I realize I run the risk of sounding incredibly, if not entirely, crazy. I came to Paris to find Jean-Pierre Léaud. My love affair (of sorts) began seven years ago when I saved up enough money to buy my own copy of the Adventures of Antoine Doinel from Criterion. I remember the box set being the most expensive thing I had ever purchased by myself. To this day, it remains among my most prized possessions. It's hardly rare, easily replaceable, and perhaps a bit expected, but it would also be one of the first things I would stuff into my time capsule. I don't know why I've been so reluctant to pen these thoughts. David Bordwell and Cinemania slightly come to my aid in their observances of the possessiveness that occasionally comes along with cinephilia. There is a fine line between obsession and possession that one feels one may naturally cross after so many viewings and enough research. Today, sitting in the third row in a theater in the Latin Quarter, I felt my stomach flip-flop as Fred Astaire danced Ginger Rogers, Edward Everett Horton, and himself to sleep in Top Hat. It was a scene I, myself, have fallen asleep to many-a-night. I remember going to a Busby Berkeley double feature with D. what might have been a year ago and watching with surprise as she fell asleep during a few numbers and most of the boring parts (I'll never understand why Ruby Keeler got those parts instead of Ginger Rogers). She cleverly explained that when she woke up before the grand finale, she was paying the highest compliment to Berkeley- starting with his grandiose dreams and ending with her own. Here's to dreaming, folks.
Antoine et Colette, La Maman et la Putain, Le Père Noël a les yeux bleus,
Le Départ, Les Deux Anglaises et le continent, La Nuit Américaine,
Et là-bas, quelle heure est-il?, Out 1: Noli me tangere, Porcile