The Dreamers

I have to rush because I have to finish my paper AND go through it AND go out AND get food AND do all kinds of exciting stuff, but for now, quickly, quickly, before I forget:

(1) The easy bits: of course Chaplin before Keaton - I mean, hello, there's no competition. City Lights!!! And yes, Astaire in Top Hat - but I do prefer Gene Kelly......

(2) The Bande a parte sequence brought a catch to my throat. It's funny, romantic, nostalgic and so whole, so heartfelt in its offering of love. Forget pathetic little coy references to Spanish steps sequences - it's like, look, we're just going to do it, ok? This is it.

(3) The Tango in Paris parts notwithstanding (which leave me a little cold, I have to admit - why can't Bertolucci just do his Before the Revolution stuff, which is brilliant) I do envy, in a wistful way, the bonding that the characters have, their effortless connection on the platform of film. 1960s Europe (and this was set in Paris!) is a wonderful time and place for film, and, I wonder: if I had lived in Paris 1968 (as I kind of wish I did and kind of not wish I did), would my cinephilia be any different? For sure, I wouldn't have to struggle so hard: every day I have to fight my self-consciousness, every day in some form I have to launch a defence for myself, every day I have to beat off that feeling of guilt and shame when I see economically viable lawyers or accountants or government officials. And here is a time and place where people would understand me - and suddenly I don't feel like I'm an alien, suddenly I don't feel I have to continually struggle against this void of ignorance and unabashed uncaring about anything other than food and shopping and the price of cars.

(4) And yet I want to, need to, know enough not to let film dominate my life, such that, like the twins, I know nothing else, I can think of nothing else, not even common sense. I want to be at least wise enough to realise that, and I think I am, and this is how I know: when the film closed I realise I suddenly understand the closing Edith Piaf song "Non, je ne regrette rien". I mean, not just understanding the irony in its use, but its actual lyrics. My French is not too bad, but not too good either - the only way I could have understood the song is because somehow in some form I know it in my heart.