It's Official: I Hate French Films

I consider myself a Francophile. I love speaking the language. I've spent time living in France. I have studied university level French, and apparently speak convincingly with almost no accent, so I guess  that almost 30 years after my first visit to le beau pays, my spoken French is still not too shabby. More recently, I've been enjoying translating English songs into French.

I love French food (as long as too many wacky animal parts aren't involved). I love the French countryside. I love Paris in the Springtime. I even love the love. J'adores l'amour. I love the idea of watching French films on SBS (Australia's most significant multicultural television channel) so as to retain and hone my French language skills.But (with the exception of the animated series Miniscule, Delicatessan and the cult classic The Triplets of Belleville) I confess: absolutely CANNOT STAND most French movies themselves!

That's it, I swear, I've done my dash. Je m'en debarrasses. I expect nothing more than two hours of torture, unrequited love and petulance. Impossibly pouty,  Audrey Tautou-looking bra-less gauche girl-women being ravished by paedophile-minded men at least twice their age- repulsively ugly, severed headed, manipulative, sociopathic seducers.

I just watched this one, The Ring Finger, on SBS hoping to prove myself wrong. Granted, the plot was more unusual and interesting than usual, but it had that predictable air of under-stated French mystery about it. An all too familiar theme of the self-destructiveness of lost female souls. The done-to-death disturbed, misogynist, sado-masochistic eroticism throughout, the dream state where you don't know if something is happening in real time, in a past epoch, or being hallucinated. And  really lame ending. I mean I can't generally stand overstated, in-your-face, give it all away rather than leave it to the imagination, explain-every-joke Hollywood either, but less, as the pearl of wisdom goes, is not always more.

Merde! So, the Alliance Francaise can have my band for a bit of a tongue-in-cheek French sing-a-long, by all means. But they can shove their film festival la ou le soleil ne brille pas!



Feeling Lousey

"We really should credit the nouse
Of the tiny, tenacious head louse:
Wash and comb all you like,
Still they'll boldly hitchhike
To be shot of them, that would be grouse!"

It's becoming an almost nightly ritual: vinegar, or conditioner and essential oil, or olive, rice bran or coconut oil. Smother the head, stick on a shower cap and hope that Pixie Munchkins does not scream the place down. Lice and nit free for a while, only for some to jump back on within the week. We even use pharmaceutical preparations, but they mostly leave a lasting, god-awful, chemical stink.

On Wednesday, as I performed my one-handed maternal duties, Pixie Munchkins nearly lost an eyeball. So let's just say I've been writing a lot of limericks to stay sane!

The (Mis)Adventures of 'Mr Fingey'

"I recap the week's ills from my bed:

Dodgy ears, fingers, eyeball and head

May the morning bring sun

A whole lot of fun

And relief for our bodies instead!"

 

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'Mr Fingey' was devastated to lose the top of his head during school cooking class today. Suddenly, and without warning, a machete a hundred times his size descended, and he had no time to duck for cover. It did get a bit messy and histrionic (puddles of red against white floor tiles is really quite impressive)...but it turned out the wound was deceptively shallow and did not require a trip to hospital requiring stitches.

Furthermore, there was enough of the curry (into which said head tip had been lopped), to go around, as well as delicious-smelling choc chip biscuits baked that morning, and he was invited to stay for lunch. So his face went from sad to happy as he sat at the colourful table with all the kids, who found the unfolding kitchen drama, and his presence, entertaining, and his smile reassuring.

If only the same could be said of the incident involving a small boy's eyeball, some peppermint oil and said boy's semi-deaf, one-armed Mother, fresh back from the tropics. Mr Fingey's face went from anxious to happy to anxious to relieved again, as the kid progressed through pain, cold with shock, hot and bothered with discomfort and finally cracked a few jokes to indicate his complete recovery. Again, a narrow escape from a scary ambulance, but only just!

And all because some microscopic hitchhikers had set up camp again in Hair Village and started to burrow most annoyingly, and the fumigation process had gone pear-shaped. Now Mr Fingey's face has been known to go from disgust, to alarm, to relieved happiness, as these pesky little head-invaders are flushed down the gurgler. Tonight, it went from alarm to relief to exhaustion in quick succession.

So today, he did the full gamut of emotion. Dear old 'Mr Fingey', may you sleep well tonight!