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Nouvelle Vague

Time it was,
And what a time it was
It was . . .
A time of innocence
A time of confidences

Simon and Garfunkel, Bookends

I have been watching the Oscars since 1983.  I know this because I did not see the 1982 ceremony, during which “Chariots of Fire” won Best Picture.  We were too new to the US and its traditions.  Once I grasped the meaning and excitement of this award ceremony, I never missed it to this day.  My freshman year in college, I actually found someone in my dorm who let me borrow their TV set for the evening (This was way before one could watch videos on the phone.  Come think of it, this was before cell phones—imagine that!) Another year, spouse and I were traveling, and asked my in-laws to tape the Oscars for me.  That was the year of “Life is Beautiful” and Roberto Benigni leaping over tables.  But I digress…

I used to be a film lover, but over the years, my life has subtly shifted from being a movie person to being a theater person.  Over the past couple of decades, I have been heading into the awards season usually having seen only one of the nominees (and it does not matter if there are five as in the past or 25 as there are now), and then I catch the rest on the plane at some future point.  Sometimes I happen to read about Oscar snubs and become convinced to see the ones that were not nominated.  This is how I came across “Nouvelle Vague”.  The name alone was enough.  It is about the making of “À bout de souffle” (I don’t call it “Breathless”), as well as the exhilaration of the beginning of that era in French cinema, The New Wave.

I have taken a couple of film classes.  In French.  French cinema classes.  And one actually in France.  So my formal knowledge of French cinema, while by no means impressive, is probably more substantial than my comprehension of many other art forms (although it ends before the beginning of the 1990s).

Nouvelle Vague itself is not my era.  As it is basically late 1950s to late 1960s, it is before my time.  I did not live it, but I did study it.  And if I am being perfectly honest, I am not even its biggest, or even middling, fan.  I prefer the gentle romanticism of its predecessors, and the romantic nostalgia of its followers.  When I saw “À bout de souffle”, I did not really like or understand it.  Besides “The 400 Blows”, I cannot name a single film of that period that I like (and don’t even get me started on “Weekend”—I am not sure I need to get to know Jean Luc Godard any better than I already do…)  And to me, Jean-Paul Belmondo is “Cartouche”, the lead of a swashbuckler which could have been made by Christian-Jaque ten years prior, even though it wasn’t.

The first (and only) time I saw the original film, it was in a dark classroom on the Left Bank, during my semester abroad.  My friend Scott and I decided to pick a catchy phrase or scene from each of the movies we saw.  This was the second one.  We learned the word “dégueulasse” (disgusting), which for me was probably the most significant linguistic discovery of that summer.  There is also a scene where the main characters make faces: happy, angry, surprised.  I was constantly asking Scott to do it, and it always made me laugh.  When I saw the filming of it in “Nouvelle Vague”, it instantly transported me to that summer. 

I really do not know what I would or could have thought or felt about “Nouvelle Vague” the movie without my own cultural references to its origins, with its Belmondo who is genial, affable, and charming in his own way, but not in the inimitable way of Belmondo himself, without my delighted recognition of the film’s veritable parade of the giants of French cinema.  I simply cannot be objective about that.  My lived experience might be why I cried after this movie ended.  It brought back certain sensations, certain states of mind.  It reminded me of that magical summer in Paris—well, obviously that.  But it also reminded me of the magic of movies, how I used to love them, how thinking of some of them just drops me into the past.  I am not entirely sure that seeing “À bout de souffle” itself would have made me feel more in touch  with it, if that makes any sense. 

This film was not nominated for the Oscar, which these days means less than nothing, as far as I am concerned.  The one it’s about, which is considered one of the greatest films of all time, was not nominated, either.

Midsummer Magic

Without any effort—or, indeed, desire—on my part, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” has recently emerged as the Shakespeare play I have seen most often live on stage.  From some initial encounters ranging from indifferent to downright embarrassing, our relationship has grown and developed into one of admiring understanding.

My favorite among the comedies was always “Twelfth Night”, simply because I saw a televised version of it as a child.  The bumbling duo of Sir Andrew and Sir Toby impressed me the most, and remains my favorite pair of comedic incompetents in the entire canon.  As for “Midsummer”, we did not meet until I was in college. 

I saw several productions over the years, from my beloved Stage West Theatre in Fort Worth to the Stratford Festival in Canada.  Most of them were competently entertaining if not affecting.  Let’s face it, the young lovers’ plight and predictable resolution is not what makes this play so popular; it is Bottom and Co. and the fairies.  And here is where it usually lost me—I have never really enjoyed them as characters on stage.  I have always felt that so much effort goes into the fairies, their costumes, their makeup, their habitat that every else kind of gets lost in the forest, pun intended.  The set is too green, or too blue, there is too much mood lighting, too much gauze/glitter/sparkle/fog/flutter of wings, etc.  I think there is temptation—not entirely surprising—to just get overwhelmed by the external while putting on a play that involves the magic realm.  If I remember nothing else from some of the productions of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, I remember a lot of shrubbery and a lot of wings.  I never actively disliked it, but neither did I seek it out. 

Not sure who gets the credit for this photo; it was shared with me by a cast member. Hippolyta/Titania and Theseus/Oberon.

So imagine my surprise when, in a fancy suburb of Chicago which I have distrusted since that fateful day when I visited a client there and could not find my way back. https://oldladywriting.com/2021/08/08/bad-day-in-chicago/  Spoiler alert: Napierville redeemed itself with the most imaginative and heartfelt rendition of “Midsummer” I ever had the privilege of enjoying.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream – BrightSide Theatre

Aside from the quartet of young lovers, who just basically do their thing, the characters in this production are familiar and yet somehow new.  In a smaller theater, with a thrust stage and actors occasionally breaking the proverbial fourth wall, you cannot help but feel part of the story.  But in this version, the relatability is more than a function of proximity.  Theseus of Athens and Hippolyta of the Amazons are played by the same actors as Oberon and Titania, and their attendants in the opening scene also morph into fairies and back again.  Grounded in the corporal world, the fairies are certainly creatures imbued with supernatural powers, but, human-presenting, albeit gorgeously and colorfully costumed, they convey the message that magic is in and all around us.  This double casting, for me, creates a more tightly knit, unified story that is more than just a series of connected plots.  Regal Theseus’ humanity never leaves Oberon, wry elegance of a courtier stays with the mercurial Puck, and Hippolyta is both proud and hopeful as Titania.  So powerful is this bond between the two worlds that I am not sure I ever want to see “Midsummer” again where these roles are *not* played by the same actors.

The play’s funniest scene, when the indomitable troupe of rude mechanicals perform the ill-rehearsed and even worse-written “Pyramus and Thisbe”, is as hilarious as anything I have ever seen.  Peter Quince’s earnestly overwrought introduction, Tom Snout’s exasperated attempts to focus “the wall” on Nick Bottom’s pompous meanderings, Robin Starveling’s laborious attempts to handle two objects at once, and Snug’s brave overcoming of stage fright as the gentlest of lions are all full of humor that never spirals into caricature.  In this production, you root for everyone, even the overly confident yet somehow endearing, wide-eyed Nick Bottom.

I am that pedant who pays attention to and gets distracted by false notes in costuming. This “Midsummer” did what I have seen once before in another play and remembered forever.  It starts in monochrome and gradually becomes more and more colorful.  It is not just that Athenians appear in shades of gray and citizens of the magic realm are in color.  It is not just that Theseus goes from somber black as a ruler of Athens to royal purple as the ruler of the magic kingdom.  The young lovers also gradually transform from gray business professional attire to red and blue silks and lace.  With each exit and entry, I was anticipating the next development of the costumes (and coveted some for myself!).

As for the set, absent are the usual overpowering prop trees and astroturf.  Truly, they just bog down the text and the action (I always knew that).  Instead, there is an abundance of confetti, in all shapes and sizes, and strewn about in every way, including through cannons, which creates an atmosphere of joyful celebration.  And original music written for this production adds another layer of enchantment and lyricism.

Finally, there is *that moment* that transforms everything https://oldladywriting.com/2021/05/25/who-tells-your-story/.  Francis Flute, a mass of nerves as he should be, suddenly loses the high-pitched voice and simpering manner and delivers Thisbe’s farewell speech to the “corpse” of Bottom with the heartfelt pathos of the finest tragic heroes.  I would like to have said that there was not a dry eye in the house, but that would not have been true—still, a hush fell over the audience, and that is no small feat for this play and for this scene.

It never ceases to amaze me how, while staying true to the text and the plot, some productions of Shakespeare’s plays find a truly unique voice.  I give credit to The Bard, of course, for his words are timeless and multilayered.  But I also have to give great credit to the immensely talented team that brought the old story to live in this particular, extraordinary way.  If you are anywhere near Chicago for the next couple of weeks, see this show, before it disappears like so much fairy dust…