J'ai ne plus de lait (35 Rhums)

35 Rhums; I watched this film set in a Paris that seems a bit more real than the impossibly chic, beautiful, fantasy destination that is often portrayed.  

I loved it. I could imagine myself within the world of the almost all black cast. This wasn't a world of lonely clandestine individuals dependent on the good graces of the well-to-do française, or brimming with the myth of what sometimes seems to be an ethereal, otherworldly sexuality. Dare I say it was lacking in clichés and was just ordinary.  

An ordinariness that somehow made it a fantastically touching film to watch. 

Be it the father-daughter relationship/the unfussy attraction between boy and girl that is shown with a boyish bit of posturing and a kiss that is probably the sexist I've seen on screen; awkwardly timed which added to the realness of it - so far removed from that perfect, smooth, blurred sex on screen that markedly does not exist in reality but that we are so used to seeing reflected back at us from a film reel - in fact there was no sex scene shown in the film at all/the love triangle as inexplicable as occurs in real life - why her? I'm here and I love you/the workplace camaraderie with no pretense at family, not too overdone - metro, boulot, dodo - I loved it all. Surely the acting was phenomenal. The concentrated quiet way that we navigate situations such as a class debate or a family gathering were played out to perfection. One aspect of the film that I most related to was illustrated by a character never having any fresh milk in the fridge when needed. Being single, I share the reality of having either too little or so much that it goes bad. I identify as that certain type of youngish person living a nomadic, singular life of frequent geographic relocation and aversion to putting down solid roots.  

To watch these lives was to identify pieces of my own in a very real way. So much so that the characters appeared to really live them and not just try them on for the months it took to film. 

Now; if you are of the happy-go-lucky persuasion then this film likely wont be your cup of tea. In a way it is a drama of tragedies and how people deal with them. But the heart of the story, fittingly, is love and family.    

IMDb - 35 Shots of Rum (2008)

A Paris love story – where it all began

A Paris love story; now that is the most likely of stories but how often are they true. I’ve had one of my own and in hindsight, other than an ever so slight element of fate, I’m positive that I willed it to happen due to my histrionic nature and romantic sensibilities. Paris and love, what two things could be more right together. All the elements were there; first trip to Paris – check, a French boy – check, Montmartre as the setting – check, a bohemian hotel off Place Clichy not far from Pigalle – check (ish; not that kind of love story).

I’d met him about a week earlier in London. As the night wore on and we danced and smiled with drunken excitement, we realized that we’d be in Paris at the same time and wouldn’t it be great to meet up while there. His brother lived there, they could show me around; I was caught up in the moment and nodded excitedly never expecting that it would actually happen. What were the odds that I’d met a French mec just before heading off on a solo trip to Paris? Apparently they were stacked in my favour.   

The odd thing about this trip; the first of many and under such perfect conditions, is that I don’t remember much of the city itself. This should have been an experience where my eyes drank, to the point of intoxication, this magnificent city that I’d dreamt about for so long but instead it was oddly practical; at least for me. I’d started a tour of Europe about a year before this trip. This tour was basically comprised of long weekends in various cities. By the time I arrived in Paris I’d already been to Prague, Amsterdam, Brussels, and Barcelona. This may have been why I looked out of the Eurostar window as the train approached Gare du Nord and thought Paris looked like just another European city. I no longer think this but I also know that this idea was not completely erased by the end of my first trip there; I nevertheless just felt I had to go back.

The boy was there as promised and as odd as it is to say; perhaps he got in the way of my intimacy with Paris. Paris became the third wheel. There was a strange ease with which I entered this other person’s life for just a few days; an impromptu picnic on the Champ de Mars, dinner at his brother’s house with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend, a joke about the narrow stairs and English girl’s bums which I vividly remember taking slight offense to all these years later, a visit to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and not even knowing it was possible to do that. Cacahuète-Apéritif-Clichy, new and fun (to me) words. At the Hotel Eldorado; lying in bed postcoitus talking and learning more about each other as the sounds of the street at night drifted up to the room.

Experiences are what stand out the most from this first trip to a destination that I would go on to live in and then visit many times over. And isn’t that just like a love story in some way? The way we experience normal everyday things feels different, special, when we’re in love.