“Do you mind if I call you ‘Bubblehead?’”
I had a beautiful, mercurial paternal aunt who I can only describe as a true-blue Diva-with-a-capital-D. My mother’s side has its share of quirky, sometimes criminal characters, but no one ever came close to matching this particular Auntie and her supernova-like personality.
Naturally, she earned the whole Diva status with every drop of her dramatic blood. A big movie star in the Philippines back in the 1950′s and 1960′s, she had closely followed the script and married a gorgeous, mestizo heartthrob. By the time I came along in the early 1970′s, her star had faded somewhat but her name still carried considerable cachet, especially after her son with said heartthrob followed his parents into the business and became an action-film hero himself. At one point I think the entire family was in showbiz, although in all honesty a few of them really shouldn’t have even tried. (You know who you are.)
Anyway, my brothers and I had the dubious distinction of living with her and her enormous extended family for a spell when I was ten, and it was during that time that we felt the full force of her quicksilver temper, bountiful generosity and, I swear, eyebrows with the ability to kill simply by arching a certain way. Once, I made the mistake of telling her that I thought her young maid had stolen my necklace (a necklace that my mother had given me and which I thought I’d seen in the girl’s cabinet), and after I’d returned to the U.S. my brothers told me that our aunt had been so incensed that someone in her family (the “maid” was also an adopted daughter…I think…the family ties in that mysterious household remain a murky topic to this day) had dared to commit such a vulgar crime that she literally grabbed the poor thing by her hair and shaved her head on the spot. When I found out, I laughed and cried. Not out of happiness or pity, mind you, but of fear.
So yes, I have some experience dwelling in close proximity to the most temperamental, most demanding divas. They’re forces of nature, but you can’t dismiss them as mere flakes or spoiled bitches. They seem to be encased in such a hard shell of ice and fury and glamor, but you don’t have to poke around too much to find the little cracks just beneath the surface. Tragedy, heartbreak, disappointment, and triumph — all have popped in and out of their lives, adding thick, textured layers of hope and pain and love and hate that give them that armor of strength.
They’re maddening, they’re difficult to love, equally difficult to hate, inscrutable, and not someone you might relish introducing to your future spouse, but you can’t deny their allure and fierce charisma. Most importantly, though, you should never, ever underestimate them and their capacity to get what they want.
And on that happy note…
I wasn’t sure what to expect of Merci Docteur Rey
Dianne Wiest is Elisabeth Beaumont, an American opera singer newly arrived in Paris to spend time with her estranged son, Thomas (Stanislas Merhar), and to participate in a local performance of Puccini’s Turandot. Thomas lives a double life, so to speak. To his mother, he is a normal, hormonal twenty-three-year-old son with hair that’s too long and an attitud
e a little too sullen. Thomas, however, is secretly gay, and if the opening sequence involving his encounter with a Rollerblading Parisian sporting a bright yellow fanny pack and the dialogue of a poorly trained gigolo is any indication, he’s not yet entirely comfortable with his sexual identity.
In any case, within the first few minutes of the film, Thomas becomes unwittingly entangled in a horrific crime: he’s witnessed a murder, a romantic tryst gone wrong, and now he’s trying to figure out who the culprit is while at the same time fending off the dramatic overtures of his needy mom. In his quest to find the killer, he befriends a happy-go-lucky actress, Penelope (Jane Birkin), who herself is loopy enough to believe she has murdered her therapist simply by wishing it so. Together, they stumble as amateur sleuths and therapists through the rest of the film, each struggling with neuroses that threaten to overwhelm them, if not — in Birkin’s case — nauseate them.
Is it a comedy? A tragedy? A tragicomedy? Or that irritating new Hollywood idiom, a dramedy? Well, it’s a bit of everything, to be honest, sometimes more of one than the other. This is not film noir, although the murder scene at the beginning of the film is stylishly done, as only a French film can do it, and Beaumont is sufficiently creepy to make one wonder if she’s at all involved in any of these seemingly unrelated crimes. Her position as an opera singer — the makeup! the gowns! the turbans! — allow her to dress the part of the potential villain, complete with the jagged closeups and ominous music whenever she’s around. And the scene when the flics try to question her and it looks as if she’s trying to drug them? Priceless. But does it mean that she’s hiding something? Or just plain freaky?
When you’re a diva, it can be really hard to tell. But remember what I said earlier about divas? Never, ever underestimate them.
Thomas is unquestionably as strange as his mother. Uncertain as to how to respond to her smothering appeals for love and devotion, he’s equally repelled and fascinated by her. It’s no surprise that he’s drawn to Penelope, a woman who specializes in channeling the raw emotions of others into herself and expel them all through the singular instrument of her voice. She’s the opposite of Elisabeth, but also her mirror image, in persona if not in physical appearance. She’s the anti-Diva, without whom there would be, well, no Diva.
Thomas’ friendship with Penelope is close, if not physically intimate — she asks nothing of him but his presence and company, and they share an easy camaraderie based on their position as certified outcasts with really, really big secrets. It’s a good thing they have each other, too, because as they proceed cautiously to the surprising and head-scratching denouement, they meet some unusual, and sometimes sinister new friends and acquaintances. Separately they seem so fragile, but together they make a formidable pair. They navigate the dreamy landscape of a Paris that shelters lovers, enemies, friends, and fools, all within its shadows, not to mention the more dangerous landscape of human emotions and relationships, armed with the strength they seem uniquely suited to provide each other.
I have to admit, this is the first Jane Birkin film I’ve ever seen, and I think I can understand now a bit of her enduring appeal. She maintains the same breathless, girlish, lilting voice, a voice that can’t help but soothe the most jittery of nerves. She’s all lines and curves, a graceful question mark to Thomas’ own uncerta
in, angular frame. Her face isn’t conventionally beautiful, and indeed an American filmmaker likely wouldn’t think of putting someone who so obviously lives and revels in her age in such a prominent role, but I can’t imagine anyone else inhabiting the earthy, sunny body and soul of Penelope. I kept staring at her throughout the movie, endlessly fascinated that I was with the mass of hair that framed that famous face, the youthful glow of her skin, and the undeniable skip in her step.
To be sure, though, this is Wiest’s film, and all the trailers, marketing materials, and posters make sure you know that. Birkin herself would be well within her rights to live the life of a Diva — the marriage to composer John Barry, the affairs with Serge Gainsbourg and others, the three children with three different fathers — but here she happily plays the opposite, willingly surrendering the role to Wiest and her hilarious performance.
In the end, I came away wondering exactly what it was that I had just seen, and whether or not the finale — which seemed rushed in trying to achieve resolution, in contrast with the relatively leisurely pace of the rest of the film, the entire story of which takes place over four days — made any sense. As I write this, I’m still hashing it out in my head.
Of course, now that I think about it, I guess that’s the nature of divas as well. They thrive on drama and complexity and more often than not, leaving you wondering, What the hell? And if the experience with my aunt — who died a number of years ago — is any indication, I’ll probably be asking that question about this film to the end of my days.
In English and French.
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