Magic in the Moonlight

Tags

A-level English Literature, Alfa Romeo, au naturel, Baccalaureate, banlieus, billets-doux, Brig O' Turk, Colin Firth, Corniche, coup de foudre, Dumbo, E111, Effie Gray, Eileen Atkins, Emma Thompson, George Formby, ingenue, La France Profonde, Lady Chatterley's Lover, libertinarianism, Madame Blavatsky, Magic in the Moonlight, Merchant of Venice, Millais, Roman blinds, Romeo, Ruskin, sub-titles, ukelele, Urgences, village perche, Woody Allen

Back from Paris.  Only managed a rather saccharine Woody Allen film:

Magic in the Moonlight.  The French subtitles were the most interesting

feature of the viewing experience.  Much was obscured in translation,

and I was fascinated by what was lost.  I don’t think the audience

picked up on the Dickensian and Shakespearean references, even

though we were not exactly in the banlieus.  This led to stifled snorts

when we- my belle-soeur et moi– twigged some little blague or other

and the French remained tres serieux, not noticing the elephant on the

screen, as it were.

I am still amazed that one of my adult neighbours in The Charente had

not heard of Wimbledon, or, indeed, The Bard.  La France Profonde.

The opening of Act Five of The Merchant of Venice it wasn’t.  Loved the

old Alfa Romeo, though.  Preferred it to the ageing Romeo, aka Colin

Firth, who appeared deeply embarrassed throughout, as well he might.

At least he didn’t have to replicate any wet shirt moments. If he had,

then at least he would have dried off pretty quickly in that part of the

world.  They could have got him one of those vintage scratchy woollen

maillots that sagged in elephantine folds when soaked by the vagues,

They protected one’s modesty, while making one look ridiculous.

Eh bien, I know that by the use of that pretentious adjective to describe

the water-retentiveness of the aforementioned garment that I’m just

trying to extend the Jumbo/ Dumbo metaphors.  But, seriously, Colin’s

aunt could probably have knitted him one in her copious free time- when

she wasn’t drinking and driving recklessly, as aged rellies apparently did

back then.

The old bat seemed to have been a bit of a juvenile raver in her

flapperish youth.  The plot suggests that she paid the ultimate

price of her libertinarianism (she had probably bathed au naturel) by

having been jilted.  Good time girls were not marriageable material,

though she clearly had compensation from the married man.  Maybe

the villa?  Because you’re worth it.

I couldn’t help wondering what her string of pearls was worth in old

money?  Anyway, they were probably destined to find their serpentine

way round the cygnet-like neck of the cling-on before too many moons

had waned and you didn’t have to be Madame Blavatsky to make that

prediction.

Thought Eileen Atkins was the kind of aunt anyone could wish for.  Or

at least her villa would have been an attractive place to head for in the

school holidays, but only if there was unlimited access to the Alfa.  I

don’t think one would have wanted to be whirled down any of the

Corniches if she had been behind the wheel, as subsequent events

were to prove.

Oui, unless one’s E111 equivalent is up to date, a trip to Urgences

(Casualty, not a village perche) can be assez chere, even for whiplash.

I don’t think they had E111s in those days, let alone seat belts, or

air bags, but you’d probably have been okay. Just mention the aunt:

in French.

The aunt would have mobilised another rescue car.  She evidently

wasn’t short of a sou or two and she must have arranged for her

prestidigitarian nephew and his predatory ingenue to be rescued

from the observatory, as they managed  to return Chez Tante with

no visible taxi service after the orage. That was when the starry-

eyed duo’s relationship was initiated by a coup de foudre.

Don’t you just adore the obvious metaphor??!

Maybe she could have hired a fawning relative as a chauffeur for the

duration- chauffeuse??  Would have beaten taking a student job in

a transport cafe in good old Blighty.

Anyway, one felt a little sorry- but not too much- for the millionaire

ukelele- playing buffoon who was grooming the ingenue.  No amount

of Worth frocks could have enticed or seduced a girl to shack up with

a richer version of George Formby.  The price for having led him up the

garden sentier was probably a lifelong requirement to check the Roman

blinds were permanently down in the bedroom, especially when the

window cleaner arrived and a need to hurry past all street corners lit

by heritage lamp-posts.  It would probably be easier on one’s nerves

to return the frocks, jewellery and promissory billets-doux.

Tried to be a good aunt myself.  Took a brief trip to Le Vesinet to assist

The Nephew with his A-level English Literature.  No, he is not sitting the

Baccalaureate.

Right, tell me the texts you are studying.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

Fine.  (Gulp!)

Oh well, better initiate him into the mysteries.  Look what happened to

poor old Ruskin, as no one informed him of certain basics of the female

anatomy.

Returned home and caught up with Brassica and co.  They’d been to see

Effie Gray, the film whose script was written by Emma Thompson.  Would

be interesting to see if she handles the metaphor more subtly.

It reminded me that I should re-blog my Ruskin poem- the one where the

great art critic is standing in the falls at Brig O’ Turk- probably inviting

rheumatism- and his rival in love, Millais, is painting him while engaging

Effie in some Life Classes.

Will post it next!

La Vie Boheme

Tags

Angelina's, beau monde, Bradley Wiggins, Brigitte Bardot, Cafe de Flore, Cocteau, Da Vinci Code, Gorden Kaye, Irma Kurtz, Jeanette Winterson, John Humphrys, La Boheme, La Vie Bohème, Les Deux Magots, madeleine, Mallarme, Manon, Maxim's, Mimi, Muriel Belcher, Musetta, Novello, Oscar Wilde, Perrault, Pippa Middleton, Proust, Rimbaud, Rodolfo, Rose Line, Rousseau, Shakespeare& Co, Something Understood, St Germain des Pres, St Sulpice, The Colony, Verlaine, Woody Allen

(Muriel Belcher by Francis Bacon)

Hi!  It’s Candia again.  I’ve been festively overwrought and last night I fell asleep listening to Irma Kurtz on Radio 4’s ‘Something Understood.’  She had constructed a compilation on La Vie Boheme, mentioning La Rive Gauche, Greenwich Village and The Colony in Soho, owned by Muriel Belcher, where Francis Bacon was paid to bring along interesting guests who were on an ‘odyssey of creativity’.

As a student, I had worn a cape and affected a feathered hat until my dad told me to tie my hair back and remove the offending headgear.

 Then I woke upto someone singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Xmas with a voiceover chiding John Humphrys with a reminder that there were more things on Heaven and Earth than had been permitted in his philosophy. Rather surreal to have the announcement of Bradley Wiggins as Sports Personality of the Year juxtaposed with cosmology and moral philosophy at 8am.

I had a somewhat unusual request yesterday, Dear Reader.  A visitor asked if he could have a guest appearance in my blog.  And who is this budding self-publicist? I hear you wonder aloud.  Eh bien, he was a rather elegant Frenchman that I introduced to Costamuchamoulah’s café society via une promenade round the aspirational, but pas trop authentique Francophile Sunday morning market in our beloved ville.  This event of global significance was ‘appening on the High Street.  (Why do I always think in terms of Gorden Kaye’s Franglais when I am narrating anything of Gallic content?)  Anyhow, it was with un soupcon of Rousseau’s irony that I directed said gentilhomme’s footsteps down the less than sunny side of the street to Suttonford’s burgeoning version of Maxim’s.

We did not recognise anything remotely familiar to this European voyageur in le marche and so I headed him off past the bookshop-alas, not Shakespeare & Co, with a resident Jeanette Winterson, but to the cosmopolitan hub of Suttonford’s Café Society.  On the way across the street my boulevardier remarked approvingly on various expensive vehicles, parked in bays, which screamed mid-life crisis.

He seemed more interested in the clientele, though the owners of Costamuchamoulah have not yet cottoned on to the device employed by Cornuche, the proprietor of Maxim’s, who remarked:

An empty room!  Never!  I always have a beauty sitting in the window, in view from the [pavement]

Here it is more like Novello’s version of the experience: And Her Mother Came Too!

(There are one or two widows, but not necessarily of the ‘merry’ variety.)  Woody Allen was distinctly absent, but there were no Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds,(sic) at least.

Ensconced in a corner, at an unwiped table and on hard chairs- not the sumptuous banquettes which might reveal hidden treasures lost down the cushions- we ordered our upwardly mobile beverages, while he showed me photographs of his international girlfriends on his Blackberry – ( is that Murier, I me demande?)  Monsieur was keen to exhibit pictures of himself in Les Deux Magots. Was this a kind of Parisian, urban, if not urbane, Crocodile Dundee equivalent of showing me that THAT was a café, in the same way as Paul Hogan had demonstrated the superiority of his jungle knife?  Whatever.  I was miffed that he had assumed that I would not have heard of such an establishment, so beloved by les philosophes, let alone having patronised it with my custom.

Les Deux Magots has thankfully nothing to do with maggots.  Un magoh was the slang term for a miser.  I don’t think misers would search out the pitchers of decadent hot chocolate found therein, nor would they pay their prices to see Oscar Wilde, Mallarme, Rimbaud etc.  In Costamuchamoulah, we pay the prices, but don’t see Apollinaire, Verlaine or Hemingway.  Apparently, Pippa Middleton might have breezed through, though I don’t know whether it was to check the sales of her book which is displayed beside the edible ladybirds and so froth.  Pun.  Formidable rear isn’t la meme chose as formidable intellect, in my book at any rate.

But to my tale- pas Perrault, but tant pis!  Ah yes, I remember it well.  The Husband and I slipped on the glacial trottoirs of St Germain- des- Pres, in the days when he went out, seeking the church of St Sulpice with its Rose Line and gnomen, but thankfully with no resident albino monk assassins.  The fountain was frozen and great slabs of sheet ice almost prevented us from venturing to the Café de Flore or Deux Magots, for it was the Advent season, as it is now.  Ah, those were the days and nights of Angelina’s and other beau monde haunts, where we expected to encounter  Mimi, Manon, Musetta and Rodolfo and perhaps, if we were very blessed, Proust himself.  Mimi had wanted to lose her senses and Musetta had forgotten the regulation of their economies and had asked the boys to order champagne.  We were a little less extravagant.

For that is the problem with such cafes of Enlightenment. Before you know it you are emptying your bank balance, merely to see and be seen.

My current companion looked around the room, panning the four corners for a barefoot Brigitte Bardot perhaps, but his eye fell upon a smart blonde woman in her fifties.  Quel surpris!  He confessed that young girls were not for him.  Like Cocteau, he was well aware that:

..to undress one of those women [would be] like an outing that calls for 3 weeks’ advance notice…it [would be] like moving house.

So, it was on my first sip of Mocha that I had the flashback, the Epiphany-and it came without the madeleine.   I will enlighten you further.

A demain..!