Summer Hours - movie review

The Siblings in Summer Hours

We saw the movie ‘Summer Hours” last week. I have decided that I need to put up an outline of the story before I discuss it. Reading this synopsis doesn’t spoil the film because most of it becomes clear in the first fifteen or twenty minutes but it does give an idea what all the interactions are about and this film is a film about working through events – ‘a slice of life’ if you like
For her 75th birthday, Helene's (Edith Scob) sons, Frederic (Charles Berling) and Jeremie (Jeremie Renier), bring their wives Lisa (Dominique Reymond) and Angela (Valerie Bonneton) plus their respective children, and her daughter Adrienne (Juliette Binoche) flies in from America. The widowed Helene lives in the country house of famous artist the late Paul Berthier, whose works and collection of antiques has to be passed on appropriately after her death. Indeed, it's not long before the siblings have to face this reality, made complicated by their differing needs. Carving up the estate, especially the house, brings out their different lifestyles and wishes. Teenage granddaughter Sylvie (Alice de Lencquesaing) comes to understand the importance of her late grandmother and the role the house played in her life.
This is a very French film; at least I found it so. I have read that it has been described as a mature film by an accomplished director. I am happy to believe this and I am happy to believe that the characters all behave in a very French way. Their reactions to situations are reactions that I wouldn’t expect to find within a New Zealand or Australian family. This made the film more interesting but less satisfying as it was hard to identify with them. Looking at another culture is always interesting and of course the French are fascinating.
To show just how little we do understand the culture there were times when some the characters laughed out loud. Neither my friend (a good Australian) and I could see the joke. For example Frederic and Lisa were in the café of the Musee d’Orsay discussing their children having a party when they both burst into ‘rolling around the floor type’ of laughter.
If anyone knows what was so funny do tell me.
At the end of the film I felt I had had a very beautiful visual experience and on a chilly late autumn evening that is a pleasure in itself. However I felt let down at the end and I can only put that down to all the people being so civilized and nice that they were unreal. It would not be stretching it to say they were bland. Maybe it was the culture
Another cultural difference I found interesting was the attitude of the two siblings who were planning to make their lives overseas. Not once did they say “of course France will still be home” or “I’ll always be French” or words to that effect. I believe Australian and New Zealanders would have needed to state that out loud to prevent themselves feeling guilt about leaving their country of birth; perhaps it just an unfortunate habit we have.

Microwaves and Blackbirds

Christmas and New Year have passed and so has January and I worked. Well I worked for all those days that aren’t public holidays. Now I am on holiday. It is a great feeling to label time off as a holiday. It takes away the need to do anything constructive.

Today my microwave died. The sticker on the back tells me that I purchase it from L V Martin on the 6th of May 1989. It was a Mitsubishi. I believe I need to make that point because these days nothing is expected to last for 20 years! During that time it has moved countries and has been in use everyday. I have bought a Panasonic Microwave with a
two year guarantee but I bet the makers aren’t expecting or even wanting it to last 20 years. I didn’t see any Mitsubishis which may mean they are not available any more or they are marketed under a different name

I sat outside to read the microwave instruction booklet – 20 years has made some changes but not as many as you would expect. The local retarded bird joined me.

There has been a family of black birds around here who love sitting on the TV antenna singing. Dad is a beautiful black with an orange beak and Mum that dull brown that tends to make her invisible. They hold their own in this inner city area dominated by the squawk of Miners and the cooing of Pigeons.

Recently a brown adolescent bird has hung around them squawking. He opens his mouth and lets out what can only be described as a high bleat. These come at regular intervals. I have listened to see if there is a rhythm. But just when I think I have discerned one, the bleats change in tempo. There is stamina there. He can stay in the same place for up to half an hour with his mouth opening and shutting and the pathetic sound coming from it.

I thought he was one of the black bird family. He is quite large, bigger and older than a fledgling which is why he seems retarded. Yesterday evening I noticed a very slight white tip on his tail and I can see he is going to grow into a miner bird. I have become fond of him. He has become part of the local ambience.

This is one of the most striking gum trees I have seen in my local area. It is the grey of the branches that hold the nuts that make it a stand out – quite beautiful. I am continually amazed at how many varieties of gum there are.

Slumdog Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire

Am I the only one who was shocked at the brutality and torture at the beginning of this movie?

I read a number of reviews before I went to the movie and more since I have seen it. None of them mention the physical shock of seeing a quiet gentle man brutalized in the first few scenes.

People where I live are singing the praises of the movie. They delight in the use of the two languages, “It makes it more authentic,” they say. “And the scenes in the slums are so realistic you can almost smell them,” these are aspect that score points.

The acting is to be admired and the beautiful expressive eyes, especially on the children are heart melting. No one mentions the scene where horror takes over and one set of beautiful eyes is blinded so the child can better earn money as a beggar.

Are these two events: the torture of a person from the slums and the blinding of a child from a low socioeconomic group so common in India that they don’t require mention?

I would like to think that both episodes were part of the film because the director Danny Boyle wanted the world to be know that that is how life is lived ( and suffered) by the majority of Indians.

I believe that his 1995 movie, ‘Trainspotting’, helped introduce many of us to the horrors of the world of drug dependency. In Slumdog Millionaire the Slumdog (Jamal Malik) appears to accept that he should have to put up with torture from the authorities – perhaps put up with any cruelty that comes his way. As he has success after success on the Indian version of ‘Who wants to be a Millionaire’ he becomes a national hero but this makes no difference to the police and the brutal tactics they use to try to get him to admit he is cheating.

I really wonder why people don’t comment on this aspect of the award winning movie? Perhaps we don’t want to focus on such a negative aspect and it certainly is a great film?

If Danny Boyle gets an Oscar I will be the first to cheer.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

‘Vicky Cristina Barcelona’ Woody Allen’s new film is (in brief) about two American girls spending their summer in Barcelona.

They go for different reasons. Vicky is taking a break from her impending, conventional marriage and is a student of Catalan culture. Cristina is a free spirit searching for love, a purpose to her life and experience.

They stay with Vicky’s cousin, an establish American family, living in the city, who take them to an art opening where Cristina spies and eyes up the gorgeous local painter Juan Antonio played stunningly by Javier Bardem. Juan notices them too. How could it be otherwise?

He oozes a sort of bohemian sex appeal. Watching him chat up both the girls (he is equally taken by both of them) it is impossible to imagine him as the sociopathic killer, Anton Chigurh, in ‘No Country for Old Men’. Both sociopath and seducer are wonderful performances and equally believable.

The story moves along with Vicky being faithful to her fiancée back in the states but she accompanies Cristina on a weekend away with Juan.

There is no way either girl could resist his charms? The three become romantically and sexually entangled and then they are joined by Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz) Juan’s mentally-unstable -ex-wife who is reported to have tried to knife him afact that intrigues Cristina. For me this is probably the best part of the film – the interaction between Juan and Maria Elena is funny, slick and taught with tension.

The film is funny, beautiful and sensuous. The skies are blue; the sun is golden and the weather balmy. It’s thought provoking about love, duty and our own happiness and fulfillment.

I fell in love with Barcelona, the sensuous laidback painter, Juan Antonio and the beautiful Maria Elena- Penelope Cruz - who was superb in her part.

Go to the movie – it’s a good experience and the ending gives us all a moment when we look at ourselves and reflect and wonder what decision we would have made.

This dramatic photo is of Maria Elena posing for Cristina who is finding her creativity in photography.

Other people’s clothes – should we wear them.

I was thinking about that as I cleared my wardrobe of some of my winter gear. I hate the way everything gets squashed up on the rail and I have to look through several times to find what I want. Winter clothes are so bulky.

I put away a beautiful pale beige rain coat. This is not my coat. Well, I guess it is now but it came from one of my dearest friends who died a couple of years ago.

She loved the coat. I have a letter she wrote after she bought it and she described her feelings as she strode down the Champs Ellysees in Paris on a winter morning dressed in the coat and some smart brown leather boots. Unfortunately the boots didn’t fit me. She visited France every year and as the years passed she learned to speak French fluently and to feel she passed as a Parisian. Her coat helped. It’s cut in the traditional trench coat style with an edge of darker coloured suede. She bought it France where style is upper most.

I wear it as often as the weather allows. It is longish, so on a wet days my skirts or pants stay dry but most importantly I wear it because it belonged to her. Sliding my arms into it and shrugging it on as I walk out the door reminds me of her and for a moment the essence of her is there, in my entrance way. It fades a little as I back the car out and head into the morning traffic but a small slither remains with me for a couple of hours.

Wearing a piece of clothing that belonged to a loved friend or a family member always charms me. I have a jumper my husband once owned that I still wear occasionally. I wore it sometimes when he was alive because I liked the colour but it fits me better now because I am a larger size.

The jumper has followed me around for years. I have forgotten about it and then found it tucked away in the back of a cupboard and moved it forward to wear again.

I know everyone doesn’t feel like this but I believe wearing something of a loved one who has died gives us a little bit of them back. We grab a small piece of them when we slip into it and the person seeps into the fore front of our mind. It keeps these loved and missed people in my life in a joyous way. There is nothing melancholy in this for me.

Recently a friend showed me a picture of herself at her sister’s memorial service looking stunning in a red dress.

“That was Eve’s favourite red dress,” she said. “I just had to wear it. It was as if she was there with me” I’m sure if Eve was looking down at the service she would’ve smiled. My friend still wears the dress sometimes and I’m sure she will never throw it away.

I put the fawn rain coat to front of my winter clothes. I may need it on a wet summer day. And as I write this I think of my friend and absorb again all the good things she gave to our friendship.




Lavender for love and this wonderful hanging basket shows how you can create beauty in our hot dry climate.

Adjusting to an aging parent

It is time I blogged again. It is a pleasure to write my thoughts and opinions. Thoughts and opinions that I can share and discuss in this world wide forum. Please add your thoughts if you feel like it.

I am back from giving support to my lovely frail mother. She managed to gather her energies, survive and ultimately return to her own home.

The return to the home she loves and wants to cling to has been enabled by the amazing and supportive service in the New Zealand Social Welfare Service. It is my belief that the care she gets in her home is better than she would get in an Old Peoples Home. This is known in New Zealand as going into ‘care’. Care in these places can be very limited.

She is frail and failing but can still struggle with the aid of a walker ( zimmer frame) or with both hands on a piece of furniture, to move about the four rooms of her house. Someone told me that that was called furniture surfing. Surfing suggests speed and dexterity and neither is part of my mother’s progress.

There are good things about her life. She can read the daily newspaper, make coffee or tea and a simple meal and mix a weak gin and tonic. The later giving a special and pleasing charm to the day’s end - a sundowner in the language of her generation.

Do we all wish to get so old and so frail? If we saw that as our future would we still scarf down green tea, fish oil, soy-milk, rush to the gym and push ourselves to eat meals we don’t love but feel righteous about consuming?

During my school years my mother rode her bike to and from work and in the school holidays, when she took time off work, we'd take a picnic and ride our bikes for miles and miles to explore local rivers and beaches. When I look at her now it is hard to see this crippled old lady as that vibrant, energetic young woman who brought lightness and humour to our home.

I am now in my home and perhaps I am taking on my mother’s younger self. I am back at work, going to the gym and walking whenever I can. I enjoy my physical ability more because I have been experiencing the way hers has diminished.

This picture is Apple Blossom on a corner of High Street in Armadale. It's an interesting shopping strip to window shop but somehow these blossoms, stunning as they are, seemed rather out of place in pricey and sophisticated Armadale. An exotic Magnolia would be more in keeping.

Nevertheless there is a magic about apple blossom - perhaps because it is so perfect and simple.

Another country

Thank you for stopping by my blog.

I'll be in New Zealand for the next few weeks as my mother is very unwell and I want to be with her.

I will try to post but I won't have this wonderful technology available to me that I have here.

Catch you later - Em