It's that magical time of year when all the Carytown banners are equal parts red, white and blue and French speakers mill about on Cary Street.
Bonjour, 27th Annual French Film Festival. Glad to have you back.
And since it wouldn't be a French Film Fest without running into Barbara, we'd only gotten as far as Bygones before she and her new husband passed by and stopped to chat. It's sort of the unofficial launch to the festivities for me. Or put another way: every year for well over a decade, Barbara and I - always without dates - have run into each other socially because we were drawn to the same nerdy events.
We still do, except we now have companions who like nerdy women.
They'd just come from "Libre" and we'd just finished dinner at Greek on Cary and were headed to see a short, "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" followed by a full length feature, "Fait d'hiver."
Before going inside the Byrd, I chatted local theater with manager Todd, who had not only enjoyed TheatreLAB's production of "Sweeney Todd" as much as I had, but had used his specials effects skill set so that he and his wife had gone to see it with fake slit throats.
And lest I doubt him, he showed me photographic evidence.
Waiting for the films to begin, I checked out the crowd. A woman behind me had been to three of the four master classes offered this morning. The trio two rows behind me had driven down from Bethesda for the four days of the festival and like to hang out at "Con Con," as he pronounced it, at least until someone corrected him to Can Can. Meanwhile, an official usher draped personalized seat marker covers on the three seats in front of us, a privilege for having donated cash money to the festival.
I'm happy to report that once again, festival goers were told to stay in the moment with an onscreen sign reading, "NO texting during screenings. Violators may be removed." Mais, bien sur.
The French are civilized like that.
French director Robert Enrico (RIP) was the focus this evening, with his first and last films being introduced by his lookalike son Jerome before being shown.
We were told that "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," yep, from the 1891 Ambrose Bierce short story, won at Cannes as well as at the Oscars when it came out. The story of a Civil War-era civilian being hanged on a bridge struck me as the unlikeliest of starting points for a French director in 1962, yet the film captured the era evocatively in shades of black and white.
I don't know if I've ever read the short story, but I think I must have because I somehow knew halfway into it how it would end.
As the credits rolled, a woman near me turned to her spoiler of a companion and complained, "You shouldn't have told me what was going to happen!"
Jerome had informed us that we'd be seeing "Fait d'hiver" on the only subtitled 35 mm copy of the film left in the world, which felt pretty special. I always get a kick out of seeing the blip on the screen signaling the switch to the other projector.
The 1999 film was set in 1970 and based on a true story about a divorced man who decided not to return his kids to his ex after they come for a visit. Although the oldest daughter escapes and returns to her mother, the two younger ones want to stay on with Dad, barricading the windows and doors and shooting at anyone who dares approach the house.
It touched on several issues - fathers' rights post-divorce, PTSD, the bonds soldiers develop in wartime, overeager media hype - while always keeping at the center of the story the fact that this guy sincerely wanted to be with his kids but his wife had full custody.
Mr. Wright took issue with its slow pacing because the saga unfolded over 16+ days, many of them represented by little more than the police captain deciding to give the man one more day to surrender. Because the captain had served with him in the military, he felt certain he wasn't going to do anything awful and wanted to give his old friend a chance.
And there was such a purity to how devoted to their father, not to mention fun-loving, these two kids were, whether standing sentry with a gun at the window or collecting the bottles of nutritious milk that the local doctor delivered at the roadside for them.
The interesting part was, when the powers-that-be decided that they'd wasted enough time (other divorced dads were publicly siding with him) and the tanks and gendarmes began rolling in, breaking windows on the house and tossing stinkbombs?/teargas? inside, the camera froze and the credits began rolling up.
"Oh, no!" the woman behind me wailed loudly. "They can't do this!" Of course they can, honey. Ever seen "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?" She was far from the only one moaning and groaning at the absence of a clearly expressed ending.
But, hey, this isn't Hollywood, kids, and if a French director who'd been making films for 27 years wants to end on an unclear note, more power to him. Besides, if the police wound up killing those two adorable children, I, for one, didn't need to know about it.
It's enough to know that I can count on four days of hearing French spoken and seeing French films that follow no American rules.
And most likely, another Barbara sighting or two.
Showing posts with label byrd. Show all posts
Showing posts with label byrd. Show all posts
Friday, March 29, 2019
Thursday, February 2, 2017
Nothing Lasts Forever
When they go low, we go high.
When our embarrassment of a leader using the first day of Black History Month to air grievances and mouth off about himself in lieu of thoughtful commentary about our country's racial history, or even current race relations starts the day, it's impossible not to cringe.
What kind of an egomaniacal twit begins a Black History Month speech with, "Well, the election it came out really well," and goes on to boast about future wins? And saying that abolitionist Frederick Douglass "did an amazing job" only confirms that he has no clue who the man was, much less what he did.
All a person can do is try to carry on with the best intentions.
So first that meant walking over to the Black History Museum for a preview of the new exhibit, "Murry DePillars: Double Vision," a retrospective of the work of a black man dedicated to both his art and education as Dean of VCU's School of the Arts for nearly 20 years.
Covering 43 years of work, I was immediately drawn to firebrand pieces such as 1968's "Aunt Jemima," showing the stereotypical figure in apron and headscarf bare-breasted and bursting out of the box of pancake mix, a spatula in her black-gloved hand. Responding to the events of the day, the background of the piece shows stars, but a closer look reveals that they're the stars on Chicago Police badges, referencing the raid on Black Panther headquarters there that year.
Or "Uncle Remus," with the titular subject emerging Samson-like from the book that bears his name, while the landscape of American culture - history textbooks, Native Americans - lies in ruins at his feet. Meanwhile, Brer Rabbit raises his gloved fist in solidarity.
Amazing, yes, but also not the kind of art you can look at and soon forget. And most definitely not the kind of art that would speak to the new administration.
Lunch involved meeting an old friend in a two-seater booth at Can Can for massive salads and even more enormous chocolate crepes filled with Nutella and Amaretto mousse while talking about the revisions he's just finished on his books and how the book covers now need to be updated as well.
Seems it's all about whatever sells.
Our most interesting conversation centered around relationships, which is interesting because in the 25 years we've been friends, I've never known him to be in one. Nevertheless, being a guy, he's an expert.
When he brought the subject up, it was with a plan (because he writes books about the best way to do things, so he's always thinking in terms of results) for how to ascertain compatibility after meeting a potential soulmate.
His plan? Once seriously attracted to someone, both parties need to write down three things they either must have or can't abide in a relationship and then swap lists to see whether they're issues the other is willing to compromise on.
His list? No high maintenance (he doesn't want to have to call someone every day), no jealous types (non-negotiable) and must be into eating somewhat healthily (this is clearly subjective since I know he doesn't eat breakfast and you know what they say about the most important meal of the day).
We bantered this subject around for so long that we began playing the what-if game. What if she's willing to take a text or email instead of a call, could he stand doing that daily? What if meeting a friend for lunch results in her giving him the silent treatment?
Compromise is all about concessions.
He's been telling me for ages that he wants to try walking with me - for so long it feels like a running gag - so once out on the sidewalk, he tells me to demonstrate the speed at which I typically walk so he can gauge whether or not he's ready to try.
Despite being in platform boots, I set off at my usual four miles per hour.
"Wow, that is kind of fast, but I'm willing to give it a shot," he tells me, although he's also a weather wimp, so I'll have to pick a temperate day. I also promise to give him a day's notice, but he wants at least two.
I'm starting to think it'll be a miracle if this outing ever takes place.
Back at my desk and busy at work, I am more than a tad surprised when an unexpected job offer comes in - not a writing job, but an editing job in one of my favorite places. It gives me pause, but I'd have to move. Am I up for that?
In the immortal words of Scarlett O'Hara, "I'll think about that tomorrow."
Continuing the day's theme, I head to Cabell Library for a lecture entitled, "Is Shakespeare Beyond Race?" with GWU professor Ayanna Thompson talking about the history of race in Shakespeare and the state of diversity in it today.
The room is a diverse mix of students and the public, a fine showing for the first day of Black History Month and even a bit of a rebuke to the verbal diarrhea of our clueless leader.
Seems that 19th century black actors would don "whiteface" to perform roles such as Shylock, Macbeth and King Lear so that audiences wouldn't have to deal with seeing a black character in a classical play.
Some of the best photos and facts concerned the Federal Theater Project, part of FDR's Works Progress Administration, and its groundbreaking 1936 production of an all-black "Macbeth."
Man, how radical that must have seemed even during that socially radical time.
Thompson spoke at length about casting choices and how despite theater companies professing to use more diverse casts, the facts show a different story. Artistic directors are still afraid of alienating well-off, old, white theater audiences with too much diversity in casting.
"It's not necessary to cater to old white audiences anymore because they're not going to last forever," she said. She sited Oregon Shakespeare as an example because although their casting is about 50% people of color and 50% white, their audiences are 99% white.
What's wrong with this picture?
It was funny during the Q & A, every single person who was handed the mic began by thanking her for speaking today. "You guys are so southern polite!" she said sounding surprised.
You want southern polite, go to the Byrd Theater with a musician friend to see "To Kill a Mockingbird" like I did tonight, and you'll be taken back to the days of yes, ma'ams and yes, sirs and children who know they are supposed to speak to every adult they see in a respectful manner.
But besides polite, you'll also get a reminder of just how all-encompassing white privilege was in 1932 when the film was set, with liberal use of the n-word, a white mob looking for vigilante justice and a prosecutor's sheer incredulity that a black man could possibly feel sorry for a white woman.
You want to talk amazing, let's talk how relevant so much of the film's message still is.
Or, if you're my droll friend, you come out wondering if Jem really rolls Scout in that tire toward Boo Radley's house or if they used a stunt double, sketching out possible scenarios for my amusement. So much for deep cultural insight.
On the other hand, every day that begins with another presidential fiasco should end with this much laughter.
When our embarrassment of a leader using the first day of Black History Month to air grievances and mouth off about himself in lieu of thoughtful commentary about our country's racial history, or even current race relations starts the day, it's impossible not to cringe.
What kind of an egomaniacal twit begins a Black History Month speech with, "Well, the election it came out really well," and goes on to boast about future wins? And saying that abolitionist Frederick Douglass "did an amazing job" only confirms that he has no clue who the man was, much less what he did.
All a person can do is try to carry on with the best intentions.
So first that meant walking over to the Black History Museum for a preview of the new exhibit, "Murry DePillars: Double Vision," a retrospective of the work of a black man dedicated to both his art and education as Dean of VCU's School of the Arts for nearly 20 years.
Covering 43 years of work, I was immediately drawn to firebrand pieces such as 1968's "Aunt Jemima," showing the stereotypical figure in apron and headscarf bare-breasted and bursting out of the box of pancake mix, a spatula in her black-gloved hand. Responding to the events of the day, the background of the piece shows stars, but a closer look reveals that they're the stars on Chicago Police badges, referencing the raid on Black Panther headquarters there that year.
Or "Uncle Remus," with the titular subject emerging Samson-like from the book that bears his name, while the landscape of American culture - history textbooks, Native Americans - lies in ruins at his feet. Meanwhile, Brer Rabbit raises his gloved fist in solidarity.
Amazing, yes, but also not the kind of art you can look at and soon forget. And most definitely not the kind of art that would speak to the new administration.
Lunch involved meeting an old friend in a two-seater booth at Can Can for massive salads and even more enormous chocolate crepes filled with Nutella and Amaretto mousse while talking about the revisions he's just finished on his books and how the book covers now need to be updated as well.
Seems it's all about whatever sells.
Our most interesting conversation centered around relationships, which is interesting because in the 25 years we've been friends, I've never known him to be in one. Nevertheless, being a guy, he's an expert.
When he brought the subject up, it was with a plan (because he writes books about the best way to do things, so he's always thinking in terms of results) for how to ascertain compatibility after meeting a potential soulmate.
His plan? Once seriously attracted to someone, both parties need to write down three things they either must have or can't abide in a relationship and then swap lists to see whether they're issues the other is willing to compromise on.
His list? No high maintenance (he doesn't want to have to call someone every day), no jealous types (non-negotiable) and must be into eating somewhat healthily (this is clearly subjective since I know he doesn't eat breakfast and you know what they say about the most important meal of the day).
We bantered this subject around for so long that we began playing the what-if game. What if she's willing to take a text or email instead of a call, could he stand doing that daily? What if meeting a friend for lunch results in her giving him the silent treatment?
Compromise is all about concessions.
He's been telling me for ages that he wants to try walking with me - for so long it feels like a running gag - so once out on the sidewalk, he tells me to demonstrate the speed at which I typically walk so he can gauge whether or not he's ready to try.
Despite being in platform boots, I set off at my usual four miles per hour.
"Wow, that is kind of fast, but I'm willing to give it a shot," he tells me, although he's also a weather wimp, so I'll have to pick a temperate day. I also promise to give him a day's notice, but he wants at least two.
I'm starting to think it'll be a miracle if this outing ever takes place.
Back at my desk and busy at work, I am more than a tad surprised when an unexpected job offer comes in - not a writing job, but an editing job in one of my favorite places. It gives me pause, but I'd have to move. Am I up for that?
In the immortal words of Scarlett O'Hara, "I'll think about that tomorrow."
Continuing the day's theme, I head to Cabell Library for a lecture entitled, "Is Shakespeare Beyond Race?" with GWU professor Ayanna Thompson talking about the history of race in Shakespeare and the state of diversity in it today.
The room is a diverse mix of students and the public, a fine showing for the first day of Black History Month and even a bit of a rebuke to the verbal diarrhea of our clueless leader.
Seems that 19th century black actors would don "whiteface" to perform roles such as Shylock, Macbeth and King Lear so that audiences wouldn't have to deal with seeing a black character in a classical play.
Some of the best photos and facts concerned the Federal Theater Project, part of FDR's Works Progress Administration, and its groundbreaking 1936 production of an all-black "Macbeth."
Man, how radical that must have seemed even during that socially radical time.
Thompson spoke at length about casting choices and how despite theater companies professing to use more diverse casts, the facts show a different story. Artistic directors are still afraid of alienating well-off, old, white theater audiences with too much diversity in casting.
"It's not necessary to cater to old white audiences anymore because they're not going to last forever," she said. She sited Oregon Shakespeare as an example because although their casting is about 50% people of color and 50% white, their audiences are 99% white.
What's wrong with this picture?
It was funny during the Q & A, every single person who was handed the mic began by thanking her for speaking today. "You guys are so southern polite!" she said sounding surprised.
You want southern polite, go to the Byrd Theater with a musician friend to see "To Kill a Mockingbird" like I did tonight, and you'll be taken back to the days of yes, ma'ams and yes, sirs and children who know they are supposed to speak to every adult they see in a respectful manner.
But besides polite, you'll also get a reminder of just how all-encompassing white privilege was in 1932 when the film was set, with liberal use of the n-word, a white mob looking for vigilante justice and a prosecutor's sheer incredulity that a black man could possibly feel sorry for a white woman.
You want to talk amazing, let's talk how relevant so much of the film's message still is.
Or, if you're my droll friend, you come out wondering if Jem really rolls Scout in that tire toward Boo Radley's house or if they used a stunt double, sketching out possible scenarios for my amusement. So much for deep cultural insight.
On the other hand, every day that begins with another presidential fiasco should end with this much laughter.
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