Onscreen/Offscreen

I guess the French weren't enough, so I added in some Spanish.

Braving a mobbed Carytown, we found the last parking space behind the Eatery and made our way to the Byrd.

Showing was "Nos Plus Belles Vacances," and the overflowing theater was a testament to the appeal of a romantic comedy about three couples, one's mother and two kids vacationing in Brittany during the heat wave of 1976.

Introducing the film was Julie Gayel, the lead actress of the film, wearing a black sparkly shirt and a million-dollar smile.

After gifting the festival's founders with a bell with which to call the smokers and eaters in from Cary Street between movies, she took her seat.

Next to me.

It was my first time sitting next to an actress while watching her onscreen and except for her texting through the first few minutes of the film, it was kind of cool.

I did notice that she buried her face in the shoulder of the man next to her (presumably her paramour) for one of the romantic scenes, but other than that she was just another French actress who decided to sit next to me.

The film did a great job with the period details like rope wedges, K.C. and the Sunshine Band being played at the local disco and the much smaller bathing suits and shorts men wore back then.

One of the best subplots was that of her character's 12-year old son falling in love.

When he meets an adorable farm girl, he immediately asks if she's married, to which the little girl responds, "Golly, no," and he begins to court her endearingly.

His wooing got a lot of "awwws" from the audience throughout.

"Girls are trouble," the 12-year old soon concludes.

But love is everywhere and soon a man is courting the grandmother, assuring her, "I'll get you past your past."

Now that is a truly romantic line.

My favorite actor in the film was Gerard Darmon, a French Moroccan who played one of the husbands with a dry humor and great intelligence.

I mean, if I was going to choose one of the male leads for my very own, he'd have been the one and I know nothing more than how expressive his face was.

But with the French it's all about l'amour, so the husband who'd started the movie by being discovered in the throes of adultery ends by acknowledging how much he loves his wife,

You know, the one played by the actress sitting next to me.

Unlike yesterday, I only managed one French film today, mainly because I was going to the Latin Ballet to see "El Pintor: A Profile of Spanish Women."

The dance was based on the paintings of Julio Romero de Torres, a Spanish painter who'd portrayed Spanish women of all classes as well as his native Andalusia, and many of his paintings were projected on the screen behind the dancers.

The female dancers wore dramatically colorful long dresses which swirled around their bodies as they danced, while the men dressed simply in dark pants and vests.

It was really the men I was most engaged by, partly their high-heeled flamenco moves, but also the athleticism of their dancing.

One of my favorite sequences featured a group of men clad in black, all with claves, banging rhythmically while stomping across the stage.

And who can resist a man with castanets and arms flung overhead?

The program made its way from inspiration to beauty to love, passion and tragedy, always incorporating flamenco into whatever emotion was being portrayed.

It was a shame that the music was recorded and not live, but no doubt that was a budget constraint.

The audience at the Grace Street Theater was almost as lively as the dancers, clapping often throughout and calling out encouragement during particularly impressive sequences.

One man in the front row was prone to calling out "Bravo!" at the end of certain numbers, but I was never sure if that was a recognition of dance talent or  attraction to a certain dancer.

If I'd been so inclined, it would have been for the dancer with the sinuous hips and lithe form who danced the male lead.

That is, if I decided to go Spanish instead of French.

I did so like the way Gerard Darmon sang a song at the summer festival in the movie. And raised his eyebrow.

Dancer or actor/singer, now there's a choice.

The kid didn't know the half of it.

It's men who are trouble.

Remember Me Well

It was a night to celebrate the Day of the Dead. Gallery 5 was hosting an opening of their two week-long series of festivities to celebrate life after death, which was also an occasion to reflect on those no longer with us.

Co-sponsored by the Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, I arrived to a sea of new faces and, naturally, some very familiar ones. An extensive spread of Mexican food had been provided by Moe's Southwestern Grill in Mechanicsville (definitely outside my little city world) and I was happy to partake of a tasty array of corn salsa, black beans, chili con queso and any number of other nacho/taco/burrito accouterments. Faces were being stuffed.

All at once there was a note, next a voice and then members of the Latin Ballet, elaborately costumed, (bride, skeleton, warrior) began a slow descent from the upstairs gallery.

Their parade through the crowd culminated in a series of dances onstage, some to traditional-sounding Latin music and others to cha-cha and even that Cuban classic, "Babalu." Their slow and rhythmic movements were positively mesmerizing.

Spoken word poet Daniel Jose Custodio did a piece about cemeteries and his mother's life; his impassioned delivery silenced the crowd and got an ovation afterwards.

Upstairs, the new exhibit "Memento Mori" had the appropriate dark and death-influenced feel to it, some pieces striking for their gruesome nature and others only hinting at the life beyond. There were several video installations, as well as sculpture and two-dimensional works.

I heard one first-timer say to his date, "Are you going to interpret this for me?" She declined, but this is definitely a show where interpretation is in the eye of the beholder. Death becomes some more than others.

Best line of the evening came from musician Prabir, who stated as fact, "I'm good at stealing people's wives." Fact. When I raised an eyebrow to that comment, he smiled and said, "What? I am." A nearby stolen wife concurred, so I had no choice but to believe him.

One of my favorite couple dates was in attendance and afterwards suggested we transport ourselves over to Balliceaux for a cocktail. They're the ones with day jobs and early mornings, so if they were up for it, I certainly was, despite there being no music on tap tonight.

My friends took their time about ordering Moscow Mules and when bartender Austin finally looked at me for my order, I looked right back and asked if he thought I was going to order anything other than straight tequila on ice.

"No, if you came in again on a night without music and then ordered a cocktail, I'd be seriously worried." As in, "Who-are-you-and-what-have-you-done-with-Karen?" worried?

"Exactly," he laughed, handing me my non-cocktail.

When I'm dead, and gone, I have no doubt that what friends will lay on a community altar to remember me by (and deliver to the afterlife) will be my trademarks: tights and tequila. As my former boss was fond of saying, it is what it is.

In life or death, I'm okay with that.