You Know You Want It

It requires dedication to indulge one's inner cinema Francophile.

Translation: my backside is screaming after two French Film Festival movies at the Byrd with an interlude on a bar stool in between.

I thought a 5:00 movie would be just the ticket to kick off my Friday night early.

Apparently, so did hundreds of other people.

"Main dans la Main" had everything I could hope for in a late afternoon film.

There was the completely unlikely plot device of strangers stuck to each other, only able to do what the other did.

There was an interesting-looking older woman and a charmingly handsome younger man, both who danced.

There was romantic tension, an hysterical and ultimately tragic sidekick and a man dressed in a polyester tank top and gym shorts circa 1976, to great humorous effect.

I even liked how the characters addressed the audience sometimes with voice-overs.

The music was great, with everything from O.M.D. to Sophie Tucker's version of "The Man Who Got Away" with accompanying sign language.

By the end of the film, I felt quite satisfied in having seen a most un-American movie.

And isn't that why I go to the French Film Festival?

But fireworks and dancing scenes left me hungry, so I picked up a girlfriend and we set out for Secco.

May as well park once and party twice, we figured.

Naturally the place was packed but two seats were free at the community table so we proceeded to get to know the community.

With the Church Hill couple by the window, we told them we'd seen "Renoir" last night and about its exquisite light and they told us about "Un Soir au Club," a film, they's seen last night and one focusing on music and light.

Two girls across from us talked about their men over bowls of soup, too busy to talk to us.

Eager to eat and drink before the next film, we got glasses of Dolcetto to toast our evening.

That was followed by succulent pan-seared duck breast with poached pears, almonds, olives and a spiced duck sauce, which our Church Hill buds had also ordered.

People continued to come in and leave and suddenly a friend stopped by, having spotted me on her way out.

She, too, had seen "Main dans la Main" so we talked about it, she having enjoyed it a bit less than I had, but then, it wasn't her first movie of the day and I'll bet her butt colored her opinion.

"Even so," she admitted, "I'll take a bad French movie over a bad American movie any day, just for the visuals."

That and the fact that women look real, not nipped and tucked, the men are manly but not macho and the scenery is a treat.

Once she left, we put the feedbag back on, ordering potato gnocchi with mushrooms, French sorrel and a smoked leek sauce.

We tore into it so enthusiastically, raving about it so much that the girls soon ordered their own.

Oddly, we thought, they didn't come close to finishing theirs, causing us to doubt their palates since the pillowy gnocchi with its earthy accents in our bowl had long since disappeared.

But ours was not to judge (or take).

For dessert, we took the continental route with a plate of Irish Cashel bleu cheese, Brillat Savarin, an obscene butter-like cheese ("You know you want it," the menu says), and sweet Coppa, because what's cheese without a little meat?

We finished just in time to tear across the street, get popcorn to go with our Milk Duds (yes, we're going to hell in a handbasket) and find seats for "Cigarettes et Bas Nylon."

While waiting for the screening to begin, I had a sneezing fit, causing the man in front of us to turn around, concerned.

He thought I was choking on popcorn, saying the very same thing had happened to him yesterday when he'd been there.

"So now I bring these," he said in a charmingly accented voice, holding up a baggie of grapes. "I am Ricardo. What's your names?"

Seems Ricardo comes up every year from Williamsburg for the FFF and had also seen "Renoir" last night, another discussion point.

He insisted we share his grapes and who wouldn't take fruit from a film-lover offering it?

The film was introduced by one of the actresses in the film, Salome Stevenin, and told the story of French girls who married American soldiers during WW II.

Who knew that the army had set up camps to "Americanize" the French brides before they were shipped to the U.S. to begin life with their new husbands?

That's our military industrial complex, always thinking ahead.

Part of that process included a box of goodies each women got once they arrived at Camp Chesterfield (as opposed to Camp Lucky Strike).

In it were American necessities like cigarettes, matches, soap, chocolate and nylons, all the things a girl needs to make her man happy.

One girl was unimpressed with the soap, saying she preferred for her armpits to smell a little. Tres French.

Of course, it takes more than treats to make even a foreign girl happy with a man and not all the marriages ended well, what with post-traumatic stress, alcoholism and death.

One French girl who'd found herself a big, strapping galoot traded him with a girlfriend's beau, preferring the short guy who made her laugh to the classically handsome one.

Lucky her, he also turned out to play piano in a club, although his Jewish mother was kind of a drag.

It was along about the time that we met the French woman who was on her fourth husband that I realized that I couldn't feel my backside.

I would have liked to stay for the Q & A with Salome Stevenin, but my girlfriend was pretty clear that that wasn't happening.

Even though she claims she has more padding than I do, I've no doubt she'd lost some feeling, too.

Luckily, we have fifteen hours before we're considering putting our numb bits back in those seats.

And we will because as my friend had pointed out, "It's a pleasure listening to the French language."

As it is seeing the unlikeliest of stories onscreen.

And eating grapes from the baggie of a fellow cinephile.