I married twice, the first time (25 through 30) to a film maker (his term) who fell in love with film at the IDHEC
in Paris. I have an idea of why I married him (he asked, for a start) but I have no idea of why he married me. And when I up and quit, his principal response was that he did not like being second in any decision.
Very early on in our time together, he took me to see the films of Jean Luc Godard.
Eight of them in five days. He spoke fluent French, I watched and listened and paid attention. In the Euston Road afterwards, I asked him please, to explain why this work was so important. He said “Any fool can see …” I should have known then. Because I couldn’t.
In the BBC common practice, the film named in English as Breathless was shown at the weekend. And it will rerun next week. My tv and film crib sheet often offers a couple of well placed lines – amusingly tart, covering the basics. I once wrote and complimented whoever was involved and received a response from the editor. This time around it says”… gloriously cool film” and I knew what the problem was.
I was never cool.
Never have been. Longed to be. Hoped that if I understood it, I might at least aspire. But not a hope. Trying to look up “cool” online is funny. There are so many bits and pieces from conventional usage to modern variations which make me feel I am not speaking my own language. I knew I missed that boat and became involved in my choices, what I thought. Hang cool.
The man behind the film began as a critic. Dislocation number two. I read critics for information to help me make up my own mind.
I have seen a lot of the now deceased Franco-Swiss eminence’s other films and I like them all better than this breakout number, now listed as one of the greatest films ever made, which my then new and admired husband declined to explain to me. (Childishly I want to stand on a box and shout “Who says ?”)
It would have been a tall order, for him to explain because French cinema at that time was remote from British and US product in more ways than through language. “A different inheritance” would have been a nice phrase to start with, which would have eased the feeling from the exchange that I was just thick.
A dear friend rang last night to say she was going to watch
and I haven’t spoken to her because I lasted an hour, switched off and I didn’t care. Positives include the actors and the camerawork but “genius” is an overworked word generally, in any kind of artistic endeavour, and however deeply interested in film I am, see my title: it’s always personal.
How we make choices is fascinating. I saw a little review of an exhibition of paintings by William Nicholson and remembered that Pam the Painter used to love him. When I mentioned his name, you’d have thought he was a favourite uncle –“Oh yes” she said. Two different and close friends thought I might like Notting Hill but I didn’t.
I was brought up to be me, to find out who that was, refine it, understand it and trust it. To this end, and he heard nothing of it from me, one of my first husband’s oldest friends remarked to me (Michael was in Sweden scouting locations) “You are much brighter than Michael.” I gaped.
And apparently, it wasn’t an intellectual pass – to which I might have been susceptible, so desperately did I want to be taken seriously. He meant it.
An enormous step on the road to trusting my own judgement.
Of course I learned to say socially graceful things like “I am afraid I have never understood…” or “What an interesting point of view! “ but the $64,000 interior question was “What do I think ?” Oh I can be wrong – in spades – or miss the point but when you tell me “everybody” thinks this or chooses that, I growl quietly. There’s only me in matters of taste. It’s always personal.
Just call me Godmother
Annalog 