WE SEE, HEAR, READ AND PLAY THINGS. IT'S OUR DUTY TO LET YOU KNOW WHAT WE'VE ENJOYED. SO HERE'S A NON-EXHAUSTIVE LIST OF WHAT INTOXICATED US.
THIS PAGE IS AND WILL REMAIN A JUKEBOX OF IMAGES AND SOUND. EVEN IF THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE, IT WILL FULFILL THIS MISSION.
Here we are again. The literary season. The annual orgy of glossy paper, dull-colored covers, and frozen smiles in the culture pages. Five hundred novels falling like poorly composted dead leaves, five hundred attempts to make us believe that the world trembles at every comma Nothomb writes or that Emmanuel Carrère has discovered a new angle on his own psyche. Spoiler alert: no. We take the same old faces, shake them up a bit, and voilà, the same ecstatic expressions are back on TV. And me, in all this? Nothing. No Patricia 2. No triumphant return of the heroine in vengeful high heels. I warned you: I would be back, stronger, more caustic, more determined to nuke the literature shelves. But clearly, the publishing world prefers to continue revolving around its magic square of headliners, like dehydrated groupies at a festival. The worst part? This media comfort zone that recycles itself over and over again. A lukewarm soup that is served up year after year, with promises that it's caviar. When frankly, it smells more like reheated cafeteria food than an intellectual feast. Cultural journalism, by constantly stroking the same authors in the direction of the grain, has turned into a grooming salon. Yes, it's soft, it's reassuring. But it doesn't scratch where it should: in the cortex. What we need is something new. Something radical. Text that tears at your guts, not lulls you to sleep between two RER stations. Let's stop treating readers like royal poodles. Let's dare to embrace literature that goes off the rails, that smashes itself to pieces, that invents new territories. Let's also dare to bring out voices that haven't been through the Gallimard cocktail parties. Because, honestly, by dint of rehashing the past, prose is starting to sound more and more like a record from a flea market. So yes, I'm also mocking myself. Because I complain, I stamp my feet, but I'm still here, reviewing the new literary season as if it mattered in the slightest. As if Patricia 2 were really going to jump out at me from a pile of books at Gibert. Come on, admit it, you'd buy it. Just to see if she's happy this time. In the meantime, we continue to suffocate under the reassuring drivel of the same old names. But luckily, I, Patricia Blanchet, have something to breathe: it's called kicking the table.
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No girl with any sense will have missed it. The Nintendo Switch 2 has just hit the shelves and it's crazy. The little console from Kyoto has already sold more than three and a half million units, and that's just the beginning of the craze. So what's the Switch 2 like overall? Well, the screen is bigger, as are the Joy-Con controllers. The console feels more solid, less like a toy. Its LCD screen is brighter than on the original LCD version. The built-in electronic components are more powerful, so the games have better definition, with more frames per second, resulting in greater fluidity and a more enjoyable experience for our eyes. This little console has everything going for it. Except its price. Its price and its battery. Its battery lasts two hours at most. For a portable console, you have to admit that's a bit of a letdown. So, we're left with a mixed review. However, none of this has dampened my desire to own one. Because yes, I'm a sucker. Yes, I'm one of those feathered creatures who weakens when a new Japanese console hits the shelves. It's my kryptonite. Judge me, hang me. Do as you please, but never turn away from what amuses me and could potentially do the same for you. Because who has never been charmed by Peach, Mario, Luigi, or even Bowser? No one, of course, because these characters are as successful and endearing as my role models. Although the situation seems to be changing since it started courting third-party publishers, Nintendo is the video game creator that puts rainbows in your everyday life. Here, there is no question of war, or if there is, it's with weapons that shoot bursts of paint, but rather of discovering wonderful lands filled with goblins and dragons lighting up the night sky. Nintendo's proposal is to draw you into a wonderful, sometimes magical world, with the aim of allowing you to escape, just a little, from your reality. Once you turn it off after a game, you'll feel like you've wasted your time and your dignity. But you'll have had the time of your life. And who else but Patricia Blanchet could give you that?
I don't want to take up too much of your time, but I'd just like to touch on Cannes, because as I write this post, this editorial, this polemic, we are two days away from the awarding of the Palme d'Or. I want to take stock of all this senseless noise before the final apotheosis. And I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed myself, attending seven screenings a day and just as many expensive cocktail parties out of a sense of protocol. But I'm also exhausted because between screenings, I was fueling myself with Margaritas and Negronis. Delicious cocktails that are like a declaration of mental and physical independence. To be honest, it's difficult for me to rate this edition. Because it seems to me that it resembles the 2024 edition, which itself resembled the 2023 edition. A carbon copy of a carbon copy. Like the new iPhones that come out every year, the Cannes Film Festival would benefit from being held only once every five years. This would allow for a bit of regeneration in the dreary list of directors who are constantly invited. Some could retrain as plumbers or chocolate makers. New ones could appear, fresher. With a new vision. A new approach to cinema. A new grammar that would shake us out of our torpor. Cinema is no longer evolving. Or if it is, it is in the direction dictated by the platforms, which now seem to be driving creativity. When a festival like Cannes takes place, it should be to open our eyes first, then our senses. And here we must admit that apart from a parade of haute couture dresses, or Desigual-style nonsense, there wasn't much to get excited about at the 2025 edition. No, nothing. Just people pleased with themselves. Happy to get a shot of themselves and be celebrated by a crowd of photographers and journalists eager to lick something other than the asphalt of the Croisette. Let's say that this chaos has the merit of covering up, just a little bit, the global chaos. But by trying too hard to hide the emptiness under the spotlights, we end up seeing what we wanted to avoid in the first place: boredom. Chic boredom, made up, sponsored by Swiss watchmakers and brands of sad sparkling champagne. Worldly boredom, which smells of leather press bags and Clarins sunscreen. I just hope that this Palme d'Or will be deserved, that it will reward a real leap into the unknown. Just in time before AI takes over for good. Kisses from Bratislava.
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It had been months since I had looked at this side of the blog. Too busy working and developing models for you that could have been featured in Joseph L. Mankiewicz films. And I must say that lately, I haven't had much to look at. Or at least, not much worth sharing.
Seeing that the series Adolescence was getting a lot of positive reviews, I wanted to see what it was all about. To get an idea. But as soon as the credits roll and I see Brad Pitt's name appear as executive producer, I smell a scam. What is the faded heartthrob doing in a British series? He has every right to be there, of course. But it smacks of a weird montage, a con.
I had no idea what the miniseries would be like. But it seemed to me that the single-shot per episode format might be a feat, but to me, it's just showing off. It stifles the narrative by confining it to a Lilliputian smallness.
In short, I'm not going to say any more about this series, which has been hyped up by a press that is too used to swallowing chocolate bars with poop in them.
No, what I'm going to tell you, in all solemnity, is to go for long walks. Wherever you want. As long as it keeps you away from the sewage that Netflix offers. Not only is their subscription getting more and more expensive, but on top of that, their productions are getting less and less interesting. You have to admit that we've seen better, equation-wise. Netflix is the defeat of thought and imagination. So take your dog, your girlfriend or boyfriend, and go clear your mind at a museum, in front of a movie at the Cinémathèque, or on a terrace.
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Stop everything with your bullshit series. Stop binging Netflix, Amazon Prime and especially Disney, which only produces content as if it were bolts. It's simply unwatchable, and leaves holes in your head bigger than those left by daily consumption of ganja. Stop watching! No matter how well they're done, series always have a similar structure: basically, all the writers have to do is change the characters, the places and the time to give you the impression of discovering a new show. But in reality, you're being served the same crap over and over again. In the end, nothing has changed since Dallas.
And you can thank me for opening your eyes to the time stolen from you by the American entertainment industry. Now that you're free as a bird, you can dedicate yourself to buying my shoes to perfect your life. But you can also treat yourself to a console - the choice is yours - and a great game that will make you a new person. The game is called Kingdom Come: Deliverance II, and it's all about the Middle Ages. It's made by a Polish studio, and it's well worth the detour: an ambitious production, a meticulous sense of detail and a very successful soundscape. Quite simply, it's like being in The Name of the Rose and sometimes Sacred Grail.
This game costs around sixty euros and will provide you with a hundred hours of total amusement. A hundred hours that will also be taken away from you, of course, but at least you'll be involved, active, on a quest to solve a problem or save a dying person. Once you've finished, you won't be any smarter, and you'll even feel like you've wasted your time, but at least you'll have done something other than watch a poor series with a stale plot and redundant characters.
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Yesterday, I signed an armistice with JR. Not Larry Hagman. No, JR, the man who, with his cans of glue and his brushes, posts his huge portraits on trains, in favelas, on the facades of opera houses or crosswalks. I've seen his film Tehachapi - at least, that's what he calls it. But to tell the truth, apart from its duration of an hour and a half, which could give it this status, it's more of a documentary, or even a document. It's a document about his desire to infiltrate a Californian maximum-security prison to offer a photographic project on a scale for which he has the formula. He will photograph around a hundred of them and then paste their faces in the courtyard, so that the work, visible from the air, can also be consulted via an application. By logging on and clicking on the faces of the prisoners present, you can access a brief history of their lives. The whole operation has an unexpected effect: it welds the participants together, offering them grounds for hope and proof that reintegration is possible, whereas just a few months earlier they were locked up in cages in the middle of the courtyard as a form of solitary confinement. There's no denying the film's weaknesses and stumbling blocks, as it's clearly not up to the challenge. Nonetheless, it's an excellent document that captures a terrible reality: that 20% of the world's inmates are incarcerated in the United States. A must-see.
Les salles MK2 m'ennuient. Elles semblent avoir été conçues par des architectes spécialisés en SM. N'empêche, les Karmitz se débrouillent toujours pour offrir une sélection intéressante de films dans leurs cinémas. La balance penche donc en leur faveur.
Samedi dernier, je me suis rendue à Beaubourg pour découvrir le nouveau film de Ruffin et Gilles Perret. Ça s'appelle Au Boulot , et si j'en parle, c'est que vous devriez, vous aussi, aller le voir. Il s'agit d'un documentaire conceptuel où Ruffin invite Sarah Saldmann, la Cruella des plateaux télé, à déambuler en France pour voir si le pays est, comme elle le prétend, pétri d'assistés. Elle relève le défi et part donc avec Ruffin rencontrer des travailleurs précaires qui joignent les deux bouts comme ils peuvent, cassés par la vie, brisés par le labeur et les décisions, entraînés dans un cercle vicieux qui les a essorés.
Mais le film ne se limite pas à cela. Il met aussi en lumière des personnes au cœur épais comme un portefeuille de milliardaire, qui se débattent avec la fatalité. Au Boulot n'est pas exempt de défauts : il lutte contre ses propres limites et ses empêchements. Pourtant, il parvient à offrir des séquences d'une intensité rare, parfois déchirantes, où la jeune juriste laisse entrevoir un début d'âme, et surtout où la France d'en bas prouve qu'elle aurait toute sa place sur la première marche du podium.
Au Boulot est un documentaire lumineux, qui devrait être diffusé dans tous les collèges et dans chaque vitrine des boutiques appartenant à notre cher et tendre Bernard Arnault.
Do we like or dislike The Substance at Patricia's? I went to survey the offices and open spaces of our company, which now covers no less than 5 hectares. There, in our Mimigrolles Valley, where pages and pages of daily legends are written, I equipped myself with my tape recorder and went to interview each and every one of my colleagues. It turned out that 9 out of 10 people hadn't seen it. And that the remaining tenth loved it. Why on earth don't people go to the cinema anymore? Because well-written, quality popular cinema has been flying under the radar for 40 years. Because the health crisis has permanently installed streaming platforms, and viewers in their Conforama sofas. Not only that, ticket prices have risen outrageously. A heresy. Even if you're pushing yourself to attend a 9 a.m. projo, you now have to pay €10 (I'm talking about the major networks). It used to cost 6. I'm only talking about Paris rates, since that's where I live. I imagine that elsewhere the increase is just as insensitive to our pockets. Well, in the end, because that's what we're interested in, The Substance was overwhelmingly adored by our office. First of all, I must confess to being a total admirer of Coralie Fargeat's career and of her film. I'm not going to review it, because I'm not Claudette Chabrol or Françoise Truffaut. But I think it's clever and to the point, and its singularity is a pleasure to discover. But what went through the minds of the Cannes jury to award the Prix du Scénario to this film? The mystery remains. And that's for the best.
Listening to the winner of the Palme d'Or last May, I thought it was rather nice that Sean Baker should receive it. Although, in a purely romantic gesture, it would have been wonderful if Coppola had picked up a third to encourage his perpetual quest and perhaps also his lack of lucidity. A third would have put him ahead of the Dardennes, Östlund and August. And he deserved it. At least until Apocalypse. After that, it's another story, that of wine and Sofia, then her nephew. But back to Sean and this Palme. A Palme that I feel is well-deserved, for his career as a whole and from his point of view as an artist, but too late, as Anora is probably his least embodied, least personal film. In this feature film, we sail between James Gray, the Coen brothers (I used the singular on purpose) and Kiarostami. Mikey Madison is breathtaking, and Baker's acting prowess continues, but the Palme should have gone elsewhere. Probably to me. Or for The Substance. Which shows nothing but audacity, and that's already very good. In awarding the Palme to Sean Baker, Greta Gerwig seems to have returned the favor, offering it to congratulate him on his previous work. Anora is a masterful, coherent film, but it merely repeats what we've already seen in Red Rocket, Florida Project and Tangerine. Only less visceral. Less forceful. But still with a lot of love.
Anora didn't deserve the supreme award, and neither did Emilia Perez, because nobody deserves an award more than someone else. Works of art should not clash, but accompany, complement or reflect each other.
Il m'aura fallu attendre 18 ans, de fumer de la weed ultra fuerte, et de voyager à l'université de Riverside, là où aucun Prix Nobel n'a posé le pied pour faire l'une des rencontres les plus décisives de ma vie: celle avec le White Album des Beatles. Avant de l'écouter, c'était un concept abscons pour moi. Mais alors que j'étais dans ma chambre de dortoir, vint me voir ma copine de l'époque. Une américaine pure souche, boursière, dont les parents faisaient partie du 1/4 monde local. Elle débarqua avec le double album des Beatles. Je n'y connaissais quasiment aucune chanson. Peut-être Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da que j'avais entendue quelques années plus tôt Villa d'Alésia. Peut-être aussi While My Guitar Gently Weeps. Et c'était bien tout. Le reste m'était totalement inconnu. Mes parents n'avaient jamais cru nécessaire de me biberonner à ce chef d'œuvre écrit en pleine crise de pré-séparation des Beatles. Préférant me calfeutrer sous des piles de Genesis et autres Phil Collinsades . Nan surtout, ce qui me fascina au cours de cette écoute, c'est le morceau Helter-Skelter. J'étais à mille lieues de penser que ces bonhommes avec leurs dégaines standardisées aux diktats de leurs époques auraient pu être capables d'un tel déferlement d'énergie. Avant cela il y a bien eu quelques essais du côté des Kinks, des Yardbirds mais rien n'avait l'intensité de la basse de Paul, ni la rage de sa voix qui montait haut dans le dôme du tonnerre. En clair j'étais abasourdie par la beauté créative des petits coiffeurs du nord. Et c'est avec la plus grande humilité que je vous avoue ma totale absence de culture musicale d'alors. Parce qu'il est important de rappeler que les Beatles ont été, probablement, l'un des premiers produits de propagande de masses. Et que cela ne m'empêche nullement de les adorer.
It's been a long time since I've been to the cinema. With the start of the new school year and all that... if I went to see Emilia Perez, who deserves a Panda d'Or for her singularity. I don't know if this award exists, but it should be created and its festival organized in Boulogne-sur-Mer. Apart from Audiard's new opus, I wanted to give a chance to a film made by brothers. I love siblings, and they've often given birth to great films. I'm thinking of the Tavianis, the Coens, the Wachowskis. In France, there's the Larrieu family. Guys for whom I felt a deep sympathy. Guys I'd drink beers and smoke Lucky Strikes with. They've released their new film. A melodrama. I love melos. So, naive as I am, I went to see what it was all about. It's been a long time since I've seen a feature film so devoid of talent. Nothing to salvage. I won't dwell on the fact that the Larrieus are no James L. Brooks. Not even two of them. Why waste time writing this? I don't know, it's Monday and I wanted to convey this impression of an intellectual rip-off that doesn't amount to much except, for them, to go and have a good time in the regions to shoot something that's pretty much a dud. Only Girardeau gets away with it, as she often does? Well done to her. As for me, I'm going to do some breathing and wash myself with a horsehair glove. Love and kisses to you all, you cute little lemurs.
At first glance, and the way it was marketed, Sean Baker's work didn't appeal: new sensation in US cinema - indie prodigy... but after winning the Palme d'Or, I had to revise my copy. That never hurts. So I went backwards. First Red Rocket. It was so great that I wanted to go back in time. The Florida Project impresses with its acting. Especially with kids this age. All this to arrive at this 2015 film, also fascinating, shot with amateur actors found on the networks. Above all, even if you quickly realise that it wasn't shot on 70mm film, this feature-length film was shot entirely on an iPhone. Not a Pro or a Max, but a 5. There's a certain frenzy on the screen at the start. The soundtrack is a bit cheesy, but as the film progresses, the story unfolds, right up to the bar sequence with its red velvet curtain, which takes you into a whole new world. It's brilliant and well worth seeing.
It's always tempting to watch a Bruno Dumont film, like going on a mega bender with Malibu-ananas/Get 27, topped up with black-market smokes. Even though Dumont has been a copy of himself for a few films now - since around Twentynine Palms (France may be an exception) - I'm still sensitive to singularity. As long as it makes sense and serves the cinema. A cinema that never comes to fruition here. Dumont serves us a cold soup with bread as stale as a brick. Yet the film does have one virtue: it guides us along a path devoid of signposts. These propositions are essential in the face of the inescapable rise of serial narrative, but we shouldn't try to do it at all costs. For the form here is rather atrocious and abject. All that emanates from it is a profound sense of unease, with the question that never leaves us throughout the film: why the hell? Why indulge in this easy ugliness? Why didn't they make drafts instead of putting us through the ordeal? So the film divides, and better that than a cowardly consensus. But decency has a limit. And Dumont should learn from it.
Am I in a bad mood? It may be.
Hier soir je suis allé voir Abyss. La cinémathèque propose une rétrospective de ses oeuvres. 11 au total dont un documentaire et un nanar monumental - mais qui jadis me plaisait allègrement - en guise de galop d'essai. Malgré cela, il se retrousse les manches et nos babines avec, 3 ans plus tard, un chef d'œuvre basé sur le voyage dans le temps et la guerre que nous mèneront les robots par le biais d'une intelligence artificielle devenue follasse. Grand Prix d'Avoriaz - à une époque où ils savaient remettre des récompenses dignement - Terminator possède cette image âcre, cette ambiance suffoquante qui en font un cauchemar éveillé. Je me suis déplacé 4 fois pour aller le voir en salles. Là c'était pour contextualiser mais en vrai je devais parler d'Abyss, et pour vous dire que tout ce qui parle d'armée m'emmerde profondément. Voilà ce sera tout. Malgré une copie vidéo de bonne tenue et des conditions de projection merveilleuses comme toujours en Langlois, autant vous dire que cette nouvelle vision a confirmé ce que je pensais du long-métrage. Pas grand chose. Suis-je de mauvaise humeur ? C'est fort probable.
Et moi avec certes. Mais plus encore hier soir. Et de nouveau à la Philharmonie. Parce qu'il s'agit probablement d'un des meilleurs lieux pour écouter de la musique dans le monde désormais. Pour l'écouter mais surtout la vivre et c'est exactement l'expérience qu'ont proposé Anohni and the Johnsons le 26 juin dans le Parc de la Villette. Après une intro très lynchéenne et un poil trop longue, débarque la diva colosse qui a embarqué la salle entière pour plus de deux heures d'un rollercoaster émotionnel flamboyant et percutant. Et si parfois certains titres paraissaient moins puissants, ils étaient ensuite rattrapés par la manche de l'émotion et une grande série de percussions. Un chef d'oeuvre de concert qui rappelle que s'est en se livrant qu'on se délivre.
The French touch is first and foremost me, since it no longer exists in the music world. But before that, there was a strong current in which a few electronic salmon swam, including AIR, whom I managed to see, against all odds, on Monday evening. I'd snubbed them when they played at the Olympia on March 7, preferring the exhausting punk-rock band Idles. But at the Philharmonie, no concert is too good to pass up. Especially not the one celebrating the centenary of Moon Safari. Thanks to a friend I can't name, but who works at Radio France and has slept with the most influential guys in Paris, I was able to get my seat. And what a seat it was. In the first balcony, right between Jack Lang and Bernard Lavilliers. That says a lot about the expectations of such an event. After an interminable 45-minute opening set, performed by a single woman, they arrived in their glittering shoebox to launch La Femme d'Argent. It was a pleasure to hear live this record that rocked my '98 so many times. But it wasn't until the second half of the album that a bit of a thrill finally appeared, and the idea that this first album was also their best, with a style imbued with strong serenity but also melancholy. Some of the tracks could have been featured in an episode of Chapi Chapo. The stage set-up was insane, even if at times the lighting effects were reminiscent of something you might find in the windows of a Vuitton boutique. They succeeded, despite the total lack of communion with the audience, in making the people present happy. It was all very well.
OF COURSE, THERE'S RICHARD DONNER, JAMES L BROOKS AND SIDNEY LUMET TO NAME BUT NONE OF THEM CAN MATCH WOODY'S TALENT. WOODY IS ALMOST 20 YEARS AT THE VERY TOP LEVEL AND ANOTHER 30 YEARS OF HACKNEYED WORK, DESPITE A CONSTANT DESIRE FOR REINVENTION. EVEN IF THE LAST FEW YEARS HAVE BEEN A BIT LEADEN. BUT BEFORE THAT, THERE WERE SO MANY FLIGHTS OF FANCY THAT IT WOULD BE DISHONEST NOT TO GIVE WOODY THE STATUS OF AN INSPIRED MAN. AND THE NEAR CLIMAX OF THIS WHOLE SALVO OF ANNUAL FILMS, EACH AS BRILLIANT AS THE NEXT IN BOTH CONTENT AND FORM, IS HANNAH AND HER SISTERS. BECAUSE IT'S AS TENDER AS MY BOTTOM, AND BRILLIANTLY DIALOGUED. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT WOODY IS ALL ABOUT, A PEN THAT IMPETUOUSLY SKETCHES CHARACTERS WITH ELITE MASTERY. HANNAH AND HER SISTERS IS THE FILM THAT ANY SCREENWRITER WOULD DREAM OF WRITING IF HE DIDN'T HAVE WHITE SAUCE FOR BRAINS.
ONE EVENING, STRETCHED OUT ON MY NEW BED, I ZONED IN FRONT OF MY TELEVISION IN SEARCH OF A PROGRAM THAT WOULD ALLOW ME TO FALL ASLEEP SERENELY. I STUMBLED ACROSS A PARIS PREMIÈRE CINÉ-CLUB EVENING, BACK IN THE DAYS WHEN THIS CHANNEL HAD A PROGRAM DIRECTOR WITH A BRAIN. THE FOLLOWING FILM IS FAR FROM BEING A RARITY, AN UNKNOWN OR AN INVISIBLE. I DON'T PRETEND TO TEACH YOU ANYTHING, AS I CONSIDER YOU ALL TO HAVE, AT THE VERY LEAST, A BACCALAUREATE+12, AS WELL AS A QE WORTHY OF DICKENS. BUT IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT YET, THEN STOP WHATEVER YOU'RE DOING AND DISCOVER BEING THERE. BEING THERE IS QUITE SIMPLY PETER SELLERS' BEST FILM AND THAT OF HIS DIRECTOR HAL ASHBY. YET SELLERS SHOT WITH BLAKE EDWARDS AND LIT UP OUR CHILDHOOD. HE PLAYED WITH KUBRICK (NOT STANLEY'S BEST IDEA, BY THE WAY), BUT NOTHING COMES CLOSE TO THE PERFECTION OF THIS STORY, WHICH FOLLOWS ITS IDEA TO THE END. AND IT'S SO RARE TO FIND WORKS THAT TAKE AN IDEA, MAKE IT BLOSSOM AND SEE IT THROUGH TO ITS LOGICAL CONCLUSION. BEING THERE IS ONE OF THE RARE FILMS TO DO JUST THAT, AND TO SUCCEED. THAT'S WHY YOU NEED TO SEE IT, OR SEE IT AGAIN.
ALL THOSE MICHRONICS AND STILL NO SIGN OF A LITTLE STONE. IT'S JUST THAT THERE'S SO MUCH TALENT SCATTERED AROUND THE WORLD, AND SO MANY PLACES RACKED UP BY AMERICAN RACKETEERS, THAT IT'S EASY TO FORGET YOUR FAVORITE CLASSICS. SPEAKING OF RACKETEERING, THE STONES, LIKE THEIR COUNTERPARTS IN LIVERPOOL, HAVE DRAWN HEAVILY ON THE BLUES TO DO THEIR SHOPPING AND PLUNDER THE AFRICAN-AMERICAN CULTURE ON WHICH THEY'VE MADE THEIR BERTOLUCCIAN BUTTER. REAL LITTLE BASTARDS, OF COURSE, BUT WITH A CERTAIN TALENT FOR SPOLIATION. HERE'S ONE OF THEIR BEST SONGS. A SUNNY LITTLE GEM TO BE INCLUDED IN EVERY NOT-TOO-DUMB PLAYLIST. THANK YOU :)
Il y a des comètes dans le monde de la musique qu'il est toujours honorable de rappeler à la mémoire des plus amnésiques. Et grâce à Brian de Palma et son joyau Carlito's Way, George McRae fait très régulièrement twerker mes oreilles. Non seulement c'est l'amour à la plage, mais aussi sur le strip de Vegas, dans ta baignoire, et sous une couette bien douillette. Ce morceau, c'est comme un baiser déposé du bout des lèvres qui se diffuse avec la lenteur de l'éclosion d'un coquelicot multico.
Clique sur l'image et laisse toi enivrer par la douceur de sa soul peinturlurée.
Jean Douchet a dit: " Donnez-moi un stylo et je vous ferai la critique de la terre entière". Jean Douchet ne fut jamais mon professeur et je ne sais pas vraiment pourquoi je le cite ici. Peut-être en hommage à Topor qui me filait les glandes avec son Téléchat. En tout état de cause il faut reconnaître qu'aujourd'hui il faut se coltiner les héritiers de la Nouvelle Vague et de Pialat, sans cesse. Comme si le cinéma français n'arrivait pas à se remettre de ce fardeau qu'il s'est lui-même harnaché. Au milieu de tout ce fatras, de cette guerre de succession, a surnagé un auteur qui, une fois a passé le seuil de la porte de la boutique Patricia Blanchet. Avant d'être cinéaste, il fut, entre autres, cadreur à question pour un champion, époque Julien Lepers. Les golden years. Ce gars c'est Erick Zonca. Un cinéaste assez écossais dans son approche de la nervosité, autant que dans celle de la pilosité. J'ai découvert son premier long le jour de mon anniversaire. Autant vous. dire que cela vous forge une plume. Ensuite il fait Le Petit Voleur, sublime film tout en tension testostéronée. Et ensuite il y a décrochage. Il décide de mettre Tilda Swinton dans sa filmo et de partir aux US mais ça manque de chair et de prise alors ça se prend les pieds dans le tapis et ça se casse les dents. Pourtant il faut essayer dans la vie, aller au contact de ce qui semble moins évident et échouer. Car lorsqu'on échoue on a les boules. Et avoir les boules permet d'aller pleurnicher et faire sa victime. Ce qui ne nous arrive jamais chez Patricia Blanchet. Bordel à uk !
Who is the greatest pop musician of the 70s ? It's an uphill battle, as I'm always tempted to put Alice Cooper on the top step of unreason. But this post isn't about polishing his tassel. Nope. Today's number one battle is between two voices as powerful as a plate of spaghetti with merguez and an elderberry spritz. You'll have understood by now that I want to evoke the quiet strength of the musical genius of my spritzritual father, Barry White, distant cousin of the Blanchet clan. Barry, apart from his 3-4 endless hits that are played over and over again on Nostalgie and Europe 2, founded a band whose name says it all: The Love Unlimited Orchestra. Their catalog is a bit of a whirlwind, but it's bursting with a solar cyprine that I urge you to listen to, with a Sunrise Tequila in your hand or down your throat.
P.S.: the other voice was that of Bobby Womack. I'll be back in due course about this other genius of Vietnamese soul.
There is a moment in a human being's life when he or she discovers what is essential. An essential that will follow him throughout his existence. And existence needs to be paved with good intentions. Intentions that beat up the world and break the codes of the cultural routine imposed by Americans who are never tired of force-feeding us. I can definitely date those founding moments when the world seemed a little sad and conventional to me: the discovery of Hong Kon Fou Fou, LL Cool J, Peau Douce and also John Waters. Waters is the banal story of an outsider to the system who was swallowed up by success, because he wanted it, and who, after Hairspray, had to cut corners in order to get the money from a major label. So Waters was fine until 1981 and the arrival of socialism on the French scene. After that, it becomes professionalized, the dialogues and screenplay make sense, and it becomes boring. It becomes standardized and boring, even if there are still some brilliant moments in Serial Mother or Pecker, which I urge you to see again before the legislative elections.
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
What's so great about Lou Reed, apart from having the same initials as The Republicans? He had David Bowie as a buddy/prod, was worshipped by Brian Eno and a whole bunch of rock gods including me. He played in Brooklyn Boogie and Smoke, where he was the best segment of the diptych. He also had an immense talent for being a real jerk to journalists who asked him pointless questions. And as we all know, this class of interviewer is widely represented in the biz, where guys are paid to come up with the dumbest questions possible. Tons of magazines have been founded on this principle.
But back to Lou Reed, our nerve center for the day, our creative energy, our father to us all. I'm attaching this beautiful ride that makes you want to slide off a toboggan from the top of the Chrysler Building and fly down it over Central Park. Here's an example.
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
I'M LOYAL TO WHAT I LIKE. IN GENERAL. AND THAT INCLUDES PHIL COLLINS. BUT TODAY WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT LITTLE DRUNKEN SUCKER, BUT ABOUT THE CANADIAN GIPSY KINGS, MONTREAL'S BASILE BAND. YES, THEY WERE THE ONES WHO PUT ON A CRAZY SHOW ON STAGE WITH BOWIE ON WAKE UP. ARCADE FIRE IS THE STORY OF A BAND WITH A DESIRE TO PAINT SOUNDS AS LIGHT AS RUM BABA. DESPITE THIS 2.0 CHOIR FEEL AND THE CONSTANT NEED TO UNITE/REUNITE, I SOMETIMES GET CAUGHT UP IN THE UNDENIABLE TALENT OF THE COLLECTIVE'S SONGWRITER. WHEN I'M RUNNING, AND I OFTEN AM, THIS TRACK FALLS INTO MY EARS AND MAKES ME STRETCH MY LEGS. IT'S BEAUTIFUL, IT'S PLAYFUL, IT'S BRIGHT AND DESPERATE. LIKE ME.
WHILE THE PUBLIC, EXCITED BY A BRITISH PRESS MADE UP OF MORONS, WAS TRYING TO DECIDE WHO WAS THE GREATEST BRIT POP BAND OF THE 90S, BETWEEN OASIS AND BLUR - WHEN IT WAS MORRISSEY, A LITTLE TRIO AS NICE AS A LEFFE AFTER AN HOUR'S RUN WAS MAKING ITS MARK AT JACQUES BECKER. THIS TRIO FROM OXFORD IS SUPERGRASS. THEY WERE YOUNG, FRESH, MADE YOU WANT TO POGO NON-STOP, AND TOOK AN ENERGETIC, BOUNCY APPROACH TO ROCK. YET AFTER TWO PERFECT ALBUMS, THEY SEEMED TO HAVE USED UP ALL THEIR CREATIVE ENERGY. WHAT FOLLOWED WAS A SLOW SLIDE DOWNHILL, LITTERED WITH POINTLESS REPETITION. IT'S A SHAME, BECAUSE THEY HAD A UNIQUE AND INTELLIGENT ENERGY. FRONTMAN GAZ COOMBES PURSUED AN HONEST SOLO CAREER WITHOUT EVER RECAPTURING THE GRASSHOPPER SPARK. FUN FACT: AT THE TIME OF THEIR FIRST ALBUM, STEVEN SPIELBERG WANTED TO PRODUCE A SERIES ABOUT THE BAND. NEVER DONE.
Moi aussi j'aurais bien aimé avoir un frère pour qu'il me défende et me permette de pouvoir faire de la musique avec lui. Moi aussi j'aimerais avoir fait mes études à UCLA et que Leos Carax mette en scène ma comédie musicale( j'en ai écrite une sur le vie de Jean Tiberi). Moi aussi j'aurais adoré que Giorgio Moroder se penche sur ma production musicale pour lui donner un coup de pied au cul. Ca fait tellement de bien ce sang qui circule et remet les idées en place. Mais les gens ne connaissent plus la valeur des gestes qui sauvent.
En attendant, les frères Sparks c'est le Dom Perignon de la musique transatlantique. Ils me donnent envie de pétiller comme du popcorn et de danser sur les tables de mes souvenirs. Ecoutez ça et n'ayez plus jamais à sniffer le moindre rail ni à avaler la moindre lichette de colle Cleopatra.
Having given a clear and unequivocal answer to who is the best Beatles, I'm now going to tell you what the band's best song is. Obviously, it's on Abbey Road. The band's penultimate album and its best, almost on a par with the White Album, Abbey Road was released on September 26, my birthday. The album is packed with so many masterpieces that it's hard to pick out one without burning your conscience for not having chosen another. But since I'm the epitome of temerity, it's time for deliberation. My favorite Beatles song is I Want You. Don't ask me why. I'm no Lester Bangs, and thankfully so. Just know that it makes me sweaty and damp. This choice has value only on this day. The rest of the time I prefer songs sung by Ringo Starr, because I'm an absolute fan of his naivety and cheerfulness.
Who's above God if not his upstairs neighbor Larry David ?
Larry's first job was on Saturday Night Live, where he wrote, but mostly vegetated, as few of his sketches were bought by the show. Then he co-created and wrote seven seasons of Seinfeld. It's the kind of adventure that forges a writer, profoundly altering the sitcom genre and taking it to the heights of excellence. But that wasn't enough to satisfy his ambition to exist and show off his talent. So he created Curb Your Enthusiasm, a vehicle for the glory of bad faith. There are twelve seasons of this UFO. Each character reminds us that we live surrounded by cowardly, selfish human beings, but that if we look at them with the necessary tenderness, they turn into pathetic, selfish cowards. A great humanist lesson, then, which has just come to a close, and which is already plunging me into a gaping nostalgia that only MD will be able to fill.
Just so you know, if you click on the image opposite this text, you'll be listening to one of the best French songs written since Manset's Revivre.
But what on earth is Arnaud Fleuret Didier up to, not releasing anything for years now? What right does he have to deprive us of his sensibility? Who does the Truffaut of Parc Monceau pop think he is? It's rare to find melancholy so sharp, so well supported by a harmonic ensemble so precisely aligned. Has Arnaud already said it all, only to say nothing more? His silence is long, but we'll know how to wait as we listen to this stomach-churning song over and over again.
A BIT OF CINEMA HAD TO POP UP ON THIS PAGE AT SOME POINT. AND NO, I HAVEN'T SET MYSELF THE MISSION OF BEING THE NEO LA TIMES, JUST TO INFORM YOU WITH DIGNITY AND MAKE YOU WANT TO GET YOUR ASSES INTO THEATERS AT 17 BUCKS A SEAT IF YOU DON'T HAVE CARDS OR FRAUDULENT DISCOUNTS.
MEMORY SO. ON THE ONE HAND, THE ONE WE WISH WE'D NEVER HAD, BECAUSE IT REHASHES THE UNSPEAKABLE, AND ON THE OTHER, THE ONE THAT'S FALLING APART AND THAT WE'D LIKE TO HOLD ON TO, LEST WE BECOME NOTHING MORE THAN AN EMPTY BODY. THE FILM IS HARD, BEGINS IN WINTER AND ENDS IN THE PROMISE OF SPRING. A STORY OF HOPE.
AT FIRST RETICENT ABOUT THIS LUSH, MESSY POP, I'VE LEARNED TO TUNE MY EARS TO THE MELANCHOLY VIBES OF THIS FRATERNAL DUO, BARELY 20 YEARS OLD. A CRAZY MATURITY FOR KIDS WHO STARTED THEIR CAREER BY TAKING PART IN DISNEY SHOWS. THIS TRACK IS A PANTAGRUELIC DEMONSTRATION OF THEIR EXTRAORDINARY TALENT, WHICH, HOWEVER, SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN DILUTED BY THE REST OF THEIR DISCOGRAPHY, WHICH IS NOW FAR LESS EXCITING, DESPITE SOME PEAKS OF GREAT QUALITY. THE WHOLE ALBUM IS INSANE AND DESERVES TO BE IN THE SKY INSTEAD OF PLUTO.
Who's the best Beatle? Does this nagging question wake you up every morning at 3 a.m.? It's hard to come up with a definitive answer to this thorny debate, which I've been indulging in ever since discovering the White Album given to me by a friend who gave me my cherry for good. Between the workaholic, the talent without forcing, the impeded, and the nothing to shake, it's hard to decide. As far as I'm concerned, it has to do with periods. McCartney currently holds the rope, despite his visceral need to be better loved, better considered, and to make a big deal of it so that the world finally understands that the Beatles are him, the real powerful rock voice is him, the genius bass and the ideas for arrangements are still him. But the James Dean of the band, the Bruce Lee of the quartet, is John. John and this slightly provocative track pulverizes all of Macca's disco. Listen and you'll discover the best pop sax, tied with Careless Whisper.
Somewhere between Air, Pink Floyd, Charlie Oleg and my desire to roll shovels like a Texas drill, here comes the Time of M83 and its rhythmic plastic hit, Wait. I don't normally talk about people from Antibes or the Alpes Maritimes, where I spent a few idle months at a time when Canal Jimmy, Bottom, Dream On and Seinfeld were the only things that mattered. So M83 is the French success story of a duo turned solo act who went to California to make music for a Tom Cruise film. I'm certainly fed up with US soft power, but better than that of fuel-supplying countries. In the meantime, lie down on the person of your choice (except the one suffering from borborygms) and listen to this thick little masterpiece.
There are many Morrissey songs that deserve to be featured here. It was time to choose. So, to prove Jonah Hill right, who used it in 90's, here's this melancholy track that makes you want to rock in a hammock over the Grand Caynon.
Belle and Sebastian sont enfin passés à Paris après l'annulation de l'année passée au Casino de Paris. Malheureusement à Pleyel, endroit désincarné au possible. En sortant je faisais ce constant constat, seuls leurs titres passés avaient fait bouger la foule. Rien à foutre de leurs nouvelles compos - qui, par ailleurs, étaient plutôt inconsistantes. Alors à quoi bon sortir de nouveaux albums s'ils savent que le public s'en cogne ? Cela n'entraine-t-il un profond sentiment de déprime de ne plus être considéré pour ce qui émane d'eux à présent ? Je ne suis Stuart Murdoch bien entendu mais je me suis posé la question à les écouter enchaîner leur set-list qui en disait long sur l'état de leur pop actuelle. Bref, je vous laisse sur ce morceau qui en dit long sut mon état mental.
Belle and Sebastian finally came to Paris after last year's cancellation at the Casino de Paris. Unfortunately, it was at Pleyel, a disembodied venue. On my way out, I made the constant observation that only their past tracks had got the crowd moving. I couldn't give a damn about their new material - which, incidentally, was rather inconsistent. So what's the point of releasing new albums if they know that the public doesn't give a damn? Doesn't it make you feel deeply depressed that they're no longer considered for what they're about now? I'm no Stuart Murdoch, of course, but I wondered as I listened to their set-list, which spoke volumes about the state of their current pop. Anyway, I'll leave you with this track, which says a lot about my mental state.
Could I make an initial recommendation without mentioning George Harrison? The answer is in the question. If you click on the Fab Four image, a wonderful world of sound opens up. Something tender that will take you in its arms and snog you as if it were your first.
Are Mondays assholes ? Maybe they are. As the first working day of the week, it has to be said that the little bugger does nothing to endear himself to us. Fortunately, there are some essential pieces to help us swallow the pill. I invite you to click serenely on Tyler to add a little cuteness to your life.
This native of Campton, where I passed on my way to Disneyland, has written a slew of great songs. But if I have to single out one from his raclette-rich discography, it's this one. At once sweet as Mariah Carey and brutal as a Bud Spencer slap. This track is as monumental as the breed I'll be wearing tonight.
I love Frank Ocean because he speaks to me. Not symbolically, no. Sometimes in the evening, we FaceTime and he confides in me. It's like I'm his big sister,” he says. Of course, being a friend in the friendzone isn't always comfortable, but I respect his orientation as the CPE of good taste. Anyway, I love this track because it's brilliant and very much in line with Elton John and Bernie Taupin's Benny and the Jets.
