I think it’s about time I did the meta-thing: a blog entry to discuss my blog. I know this might seem a little… introspective, but keeping a blog, albeit irregularly, is somewhat fascinating. Perhaps I ought to blog about this blog entry too: Oh, conundrums and mysteries and wheels within wheels!
To be more precise, I want to write about the route by which fresh eyes rest upon the site and the sometimes circuitous route by which this blog page is opened by the curious, not-so curious and (quite probably) the furious.
With a review of blog stats, I can also view the links that have lead General Public to the blog. I do have the regulars, of course –those that follow and those who directly check on posted links from Facebook. For those folks that haven’t yet, why not click on “follow” –y’all come back regular, ya hear?
I suppose the real reason I write on this theme today is the last astonishing Search that lead a needy soul here. It was, and I kid you not, “a juicy vagina being nicely fucked by a penis”. Quite apart from the mental image or the fairly artistic phraseology (I’m somewhat compelled by the implication of juicyness/niceness), perhaps the more astonishing aspect is that with the Everest-sized mountain of porn out there my humble blog achieved any kind of hit at all!
Another recent novelty was a traduction Français of the blog entry on the Siege of Malta –the tangled web of the web reaches even those shadowy Gauloises-smoking and mustachioed cheese eating regions. I also get a lot of hits for my review of 1000 Years of Annoying the French!
Hitherto the most salacious search that ended with ‘Richard Peters in the Country Park’ cheerily pop up onto a screen glowing in the dark was shortly after the bombing in Marrakech. My blog entry irresistibly piqued the interest of someone looking for ‘sexy Moroccan boys’. Hmmm… Perhaps I should be embracing the more corporeally-minded African enthusiasts amongst the general public. Just give ‘em what they want, that’s what I say. Bread and circuses? Free tissues and guilt-free jiggly tits, more like.
Like most ploddy blogs, most hits are from the embedded pics. I admit that many of them are actually mine and I do spend quite a bit of time resourcing the other images for the sake of accuracy. In the true Anarchist spirit that all property is theft, I probably get as many of my images nicked as I liberate. I’m not even going to enter into discussion about intellectual rights or crediting internet image sources –I often feel the need to sleep. Oh, brothers and sisters, oh for a utopia in which the need to freely lift is gone…
My biggest hit for an image is a picture of a human kidney removed mid-surgery. I wrote a quick throw-away entry about a kid in China who sold his kidney for an I-pad and I-phone and lifted the best image I could source. This one pic accounts for about 80-90% of all picture searches, a fact that has led me to a horrible deduction about thems that conducts the searches –people that want to buy a kidney (the desperate, pleading and praying for life) and people that want to sell their kidney (the desperate, pleading and praying for cash). Either way, these searches indicated a lively trade in even-livelier body parts I’m none-too keen on (the issues surrounding Transplant Surgery require a much more tactful blog entry for another time). I suppose I should be grateful that I’m comfortable enough that I can view such astonishing things with incredulity.
My biggest hit on one day has been 78, my least none. And that’s the instant problem with counting pageviews –watching those distracting numbers and… yes… come on… yes… nearly there… woo-hoo… 5000 hits!! Consider the ridiculous millions of hits notched up on something inane such as Cat Face cartoon or WTF Kitty (all hits by puerile bedroom door-locked pre-teens who, from the state of their poorly-spelt, offensive or inane congratulatory messages, can’t be very far along the road to Mental Acuity Town). I see this stuff and want my 30 seconds of life back and despair about humanity.
So has this bloggy stuff taught me anything? Not much, but it is fun; an excuse to rant a bit, to examine something I find of interest and then leave a quippy -30- (that’s American journalistic parlance for the end of a story, don’t ya know), to show whoever is prepared to see the wonders of the Sai Kung Country Park, to wear a bit of my heart upon my electronic sleeve. I hope you will find it's the sort of thing that can be merrily read over a weekend morning cuppa.
Now, all I can presume is that if fresh eyes have reached this page it’s likely their search has has been concocted from, “juicy vagina”+ “penis”+ “porn”+ “sexy Moroccan boys”+”jiggly tits”+ “images”,+“pre-teen” + “kidney”. Now producing THAT sort of heady webpage gets you a visit from the Feds!
The Parisians may be accused of being a little proud, arrogant and even downright rude, but they are rightly proud of their city -it is magisterial in pomp, rich in history and brilliant in scintillement bourgeoise. That they think they have the best city in the world is obvious and is the sort of pride that would get right up a proletarian Anglo-Saxon's nose. Bloody posh frogs...
But as one wanders along the boulevards humming La Marseillaise one is drawn to the conclusion that they might actually have something. A bit of mis-spent tax-payer's money here, a conniving maire's vote-winning preferment there, et voilà -the city looks très attractif! In our close adherence to the principles of fair play and honesty of government we have overlooked the spectacular benefits of self-aggrandisement and our cities are a little more drab.
So it is with the Eiffel Tower. Commissioned as nothing more than a spectacular gateway for the International Exhibition of 1889 to commemorate the Revolution's centenary, Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel's design won over 700 others (one in the form of a giant watering can, another as a giant guillotine to honour the victims of the revolutionary terror). The design immediately ran into veciferous local opposition by the Committee of Three Hundred -one member for each metre: how, they asked, could anyone allow this iron monstrosity to emerge forever "over the city of Paris still vibrant with the genius of so many centuries... spreading out like a blot of ink, the shadow of this disgusting column of bolted tin"?
The Exhibition, like the three before it, was expected to lose money and the wily government would not put up more than a third of the cost -less so for the tower. Besides, it was not clear whether anyone would come to an event based around celebrating a violent revolution. In the end, it was an astonishing financial success and every major nation's manufacturing sector, irrespective of their government's political opinions, was presented. Monsieur Eiffel astutely acquired independent investment to finish the tower (agreeing to cover any losses) and recouped his money within the first year thereby aquiring boucoup des richesses.
The 'giant spike', it was thought, would give the Exhibition something special -a signature feature. The design was exclusively bought by Eiffel who then persuaded the committee to accept his design. The exposed ironwork was considered too vulgar, too modern. Garnier, who designed the beautiful yet traditional Paris Palais Opera house, claimed even after the tower's completion, "They have only erected the framework of this monument. It has no skin." Eiffel the experienced builder of bridges was exact in his technical specifications and included these in the design's proposal. It seemed only natural, therefore, upon successful completion to attach his name to the tower's title. So there you have it, the Tower reflects la gloire d'un homme.
There are plenty of marvellous statistics about the ole Tower, but that's not the point of this entry. The Memsahib and meself had left off visiting the place all week. Eating at various wonderful Parisian cafés and other discoveries such as Le Soufflé, we had found cuisine in the French capital to be generally good but no better or expensive than elsewhere: quality of ingredients appeared to be the determining factor. I knew about the restaurants on the Eiffel Tower and had booked a table at Le Jules Verne before leaving Hong Kong. Back in 2007 Alain Ducasse took over the restaurant bringing with him the determination (and much of the menu) seen in Spoon at the Intercontinental Hong Kong.
Arriving by cab, we took ourselves to the entrance of the splendid restaurant named after the fine French futurist and author. Escorted in a private little elevator to the Tower's second stage, we smiled as we left the underprivileged hoi-poloi below in long snaky queues eagerly waiting to ascend the four big lifts. There must have been move than 10 people that meeted-and-greeted us somewhat tiresomely before we even got to sit down: it felt like a security detail. One maître d' (and this may have been the experienced Francis Coulon mentioned in the on-line blurb) was particularly pleased to greet us utilizing what can only be described as Parisian Cockney.
We settled down with our Manhattan cocktails to 'study' the menu and wine list -that's such a poncey term, particularly in this case when there are only 19 items à la carte (25 including the set menu). The sommelier, in our case Amar Chebrek, was keen to offer advice, but perhaps a little too ready to agree with our preference -a difficult line for anyone to walk. A friendly bloke, at least he wasn't as snooty as some of the bloody waiters.
We began with slow cooked veg and snails for me (we're in France after all), both served with a pouring of little separate sauces. Exquisite: beautifully presented. I must also mention the bread which without doubt was the finest I have ever tasted -ever. A freshly-baked salted brioche swirl sounds so simple, yet a meal of this light bread alone would have been worthy of praise. It was a pity the Memsahib could not taste it, but the restaurant was happy to accommodate her wheat intolerance, at least to begin with.
Billecarte-Salmon rosé champagne, being our favourite, went very well with all our choices. The pigeon was, by the Memsahib's account, delicious and the steak was perhaps the best I've had -the knife literally fell through the meat. I'd been saying all week how I wanted to have steak-frites in Paris, it now being the national dish, and here it was in its' fully glammed grandeur. The accompanying pommes soufflés, thin slices of potato fried once and left to cool then fried again at a very high temperature so that the insides puff up, were parfait!
Accompanied by a glass of sensuous Maury, the chocolat framboise and abricots rôtis were further examples of high quality this time under the direction of renowned pâtissier-chocolatier-glacier Christophe Devoille. Light and full of delicate nuances, each dessert had the right balance of sweetness and flavour, although I took so long eating mine it degenerated at the end into bowl of school canteen mush-up. The restaurant is run by teams, one for each of the three restaurant sections (the kitchens being on the fourth corner). Along with the few couples at table, there were a number of large parties eating at the restaurant, each with accompanying decorative femme fatales and their somewhat outshone opposite numbers, femme attrapées -of which there were more: clearly, one hosts at the Jules Verne to create the right impression.
Coffee and choccy petits four came on, but we were stuffed and there was obviously some wheatflour in the framboise and it was beginning to tell on the Memsahib. But it was past 10.30 and we'd been throroughly enjoying the food, wines and ambiance for three hours. The view, of course, is the reason for this particular restaurant surpassing in comparison practically any other eatery in the world. Our table overlooked Paris from the Champs-Élysées and Montmartre all the way to the Orly airport and bands of rain could be seen wafting across the cityscape and then clearing away to the south.
Upon our leaving the waiters asked if we wanted to take in the city view of which they were rightly proud. The City of Lights spread before us did indeed glimmer with all the bourgeouisee it could muster. We descended the elevator with a little sadness: the Jules Verne experience had been, as Alain Ducasse wished on his website, "the most beautiful place in Paris to enjoy the pleasure of a contemporary and accessible French kitchen." He may be happy to hear that I have to concur.
The Memsahib and meself are sujourning for a week in the City of Light. Having never been here together we are doing the touristy thing, visiting the museums, eating at restaurants and attending concerts. Last night's shorty took place at the Sainte-Chapelle, the astonishing royal chapel and sumptuous reliquary on the Île de la Cité that once glorified God and the Kings of France -and not necessarily in that order.
The general disposition of the musicians of Les Solistes Français, under the direction of Paul Rouger, made theirs a pleasant and energetic outfit. They clearly enjoyed playing together and this came over specifically in the performance of Vivaldi's Four Seasons.
That there were only 7 of them and that they sounded more than their number also testifies to the quality of their musicianship as it did to the incredible acoustic qualities of the medieval jewel of a church. They may at times have been a little rough around the edges, but made up for it through their enthusiasm and sheer joie de vivre.They get about a bit all over France performing over 120 concerts each year which, if they all last but an hour, is lovely work if you can get it. They also personally flogged their CDs on a table outside the venue: vive les entrepreneurs!
The extent of stained glass alone (600m2) make this gothic wedding cake a jeweled marvel. Each panel in each window is unique. It would prove a vain attempt not to use superlatives in reference to La Sainte-Chapelle because it does appear to be the very finest medieval building I have seen.
The glass gives a biblical narrative from Genesis to Revelation, looking back to the confirmation of divine presence in the past and prophetically insinuating the affirmation of that presence in les Capétian's titular veracity -Dieu clairement approuvée de Louis!
The miracle of architectural vertical emphasis is accentuated by the employment of very slender columns that appear to defy gravity and is further emphasised by the high deep blue ceiling decorated with a myriad of golden stars which on closer examination are revealed to be fleur-de-lis.
There are very few square inches of the rich interior not covered in gilding or painted stucco. There are two dominant themes: the fleur-de-lis on azure background (representing the French monarchy) and of the Towers of Castile on royal red (representing the heritage of Blanche of Castile -Louis IX mother). Strictly speaking, these may have been an invention of the restorers, but the whole effect is of a stupendous symbol of French medieval monarchy and all that it stood for.
There are 12 large pedimented statues represent the presence and blessings of the disciples. Many are replacements of those lost during the Revolution. Indeed, apart from two fires and a flood, the majority of the damage done to the this building was happily meted out during the iconoclastic excesses of the violent Révolution française -a third of the glass had to be replaced. It was obvious to the mob that this shrine represented the power and status of the kings: the irony of it is that the damaged church was restored in the mid-19th century using public money.
The initial investment in the construction of Sainte-Chapelle was astonishing. Consecrated on the 26th April 1248, the French crown invested 40,000 livres in the building's fabric and decoration alone. But that was a mere snip in comparison to the further 135,000 livres on the purchase of the relics (the crown of thorns, a fragment of the true cross and many other precious relics including nappies of the infant Jesus) from emperor Baldwin II of Byzantium who had pawned them to Venetian intermediaries. Yet another 100,000 livres was spent on an elaborate silver chest into which these fabulous relics were housed and at Easter time the chapel was opened to the public who could queue up to pay homage to these relics. (1 livre = 1 pound of silver)
Such an investment was a sure-fire way to promote the king of France from a local bigwig to the champion of christendom, from an aspiring wannabee to the centre of the european religious world. The only French king entitled 'saint', he tried to fulfil the duties of the model christian king; forgiving whenever he could, protecting christendom wherever he could, burning Jewish libraries wherever he could, crusading against the heretical cathars in southern France whenever he could. He even attempted to go on a proper crusade twice -once in his 30s on the 7th Crusade when he attacked Egypt (and spectacularly lost, having to pay a ransom of 40,000 livres) and once in his 50s on the 8th Crusade when he attacked Tunis (and spectacularly lost, got a severe dose of the trots and died). We visited his tomb at the spectacularly empty Cathedral de Saint Louis overlooking the city of Tunis. Such was his reputation that quite a number of places around the world are named after him, such as the obious Missourian and Michigan cities and many other places across the world.
The Revolution changed everything in France. As we are told, the downtrodden won and asserted their liberté, the unequal demanded égalité and knew that there had to be a certain fraterneté in order to work it all out. I can't help but reflect how the rois de France in their magisterial assumptions must have engendered such antagonism resolved only in the cutting off of the wicked serpent's head.
We (and I mean us living now in the western world and not those poor buggers currently living under dictatorships) have inherited a social order comprising individual liberty without our having to revolt against powers that be, equality without our having to seize, loot and burn palaces and a certain fraternity of that oh-well-we're-all-in-the-shit-and-should-just-bloody-well-get-on-with-it feeling. So well-won are these privileges that I cannot begin to imagine even demanding a revolution, erecting barricades or storming bastilles. In comparison, the social revolution of the United Kingdom that enabled this tranquility to occur took place slowly without bloodshed in the inter-war years and, mercifully, without the need to be led by a bare-breasted Marianne brandishing both musket and flag. As a result, our monarchs still have their heads and we have acquired our freedoms: vive le manque d'une révolution!
I have always loved France –close enough to home to be accessible, far enough away to be different, holidays there were fun and full of the nicest things possible; cheeses, wines, meats, restaurants, boulangeries, beaches, interesting and helpful locals –well, maybe not the last one. One year we were holidaying in Languedoc,went to la plage and set about frolicking in the sea, tanning on the sands and trying not to peer too long at the topless French ladies –fwoarr! With a keen eye for a quick franc, the local supermarket had set up a stall in the car park for waffeur-thin steak et frites and we happily queued. Grabbing my newly fried frites, I proceeded to cover them all in lovely French tomato ketchup only to summarily squirt the biggest massive splurge of said red sauce all over the poor seller’s crotch (much to his severe annoyance): the container having just been refilled, the nozzle pointed away from my lovely chips.
Such an unfortunate incident, I think, properly illustrates our trans-marche relationship. More often than not, les anglais have squirted their tomato ketchups (and worse) onto the noble Gallic crotches (and other tender parts) and this has led to war. And just as jobbing steak frites sellers have cursed the holidaying rosbifs, so the kings, emperors and presidents of the nation of franks have cursed their cousins across the water: the last 1000 years have been punctuated with at times incredibly violent international relations. But we are the best of friends now, n’est-ce pas?
Stephen Clarke has made this slightly weighty (517 pages) romp through history about as entertaining as a English-type who lives and works in France could. What’s catchy is the way in which each well-known Franco-British historical scene is set up with the usual accompanying myths and legends only to have them re-examined and re-explained from the perspective of our divergent yet mutual histories. Beginning with the wicked exploits of William the Conqueror (who was not French actually, but Norman –about as French as the next Dane) and concluding at the right royal diplomatic faux pas of 2008 meted out on Nicolas Sarkozy which involved showing him lots of pictures of Waterloo (the battle, not the station), the book is a joy to read. It’s obvious that he’s used up his two years compiling these stories in lots of reading. Each chapter, however, has that I’ve-just-read-a-few-books-about-this-topic-therefore-I-will-write-about-it feel to it and the book occasionally seems a little formulaic.
Here’s a few of Clarke's important historical observations:
· William the Conqueror died whilst fighting the French
· Joan of Arc was tried and sentenced by the French
· The Burghers of Calais were not executed by the English (or even at all)
· Mary Queen of Scots was, to all intents and purposes, a French princess
· France lost America because of a cow
· The English invented champagne
· The guillotine was invented in Halifax
· The stormed Bastille contained only 7 prisoners –four forgers, two lunatics and one count accused of helping his sister run away from her husband
· Napoleon nearly became an English mariner
· The French did not invent croissants, baguettes or steaks grillés
· The innocent sounding WWI song, ‘Parley-vouz’, is about patriotic French Mademoiselles who serviced British soldiers hundreds at a time
· de Gaulle took part in the D-Day landings 8 days later with only 177 French soldiers
In short, the French view the past through Tricolore-tinted glasses, but then don’t we all with our histoires? The English love and admire French style and elegance and early morning hot chocolate croissants from le boulangerie du village, the French love and admire English pop culture, cool Britannia and decent packets of biscuits.
Stephen Clarke’s other book, A Year in the Merde, plods the well-worn track of The Innocents Abroad, a Mark Twain novel, has become an international best-seller, printed in France as God Save La France. He has said of living in Paris, "I love France because here you are working for a living and not vice versa". Ah, the wisdom of it.
We get on now because it’s in our interests. But, as Stephen Clarke says in a France 24 interview, our mutual past has a habit of rearing itself up and interrupting the best of intentions with troublesome recollections. So it is that each Frenchy that descends onto the platform of Waterloo Station is unhappily reminded of Napoleonic defeat and national chagrin.
Ah well –plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose…
Chateau Roslane, Meknes Les Coteaux de l'Atlas rouge
The great red city of Marrakech is a busy, if not mad place. I don’t think it’s possible to have a nice quiet walk down the street. Not that there’s much to see unless you enjoy street after street and row after row of scarves, leather slippers, leather pouffes, djellebas in all sorts of garish colours, tin lampshades, really, really bad paintings and silvery lady ornamentation.
Thus it is that behind the little shops (and some of them really are not big enough to turn around in) and through some unlit and uneven alleyways can be found the riads. These are literally oases of calm, the perfect antidote to the desperate pestering and exuberant adolescent haggling on the street. The riads are still.
Morocco really is a youthful society, with 30% under 14 years of age. They all want mobile phones and mopeds and they all seem to have them and often ably use both at the same time. Some of the older citizens have clearly had worse luck and it shows in their beggar’s rags and lowly occupations. Such is the vitality of the new populace that they all seem keen to establish a better future for themselves. None seem too discouraged by the meagre profits to be made selling the same old tat to the same old tourists: there’s a quick buck to be made and they’ll gladly do it.
So when a place like the Café Arabe opens its’ doors to the western crowd, those with sufficient disposable income and un-Islamic propensities to enjoy such things as alcoholic beverages and pork, the trail blazed must surely be enviably copied. Is this not where all societies lead? Maybe, but this is so very obviously a Muslim society where the mosques are crowded 5-times daily and social mores are still kept. It is difficult to imagine a British society where 98% profess Christianity and the churches are packed on a daily basis.
Still, Brenda and I arrive at the riad-cum-restaurant quite hungry for Moroccan fayre done well. We are the first to occupy the cosy downstairs dining area, the top floor terrace being full with those that like their beers cooled by the evening’s breeze. After ordering tajines, I enquire about the best wines. The waiter/sommelier obviously does not want to be modest nor boastful about something he may not have sampled. He mentions the Coteau de l’Atlas and he readily agrees: at 450 dirhams (£33/HK$398) per bottle he’s not going to pass this one up.
The Chateau Roslane Coteau de l’Atlas is full-bodied, being an obvious blend of Cab Sauv, Merlot and Syrah. It’s made to French standards (and this was premiere cru) and aged for 5 months –one or two too long for my palate.
The wine was well served and immediately soothed the palate. No rough edges. Overwhelming blackcurrant and blackberry notes really ticked the wotnots. It went very well with the warm aubergine salad starter and even better with the lamb and vegetarian tajines mains. At this point, however, the wine began to oxidise rapidly and mid-way through those mains the oaky tannins were very marked. By the time we’d finished eating I was struggling and Brenda was on the water. I wouldn’t say it was a bad wine by any means, but it had to be drunk rapidly to enjoy the full mid-range flavours. Best in youth? Possibly, but I drank some excellent Tunisian wine in restaurants in Tunis and Sidi bou Said and was excited by the feeling of the North African stuff most of which, I’m sad to say, stays home.
And so a lazy stagger back through some dark, empty medina alleys brought us to the intense quietude of our very own sleepy riad –us being the only, but quite grateful guests.
'Sacred Blue' et 'Mon Dieu' all 'ta Mere est Belge' all rolled into one: What a Gallic week!
First I had my first meeting with my Morocco Atlas Adventure team: Crazy French speaking snail scoffers, one-and-all. I think I'm going to have to brush up on the old parlez a bit or this school trip will consist of me barking l'instructions en Anglais to a bunch of quizzical shrugging Gauloise-smoking non-commitals.
Perhaps I'd better explain. I have foolishly volunteered to organize a school trip in October to my niece's High Atlas homestay some distance from Marrakech, Morocco. She married a Berber, ya know! Me not being fluent in Arabic or the local ancient Berber languages, Tachelhiyt or Tamazigt, I thus thought it prudent to bring une bande de Française parlez-ing henchmen to corral the sweetest of sweet Hong Kong children there and back again and chat amicably with the locals in the ex-colonial patois. We'll see in October if my trans-marche judgement was misplaced.
I must say that research into the local Moroccan tongues has been fascinating. The Berber folk have had a separate identity that pre-dates Arab, Christian and Roman invasions and possibly even the ancient Egyptians. They have had their script since the grand old Punic times of ancient Carthage and Hannibal. Theirs is a proud culture which appears to centre around sweeping down from the hills, setting fire to things and then carrying slaves back up into thum thar hills. I've looked around, but it appears local bookshops are out of stock of Cantonese-Tamazight dictionaries, so if anyone knows how to say, "Stop kidnapping me, I'm an ESF teacher!" in any Hamito-semitic dialects, please let me know.
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Yesterday I did a foolish thing. Actually, it began a while ago when Brenda (quite rightly) complained that I had been away with the choir to concerts in Bangkok and Manila and had a jolly good time, whereas we have not been away together (without the girls) for as long as we could remember. That will, of course, change and we'll go away somewhere exciting soon. So, despite keen invites to dinners and friendly cajolings to see bands and other social events, I decided to stick with Plan A and take Bren to the pictures last night - in lieu of future outings! I turned to the Broadway Cinematheque webpages to book something. And I duly did, rushed out with Brenda from school at 5-ish, got angry being lost behind slow moving vehicles in Yau Ma Tei (not so difficult -have you tried the one-way system lately?), finally parked at the cinema and ran upstairs to quickly present my credit card -no tickets! It appears I had booked the right film at the right time, but in all my haste had booked the wrong bloody cinema. (By the way, there's a season of French Cinema coming up in June -see link below)
The choix du jour, then, was between "I Love You Phillip Morris", a humourous gay film starring Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor or some French award-winning filme, Le Refuge. Not feeling particularly humourous (not particularly gay for that matter) I plumped for the latter. Hmmm...
I have a cool-headed admiration for French cinema. Some of the best cinematic moments I can recall have emerged from the froggies; They seem to be able to take matters very seriously indeed with not a smile in sight (a very mature attitude set quite apart from the English schoolboy sniggering when, for example, we see exposed lady parts) and also seem to be very amicable again and again (in joyous romps like Taxi, Taxi 2, Taxi 3, etc). But I digress...
The Refuge, or Le Refuge, concerns a Parisienne addict called 'Mousse' who, after her lover takes an overdose, awakens to find herself pregnant. The rest of the film concerns her trying to come to terms (or not) with this overwhelming fact whilst accompanied by her dead lover's gay adopted brother and his boyfiend who is also her housekeeper. Are you with me still?
I'm not a big sympathiser of smack-heads. I'm sure there are desperate reasons for their plight and better ones for their re-integration and re-introduction into societé, but the portrayal of this vache égoïste left me cold. I realise the point of the film was to let me in on her world, the life from death, the escape from addiction, the building of something new, etc, etc, but her self-obsession angered me. Maybe, as I'm sure the Director François Ozon would be only too keen to point out, that's the point: her life is turned around. Both Brenda and I left feeling a bit empty. We didn't much enjoy (even with les popcorn et dogs chaud) watching the protagonists shoot up. From then on it went from bad to worse. The holiday home in Normandy, on the other hand, was to die for. But that got me thinking more about me holidays than Mousse's upcoming delivery. The denoument was a bit of a disappointment, réalisme notwithstanding, and left me caring even less for her character. I know, I know, Monsieur Hulot's Holiday this certainly was not, but could he not have had a positive message, any kind of hint that it was a story worth telling and which might arouse some sort of interest. Ah well, back to my Gauloise (puff, puff...)
The Broadway has a fantastic DVD shop, unlike any other in HK. I picked up another couple of titles, including one in the second category I earlier mentioned. L'événement le plus important depuis que l'homme a marché sur la Lune, or A Slightly Pregnant Man, by Jacques Demy, is a gentle comedic outing from a simpler era. This 1973 film co-starring Catherine Deneuve concerns a Parisian driving instructor who manages to become pregnant. Following the surprise, fame and fortune beckons much to his bewilderment. It is a charming window on a France I grew up knowing was on the other side of the Channel -Renaults and tabacs, magasins et moustaches. This is no great masterpiece, but it makes you smile. C'est un film heureux!
One thing struck me. In both films the breakfasting French did not use les demitasses for their morning coffees. Instead, they used bloody great cornflake bowls! This is something I've not seen before. Tell me, please, is this a 'normal' activity over there? Do all of our Gallic cousins take their early caffeine hits thus?
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