AUDIENCES AND REVIEWERS are falling all over themselves to praise Midnight in Paris, Woody Allen's latest offering that premiered at the Cannes Film Festival last month. In it, successful hack Hollywood screenwriter Gil (Owen Wilson) and his fiancée, Inez (Rachel McAdams), have come to Paris with her stuffy Republican parents on a business trip. While the soon-to-be family live the posh Parisian high-life of five-star palace hotels and swanky restaurants, Gil is dreaming of writing the great American novel like his heroes in the Lost Generation who made Paris their own. But as Gil is absorbed by his literary nostalgia, Inez's attention is diverted to the husband of one of her friends, a cocksure academic, an "expert" in everything in and about the City of Light. And with this set-up, a fantasy unfolds.
"Charming," the reviewers say. "Allen harkens back to the magic in A Purple Rose in Cairo, New York Stories, and others... " Blah, blah, blah.
A few months ago, the Lone Wolf and I hightailed it to the cinema to see the film An Education. In case you haven't seen it, the movie is a coming-of-age story--the autobiographical memoir of British journalist Lynn Barber who has quite a good story to tell.
We were knocked out by it. We loved the way the film was shot. The period of 1961 England was captured as pure charm as were the performances of the perfect cast (as far as I was concerned), including Carey Mulligan who stole the show. Watch out world. A new Audrey Hepburn has arrived. Ms. Mulligan is dripping with star-power.
When the film began, Mulligan was a schoolgirl, working extremely hard so she could get into Oxford. By the end of the picture, her school work was hardly the education that she had received.
I recently watched a very funny and visionary TED talk of Sir Ken Robinson, who believes that we're educating people out of their creativity. Robinson referred to this crisis of human resources as our "second climate crisis" and asserted that we needed to address it with the same urgency as global warming.
I put daughter Blair--The Cheese Princess--into a taxi this morning, and it drove away. BooHoo, her mother said.
The Cheese Princess in Corsica with a bottle of delicious wine (Photo by Beth Arnold)
I have spent the day consoling myself the usual way, which is by watching movies. I turned the TV on to see what was playing. What luck! Isadora with Vanessa Redgrave who looked younger than she's ever been in her life as she flitted across the U.S., France, and Russia, before her neck was broken by her floating and luxuriously long silk scarf in Nice. The South of France was good to her till then.
Casually dressed black musicians are warming up the stage. The drum
beat rolls, first guitar licks hit, and one lone white man in coat and
tie--Republican National Committee Chairman Lee
Atwater--starts cranking up his electric guitar. With Atwater's
rhythm and blues pumping in the background, we see and hear Ronald
Reagan in his chirpy B-actor voice being sworn in as President of these
United States. Nancy, in her smart red suit and hat, is gazing
adoringly at him as she always did, the super-wife who wasn't much of a
mother but sat on her husband's lap at a rally in Philadelphia,
Mississippi, to appeal to the base instincts of the rednecks in
attendance. (I'm Southern, by the way--proudly from Arkansas. I can
tell you that you don't have to be Southern to be a redneck.)
Within a few more seconds, and in between more shots of Atwater
rocking a mean splits and hitting his licks lying knees bent and back
down on the floor--virtually owning the stage--George H. W. Bush and
then his son, W., are also sworn in as President while Atwater is
wailing, "Well, I'm a bad boy. I'm a long long way from home. "
"Can you understand American politics if you don't understand Lee
Atwater?," the voiceover says, "I believe not."
"He couldn't teach me rhythm," says whiter-than-white George H.W.
Bush, "but he taught the Democrats to sing the blues, and I believe
they're just starting."
Let me just say, it is brilliant irony that Atwater took the blues
away from the Democrats and made it his and the GOP's own, and that is
but one example--a microcosm of the macrocosm--of how he turned the
American blue collar masses into Republican voters even though every
time they voted for a GOP candidate they were voting against their own
best interests.
Crossposted at HuffPost.com. Comments not included here.
Paris, Winter 2008
The scene opens on the soft light of daybreak glowing over the
rooftops of Paris's 20th Arrondissement. A woman's soothing voice says,
"Over the past several months, an unrelenting roar has been mounting
across the Atlantic, resonating all the way to Paris, my adopted city
for the last 20 years. Something is happening in America. Four decades
have gone by since we were last summoned to come together as a nation
to search for, rethink, and dream another America. Today, a voice rises
above the din challenging us anew, and for the first time in a long
time, I can almost call America home again."
Soon we're seeing, Guetty Felin and her husband, Hervé Cohen,
driving along an American highway with their two teenage sons. They are
headed for Texas, where they will work for the Obama campaign and
Guetty and Hervé will shoot this documentary film called Closer to The Dream.
In the process, they'll be giving their sons a view of the heartland of
America that most Americans--who don't live there--will never see.
They'll also be imparting an incredible lesson in politics and bearing
witness to a stunning moment of history.
"Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gunna beat them Saints?"
I must congratulate the city of New Orleans and their Super-Bowl-winning Saints! (And for a little interesting history about their chant above, click here.) Little ole me, who doesn't give a whit about sports, was rooting for you.
What a beacon of hope the Saints have been to New Orleans...to everyone who lives in or loves this ravaged American city. The Saints have focused the world's attention on their hometown, and their victory ensures new funds and energy will be poured into this city's regeneration. We might as well just say this out loud, New Orleans is Paris South. Both the French and Americans adore it.
(If you haven't seen Clint Eastwood's Invictus, go now. The story of the South African rugby team making its countrymen proud and bringing them together in hope and the promise of a better future closely resembles what the Saints have just done for NOLA. I didn't think I would like the film, and I was wowed.)
I see the Saints' Super Bowl win as a love letter to New Orleans, which couldn't be more appropriate a week from Valentine's Day!
Playwright Eve Ensler, best known for The Vagina Monologues, presented her own love letter to New Orleans two years ago. (Men and boys, no clicking away. This post is definitely meant for you, too. If you're heterosexual, we know you love vaginas.And if you're not, we knowyou love the package surrounding it.)
The biopic of Serge Gainsbourg, titled Gainsbourg (Vie
Héroïque), has opened in Paris, and the French are flocking to see it like Americans used to beat it to Woody Allen movies. (That is before Woody basically had an affair with and married his adopted daughter and became his natural born son's brother-in-law....Not to mention his films were getting a little boring.)
Unknown
French actor Eric Elmosnino is playing Gainsbourg, who remains a beloved figure in France, and the actor's resemblance to the singer/actor is said to be uncanny. The film covers Gainsbourg's entire life and is getting some criticism for the inclusion of M. Gainsbourg's alter ego (representing his insecurity about his looks) as a cartoon that speaks to him.
I haven't seen the film yet--but why not, I say? The alter ego sounds cool to me. I'll have to watch the film before I make my final judgment, but I can see this mixture of medias could add excitement as well as enhance the story and mood.
Gainsbourg was a chain smoker of Gitanes, which added to his mystique and image. The alternate movie title to go with the alter ego could be "Have Gitane Will Travel." See movie poster below:
Posted at HuffPost.com on October 2, 2009. Comments not included here.
Listening to this roaring American furor over Roman Polanski needing to get what he deserves
reminds me of the enormous public outcry about Janet Jackson's
"wardrobe malfunction" on the Super Bowl halftime show a few years ago.
Ohmygod, Americans caught a glimpse of a bare breast. The horror...the
horror...
The incident was called Nipplegate--and the outraged public, the
press coverage, and the barking of the watchdogs went on and on and on.
"As God as my witness," a matronly Scarlett O'Hara might have
proclaimed, "America will get its decency back again."
I am rolling my eyes, while another show of Desperate Anything is played on the television.
It is most assuredly true that Roman Polanski should not have raped a 13-year-old girl. (Neither should Jerry Lee Lewis
have had sex--and married--a 13-year-old who was also his first cousin
once-removed. Was she the one who died and everyone thought he
murdered?) It is also true that justice should've been served a long
time ago.
But who is seeking justice here--and why--and why now?
There is plenty of speculation about this, and I doubt the most
accurate reason is any of those being publicly touted. The law is the
law is the law. Oh, really? Many people believe O.J. Simpson murdered
his wife and Ron Goldman, and he walked out of an American courtroom
scot-free.
The person who might possibly like for justice to be served the most
is the victim herself, but here was her reaction in January. From the MailOnline:
Samantha Geimer, now 45, lashed out at prosecutors in
LA, accusing them of victimising her again with their focus on the
lurid details of her ordeal.
Yesterday she filed a legal declaration asking that the
charge against Polanski be dismissed in the interest of saving her from
further trauma as the case is publicised anew.
'True as they may be, the continued publication of those
details causes harm to me, my beloved husband, my three children and my
mother,' she said. 'I have become a victim of the actions of the
district attorney.'
....Ms Geimer said she believes prosecutors are reciting
sexually explicit details of the case to distract from their office's
own failure to handle the case properly 31 years ago.
Apparently, Ms. Geimer wants shed of the angry mob that wants
Polanski publicly hung. But if there's one thing Americans like, it's
the sound of their moral outrage.
Note: Obamarifix is taking a holiday while Beth is searching for a new apartment, but she's looking forward to getting back into the health care fray and delving into the minds of those misguided and misinformed Americans who are calling the people who are trying to help them Nazis.
Speaking of Nazis, go to your neighborhood cinema to see: Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds. Tarantino is no filmmaking god to me--Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction showed his talent--and then he flopped. But Basterds is a terrific picture and a whale of a ride! (So why was it considered a turkey at Cannes?) Brad Pitt is pure mountain Southern, and Diane Kruger shows starry acting chops. Inspired performances all the way around. The whole film is terrifically well done. The audience we were part of stood up and clapped after it ended.
One of the great pleasures of Paris is walking, and we've been beating the streets in search of apartments. Along rue L'Agent Bailly in the 9th Arrondissement, I spied this mural:
From 25 May to 19 September 2011, the CENTRE POMPIDOU presents a major exhibition that explores Indian society through the eyes of Indian and French artists. A FUN & DYNAMIC exhibit! For more INFO: http://bit.ly/nID8Ym
I'm on a mission--to walk to all the addresses I can find of The Lost Generation writers--Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, and more. I've gotta tell you. They had some great digs, and it's a kick to look them up. As M. Malrick of our beloved Hotel Saint Germain would say, not bad. That wild gang knew how to create their lives. Something to think about.
I'll try to get some photos up soon. Ciao.
Image via Wikipedia
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