culture diary, day 3

Good morning darling. The heat wave is here in earnest and so I have capitulated, closed the windows and turned on the A/C. Already it's much more comfortable. Not much to report in the culture diary scene. I walked up to the Heights yesterday and caught a French film, Mademoiselle Chambon. Unassuming slice of life, simmering love story, paper thin on reflection, evaporating like a wafer - yet engrossing, evocative and thoroughly enjoyable as I ate a deli ham sandwich in the dark theater and watched it. It's about a man, a builder by trade, who has a wife and young son. At the boy's school one day the man meets the teacher. At her request he gives a little talk to the class about his line of work and answers the children's questions. How many concrete blocks does it take to build a house? I don't know, I never counted - maybe 2,500-3,000? Loud gasps of wonder from the children. A little girl raises her hand. How many to build this school? Oh, perhaps 25,000-30,000? Even louder gasps! The children and the teacher are enthralled with him, he's charming and modest. After dismissing class the teacher asks his advice about a drafty casement window in her apartment. He visits her place to inspect it and recommends that she replace it as the frame is rotted. She hires him and he comes back to do the job. When he's done he approaches her bedroom where she's been keeping herself out of the way. The door is ajar - she's fast asleep and doesn't hear him calling. He returns to the living room, looks around, and sees a photograph of her playing the violin. When she gets up, he asks if she would play a "tune" for him. She's very shy and at first says no, that he'd be disappointed, but finally she's gently persuaded. She plays beautifully, an utterly yearning, elegiac piece. The man falls in love with the music and with her. One day he runs into her and asks if there's a recording of the piece. She invites him to her place, lends him her CDs, puts on another beautiful piece, violin and piano together, he takes her hand, they kiss... and all kinds of unrequited simmering continues to transpire between them...

Ultimately I suppose the film boils down to a bit of a morality tale. How easy it is to fall in love - but don't be tempted. The man has obligations and learns that his wife is expecting. He wants to run away with the teacher, who's on a one-year assignment that's just ended. (She's been asked to stay another year but recognizes that since her love is doomed there is no point in staying in this provincial town so she decides to return to Paris.) The night before she leaves they finally make love and he tells her that he wants to go with her. Don't say that if you don't mean it, she says. The following morning she is on the platform, about to board. The man arrives at the station with a suitcase but hesitates to go up to the platform. He stands at the foot of the stairs. The boarding whistle sounds, the woman looks around, waits. The final whistle sounds. She boards, the train pulls out of the station, and the man goes home to his wife. The End.

Trains leaving the station like moody strings of beads -- ah, yes, I can relate. Doctor Zhivago it ain't, unlike the story of you and me. That's what made it feel so slight to me - comparing it to our slow-motion Robert Wilson grand operatic lifelong epic in which for over thirty years virtually nothing happens yet so much detonates. So a guy meets a pretty teacher who happens to play the violin - by comparison it's a little thin!

So this is my little violin piece for you this morning, darling. I hope you liked it. Many kisses, and another tune later. Love, Woodstock