Orphée
(1950)
OK, I've been faithfully deaccessioning every Friday so far this year--until this week and next, this because this is the only night I have to watch a movie this weekend, and I thought it would be fun to watch this ahead of next week's pre-Carnaval Orfeu negro, next because I'm going to want to get a Netflix disc into the mail that Saturday so that I can get my next Big Love disc in time for my week's school-night viewing.But do I really have to explain myself to you? Geez, I do and I do and I do for you . . .
Anyway, had no idea this was the middle of a trilogy, and given the 30-year gap between Le sang d'un poète and this, I'm not sure I buy it. In fact, I didn't buy it, I recorded it . . . oh, never mind.
So it's a more mythic time than the Heroic Age, a time when people take poetry so seriously that it can inspire them to violence. Perhaps stranger, a time when the French are very close to having rock & roll even though we're just starting to figure it out here.
A beautiful, weird dream of death and art and infidelity and disobedience and sacrifice. It's Cocteau, it doesn't have to make sense. In fact, it probably shouldn't.
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