Anna Karina, atriz estabelecida na França

Coco Chanel, estilista

Jean Seberg, atriz americana que passou um bom tempo na França e atuando em filmes franceses

Catherine Deneuve, atriz

Carole Bouquet, atriz

Brigitte Bardot, atriz e sexy simbol

Lou Doillon, atriz, filha de Jane Birkin

Unfortunately, it doesn’t truly leave you breathless in terms of its plot and it incorporates elements of offbeat cinema that try to take your breath away but only elicit a sigh.

The plot is fairly straightforward – an eccentric (most French protagonist/antagonist are) steward-turned-crook Michel, is on the run after a murder, scraping enough dough to escape the country. He is in love (?) with a free-spirited American girl, Patricia, staying in Paris, whom he repeatedly tries to convince to accompany him. As expected, he runs into trouble, and succumbs to betrayals of the heart that have become as glutinous to love (especially in films), as an ice cream to a spoon.

The film is reminiscent of typical Hollywood movies starring eccentric but charming criminal protagonist, rushing through the life of love, crime and drama with a desultory motion of a dream (or nightmare). Although it is unique from camera’s point-of-view (with its use of jump-cuts, dialogue improvisation, locational realism), it is not as endowed with the eloquence and substance that is usually synonymous with Godard’s works. The charming Jean-Paul Belmonde, as Michel, does his best to ably step in the shoes of typical oldschool, Hollywood-styled chain-smoking, classy, non-committal, nonchalant, womanizing protagonist who believes that one should “Live life dangerously till the end”.

Belmonde, not good-looking by any standards, appeals with his Bogart-like flamboyance and calculated deception. On the surface, he is as cool-as-a-cucumber, never betraying any anxiety considering the predicament he is in (except for sporadic outbursts at Patricia as she keeps rejecting his lecherous advances). However, that’s just a façade that conceals his innermost fears and insecurities.

Jean Seberg, however, with her contorted, heavily-Americanized French accent coupled with her unfitting tranquility, doesn’t quite do justice to her role as the commitment-phobic wanderer who can’t decide between her attraction for Michel, and her inexplicable obsession with her freedom. She is ordinary in ways, perhaps sans substance even (asking questions like, “tell me something beautiful right now.” - A question probably every woman has asked her man atleast once in her life) and she desperately wants to convince herself that the only commitment she has made is to her freedom, even though her heart is as fickle as her mind is. Her performance isn’t forceful enough to move the viewers in contempt or sympathy – she is just a confused girl at the end of it all.

Michel’s constant endeavors to get her to sleep with him don’t really serve any purpose – they come across more as sexual innuendos than something more intellectual that Godard intended they signify. Even a genius like Godard should realize that every random statement cannot become a quotable quote.

If Godard was putting in some serious efforts to become a ubiquitous influence on international cinema, he may have succeeded with breathless, but he doesn’t strike a resonant chord considering his reputation as a filmmaker. The film doesn’t linger on every character enough to sympathize or empathize with – it goes on rather mechanically, albeit with some innovative cinematography, about the connected, yet incoherent lives of its charismatic but vagabond characters (including Godard who makes an appearance), who amidst their meaningless conversations, sway undecidedly between realities and illusions of love, lust and companionship, allegiance and betrayal. He lets the loose ends dangle conspicuously as if he has forgotten to tie them up for a reason known only to him (or perhaps out of sheer complacence) – pointless philandering with confounding ideologies, ambiguous dialogues, and semi-closed loops. However, that doesn’t undermine the fact that this movie was a pioneer impacting French, and world cinema in ways more than one, and it is even impressive in parts.

If Godard was trying to paint an impressionistic portrait, he ended up making an abstract, albeit refreshingly honest, caricature – an unintentional anomaly with some beautiful brush strokes that struck gold nevertheless.

Recuerdo que Jean Seberg compraba una lámina de Renoir en 'A bout de souffle'.

"She was paid $100,000 to appear as Confederate colonel's widow Alexandra Mountford in MACHO CALLAHAN (1970). On set she contracted a disease that caused her tongue to turn jet black. She would wander the location jokingly asking if 'anybody want[ed] to kiss the lady with the black tongue.'."

And:

"The following month on a flight to America, Jean drank heavily, disappeared to the toilet and came out completely naked and screaming that hijackers were attempting to take over the plane. Her bodyguard managed to make her return to her seat where she gobbled tranquillisers. By the time the flight landed in Chicago, Jean was out of it, barely able to stand. Her bodyguard put her into a luggage trolley and began wheeling her through the airport. Then she spotted a black policeman and began screaming at him that he was a traitor to his race, making a grab for his gun."

And: "On September 8, 1979, her decaying body was discovered by police. Jean's car had been parked around the corner from her home for ten days. One of the first journalists to arrive at the scene noted: 'It wasn't a pretty sight. The car doors were the sort that close hermetically, so the body had literally baked in the sun for ten days. The odour was unimaginably foul. It just seemed to hang in the warm summer air for hours.'"

It isn't always possible to help people who are dedicated to self-destruction. Seberg was obviously surrounded by people who wanted to use her (by definition, anybody making a film with her is in this category, however nice they might be), but also with quite a few people who loved her or wanted to help her. It's the kind of story that's heartbreaking, magnetically lurid, and ultimately depressing.

I hope no one films it.

Nació un 13 de noviembre de 1938 en Marshalltown, en el estado de Iowa (U.S.A.). Descendía de una familia de emigrantes suecos, y muy poco se sabe de cómo se desarrolló su infancia y adolescencia.

En 1957, cuando estudiaba en la universidad de Iowa, fue elegida entre miles de aspirantes, para interpretar el papel de Juana de Arco, en “Santa Juana”, que sería dirigida por Otto Preminger.

Su interpretación del personaje de la Santa, causó controversias, que motivaron comentarios adversos de los sectores cristianos estadounidenses mas fundamentalistas, y favorables, de los más progresistas.

Al año siguiente, Preminger la reclama de nuevo para protagonizar la adaptación al cine de la novela más en boga de aquel momento: “Buenos días tristeza”, de la autora francesa Françoise Sagan.

El personaje que interpretará aquí Jean Seberg, estaba concebido en principio para serlo por Audrey Herpburn. Nunca sabremos como lo hubiera desarrollado la Herpburn, pero ella lo encarnó de forma tan convincente que consiguió poner a la crítica de su parte, pasando a ser con tan sólo dos películas, una actriz reconocida.

En Francia, donde se le había valorado enormemente su interpretación de “Cecille”, la protagonista, fue reclamada por Jean-Luc Godard, para interpretar su ópera prima, “Al final de la escapada” (1959), en donde tendría como compañero a Jean Paul Belmondo.

Este film tambien le aportó fama y reconocimiento por parte de la crítica europea.

Se convierte así en la chica de moda, y en un referente para las jovencitas, que imitan su pelo corto a lo garçon, y su forma de vestir. Los chicos sueñan con ese nuevo tipo de mujer, y las revistas utilizan su imagen en portada para aumentar sus ventas.

Su carrera en cambió, no tiene la continuada calidad que se esperaba en un principio de ella, y sus interpretaciones posteriores son en pequeños papeles, y en coproducciones de bajo presupuesto. Esta constante se mantendrá hasta 1964, cuando protagoniza junto a Warren Beaty (otro joven, atractivo, y prometedor actor), la que sería la última película de Robert Rossen, una de las víctimas de la tristemente famosa “caza de brujas” de la época McCarthy (“Mambo”-1955, “El buscavidas”-1961), “Lilith”.

La historia, que se desarrolla en un hospital para enfermos mentales, contiene una gran carga psicológica, y el papel de Jean Seberg en el film, era muy complejo, (encarnaba a una muchacha esquizofrénica) aunque se volcó en el para sacarlo adelante.

A caballo entre Europa y Estados Unidos, participa posteriormente en varios films que siguen sin aportar ningún lucimiento a su carrera, hasta que es reclamada por el veterano Joshua Logan (“Bus Stop”, con la mítica M. Monroe), para compartir protagonismo con Lee Marvin y Clint Eastwood, en la película “La leyenda de la ciudad sin nombre” (1969).

El éxito que obtuvo este westerm musical (en el que ella interpretaba sus canciones sin doblaje), pareció que podía encaminar nuevamente la carrera de Jean Seberg hacía una mejora en los papeles que se le ofrecieran, pero no fue ese el resultado, y aunque al año siguiente participara en la coral “Aeropuerto”, el resto de su filmografía lo componen discretas producciones, y de poco lucimiento artístico. Como ejemplo serviría la que rodó a las órdenes de un irreconocible Juan Antonio Bardem en españa: “La corrupción de Chris Miller” (1973), en la que interpretaba a la madre de la ex-niña prodigio de nuestro cine español, Marisol, (existía entre ellas una diferencia de edad de poco más de nueve años) reciclada ahora como objeto erótico como mandaban los cánones del momento (no es de extrañar que acabara harta del mundo del cine y se retirara honrosamente poco tiempo después).

Era una historia en la que madre e hija intercambian sus ligues, al tiempo que mantienen entre ellas una relación que podría interpretarse como de incestuosa. Un verdadero bodrio de entre los muchos que se ofertaban entonces como producto nacional en las carteleras españolas en plena “moda del destape”, devenido por la relajación de la hasta hacía pocos años, rígida censura.

Sus trabajos posteriores, tampoco tuvieron ninguna relevancia, excepto que marcaron su declive como estrella, al mismo tiempo que también declinaba su vida. Una vida problemática y controvertida.

Si las especulaciones sobre su vida personal fueron muchas mientras vivía, años después de su muerte, la publicación de un libro, escrito por uno de sus amantes, el novelista mexicano Carlos Fuentes, titulado “Diana o la cazadora solitaria”, que pasa por ser lo más cercano a la biografía real de la actriz, y en la que se narran aparte de sus relaciones con el escritor, otros episodios de su vida privada, dio una nueva perspectiva sobre como era Jean Seberg.

Fuentes, que en la novela le cambia el nombre por el de Diana Soren, la describe como una mujer muy activa sexualmente, que aún estando casada, buscaba en las tabernas relaciones con otros hombres, y consumidora habitual de drogas y alcohol.

Comprometida con el movimiento hippie, con los derechos humanos, pero también, debido a sus ideas políticas cercanas a la ultra-izquierda norteamericana, relacionada con un supuesto grupo terrorista llamado “Los panteras negras”.

Su relación con ese grupo la llevó a ser investigada por el FBI para determinar hasta que punto llegaba su compromiso con ellos.

Corrió también por aquella época, el rumor de que había quedado embarazada del líder de “Los panteras negras”. Fuera o no cierto, su hijo no llegó a nacer. Las fuertes presiones a las que se vió sometida a causa de la investigación del FBI, y su consumo reiterado de estupefacientes, hicieron que el bebé naciera muerto (en algunas biografías se dice que vivió dos o tres días).

Sobre este hecho corren diversas versiones, que supongo fueron las que circularon por los mentideros de Hollywood en su día. Una de ella, carga las tintas en la parte trágica de esa frustrada maternidad.

Según esa versión, Jean Seberg fotografió más de un centenar de veces el cadáver del bebé, y cada año, desde esa fecha (ocurrió en 1971), intentaba suicidarse sistemáticamente ese mismo día, hasta que por fin lo consiguió en 1979.

Fuera esto real o no, si que su inestabilidad emocional parece que la llevó a intentar el suicidio en diversas ocasiones, aunque no fuera exactamente en esa fecha.

Hace un tiempo salió a la luz una relación (no confirmada por ellos en vida) con el desaparecido director Ricardo Franco (sobrino de Jesús Franco), y que parece motivó años después el guión de “Lágrimas negras” (1998), la que sería su póstuma película, ya que falleció de un infarto, a los 49 años, sin haber llegado a terminarla.

Parece que Franco quiso reflejar en esa historia sus turbulentos amores con la actriz a mediados de los años 70. Una historia que habla de dependencias, de dolor, depresión y locura.

Y si es cierto lo que cuentan sus biógrafos la locura le estuvo rondando hasta su muerte.

Se dice que pasaba por etapas en las que sólo quería alimentarse de comida para perros, o en ocasiones se la veía salir de desnuda de baños públicos.

Jean Seberg, de la que muchos que la conocieron han dicho que era una mujer vulnerable, con una rica vida interior, pero totalmente desestabilizada, murió por una sobredosis de barbitúricos, el 8 de septiembre de 1979.

Fue encontrada después de haber permanecido desaparecida durante varios días, en el interior de un Renault, cerca de un vertedero de basuras en las afueras de parís. Se encontró a su lado una nota de suicidio.

Para ver su filmografía pincha aquí

Swanson  

"Hush! Hush! Hush! Come closer to me. Look into my eyes!

I always was a fascinating creature, tender, sensitive, and grateful. I was wise and I was noble. And I am so flexible in the writhing of my graceful body that it will afford you joy to watch my easy dance. Now I shall coil up into a ring, flash my scales dimly, wind myself around tenderly and clasp my steel body in my gentle, cold embraces. One in many! One in many!

Hush! Hush! Look into my eyes!

You do not like my writhing and my straight, open look? Oh, my head is heavy--therefore I sway about so quietly. Oh, my head is heavy-- therefore I look so straight ahead, as I sway about. Come closer to me. Give me a little warmth; stroke my wise forehead with your fingers; in its fine outlines you will find the form of a cup into which flows wisdom, the dew of the evening-flowers. When I draw the air by my writhing, a trace is left in it--the design of the finest of webs, the web of dream-charms, the enchantment of noiseless movements, the inaudible hiss of gliding lines. I am silent and I sway myself. I look ahead and I sway myself. What strange burden am I carrying on my neck?

I love you.

I always was a fascinating creature, and loved tenderly those I loved. Come closer to me. Do you see my white, sharp, enchanting little teeth? Kissing, I used to bite. Not painfully, no--just a trifle. Caressing tenderly, I used to bite a little, until the first bright little drops appeared, until a cry came forth which sounded like the laugh produced by tickling. That was very pleasant--think not it was unpleasant; otherwise they whom I kissed would not come back for more kisses. It is now that I can kiss only once--how sad-- only once! One kiss for each--how little for a loving heart, for a sensitive soul, striving for a great union! But it is only I, the sad one, who kiss but once, and must seek love again--he knows no other love any more: to him my one, tender, nuptial kiss is inviolable and eternal. I am speaking to you frankly; and when my story is ended--I will kiss you.

I love you.

Look into my eyes. Is it not true that mine is a magnificent, a powerful look? A firm look and a straight look? And it is steadfast, like steel forced against your heart. I look ahead and sway myself, I look and I enchant; in my green eyes I gather your fear, your loving, fatigued, submissive longing. Come closer to me. Now I am a queen and you dare not fail to see my beauty; but there was a strange time--Ah, what a strange time! Ah, what a strange time! At the mere recollection I am agitated--Ah, what a strange time! No one loved me. No one respected me. I was persecuted with cruel ferocity, trampled in the mud and jeered--Ah, what a strange time it was! One in many! One in many!

I say to you: Come closer to me.

Why did they not love me? At that time I was also a fascinating creature, but without malice; I was gentle and I danced wonderfully. But they tortured me. They burnt me with fire. Heavy and coarse beasts trampled upon me with the dull steps of terribly heavy feet; cold tusks of bloody mouths tore my tender body--and in my powerless sorrow I bit the sand, I swallowed the dust of the ground--I was dying of despair. Crushed, I was dying every day. Every day I was dying of despair. Oh, what a terrible time that was! The stupid forest has forgotten everything--it does not remember that time, but you have pity on me. Come closer to me. Have pity on me, on the offended, on the sad one, on the loving one, on the one who dances so beautifully.

I love you.

How could I defend myself? I had only my white, wonderful, sharp little teeth--they were good only for kisses. How could I defend myself? It is only now that I carry on my neck this terrible burden of a head, and my look is commanding and straight, but then my head was light and my eyes gazed meekly. Then I had no poison yet. Oh, my head is so heavy and it is hard for me to hold it up! Oh, I have grown tired of my look--two stones are in my forehead, and these are my eyes. Perhaps the glittering stones are precious--but it is hard to carry them instead of gentle eyes--they oppress my brain. It is so hard for my head! I look ahead and sway myself; I see you in a green mist--you are so far away. Come closer to me.

You see, even in sorrow I am beautiful, and my look is languid because of my love. Look into my pupil; I will narrow and widen it, and give it a peculiar glitter--the twinkling of a star at night, the playfulness of all precious stones--of diamonds, of green emeralds, of yellowish topaz, of blood-red rubies. Look into my eyes: It is I, the queen--I am crowning myself, and that which is glittering, burning and glowing--that robs you of your reason, your freedom and your life--it is poison. It is a drop of my poison.

How has it happened? I do not know. I did not bear ill-will to the living.

I lived and suffered. I was silent. I languished. I hid myself hurriedly when I could hide myself; I crawled away hastily. But they have never seen me weep--I cannot weep; and my easy dance grew ever faster and ever more beautiful. Alone in the stillness, alone in the thicket, I danced with sorrow in my heart--they despised my swift dance and would have been glad to kill me as I danced. Suddenly my head began to grow heavy--How strange it is!--My head grew heavy. Just as small and beautiful, just as wise and beautiful, it had suddenly grown terribly heavy; it bent my neck to the ground, and caused me pain. Now I am somewhat used to it, but at first it was dreadfully awkward and painful. I thought I was sick.

And suddenly... Come closer to me. Look into my eyes. Hush! Hush! Hush!

And suddenly my look became heavy--it became fixed and strange--I was even frightened! I want to glance and turn away--but cannot. I always look straight ahead, I pierce with my eyes ever more deeply, I am as though petrified. Look into my eyes. It is as though I am petrified, as though everything I look upon is petrified. Look into my eyes.

I love you. Do not laugh at my frank story, or I shall be angry. Every hour I open my sensitive heart, for all my efforts are in vain-- I am alone. My one and last kiss is full of ringing sorrow--and the one I love is not here, and I seek love again, and I tell my tale in vain--my heart cannot bare itself, and the poison torments me and my head grows heavier. Am I not beautiful in my despair? Come closer to me.

I love you.

Once I was bathing in a stagnant swamp in the forest--I love to be clean--it is a sign of noble birth, and I bathe frequently. While bathing, dancing in the water, I saw my reflection, and as always, fell in love with myself. I am so fond of the beautiful and the wise! And suddenly I saw--on my forehead, among my other inborn adornments, a new, strange sign--Was it not this sign that has brought the heaviness, the petrified look, and the sweet taste in my mouth? Here a cross is darkly outlined on my forehead--right here-- look. Come closer to me. Is this not strange? But I did not understand it at that time, and I liked it. Let there be no more adornment. And on the same day, on that same terrible day, when the cross appeared, my first kiss became also my last--my kiss became fatal. One in many! One in many!

Oh!

You love precious stones, but think, my beloved, how far more precious is a little drop of my poison. It is such a little drop.-- Have you ever seen it? Never, never. But you shall find it out. Consider, my beloved, how much suffering, painful humiliation, powerless rage devoured me: I had to experience in order to bring forth this little drop. I am a queen! I am a queen! In one drop, brought forth by myself, I carry death unto the living, and my kingdom is limitless, even as grief is limitless, even as death is limitless. I am queen! My look is inexorable. My dance is terrible! I am beautiful! One in many! One in many!

Oh!

Do not fall. My story is not yet ended. Come closer to me.

And then I crawled into the stupid forest, into my green dominion.

Now it is a new way, a terrible way! I was kind like a queen; and like a queen I bowed graciously to the right and to the left. And they--they ran away! Like a queen I bowed benevolently to the right and to the left--and they, queer people--they ran away. What do you think? Why did they run away? What do you think? Look into my eyes. Do you see in them a certain glimmer and a flash? The rays of my crown blind your eyes, you are petrified, you are lost. I shall soon dance my last dance---do not fall. I shall coil into rings, I shall flash my scales dimly, and I shall clasp my steel body in my gentle, cold embraces. Here I am! Accept my only kiss, my nuptial kiss--in it is the deadly grief of all oppressed lives. One in many! One in many!

Bend down to me. I love you.

Die!"

Leonid N. Andreyev

Lady Lilith. Meia mulher. Meia serpente. Apartou Adão e Eva.

Lilith simboliza a rebelião, a raiva e a sexualidade indomada. O alfabeto de Ben Sira, na sua abordagem Kabbal do século XI, sugere que Adão e Lilith foram em tempos um só. Esta união não seria, no entanto, duradoura. Os confrontos entre ambos seriam constantes devido à recusa de Lilith em aceitar submeter-se ao domínio de Adão. Lilith considerava que se ambos haviam nascido da "Terra" ambos eram iguais. Ela acaba por fugir para reclamar o seu direito à igualdade, no entanto, rapidamente percebe que a sua fuga se eternizará devido à supremacia de Adão. Lilith refugia-se nos céus.

Adão queixa-se então a Deus da sua solidão e Deus cria Eva a partir da sua costela e para seu usufruto. Por ciúme e raiva, Lilith leva a submissa e dócil Eva a comer o fruto proibido e Eva e Adão são expulsos do paraíso. Adão culpa Eva pelo sucedido e junta-se a Lilith mas, novamente, a união entre ambos fracassa e Adão volta para Eva. Lilith magoada dá então início a uma vida de promiscuidade na qual se envolve com vários "demónios" e gera diversas crianças "demoníacas". Conta a lenda que Lilith enlouquece quando os seus filhos são mortos na sua presença devido à sua natureza e que daí em diante passa a perpetrar actos que pela sua crueldade indescritível a afastam de toda a humanidade. Lilith passa a ser conhecida como a mulher que traz consigo o pecado e a morte, mas até nesta perspectiva masculinizada, a sua imagem é de uma extrema ambiguidade, de uma inocência perversa que arrasta para a morte os que dela se aproximam.

É interessante perceber Lilith como a primeira mulher e também como a primeira mulher a exigir a igualdade de géneros. É interessante perceber como a sorte mitológica que a "esperou" por essa ousadia, se repetiu séculos a fio na existência de milhares de outras mulheres. É ainda interessante perceber, que se olharmos à nossa volta com atenção, hoje mais do que nunca, cruzamo-nos com inúmeras mulheres Lilith, por quem a ruína da vida afectiva foi aceite, como o preço a pagar pelo não à pobreza da submissão. Detesto a visão da Lilith demoníaca e sanguinária criada para enegrecer aquele pedido de igualdade inicial. Não entendo quem não entende, a frustração e a raiva de quem se sente trocada só porque ousa querer ou ser. Gosto de pensar que cada vez é maior o lado Lilith em cada uma de nós. E que esta rivalidade intra-género embaraçosa, por um género que não deve ser motivo de batalhas mas antes alvo de apreciação pessoal, fique cada vez mais para trás. Ou então, Lilith será para sempre a figura feminina, eternamente perdida entre os céus e a terra.

Lady Lilith. Meia mulher. Meia serpente. Apartou Adão e Eva? Quem terá apartado algo bem maior, dentro dela?

Catarina A. C. Santos

Fotos: "Lady Lilith" Fanny Cornforth por D. Rossetti (1872). Propriedade de Delaware Art; Jean Seberg in "Lilith" de Robert Rossen (1964); "Lilith" por K. Cox (1855-1919); "Lilith" por M. Drex; "Lilith" por J. Collier (1892); "Lady Lilith" por J. Enright (contemporâneo), "Lilith" por B. Vallejo (1994) e "Lilith" por Philippe Roy (2007).

29. Breathless (Jean-Luc Godard, 1959)

Ranking Godard:

1. Breathless
2. Pierrot le fou
3. Vivre sa vie
4. Contempt
5. Bande à part
6. Week-End
7. Une femme est un femme
8. Two or Three Things I Know About Her

I like Godard's more conventional work. I think it's primarily because I compare everything I've seen from him with Breathless, which was his first film, and also the first Godard film I watched.

Breathless is awesome. You have a cool-ass dude, a ballin' girl, car chases, gun fights, people dying, tons of movie references, and it's all set in Paris. Now that's how you make a movie. Plus it looks fantastic. It's a straightforward story, that's totally accessible, and Godard never made another movie quite so engaging. So basically every Godard film I watch ends up alienating me more and more because they are not Breathless. That's not to say I don't like some of his other films. I really dug Pierrot le fou, Vivre sa vie and Contempt. But these movies aren't Breathless, and alas they are somehow disappointing.

On filmaffinity.com I gave the film a 9/10, I think a rewatching might bring it up to 10. It's great, and should be seen by all.

Mesmo sendo seu filme mais famoso, percebe-se que Jean-Luc Godard se repetiu bastante em sua filmografia. Este é um filme mais fácil e, por isso mesmo, mais conciso(apesar da eterna brincadeira com os gêneros do diretor e o experimentalismo). Mil e uma referências passam pela sua cabeça(artes plásticas e música clássica/jazz, só pra citar algo), além do que você lembra de filmes mais atuais que chuparam muitas coisas deste(como Os Sonhadores, que chega a ser descaramento...). Um clássico, sim! Só de lembrar a longa cena em que o casal de protagonistas está no quarto e a sequência final, já me provoca arrepios... Destaque ao casal protagonista, o rude e sexy Jean-Paul Belmondo e a fofa Jean Seberg(muito mais encantadora que qualquer Amelie Poulain da vida...ui!). Pequena curiosidade: François Truffaut colabora no roteiro!

Jean Seberg in BONJOUR TRISTESSE.

Lee Remick in ANATOMY OF A MURDER.

Jill Haworth (and Patricia Neal) in IN HARM'S WAY.

Carol Lynley (with Keir "Dave" Dullea) in BUNNY LAKE IS MISSING.

There seems a pattern to these pixie-like blondes. And Maggie McNamara and Jean Simmons have pixie qualities too, even though they're brunettes. But then one recalls Otto's flings with Gypsy Rose Lee (who gave him a son) and Dorothy Dandridge, and one realises that even if there is a Preminger "type", he's far from predictable.

I wouldn't say that I'm wildly skilled at hair dressing, but I think I hack at it ok.

I have recently gone as short as I've ever been, after a late night conversation with Cristalle about wanting to look like Jean Seberg, and then realizing that my new wardrobe has an increasingly stripy/french/adorable twist. It's not hard to find inspiration in a look like this:

First of all, I went half way, and ended up with something fun.

And now it's all gone.  I am currently deciding quite how I feel about it...I'll post a half decent photo when I do.

• imbd
• fortunecity (analyse)

 "With Sergei Eisenstein`s Battleship Potemkin (1925) the most celebrated film ever made, and probably the more influential of the two, Jean-Luc Godard`s A bout de souffle--literally, "out of breath"; in the States, irrelevantly called Breathless-helped establish and define, for themselves and others, the nouvelle vague-the ripping movement that stormed French cinema, overthrowing the reigning ‘Tradition of Quality' and its academic, refined, meticulously crafted objets d`art. The movement denoted freedom: freedom from the constraints of conventional, worked-through and tied-up narrative; freedom of personal expression; the freedom of roving and penetrating inquiry-and formally encompassing all these, a freedom of camera motion scarcely seen since Dziga Vertov took to the streets in the ‘20s to record the pulsating synergy of Soviet life.

These young upstarts drew inspiration from Renoir`s lifetime of personal expression, from Hollywood professionalism and (especially in screwball comedies, westerns and noirs) glints of anarchy, and from Rossellini`s use of camera-for instance, in Germany, Year Zero (1947)-as character, even the main character, rather than as mere observer. Theirs was another French Revolution, sweeping out such "royalists" as Autant-Lara and Clément, who at the time were enthroned as arbiters of filmmaking form and taste."

Não foi com o punk que começou essa história de "use uma camiseta velha e fique cool".
Foi com os franceses.

Acossado: Jean Seberg anda com camisetinha de jornal e todo mundo quer uma igual. Ultracharmosa.

Pierrot le fou: Jean Paul Belmondo veste uma camiseta tipo exército, onde se lê o nome do personagem em letras bem feiosas e toscas: Ferdinand. Quero uma a-go-ra.

Fora essa coisa de "moderno é ser independente: corte o seu cabelo você mesmo".
Nouvelle vague é superindie.

Corta!

Extrait du Concentré de contre-culture de Bruce Benderson (éditions Scali), au sujet de Jean Seberg :

"... Rien ne parvenait à la définir : elle n'était ni une star hollywoodienne, ni l'îcône de la nouvelle vague, ni une militante gauchiste.

Elle adhéra même un temps aux idéaux des Black Panthers, mais pour contrecarrer son engagement, le FBI fit circuler la rumeur selon laquelle son bébé était noir, et peut-être à cause du traumatisme que cela déclencha, son enfant mourut à la naissance.

Chose ahurissante, Seberg l'exhiba dans son cercueil de verre afin de prouver aux médias qu'il était blanc.

Mais pourquoi? Pour démontrer au public qu'elle n'avait pas été infidèle à son mari ? Qu'elle n'avait pas partagé sa couche avec un noir ? Pour mettre à jour les manipulations du FBI? Rien de tout cela n'offre d'explication satisfaisante..."

En extrait, Jean Seberg en action, avec les inévitables séquences d'A bout de souffle.

A noter : Jean était plus populaire en Europe qu'aux US où elle n'était célèbre que dans les milieux branchés ou arty.

[dailymotion id=xpwcc]

Jamie Adams

****************************************************************************

Thomas Hart Benton, Persephone

Okay, can we dwell on the similarity between these two paintings?   Because it makes a difference.   Jamie Adams' jeaniebed is from a 2006 series all featuring New Wave icon Jean Seberg.  The Benton painting has a bit of a backstory of its own.  Persephone purportedly cost Benton his teaching post at the Kansas City Art Institute.    Looking at the two paintings together, Benton's actually seems the more hipster, pseudo-ironic and cynical.   Adams' painting-- -though seemingly informed by contemporary artists like John Currin, Will Cotton or Pieter Schoolwerth---actually seems to be, well, just a little sweeter, shy-er and more reverent in the depiction of its protagonists and their surroundings.

***********************************************************************************

More Jamie Adams

jeaniebreathn, 2006, oil on linen, 42" x 72"

****************************************************************************

jeaniehangn, 2006, oil on linen, 48" x 36"

*****************************************************************************

The Pinkch, 2000, oil on linen, 88" x 109"

Jean Seberg was born November 13, 1938 in Marshaltown, Iowa.  She died on this day September 8, 1979.  Jean was a beautiful, petit bright young actress in America and France, her debut film and one of her best known is Saint Joan  in 1957 (Joan of Arc), she was also remembered in a Peter Sellers film The Mouse that roared in 1959, and Breathless in 1959.  She has starred in thirty-four films, The Wild Duck in 1976 being her last.  Unfortunately the legacy she left is far more dark and sad than the early life she led.  In the late 1960's she put her celebrity behind causes she felt were just like support for Native American school groups and the NAACP.  Seberg was also in support of the Black Panther party, which was probably the beginning of her problems that would ultimately spiral downward leading to her death.  It was reported by Joyce Haber of the Los Angeles Times and also Newsweek magazine, that the FBI under the direction of J. Edger Hoover considered her a threat to America and had her under surveillance, even with wire taps on her phone.  Haber also reported that in 1970 when Seberg was seven months pregnant, the FBI made up a false story of her being impregnated by a member of the Black Panther party.  Jeans baby girl was born on August 23, 1970 but died two days later.  Seberg would state that the trauma of this event brought about premature labor and her child was still born.  She would sink into depression after this incident and became dependent on alcohol and prescription drugs.  She would attempt suicide more than once, even throwing herself under a train on the Paris Metro.  Jean's problems would get even worse with her marriage to an abusive Algerian man named Ahmed Hasni.  She fled from him back to Paris and in August 1979 went missing.  She was found dead in the back seat of her car eleven days later.  Although her death was ruled an over dose of barbiturates and alcohol, questions persist to this day of the circumstances surrounding her death.  Jean was not even forty-one years of age.  The information about Joyce Haber's reporting was taken from Wikipedia.

It turns out that he has been quoting Shaw (and St Joan) all along, although he claims not have been aware of the fact? Great minds...?

The Whingers had been dreading this one. Phil even rushed into the National Theatre information desk to ask the actual (as opposed to advertised) running time in the hope of allaying Andrew's fears.

"3 hours 10 minutes," was the reply though it had apparently been running even longer.

Fearing a massive revolt from the already fairly revolting Andrew, Phil then popped the million dollar question:"If we stay to the end, will we actually get to see her burn on stage?"

Fortunately (and unusually) the beleaguered front-of-house staffer maintained a sense of humour in the face of Phil's inquisition. "Well, you get the idea of it," he replied tactfully, before quipping: "They have to have a different actress every night"

Witty riposte notwithstanding, it was with heavy hearts and a sense of foreboding that Whingers took their seats for Saint Joan in anticipation of a characteristically wordy and relentlessly pedestrian Shavian marathon.

Both Whingers had planned ahead for this. Andrew had smuggled in a set of bellows with which to hasten the conflagration should it all drag on too much.

Phil - in case the Whingers made it through to the end - had packed an eight-foot fork and crumpets and marshmallows to toast by the glowing faggots of Joan's bonfire. Obsessed with his thesis of on stage eating he thought he'd add a twist to his theme and toast some goodies from the stalls for what he presumed would be a flagging audience desperate for carbs and sugar.

How wrong could the Whingers be? It turned out to be rather wonderful. Indeed, they hadn't been this wrong since they pre-judged Boeing Boeing.

It started worryingly with some live Enya-with-balls music, cow bells and a singer and then - as though the play weren't long enough as written - there was a scene in which the ensemble very slowly dismantled a pile of chairs, handing each one very slowly down the line to place them very slowly at the edge of the set. Andrew made a mental note not to use the National Theatre should it ever go into the removals business. One's bibelots would arrive intact but not for centuries.

Anyway, it proved a momentary blip. Rae Smith's excellent set with dead trees and a raked charred wooden platform suggest Joanie's fate from the outset.

The revolve is used effectively and sparingly (including one rather brilliant scene in which the actors revolve very slowly for the entire scene).

Directrix Marianne Elliot has made some excellent staging choices. Rather than have the usual tedious on-stage battles that rarely work in theatre, a flag is wafted around Les Miserables style, followed by a Stomp-inspired percussion using chairs and corrugated iron. It's the sort of thing that the Whingers usually find a bit embarrassing but on this occasion it was surprisingly agreeable.

She also takes the opportunity to tease out comedy where appropriate The scene set in the English Camp proved just that. Camp. And utterly delightful.

The fey Dauphin (Paul Ready) and the anxious brother (Jamie Ballard) also get to play up the light relief. Indeed, even the Shaw's discussions prove absorbing and witty, yet it's never at the expense of the drama.

Who knew Shaw could be so darn entertaining? Certainly not the Whingers (although Andrew has very fond memories of seeing Kate O'Mara in Heartbreak House at Malvern a billion years ago).

So, to Joanie. Although disappointed to discover that their suggestions for a last minute casting change had fallen on deaf ears, Anne-Marie Duff (from TV's Shameless, apparently) quickly won them round.

She not only looks physically right as Joan but manages to be strident without irritating and is convincingly inspirational and her Irish accent somehow seems exactly right for the role.

She even makes the voices in her head seem believable (but then Andrew hears a voice going "blah blah blah" whenever he's in Phil's company so it's not all that unusual).

Being mean-spirited and hard to please, it's rare for the Whingers to praise in poster-worthy terms, but we have to say it: it's a star making performance. Duff's anguish in the trial scene was heart-wrenching for Phil and both Whingers were literally on the edges of their seats (although this was partly because they were seated behind the tallest man in the world).

There are plenty of other delights too. In one scene a puppet kingfisher is wafted over the stalls and accidentally (probably) hit an audience member in the face. The Whingers were of course in seventh heaven and already this morning, Phil has spent several hours setting up an ambulance-chasing no-win no-fee business and has booked seats for the entire run.

Being Shaw, this play is full of ideas but ideas aren't the Whingers' strong point, so we'll skip over them except to say that they were all very interesting indeed.

Playwright and "Textual Advisor" (fantastic!!! eat your heart out Royal Court) to this production Samuel Adamson has poked his head above the parapet in the programme notes by patronisingly stating:

"The blogging-classes have it that Shaw is out-of-fashion, not just as a political thinker but as a dramatist."

Well, perhaps he was right to a degree. The Whingers (who are never patronising) arrived with pre-conceived ideas about Saint Joan only to have them happily incinerated, leaving them seeing Shaw as a witty radical, ahead of his time and certainly not the dreary wordsmith they'd expected.

During the interval and after the show they cornered fellow blogger Natasha of Interval Drinks for a sanity-check. While Natasha wouldn't commit on the topic of their sanity in general, she did indicate that she shared many of their views on the play in particular.

So, yes, the Whingers really enjoyed themselves and they were not alone. The packed theatre gave a roaring reception too.

Hats off to everyone - but most of all to Duff and Elliot. A miracle really happened at the National last night. Phil even liked Oliver Ford Davies (the Inquisitor) for once.

Historial footnote

Phil has a bit of a history with Saint Joan.

He claims to have studied it at school but Andrew believes Phil actually means they have a shared history by virtue of having been around at the same time.

Phil also saw an Oxford University production of it many years ago. Not, of course that he attended the university you understand, Phil, who remembers very little these days, does remember being very bored by that production.

Phil had last seen Saint Joan toasting on the National's stage many years ago in the enjoyably execrable musical Jean Seberg. Seberg of course played Joanie in Otto Preminger's famous film, Saint Joan and in the ill-conceived musical was burnt on stage before Preminger's (played by John Savident long before his fame as Coronation Street's butcher "I say, I say", Fred Elliot) camera.

PS: If you're deciding whether to go, for God's sake don't base your decision on The National's online trailer.