I have self destructive impulses. I know that every day being a step towards death doesn’t mean I should choose to hurtle myself down that path with all the intensity I can muster, but living any other way doesn’t make sense to me.
Maybe this wouldn’t hit so hard if in my second year of university I didn’t live with a dude who was basically Boni. Like, it’s uncanny.
Climax just came out in the UK and uh, yeah. It’s a lot. A whole lot. Supposedly based on a true story from the nineties when a rehearsing group of dancers found the punch bowl in their wrap party spiked with something much stronger than the alcohol they were expecting. As you would expect it makes things better for a while. Then worse. Much worse.
Now I haven’t seen any of Arnaud Desplechin’s other films. Maybe I should have. Maybe it would have prepared me a little better, the trailer certainly did an inefficient job of that. I thought it would be one of those French flicks that one could comfortably nap through, man on holiday with his partner at the sea when out of nowhere his long lost and presumed dead wife appears to start causing drama. You know, a classic romantic drama, probably elevated by the presence of Marion Cotillard, Charlotte Gainsbourg and Mathieu Amalric as the trio who the action revolves around.
Google seems confused about this film’s title. For the sake of convenience I’m gonna go with the one on my ticket: Scribe. Somewhere else there’s someone believes this film goes by a different name, they call it The Eavesdropper. I’m interested in what these two titles mean, how they assign both action and intent. To transcribe is to be proactive but the action itself carries no inherent moral weight. To eavesdrop is the opposite, you’re doing nothing conceptually it’s a dishonest and bad thing to be doing.
The Death of Louis XIV promises one thing and slowly, agonisingly delivers upon it. The opening credits play over the king of France being pushed around the palace gardens for the final time, after the title card hits we do not spend even a single second outside his quarters. The king remains in his bed for the next two hours as we witness the slow decline of his health and his ultimate demise. His physicians try their very best to help but it’s the 1600s and well meaning shitheels are still shitheels.
I imagine The Midwife might play on a deeper level to me if I retained any knowledge of the careers of Catherine Deneuve and Catherine Frot.