Brutaliser une femme, il n'y a pas de quoi être fier

Les belles images by Simone de Beauvoir
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Simone de Beauvoir's Les Belles Images is about the role of women in a modernizing French society during the 1960s. As a femme au foyer (a housewife), Laurence - the novel's narrator - supposedly enjoys "le privilège" of having "tout [sa] temps" (all her time). However, trapped in the social 'image' of what a 'proper' woman should be and suffocated by the confines of a patriarchal household, she eventually descends into anxiety and anorexia.

Although the novel is set in an era where machines are so omniprescent that "les hommes deviendront inutiles," the lack of awareness of women's rights juxtapose such progress and instead reveal the backwardness of society. Indeed, the crushing reality of a woman's dependance on her husband is highlighted throughout the novel. In the first chapter, the people around Laurence assume that she only has her job because of her husband's connections. Similarly, Dominique, although an independent woman who enjoys "le solitude," admits that "même avec un nom une femme sans homme, c'est une demi-ratée, une espèce d'épave." It is in a society where"une femme n’est rien sans homme" (a women is nothing without a man) that the novel takes root.

"Les belles images," pretty pictures, are powerful symbols of deception in the novel. They are all that we see ("on n'aperçoit que des images, proprement encadrées sur le petit écran) but lack the "weight of reality" (leur poids de réalité). For example, the fact that "les objets gardent encore l'aura qui les nimbait sur l'image en papier glacé" suggests how the 'images' inside the window seem glossy and flawless on the surface, even though Laurence recognizes that they are "inerte et froid" underneath their sheen.

The idea of a woman as a "belle image" further emphasizes the objectification of women in the novel. Dominique, for instance, is one 'belle image' but is a broken woman under her mask of independence ("sous les masques, il y a une femme de chair et de sang, avec un cœur, qui se sent vieillir et que la solitude épouvante"). The tragedy is that people "exhorteraient leurs amis à aller voir Athènes et la chaîne de mensonges se perpétuerait, les belles images demeurant intactes en dépit de toutes les désillusions" (people perpetuate the chain of lies, allowing the pretty images to remain intact despite their illusory nature).

Thus, most captivating of all is the fate of Catherine, Laurence's eldest daughter, for she is the only one in the novel to question the meaning of existence (ah, the French and existentialism) and show how the world is not a "belle image". She represents the voice of a young generation that is beginning to consider increasingly independent ideas. When she is sent to psychologist, however, Catherine seems about to suffer the same fate as her mother. Indeed, Laurence thinks of Catherine, she thinks of someone"qu'on était en train d'assassiner" (who one was about to assassinate).

Saying that she wanted to give her daughter "la sécurité, la gaieté, le plaisir d'être au monde," to "lui ouvrir les yeux tout de suite et peut-etre un rayon de lumiere filtrera," Laurence thus reveals her wish to give Catherine the rights she was denied - security, happiness and the light of life. After all, "élever un enfant, ce n’est pas en faire une belle image:" raising a child is not to delude her into believing that the world is a "pretty picture." Only through grasping the truth can Catherine - and the women of her generation - "s'en sortira ... De quoi? De cette nuit" - the darkness of oppression. 

In the novel, Laurence is a victim of her time:"Qu’a-t-on fait de moi ? Cette femme qui n’aime personne, insensible aux beautés du monde, incapable même de pleurer, cette femme que je vomis." According to Laurence's husband, Jean-Charles, the 'solution' to this malaise is "le docteur," an approach reminiscent of the remedies presented to Jane in The Yellow Wallpaper and Emma in Madame Bovary.

Laurence, however, understands what she must do to save herself. Saying that she must "se débarrasser de Lucien" (remove herself from her lover, Lucien), she echoes the importance of "le solitude" in finding independence. Stronger still, the shouting match between her and her husband at the end of the novel captures the boldness of a woman bravely fighting to help her daughter see a better future.

The novel is an engaging critique on the social stereotypes in 19th century France, as well as a cry for the liberation of women. "Quelle chance," what chance, will "les enfants," the children, have? Laurence asks herself this question at the end of the novel. "Elle ne le sait" - she did not know - yet in today's France, where local elections have introduced a voting system that ensures each ballot will have a male and female candidate, the chance is slowly, but surely, approaching.

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La Délicatesse

La délicatesse by David Foenkinos
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

In David Foenkinos's La délicatesse, the beautiful and enigmatic Nathalie becomes a widow after her husband's sudden death. From thereon impenetrable, she coolly deflects the sexual advances of Charles, her boss, and channels her grief into her work. Yet the unexpected happens when Nathalie - out of the blue - kisses her Swedish colleague Markus on the lips. Although the kiss is merely "un acte gratuit" (an unwarranted act) to Nathalie, Markus - old, balding, single, awkward and unlucky with the ladies - is overwhelmed, stupified and approaches her. Between them, a friendship forms and finally develops into 'something more' that is both unlikely and lovely.

The theme of chance, as evidenced by le baiser gratuit (the unwarranted kiss), runs throughout the novel. The idea of coincidence determining destiny is also clear in one of the most-cited extracts from La délicatesse, the scene in which Nathalie and her husband go on their first date:

"Le jus d'abricot, c'est parfait. Si elle choisit ça, je l'épouse... -
Je vais prendre un jus... Un jus d'abricot, répondit Nathalie. Il la regarda comme si elle était une effraction de la réalité.

It is because Foenkinos makes us wonder at these miracles that we are so easily drawn into the novel. Despite everything that seems to happen by chance in the novel, however, Foenkinos ties the whole story together in 117 'mini' chapters, which are not only told from the points of view of Nathalie, Markus and even Charles, but sometimes also consist of nothing but facts. For instance, one chapter will describe Nathalie and Markus having dinner together and then next will simply enumerate the ingredients used to make their risotto. One chapter will tells us about how Nathalie hops on a train and the next will detail the arrival and departure times of her journey. In some ways, this is the juxtaposition between the surreal and banal, the circumstantial and deliberate.

It is in one of these chapters that Foenkinos cites Larousse in explaining the literal meaning of the title:

La délicatesse : n.f.
1. Fait d’être délicat. (To be delicate)
2. Litt. Etre en délicatesse avec quelqu’un : être en froid, en mauvais termes avec quelqu’un. (To be in delicacy with someone: to be on bad terms with someone)

Indeed, delicacy manifests itself throughout the novel. Nathalie herself is delicate in a petit and charming way and is the outwardly embodiment of delicacy. Yet after she becomes widowed, she finds herself in a delicate situation of which the indelicate Charles hopes to take advantage. As Nathalie herself concludes, even Chloe - her colleague - asks indelicate questions and cares only for "des ragots" (gossip). Nathalie becomes "en délicatesse" with them. On the other end of the delicacy spectrum, however, is Markus. Considerate of Nathalie's feelings and gentle towards her, Markus encapsulates the warmth and understanding of delicacy. It is through such delicacy that Nathalie finds solace and renewed love. For example, we are told in the first page of the novel that is "assez rare pour une Nathalie" (rare for a Nathalie) to not feel any nostalgia. Yet after Markus gives her un distributeur de Pez as a gift, she is transported back into her childhood past. How lovely is it that Foenkinos shows us delicacy in a man whom is otherwise regarded by those around him as graceless and ungainly?

Finally, the novel itself is also a work of great delicacy. In the final chapters, Nathalie reveals that she used to play hide-and-seek in her garden and would open her eyes after 117 seconds. Of course, the question of chance and coincidence now emerges in not only the story but also in the work, for it is in the 117th chapter that the novel concludes with a one-liner: Nathalie ouvrit les yeux. In a poetic and delicate way, it is indeed as if each chapter of the novel was only a second.

It is within one of these "seconds" that Foenkinos writes one of the most striking lines I have ever read in any French novel: "le Larousse s'arrête là où commence le coeur" (Dictionaries stops where the heart starts). So, although Foenkinos intersperses what appears to be fortuitous with facts and definitions throughout La délicatesse, it is finally emotion from le coeur - the impulsive act of un baiser gratuit - that trumps rationality and brings two seemingly disparate, but delicate, individuals together.

La vie peut être belle quand on sait l'inconvénient d'être né.

Pourquoi sommes-nous autant marqués par un détail, un geste, qui font de ces instants minimes le coeur d'une époque?

On peut penser, toujours dans la folie, d'un mouvement presque démiurge, que l'on est au coeur du coeur de l'autre. Que la vie se résume à un vase clos des valves pulmonaires.

Le sentiment amoureux est le sentiment le plus culpabilisant. On peut alors penser que toutes les plaies de l'autre viennent de soi. On peut penser, toujours dans la folie, d'un mouvement presque démiurge, que l'on est au coeur du coeur de l'autre. Que la vie se résume à un vase clos des valves pulmonaires.

La vie peut être belle quand on sait l'inconvénient d'être né.

Le sommeil est un chemin qui mène à la soupe du lendemain.

Après leur dernier échange, il était parti lentement. Sans faire de bruit. Aussi discret qu'un point-virgule dans un roman de huit cents pages.

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Grâce à l'exil, mes enfants n'ont jamais été des prolongements de moi, de mon histoire

Ru by Kim Thúy
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Kim Thúy's Ru is a moving, elegantly written and deeply personal work that demonstrates the relentlessness of the past and the immortal pull of home.

A semi-autobiography that draws on Thúy's own experiences as well as those of her kin, Ru recounts the musings and recollections of, Nguyên An Tinh, a Vietnamese woman in her 30s who spent her youth running away from a cage home in Saigon, escaping the communist terror in Southern Vietnam and travelling by boat with her fellow refugees to seek safety.

Ru is recounted in snippets, des bribes, as Thúy takes readers back and forth in time, distance and memory. Initially, it seems that we are only reading the story of one woman; as the novel progresses, however, the gates of history open up as we learn the stories of soldiers in the war, the host family that supported the refugees, the Vietnamese women who worked in the rice fields...
Much tradition and culture is also discussed in Ru as Thúy writes about noodles and soup, staples of Vietnamese breakfasts, and how touching another's head is a grave insult in Vietnamese culture.

Thúy tells the most memorable and horrifying stories in simple and poetic ways, moving and shocking us all at once. We learn of diamonds etched into the teeth of escapees, a Vietnamese woman dying after falling into an open-air toilet, soldiers needing to sleep with ice to forget the heat of war. All stories are told in an interrupted and graceful stream of thought, which is fitting since ru means 'flow' in French and 'lullaby' in Vietnamese.

So in a string of short and non-linear flashbacks, we begin to piece together not only Nguyên's story, but also that of the boat people, those expelled from their homeland by war and armed with only the courage to live.

In this way, Ru demonstrates the power of literature in helping readers become more accepting, empathetic and internationally-minded people. One's heart goes out to Nguyên in compassion and pity as she recollects the lure of the American dream; one cannot help but feel for her when she remembers the nostalgic pull of Bounce. It is through the characters we meet in books that we come to love our protagonists regardless of their race and gender and eventually develop a world view considers human beings by character and not premeditated judgement.

In Ru, there is a scene where Nguyên explains that she tells her son, Pascal, a Vietnamese story so that he learns something no schools will teach today - so that he carries on a part of that lost history. If such passage of information is Nguyên's aim in writing Ru, she succeeds. She not only captures the essence of childhood, young adulthood and motherhood in a style that is beautifully poetic, but also captures the hardships of the "gens du pays" to whom the novel is dedicated.

Ru is a beautiful and evocative tribute to all who lost their lives - both in death and in displacement - in seeking a better future. It's a novel that reminds us to be grateful for our present - but to never dismiss the past.

Mes parents nous rappellent souvent, à mes frères et à moi, qu'ils n'auront pas d'argent à nous laisser en héritage, mais je crois qu'ils nous ont déjà légué la richesse de leur mémoire, qui nous permet de saisir la beauté d'une grappe de glycine, la fragilité d'un mot, la force de l'émerveillement. Plus encore, ils nous ont offert des pieds pour marcher jusqu'à nos rêves, jusqu'à l'infini.

J'avais oublié que l'amour vient de la tête et non pas du coeur. De tout le corps, seule la tête importe. Il suffit de toucher la tête d'un Vietnamien pour l'insulter, non seulement lui mais tout son arbre généalogique.
Si une marque d'affection peut parfois être prise pour une offense, peut-être que le geste d'aimer n'est pas universel: il doit être traduit d'une langue à l'autre, il doit être appris. Dans le cas du vietnamien, il est possible de classifier , de quantifier le geste d'aimer par des mots spécifiques: aimer par goût (thích), aimer sans être amoureux ( thuong), aimer amoureusement (yeu), aimer avec ivresse ( mê), aimer aveuglément ( mu quang), aimer par gratitude (tinh nghia). Il est donc impossible d'aimer tout court, d'aimer sans sa tête.

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Sommes nous de si petites choses, si infinitement petites, que nous ne pouvons rien?

No et moi by Delphine de Vigan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Daphne de Vigan's No et Moi is a moving novel because it captures that golden space of time in childhood during which a guileless child, curious and optimistic, recognizes all that is flawed with the world and tries to change it.

When faced with an upcoming presentation for her social and economic sciences class, our young yet fiercely intelligent protagonist Lou decides to interview No, a homeless girl - or, as the French call it: une femme sans domicile fixé (SDF) - to discover what life on the streets entails.

Even before the day the task was assigned, Lou had already noticed No by the train station countless times. There friendship seems, in a way, 'meant to be.' It is such keen sense of observation on Lou's part, her curiosity and her endless capacity for caring deeply, that is so characteristic of her as the novel develops.

For a while, No and Lou meet regularly for coffee and form an initially tentative, but gradually more natural, friendship while the interviews continue. After Lou's presentation is over, however, No vanishes from her life - Lou, frantic to find her, eventually tracks her down and begs to see her. Yet Lou's request request is rejected by No who harshly responds, "c'est pas ta vie, tu comprends, c'est pas ta vie."

Independent as she is, Lou has a strong desire for companionship. Home is not a warm place; her baby sister died years ago, her mother struggles with depression and her father is often away for work. Thus, it is unsurprising that it is Lou who needs No - while No, despite caring about Lou, is ever-conscience of their different places in society and knows that they could never have a 'normal' friendship.

Yet, for a while, they do. Needless to say, friendship is the most significant theme in the novel. Le Petit Prince is quoted several times as Vigan draws to our attention the story of the fox and the prince. An unlikely pair, but close friends nonetheless because each is unique to the other. Is it not the same with No and Lou? The title of the novel, No et Moi, mirrors No's claim that "on est ensemble, hein, Lou, en est ensemble." Yet their bond is cruelly challenged.

Although the time during which Lou and No live together suggests the possibility of their friendship persisting, and indeed even seems to liven up Lou's family atmosphere, the heartbreaking reality of their relationship emerges without fail at the end of the novel.

No's problems do not dissolve even after she finds herself a social worker and temporary shelter. Forced to make a living, she dedicates herself to tireless working hours that eventually drive her over the edge and send her down the path of drink and smoke.

Bound on leaving and finding the life she deserves, No makes grand plans to leave for Ireland where her lover Loïc supposedly waits, and invites Lou to come along. Finally, however, we find out that Loïc was never there. Eventually, it is only No who quietly slips away, leaving No behind, restoring both of them to their 'proper' places and usual lives. It is a heartbreaking ending that throws into light the grand themes of the novel.

The maxim that encapsulates most of the situations in No et Moi and the one that Lou struggles to defeat, is this: les choses sont ce qu’elles sont. Things are what they are. It radiates pessimism and the very fixedness that divides No and Lou and keeps Parisien streets dotted with SDFs. As Lou aptly and poetically puts it,

On est capable d’ériger des gratte-ciel de six cents mètres de haut, de construire des hôtels sous-marins et des îles artificielles en forme de palmiers, (…) on est capable de créer des aspirateurs autonomes et des lampes qui s’allument toutes seules quand on rentre chez soi. On est capable de laisser des gens vivre au bord du périphérique.

A major theme in the novel is therefore abandonnement. One could say that Lou was abandoned by her mother, who lost herself in her sea of grief. Lucas, Lou's classmate on whom she has a crush, is certainly left alone in an empty apartment while his mother wanders elsewhere. Finally, No herself has been abandoned by not only family and Loïc, but also society.

Beneath the skin of this young-adult novel lies a serious plea for reconsideration - for an evaluation of the way we let our societal constructs barricade relationships across social ranks. For a reassessment of the SDF condition in France. The limitations drawn by rank feature prominently in many French novels; Muriel Barbery, notably, deals with this problem specifically in L'élégance du hérisson, through which she reveals how the clever concierge considers herself worthless due to her social standing.

And here in No et Moi we have an endearing protagonist who battles to overcome these stipulations.A n admirable one-girl-band, Lou reminds us the importance of grit, the unconditional quality of a beautiful friendship and also the need to realize that les choses ne doivent pas être ce qu'elles sont - things do not always need to be what 'they are.'

Vigan leaves us with a piece of advice that No demonstrated so well:

Il suffisait de regarder autour de soi. Il suffisait de voir le regard des gens, de computer ceux qui parlent tout seuls ou qui déraillent, il suffisait de prendre le métro.

Ultimately, only someone like No - whose curiosity leads her to wonder about subjects ranging from "le sense de rotation de la la langue" to those qui "dorment enfouis dans des sacs de couchage" - has the sensitivity and acute awareness to notice the injustices of society and has the admirable drive to remedy them as best as she can.


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Un bonheur inépuisable

Les Choses by Georges Perec
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

George Perec's Les Choses recounts the story of a French couple living in the 60s. Jérôme and Sylvie are pollsters: they live mundane and mediocre lives. Both dream of richesse and luxury, but such a life incessantly eludes them. Even after things look a bit brighter on the financial side, unwise spending throws them into the struggles of frugality once more. Finally, they decide to move to Tunisie (escape, really) - for a change of scene, for the possibility of materialistic promise - but even there they experience but an illusion of satisfaction and remain lost in the ironic depths of an insipid existence.

Indeed, "Ils étaient un petit îlot de pauvreté sur la grande mer d'abondance."

The whole novel brims with Perec's meticulous description of 'things - ' the first chapter offers us a very detailed view of Jérôme and Sylvie's dream home, analyzed down to the very rug. In the first chapter, we also glimpse the most characteristic, and frequently occurring element of the novel: Perec's use of the conditional tense.

Indeed, the whole novel is characterized by the 'unconditional,' the dreamed of and would be - their ideal room 'would' be like this, their lives 'would' turn out a certain way, they 'would' follow this routine... through the conditional tense, Perec captures the very malaise that strikes the novels' protagonists:

"Ceux qui ne veulent que vivre, et qui appellent vie la liberté la plus grande, la seule poursuite du bonheur, l’exclusif assouvissement de leurs désirs ou de leurs instincts, l’usage immédiat des richesses illimitées du monde, ceux-là seront toujours malheureux"

Pushed by their boundless materialistic desires, Jérôme and Sylvie lose themselves on the thread of life; however, their problem cannot be so easily summarized in the words "consumerism" or "materialism," and neither can the novel's main theme. Although it seems that Les Choses is, to a certain degree, an attack on a consumerist society that lusts after only 'things,' Perec's portrayal of the couple seems to extend the novel's scope in a different direction.

There's something about the vapidness of their lives, the emptiness of the consciousness and the fruitlessness of their ambitions that suggests something rather than merely materialism is at work. The novel captures a search for happiness and modernity in a world where both elements seem less and less mutually exclusive. Jérôme and Sylvie seem to embody a 60s (post-war, when job vacancies have plunged again) attitude - drawn to the modern, grasping only a meager essence of it and being lured instead by the 'things' that surround them.

Les Choses is short and direct: Perec spells out their young lives in a matter of chapters. In fact, certain arguments postulated in the Postface of the edition I read raise the question of whether or not Les Choses can even be considered 'un roman.'

Language-wise, this novel gets one used to heavy narration. Perec makes heavy use of synonyms and run on sentences to not only illustrate his descriptions of the many 'things' but also elaborate on Jérôme and Sylvie's condition. Long as such sentences are, they certainly serve to reinforce the characters' mediocre and repetitive lives reeking of sameness.

Les Choses is a great read if you're looking for some concentrated food for thought. Writing about only two characters (of symbolic significance, of course) and a LOT of detailed description to guide you through his thoughts on happiness in a modern world, Perec offers us the chance to unpack this novel, contemplate the characters' fears and desires and ultimately reach our own conclusions concerning the nature of leur bonheur - and the powerful influence of les choses around them.

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PS - I finally got instagram at instagram.com/maytheforce707

Il faut vous accrocher à l'humain qui est en vous et vous survivrez

After suffering a stroke in December 1995, Jean-Dominique Bauby - the former editor in chief of the magazine Elle - found himself a victim of 'locked-in-syndrome:' fully paralysed, trapped inside his diving-bell-esque rigid chamber of a body and only able to blink his left eyelid.

Yet instead of wallowing in self-remorse, Bauby composed The Diving Bell and the Butterfly in his head over the course of his paralysis and then proceeded to 'write' it via (for medical terminology's sake) "partner assisted scanning." Here's how it worked: a very patient and dedicated nurse/significant other would read the alphabet out-loud (an alphabet rearranged in order of letter usage frequency) and Bauby would simply blink his left eyelid to select letters and spell out sentences.

Such a system resulted in the publication of Le Scaphandre et le Papillon in 1997, and the production of a film (I am about to review) 2007. I decided to watch The Diving Bell and the Butterfly over the weekend primarily because I'm reading the original text in French class but also because I wanted to justify staying up late. Plus, who can resist the temptation of watching a film that was nominated for 4 Academy awards?

In the beginning of the film, we observe the world through Bauby's lens - through his blinking (and sometimes wandering, men's gaze-esque if you know what I mean) left eye. There's an incredible, instantly gripping dialogue sequence where Bauby zones half in/out of consciousness while doctors and nurses peer at him and repeatedly speak to him in assuaging tones - and all the while Bauby is muttering in the background, trying to piece together his own conclusions.

Then, one can't admire the genius camera work that ensues when Bauby blinks - and opens his eyes again to reveal to us audiences a snapshot of his past, of his moving/fast-paced life as editor in chief of Elle. Throughout the film, such 'clips' recur to not only add a bit of much-welcomed movement to the film but to also reveal much about Bauby before his stroke. Indeed, there's a part in the book where he wonders to himself whether the nurses around him know anything of his identity before he became paralysed. Perhaps the movie's visual flashbacks are attempts to reconstruct some of that identity.

Above all, the film - like the book - highlights two main facets to Bauby's situation: firstly, it reveals how his condition affects his life and relationships. Indeed, there is a brilliant scene where a fly lands on Bauby's nose and he - unable to lift a finger - watches it with a wild eye before it is swatted away. On a more emotionally-striking level, the one-sided phone calls he has with his father and lover are heart-wrenching .... not to throw in a major plot spoiler but when Inès calls and he responds "chaque jour je t'attends," have your tissues ready.

Secondly, Bauby's story compellingly reveals the indisputable force of imagination, without which the book would have never been written. And it is imagination that sends Bauby on mental holidays and fantasies, scenes the film pays particular attention to.

Another little detail the film honed in on was capturing tiny symbolic motifs - from the corner of the camera frame, one will see a tiny butterfly flutter by the window...

Also, the soundtrack is fabulous and I haven't been able to get La Mer out of my head for a week already.

All in all, The Diving Bell and The Butterfly is a stunning film, one that certainly does the book justice (although perhaps not Bauby himself, as his friends seem to argue).


There is no doubt that Bauby sits on the highest tier of human competence - it is remarkable that his strenuous internal-editing, determination and focus evolved into a 100+ page novel. And upon reading the novel and watching the film, one may understand how Bauby's imagination, free as a butterfly, was what kept him tethered to reality - and will inspire readers and audiences for generations.

Bradley Cooper speaking French

It is damp Saturday afternoon and boredom takes on the 12pt-sized, thousand-character form of my Chinese written assignment. Under such circumstances I'd much rather indulge in my new hobby - watching the humble, charismatic Bradley Cooper do interviews in French.
I seriously smiled/giggled throughout this:

Amour

THIS POST CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS 

AH, so, yesterday I decided to watch a French movie (must keep in touch with la langue), and what better option was there than the Oscar-nominated, Michael Haneke-directed AMOUR?

*The last scene of this trailer is equally chilling/incroyable in the movie
Brief plot introduction: Anne and Georges Laurent are an old married couple, and both retired music teachers. They live their quiet lives in peace, attending the occasional music concert, until ONE EVENTFUL DAY they are having a regular conversation and all of a sudden Anne completely zones out - she later ends up doing a surgery but it goes dreadfully wrong and she is rendered completely paralyzed on her right side. The rest of the movie revolves around Georges's efforts to take care of Anne, embellished by the occasional visits from their daughter, and one of Anne's previous pupils (Alexandre Tharaud playing himself!!).

This movie is called Amour (LOVE). Several different types of love are portrayed in this movie - husband-wife love, parent-child love, teacher-pupil love, not-quite-fulfilled young love, and merciful-killing love (euthanasia). Example of euthanasia in literature: George killing Lennie in Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men (speaking of Steinbeck, yes, I am nearly done with East of Eden and my mind was blown upon realizing that some of the characters were named after Steinbeck's parents).

Back to euthanasia - How does Anne die? Georges suffocates her. He dies soon after.

The first major question that popped into my head after I finished this movie - and one reiterated many times in the movie - was, "qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?" Because, what did happen?

This film was incredibly slow, SILENT (albeit minor piano snippets), yet exquisitely filmed. And although I have stated simply that Georges "dies soon after," it was not so plainly expressed in the film. After suffocating Anne, he walks around the house very silently for about 5 minutes and then walks back into the kitchen and ANNE IS THERE just calmly washing the dishes and then she leads him out of the house and apparently that represents Georges's death (Anne returning as an angel to lead him into darkness).

Honestly though, this film was so, so silent at times it was unbearable. I mean, there would be 5-second still shots of different paintings (WHY?!), without so much as a tinkle of sound. En revanche, sometimes Anne would be screeching 'MAL!!'

I suppose the slowness of the film contributes to the whole old-age vibe. There was one scene where Georges was halfway through brushing his teeth when suddenly the doorbell rang, and in all the movies I've ever watched where one is interrupted while brushing his teeth, one pauses - which is what Georges did - and then the camera CUTS to one's opening of the door - but nooooooo the camera followed Georges' continuation of spitting out the toothpaste, wiping his mouth on the towel, and THEN his procession to get the door...  this film is so delicately and carefully filmed. If it were a parcel, 'handle with care' would be stamped across it in large bold letters.

Haneke definitely knew what he was doing though, because look at all the Oscars this film is nominated for! Not saying Oscar nominations = awesome movie, but... actually, no, that is what I am saying. Plus Roger Ebert liked it, donc...

This movie is very French. There is 1) cussing 2) exposure of skin, if you know what I mean (but très mild) and 3) death.

Had to cross that out for fear of being slammed for being stereotypical. But really, if you are up for the challenge of dedicating 2 hours to watching this poignant film, GO DO IT! You will get points for sophistication. Besides, anything sounds elegant in French, so consider it a treat for thine ears.

Les Misérables

I finally decided that spending 2 hours (fruitlessly) working on my CT project is not how I want to be spending the second last day of 2012. I'm about to scurry off to read Great Expectations (which is ingeniously funny), but first... the LES MIS review!

So, on Christmas Day I watched Les Misérables, expecting to turn into a misérable (am I aware that this is the most overused pun regarding this musical? Yes, please forgive...) wreck in the cinema, and in retrospect, I was not actually a puddle of sobs, yet there were several specific scenes that rendered me a human hosepipe. Essentially, this post is going to be a review, but also an allow-me-to-elaborate-on-the-scenes-where-I-wept opportunity.

Firstly, the team (+Colm Wilkinson!!) as assembled for this movie is incredible (go look up the 'Best Ensemble' awards the film has already garnered) Tom Hooper, still fresh from the accolades of The King's Speech, managed to pull this off majestically - and by 'this' I mean directing a movie-musical where the singing is done live. The live singing is - for me - the most appealing factor of the film. It brings the realness of the story to a more intimate and emotional level that mere lip-syncing would have never achieved. Critics everywhere seem to be whining about Hooper's direction (shooting too close to the mouths of the actors), but seriously, leave the man alone, he is a legend.

Back to the cast - the men of this movie were fantastic - especially the revolutionaries. I was super impressed (and enchanted) by Eddie Redmayne, who was such a spot-on Marius, and delivered a heart-wrenching rendition of the already-poignant Empty Chairs and Empty Tables. Vocally, he is still inferior to Michael Ball, but performance-wise, I think Redmayne triumphed (same with Lea Salonga and Samantha Barks and essentially everyone in the movie).

The thing is, the music is already so legendary, no matter how awful any movie rendition is, the power of the music will still be present (the delivery still has to be acceptable to some extent, though).

Having said this, Russel Crowe was not exactly the dream-Javert (although certainly looks it), and his usually outstanding acting was a tad diminished by his singing in the film. Nevertheless, he mastered this one-line delivery - "one more step and you die" - that blew me away totally. His gravelly tones swallowed the moment, and made it whole. Moreover, when Javert pinned his badge on Gavroche (Gavroche was brilliant in all ways) - THAT was when I turned into the human hosepipe. Right before that scene was Enjolras and Grantaire's death, which was shot SO movingly, and after it, Empty Chairs and Empty Tables (that 'sacrifice' bit... cry cry cry) ... so those 20ish minutes of the film were stunning and tear-inducing.

The cinematography was  beautiful, whereas it's the city-view of France at dawn we are treated to at the end, or the kids running after Gavroche (so nostalgic), or the red/white/blue colours of the French flags mounted above the barricades...

Back to the cast: Bellatrix and Borat - I mean, Le Thénardiers were SUCH a breath of fresh air and unbelievably brilliant and humorous. Seyfried was an OK Cosette (to be fair, Cosette isn't that interesting, but it would be nice to see an actress really shape her character). Her best scenes were complimented by the wonderful Marius (although their rushed love-at-first-sight is a tad hard to believe). However, hats off to Hugh Jackman and Anne Hathaway for doing a marvelous job in this movie. Hathaway's rendition of I Dreamed a Dream is at the moment probably the most-discussed, but I think Valjean deserves ENORMOUS praise... Jackman fought for the role, and he owned it (he works so hard, he really deserves this).

Weeping at a film says a lot about one's emotional resilience, but also one's ability to feel, as a human being, and ... this film should make you cry.