I've admittedly been a bit lax lately and haven't taken the time to recount the activities of the past few days. Unfortunately now that I want to, I don't have the time. Morgane and I are off to Barcelona for a couple of days (This will be my first departure from Orly that didn't require a pre-dawn wake up call).
Since this will be a fairly quick trip I'm unlikely to take/have time to visit any internet cafes. Therefore there is the possibility that the Arkansan will be silent for several days.
I'm very excited about seeing Barcelona. For as staid a person as I am, I enjoy vibrant cultures/lands. I suppose I envy the general looseness, and have a drive to see or be a part of it in the vain hope that it might rub off on me. Growing up in school there were always stupid posters hanging on teachers walls (apologies to all my friends in the teaching field) that had things like cats dangling from a poll saying, "Hang in there!" (Hopefully I wasn't the only one subjected to this sort of stuff) There was one I remember with Garfield where he had books tied to him, the caption read: "Learning by Osmosis." If something could sum up my desire to experience vibrant cultures it would be that poster. Even if my attempt is misguided and doomed to fail, it's at least an honest desire. Perhaps I'll even be lucky enough to have some of it rub off on me.
My day with the Kings of France, my day with the first freedom fighter, and my coming days in Spain will have to wait until I return to be heard. I'm off to the airport.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Easter Monday
Yesterday was a national holiday here. I haven't been able to figure out exactly what it is for. Actually, that is incorrect. It's an easter holiday. The part I've been confused about is why. France is an avowedly secular nation yet, Easter Monday is a national holiday. There doesn't seem to even be a pretend reason or excuse to make it seem less overtly preferential to a particular religion.
Growing up in America I was never exposed to an "Easter Monday." Since I am generally compelled to figure out that which is unknown to me, I quickly realized that the United States is one of the few "Christian" nations that do not observe Easter Monday as a national holiday. I was used to getting out of school on the Friday before Easter. Ostensibly it was always for "teacher's meetings" but the stated reason was nothing more than a veneer covering the real reason: Good Friday (Since I spent my entire childhood in the same school district in Arkansas, I can't really project my experience onto other areas but wouldn't be surprised if this practice is/was common).
Perhaps because I have too much time on my hands I'm allowed to think about these things but, as weird as a secular nation having an easter holiday is, it makes some sense here. First, having the national holiday on Good Friday would be very hard to rationalize. Having the national holiday fall on Easter Monday grants some explanatory leeway. Although the nation is ostensibly Roman Catholic, the rates of atheism and agnosticism are extremely high (polls vary but around 65% of the population claim one or the other) while the statistics for "belief" tend to run around a quarter of the population. But, as most of us probably know from our own experiences, there are two holidays that still bring out the most reluctant churchgoers: Easter and Christmas (I recall dreading these church services because my always punctual father would require us to leave for church an hour or two early to ensure we had a good seat...well, pew I guess). The same pattern holds true here as Easter continues to be a very important commercial and religious holiday weekend. Since Easter always falls on a Sunday, having a national holiday on Monday allows for families to get together across the nation and return home without the stress of the following work day hanging over them.
As per usual, it seems that I'm perpetually confused by this nation. Everything I encounter appears a bit odd or confusing on the surface. Invariably, on deeper inspection, these surface opinions tend to turn out to be quite logical. Unfortunately, in the ever changing face of France, logical rule is desperately needed. As the demographics and opinion of the nation continue to evolve, as politicians across the spectrum become more vocal about their own faith, can secularism in it's current state be the answer?
Growing up in America I was never exposed to an "Easter Monday." Since I am generally compelled to figure out that which is unknown to me, I quickly realized that the United States is one of the few "Christian" nations that do not observe Easter Monday as a national holiday. I was used to getting out of school on the Friday before Easter. Ostensibly it was always for "teacher's meetings" but the stated reason was nothing more than a veneer covering the real reason: Good Friday (Since I spent my entire childhood in the same school district in Arkansas, I can't really project my experience onto other areas but wouldn't be surprised if this practice is/was common).
Perhaps because I have too much time on my hands I'm allowed to think about these things but, as weird as a secular nation having an easter holiday is, it makes some sense here. First, having the national holiday on Good Friday would be very hard to rationalize. Having the national holiday fall on Easter Monday grants some explanatory leeway. Although the nation is ostensibly Roman Catholic, the rates of atheism and agnosticism are extremely high (polls vary but around 65% of the population claim one or the other) while the statistics for "belief" tend to run around a quarter of the population. But, as most of us probably know from our own experiences, there are two holidays that still bring out the most reluctant churchgoers: Easter and Christmas (I recall dreading these church services because my always punctual father would require us to leave for church an hour or two early to ensure we had a good seat...well, pew I guess). The same pattern holds true here as Easter continues to be a very important commercial and religious holiday weekend. Since Easter always falls on a Sunday, having a national holiday on Monday allows for families to get together across the nation and return home without the stress of the following work day hanging over them.
As per usual, it seems that I'm perpetually confused by this nation. Everything I encounter appears a bit odd or confusing on the surface. Invariably, on deeper inspection, these surface opinions tend to turn out to be quite logical. Unfortunately, in the ever changing face of France, logical rule is desperately needed. As the demographics and opinion of the nation continue to evolve, as politicians across the spectrum become more vocal about their own faith, can secularism in it's current state be the answer?
Monday, March 24, 2008
Fajitas in France
It's official. I woke up to the songs of migratory birds this morning instead of cooing pigeons. Completing the picture, the sun was pouring in through the window creating the urge to get up while my eyes were vainly trying to remind the rest of my body that we needed more sleep.
Last night, Julie and Maude (Morgane's best friends) came over for dinner à la Arkansan (also known as fajitas). Periodically during my stay here I've wanted Mexican food but it hasn't been too difficult to deal with (I suppose knowing it's not readily available helps to deal with the urges). Abstaining from Mexican food is probably strange to imagine for most of you since my love affair with the cuisine is well known.
Though I was a bit skeptical of the fajitas seasoning packet we got at Monoprix, I must say it turned out very well. My first bite was unbelievable. It was like I had been in the desert and didn't realize I was dying of thirst until I got the first drink from the oasis. I was ravenous. I think I swallowed two packed tortillas before the girls even began to fold their first.
My mind was sent back to a place that seems so far away in my mind--sitting around the backyard, dinner on the grill, and drinking sweaty bottles of Bud. Memories I guess I was too afraid to dwell on for fear of the funk that they might create. To corrupt Mr. Dahl--Funk or not, a little nostalgia, now and then, is relished by the wisest men.
Last night, Julie and Maude (Morgane's best friends) came over for dinner à la Arkansan (also known as fajitas). Periodically during my stay here I've wanted Mexican food but it hasn't been too difficult to deal with (I suppose knowing it's not readily available helps to deal with the urges). Abstaining from Mexican food is probably strange to imagine for most of you since my love affair with the cuisine is well known.
Though I was a bit skeptical of the fajitas seasoning packet we got at Monoprix, I must say it turned out very well. My first bite was unbelievable. It was like I had been in the desert and didn't realize I was dying of thirst until I got the first drink from the oasis. I was ravenous. I think I swallowed two packed tortillas before the girls even began to fold their first.
My mind was sent back to a place that seems so far away in my mind--sitting around the backyard, dinner on the grill, and drinking sweaty bottles of Bud. Memories I guess I was too afraid to dwell on for fear of the funk that they might create. To corrupt Mr. Dahl--Funk or not, a little nostalgia, now and then, is relished by the wisest men.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
The Rites of Spring
I've officially made it to spring. Morgane and I celebrated by engaging in the age old ritual of cleaning. As most of you already know, we are living in Clint's apartment while he travels in India (Clint is Morgane's brother). Clint is somewhat of a pack rat. He seems to have trouble letting go of anything (even if it's a Naughty by Nature single from 15 years ago). Despite this, the place has always been relatively clean though never approaching a state resembling order.
After living with a house full of guys for the past two years, a perpetual state of disorder is unfortunately something I've grown to accept. This is not the case with Morgane. Something within her took over and it was cleaning time. My portion of chores consisted of cleaning the kitchen and the shower room (a peculiar feature of most French abodes is the shower and the toilet being in separate rooms).
When you have a dirty rug, mat, or table cloth the common practice here is to shake it out the window. This is a quite natural practice exercised throughout the world. The difference is that here you are dumping whatever filth you've acquired on the table cloth out on the sidewalk below. I wouldn't want to be attacked by crumbs when I walk so I've been a little hesitant about aerial bombing the sidewalk four floors below. I have, however, slowly gotten used to it and don't think much about it anymore. This is largely because, save for one incident where I accidentally hit the windshield of a parked car with a grape while people were in it, I haven't had any problems. I've never heard any French curses directed at me after I shook out a table cloth or a floor rug.
As Winnie the Pooh might say, it's been very "blustery" here of late. Bursts of rain and wind have been followed by periods of sunshine, giving the past week an odd feel. I had shaken out the kitchen floor mat and left it hanging over the balcony railing while I cleaned the floor. Perhaps it was naive to leave it hanging without weighing it down--shades of Kramer dropping the blinds on the Commando 8 and declaring, "Installed!" This naturally proved to be true. As I was beginning to swab the floor a big gust of wind rattled the windows and started to take the mat with it just as I turned around. Unlike Kramer, my naivety didn't fall on a dog. Luckily it landed harmlessly on the sidewalk below as I hung over the balcony helplessly staring down at it. The startled looks of the bystanders quickly turned into smiles and laughter when they saw me pathetically staring down at the sidewalk below.
My mat adventures aside, the cleaning went well. Though there is still stuff bursting out of every closet, drawer, and shelf, the place has taken a more orderly shape--one that is befitting to the new season and the renewal it promises.
After living with a house full of guys for the past two years, a perpetual state of disorder is unfortunately something I've grown to accept. This is not the case with Morgane. Something within her took over and it was cleaning time. My portion of chores consisted of cleaning the kitchen and the shower room (a peculiar feature of most French abodes is the shower and the toilet being in separate rooms).
When you have a dirty rug, mat, or table cloth the common practice here is to shake it out the window. This is a quite natural practice exercised throughout the world. The difference is that here you are dumping whatever filth you've acquired on the table cloth out on the sidewalk below. I wouldn't want to be attacked by crumbs when I walk so I've been a little hesitant about aerial bombing the sidewalk four floors below. I have, however, slowly gotten used to it and don't think much about it anymore. This is largely because, save for one incident where I accidentally hit the windshield of a parked car with a grape while people were in it, I haven't had any problems. I've never heard any French curses directed at me after I shook out a table cloth or a floor rug.
As Winnie the Pooh might say, it's been very "blustery" here of late. Bursts of rain and wind have been followed by periods of sunshine, giving the past week an odd feel. I had shaken out the kitchen floor mat and left it hanging over the balcony railing while I cleaned the floor. Perhaps it was naive to leave it hanging without weighing it down--shades of Kramer dropping the blinds on the Commando 8 and declaring, "Installed!" This naturally proved to be true. As I was beginning to swab the floor a big gust of wind rattled the windows and started to take the mat with it just as I turned around. Unlike Kramer, my naivety didn't fall on a dog. Luckily it landed harmlessly on the sidewalk below as I hung over the balcony helplessly staring down at it. The startled looks of the bystanders quickly turned into smiles and laughter when they saw me pathetically staring down at the sidewalk below.
My mat adventures aside, the cleaning went well. Though there is still stuff bursting out of every closet, drawer, and shelf, the place has taken a more orderly shape--one that is befitting to the new season and the renewal it promises.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Lefty's Luck
Morgane and I were going to spend yesterday in the city. I was in charge of the itinerary. After a day studying my city maps I felt pretty confident about the day's plans. Our first stop was supposed to be the Gustave Moreau museum. After debarking our train at Saint Lazare, I successfully directed us to the museum by foot only to find it was closed because the staff was on strike. Bad luck.
We had an hour to kill before having lunch at Le Bistral, my friend Finney's place of employment, so we began walking north by northwest from rue la Rochefoucauld towards Place de Clichy and then through the neighborhoods of the eastern portions of the XVII arrondissement. Along the way we serendipitously stumbled upon several different shops that Morgane is going to be able to use for her business. Good luck.
After a quick stop at a boulangerie to get some bread to tide us over before lunch we headed down rue Legendre so I could poke my head into Ste. Marie des Batignolles. Closed for renovations. Bad luck. (This is of course compounded by the fact that I tried to look into Ste. Trinite on our way to the museum and it was also closed) We then continued our stroll along the edge of the park at Square des Batignolles before making our way back to Le Bistral for an early (by French standards) lunch.
Le Bistral is an experimental restaurant (progressive might be the appropriate word). So, compliments of Finney, we were able to bookend our brazed pork with cheese polenta lunch with an entree (appetizer)of fresh goat cheese with beet sauce and a dessert of caramel ice cream on top of green jello, garnished with a fried sugar cracker. I'm not up on haut cuisine but I found it oddly impressive and enjoyable so I'll put it down as good luck.
What made the restaurant experience doubly enjoyable was the appearance of Steeve Eastatof, the winner of the second season of Nouvelle Star (the French American Idol). I don't watch the American show let alone the French interpretation so I didn't recognize him. I was however completely bowled over by his dress. If you click on the link you can get an idea of what I'm talking about. I've never seen a 36 year old man dress like he did. He seems to be going through a severe identity crisis (Barring Halloween, what would possess a person to wear a Sheriff's badge clipped onto their sweater?). Unfortunately Steeve hasn't had much success in the recording industry (the French aren't as keen on manufactured stars as we are) and from what Morgane could gather of his conversation has been consistently misled by the show and his managerial team as to his commercial prospects since winning three years ago. While I derived humor from his appearance, I feel sorry for him more than anything else. He seems to be caught in an uncompromising web of distorted hopes and misplaced trust.
After lunch we walked back towards Place de Clichy to see Julia, a movie starring Tilda Swinton. Neither of us knew much about it. Since she just won an Oscar and it's been a few weeks since a decent English language movie as been released here we figured what the hell. Coincidentally, "what the hell" was also our post movie reaction. We sat through a neurotic, sprawling two hour film that follows an alcoholic woman as she kidnaps a kid, only to have him re-kidnapped from her in Tijauna before she gets the ransom. Bad luck.
Though there were a few disappointments along the way, when it was all said and done it was a good day. My perception of the events and of the luck were extraneous to the fact that Morgane was happy. What's a closed museum here and a bad movie there when your girlfriend is happy? It's like having a win against a ranked opponent when you factor it into your life RPI.
(For the non-basketball fans, the last sentence was my segue)
Yesterday was the first day in my life that I can remember not watching day one of the NCAA basketball tournament. It was the first time I've ever made picks without having formed ideas and opinions about teams. It was the first time I ever made picks without spending hours reading about the match ups.
Somewhere along the way my love for basketball faded. When I was in elementary school I wore, on alternating days, a matching Michigan jersey and shorts (I can't quite recall if it was Jalen Rose or Jimmy King's number) or a North Carolina one (Eric Montrose). Every day in fifth and sixth grade I wore one or the other. I even wore them during the winter. Periodically my mother was able to convince me to wear a jacket or sweatshirt but never pants. Thirty-five degree weather outside and I was in shorts riding my bike to school with Grant (he of course was sporting Razorback gear--Corliss). My mom wore those jerseys out having to wash them everyday. That fiendish passion slowly devolved these past few years to the point where the Big Dance itself was the only thing I got excited about during the season (maybe I have been unconsciously preparing myself for yesterday).
So I've blindly made my picks. In the course of which I also made the one decision in the past I never allowed for myself: letting fan-dom interfere with reality. I picked UT to win it all. This is far from a pipe-dream since UT is a number two seed. I was always too superstitious to actually pick the team I wanted to win (even if I thought they had a good shot). Since this is the first year I don't know my elbow from my asshole in the NCAA world, I guess it fits (Unfortunately mistakes have already been made--I'm pretty sure I had USC, as my dark horse, going to the final four in a yahoo group. Oops.)
This of course highlights the well known mantra that having the perfect bracket always boils down to luck. Proof of this was hilariously highlighted on ESPN two years ago during George Mason's improbable run to the Final Four. One of the gentleman to pick the Patriots to the Final Four thought he had been choosing George Washington. Upon realizing what he did, he said to himself, "Why not George Mason?" and picked them to make the Final Four.
Lefty Gomez once said he'd "rather be lucky than good." If there is a better adage to apply to bracketology or life, I haven't found one. For myself, I always feel as if I'm on the edge, getting tantalizingly close but never quite having the one little missing piece of luck that would thrust me from second or third in the bowl challenge or the tourney bracket into first. It's a situation many of us face in life and one that is irritatingly hard to deal with. It is like being hungry and seeing a meal take place within a house but you are stuck at the window staring, unable to figure out how to get inside. It's a position in which Mr.Eastatof seems to have found himself. He got a glimpse but can't figure out how to position himself at the table. Nor is it any different for teams that sit at home and watch a "cinderella" like George Mason have the ball bounce there way, knowing that it could as easily been them as was not them. Is it better to fail without ever knowing what awaits inside the house or to fail but catch a glimpse?
We had an hour to kill before having lunch at Le Bistral, my friend Finney's place of employment, so we began walking north by northwest from rue la Rochefoucauld towards Place de Clichy and then through the neighborhoods of the eastern portions of the XVII arrondissement. Along the way we serendipitously stumbled upon several different shops that Morgane is going to be able to use for her business. Good luck.
After a quick stop at a boulangerie to get some bread to tide us over before lunch we headed down rue Legendre so I could poke my head into Ste. Marie des Batignolles. Closed for renovations. Bad luck. (This is of course compounded by the fact that I tried to look into Ste. Trinite on our way to the museum and it was also closed) We then continued our stroll along the edge of the park at Square des Batignolles before making our way back to Le Bistral for an early (by French standards) lunch.
Le Bistral is an experimental restaurant (progressive might be the appropriate word). So, compliments of Finney, we were able to bookend our brazed pork with cheese polenta lunch with an entree (appetizer)of fresh goat cheese with beet sauce and a dessert of caramel ice cream on top of green jello, garnished with a fried sugar cracker. I'm not up on haut cuisine but I found it oddly impressive and enjoyable so I'll put it down as good luck.
What made the restaurant experience doubly enjoyable was the appearance of Steeve Eastatof, the winner of the second season of Nouvelle Star (the French American Idol). I don't watch the American show let alone the French interpretation so I didn't recognize him. I was however completely bowled over by his dress. If you click on the link you can get an idea of what I'm talking about. I've never seen a 36 year old man dress like he did. He seems to be going through a severe identity crisis (Barring Halloween, what would possess a person to wear a Sheriff's badge clipped onto their sweater?). Unfortunately Steeve hasn't had much success in the recording industry (the French aren't as keen on manufactured stars as we are) and from what Morgane could gather of his conversation has been consistently misled by the show and his managerial team as to his commercial prospects since winning three years ago. While I derived humor from his appearance, I feel sorry for him more than anything else. He seems to be caught in an uncompromising web of distorted hopes and misplaced trust.
After lunch we walked back towards Place de Clichy to see Julia, a movie starring Tilda Swinton. Neither of us knew much about it. Since she just won an Oscar and it's been a few weeks since a decent English language movie as been released here we figured what the hell. Coincidentally, "what the hell" was also our post movie reaction. We sat through a neurotic, sprawling two hour film that follows an alcoholic woman as she kidnaps a kid, only to have him re-kidnapped from her in Tijauna before she gets the ransom. Bad luck.
Though there were a few disappointments along the way, when it was all said and done it was a good day. My perception of the events and of the luck were extraneous to the fact that Morgane was happy. What's a closed museum here and a bad movie there when your girlfriend is happy? It's like having a win against a ranked opponent when you factor it into your life RPI.
(For the non-basketball fans, the last sentence was my segue)
Yesterday was the first day in my life that I can remember not watching day one of the NCAA basketball tournament. It was the first time I've ever made picks without having formed ideas and opinions about teams. It was the first time I ever made picks without spending hours reading about the match ups.
Somewhere along the way my love for basketball faded. When I was in elementary school I wore, on alternating days, a matching Michigan jersey and shorts (I can't quite recall if it was Jalen Rose or Jimmy King's number) or a North Carolina one (Eric Montrose). Every day in fifth and sixth grade I wore one or the other. I even wore them during the winter. Periodically my mother was able to convince me to wear a jacket or sweatshirt but never pants. Thirty-five degree weather outside and I was in shorts riding my bike to school with Grant (he of course was sporting Razorback gear--Corliss). My mom wore those jerseys out having to wash them everyday. That fiendish passion slowly devolved these past few years to the point where the Big Dance itself was the only thing I got excited about during the season (maybe I have been unconsciously preparing myself for yesterday).
So I've blindly made my picks. In the course of which I also made the one decision in the past I never allowed for myself: letting fan-dom interfere with reality. I picked UT to win it all. This is far from a pipe-dream since UT is a number two seed. I was always too superstitious to actually pick the team I wanted to win (even if I thought they had a good shot). Since this is the first year I don't know my elbow from my asshole in the NCAA world, I guess it fits (Unfortunately mistakes have already been made--I'm pretty sure I had USC, as my dark horse, going to the final four in a yahoo group. Oops.)
This of course highlights the well known mantra that having the perfect bracket always boils down to luck. Proof of this was hilariously highlighted on ESPN two years ago during George Mason's improbable run to the Final Four. One of the gentleman to pick the Patriots to the Final Four thought he had been choosing George Washington. Upon realizing what he did, he said to himself, "Why not George Mason?" and picked them to make the Final Four.
Lefty Gomez once said he'd "rather be lucky than good." If there is a better adage to apply to bracketology or life, I haven't found one. For myself, I always feel as if I'm on the edge, getting tantalizingly close but never quite having the one little missing piece of luck that would thrust me from second or third in the bowl challenge or the tourney bracket into first. It's a situation many of us face in life and one that is irritatingly hard to deal with. It is like being hungry and seeing a meal take place within a house but you are stuck at the window staring, unable to figure out how to get inside. It's a position in which Mr.Eastatof seems to have found himself. He got a glimpse but can't figure out how to position himself at the table. Nor is it any different for teams that sit at home and watch a "cinderella" like George Mason have the ball bounce there way, knowing that it could as easily been them as was not them. Is it better to fail without ever knowing what awaits inside the house or to fail but catch a glimpse?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Categorical Cinema
One of my favorite things about living in Austin was the Paramount Theater, specifically their summer classic movie series. Virtually everyday from Memorial Day through Labor Day one has the opportunity to watch films on a big screen in a storied theater. I've spent countless hours there in the course of my Austin summers watching various movies, from Lawrence of Arabia and Army of Shadows to Dr. Strangelove and Silk Stockings.
There are many wonderful aspects of Paris (too many to count in fact) but, having theaters strung throughout the city showing old films ranks high on my list. As a tourist or short-term visitor this sort of thing probably won't appear on your to-do list but as an expat or mid to long range visitor like myself, it's one of the many positive aspects of life in Paris. Perhaps it's a somewhat minor perk but it's an enjoyable one nonetheless.
Yesterday morning Morgane and I took the train into the city to a theater on the Left Bank just north of the Pantheon. We were going to watch a 2PM showing of L'Affaire Ciceron (American title: 5 Fingers). The film is based on a true story and stars James Mason as a valet to the British Ambassador in neutral Turkey during WWII. I was pretty excited about seeing it. As it turned out, we were the only people in the theater that weren't alive when the film was released (1952). This, coupled with the fact that throughout the movie Morgane kept falling asleep on my shoulder, made me question how "cool" going to see old movies in the afternoon really was. (In Morgane's defense, it's very tiring trying to keep up with dialogue in a foreign language. Unfortunately I tend to forget how difficult it is for her despite my own situation since I am so used to speaking normally with her)
Hip or not, I loved the movie. Walking out of the theater it dawned on me that I had an overall movie type which was reflected in my enjoyment of the film. What I mean by a "type" is that one will enjoy just about any film given it has certain characteristics. This isn't necessarily one's favorite movies but a soft spot, a cinematic weak point for certain types of movies. For others, these tendencies can perhaps be more easily categorized into certain genres--there are lovers of samurai films, romantic comedies, silent films, etc. Unfortunately my own self-categorization is far from normal and even further from natural. Firstly, since I am a logophile of sorts, good dialogue is of the utmost importance. The other two characteristics are fairly interrelated--international intrigue and foreign locations, which isn't to say foreign films just films that occur in non-domestic locales. I suppose this is a fairly specific typecast for myself but it holds true. I can't think of a movie I've seen that has the stated characteristics that I didn't enjoy. However, if a film is lacking in certain aspects, my overall enjoyment decreases (i.e., The African Queen, The Bourne Supremacy, Patriot Games). So while I still derive enjoyment out of imperfect movies that possess the qualities of my movie type, they are unable to approach the enjoyment I derive from cinematic paradigms like Notorious, The Third Man, or The Bourne Identity that encapsulate all three categories in various forms.
My overly self-analytical mind again rears its ugly head. Someone told me once that it's necessary to know what you want in life. I've always struggled trying to figure out what it is I wanted but in the narrow slice of life that is cinema, I feel like I do. It's not much but it's a start.
There are many wonderful aspects of Paris (too many to count in fact) but, having theaters strung throughout the city showing old films ranks high on my list. As a tourist or short-term visitor this sort of thing probably won't appear on your to-do list but as an expat or mid to long range visitor like myself, it's one of the many positive aspects of life in Paris. Perhaps it's a somewhat minor perk but it's an enjoyable one nonetheless.
Yesterday morning Morgane and I took the train into the city to a theater on the Left Bank just north of the Pantheon. We were going to watch a 2PM showing of L'Affaire Ciceron (American title: 5 Fingers). The film is based on a true story and stars James Mason as a valet to the British Ambassador in neutral Turkey during WWII. I was pretty excited about seeing it. As it turned out, we were the only people in the theater that weren't alive when the film was released (1952). This, coupled with the fact that throughout the movie Morgane kept falling asleep on my shoulder, made me question how "cool" going to see old movies in the afternoon really was. (In Morgane's defense, it's very tiring trying to keep up with dialogue in a foreign language. Unfortunately I tend to forget how difficult it is for her despite my own situation since I am so used to speaking normally with her)
Hip or not, I loved the movie. Walking out of the theater it dawned on me that I had an overall movie type which was reflected in my enjoyment of the film. What I mean by a "type" is that one will enjoy just about any film given it has certain characteristics. This isn't necessarily one's favorite movies but a soft spot, a cinematic weak point for certain types of movies. For others, these tendencies can perhaps be more easily categorized into certain genres--there are lovers of samurai films, romantic comedies, silent films, etc. Unfortunately my own self-categorization is far from normal and even further from natural. Firstly, since I am a logophile of sorts, good dialogue is of the utmost importance. The other two characteristics are fairly interrelated--international intrigue and foreign locations, which isn't to say foreign films just films that occur in non-domestic locales. I suppose this is a fairly specific typecast for myself but it holds true. I can't think of a movie I've seen that has the stated characteristics that I didn't enjoy. However, if a film is lacking in certain aspects, my overall enjoyment decreases (i.e., The African Queen, The Bourne Supremacy, Patriot Games). So while I still derive enjoyment out of imperfect movies that possess the qualities of my movie type, they are unable to approach the enjoyment I derive from cinematic paradigms like Notorious, The Third Man, or The Bourne Identity that encapsulate all three categories in various forms.
My overly self-analytical mind again rears its ugly head. Someone told me once that it's necessary to know what you want in life. I've always struggled trying to figure out what it is I wanted but in the narrow slice of life that is cinema, I feel like I do. It's not much but it's a start.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
An Alternate Anatomy
One defining feature between here and home is the movie store. The relationship between Paris and the cinema is no secret so I was quite surprised to find out that the movie rental store is a rarity here. Instead there are movie banks. In functionality and use they are very similar to ATM machines. You navigate through choices on a screen to find the rental you want. After you choose your title, the machine distributes the film out of a slot. When you need to return your disc the slot opens, you place the disc inside, a computer scans it and your account is charged for the rental.
The system sounds pretty nice and when it works properly it is indeed. The owner cuts down on overhead by not having a large store and multiple employees. The customer benefits from the accessibility and its ease of use. For me the large drawback is the browse. I love to browse—record stores, book shops, and movie stores. There's an inherent pleasure in seeing the product and making your choice at your own leisure. The ATM style of movie rentals is a cold replacement that puts the onus on the shopper, requiring him or her to know what they want before they come. Suggestions or help are completely absent in the process (not to mention the promotional pleasures one can find in things like free beer Tuesdays at I Luv Video in Austin).
Another consumer drawback is cost. It is four euros to rent a film for 24 hours. A minute late with your return and the price jumps to ten euros! Being used to 75 cent late fees, this was quite a shock. I don't know if the punishment fits the “crime” but I guess it works. I see people renting movies all the time, myself included.
With the above rant, I assume that one can deduce that my abstinence from television has been compensated by movies. I've always been a big moviegoer but here the habit seems to have multiplied a bit. Part of it might just be the allure of cinema in Paris. This would at least account for my trips to the cinema but leaves the question of DVDs unanswered. It occurred to me that this half of the equation might come from living with a person who shares my pleasure in films. Which, of course, is a far cry from living with one television and three guys whose taste didn't always run concurrent with mine.
As a change of pace, Morgane and I had started watching Grey's Anatomy on DVD. I know, I know. As a male I'm not supposed to openly admit to this sort of thing but I got hooked on the show at the tail end of season two (spring of 06). As a result my late conversion I had never seen the first season nor the majority of season two.
I guess it's a good thing that only seasons one and two are available at the cinebank because I think my body has begun to reject the show. Through dreams my mind has been telling me it has OD'ed on Grey's. It's natural to dream about things in your life, or even things not in your life. They're just dreams, right? But there comes a point when they stop being “just dreams” and become something more, something too frequent, too disturbingly natural, too real.
I started dreaming dreams populated with the characters of the show inserted into my daily life. Worse than that, we were all cohabiting in a large house that was eerily similar to my childhood home (without getting too deep, I assume this was a representation of the hospital since it serves as their “home” on the show). Several nights running now I've had to deal with the Christina's sarcasm, the chief's fatherly advice, and Meredith's whining fluctuations of perspective. We ran out of episodes to watch a few days ago, so I'm hoping that they'll stop. In the mean time, I'm on the prowl for new cinematic distractions.
The system sounds pretty nice and when it works properly it is indeed. The owner cuts down on overhead by not having a large store and multiple employees. The customer benefits from the accessibility and its ease of use. For me the large drawback is the browse. I love to browse—record stores, book shops, and movie stores. There's an inherent pleasure in seeing the product and making your choice at your own leisure. The ATM style of movie rentals is a cold replacement that puts the onus on the shopper, requiring him or her to know what they want before they come. Suggestions or help are completely absent in the process (not to mention the promotional pleasures one can find in things like free beer Tuesdays at I Luv Video in Austin).
Another consumer drawback is cost. It is four euros to rent a film for 24 hours. A minute late with your return and the price jumps to ten euros! Being used to 75 cent late fees, this was quite a shock. I don't know if the punishment fits the “crime” but I guess it works. I see people renting movies all the time, myself included.
With the above rant, I assume that one can deduce that my abstinence from television has been compensated by movies. I've always been a big moviegoer but here the habit seems to have multiplied a bit. Part of it might just be the allure of cinema in Paris. This would at least account for my trips to the cinema but leaves the question of DVDs unanswered. It occurred to me that this half of the equation might come from living with a person who shares my pleasure in films. Which, of course, is a far cry from living with one television and three guys whose taste didn't always run concurrent with mine.
As a change of pace, Morgane and I had started watching Grey's Anatomy on DVD. I know, I know. As a male I'm not supposed to openly admit to this sort of thing but I got hooked on the show at the tail end of season two (spring of 06). As a result my late conversion I had never seen the first season nor the majority of season two.
I guess it's a good thing that only seasons one and two are available at the cinebank because I think my body has begun to reject the show. Through dreams my mind has been telling me it has OD'ed on Grey's. It's natural to dream about things in your life, or even things not in your life. They're just dreams, right? But there comes a point when they stop being “just dreams” and become something more, something too frequent, too disturbingly natural, too real.
I started dreaming dreams populated with the characters of the show inserted into my daily life. Worse than that, we were all cohabiting in a large house that was eerily similar to my childhood home (without getting too deep, I assume this was a representation of the hospital since it serves as their “home” on the show). Several nights running now I've had to deal with the Christina's sarcasm, the chief's fatherly advice, and Meredith's whining fluctuations of perspective. We ran out of episodes to watch a few days ago, so I'm hoping that they'll stop. In the mean time, I'm on the prowl for new cinematic distractions.
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