The Tropes of Jean-Pierre Jeunet

When I saw Jean-Pierre Jeunet's latest film, "Les Micmacs à tire-larigot," back in September, I had to double-check my ticket stub: I thought I'd wandered into the middle of a Jeunet retrospective.

"Micmacs"- the English-language title of the film - looks more than a little familiar. And it's not just because Jeunet has a distictive cinematographic style or that he uses the same actors repeatedly (Dominique Pinon, Yolande Moreau); it's that he is basically re-using his own plot devices.

Who can blame him? His last film, "Un Longue dimanche de fiançailles," was a disappointment of a book adaptation and did poorly at the box office. So, Jeunet decided to return to where he's done his best work: original screenplays. The only problem is that Jeunet seems to have constructed his script as if it were a Rube Goldberg machine made of "Amélie's" plot devices. (It's not the only debt the director owes to Goldberg in this film - his cast of misfits makes many such machines throughout the story.)

Among other plot points, "Amélie" and "Micmacs" share tragic childhoods (complete with one dead parent and one emotionally distant one apiece), sex shops, bored young people in dead-end jobs, getting back at nasty people and highly-choreographed mischief involving train stations.

The film even begins much in the same way as Amélie, with a quick montage explaining the main character's odd childhood predicament. Only this time, the intro is so short, we're not even quite sure what happened during it. It's also too short to make us properly care about the main character, Bazil.

In fact, Bazil seems to be more of a catalyst than a protagonist - he's merely the vehicle through which all of the other characters create the story. Bazil's brand of childhood tragedy begins when his father is killed while attempting to disarm a landmine in Afghanistan. Word reaches Bazil's mother, who goes into shock at the news and never recovers. Bazil, scrutinizing a package that arrives from the government, discovers photographs of the accident site, including a close-up of the culpable landmine. He commits the brand name to memory.

Fast-forward twenty years, and Bazil has grown up to be that trope of postmodern French cinema, the under-employed young French person. He's working in a video rental shop, whiling away the hours by watching old film noir, when a series of shady events leaves Bazil with a bullet in his brain.

He finds out the name of the bullet maker, and vows revenge. It is then that the "Micmacs" enter the picture, and they help Bazil in his quest for vegence. The Micmacs have a secret hideout in a junkyard, not unlike the Court of Miracles in Victor Hugo's "Notre Dame de Paris," and each of them has different and distinct talents. I'm not sure what prevented Jeunet from casting Audrey Tautou in this film, but it's clear that he tried his best to find her doppelgänger in Marie-Julie Baup:

The Micmacs help Bazil get revenge on the manufacturers of the landmine that killed his father and the bullet that nearly killed him. The two bedeviled executives, played by André Dussollier and Nicolas Marié, get the best scene in the film when they each confront the booby traps set by Bazil and his partners in mischief. It's the only truly funny moment in a film that tries to deliver, but fails miserably. The other scene of note owes a debt to "Pickpocket," with its shell game of suitcases in a train station.

Unfortunately, "Micmacs" has the quirk of "Delicatessen" and the tragic childhood of "Amélie," but this movie doesn't have enough original material to make viewers care about the film they're watching now.

Warmed-Up Leftovers, Anyone?

Hollywood, can we talk about this?

Now, I know that you've been playing catch-up with the French since they invented film and all and then went on to perfect it. But there's really no need to be so pathetic in the chase. We've come a long way from the whole Pépé le Moko/Algiers thing, where you had to change the ending because of the Hayes Code.

A spokesman for Jay Roach, who is directing Dinner For Schmucks, told The New York Times that "it's not a remake" but that it is "inspired" by the orginal 1998 French film Le dîner de cons (The English title was, oddly, The Dinner Game).

Then why does it have essentially the same title as the original and and the same premise? I'm sure they've ratcheted up the potty humor and the general jackassery (yes, that's a word - says me!), but if they're using the same plot, then it's a remake!

Variety notes that other American adaptations of Francis Veber's French farces haven't been as successful as the originals:

"American adaptations of Veber's works have been all over the map, from "The Birdcage" to "Father's Day" (when DreamWorks optioned "Dinner," it too was intended to star Robin Williams)."

So now that Hollywood has seemingly exhausted the supply of TV shows, remade movie musicals and old toys out of which to make movies, they are going back to the "original remake": the foreign language remake.

Do yourself a favor: see the original. I guarantee it'll be funnier in the end.

Photo: eutorrents.com

The French Food "Crisis": Downgraded From Red to Orange

Adam Gopnik had an interesting article in The New Yorker recently.

It was yet another omen of the cataclysm in French cooking that has now been foretold so many times that it's no wonder Nostradamus was French.

Gopnik's focus was on a French culinary movement called "Le Fooding." The words, it is explained, are supposed to be an amalgamation of "food" and "feeling" but instead give the impression of one of those odd French absorptions of English, like "le shampooing" or "le smoking." So the movement gets an A- (or, should I say, a zéro) for vocabulary.

Even Gopnik seems to be weary of this so-called "crisis" in French cooking - though not weary enough to stop collecting Condé Nast paychecks from writing about it repeatedly:

"...surely, if the same crisis continues for decades and decades it is no longer a crisis but merely a condition."

So, now it's a "condition" - downgraded from natural disaster to medical ailment.

Gopnik has just placed French cuisine on an orange alert.

Le Fooding seems to be a movement of younger people who seek good food at decent prices - imagine that. They don't care about the exact quality of the ingredients (that would be the "slow food" movement). It seems they're seeking something between slow food and fast food - perhaps allegretto?

The group is apparently now storming the Chrysler Building now that they've already stormed the Bastil- er, I mean Michelin. They're staging events in New York City and their new guide has already sold out in the U.S.

I've never really believed in the so-called French food crisis. In my mind, it is one of those media-created (so says a member of the media) pre-historic labels, and by pre-historic I mean that the problem is labeled while it is happening without the benefit of an historian's educated hindsight to make sense of it all.

I'll be happy once someone finally agrees with me that, whether "crisis" or "condition," we can admit that these "sound-the-alarm"-style movements are just as much about one generation reacting to another as they are about food, the environment, cloth diapering, et cetera.

There is, and will continue to be, bad food everywhere - it's a fact of nature. The task is to seek out the good and help it sustain itself and stop sounding the alarm every fifteen seconds.

Review: Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes

I'm enjoying this book, in spite of myself.

I mean no disrespect to Elizabeth Bard with that remark; it's just that Francophile nonfiction written for an American audience tends to come in two flavors: 'look-at-the-fabulous-sophisticated-life-I-lead' and 'you-fat-stupid-American-why-can't-you-stop-gaining-weight-or-learn-the-language'.

Luckily, Elizabeth Bard's book is neither of those. It's a rather enjoyable first-person account of her life in France, starting with a one-afternoon stand and ending with a new chapter in her life (both literally and figuratively). On the way, we meet the in-laws, plan a wedding and get to laugh good-naturedly at Elizabeth and her outsider's perspective on French culture.

The book is peppered with recipes the author gleaned from her future husband and his family as well as her own American one. Her honest advice on ingredients and preparation ("Do not, I repeat, do not attempt this (or any) recipe with those baby carrots sold in the plastic bag. They are fine for dip but miserable for cooking.") is a fresh take in our Food Network-inspired culture of, ahem, "take a little help from the store."

Elizabeth is what I would call a Francophile by relation - she wasn't someone who steeped herself in French culture willingly. In fact, she seems to have been a staunch Anglophile prior to the events of the book. She became a Francophile because she loves a French person, namely her husband, Gwendal.

I really should explain my feelings a bit here. Any Francophile who has studied the language in a university will tell you that French majors are not an "all for one and one for all" kind of bunch. We're secretive, jealously guarding the insider information we've gleaned from French friends or books or independent study over the years. It isn't until we've finally made our first pilgrimmage that we want to share - and then mainly it's about bragging - by specifically NOT bragging, you understand, but that all is implied merely by the stories that are produced from such a trip. It's a syndrome that is further exacerbated by the culture of academia and its constant political jockeying for position: who has the most skill? Who has the most talent? Who is the authority? And, most importantly, who gets the recognition?

In short, we don't truly want to be happy for fellow Francophiles who have gone further in Francophilia than we have, especially if they haven't seriously studied the language or culture (staring at your future French husband's behind every weekend for a year doesn't count - though maybe as "cul-ture" which is another thing entirely).

Elizabeth went as far as marrying in France and perhaps obtaining French citizenship, further than I am likely to go, as much as I dislike admitting it. But, for some reason, I can be happy for Elizabeth. She's just that likeable and her writing style is so un-complicated by not having been a traditional Francophile. In fact, I had a hard time putting her book down long enough to write this review. I enjoyed her book so much that I intend to buy my own copy (the one I read belongs to the Carnegie Library) and make some of her recipes for my own parents and in-laws.

I find her infinitely more likeable than other semi-famous people who have married into French families (Melissa D'Arabian, for one). The tendency toward snobbery that sometimes affects other New York Times writers-turned-authors doesn't seem to have affected Elizabeth. At least she gives credit where it is due, admitting when she has adapted a recipe from another chef (she cites Christian Ecckhout and Gaston Lenôtre, among others) instead of passing each one off as an entirely new recipe.

Perhaps one of the reasons I find Elizabeth so likeable is that we seem to be kindred spirits on more than just an admiration of French food and culture. Elizabeth is a girl after my own heart where it comes to art, Victorian architecture and just general appreciation of historical places and objects:

"I like to think I was born in the wrong century. I'm sure I would have done very well with a hoop skirt, a fan, and a drawing master. (My mother likes to remind me that, more likely, I would have been a very nearsighted scullery maid.) Paris is the perfect city for my kind of mental time travel. There are very few streets that don't bear some small imprint of a grander, more gracious time - the swooping curve of a wrought-iron balcony or a fading stencil above the window of a boulangerie."

I couldn't agree more. (Though I would probably have been either the Irish parlor maid, if I'd been lucky, or, if I'd been unlucky, the Italian wench who wasn't considered trustworthy enough to wash the parlor maid's knickers.)

And, on art historians:

"I believe most art historians are just poor collectors, traveling the world making a secret inventory. I'll take that, and that, and that."

Also true - I have a trove of postcards and the occasional photograph (sans flash, of course!) documenting just what I'd like to have in my dream collection.

The book ends on a hopeful note, with the beginnings of what became its manuscript as well as a baby on the horizon. (The couple's son, Augustin, was born in August 2009 - félicitations!)

And now, I'm off to jealously guard this book and use its recipes as secret weapons at my next party.

Bric à brac

Frenchy flotsam of the moment:

• The Times of London has a nifty slide show on 7 ways to wear a breton shirt.  I still think I wouldn't look good in horizontal stripes. See, if you're cubist, you can get away with that.

• In a scene straight out of classic French farce, a group of robbers tried to tunnel into a Paris bank on Easter Sunday.  They didn't succeed, but they sure did garner the admiration of Bomb Voyage in the process (and I totally just created a Wikia account for the sole purpose of editing the atrociously transcribed quote at the top of that page!).

• Elisabeth Badinter, a French philosopher clinging to the days when French feminism meant abhorring motherhood, has written a book that is raising tempers with everyone from La Leche League to The New York Times.  I'm not quite sure what exactly riled them - was it calling motherhood a form of oppression, or calling babies tyrants?  Or maybe it was attacking breastfeeding and cloth diapering.  In any case, the mommy bloggers are not pleased.

• In 1895 news, a French explorer is attempting to navigate the North Pole in a hot-air balloon.  Am I the only one who got mental images of Georges Seurat paintings, unicycles and World's Fairs when reading that story?  That's kind of like claiming you'll be the first female to ride the Orient Express alone.  Gasp!

• I've been wondering lately why French yogurt companies cannot seem to market their product in the U.S. without adulterating it with a ton of artificial sweeteners.  I was eating some Dannon yogurt the other day and noticed that the label had three different sweeteners, none of which was actually sugar.  It was so sickeningly sweet, I think I'll either switch to non fat to see if it makes s difference, or go to another brand entirely.  I heard that Yoplait has introduced a Greek-style yogurt that doesn't include their usual HCFS, so I'll have to give it a try and see if it's an improvement.

• I think I've found another alter-ego to add to the list.

Photo: Pablo Picasso, by Robert Doisneau.

Random Thoughts

Some random Frenchy-type thoughts that are floating around my brain:

• What is it about putting a francophone wrestler into an English-language movie that gives it that automatic air of adventure? The Princess Bride and Sherlock Holmes just wouldn't be the same without "a Leviathan Frenchman with fists like Bayonne hams" (thank you, Wendy Ide, for quite possibly the best quote in a movie review since Pauline Kael).

• Rillettes de Tours now have a specialized designation! The Indication Géographique Protégée means that this yummy pork product will be as protected as Champagne, Vouvray and Ste. Maure de Touraine. Seriously, this stuff is like crack...I could eat tubs and tubs of it (after scraping the fat, of course).

• Speaking of Champagne, have you signed the petition urging American producers of sparkling wines to stop calling them Champagne if they weren't produced in France? An ad on the back cover of my latest issue of The New Yorker urged me to do so, and of course I couldn't resist. The ad is correct: "Champagne only comes from Champagne, France."

• In confessional news, I generally dislike Melissa D'Arabian, the winner of the latest season of The Next Food Network Star (I was a huge Jeffrey fan), but I admit to having made "her" potato tarte recipe. It doesn't really count as her recipe, since she used her French mother-in-law's crust recipe, and that's half the dish! It was pretty delicious. I plan to try her chicken à l'orange at some point this winter.

• In a family game of Apples to Apples over the holiday, I was the judge and the word was "timeless". One family member submitted "the Eiffel Tower", which almost won, until my hubby trumped them all with "Joan of Arc". I knew I married that man for a reason! Way to play to the judge, honey. Je t'aime.

• Also notable over the holiday, my first attempt at choucroute garnie was a great success! I didn't take a photo (sadly), but it looked, smelled and tasted wonderful. The flavor profile was a new one to all of my assembled family, but everyone enjoyed it. For dessert, I made my famous tarte aux pommes à l'Alsacienne.

• I finally gave in and actually used Twitter for once, but only because Francophilia was running a contest for free French music. See the annoyances I will put up with just for Frenchiness?

• Lady Gaga wins the prize for best French lyrics in an English-language song for 2009. Je veux ton amour et je veux ta revanche, indeed. (Nevermind that half those lyrics make no sense in neither French nor English.)

• As of next week, it will officially be 6 years since I left for my extended say in Touraine. I miss it immensely. I bought myself a primrose at the grocery store the other day just because it reminded me of the flower market in the center of town, the only spot of color in an otherwise dreary winter landscape.

Photo: tarte aux pommes de terres et lardons. Copyright MLG.

Au Revoir to All That

I just finished reading Michael Steinberger's recent book, Au Revoir to All That: Food, Wine and the End of France. The title caused me to initally think that this book had been written by a critic from the food industry who hated France. However, I was pleasantly surprised to find that Steinberger is actually a Francophile and was honestly trying to investigate the so-called "crisis" in French cooking.

Steinberger has the enviable journalistic privilege of managing to interview the most famous chefs and food critics in the world, some of whom died within a year or two of his speaking with them. Paul Bocuse, Pascal Remy, Jean-Luc Naret, and the widow of Alain Chapel were among his subjects.

The author does raise some valid points about the changes evident in French culture that began as recently as the late 1970s, and my heart did ache for him in his tale of Au Chapon Fin, a Michelin-starred restaurant at which he had dined with his parents as a child. He later returned as an adult to find the ambiance and food seriously lacking, and later to find the restaurant closed and its host town, Thoissey, wiped from the Michelin guide entirely. He uses this story as a framework for his investigation of France's restaurant industry and, to a certain extent, its food industry, though the latter seems more lightly researched and treated in the book.

Steinberger makes the point throughout the book that many producers of poor-quality breads, wines and cheeses still manage to survive and, in some cases, are edging out their higher-quality competition. I admit to having experienced this aspect of the "crisis" myself.

I was horrified that the only boulangerie in the small town in which I resided for part of my time in France had incredibly dry, nearly inedible bread. Yet this bakery was packed with people every day around 6 p.m with commuters who worked in nearby Tours. Folks who had forgotten to stop at Paul for their bread before coming home settled for this inferior product. I was perplexed that a shop with such bad bread could manage to survive in a French town, but it seemed that enough people in the town put up with the terrible bread to keep it in business. When I inquired about the situation, my host father explained that there had been a second bakery in town that sold much better bread, but it had moved closer to the city since it hadn't attracted enough business out in the country.

Despite Steinberger's vehement argument, I'm still doubtful that there's actually a crisis. In addition to this book, I've read several articles on the subject and none of them have convinced me that it is the cooking that is in crisis. Rather, what is in crisis is France's cultural identity. A government that has denied for years the influences of its former colonists has also denied the changes they've brought to the "French" way of life. When an entire culture changes so gradually, the things that were continually swept under the rug for so many years come as a shock when finally brought into relief.

I don't think that French people value good food any less; they are simply struggling with the issues that Americans struggled with in the 1980s. Women were entering the workforce and trying to manage the juggle between work and family. I like to think that there is more balance in this area today than there was when my mother was raising three daughters and working, but French women seem to still be in the "first generation" of women who spend more waking hours at work than at home each day.

Yes, it's sad to find that supermarkets with their snack aisles and convenience foods have become an integral part of daily life in France, but there will always be those who value freshly prepared seasonal cuisine and who will seek it out.

I would definitely recommend Au Revoir to All That to anyone interested in France's dining industry. I would not recommend it to anyone with a fear of repetitive words: the world 'eponymous' appears about 30 times. That word is just as bad as dry, tough bread.

A Tangible Stimulus

The New York Times reported yesterday on France's stimulus package. I have to admit that it sounds much more appealing than ours does currently - a big flashy project like the Château de Fontainebleau makes for much better publicity than our slow roll out of funds. Sometimes I daydream about what it would be like to live in a country in which the arts are so highly valued.

I don't mean to say that the U.S. doesn't value the arts; it's just that the folks responsible for creating our budgets tend not to put their money where their praise is. Even living in an area as artistically and philathropically rich as Pittsburgh, I wish that there was more government support.

Pennsylvania's governor, Ed Rendell, recently decided to balance the state's budget by pulling funding for an astonishing number of nonprofit organizations across the state. This includes not only traditional arts organizations, but historic preservation groups and libraries as well. It gets very tiresome to hear every few years that our local nonprofits could be in serious jeopardy.

Our local regional asset district, which collects 1% sales tax in Allegheny County for the support of public assets, made the decision several years ago to use a great deal of its money to commit to several large, multi-year projects. As a result, funding for smaller organizations was reduced and, coupled with the elimination of state-level funding in the new budget, I'm not sure how many of them will survive much longer. (This same regional asset district contributed to the funding of Heinz Field and PNC Park, both "public assets" that should be able to support themselves, in my opinion.)

I know that many Americans are suffering in the current economic situation and there are myriad sad and tragic stories as a result, but I think the arts situation is the one that depresses me the most. I'm not entirely convinced that government officials will restore nonprofit funding once the recession is over.

"It is easier to find money for castles and cathedrals, of course, in a country that believes “art is equal to other investments, not secondary,” as Mr. Devedjian puts it." -NYT

Photo: Château de Fontainebleau by Feuillu.