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.

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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.

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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.