Bonjour, Riviera

Here I'm trying to get my French Riviera on and I run smack dab into fan appreciation day.

Drat the luck.

Walking to Movieland for the 11:00 screening of Otto Preminger's 1958 film, "Bonjour Tristesse," I was caught up in a sea of football fans.

"You must be a Redskins cheerleader," one jerseyed guy illogically said to me, "your walk is so nice."

No, sir, if you want to see a former Redskinette, go down to the governor's mansion.

Passing a guy wearing a "D. Green 28" jersey, I told him it was nice to see a Darrell Green fan amongst a sea of RGIII fanatics.

"Will you marry me?" he joked, clearly thrilled to get the acknowledgement.

Nope, sure won't.

Crossing the street against the tide, a Capital policeman inquired of me, "Leaving already?"

Explaining that I'd checked out camp on a weekday, he nodded. "Smart! We're expecting 25,000 people today and we've already got 7,000."

Good god, it was 10:40.

I marched past the Redskins marching band blasting out music for those 7,000 and kept right on going.

Once inside the theater, I was the lone attendee.

After a while, I was joined by an older couple and he took a moment to rant about the city's poor preparation for today.

"They took away parking, there's only fifteen bathrooms and I just have to wonder how Mayor Jones is getting away with this!"

I don't know, sir, I just want to see a Technicolor version of a story about a father and daughter with no moral compass.

So while I didn't like the characters, I did like two of the credits in the film: paintings by Kumi Sugai and wardrobe by Givenchy.

You don't often see paintings get their own credit and what a treat to look at Givenchy fashions circa 1958.

Leave it to Otto Preminger.

David Niven was the rakish father and Jean Seberg the spoiled daughter not willing to give up her libertine and lush way of life with her father when he considers marriage to her dead mother's best friend.

It was a movie with a profound devotion to recreational drinking, always in cool places like subterranean boites and supper clubs where everyone danced divinely.

If only I still had those options for my evenings out.

The film began in black and white and flashed back to the summer before in color and the scenes of a summer on the Riviera were breathtaking - the bluest water, dappled sunshine as they lounged on the patio, a villa with sea views from every room.

It was hard to empathize with any of the characters; even the goody two-shoes Deborah Kerr was difficult to feel for, at least until she drove her car off a scenic cliff.

With its hints of incest and the father's non-stop womanizing, I'm willing to bet it went over far better with the French critics than the American ones, at least when it came out.

All I know is that it was a far more pleasurable place to be than on a field with 24,999 other people.

Even if it ultimately was a sadly tragic film, with lines like, "I am as suspicious of summer as I am of you."

What a waste.

Put me on the Riviera for a summer and I'll trust whatever comes along. Try me.