Tag: Jean Paul Belmondo

Sunday afternoon

If it weren’t for the rain, I wouldn’t have remembered the incident.

Being just a kid, I was home-bound by torrential rain. No matter how hard I tried, the adults in the house would not let me go out and play. My tantrum perhaps lasted for hours with ending compromise: I got taken to see “the Hunchback of Notre Dame” played by Anthony Quinn.

Esmeralda and her plot-twisting escape.

I wish my life had been that of the hunchback i.e. just ring the bell when it’s time and stay in.

Even on rainy Sunday Afternoons.

No Esmeralda. No trouble. But troubles seem to find me out.

I ran out to the street, saw all sorts of things: burning monk in 1963, Tet 68 street battle, 1975 last chopper, 1979 Three Mile Island. A long way from a quiet home-bound Sunday Afternoon.

On one of the family’ trips, I was up in a Dalat villa, sneaking out the balcony for a smoke, cause I saw it on Bonjour Tristesse. I knew then as I know now the face of existential loneliness.

Jean Paul Belmondo, Johnny Holiday and Alain Delon.

Those larger-than-life figures of French cinema.

Than music of the 60’s arrived (the British Invasion caught a ride on the chopper to be in Saigon as well). I had imprints of “He ain’t heavy, he is my brother” piling on top of “Et Pourtant” by Charles Aznavour.

Those Sunday Afternoons. Home-bound. Taking it all in.

By the time I got to the States, I am a mix bag and a mix  package: French, Vietnamese and English all-in-one.

Then I caught on with Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park“, or America’s “Lonely People”.

Finally, the day the music dies. Lennon got shot in the park.

Princess Diana got car crashed (You live your life like a candle in the wind).

Maria Carey went on living “without you” since she “can’t give anymore”.

Later on, more tragedies piling on top of one another, with “tears in heaven” and “wake me when September ends”.

I like Torn. The sound is very contemporary and cool.

We are still eager for that next tune. Next hit.

After all, it’s only a Sunday Afternoon, homebound. In search of something to pass the time.

Kid at heart.

Look not for trouble. But troubles always manage to seek me out. Bonjour Tristesse.

Might as well getting used to the unusual. Whose life is “normal” anyway. It would be boring to tears, ringing the bell when it’s time. Not sure the guy was born that hunch a back, or it’s an occupational hazard.

Watching Victor Vu’s film

The Coke, (pop) corn and cinema.

Heroes of Destiny.

Boom, bang! karate kid! Justified violence (revenge).

Boy meets girl, boy almost loses girl, boy gets girl in the end. Happy Ending.

When the bewitched Empress released her grip, she broke the chain of self-perpetuated violence.

It’s like cutting the credit card when you  are a shopaholic.

Blood-thirsting regime shed more blood to solidify power (the East was used to “Chu Di Tam Toc” i.e. wipe out the enemy’s descendants down to the third generation.)

We got some humor and and we got the resolution (breaking the chain).

As Vietnam‘s m0vie-going is improved, so has its film industry.

More investors and actors take a plunge, as barriers to entry are much lower than in Hollywood.

Valentine should see another date movie (the horror genre): House in the Alley.

My cousin used to work in Vietnam’s film industry. We used to get invited to premiers at Rex cinema.

Back then, actors all lined up to greet guests on the red carpet.

We had our own version of Brigitte Bardot (without Jean Paul Belmondo) in Tham Thuy Hang, and many generations of comedian. Still, the industry was in its infancy. By the time it matured, technology has moved on to home theatres and small screens.

It’s an act of love and faith to plunge deep into movie making in Vietnam.

I admire the efforts such as Norwegian Wood.

You can’t get a flatter world than that: Beatles’ title, Japanese novel, Vietnamese mis-en-scene talent.

Victor Vu started out with horror genre, then moved on to action flicks.

He used Matrix and X-men special effects throughout his work.

But definitely, you know it’s a Vietnamese story: Nguyen Trai‘s sole surviving descendant seeking revenge and restoration to the family’s name.

Part philosophy, part action (but not mindless); settling then stirring.

It’s entertaining, but not surprising.

What surprised me was the setting (Parkson) and the friendly greeting when we exited the premise. In the States, you are lucky if they show you out to the right exit.

I hope producers and directors find strong materials and backing to ride the waves of change (low barriers of entry, yet declining ticket sales). I know we have yet told stories like the Fall of Saigon, Last Men Out, and A Day in the life (of successful Vietnamese immigrants). Before you know it, the digital generation is taking over, with fuzzy memories of how they have come to be who they are, with Ipad and Iphone.

No wonder why Steve Jobs commissioned his biography, “so my kids understand what I was doing”. Il’etait une fois……Once upon a time…..Everybody loves a good bed-time story, well-crafted and well- told. Victor Vu’s that I saw today luckily did not put me to sleep.

Vietnamese love for French songs

When traveling in Vietnam, you can still hear French embedded in every-day culture:

fork (fut-xet) , suit (com-plet) and tie (ca-ra-vat). Apparently, they just use the phoneticized versions for lack of dynamic equivalents and use literal translation, such as “Hop Dem” (Boite de Nuit) as last resort.

Some old hands can still carry a tune or two in French. From the music of Christophe to Art Sullivan, from Dalida to Charles Aznavour.

Ask anyone from the older generation, they will tell you they know Alain Delon, Catherine Deneuve, Jean Paul Belmondo and Brigitte Bardot.

And you should listen over cafe au lait. You find French imprints in gastronomy and architecture (Notre Dame Cathedral), traffic cop stations and the ambivalent tie (a rare thing given its tropical climate).

Older scholars are still conversant in French. Their worn-out La Rousse copies testify to that (or as Cuban classic Detroit cars – relics of the island’s past).

Chances are they still have a beret laying around (up North, or in Dalat).

Old Time-and-Life pictures show French officers smoking in Hotel Continental and Caravelle in the late 50’s (in shorts). It was also featured as a set in The Quiet American.

Practically every nation on Earth, even North Korea, has an expat den e.g. French Quarter in New Orleans.

Vietel won the Haiti Telecom contract despite the quake. The thing they have in common: speak French as former fellow colonies. Lately, France tries to compensate for its colonial “sin” 200 years late.

Speaking of history. Madame Nhu (the title says it all) was overexerting her derivative power with bad PR comments (they can barbecue themselves all they want; nobody asked them to) about the burning monks. She once had been tutored by her soon-to-be husband presumably in French and in Dalat where the last King’s Imperial Villa was located.

A friend told me I should try to make it to Paris before dying.  Apparently, Paris is our new Rome and Mecca (it’s still among the top ten despite the recession). Even the hyper-savers in China couldn’t help spending an average of $1800 there for shopping at Capitalist temple. When Paris sizzles!

Since they arrived on tour bus, their schedules barely allowed for sitting down dinner. Just shop (although both the Chinese and the French love cuisine).

And if I can’t do it, a trip to my local supermarket will do. There, I get my French Roast coffee, and a baguette plus cheese (La Vache qui rit).

And on YouTube, I can just select French songs e.g. Francoise Hardy‘s. Those singers, in tailored suits, sang with utter confidence and vulnerability:

“Mal, je suis mal…” or, “Il fait de soleil, je pense a toi.”

As a Vietnamese of origin, I was wired from birth to love French songs. No way around it. It’s a good start for my schooling, in French, at early age. The principle of Ecole L’Aurore and her brother lingered on in post-colonial times, much like those souped-up Detroit automobiles still be around in Cuba.

Frere Jacque, dormez vous? I didn’t know I was homesick, until one day, I happened to listen to Adieu Sois Heureuse by Art Sullivan. It not only brought me back in time, but to a place where dreams entertained yet unrealized, and friendships, half-baked, left wanting.

French is the best language for nostalgia. And where else better than in Vietnam where you can still find it embedded in every-day culture and etched in memories of exile.