Journaliste/traducteur (New York Times, et cetera) américain, metteur en scène, DJ, animateur des ateliers théâtrales pour les enfants expérimenté cherche échange de bons procédés (logement contre travail) en région Parisienne a partir du 25 mai, durée à discuter. (J’ai une maison en Dordogne donc ca peut être même pour quelques semaines. Au présente je suis sur Paris et on peut se rencontre avant.) Échange des bons procédés logement – travail (Leçons anglais, Comm., gérance sites web, gérance galeries d’art, Traduction fr. – ang., Rédaction, Consultation art/s, Dramaturgie, DJ, garde chats, pub sur mes sites: la Maison de Traduction, et the Dance Insider & Arts Voyager. Références si besoin. Voici quelques infos me concernant. Merci de me contacter par mail a l’une des adresses suivant: firstname.lastname@example.org ou email@example.com.
Journaliste/traducteur (New York Times, et cetera) américain, metteur en scène, DJ, animateur des ateliers théâtrales pour les enfants expérimenté cherche échange de bons procédés (logement contre travail) en région Parisienne a partir du 11 mai, durée à discuter. (J’ai une maison en Dordogne donc ca peut être même pour quelques semaines, Au présente je suis sur Paris et on peut se rencontre avant.) Échange des bons procédés logement – travail (Leçons anglais, Comm., gérance sites web, gérance galeries d’art, Traduction fr. – ang., Rédaction, Consultation art/s, Dramaturgie, DJ, pub sur mes sites: la Maison de Traduction, et the Dance Insider & Arts Voyager. Références si besoin. Voici quelques infos me concernant. Merci de me contacter par mail a l’une des adresses suivant: firstname.lastname@example.org ou email@example.com.
by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak
Like what you’re reading? Please let us know by making a donation so that we can continue this work. Please designate your PayPal donation in dollars or Euros to firstname.lastname@example.org , or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. To translate this article into French or another language, see the button at the right.
PARIS — Having decided that what I’m living and seeing and sensing and experiencing around me in Paris in 2019 (from my particular perspective, that of a California-born, San Francisco-bred, Princeton-educated, Alaska-humbled, New York-baptized, Texas-burned, Paris-tested, Dordogne-mellowed Eastern European – American – Western European migrant) has more resonance as a post-modern remake of Vincente Minelli’s 1951 film — albeit with my efforts to trace the footsteps of a 39-year-old Gene Kelly hobbled by the chronic sciatic of a 57-year-old I’m not a dancer, I just play one on the dance floor DJ-translator-actor — than a resurrection of Gallo-Roman Paris, and also in the hopes I’ll stop feeling (romance-wise) like a gladiator who keeps getting thrown to the lionesses and instead find my own Leslie Caron, still nursing her wounds as only a Frenchwoman can but ultimately ready to be healed and coaxed into taking my hand and dancing besides me along the Seine (think you might be her? Or just want to play ping-pong? Click here to find out more about me), I’ve decided to change the name of this column from “Lutèce Diaries” to “A post-modern American in Paris,” with a nod towards the mentor who first suggested this deconstruction.
On Wednesday night, then, I found myself comfortably ensconced in an Art Nouveau-style iron chaise attached to a concrete pillar of the belvedere perched atop the park Belleville looking out over the rooftops of Eastern Paris — if the Beaux Arts ball at which Kelly finally heals Caron’s war wounds and convinces her to click heels with him for a lifetime were held today, it would be displaced from Montmartre to Belleville, which has supplanted its Northern neighbor as the city’s artistic nucleus, notwithstanding what appears to be a losing battle to the encroaching forces of BoBo-dom — at just after twilight, waiting for the Eiffel to start scintillating as I gingerly gummed a morsel of Balkan Ajvar (eggplant and red peppers), spread on Lebanese flat bread, with the recalcitrant aid of the sole tooth remaining on the lower right side of the mouth, the lower left just coming out of the effects of the Novocain after my dentist had lopped off the morsel of sharp projecting bone which had been delaying the modeling of a downstairs denture to join the upstairs one.
Between beginning my day by telling the lioness who had chewed up too much of my precious time over the past month “Ca suffit” and terminating it with the dentist removing the bone spike which was impeding my efforts to pique Caron, I felt as though my day had been bookended by the removal of two bone spurs, one from the heart and one from the mouth, leaving my two most sensitive/sensuous organs now liberated to fully profit from Paris, my city. Whence the ethereal sensation that had subsumed me as I’d mounted the rue Menilmontant 30 minutes earlier (after crossing the Place de la Republique, my dentist being located on Pissarro’s Grand Boulevards near the Metro Good News), a soul sensation completed by a brain epiphany furnished by the black tee-shirt of a pony-tailed, Mediterranean-complexioned lady about my age going the other direction, whose white writing read (in English):
I’m not perfect
I’m an original.
Despite a festering blister (on the heel of the foot already occasionally numbed by the sciatic), I’d decided to start my search at a new cafe-associative opened by a couple of transplants from Lyon, “Dorothy’s,” named after the American Catholic Worker Dorothy Day, but whose website had promised “We may be run by Christians, but we’re open to everybody.” I wasn’t looking for Christ, but for a dancing partner, this being “Folk Ball Night.” As there was no mention of a price on either the website or the door poster, I’d assumed that apart from the bar the evening was free, and was ready to accept attempted proselytization as the price of admission. (This seems like a fair trade. In eastern Fort Worth, where I’d spent a spell before returning to France, I sometimes scored free hot bar-b-que, butterscotch icinged-cake, sandwiches, donuts, and even tee-shirts from a Christian help organization which set up in the parking lot of the Fiesta super-market across from the library on Saturday evenings. You didn’t even have to eat sur place but could take the fixin’s with you. Except for one holy roller, the closest they got to proselytizing me was the warm, genuine “God Bless you!” with which the pretty zaftig Latino woman who seemed to be in charge would send me off with my goodies; that she was on crutches the last time I’d seen her had not diminished her exuberance. The time after that — my last Saturday in Texas — she didn’t show up, so I’d left the Tennessee Ernie Ford religious songs record I’d brought for her with another volunteer.) Perhaps my being ready to dance with the Lyonnais Christians on the rue Menilmontant was also a reaction to the atheist lioness who’d just chewed me up and spit me out.
Unfortunately, I’d no sooner entered the long hall leading to Dorothy’s dance hall (after stuffing a fourth bandage into my bleeding jaw), half-way up Menilmontant than I saw the cash box at the entry. Apparently the chance to harvest my soul was not enough for the Christians; I’d also have to show my filthy lucre. Despite that this meant abandoning my entry line — “Hello, I’m Dracula, and I’ve come to dance” — I turned away, down the hill, and right onto Cascades to head towards the parc Belleville.
With my fellow Bellevilloises already gathered there, many of them chugging beer, swigging wine, or pique-niquing on the concrete, planted parapets separating the belvedere from the closed park below, the ambiance made me think back to another gathering in the same place — several days after the November 13, 2015 terrorist attacks that took the lives of 130 fellow Parisians — spontaneously convened for the silent bonhomie and to regard the park, the rooftops, and most of all the sparkling Eiffel, as if to reassure ourselves that beauty still existed. So I suppose I should have been content that when the Eiffel began sparkling on this early Spring Wednesday evening, sharply at 8 p.m., I seemed to be the only one who noticed, my companions being too busy talking and laughing and drinking and looking at each other (and shouting at their ‘putain des I-phones’) to notice. It’s the kind of comfort in crowds that only big cities can offer. I’ve had a similar feeling on subways since the attacks, not unlike the sensation I felt riding the 22-Filmore bus in San Francisco right after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. You don’t really feel alone, but joined with others who want to be here, in this place, in this moment.
As for Leslie, heading home down the rue des Pyrenees, at the book exchange box near the place I scored a copy of Katherine Dunn’s “Geek Love,” which I thought was a good omen. She doesn’t have to be perfect — just in the market for an original.
by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 20019 Paul Ben-Itzak
Written Monday, February 18. Re-written February 25 and dedicated to Pamela and Sabine in memory des belles moments passé autour de la rue des Martyrs. And to Emmanuelle Pretot, camarade en tout choses Truffaut. Like what you’re reading? Please let us know by making a donation so that we can continue this work. Please designate your PayPal donation in dollars or Euros to email@example.com , or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. If we bring in $120 we can continue to mend our bleeding heart with a boxed set of the complete works of François Truffaut. To read this article entirely in French or any other language, just click the translation button at the right.
PARIS — So there I was at dusk, heart broken and sentiments seeping out, teeth throbbing and gums bleeding profusely into a bandage I was trying in vain to grit (hard to grit when half your teeth are gone), staggering up the rue des Martyrs towards the Montmartre cemetery and the grave of the man I blamed it all on: François Truffaut.
In the late French director’s five-film, 20-year saga that began with the 1959 “The 400 Blows” and climaxed with “L’amour en fuite” (often mistranslated as “Love on the Run”; “Love Escapes” or “Love is leaking” are more exact) Antoine Doinel, played throughout by Jean-Pierre Leaud, is constantly running away: from school, from the army, from his teachers, from jobs ranging from pushing miniature boats in corporate ponds to spray-painting daisies to night-clerking to agency detective to t.v. repairman, and most often from the women in his life: His mother, his wife (the effervescent Claude Jade, whom Antoine, in the 1968 “Stolen Kisses,” rightly calls “Peggy Proper” for her prim manner), his girlfriend (the eponymous Dorothée, who made her debut in the 1979 “L’amour en fuite” and would go on to haunt the dreams of generations of French children as the country’s equivalent to Romper Room’s Miss Nancy), his older mistress (the wife of his boss at a shoe-store — Delphine Seyrig at her glamorous apex), and various intermittent mistresses. The only one he chases, apart from Dorothée’s “Sabine,” whom he loves but whose love seems to frighten him (he finds her after patching up and tracing a photo of her an assumed lover tears up in a phone booth during an angry break-up call), is Marie-France Pisier’s “Colette,” whom we first meet in Truffaut’s 30-minute contribution to the 1963 multi-director film “Love at 20.” (They meet at a classical music concert; Antoine is working at the time in a Phillips record factory, the director letting us see the hot wax being spun into vinyl. In “L’amour en fuite,” Antoine finally tracks Dorothée’s Sabine to her work-place: a record shop where couples make out to Gilbert Becaud in the listening rooms, Truffaut’s homage to the listening stations in Jean Vigo’s 1934 “L’Atalante” where the – fleeing – newlywed bride takes refuge.)
In “L’amour en fuite,” after Colette hails him from the window of a Lyon-bound train at the Gare de Lyon where Antoine has just dropped off his son by Jade for camp, Antoine jumps on the moving train without a ticket, surprises Colette in her sleeper car right after a fat middle-aged businessman, assuming she’s a prostitute, rubs up against her in the aisle (a lawyer, she’d spotted Antoine earlier in the day at the court-house, where with Jade he’d just completed France’s first no-fault divorce, echoing my own parents split-up in California a few years earlier). After they catch up, she upbraids him for the revisionist way he recounted their courtship as 20-year-olds in a barely fictionalized memoir he’s recently published: “My family didn’t move in across the street from you, you followed us!” (At the time of “L’amour en fuite,” Antoine is working as a proofreader on a book detailing the 18 minutes that De Gaulle disappeared during the 1968 student-worker uprising. Because the project is top secret, he’s working – literally – underground. The netherworld also figures in the 1968 “Stolen Kisses,” in pneumatic messages from Seyrig requesting love assignations. It’s as if Antoine can’t get out of the lower depths; in “L’amour en fuite,” his mother’s lover from “The 400 Blows” surfaces to show Antoine, who was in the brig when she died, where she’s buried – which happens to be right next to the tomb of Marie du Plessis, the real-life model for Dumas fils’s “Camille.” It’s one of three of the five Antoine films in which the Montmartre cemetery features, and it’s the last; shortly afterwards he’ll reconcile with Dorothée’s Sabine, returning to the land of the living.) He tries to kiss Colette – we’re back on the train in “L’amour en fuite” — and she light-heartedly repels the attempt, scolding him, “Antoine, you haven’t changed.” The conductor comes around for tickets and Antoine flees again, pulling the emergency chord and jumping off the still-moving train. We see the now 34-year-old Antoine running across a field, an echo of the final, poignant, liberating moment in “The 400 Blows,” when a 14-year-old Antoine, having escaped from a youth home/prison, is frozen on screen in flight and in our memories, a broad smile on his face as he runs along a beach, discovering the ocean for the first time (the emotional antithesis of the destiny of the hero in Chris Marker’s 1962 “La jetée,” forever doomed to helplessly watch a woman being killed over and over again on the edge of a dock).
In my own Bizarro universe re-make of the Antoine-Colette train scene from “L’amour en fuite,” it was Colette who, after having chased me and captured my heart, had jumped off the train and was running out of my life.
So it was that last Monday found me staggering up the rue des Martyrs as the Sun set over the Sacre Coeur church (which the 1871 Communard rebels had been forced to build as penance by the ruling Versailles government) which slowly emerged above Martyrs, gums bleeding from the just-extracted tooth, heart raw and as hyper-exposed to its glare as the hero of Albert Camus’s “The Stranger” walking on yet another unshaded beach and with — au contraire to Camus’s hero — no one to take it out on … except Truffaut and the illusions with which his Doinel cycle (all five seen one week-end at New York’s Anthology Film Archives just before moving to Paris) had filled me. Once at the grave, after filling my plastic cup at a nearby fountain and popping a dissolvable 1000 gram Paracetamol into the water, posing it on Truffaut’s tomb (decorated with an unraveling 35 MM film spool and a worn set photo of Truffaut, Leaud, and a woman who might have been Claude Jade) and watching it fizz away like my love affair, I lifted my Green as Gatsby’s Light cup and, echoing the Charles Trenet song which provides the theme for the 1968 “Stolen Kisses” – in which Leaud’s Antoine and Jade’s Christine fall in love – toasted François Truffaut with “A nos amours,” to our loves. Looking over my shoulder at Zola’s first tomb, I realized that I might have added: “Je t’accuse! This is all your fault.”
Post-Script, 2/25: Having – like Antoine at the end of “L’amour en fuite” – just taken back the key from under the pillow, I now see myself less like Marker’s hero, doomed to replay the same fate with the same woman over and over again, and more like Antoine in the final frozen frame of the final film in the Antoine cycle, which resurrects the end of the first, of a 14-year-old Antoine frozen in time joyously jumping into the air on a beach, his virgin visit to la plage. And looking for my own Dorothée to patch me up. Interested? Check me out here.