Despite a rather "bah humbug"/"oh drats"/"fiddlesticks" moment upon realizing the Guy Maddin lecture & screeningat New School is sold out, I am yearning to view Mikio Naruse's Yearning again. And how! I should preface my admission by admitting to having just returned from viewing Yearning in theaters this evening. Despite sitting a row behind a kindly soul with an abnormally large, stalwart head, Naruse led me through the gamut. If you happened to have heard nervous chuckling, a steady stream of heady sighs, one or two sharp intakes of breath, and the soft sound of someone clutching their heart again and again– guilty as charged. How this film managed to slip by me is beyond my comprehension, but I attribute this to timing. Meaning, perhaps my unconscious (the one that knows which films will induce the good aches; the one that hinges on sad-sack tales of unrequited love) had an inkling, allowed Yearning to pass by undetected, simply knew I would need to watch this film on this day. Love at first-and-following-ninety-eight-minutes sight.
If you have ever longed for anyone, in any capacity, and I mean anyone (il buono, il brutto, il cattivo), you must see this film.
postscript–
If anyone has any leads as to how I might be able to get my hands on the score to Midareru (or the film itself), consider me signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours. Or at the very least, eternally grateful.
It's mighty hard to muster words these days. & so I'll leave you with two scenes that tend to sum up my own personal feelings (mostly about cinema & Mariel Hemingway's face).
I've listened to a heady, tireless amount of Aznavour lately. I always wonder what throws me into a musical mood. As the season shifts, winter staples are slowly trickling their way into my autumn repertoire. Naturally, too much Leonard Cohen always. Otherwise, bucketfuls of Michael Hurley, Odetta, & the Ink Spots (normally too much Django, but he really seems more appropriate in the spring, no?). The pleasure of succumbing to whims seems most prominent in what I listen to.
Unsettling to dwell on the comparison of this year and last. A cold Monaco* will save such thoughts.
These stills were lovingly zilched from Tirez sur le pianiste (1960) by François Roland Truffaut.
*A Monaco is best with a pale ale, grenadine, & limonade (sprite will do). Some replace the limonade with champagne, but I've yet to do this (shocking, considering I go a bit weak in the knees for anything brut).
Zazie is a girl after my own heart- she pulls the strings of her facial muscles in such a way that your face splits open into guffaws and gummy grins. She is reckless, wild, and she'll kick you in the shins even if you didn't have it coming. Though, I'm sure you did.
Years lapsed in thick folds before I rediscovered Raymond Queneau's delightful tale, this time under Louis Malle's tutelage one bright and early Saturday morning in kaleidoscope-bright 35mm. I had pinky-promised myself one afternoon that I would attempt to see every film by Louis that I could (except that one time I fell in and out of sleep during Calcutta, despite my vested interest). I was hopelessly devoted to Louis from the beginning of the series and tried earnestly (and with varying degrees of success) to wrangle my pals together to wake up early for eleven o'clock movies. For Bergman, it was easy peasy. For Kenji Mizoguchi, a bit more difficult, but managed nonetheless. For Zazie dans le Metro, impossible! A baffling loss indeed for those friends that chose to sleep in!
I have read François T.'s Films in My Life so many times I could recite it backwards or read it cross-eyed; it's gotten to the point that I refer to my favorite movies as the "films in my life." A slightly ridiculous but entirely useful adage (though uttering "God bless John Ford" repeatedly is, perhaps, just a tad sillier). Truffaut obsession aside, Zazie truly ought to be the example cited for Merriam-Webster's definition of "delightful." I often heartily enjoy films, but I seldom wish to crawl through the screen just to eat buckets of clams with a saucy twelve-year-old! I've been crossing my fingers for the past two years that Criterion would package and distribute this gem (considering they have been awfully kind to Malle), but this film remains wedged in veiled obscurity. It's a damn shame!
Trust me, if I had access to all the film prints a girl could dream of, I'd be watching a double feature of Zazie and Monsieur Hulot's Holiday all day, every day, on loop. Or at least until someone had to be rushed to the hospital because they almost died laughing!
