Un homme et une femme se rencontrent par accident un
dimanche soir. Lentement, ils se révèlent à un autre, trouvant que chacun est
veuf. Chacun est lent à révéler quelque chose de personnel de sorte que chaque
révélation est cachée par une perception erronée. Ils deviennent des amis, puis
des amis proches, mais alors la femme révèle qu'elle ne peut pas avoir un amant
parce que, pour elle, la mémoire de son mari est encore trop forte. Une grande
partie du film est dit sans en action, ou en entendant leurs pensées comme ils
vont sur leur journée.
With over 3000 hits this week from la belle France, I
have hacked out a blurb about one of my favorite films, A Man and A Woman, a
romantic 1966 epic about cars and girls, all to the tune of one of film's most
iconic soundtracks. I don’t know how accurate my French is – it has been a long
time – but I thought I'd give it a shot. En anglais plein: A man and a woman
meet by accident on a Sunday evening. Slowly they reveal themselves to one
other, finding that each is a widower. Each is slow to reveal anything personal
so that each revelation is hidden by a misperception. They become friends, then
close friends, but then the woman reveals that she can't have a lover because,
for her, her husband's memory is still too strong. Much of the film is told
wordlessly in action, or through hearing their thoughts as they go about their
day.
So, the music. One of the single most iconic hit instrumentals,
the theme to A Man and a Woman is frankly unforgettable,
for better or for worse. One either hates it or loves it. I am of the latter
group, finding Francis Lai's tune able to conjure up the essence of France: jazz,
sensuality, pastoral country sides, the City of Lights and cool cars. While a
film noir masterpiece, if you don't like the song, you won't like the film.
Interestingly, there are no less than three Billboard top
ten French "instrumentals" (all three have lyrics) from the 1960s: "A Man and a Woman," Paul Mauriat's "Love
is Blue," a smash No. 1 hit, and Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin's "Je t'aime…
moi non plus." In 1967, during his torrid but brief affair with Brigitte Bardot,
Serge Gainsbourg wrote a song for the two of them to sing together, it's title
translating nonsensically to "I Love You... Neither Do I". Confusing
and ambiguous, it may simply have been an acknowledgement that their love
couldn't last, but in any event,
Bardot asked that he not release it. In 1968, the 40-year-old Gainsbourg met
22-year-old English actress and model Jane Birkin on the set of the film Slogan. On their
first night alone together, he took her on a tour of Paris clubs, including a
transvestite bar, and fell asleep drunk. It was a typical night for Gainsbourg. The couple recorded the song late in the year
and released it to great controversy in early '69. It was denounced by the
Vatican and initially banned in the U.S. for its orgasmic moans and groans. (Gainsbourg
called the Pope "our greatest PR man.") Let's
see, a synopsis: Jane: I love you, I love you. Serge: Me neither. Jane: Oh my love. Serge:
Like a vacillating wave, I go, I come and I go, Inside of you, and I hold
myself back. Jane: I love you, I love you. Serge: Me neither. You get the
point. Then of course comes Jane’s heavy breathing, and the lyrics, "No! Come!
Now!" amidst more heavy breathing. What's more rock 'n' roll than that?
The song was a commercial success – reaching number 1 on
the U.K., Swiss, Norwegian, and Austrian charts and breaking the top 10 in many
other European countries. By the end of the decade, the song had sold 4 million copies.
There is so much to celebrate about France: Impressionism, Satie, Les Miserables, Madame Curie, Voltaire, Lumiere, The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, on and on, all overshadowing the Republic's contribution to popular music, but for three brief shining moments in the 60s, France dominated the airwaves.
