Today is International Women’s Day, celebrating the achievements of women and (one hopes) shedding light on their aspirations and on the conditions in which they live. In truth, the French have been observing the occasion since February 28, when the actress Annie Girardot died; since then, news reports have paid tribute to a long, remarkable career. (As has her funeral service, attended by thousands of friends, family, colleagues, and fans here in Paris last Friday. Nobody does funerals like the Parisians.) Most remarkable, perhaps, is the general insistence, beginning with Girardot herself, back in the 1970s, that she was just an ordinary Frenchwoman.
This in turn may tell us something about how Frenchwomen view themselves, and how they want to be viewed by others. Girardot was possessed of a great and versatile talent — launching her stage career at the Comédie Française and appearing on screen in everything from Louis De Funès comedies to Michael Haneke psychodramas. Very few women could do such things, but she wasn’t ever flashy about it.
Visconti’s Rocco: The pretty one is wearing the bandage.
She was beautiful without being glamorous (or, least of all, threatening to other women), and she seemed completely un-self-conscious as she aged, almost defiantly seizing the least-flattering camera angles. Without being a slave to fashion, she dressed nicely, a prime exemplar of the Frenchwoman’s instinctive gift for accessorizing perfectly. She seldom called attention to herself, but let her work speak for her.
And what work it was! I’ve seen only a tiny handful of her films, but they’re a fascinating lot. In Visconti’s Rocco and His Brothers, she’s gorgeous, sensual, alive — but the real glamour part goes to Alain Delon, at his most beautiful, and on that playing field, she can’t compete, and she knows it. She uses her wits and talent instead, and it’s telling that Delon’s best scenes are opposite her.
De Broca’s Dear Inspector: With Philippe Noiret
In Tendre poulet, better known as the global hit Dear Inspector, we see her in middle age, already insisting that she’s Everywoman and yet toying with our understanding of the significance of that idea. She’s engaged in an incredibly charming romance with a onetime sweetheart from her youth, played by Philippe Noiret — but she’s afraid to tell him she works for a living now — as a police detective. Even while she’s rekindling old flames, she’s trying to solve a high-profile murder case. (The film was so successful that it led to a sequel, a development quite unusual for grownup movies in this country; these were among the first French movies I saw after beginning my studies of the language.)
In Haneke’s La Pianiste, she’s ravaged almost beyond recognition, an elderly invalid whose querulous neediness is driving her daughter to distraction (and increasingly shocking behavior). Here again — or perhaps more than ever — the lack of actressy vanity is stunning, and she rises to the demands of the role with harrowing intensity.
La Pianiste: With Isabelle Huppert and Benoît Magimel
At least this much of her character’s story was true to life: Girardot was suffering from Alzheimer’s, which would prove the cause of her death last month. With her usual candor, Girardot spoke about her condition and drew on the enormous reserves of affection in which she was (and is) held by the French public in order to call attention to the disease. Among the many news stories on Girardot’s death were follow-up features that explained Alzheimer’s, reported on treatment and care, and interviewed patients and their families, who are not unlike my in-laws.
When mourners said of Girardot on Friday that she was “a model,” they didn’t mean she was a fashion model — but a role model. And most of those who spoke of her were women, too.
Ultimately, maybe what it means to be a French Everywoman is this: to be truly extraordinary.
This in turn may tell us something about how Frenchwomen view themselves, and how they want to be viewed by others. Girardot was possessed of a great and versatile talent — launching her stage career at the Comédie Française and appearing on screen in everything from Louis De Funès comedies to Michael Haneke psychodramas. Very few women could do such things, but she wasn’t ever flashy about it.
Visconti’s Rocco: The pretty one is wearing the bandage.She was beautiful without being glamorous (or, least of all, threatening to other women), and she seemed completely un-self-conscious as she aged, almost defiantly seizing the least-flattering camera angles. Without being a slave to fashion, she dressed nicely, a prime exemplar of the Frenchwoman’s instinctive gift for accessorizing perfectly. She seldom called attention to herself, but let her work speak for her.
And what work it was! I’ve seen only a tiny handful of her films, but they’re a fascinating lot. In Visconti’s Rocco and His Brothers, she’s gorgeous, sensual, alive — but the real glamour part goes to Alain Delon, at his most beautiful, and on that playing field, she can’t compete, and she knows it. She uses her wits and talent instead, and it’s telling that Delon’s best scenes are opposite her.
De Broca’s Dear Inspector: With Philippe NoiretIn Tendre poulet, better known as the global hit Dear Inspector, we see her in middle age, already insisting that she’s Everywoman and yet toying with our understanding of the significance of that idea. She’s engaged in an incredibly charming romance with a onetime sweetheart from her youth, played by Philippe Noiret — but she’s afraid to tell him she works for a living now — as a police detective. Even while she’s rekindling old flames, she’s trying to solve a high-profile murder case. (The film was so successful that it led to a sequel, a development quite unusual for grownup movies in this country; these were among the first French movies I saw after beginning my studies of the language.)
In Haneke’s La Pianiste, she’s ravaged almost beyond recognition, an elderly invalid whose querulous neediness is driving her daughter to distraction (and increasingly shocking behavior). Here again — or perhaps more than ever — the lack of actressy vanity is stunning, and she rises to the demands of the role with harrowing intensity.
La Pianiste: With Isabelle Huppert and Benoît MagimelAt least this much of her character’s story was true to life: Girardot was suffering from Alzheimer’s, which would prove the cause of her death last month. With her usual candor, Girardot spoke about her condition and drew on the enormous reserves of affection in which she was (and is) held by the French public in order to call attention to the disease. Among the many news stories on Girardot’s death were follow-up features that explained Alzheimer’s, reported on treatment and care, and interviewed patients and their families, who are not unlike my in-laws.
When mourners said of Girardot on Friday that she was “a model,” they didn’t mean she was a fashion model — but a role model. And most of those who spoke of her were women, too.
Ultimately, maybe what it means to be a French Everywoman is this: to be truly extraordinary.
1 comment:
DEAR MR MADISON, IT´S ME, AMADO FROM VERACRUZ, MEXICO. HAPPENS THAT I LOVED THIS BEATIFUL WOMAN AND ACTRESS SINCE "ROCCO", AND I DIDN´T KNOW SHE HAS DIED. IT IS A PITY SHE SUFFERED FROM ALZHEIMER, BECAUSE SHE WAS NOT ONLY BEAUTIFUL AND TALENTED BUT ALSO A GENTEEL HUMAN BEEN. ONE OF HER VERY BEST IS A FILM NAMED "TO EACH HIS OWN HELL". AGAIN, AS WHIT YOUR "FOLLIES" REVIEW, THANK YOU FOR SHARING THIS (DEEPLY SAD) NEWS. TILL NEXT TIME!
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