Op-Ed article by Gary Cross, a professor of history at Pennsylvania State University, who, in the light of the Chinese-made toy recall, postulates that character licensing and the way toys are advertised to kids are just as dangerous to children’s psyches as the toys’ lead-based paint is to their health. Cross claims that most of the toys on the recall list, which include “56 Polly Pocket sets (including a Lip Gloss Studio Playset), 11 Doggie Daycare toys, 4 Batman figures, 43 Sesame Street toys (not just Elmo Stacking Rings but Giggle Grabber Soccer Elmo and Grow Me Elmo Sprinkler), 10 Dora the Explorers and more than a score of assorted figures and cars,” are junk and that the advertising promoting them does little more than teach children to be good consumers and instill additive tendencies.
When I was a kid, my brother and I were just as obsessed with amassing Care Bears, Popples, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and He-Man figurines as today’s kids are with collecting Dora or Elmo stuff. (For the record, Care Bears are WAY cooler that Elmo, and Rainbow Bright trumps Dora.) Maybe our obsession started as a result of the deregulated ads we watched during Saturday morning cartoons (arguable), but it stopped because we had a mother and grandparents who taught us that we didn’t need mounds and mounds of toys to be happy. They also refused to buy them for us in excess.
Since deregulated toy ads aimed at kids have been here since 1980 and are probably here to stay, it’s up to parents to teach their kids how to be smart consumers. Of course, parents can tell their kids they don’t need 10 Elmo toys until the furry little imp stops laughing, but I’m assuming that that’s not too effective when the ‘rents have 7 different ipods and a drawer full of discarded cell phones. Do as I say, not as I do, right?
Wow, it sure is easy to spew out parenting advice when you don’t have any kids. . . . 
Filed under: Dallas Theater Center, Jane Austen, Little Women: The Musical, Molière, Piccasso, Pride and Prejudice, The Mirror and the Mask
. . . the exhibit, The Mirror and the Mask: Portraiture in the age of Picasso, at the Kimbell in Fort Worth. While there are some Picassos featured, the exhibit is more about the evolution of the portrait as a genre, and not so much about Picasso. I wonder if the curators threw in the name Picasso to conjure up interest from the masses, much they often throw in “Impressionism,” or “The Big ‘I’” as my artsy friend Jennifer calls it, to draw a crowd. Though it would seem to be an elementary concept, I had never really thought about the idea of a portrait reflecting the likeness of the artist more than the subject.
. . . Little Women: The Musical at the Black Box Theater in Dallas, which from what I can gather was a “final exam” of sorts for the students in a local acting conservatory. The main character, Jo, was played by my mom’s colleague’s daughter, who was quite talented. Several of the other actors, however, were not-so-impressive, which actually made me admire them more; it takes a lot of guts to pursue your dream with reckless abandon, especially when you’re short on talent. Or maybe I’m mistaking grit and fortitude for stupidity and lack of foresight. . . . In any case, I’ve always been in awe of people who attempt to make a living in theater, or music, or acting, much less of those who actually succeed in doing so. But, like the portrait reflecting the artist as much as the subject, this admiration reflects my shortcomings and fears as much as it the gumption of any starving actor.
. . . the film Molière at the Innwood. I wasn’t expecting much from the film because the NY Times’ review was less than glowing, but I really enjoyed it. What some might call “bastardization of history,” I call a nice diversion. The film mélanges fiction and reality to concoct a story about several unaccounted months of the playwright’s life in 1644, and the result is a witty, charming, and laugh-out-loud costume extravaganza.
. . .the new theatrical adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice at the Dallas Theater Center. I read the book a long, long time ago, before Austen-mania had taken over, and, remembering that the novel had a slew of characters and numerous subplots, I wondered how the novel would translate to the stage. Fairly well, I would say. There was palpable chemistry between the Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett, and the actors playing Mrs. Bennett and Mr. Collins were especially entertaining. Although it was unexpected for a character to address the audience directly, Elizabeth Bennett’s narration helps the plot along. One of the most impressive and clever aspects of the play was the set design which consisted of large turntables, allowing scene changes in seconds. Overall, it was an enjoyable evening. Now, I think I’ll go see Becoming Jane.
Filed under: Alberto Gonzales, Henry Waxman, Pat Tillman, Personal responsibility, politics
I’ve been following the House committee’s investigation of the mishandling of the friendly-fire death of Pat Tillman in Afghanistan. A few days ago, this quote by Rep. Henry A. Waxman (D-CA) was the New York Times’ quote of the day:
“You’ve all admitted that the system failed; none of you feel personnally responsible. Somebody should be responsible.”
I would go a step further than Rep. Waxman and say that not only should somebody (former defense secretary Rumsfled? retired generals Myers and Abizaid?) be responsible for the cover up, somebody should be held accountable, which would require this illusive somebody to accept the consequences of their actions in addition to admitting wrongdoing.
I’m left wondering how and why it has become so commonplace to admit malfeasances and to claim responsibility without accepting accountability and expecting consequences to ensue! In addition to the Tillman debacle, there’s Alberto Gonzales who admits that he is responsible for what happens at the Department of Justice, acknowledges that mistakes were made with the firing of US Attorneys, and yet feels fully entitled to keep his job. No consequences for him! The Bush administration admits there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, but what are the consequences of starting a war under false pretenses? Who should be held accountable? The list goes on and on ad nauseam: Tom Delay, Ken Lay and Enron, and what about Hollywood’s examples, such as celebutante Paris Hilton, who admits to driving on a suspended license, but who tells Larry King after her release from jail that her sentence was unwarranted?
Simply acknowledging wrongdoing or misdeeds is not the magic formula for making consequences vanish; there’s no quid pro quo. I’m not sure what happened to the idea that responsibility and accountability go hand in hand, but it needs to make a comeback.
Filed under: Claire Danes, Evening, Lajos Koltai, Meryl Streep, Vanessa Redgrave
The movie Evening introduces us to Ann Lord, an old woman dying of cancer who, in a morphine-induced fog, incoherently jabbers about mysterious people and events from her past, thoroughly confusing her two daughters—“What was her big mistake?” “Who’s Harris?” “What does she mean ‘Harris and I killed Buddy?’” The movie flashes back and forth between scenes of the old woman on her deathbed and scenes from the weekend of her best friend Lila’s wedding over 50 years ago. We soon find out that Harris, a young doctor who she met at Lila’s wedding, was Ann’s one true love (or so she says), and she longs for him even on her deathbed.
The ensemble cast of acclaimed Hollywood actresses—Vanessa Redgrave, Meryl Streep, Claire Danes, Glen Close, and Toni Collette—might well be the estrogen-charged equivalent of the posse of famous actors in the Ocean’s movies. Unfortunately, even their talent and flair couldn’t redeem this poorly written film, which, as a whole, was disappointing. The film seemed to *yawn* drag on and on and on. Its flow was labored, and just when things start to get somewhat interesting in the flashback scenes, all crescendo is jettisoned as we are abruptly brought back to the scenes in the present which are tedious at best, mind-numbing at worst. (One exception is the scene in which Lila and Ann are reunited after a 50 year hiatus from their friendship.) Unlike the découpage of scenes in La Môme, the flashbacks did nothing to contribute to the film.
Despite its faults, I was still stirred by the film. It would be remiss to simply treat Evening as a tragic love story between Ann and Harris. If this were the case, the movie would be utterly unconvincing and a failure because Ann and Harris’ affair is hollow and trite (it only lasted two days, after all). Their “love’s” failed realization cannot be mourned as if it were a truly profound, unselfish love. Fortunately, that’s not all there is to this film. Instead, I think the heart of Evening is the complicated but deep love between mother and child. As an aged Lila says, “We (women) are mysterious creatures, and at the end, so much of it turns out not to matter.” If we look at the film in this light, we see that while it may be difficult to understand why Ann spends so much time pining for Harris on her deathbed, and while it may even be pathetic that the majority of her final thoughts are devoted to their shallow, immature “love,” this element of the film was necessary as the part that “turns out not to matter.” So, while many of Ann’s flashbacks were of Harris, the last one—the one that counts in the end—is a moving scene in which the young Ann, ignoring her screaming husband and dinner on the stove, holds her two daughters and sings to them. Even though she didn’t have Harris—and even though she was consumed by him—all that mattered in the end were the daughters whom she loved.
In the end, Ann tells her daughter that “there’s no such thing as a mistake” only after claiming at the beginning that “Harris was my biggest mistake.” I wonder why she thought Harris was her biggest mistake. Was it because she felt guilty about Buddy’s fate? Was it because she didn’t marry him? Or was it because she spent so much time dwelling on what could have been with him? Even though there will always be consequences for our actions or our decisions, I do agree with her that there is no such thing as a mistake.
So, I guess that even though Evening wasn’t necessarily one to remember, I’m glad I saw it. I just won’t ever watch it again.
Filed under: Edith Piaf, La Môme, La vie en rose, Marion Cotillard, Milford, je ne regrette rien, movies
C’est grâce à Mme. Kelley, mon prof de français au lycée, que j’ai entendu la célèbre chanson La vie en rose d’Edith Piaf pour la première fois à l’âge de 15 ans. Je n’avais pas beaucoup d’informations sur Piaf à l’époque ; je savais que sa vie fut difficile, qu’elle était très petite (seulement 4 pieds 8 pouces, si je m’en souviens correctement), et qu’elle s’habillait toujours en noir. Mais dès le moment que j’ai entendu sa voix, la chanteuse m’a ensorcelée. Puisque personne n’avait l’Internet dans ma petite ville campagnarde du Nouveau Mexique en 1995, j’ai eu du mal à apprendre plus sur sa vie, et comme il n’y avait pas d’Amazon.com, je n’ai pas pu découvrir plus de ses chanson. (C’est dingue comment les choses ont changé dans 10 ans.) Mon enthousiasme a donc fané, mais je n’ai jamais oublié l’histoire triste de sa vie, ni l’émotion qu’elle a transmise à travers sa voix tremblante et intense. Cette fascination d’adolescence a été récemment réveillée quand je suis allée voir La Môme, le nouveau film extraordinaire qui nous fait découvrir la vie exceptionnelle et tragique de cette petite dame fragile qui devint l’une des plus grades chanteuses françaises.
En bref, le film est génial. L’histoire vraie de la vie d’Edith Piaf rivalise n’import quelle histoire farfelue Des feux de l’amour. Née à Belleville à Paris, et abandonnée d’abord par sa mère, la chanteuse, et après par son père, le contorsionniste, Edith est élevée par des prostituées dans le bordel de sa grand-mère en Normandie jusqu’à ce que son père revienne la reprendre après la grande guerre pour faire des cirques avec lui. Une petite gamine de santé fragile, elle devient aveugle, mais sa vue est revenue après une visite de la tombe de Thérèse Martin à Lisieux. Dans le film, on voit aussi ses premières années de chanteuse de rue, on la suit dans les music-halls, à ses grands spectacles à Paris et à New York, et dans sa petite maison à Cannes où elle disparait. Mais au lieu de suivre un fil linéaire, la narration du film est une mosaïque de flashbacks qui sautent entre des étapes différentes de la vie de Piaf, sans respecter la chronologie. Ceci rend le film un peu difficile à suivre si l’on ne connait pas déjà l’histoire romanesque de sa vie. C’est pareillement une manière génie pour transmettre le chaos et l’enchevêtrement qui ont caractérisé la vie d’Edith Piaf.
La métamorphose de Marion Cotillard en Edith Piaf est impressionnante. Sa représentation de la chanteuse dans toutes les étapes différentes de sa vie—d’une jeune chanteuse de rue à Paris, à une vedette internationale, jusqu’à une vieille dame d’une santé fragile—est impeccable. L’Oscar pour la meilleure actrice doit être le sien. En plus, Piaf elle-même contribue à la grandeur du film à travers ses chansons. On y entend tous ses meilleurs tubes, parmi lesquels « Non, je ne regrette rien, » « Milord, » et, oui, « La vie en Rose. »
J’étais ravie qu’il y ait plein de clips des spectacles de Piaf sur YouTube. L’un de mes préférés est ci-dessous, un extrait (en anglais et français) de la Môme Piaf quand elle fut l’invitée d’Ed Sullivan. Même quand elle parle en anglais, elle est fascinante:
Douze ans après mon premier rencontre avec Edith Piaf, je suis captivée à nouveau par son histoire émouvante après avoir vu ce film. Je terminerai mon blog donc avec la dernière chanson du film, et l’une de mes préférées :
Last night, we saw Sicko, the latest documentary from modern-day muckraker Michael Moore. In the film, Moore carefully constructs an argument for universal heath care in the US by juxtaposing portraits of insured Americans whose lives have been irreversibly affected by the atrocities of our for-profit heath care system with glimpses into the health care systems in Canada, England, France, and—gasp!—even Cuba where everyone is insured. Unlike his previous polemic documentaries, such as Bowling for Columbine or Fahrenheit 911, Sicko hits to the heart of an issue upon which most Americans agree and which many facts support: our current health care system is morbidly ill. One symptom of the malady: we spend a significantly higher percentage of our gross domestic product on health care (15.4% as per the World Heath Organization’s statistics) than do other comparable Western countries only to have a higher infant mortality rate and a lower life expectancy. Another symptom: although millions of Americans don’t have health insurance, millions more who ARE insured are unable to receive the care they pay for when they need it due to a dysfunctional and corrupt system that callously puts profits before human lives.
While most everyone agrees that our health care system is broken, we can’t seem to agree on a way to fix it. In short, I think our current for-profit system is inherently flawed and can’t be fixed because it is not run by an impartial third party, such as the government. Those opposed to a government-managed system—many of whom are our elected leaders who receive gross sums of money for their campaigns from the drug and health care industries—throw around “dirty” words like communism or socialized medicine in attempt to conjure up fears in the general public, or caution that “putting more power in the hands of the government” would have catastrophic results on our health system, such as unimaginable waiting periods for treatment, inferior care, and fewer choices for the patient. The insured middle-class in America already have unreasonable wait times to see specialists, numerous hoops to jump through with HMOs, and limited choices in doctors and treatment as a result of a privately-run, for-profit system in which health insurance and pharmaceutical companies get rich by fleecing the sick. How could a government-run system be any worse?
Having lived and worked in France and benefited from their health care system, I can say that it is not “free;” the French are taxed—often heavily—to pay for universal care, which is acknowledged in Sicko, but glossed over. But being taxed to make sure that ALL citizens are taken care of is a value and a responsibility that is natural to the French. How have our values, as a nation, degenerated to the point that health care, or, more specifically, the access to it, has become a capitalistic commodity to be bought and sold rather an inherent right? We already provide (dare I say—socialized?) services such as education and police protection to all members of our society, paid for through taxes, because we believe they are essential and fundamental rights. How is health care less of a basic right?
And what about long wait times and quality of care? Since my first encounter with the French health care system in 2001, I have NEVER had a problem with either long wait times or poor care, nor have I heard anyone else complain about them. I have been in the emergency room in Biarritz, in a general practitioner’s office in Paris, and have received house-calls from SOS Médecins in Dijon, where I also saw a specialist. In each case, my care was superb, swift, and hassle-free. When my father-in-law, who is French, was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2002, he was in the hospital operating room in Bordeaux within days of the doctor’s discovery of his tumor. In 1997, when my grandfather was diagnosed with the same type of cancer in New Mexico, he waited at least 3 weeks before having his tumor removed. I guess we should just be thankful that his cancer didn’t spread and that his claim wasn’t denied. Although my experiences and the experiences of my family are not all-encompassing, from what I’ve encountered and seen, I’d take the French health care system over ours faster than you can say “pre-existing condition.”
Back to Sicko. One thing I didn’t like about the film: since he so strongly advocates a governement-run health care system, I think that Moore should have more thoroughly examined the government-run health care agencies we currently do have in place in the US–Medicaid, Medicare, and the Veterans’ Administration. What are they doing wrong? What are they doing right?
In any case, whether you like the film (like me) and agree with Michael Moore’s solution to America’s health care conundrum, or whether you think Moore is a liberal demon, no one can deny that his films incite debate on issues that are important in our current zeitgeist.
Filed under: Music
Fergie, in the song Big Girls Don’t Cry: “And I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket, but I’ve got to get a move on with my life. . . “
Me, in my head: “What the #&$*$#@. . . is this REALLY the most prolific simile they could come up with?” **Changes radio station immediately.**
As I drove to work today, I was listening to my new French CD Rose by Rose. I fell head over heels for the song La Liste when I saw this video on TV5:
I’ve been listening to the CD in my car since I got it. After just one week, I know the words to the songs and sing along with the music during my commute. Today, as I walked into my school, I was humming the rather catchy tune to one of the songs—Sombre Con—and repeating the words in my head when I realized what I was saying:
“Poor idiot, sad jerk
Damned to never be a man.
Poor idiot, sad jerk,
With her, you’ll never have any kids.”
Although I usually pay close attention to lyrics, I guess I was too tired or distracted to do so this week while driving to work. When I realized what I was saying to myself, I was surprised, and perplexed, that a song with such a light, flowing melody had such dark words (the rest of the words are equally somber). The song was certainly stuck in my head because of the tune, but the contrast between the melody and the words really made me think about what was being said. This, in turn, made me think about several of Brecht’s songs, especially the original German version of Mack the Knife, a catchy song with lyrics about killing, murder for hire, rape, and the mafia, and The Love Market, a song about prostitution with the feel of a ballad.
The contrast between the casual, light tune of a song whose words address serious subjects is obviously not done by accident, so who’s getting the message? For those of us who pay attention to lyrics, we can analyze the meaning, and look for the agenda. But what about those of us (yes, sometimes I fit into this category, too), who don’t pay attention and blindly sing lyrics that are negative and somber? If we are constantly repeating negative, gory, repressive, and/or degrading words, does it change us for the worst, even if we aren’t aware of what we’re saying? At the least, I think it desensitizes us. In any case, I think there is great power in the tongue. What we say affects what we do, how we act, how we feel, even if we don’t realize it. So, this week’s motto is: “Be careful little mouth what you say,” even when you’re just singing in the car. . . .
