“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”
— Franklin Roosevelt
SAINT-PIC-LE-LOUPE (Dordogne), France — What I remember with the most delectation from my first visit to Paris took place in the dark, at the Grand Action cinema in the Latin Quarter, which was showing Fritz Lang’s “While the City Sleeps,” retitled in French “The Fifth Victim.” (If French is the more poetic of the two languages, whoever is in charge of translating movie titles is wanting in this department, although it’s no better going the other direction; American distributors reduced “The Fabulous Destiny of Amelie Poulain” to “Amelie,” denuding the title of this cinematic proverb of its moral.) Returning to Paris the following summer, I luxuriated in walking from my flat at 33 rue Lamartine (where Baudelaire once lived) in the 9th arrondissement, along the rue La Fayette (“I am here!”), then the Boulevard Jean Jaures to the parc La Villette for the annual outdoor cinema festival. Never mind that Emmanuel Beart’s voice was sometimes a minute ahead of her lips, that it was vain to try to “Shshsh!” people come for the picnic as well as the film, the annoying wafts of cigarette smoke or that, because the film never started before a sundown sometimes falling as late as 10:30, staying until the end meant making the last Metro problematic; I was happy to stroll home, past the corner “Turkish” joints with schwarma grilling on spits, the glass facade of the Gare du Nord, a trompe d’oeil graffiti taking up an entire wall, and over the train tracks…. The Cinema in Pleine Air, as it’s called, presenting each year a different theme, seemed the quintessential Parisian summer event, combining pot-luck ensemble dining and cinema, all this under an azure summer sky. And for free — the perfect manifestation of the Socialist thinking — towards the well-being of the collective — so often vilified in the United States, at least pre-Bernie Sanders. Even delicately stepping around bottles of Bordeaux, quiches in aluminum pans, baguettes, cheese, and tomato salads arranged on blankets so close they seemed to compose a giant patchwork quilt was just another opportunity to demonstrate one’s proficiency at the art of politesse.
This afternoon, as the Senate prepared to approve (after an assembly vote okayed it by a vote of 489 to 26 ) a 6-month extension of the State of Emergency in place since November 13 (President Francois Hollande having re-considered his inclination to end it after the Nice massacre), the Paris prefecture announced the cancellation of the rest of this summer’s Cinema en Plein Air, which opened July 13 and was supposed to continue through late August. Before a change in travel plans, I was all set last week to see the triple-header (over three nights) of “Rushmore,” “Miami Vice,” and “Jour de Fete,” this year’s theme being something like All Dressed Up with Everywhere to go.
“Rushmore” is just about the most romantic movie this side of “Splash,” with Wes Anderson’s boarding school hero mounting an elaborate battle on a high school stage, complete with real miniature helicopters and genuine fire-fights, to win the heart of his would-be sweetheart.
“Miami Vice,” Michael Mann’s film extension of his glam ’80s television series, proffers the simple solutions to crime-solving that seem to elude us when it comes to these murderous gangs which masquerade as religious crusades.
“Jour de Fete” is Jacques Tati’s ode to a rural France (in which I spend my time when I’m not in Paris) which, I hope, can still be saved, the last of my illusions in this our year when living became dangerous being that maybe we’re too small for them to notice us.
In rural France, we tend to ‘faire avec notre mal.’ My morning today started with the sound of withered terra cotta roof tiles being tossed on the pavement by the roofer who began working on the house two doors down Monday. I thought he was ribbing me when he said, “We’ll be starting at 6 a.m. every day,” but soon figured out that the hour makes sense given that we’re having Texas-like 100+ degree afternoons here in the Southwest of France, and not even my cat would want to sun on that hot terra cotta roof. So instead of agonizing, I (figuratively) hung a “Gone Fishin'” sign on my door and have been having my thermos coffee on a narrow Eiffel-era rusty iron bridge above the low-lying Dordogne every morning, exchanging the clacking tiles for the tweets of birds and occasional traffic, after checking and writing e-mail outside the tourism office to the cascades of a nearby fountain and the barking of farmers setting up their duck pate, salami, vegetable, and too many tchotchke stands. This particular morning also started with the welcome sound of Fabrice chatting from his attic window with the roofer (our house, in between the two, looks out over another neighbor’s garden where the pink roses are in their second bloom), before he returns to Bordeaux for more leukemia treatments; they are looking for a bone marrow donor. On Sunday, my neighbors Michel and Emilie and their 25-year-old son had me over for the first barbecue on their terrace of this late-breaking summer; the trellises of green table grapes were enough to protect us from the burgeoning Sun, as we savored rillette Charentaise, Toulouse sausages, marinated Texas-style (emphasis on ‘style’) chicken, turkey kebabs, ventriche, and sumptuous cheeses, washed down with parakeets (pastisse + mint syrup), cold Occitania (this being the new-old name for the four regions previously known as the Languedoc-Rousillon and Midi-Pyrenees) rosé, and chalky, earthy, rustic Pecharmant (the local red). Their son in law, who joined us later with his wife to arrose Michel and Emilie’s new car with deliciously fruity champagne accompanied by a home-made apple tart with a crust so buttery I told Emilie it could be mistaken for Brittany shortbread, said that it was inconsistent to have a State of Emergency which theoretically banned demonstrations (easy targets) but which in fact allowed most of the labor demonstrations which took place this Spring-Summer. Personally, I took courage from prime minister Manuel Valls’s passionate assembly defense last night against right-wing legislators who want to set up a French version of Guantanamo to lock up *potential* terrorists that (paraphrasing), “In France, we don’t lock people up based on suspicion. We know where that has lead us over the past century,” a reference to, among other episodes, the Dreyfus affair.
I think that the current government is doing its best under ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t’ circumstances. For the rest of us, on faire avec notre mal.
— Paul Ben-Itzak