From Chicago to L.A.

At the beginning of the week, in the New York Times, I read something that could be considered good news, at least if we juxtapose it to all the tragedies currently happening all over the world. It was a very brief piece of news, but it has an extreme significance - at least for the Chicago Skyline's future :



Commission Approves Chicago Spire

The Chicago Spire, a 2,000-foot tower designed by Santiago Calatrava, has been approved by the Chicago Planning Commission. The structure, with 1,200 residences, would be on North Lake Shore Drive, where the Chicago River meets Lake Michigan. It still needs the approval of the City Council. Construction would begin this spring, with completion in 2010.

Far from being a catastrophe, this design has made the rounds of architecture magazines for a few years. Unlike most of the surreal projects designed by visionaries, thought, this one will actually get built. What's new here is that the building will not be comprised of 100% office space; 1,200 residences will be included. They probably won't be social housing, mind you, but if you think about it, that's about 1,200 empty appartments for the masses to take. Appartments will soon fall out of flavour anyway. Everybody and its dog are buying condos. Everybody's got nice stuff but me, as sung by the Dead Milkmen.



I must admit that I like what Calatrava does, but to a certain extent. His work is very unique, and inspired - to be convinced, one only has to take a look at his Trinity Bridge, in Manchester, or at the masterful '94-built Lyon-Satolas Airport Railway Station - and the fuildity of his shapes always hit the observer's imagination. But his "signature" curves and large, useless structures defy the mission and meaning of design, or of design as some of us see it : to make sure every aspect of the physical structure is useful, or has a goal. Superfluous seagull wings might be symbolic and very beautiful, but it's pure material wasted in a decorative frenzy.



The Spire seems like one of those buildings that still retains Calatrava's touch, but that proposes no wasted space. And that is an achievement. In an era where returning to simplicity seems the norm, and where big is always criticised, such a structure is a big "fuck you" to conventions.

Now, let's just hope that Chicago's City Council agrees with me on that one.

*

HARSH TIMES is one of those movies I really wanted to see, but about which I didn't want to hear anything. I wanted my experience to be a complete surprise. I had a slight idea of its synopsis, but I avoided reading critics or looking up "amateur appreciations" on the web. I'm known to be a patient man. And so I waited. Waited for its DVD release date, and waited until the buzz cooled down so I could get it for free on a Boîte Noire employee friend's account.



I wasn't disappointed by all these months in limbo. HARSH TIMES is first and foremost the story of Jim Luther Davis (Christian Bale), an icy ex marine back among the living with quite a few sequels. He expects a job in the L.A.P.D. that will allow him to marry his Mexican girlfriend, but when they decide not to hire him, he blacks out and goes on a slackin' spree. He smokes joints & drinks beers while riding around in his car with his pal Mike (SIX FEET UNDER'S Freddy Rodriguez) in South Central L.A. As their wandering around evolves, you can't help but feel it's not going towards a happy ending...



If you take strong characters portrayed by talented actors, and drive them towards an inevitable faith, the cinematic tension created can become close to unbearable. You don't need kidnapping or big guns to obtain what is commonly refered to as "suspense"; just a situation from which the characters can't get out. Like in Nicolas Winding Refn's PUSHER, Bale's fate is sealed in the first few frames of the movie, when he wakes up from a war-related nightmare in his brand new car somewhere in Mexico.



The small underworld of latino gangsters is well portrayed, and the language level is dead on. It's a brutal world out there, and you never know who's going to die next. Just like at war. This is an "alternate" universe you wouldn't want to live in. David Ayer's first movie is hard-hitting and contemplative; it might not be for everybody, but those who dare take a peek into the troubled lives of these "heroes" will not regret it.

Lettre ouverte à la STM

"S.T.M.", tout le monde le sait, est le sigle de la Société de Transport de Marde. Je leur ai envoyé une "lettre ouverte" le 10 mars et je viens de me rendre compte que je n'ai - à ce jour - pas encore reçu de réponse.

Peut-être que l'actualité de cette missive est aujourd'hui quelque peu défraîchie, mais je me permets quand même de vous l'offrir en pleine face, sans fleurs puantes pour aller avec.



Lettre ouverte à la STM

Bonjour;

La présente est pour vous aviser qu'à partir du 1er avril 2007, vos services ne seront plus requis dans mes déplacements quotidiens.

Comme la saison du vélo est de retour, ça sera un soulagement pour moi de ne plus avoir à emprunter vos autobus aux horaires stupéfiants de débilité, toujours bondés et exceptionnellement mal conduits.

Pendant que les petites vieilles tombent par terre parce que :

a) elles n'ont pas de place pour s'asseoir et
b) vos chauffeurs / chauffeuses kamikazes n'ont jamais appris, semble-t-il, à freiner subtilement,

je serai en train de pédaler dans le trafic en essayant d'éviter de me faire emboutir par ces mêmes chauffeurs / chauffeuses.

Au cas où vous ne l'auriez pas remarqué, la 24 - et d'autres lignes, à ce que j'ai cru comprendre - DÉBORDE. C'est peut-être signe qu'il est temps d'augmenter la fréquence de passage... et non vos tarifs. Attention, j'espère que vous avez bien lu. Quoi ? Ah, vous allez augmenter vos tarifs quand même cette année ? Trois fois plutôt qu'une ? C'est là quelque chose de véritablement surprenant.

Cordialement,

Le blogueur masqué

[J'ai signé ma lettre de mon véritable nom mais je trouve que j'en fais déjà pas mal ici pour que les gens qui me connaissent puissent m'identifier, alors que ceux qui savent qui je suis au civil se réjouissent de leur perspicacité et que les autres - qui s'en crissent probablement - continuent de s'en crisser.]

Embarré en d'dans

Je pétitionne sauvagement pour faire déclarer illégale toute activité professionnelle par un si beau jour. Samedi, midi 48. J'ai dormi quatre petites heures cette nuit et je sens que je vais le payer ce soir. Je suis arrivé au bureau en vélo après une magnifique balade sur le bitume de Sherbrooke St. avec le vent dans la face et des mini-jupes plein les yeux. Le soleil tape fort dans les baies vitrées de mon huitième étage et les femmes avec qui je travaille, désoeuvrées, parlent fort - comme d'habitude. Je voudrais être partout ailleurs sauf ici. Donnez-moi un bout de ferme du Delaware ou une plage du Maine, n'importe quoi ! J'irais bien me péter la face dans les vagues froides de Gaspé ou boire une Corona sur la terrasse d'un café trop cher de Baie Saint-Paul.



Je ne sais pas quel genre de structure de support ont utilisé les ingénieurs qui ont bâti l'immeuble dans lequel je travaille, mais je sais que certaines agentes de voyage mangent probablement trop de pâtes et / ou de patates. Elles marchent d'un bout à l'autre du bureau et le sol tremble. Amplitude inconnue, mais c'est du sérieux !

C'est presque tragique de ne pas pouvoir profiter de ces premières belles journées. Je me console en me disant qu'il y a des petits enfants qui meurent de faim partout dans le monde, ou des vieux garçons qui n'ont jamais exploré ce qui se dissimule sous les jupes de mesdemoiselles. Et je me console en me disant que ce soir, je m'en vais voir la belle Maus au De Lima avec le Drunk Rocker, qu'on va en virer une tabarnak, et conduire nos vélos complètement intoxiqués jusqu'au Mile End Bar pour aller serrer la pince de Bender et entendre le beau rouquin Marinelli.

Et demain, je ne m'en souviendrai probablement pas.

*

Depuis BRINGING OUT THE DEAD (1999), Scorcese n'avait pas torché un film que j'aie envie de voir. Quand j'ai rencontré Barbara Bouchet en 2000 à Tarrytown (NY), dans le cadre de CultCon 2000, elle revenait de deux semaines de tournage sur le plateau de GANGS OF NEW YORK, et même cette légère coïncidence ne m'a pas donné le goût de le visionner. Di Caprio, pas mon favori, et couplé à l'aspect "film historique" avec des gars en pantalons accordéon et des bérêts sales, c'était le summum du "pas envie d'voir ça". [J'allais rencontrer, en août 2003, une jolie demoiselle répondant au doux nom de Sara Bouchet, mais elle n'avait malheureusement aucun lien de parenté avec Barbara. Elle était toutefois assez délicieuse et je regrette amèrement qu'elle ait tout fait pour ne pas rester en contact avec moi.]



En 2004, le p'tit grisonnant aux sourcils noirs sortait THE AVIATOR, une autre fresque historique avec Di Caprio. Je répète ? Pas. Envie. D'le voir.



2006. Scorcese sort un "remake" de INFERNAL AFFAIRS, un film de Hong Kong réalisé par Lau Wai Keung et Mak Siu Fai en 2002. THE DEPARTED a tout pour réussir : une belle bande-annonce, et surtout... un casting en BÉTON armé. Les producteurs ont probablement dû cracher le pognon en toussant tellement ça leur faisait mal aux bourses : Jack Nicholson (qui, avec sa drôle de coupe de cheveux, parvient presque à nous faire oublier le monstre sacré qu'il est), Leonardo Di Caprio (encore ! mais bon...), Matt Damon (toujours aussi fouine et détestable, on se demande ce que les filles peuvent lui trouver), Mark Wahlberg (hilarant), Martin Sheen, Alec Baldwin, Ray Winstone et la troublante Vera Farmiga (dont le regard me rappelle étrangement une ancienne fréquentation pharmacologue, mais on gardera cette histoire pour une autre fois si vous le voulez bien).



Outre les joueurs, on a un scénario en béton, actualisation suprêmement habile de celui de 2002, trempé dans la bonne sauce Scorcese - chansons rock fétiches des années '70, technique typique avec plan séquences et narration, personnages déjantés, dialogues finement ciselés - et relocalisation de Hong Kong à Boston. Peu ou pas d'asiatiques en vue, des irlandais homophobes et racistes, et une trame narrative qui crée immanquablement une immense tension chez le spectateur. Vous vous doutez probablement de quoi il retourne : un personnage de truand est "undercover" dans la police de Boston, et un policier a infiltré les mafieux. Et tous les deux jouent à savoir qui démasquera qui le premier.



Nicholson est diabolique; il faut le voir avec sa gueule de maniaque, en robe de chambre, la tête enveloppée dans un nuage de cocaïne, dire à une nana aux gros canons : "You want some coke ? There it is. Don't move till you're numb".



THE DEPARTED est une observation acidulée de la petite pègre de Boston, et des relations souvent incestueuses que ses membres entretiennent avec la loi. Ce sont des personnages jouissifs qui se croisent et s'entrechoquent, quitte à en produire des flamèches. C'est surtout le meilleur film de Scorcese depuis GOODFELLAS en '90, et il n'est guère surprenant qu'il ait râflé tous ces Oscars.

*

En 1959 sortait sur les écrans français A DOUBLE TOUR, le troisième film de Claude Chabrol, et son premier thriller psychologique. Un film pas aussi touffu que tous ceux qui allaient suivre, mais certes fascinant, et magistralement réussi. Le récit est conçu de façon à ce qu'il n'y ait pas vraiment de personnage principal, mais un portrait variable de la bourgeoisie vinicole d'une famille d'Aix-en-Provence. Famille composée du père Henri (Jacques Dacqmine), de sa femme Thérèse (Madeleine Robinson, courageuse), et de leurs deux enfants Richard (André Jocelyn, énigmatique) et la jolie Élisabeth (Jeanne Valérie). Élisabeth fréquente un demi-voyou irresponsable, fort en gueule et constamment saoul (un Jean-Paul Belmondo pré-A BOUT DE SOUFFLE, extrêmement jeune, et surtout impayable) et Henri trompe sa femme avec sa voisine, la belle Léda (Antonella Lualdi). Veille sur ce bel ensemble la bonne Julie, interprétée par une Bernadette Lafont jeune et sensuelle, dont la scène d'ouverture du film fait l'élégie.





Je vous épargnerai les détails de l'intrigue en vous disant qu'elle vaut largement la peine que vous la découvriez vous-même. Sachez toutefois que, outre l'habile étude psychologique, on remarque ici des plans de caméra finement travaillés et ambitieux, et un montage pas toujours linéaire qui y va de quelques astuces - retours en arrière, superpositions, élipses.



On voit ici apparaître pour une des premières fois un rôle de policier atypique, formule sans cesse renouvellée qui deviendra une marque de commerce de Chabrol dans pratiquement tous ses autres films. 1959 se retrouve figée dans le temps, avec la plastique impeccable des actrices de Chabrol le jouisseur, et le vignoble enchanteur dans lequel se déroule l'intrigue nous donne envie d'aller voir si nous y sommes.

Retrouvailles Rock

Suite à une contribution postée sur ce blog le 1er mars 2006, où je m'interrogeais sur le sort d'un vieux pote nommé Dan Laing (et non Lang comme j'avais erronnément écrit), mon espoir d'avoir de ses nouvelles s'était légèrement mis en veilleuse. C'était faire preuve d'un flagrant manque de confiance envers un médium aussi révolutionnaire qu'Internet, médium auquel nous semblons nous être habitué, mais qui n'en est pas moins, comme le clamerait Michel Lemoine, "formidable !". Car c'est là un outil exceptionnel et certains de ses critiques n'en voient que les inconvénients : dégradation de la langue française et perte de temps généralisée sur MSN, accès facilité à la pornographie et aux mauvaises idées telles l'extrémisme et le terrorisme, prédation sexuelle, diffamation. Outre ces quelques côtés décriés - et encore, on pourrait longuement discuter si l'accès facilité à la porno de toute sorte est une bonne ou mauvaise chose - il y a beaucoup d'avantages. Des outils hallucinants pour rester en contact avec son entourage (les courriels, les sites web personels, MySpace, FaceBook, Friendster, Ringo, etc...) à l'information à l'infini, à portée de la main en tout temps, dès qu'on a un accès au réseau, c'est quasiment de la science-fiction.



Les élèves d'aujourd'hui s'engraissent le cul sur leur chaise - ou carrément étendus dans leur lit - pour faire leurs recherches, alors que pas plus tard que dans les années '80, il leur fallait aller passer des heures entières dans une bibliothèque de quartier humide qui ne proposait pas le centième de toute l'information que l'on peut trouver en quelques secondes sur le web, dans le confort de son propre foyer.

Un garçon de St-Tite, donc, a fait cette semaine une recherche pour dénicher des photos de boules disco, sans raison précise. Il est tombé sur un site web appelé Mirrorballs.ca, que j'ai co-fondé et auquel je contribue couramment, et a inévitablement fini par tomber sur mon blog. Probablement curieux, au fil de ses lectures, il a fini par comprendre qui j'étais et s'est rendu compte qu'il me connaissait. Il m'a donc écrit, et a prévenu un certain Daniel Laing - avec lequel il est encore en contact - que je me demandais parfois, au coin du feu, avec avidité, ce qu'il devenait.

J'ai donc reçu consécutivement son courriel ET un commentaire du grand Laing sur mon blog. Ce qui tombe bien, car Sylvain, le gars de St-Tite, m'a assuré que son studio était encore en haut du garage de son père, et qu'on pourrait y enregistrer comme dans l'temps dès cet été. J'avais aussi enregistré en ces lieux les premières chansons d'un album projeté des Ratés, projet au bout duquel nous ne sommes jamais arrivé. J'avais un mix approximatif de ces chansons sur une cassette audio, que je me suis fait dérober par une jolie et vorace demoiselle de Ste-Foy que j'ai passagèrement "fréquenté". Disons que son appétit pour la vie faisait qu'elle ne se satisfaisait pas de mes visites hebdomadaires le week-end, et qu'elle se tapait entre autres le copain de sa meilleure amie, ce qui a précipité la fin de notre relation. Je n'ai donc malheureusement pas eu l'occasion de récupérer les divers objets que je lui avais laissé, ni de lui administrer une dernière baise bien sentie. Parmi les trucs que j'ai dû sacrifier figurait l'exemplaire unique du "rough" mix de l'album des Ratés.



Eh bien aujourd'hui, grâce à la magie du web, j'ai retrouvé mes amis ET ce morceau de l'histoire du rock n' roll de la Mauricie. Bon, peut-être pas, mais disons qu'après presque dix ans je suis drôlement curieux d'entendre comment sonnent mes chansons !

*

Parlant de Saint-Tite, bonne nouvelle ! Il me fait plaisir de vous annoncer en primeur que KENNY ROGERS y performera, dans le cadre du 40e anniversaire du Festival Western, le jeudi 13 septembre. Yeeee haw !

Smart Cats Vs Dumb Dogs

This new Jona track, released on his latest Get Physical Music EP Evidence, kicks ass. Speaking of cats, I always feel pretty concerned everytime somebody I know gets one. I don't like 'em, it's no secret. And when stories like the one I just read in today's Miami Herald emerge, my olfactive imagination works full spin.



Man who had hundreds of cats is charged

OCALA -- (AP) -- A man who kept hundreds of cats at a house that was full of animal waste was charged with animal cruelty.

The floor of Jonathan Terpstra's home was covered with a layer of animal feces between two and three inches deep, authorities said. As many as 300 cats were found.

Terpstra, 61, was charged Friday with 55 counts of animal cruelty, two counts of tampering with evidence and one count of resisting without violence. He remained in the Marion County Jail on $30,000 bail.

An animal cruelty investigator visited the home five years ago, but no violations were found.

In March 2002, an air conditioning repairman called the county to ask for an investigation of the home. The repairman reported seeing 400 cats inside the home -- some of them dead and others without hair on their backs -- and feces all over the house. The repairman also reported about 75 dogs outside.

Lead animal cruelty Investigator Ron Henry went to the property. His report states that 30 dogs were seen on the property, and all the dogs appeared healthy and had food, water and shelter. The report did not mention any cats.

Henry told The Ocala Star-Banner on Monday that when he made the inspection five years ago, a locked gate kept him from getting onto the property.

Without signs of a violation or foul odors, Henry said he's not allowed to enter a home.

How crazy can you get ? 300 cats ?!

How crazy can high school kids get ?! 32 victims ?! Life, for some, is like a bad video game. And why should this fucked up society blame guns when it can blame heavy metal, movie directors, rockers ?

Movin' on up

You can't always stay levelled. Things around you morph & evolve, and so should you. Most people are confortable with moving sideways. Horizontally. For change's sake, they'll switch life partners and end up with different inconveniences, in an equal number, with the same effect : boredom. Same applies for their job : they'll change for almost no benefits, for a mundane detail like the location of their workplace, and they'll be good for a few more years.



It might sound like an easy parallel, but I like to think we're made to move vertically. We grow up. Our body accumulates the extra inches, normally moving on up, and not on the sides, except if your metabolism doesn't want to cooperate, but that's another story. When we fall, we don't fall on the ground as if we were going to sleep; we "end up at the bottom of the barrel". It's a way of saying that we are metaphorically moving down, under the level of the earth. Under the ground, where the dead sleep. When we succeed in a company, we "climb the corporate ladder". And when there's a serious financial crisis, we've often seen dudes who have their offices on the 29th floor jump off the window and go down a couple of storeys at full speed.

As some of you know, there are big changes in my life right now. I am questioning most aspects of my miserable existence. Is it worth it finishing a university program in which I am no longer interested ? What will become of my professional life ? Will I be stuck in small time offices all my life ? How old do you need to be to become a pathetic clubber ? Am I on the verge of qualifying ? Shouldn't I be raising kids in a suburbian home right now ? Am I lazy ? Where do I belong in a society which codes are like a foreign language to me ? Can we live off our passion if this "passion" is highly uncommon ? Can I be labeled as "different" ? And if so, does this difference help me in getting better chances in life, or is it one of the reasons I'm still living as if I was 21 ?

When I feel like shit, I know what to do. It is juvenile and not very mature, but oh so satisfying. Tonight, I'll get drunk and party with my good friends Troïka, Rev, Gin & Tonic, and with party people such as Tiga, Tommie Sunshine & Jordan Dare. Let's get degraded !

*

Another discipline of mine, sometimes labeled as "escapism" by people who can't understand the fascination it provides, is VHS hunting. My best days are behind me, of course, since the medium is slowly but steadily disappearing - even Boîte Noire are selling their tapes for 1$ each - but even among my own collection I sometimes discover oddities. Back when I was "trading" on a regular basis, people would always throw in "freebies" or obscure titles, and I would just add them to my list, put them in a box and store it away. Since I have started "cleaning up" this mess, watching movies and then giving them to friends, or dubbing something else over the tapes, I have come across a highly surprising number of underrated curiosities. The most UFO-like being this week's THE TEACHER.



Directed by Howard Avedis, this 1974 oddity is labeled as a drama, but whatever it was in the first place, the french dubbing my copy suffered from has obliterated it. It starts out rather weirdly, with a seemingly disturbed teenager named Ralph (Anthony James) following a high school teacher around in his hearse. The teacher, Diane (Angel Tompkins), is a rather sexy californian-type blonde, who drives an electric blue Corvette Stingray and regularly gets her tan improved on her yatch. Ralph, of course, spies on her with his binoculars, something his little brother Lou is aware of. One afternoon, Lou takes his best friend Sean (Jay North) along to spy on the babe, but they're caught by Ralph and Lou, surprised and afraid, falls down several storeys to his death. Sean is troubled, but not enough to steer clear from Diane's flirting. Diane happens to be his teacher, his mother's best friend, and quite a babe. They start seeing each other, and even though Diane is 10 years older than him and divorced, the people around them don't see this relationship as very healthy. Meanwhile, Ralph is convinced that Sean pushed Lou to his death and jealous he's banging the object of his sexual obsession, so he keeps on stalking them.

The story is very twisted, but the way it is shown to us makes it almost "normal". Who wouldn't want Angel Tompkins as a girlfriend ? She drives a wonderful car, owns a boat, has a pool in her backyard and encourages underage drinking. And oh yeah, she's smoking hot ! The tagline, "Her best lessons were taught after class !", is rather funny. Funny because it's true; to Sean's father, she's corrupting him. To his mother though, she's just helping him becoming a man. If all of us kids had an "initiation" this good, we'd probably be very fussy about women right now.



The story unfolds smoothly, but constantly hesitates between teen comedy and drama. This oscillation doesn't help the atmosphere, and Anthony James popping up everywhere like bad news, without being noticed, is a rather ridiculous element. The camera isn't always at the right spot, as there are lots of wide angles at times when a closer frame would have been needed. The movie could have been just a sex comedy, without this dramatic touch, and nobody would have complained. It ends up feeling like a schizophrenic outing, where eroticism is always compromised by Ralph's unealthy voyeurism. Not a bad psychological effect, but I doubt it's voluntary. It would seem that this movie was released on DVD in 2002, and I sincerely hope that the image quality is better than what I've seen on VHS.

[As a bonus, I have come across a blog that seems to compile "bad teachers" cases in the US media, and the adress is worthy of sharing, as it's fascinating reading material. We've all had the hots for a teacher at one point of our lives, and these stories are encouraging news for those of you still hoping : http://outhouserag.typepad.com/outhouserag/bad_teacher/index.html ]

*

My Chabrol of the week was an undisputed classic : QUE LA BETE MEURE. The beast must die, quite litterally. And before diving in details about the movie itself, it's worthy of noting that this 1969 masterpiece inspired Sean Penn's THE CROSSING GUARD. The movie itself is adapted from a novel by Nicholas Blake, and the way Chabrol quietly translates it into moving images is, once again, amazing.



Charles Thénier's son is killed in a hit-and-run by a sports car driver while crossing a calm street in Bretagne. The police aren't doing much to find the driver so Thénier (played by a cold and calculating Michel Duchaussoy), who only lives to find his son's killer and get revenge, begins his own inquiry. He accidentally finds some leads that will take him to Hélène Lanson (Caroline Cellier, charming), a bird brained actress that was inside the car when it killed the boy. He's getting closer. And when he is finally introduced to the man responsible for his grief, he ends up facing the vilest man he's ever met : Jean Yanne.



Yanne, who plays garage owner Paul Decourt, is litterally an animal; he lets his hot-headed temper lead the way. He doesn't respect anything, sleeps with pretty much every woman in sight, and beats on his son. He has absolutely no moral objectivity and the fact that he's successful prevents his entourage from confronting him about his bad manners. Yanne was already a seasoned actor in France when he landed this role, and would appear in yet another Chabrol classic, LE BOUCHER, the following year. He then developed his humor and appeared in many French comedies over the years, including alongside a blind Thierry Lhermitte in Gérard Mordillat's hilarious FUCKING FERNAND (1987). He died from a heart attack in 2003.



Duchaussoy was also part of LA FEMME INFIDELE, another flick that Chabrol directed the same year, and has collaborated with the director a total of eight times. He is the personification of vengeance, patient enough to wait for years before having the satisfaction of killing the beast responsible for his son's death. Caroline Cellier, one of French cinema's timeless beauties, succeeds in bringing dome depth to a character that most girls would have played as is : empty. When Duchaussoy says, in the voice-over : "Je commençais à m'attacher à cette petite écervelée..." we have no problem believing him.

This movie is a classic for many reasons. The narrative is far from traditional. The Bretagne landscapes are breath taking. The unflattering portrait of the French bourgeoisie, an obsessive theme for Chabrol, is right on target. I have yet to be disappointed by old Claude. Next week : we travel 10 years back in time and take a look at A DOUBLE TOUR (1959), Chabrol's third feature and his first psychological thriller.

Merry Fuckin' Christmas

Have you looked outside lately ? Did you notice the SNOWSTORM yesterday ? Did you notice that it was April 12th on the calendar ?



That's it. I'm gettin' the fuck out of this awful country.

*

It looks like the Laval subway will finally open on April 28th. I just received an AMT memo about it. Will be good for my last summer in town. I'll be able to visit my mom without too many inconveniences every time I'm hungry !



It's funny it took so long for it to already happen. A subway station in Laval has been on every politician's agenda since the 80's. The bill has tripled since the initial evaluation, and we know these north shore fellas love their cars. Will the new stations be a hit among the 450's ? Will they just plain snub the trains and keep on parking their huge-ass SUV's in our streets ? Remains to be seen.

All I know is that I'm still boycotting the goddamn STM and biking my way through life, even if it means, like all day yesterday, getting splashed by slush from passing cars. Drivers go berserk when they have to share the road with bikes, and their bloodlust will only be satisfied once I'm dead, crushed under their tires.

*

Lots of people are dying lately. Not just in the ordinary world. Last week, on April 4th, Bob Clark was hit by a drunk driver - who didn't even hold a license - while traveling with his son. Both were killed, but the drunk driver survived. Clark is best known for being a Canadian pioneer in shlock horror and exploitation, as he's responsible for directing movies such as CHILDREN SHOULDN'T PLAY WITH DEAD THINGS (1972), DEAD OF NIGHT (1974) and BLACK CHRISTMAS (also 1974).



He broke into the mainstream in 1982 with the legendary teen sex comedy PORKY'S, a movie that, along with its few sequels, has transformed my vision of women. Ever since I first saw it, I've been trying to find my own "Lassie" to hump her in a sweaty locker room.



Another great loss would be Kurt Vonnegut Jr, this unreal writer who turned out masterpieces such as BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS and SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE - to mention only his two immensely popular landmarks. He died on April 11th, at the age of 84. His surreal tales, who were always spiced with the sweetest humor there is, a unique brand of absurd & social observation, will live on.

*

Speaking of dead people, I have seen Brian de Palma's THE BLACK DAHLIA a few weeks ago. It reminded me of a New York Times article that my good ghost friend Caron sent to me when the movie was originally released, titled : "Say De Palma. Then Watch Everybody Fight".



Because the director is either loved, or hated. And I have to admit that while his James Elroy adaptation is full of redeeming qualities, including a gorgeous cinematography and a meticulous era recreation, it doesn't quite cut it. It's very confusing, and some of the "surprises" don't really make sense. That is not uncommon of De Palma, a director who will often sacrifice logic at the profit of style. Here, you get everything associated to L.A. in the fourties : fistfight matches, crooked cops, gorgeous cars, and femmes fatales. Everything associated with De Palma as well : Scarlett Johansson in blond, visual trickery, and an overactive narrative. Things happen at a pace so fast that if you blink an eye for more than a few seconds, you'll become very confused.



Don't see this movie if you're tired, because there's an extensive focus put on the way time unfolds, and a discourse about its elasticity. Or maybe not. But it's predictable as hell, and there are too many clichés to be ignored. There's also a very improbable "chic" lesbians club, where K.D. Lang sings the blues to a plattoon of lipstick dames. Aaron Eckhart is an ideal hero, cast well opposite Josh Hartnett who could use some muscle. He's a bit too soft for my tastes. So it's hard to believe that he's banging both Mia Kirschner (our beloved and sexy montrealer expat) AND Johansson. May the celluloid wrath strike him with a boner.



The DVD extras are far more interesting than the movie itself, with a featurette about James Elroy, his book, and the real "Black Dahlia" case. The movie is worthy of attention for its gloss, and fans of De Palma should check it out - because others might regret it.

Bizarro-Rama

J'ai parfois l'impression que le monde qui m'entoure évolue sous anesthésie, ou que c'est moi qui suis complètement dans les vapes. L'état d'isolement dans lequel je tente de me plonger de plus en plus fréquemment y est peut-être pour quelque chose; quand je suis seul dans mon coin, abîmé dans mes réflections, je suis davantage apte à observer objectivement les êtres qui m'entourent. Et ces êtres feraient n'importe quoi pour ne pas avoir à se retrouver en tête-à-tête avec eux-mêmes. Ils cherchent du regard quelqu'un avec qui discuter, et une fois qu'ils ont trouvé un interlocuteur, ils cherchent quoi dire. Ils n'ont pas de raison précise pour interpeller leur prochain; ils ont juste envie que le temps passe plus vite.



Cela sera peut-être une confession extrêmement égoïste. Peut-être que votre perception de moi changera après cette lecture. Qui sait. Mais j'ai envie d'être honnête aujourd'hui, et de vous exposer une situation absurde qui dure depuis un certain temps au bureau où je travaille. Il y a là du drame, du désespoir, et de la lassitude. De la folie, peut-être, et un écoeurement progressif de ma part. J'ai pas de coeur.

Une femme d'origine iranienne travaille avec moi depuis que j'ai été engagé en août 2003 - eh oui, je suis pathétique. Elle a fui le climat politique de son pays pour venir refaire sa vie ici, avec ses deux fils. Je ne connais pas beaucoup son histoire mais je sais qu'elle élevait seule ses enfants, jusqu'à tout récemment. Elle n'a pas trouvé de partenaire de vie; un de ses fils est mort. L'an dernier, dans une fusillade. La police soupçonne que c'est à cause d'une histoire de drogue. Évidemment, cette femme est depuis très malheureuse. Mais elle travaille encore et semble tenir le coup, et elle a bien entendu un autre fils dont elle doit s'occuper.

Cette femme est étrange. Elle est muslim mais ne semble pas s'embarasser d'une quelconque orthodoxie. Elle est sournoise, et pleine de préjugés. Elle espionne tous les employés de notre département, et rapporte leurs écarts de conduite aux superviseurs. Elle ne regarde personne dans les yeux. Elle chantonne sans cesse. Elle avait un problème d'hygiène corporelle pendant sa première année au bureau et il a fallu que plusieurs employés fassent front commun pour qu'elle apprenne à se laver ou à utiliser du déodorant, peu importe. Et tout cela ne date pas de l'an dernier; depuis que je la connais, elle est comme ça.

J'essaie de m'asseoir le plus loin possible d'elle pour éviter de capter ses marmonnements ou d'être victime de sa constante surveillance. Depuis quelques mois, elle semble vraiment apprécier ses employeurs, puisque même une fois qu'elle a terminé son quart de travail elle reste sur les lieux et flâne. Elle termine généralement à 16h30, et il arrive qu'elle soit encore en train de se ballader à 20h. Et je n'y peut rien : elle m'énerve.

Cette animosité n'est pas gratuite; j'ai déjà personnellement été victime de ses dénonciations. Pour une raison subconsciente qui m'échappe, sa voix m'est extrêmement désagréable. Et c'est tout. Je ne la supporte pas. Suis-je abject ? Question morale : doit-on faire preuve d'indulgence à l'égard d'un individu que nous détestons normalement lorsque cet individu est affligé d'une peine majeure ? C'est à vous de le décider. Les lignes sont ouvertes, nous attendons votre appel.

*

Une histoire complètement tirée par les cheveux publiée dans le New York Times d'aujourd'hui :

Encore for Movie Hounds

In true show-business fashion, two black Labrador retrievers who took their act on the road and became a smash hit have been held over indefinitely. The retrievers, Lucky and Flo, lent to Malaysia by the Motion Picture Association of America to sniff out counterfeit DVDs, were originally to stay abroad for a month. Billed as the only dogs in the world trained to detect a chemical used in making the discs, they took part in raids on warehouses, shops and offices that uncovered 1.2 million pirated DVDs and CDs worth nearly $3.5 million. Adding drama and suspense to the dogs’ exploits, Malaysian movie pirates have reportedly put bounties on their heads. At the request of the Malaysian government, Lucky and Flo will be based there “for the foreseeable future,” said Neil Gane, the motion picture association’s senior operations executive.

On aura tout lu...

*

J'ai récemment mentionné ici un film de Henri Verneuil, LES MORFALOUS. Je suis récemment tombé sur la VHS de I COMME... ICARE (1979), que je m'étais jadis procuré car la somptueuse Brigitte Lahaie y figure; je ne savais toutefois pas que "figurer" était le terme exact. En effet, son temps d'antenne est comparable à sa présence dans le récent CALVAIRE (2004), de Fabrice Du Welz.. Ce qui n'enlève rien à la qualité exceptionnelle du film, bien entendu.



Considéré dans son pays de production comme un classique, le synopsis rappelle énormément celui de Z, de Costa-Gavras, adapté du roman de Vassilis Vassilikos, et qui date de 10 ans plus tôt, en 1969. Yves Montand y tient un rôle similaire de procureur en quête de la vérité, oeuvrant dans la droiture la plus complète contre la corruption générale de tout un système politique. Mes souvenirs du film de Costa-Gavras sont plutôt vagues, car je l'ai vu il y a plus de dix ans alors qu'il passait sur les ondes du légendaire Canal D, alors mes comparaisons s'arrêteront ici.

Le président d'une république fictive - qui ressemble beaucoup au quartier de la Défense de Paris - prône des changements politiques radicaux et est brutalement assassiné par un tueur troublé, ayant agi seul. Ou c'est du moins ce qu'une commission d'enquête en conclut, un an après le drame, après avoir épluché les témoignages de plusieurs centaines de témoins. Cependant, un homme farouche, le procureur Henri Volney (Yves Montand), refuse de signer le rapport car il soupçonne que la vérité est tout autre. Il est donc nommé à la tête d'une nouvelle commission et commence à mener sa petite enquête...



Il est hallucinant de voir se dérouler sous nos yeux cette enquête minutieuse, avec tous les éléments qui tombent en place et une logistique implacable de la part des adjoints de Montand. Bien entendu, l'oeuvre n'étant pas tirée d'un fait vécu, ce sont les scénaristes qu'il faut ici féliciter; Verneuil et son complice Henri Decoin ont fait du beau travail, et pas un seul moment l'intérêt ne faiblit. La cinématographie est exemplaire, à part quelques fautes de continuité - entre autres la présence de montage dans les images supposément filmées par une caméra amateur. Ennio Morricone signe ici une autre belle réussite de trame sonore.

La finale, aussi nihiliste que surprenante, vient sceller un film de conspiration d'excellente facture, qui nous rappelle que ce genre s'est un peu calmé après les années '70. L'oeuvre de Verneuil est toujours aussi percutante, même après toutes ces années.

*

On m'a récemment conseillé le film coréen MEMORIES OF MURDER, un film de 2003 de Bong Joon-Ho. J'ai réalisé seulement bien après mon visionnement que ce mec était responsable du récent THE HOST, qui vient en fait d'arriver sur nos écrans canadiens. Il est aussi derrière BARKING DOGS NEVER BITE (2000), un autre succès-souvenir d'une édition passée du festival Fantasia.



On peut dire que MEMORIES... est un film rétro. L'action se déroule dans les années '80, alors que dans une petite ville non loin de Séoul sévit le premier tueur en série de l'histoire de la Corée. Ce dernier n'attaque que des jeunes filles portant du rouge, les baillonne avec leurs sous-vêtements, les viole et les tue. Les flics locaux chargés du dossier patinent, leurs méthodes laissent à désirer, et ils ont même recours à la torture pour tirer de pauvres innocents des confessions absurdes. L'arrivée d'un policier de Séoul, type un peu plus calme aux méthodes moins brutes, va faire significativement progresser l'enquête.



Le rythme est définitivement coréen, et il ne se passe pas toujours beaucoup de choses en plus de deux heures, mais ce film est un enchantement. On peut être agacé par quelques invraisemblances et par la brutalité générale des personnages, mais la cinématographie à couper le souffle et la beauté sereine des paysages ruraux de la Corée nous font rapidement oublier de tels détails. L'intrigue - apparememnt jamais résolue - nous hante bien après que le film soit terminé. Dans le même ordre d'idées, je ne suis pas certain que le film serait aussi efficace s'il n'était que pure fiction; le fait qu'il soit basé sur des événements ayant réellement eu lieu excuse ses quelques faiblesses.

*

J'ai toujours eu un faible pour le trash, et ceux d'entre vous qui me lisent régulièrement le savent déjà. Aussi ai-je commencé à saliver quand je suis tombé, hier soir, tout à fait par hasard, sur la VHS d'un film que j'avais oublié posséder : KIDNAPPED COED. Also known as DATE WITH A KIDNAPPER, this 1976 Frederick R. Friedel - unfamous for his AXE flick in 1977 - movie is trashy, of course, and doesn't look very rehearsed. In fact, most of the scenes even look improvised on the spot.



It's about a guy named Eddie (Jack Canon, a forgotten actor with an unforgetable face) who kidnaps the daughter of a rich guy and plans on asking him for ransom. The girl, a shy redhead named Sandra (Leslie Rivers), doesn't seem to want to fight off her abduction, and is almost completely submissive, right away. Eddie takes her to a hotel room where they plan on waiting for a few days, but the front clerk and one of his friends break in the room and rape the girl. The kidnapper kills them both and drives away with his prize, and the two of them eventually start feeling more than animosity towards each other...

A classical "Stockholm syndrome" case, this love story is typically seventies : two city dwellers driving through big bad rural America in a huge blue gas guzzler. Eddie always seems to have to kill to get out of spiky situations, and his brainless coed seems to forget all about it in a matter of minutes. Nobody seems sane here; every character has a lust for blood - or for sex. The characters end up in love, and want to marry. They consider the ransom money a wedding present. The movie ends abruptly, after an awkward bar scene, where our two lovers want to "celebrate" their union. It looks as if Friedel ran out of ideas, or money for film, at that exact moment.

Leslie Rivers appeared as a guard in 1986, in REFORM SCHOOL GIRLS, and has done some work for television in the nineties. Jack Canon's rare other appearances include MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE in 1986, and WEEK-END AT BERNIE'S in 1989 ! Frederick Friedel remains a mystery, and I have a copy of AXE lying somewhere, so perhaps one of these days I'll get to watch it and give you an update about his strange case !

[Notez bien que le "switch" de langue est ici bien involontaire; je dois dormir au gaz. Comme je viens de rédiger tout ce segment en anglais bien malgré moi, je compte bien le laisser tel quel, histoire que vous vous rendiez bien compte de ce que peut occasionner un après-midi ensoleillé passé enfermé dans un bureau rempli à ras bord de retardés, en subissant de constantes interruptions de la part de clients complètement épatés. Le film KIDNAPPED COED est sorti en DVD chez Something Weird en programme double avec HITCH HIKE TO HELL (1977), que je n'ai pas vu. De mauvaises langues me disent que c'est mieux ainsi.]

All the clues lead to France

Weird series of coincidences, I have to admit. If France didn't exist, I probably wouldn't have any stories to tell today.



It all began somewhere at the Digitalism show, a couple of weeks ago, at Musée Juste Pour Rire, when I told a French girl that if things kept going like that, France wouldn't have any hot girls left in a couple of years. Have you noticed that all the pretty French girls are moving to Montreal ? It's a logical choice, after all : the cost of life is friendlier here, crime is pretty much non-existent, and we also speak french.

This is a migration trend that I welcome with open arms, of course. I have always been a violent advocate of social and ethnic mixity. A story like what happened in Hérouxville isn't surprising : among white bread pure-laines, how can you open your mind to other cultures ? Your reality is just that : who you are, and what you're living daily. Everything outside this "norm" is perceived by you, wether you like it or not, as abnormal. It can be somebody with a different skin color, or with different beliefs. It can also be "barbaric alimentary habits" or clothes that may look funny to you.

I remember my youth in Shawinigan, where rich anglo kids going to the impressive high school wouldn't mix with us poor frenchies from the "polyvalente", even if their lives depended on it. There was a language barrier, of course, but we were also from a different social class, and by some odd mimic pattern, kids would imitate their parents on the way to segregation. There was also a black kid - yes, only one - and he had to be pretty friendly if he wanted to survive. He lived close to my place so we naturally became friends; I eventually moved away and we lost contact. My father, a cop for the City of Shawinigan for more than 30 years, told me a couple of years ago that he had commited suicide.

But let's not venture towards the desperation brought by small town living to "different" people - that's a topic I already explored in depth in my never-published second completed novel, Les Rivaux, which to this day I still think sucks. It was refused only once - by no less than a Québec / Amériques reader - and it was more than enough.



So yes, french girls are generally hot - not hotter than girls from Québec, but almost on the same level. And they're all welcome to Montreal. I just hope I'll get the same welcome when I go to France. Yesterday, at Tokyo, I was quietly sipping a gin & tonic en bonne compagnie at The Joyride when Romeo Kardec got there to play. He was with Bruno, a French guy who just moved here on Monday. Bruno told me that it was his job that made him decide to switch countries. He's a helicopter pilot ! I've seen worse.

I have also watched lots of French movies lately, and I think it's time to comment on them, if you don't mind.

*

René Manzor has directed his fair share of oddities (3615 CODE PERE NOEL, anyone ?) and the weirdest is probably LE PASSAGE. Released in 1986, it was unanimously trashed by critics, and if you ever see it you'll easily understand why. The intentions are noble, but the result isn't. We can only suppose, since Delon has contributed to the script, that it's one more proof of his unstoppable megalomania...



Jean Diaz (Delon) is a filmmaker. Not a "real" one, mind you - he draws. He releases animated movies filled with pointless violence and little else, to illustrate how much pain mankind is inflicting itself. He is presented as one of the most important artists of his era - yeah right - and seems to living the good life even though he has stopped working years ago to "protest the violence". He takes care of his irritating son, is divorced, and he is also randomly chosen by Death when the Grim Reaper asks its computer for a list of the 10 most important artists (of France, obviously, since the results display only French names). Death then orders its computer to make Diaz's car crash while he drives with his son.

You read right. Death smokes Gitanes, and spends way too much time in front of a huge 1986 computer. If it's not the best formula ever found to make sure a movie ages badly, then I don't know what is. The movie has its interesting moments, but is overall just bad, very bad. Delon argues with Death and reasons as if he was talking to a human being. The live action sequences are sometimes intersped with Jean Diaz's "work", which is pretty irritating if you're allergic to animated segments. Diaz's wife, portrayed by Christine Boisson, dives into hysteria from one second to the next, has a horrible haircut, and wears the most clownesque bourgeois clothes I had seen in a while.



Alain Manzor, René's son, plays David, Jean Diaz's son. He spends most of the movie being moody and walking around in an oversized sleeveless vest. He's the kind of kid that you might find cute and talented if he's your own son, but that objective individuals such as me will want to throw out the window.

*

I presently have a fixation on Claude Chabrol's oeuvres from the 80's, and my fascination doesn't seem to go away; it instead grows from one movie to the other. The latest I have seen, LE CRI DU HIBOU, from 1987, almost left me breathless.



This thriller is a Patricia Highsmith adaptation, and it's the kind of movie that, if seen in a proper context, will make you suffocate along the main character as the intrigue develops. Chabrol has been mastering the art of observing the small psychological details of life for what seems like ages, ever since his debut feature LE BEAU SERGE in 1958, and applies them pretty well to his characters. Though I haven't read Highsmith's story, the movie is apparently very faithful, and is a strong piece of the Chabrol puzzle, whatever anybody thinks.

Robert (Christophe Malavoy, chilling) is a professional drawer working on bird illustrations for an ornitology book in Vichy. He took the job following a separation with his wife Véronique (Virginie Thévenet) and has developed a nasty habit - every now and then, he spies on Juliette (Mathilda May, charming), a lonely and gorgeous young girl living in a secluded house. Juliette is about to get married to Patrick (Jacques Penot) but when she meets her stalker, her life changes for good, as well as Robert's, who ironically becomes stalked himself by the young lady.

Jean-Pierre Kalfon (LE DÉCLIC's unforgettable Dr. Fez) also appears as a quite unusual cop, and the beautiful score by Chabrol's son Matthieu couldn't be better. The parallels with birds is omnipresent, with Malavoy observing May like a hawk, hiding behind the trees, and Thévenet like a vulture feasting on her ex husband's bad luck. As the plot turns and surprises multiply, Robert seems trapped in an improbable funnel, driven to the bottom of a faith he can't escape. The ending is icy, a movement stopped short, a freezed frame of intense questionning. This movie is a puzzle, all the characters little pieces falling in their place, manipulated by an expert and diabolical craftsman whose dialogues and symbolic images all mirror another one, already passed or to come.



Mathilda May is a revelation here, her fragile face at times moving, at times just gracious and beautiful. LE CRI DU HIBOU was her eight film, and while other directors (as Tobe Hooper did in LIFEFORCE in '85) used her mainly for her sexy features, Chabrol gave her a real role, a character that suits her perfectly, where she does not have to take her clothes off to get noticed.