Breathless

'Breathless' is 50 years old. It is the Kong of the French new wave era. Directed by Jean Luc Godard, 'Breathless' was the alternative in-your-face masterpiece that turned classic French cinema on it's ear. No longer willing to pander to audiences with narratives and precision editing, the new wave era stamped each film with the director's style. Across the Atlantic, Hawks, Ford and Nicholas Ray were admired for their cinematic style. Shot on shoe string budgets, and on location, the young French directors used friends as extras, and improvised dialogue and shots on the fly. 'Breathless' was filmed in Paris and starred a handsome, pouty, lip ( Jagger lips before Jagger) smoking Belmondo, and a Hollywood actress who had previously been thrashed by critics for her film performances in America, Jean Seberg. Seberg was sensational in 'Breathless.' Breaking into French with an American accent, Seberg's, Patricia, was complex. Raoul Coutard, director of photography, captured every Seberg nuance as Godard extracted and Seberg delivered the performance of her life. The characters of Belmondo and Seberg were new wave protagonists...young and rebellious, living outside the boundaries of society. Their story was vibrant; romance that danced along the cliff's edge; jazz notes which filled the screen; long tracking shots and jump cuts filled with natural light. The Euros loved it. Even today, Belmondo's death scene remains a film studies classic. Altman, Scorsese, Coppola and the great Chinese director, Wong Kar Wai have said they were influenced by the French new wave. In his first film, 'Reservoir Dogs' QT dedicated it to Godard. Jean Seberg making questionable choices in her acting career, and constantly involved in abusive serial relationships, died in 1979 at the age of 41 in the back seat of a car in the 16th arrondissement in Paris of alcohol and drugs. She will however, always be the woman that Raoul Coutard's camera loved. 1960. Breathless and immortal, always forever young.

Scatter Shots

1. The French. Most of the time I love all things French. I'm not just talking gastronomy, the arts, or haute couture (I leave that to the other side of my family) but also the alluring language. There isn't anything finer than an afternoon or evening being spell bound by a French film. Well, ok, there's the wine too, but you get the drift. It's a country that at times has been light years ahead of the rest of the continent. Last week, the French lower Parliament voted 335-1 to ban Muslim women from covering their face in public. Whoa, mama. In September, the new law goes to the French senate for final approval. The rotten smell of assimilation pervades Paris. So you get the heebie jeebies from bourqas? So what. On the tolerance scale, the French government laid a goose egg. Black eye intact, the proposed fine that will be levied on any woman caught wearing a bourqa in public ( I confess I would love to free my sisters so they can feel the wind in their hair and the sun on their faces) is $198.00. A provision to this law is that if you are found guilty of forcing a woman to wear a bourqa in public, you, sir, will be fined $19,000. and quite posssibly sentenced to eating French baguettes in the slammer for a year. Oh, I get it now. The French are 'saving' Muslim women from continued enslavement in France. Somehow, the words 'vive la France,' catches in my throat.

2. Because this is an equal opportunity blog: Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani vs the Law. And if you know the song, you know who usually wins. In Iran, Sakineh was accused of committing adultery and soon after being flogged 99 times confessed to her crime. Really? After 99 lashes, she confessed? Huh. No eyewitnesses, the courts need at least 3-4 men or 2 women (because 2 women=1 man) to confirm the allegations but hey no problemo...with a wink of the eye, the Tehran court made up of 5 men sentenced Sakineh to death by stoning. Then something extraordinary happened. Her son came forward and pleaded for her life and her innocence. With the news outlets alerted, Amnesty got involved. Since the beginning of the year, there have been 126 executions in Iran. Tehran back-pedaling from the stoning sentence, is now considering a gentler, kinder form of death: hanging. A sordid side-bar...men who want to get out of marriage often accuse their wives of adultery. Merde. Wake me in a century.

3. And on the 8th day, Tilda made the film, 'I am love.'

4. The 'Kids are all Right.' Indeed they are. Hello Ramona.

5. The Swedes have set film box office records in Europe with the Larsson trilogy beginning with: 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo etc.' Hollywood perceiving that Americans are too impatient (oh please) or too lazy to read subtitles will grind out their version for a 2012 release. Do yourself a favor. There is only one Noomi Rapace. Noomi Rapace=Lisbeth Salander. The Swedes got it right.

'You say you want a revolution...'

Last week I participated in a Bay Area/West coast/East coast phenomenon. Chefs from culinary paradiso's, Chez Panisse, and Eccolo among others have banded together between gigs to being organic sustainable foods to their followers on 'off' days. Not really having a formal plan, the general idea is to inform patrons through email when presentations of restaurant style food offerings would be available for consumer take home. It's dinner without the overhead. A good idea. Sausages, chicken, cakes, pasta, organic pork, pizzas, jams, bread and honey were some of the items listed on the pre-order. Enthusiasm was quickly deflated by high prices. Ok. I admit I'm a bit of a food snob. If I eat out, I want to dine on an entree that I might not have the time to make, or that I can't replicate in my own kitchen, or if I happen to get lucky, hook an invite from my pal, Dave, a former chef. Even though, I've eaten at some of the finest restaurants in San Francisco, and in the East Bay I also have a soft spot for diners with wraparound counters because they can usually bring it. However, there's something going on with the slow food, organic movement which just doesn't feel quite right and needs tweaking. Irony abounded at last week's food pick-up. A converted structure which houses catering on weekdays stood on the corner of a marginal, depressed neighborhood. Uh,I get what's happening here. And I applaud the purveyors of organics and I applaud their supporters. But, until the Whole Foods and the sustainables figure out how to educate (you can write all the books you want but...) and reach out to the population in this country who have neither the monetary resources or who can't differentiate broccoli from a spring onion then there will continue to be perpetuation of those who have and those who don't. So, props to Alice Waters (who has garnered some crappy pub lately) for the school program; and Michelle Obama, who dug in and planted the White House vegetable garden. Also a tip of the jockey cap to hard working, enterprises like Donna's Tamales, and the Berkeley Cheese Board and Collective who have been providing affordable cheeses and breads to patrons for over 20 years, and a slamma jamma to Amy's Foods who took on gluten free. And finally to the Berkeley Bowl, and Monterey Market, the people's produce haven, a double knuckle tap for affordable quantity and quality. Power to the people.

Indie Day Lobs

1. 1976. The Haight had run aground, listing on a pile of rocks waiting for the right set of waves to take it under. Quit the teaching job in the outer Mission, broke up with the first girlfriend, piled my VW bug with belongings and sauntered across the less glamorous bridge to Oakland, the city Gertrude Stein savaged, penning, 'that there's no there there.' Working first at a women's press collective and then a printing shop in West Oakland, where the first sounds I heard was a razor blade in the middle of the day chopping up the contents of a 1/4 packet of coke on a light table, I eked out an existence with misfits just like me. My sister having packed her bags too was in LA working the record industry. Good music always rolled through the print shop; KSAN, the old underground FM flagship station of choice rolled out tasty moments such as, the Blue Plate lunch special. My sister then hooked up with Arista records sent me a couple of large posters (the Mapplethrope album jacket) and tickets to see a NY artist, whom Clive Davis had just signed, perform her first album in SF. Feb. 1976, the Boarding House which was located on Bush St was SRO. Patti Smith walked out on stage. I think she was barefoot. Her voice was bigger than she was. High fuckin' fidelity. It was the most electrifying performance I have ever seen. Yesterday, I finished 'Just Kids.' In the book, Patti Smith writes about being a part of certain events not knowing that they would become 'moments' in time. I knew as people stood on tables roaring for encores, and the lights dimmed again, that I had seen a concert which would become seminal, a benchmark... and for some reason that night, I was cognizant enough to recognize it as a 'moment' in my life; my very own personal Idaho, a lovely silver thread that would always connect me to my past.

2. Angie's Shiloh. Everyone. Give it a rest. So, Shiloh wants to dress like a boy and be a boy. Who cares? She's four. Thank the goddess Angie indulges her. I had the same desires too when I was her age. It could all blow over soon. Or not. Whateva...

3. 750 million. Elin Woods magic number.

4. 140.6 million gallons of oil. 2 1/2 months. The BP tar pit continues.

5. 'I am Love.' Tilda. Tilda. Tilda.