Monsieur Chariot's Open Salon Blog

The Horror of Children

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 13:10:37 -0400

_{· The Finical Filmgoer ·}

^{The Children (2008)}

Nobody raises horrible children like the British. The child actors who starred in horror classics like Village of the Damned, The Innocents and The Omen set the standard for creepy children, in a manner that is unmatched in American cinema. Maybe it's the sugary smarm inherent in the American child actor? I don't know. But if the central character in a horror film reveals even the slightest trace of "cuteness", all is lost.

^{An altogether different form of horror}

American child actors, with their Star Seach, look-at-me-Mommy sparkle, can cause the entire tone of a great horror film to come crashing down like a house of tarot cards. Cherubical effects are anathema to the genre. Children in horror films must be eerily adult-like, coldly self-possessed, with ghastly dead eyes - bringing British children immediately to mind.

^Cheerio!

And yet, time, MacDonalds, MTV and Barney the purple thing have slowly infected the Victorian tone of British child-rearing with the hypoglycemia which has ruined the American child-persona, and one can find evidence of this trend in a horror film enjoying some notoriety called The Children (2008). Still, one must admit that the great tradition of creepy children lingers in the performances of the young actors. Perhaps you can rent the film and weigh in?

In The Children, two families gather on an English country estate to celebrate Christmas. The film opens on a car transporting one of the families to the event, and we are treated to parental chatter, with a sullen teenager and the cheery shrieking of children in the back seat. Upon arrival, one of the urchins vomits with some gusto, and the parents attribute it to car sickness.

But as the days pass, all of the children appear to come down with a kind of flu. What with the various influenzas that have plagued civilization, who is to say that Hong Kong flu, Spanish flu, Avian flu and Swine flu could not be followed by Child Maniac flu? Subsequent to the onset of the illness, the childrens' personalities change, and they are tranformed to cold-blooded killers.

^{Where did you say the children were?}

The film's tagline, You brought them into this world. Now ... They will take you out, admirably captures the proceedings. The film tries a little too hard to ramp up the horror, which has the effect of putting too fine a point on the knife, as it were. With a little less of the heavy-hand, this could have been great child-horror fare. Regardless, it served to cement M. Chariot's lifelong commitment to childlessness.

^{The barren life}

At the very least, I strongly recommend that if one encounters children carrying knives during flu season, one should avoid allowing one's throat to be less than 4 feet off the ground.

^{Wrong: 1.5 feet off the ground}

Love, Destiny and Other Appointments

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 10:09:53 -0400

The California dawn's first blush razored through heavy velvet draperies into the cloistral bedchamber. Surgical light glinted across Victorian soda lime glass vases and walnut appointments, pricking my slumber like a physician's cannula. Where was I? Ah yes: in that very bower of romantic dissipitude, my tiny, state-of-the-art bachelor apartments in Old Hollywood!

Feeling about the bamboo night table for my tophat, wig and monocle, I immediately detected the scent of Bal à Versailles by Jean Desprez, lingering throughout the rooms, in stark contrast to the lady's demure - even I daresay hurried - departure the night before. Collecting myself, rolling off the mattress wrapped in the trailing eyelet bedspread and peeking through curtains, I could see that her enormous pink Cadillac convertible, a sugar-plum pontoon of passion which had glittered on the street at midnight, was long vanished.

Slumbrous yet arisen, I busied with ablutions: the pluckings, the depilatories, the taping on of discreet accessories, and reviewed the previous evening. An encounter most gentlemen could only dream of! But perhaps it was too much to expect a lady of delicacy to display a return on my captivations? The assignation certainly went well enough - and yet the fair sex can be so skittish when it comes to Love's more brutish expressions. Humming a bittersweet melodia, I applied the palest, most masculine hint of rouge.

Earlier, at the nightclub and in a crush of glitterati, she'd been drinking a Pink Lady, egg-whites and cream mixed to a froth over Plymouth gin and grenadine. Through the lens of my tipsitude, her glossy pink lips, pink tongue, pink bubble gum and the pink potation tickled me, well... pink if you don't mind, inspiring a hoarse invitation to the lodgings.

Combing my hairpiece by the morning light streaming in through the picture window, I thought perhaps her devotion to chewing gum had been a bit much, recalling now the sound of popping and chewing during my floundering seductions on the settee. Hadn't I found a discreetly chewed fuschia wad this morning by the washbasin in the bath? To say nothing of the sticky bagatelle glued to the Louis-Philippe china cabinet in the salon. But who's counting?

Far be it from M. Chariot to let a little quibble over confections stand in the way of l'amour! Brushing my frock coat with perhaps a tad too much vigor, I stopped and sighed. Somehow one manages to keep the flames alive despite tiny romantic discouragements. Had loneliness left me too dazzled? A lady's maneuverings, so very difficult to interpret.

O Hollywood, silken city of the sequined sirens! I sent up a tiny invocation. Might you be delivering happiness to M. Chariot at last?

But now it was time to put aside amorous reveries and be off. A gentleman has his appointments after all I reminded myself, meticulously buttoning my fancy silk waistcoat, tailcoat, frock coat and striped trousers. As one knows - and if one doesn't, one should make a note of it - unbuttoned buttons are anathema to the ladies! Crawling hither and thither about the boudoir in search of my Prada Spectator boots, I was mystified to discover them precipitously lodged on the 10 opaline-crystal arm of the French Victorian chandelier which hangs o'er the bed!

I had no time for mysteries. With a rakish insouciance, I cocked the crowning jewel, my tophat, with special care so as not to skew the little fringe of bangs on the toupee. And lifting the Limoges tea set from a tiny table festooned with porcelain figurines, I made for the portal.

And then, Gentle Reader, is when I saw it. There, on the threadbare, yellow brocade wingback before my petite escritoire, was a pink, leopard-print chiffon scarf, hanging motionless in the stale smoky air of the library. Had it simply been forgotten, in the frantic disarray of her puzzling departure? Or had she left it there knowingly, a diaphanous coquetry? I plucked the floaty fichu from the chaise, inhaled the rich scent of Bal à Versailles, nicotine and what was that? - a note of bubblegum - and stuffed it into my vest pocket, a Souvenir of Exaltation. With a lovelorn sigh, I lifted the Limoges and sailed forth on Cupid's wings!

As I waited patiently at the Metro stop, the denizens of Los Angeles swarmed by in long, long rows of gaseous, gleaming personal transportation appliances, racing, honking and cursing their way to destinations of greatness. Shortly, and to the clinking and clattering of my ceramic accoutrement, I loaded my velveteen person onto the #2, locating a seat near a sleeping thug. But wait! How to sit? In love's haste, I'd forgotten the tarpaulin I typically carry for protection of the habiliments from the city's grime. Might one be forced to remain standing for the entire trip, holding a tray of the finest porcelain aloft?

Suddenly I remembered the pink leopard-print chiffon scarf. Certainly my ladylove wouldn't be offended by safeguards required for the spotless silhouette? Gently waking my dozing seatmate and fastidiously passing the tray to his care, I whisked the scarf from my vest pocket with a flourish, spread it on the seat, plonked down and retrieved the salver from the thoughtfully accommodating assassin.

There now! The city spun by as the bus snaked and shuddered its way through snarls of traffic to my first stop, that unique and most cosmopolitan of coffee emporiums, that rarest of venues - Starbuckle Café, where fashionable society gathers in the Arts District on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.

And there I debarked with the Limoges coffee service, gingerly making my way to the storefront at Starbuckle's, where I peered crossly into the window. Seeing me, the barista finally registered that for some patrons - the crème de la crème - a doorperson is essential. And yet, making my entrance, I was greeted not by the usual smattering of applause from the beau monde, but... giggles. Dare I say it? Sniggers.

Was rapture too visible on my visage? Was 'Love's Fool' written on my countenance? Briskly excusez-moi'ing my way to the front of the line, I ordered - in the crispest French - my libation plus an almond-paste croissant. A gentleman needs to replenish spent vigors! My tiny pot filled and my tray arranged just so, I waited at the rear of the establishment for the pro tempore doorperson. Then wending my way to my little umbrella table on the back patio, I took my refreshments in solitude, the café looming precipitously between my tiny form and the bustling megalopolis.

Time waits not for the caffeinating gentleman, thoughtful reader! So very many pressing appointments to attend! Again I boarded the double-long Metro Rapid, criss-crossing the city like a suture. There was the meeting with my attorney about the restraining order. From there I was expected at the tailor and the vintner, where the little matter of unpaid bills had to be settled. Legal action indeed! But everywhere I went I was met with whispers, sidelong glances, titters. I checked my wig: all seemed secure. Certainly I was sufficiently groomed for polite society? One always wonders needlessly.

A stop at Cafe Côte D'or for a moment's respite from the sun's glare and the merest sip of a martini, followed by a quick look-in with my charmless parole officer (the sad result of a ridiculous misunderstanding 8 years ago; I am loath to say more).

"You have a pink, leopard-print chiffon scarf sticking out of your ass." This, as I was leaving, from Officer Martinez in her usual tone.

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle...?"

"There is a pink, leopard-print chiffon scarf sticking out of your ass," she repeated drily.

Nonplussed by this vulgarity, my tea set rattling with displeasure, I exited onto the street once more. What had become of genteel discourse, I wondered, making my way home on the #704? But once submerged by the shadowy interiors of my accommodations, I peered, turning this way and that, into the ornate Victorian looking-glass in the entryway. There, stuck with a wad of bubblegum to the seat of my pristenely pressed striped trousers, I encountered the pink leopard-print chiffon scarf, hanging forlornly, a limp flag of erotic surrender. Let this be a lesson in Love to gentlepersons of distinction!

Cinema for the Lonely

Wed, 1 Jul 2009 08:07:48 -0400

_{· The Finical Filmgoer ·}

If, like me, you are single - and a gentleperson of some refinement - you may frequently find yourself feeling a bit lonely. Not that I do, mind you - but you might. In the absence of an Adoring Other, lonely ladies and gentlemen can find themselves engaged in a melancholic search for activities, hobbies, rituals, careers - even, dare I say it, obsessions - to fill the hollowed-out, some might say caverneux emptiness within. Have you ever wistfully cleaned and buffed the antiques on a Saturday evening? Perhaps you've tearfully organized your IRS receipts for the past 8 years alphabetically, that type of thing. Lonely persons have been known to purchase zippable plastic wardrobe bags, into which they've individually zipped their entire wardrobes, all to avoid "moisture" or "a possible invasion of moths". Chilling, but not unheard-of, I can assure you.

The reason M. Chariot does not engage in any such nonsense is that I am in possession of one of the most compelling film libraries imagineable - a library to which I have turned for nourishment again and again, a picture-show repository which has invoked chills, thrills, mirth and sadness, all of the comedy and tragedy of a rich and full and meaningful life - despite having absolutely no one whomsoever to share it with. Yes, that's right. On a Saturday evening in M. Chariot's cloistral apartments, you might very well find the author languishing - alone - on an olive green velveteen fainting couch in front of a gleaming HDTV, resplendent in top hat, smoking jacket and Chinese silk pajamas, surrounded by several tables of scrupulously hand-polished porcelain bibelots, sipping Senna Tea (zestfully seasoned with a thimbleful of Gin) and gripped through-and-through by The Art of Cinema. Absolutely no room for 'loneliness' during these artful interludes, no indeed!

As such it has occurred to me that single gentlepersons may greatly benefit from my Talkie Treasure Trove, my Bloated Box o' Bijou as it were, and I have thus decided to submit, intermittently, a selection of favorites for the discriminating internet perusalist. And so here, without any further adieu, cavalierly uncategorized and in no particular order, my first installment in an exclusive melánge of the Best of the Best! All the thoughtful, lonely gentleperson needs is an account with a meticulously maintained film archive (á la Netflix or Blockbuster) and a link to M. Chariot's Cinema for the Lonely. Do kindly let me know if you find any of them amusing, won't you?*

................................................................................................................

Antonioni's L'Avventura (1960)

If you have never seen the luminous Italian actress Monica Vitti in a film, you simply must rent this one. Imagine Faith Hill with a Neapolitan profile, a Catholic (as opposed to Protestant) guilt complex and an earthy, almost boyish exuberance. L'Avventura, translated in English to mean The Adventure, is the story of a woman (Vitti) who joins her best friend, her best friend's lover, and a gaggle of wealthy Italians on a boat trip near Sicily. The best friend mysteriously disappears during an excursion to a barren island in the Mediterranean. The remainder of the film examines Vitti's search for her friend, as clues point to the possibility that she left the island on a boat and is spotted, via missing-persons newspaper reports, here and there on the mainland. Vitti is intermittently joined by the misplaced woman's lover (Gabriele Frezetti), with whom she falls in love against her better judgement.

L'Avventura and La Dolce Vita were released in the same year and have similar themes: both focus on the emptiness of the very wealthy and a fruitless search for sensual pleasure. Antonioni's film captures the milieu with unique style: oddly framed camera angles, full depth of focus in every shot, a meandering pace and virtually no music. The film does not have a plot in the conventional sense, and to me seemed like two stories in one. Essentially, it is the study of a woman drowning in an emotionally bankrupt social strata. Lonely, gentle readers will no doubt see their own emotional bankruptcy reflected in this brilliant Italian masterpiece.

................................................................................................................

Les Revenants / English Title: They Came Back (2004)

One morning, 10 years worth of the dead emerge from the cemetery of a Canadian town. They are not zombies with rotting flesh and murderous intentions, but look much like they did before they died, except perhaps a little blank, dazed, enigmatic. Nonetheless, they are - inexplicably - alive again. The authorities round them up and set up temporary quarters on the outskirts of the town, a refugee camp if you will. Scientists observe them and try to figure out what happened, and what to do.

The dead are carefully studied. A significant percentage are, of course, elderly. They all seem to have experienced memory loss. They appear healthy, though their body temperature is 5 degrees lower than normal. The bewildered townspeople are told that they can visit their loved ones, but are not forced to take them back: it is understood that an enormous personal and emotional adjustment will have to be made, and that in some cases it may be impossible.

Slowly, the dead return into the community. Some are given their former jobs back. We are presented with three stories. A wealthy elderly man whose wife has returned. A young woman, whose husband died in a car accident and is now returned. A middle-aged couple, whose child has returned. We follow the range of emotions: confusion, joy, fear, anxiety, ambivalence. We watch as the dead slowly attempt to adapt to living once again, as if coming out of a coma.

But the dead are up to something. At night, they wander into the streets, to congregate in secret.

Les Revenants is a strange and chilling film, not a horror story in the usual, but in a more psychological sense. In many ways it is a realistic examination of what might happen if such an extraordinary event were actually to occur. But there is an eerie, feverish dream-quality to it, a sense of dread, imbalance, of menace. Much like the eerie, feverish dream we know (all too well) as loneliness.

................................................................................................................

Ma mère (2004)

A 17 year old student comes to visit his beautiful mother (Isabelle Huppert) and father in their luxurious home on the Canary Islands. There is tension all around: we soon realize that the boy has been raised by his grandmother, in Catholic schools, seemingly due to obscure problems in his parents' marriage.

Suddenly, the father dies in an accident on a business trip. Neither the boy, nor his mother appear to have any feelings for him whatsoever. She tells him to clear the father's things from his office, and to throw it all out unless he finds something of interest. The boy uncovers a vast collection of pornography, which catapults him into an erotic swoon. He furiously urinates on the office furniture, then collapses in fervent prayer.

Lounging about the pool and in various states of undress, Huppert needles her son for being a religious stick-in-the-mud, for not taking part in the pleasures of life in the resort town. Wearing tight, revealing dresses, she goes out nightly to the local clubs, and finally concedes to bring the boy along. Slowly, disturbingly, she reveals herself to her son as an intensely sybaritic narcissist, in the manner that only French women, in particular Huppert, can be. Not only that, she is utterly and unrepentantly sexually depraved, and her depravity is shown to be the reason why her son was taken away from her. But he is back, and he is in love with her. She proceeds to take him down a path that can be described as the raping of an innocent.

Ma mère is based on a work by the pessimistic Georges Bataille, the "metaphysician of evil." The story also very much brought to mind The Sexual Life of Catherine M, by French art critic Catherine Millet, and various novels by Michel Houellebecq. There is much nudity, and various sexual acts are presented. It has been widely panned as over-the-top, a Euro conceit, and I can assure you the film will not be everyone's cup of tea. But being somewhat familiar with the, er... territory, I was fascinated with Huppert's performance, her desire to elucidate the blank, erotic radiance of a remorseless, lonely hedonist.

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Mimic (1997)

Let me start by saying I have never been particularly interested in Mira Sorvino's oeuvre, and as such I was not expecting much from this feature. But Mimic proved to be one of the most heart-poundingly frightening features I've ever encountered. Imaginative plot, great acting, arresting special effects, spine-tingling score. Directed by Guillermo del Toro, of Cronos, Hellboy, Blade II and The Devil's Backbone.

The story revolves around a solitary young scientist (Sorvino) who tinkers with cockroach DNA in an effort to stop a deadly disease outbreak in NYC which is killing children. When the plague is defeated she becomes an international heroine; but within three years, a bizarre -- I should say, shocking -- insect mutation emerges. This film literally made crawl my spotless white flesh. Utterly ghastly, grotesque, repulsive proceedings that will scare the living bejebus - to say nothing of the loneliness - right out of you! Consider yourself warned.

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Soupçons / English title: The Staircase (2004)

Poor half-wit that I have become, addled by prescription drugs, libations from the very top shelf and meaningless affairs with cold, angry, yet incomparably beautiful women, I was expecting this documentary to be about Scott Peterson, the man who murdered his pregnant wife in 2002 and dumped her body into the San Francisco Bay. Turns out it is instead about Michael Peterson, American author who claimed to have discovered his wife's body at the bottom of a staircase in a pool of blood in their home in Durham North Carolina in 2001. They're both named Peterson; a pardonable mistake, certainly, in light of the grave indiscretions on display. And yet despite my feeble-minded imbecility when it comes to mayhem in the news, I discovered The Staircase to be an utterly gripping, 2-disc documentary - from Academy Award-winning French director Jean-Xavier de Lestrade - and was so overcome with an obscene fascination that I was up practically half the night, watching the entire series in one sitting. Lonely? Me? I hadn't noticed - and you won't either!

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Take courage, lonesome reader. Sweet diversion is on its way! For there are more installations of M. Chariot's Cinema for the Lonely to come!

_{*Particularly if you are a lonely, single gentlewoman possessed of a stunning decolletage}

^{_{.....................................................}}

_{Additional Finical Filmgoer reviews:}

_{The Golden Bowl
Tolérance
Pola X
Basic Instinct
The Innocents}

_{~ Discriminating commentary after the ad, below ~}

Running Into Faye

Sun, 12 Apr 2009 16:04:07 -0400

M. Chariot ran into Mlle Faye Dunaway at the dry cleaner's recently. I was picking up one of my fancier waistcoats, which had incurred a stain resulting from an overenthusiasm for the veal — when I detected an angry, patrician voice coming from further down the counter. There stood Faye Dunaway, a ticket in hand, bejewelled knuckle on hip, looking peeved. She, like all movie stars, is much tinier than one would imagine from watching her films. Tiny, very slender, even stick-like, a coat of expertly applied maquillage, perfectly dressed, artificiel, like a Beverly Hills matron, all whites and creams, with a kind of cloche on her head, an expensive caramel bag, gold jewelry.

She seemed impatient, cold, unfriendly to the staff. A constricted quality. Snatched her plastic-sheathed gown and stalked out, looking like she'd just as soon firebomb the place. I'd heard absolutely terrible rumors about her here in LA, but this was the first time I'd seen her in person. Did not get a good impression, I can tell you that. But - try as we might - how many of us give "a good impression" to a stranger's gaze each and every day?

Here in Los Angeles, seeing film stars in "real life" (if that's the appropriate term for my bumblings about the Boulevard) is quite illuminating. I'm not talking about stars on some kind of publicity tour, signing books, or in a professional situation, gladhanding the fans and smiling warmly at the camera. I'm talking about the supermarket or the dry cleaner, the parking lot or the nail salon. Ordering coffee at Starbuckle. On film, they are typically open and vulnerable and 'giving' to the audience via the camera. When you see them going about their business in the real world, they can appear, by contrast, very closed, guarded, opaque, uninterested, dismissive of the gawping public. It's disconcerting, akin to running into an old friend who has mysteriously decided to snub you.

All of which leaves me impressed with stars who are forever granting autographs and acknowledging their fans while dining in restaurants and the like. It can't be easy. Addressing the so-called 'adoring' public has got to be like making one's way through a snake pit at an insane asylum. You never know what's coming at you. In a crush of strangers, who is going to thank you for your performance in Network and who is going to try to poke out your eyeballs with their keys? Must make navigating the public sphere seem very dicey indeed!

Rock out with the Monsieur!

Sat, 7 Mar 2009 16:03:27 -0500

Love and passion

as interpreted by the gentleman's

favorite rock band out of Detroit, Electric Six.