Monday, May 31, 2010

Finally! A Holocaust Film Worse Than Schindler's List! On The New Vulgate

" in Paris? C’est la guerre. As you may recall, the French know War. Or at least they’ve been in and around and beside and above and underneath and in the vicinity of one or two. And just like good old-fashioned fix-your-bayonet-and-off-we-go trench-warfare, the Battle of le Supermarché demands its own set of weapons and warfare and strategies and tactics and torture and Machiavellian/Sun Tzu-esque art. Because there are buggy-blockades and basket-caches, and unstoppable tank-like caddy-chariots and knee-capping baby strollers weighed down with fierce French babies, and even dual-strollers and dual-babies, and their single mothers and their elbows . . . dual-elbows . . . . and tsk-tsks and oh là là’s and hurled insults and free zones and occupied territories and collaborators and collateral damage and denunciations and friendly fire and plain-old prison-camp psychology when all you’re trying to do is stand in line. Or tunnel out. It’s a jungle out there – or in there, as it were – and silly is the soldier without a strategy all their own. Un pour tous, tous pour un ! Chacun pour sa gueule ! Solidarity forever! Bombs and baskets and buggies away!!"

The New Vulgate Submits to an Attack of the Carpet Munchers

"...Just ask Bernard Tapie. Said like it’s spelled: Tap-ee. Kinda the same way you say tapis in French, which means ‘carpet.’ And lemme tell you, when it comes to le Crédit Lyonnais – the since 2005 appropriately-acronymed LCL – in some judiciously judgmental jurisdictions, Tapie got called up on the carpet. And plain munched. Or, depending on how you see it, damn near eaten alive..."

Francifully Yours on Running In Heels

We receive numerous inquiries about our coverage of Paris . . . some fanciful, some France-i-ful . . . bref, it seems that everyone, everywhere, has a little France in their pants! And they want to know more!! Much more!!! So shove over, Dear Abby and Miss Manners and Ann Landers, and Heloise, and entrez A Certain Journalist, a certain expat canadienne, a certain Caro-leen . . .)

Lollipops and Boobs on The New Vulgate...

"...The thing about French cinema is that the starlets don’t all resemble lollipops with breasts. You know, where they are so bony and jutty and skinny and stretched and then they go up to the altar or the podium or whatever they call that thing at the Academy Awards, and there they are, standing there, shuddering, shivering, teetering, crying and they make you think of newborns because, like newborns, they cry and because, like newborns, they look like they don’t really have the strength to hold up their heads? And it makes you want to force-feed them something drippy and greasy and hamburger-y just so they can get through their speech, and then when you finally cross your fingers and take a deep breath in hopes that their heads won’t actually just roll off what’s left of their bodies right there, right in the middle of the ceremony (although admittedly, one must admit that maybe such an event would actually lend the actual ceremony a certain pizzazz, a certain chutzpah, a certain je ne sais quoi. . .) and then your eyes finally trail down to their décollétés and there’s these two bursty-balloony things bursting and ballooning out in front of them and then down lower there’s just more skinny juttiness? Well, in French cinema there’s not so much of that. So if you’re into that kind of thing, then you might not be so much into French cinema..."

Gainsbourg, Le Film, Le Blog on Carolyn (On Serge)...

Here’s what Gainsbourg, Le Film, Le Blog had to say on February 16, 2010: “You absolutely MUST read Carolyn ‘France In Your Pants’ Heinze’s commentary on Serge Gainsbourg and her review of Gainsbourg (vie heroïque) over at the fashion blog, Running In Heels. It is, perhaps, the most well-written and insightful look into how the French view Serge Gainsbourg and provides a ‘no-holds-barred’ critique of Joann Sfar’s film that will have you laughing the entire way through...”

Recently on Running In Heels...

"...He was easy enough to pick out. Even in the grim grimy-greasy jaundiced not-so-flattering subterranean Métro light. Oh, it was him all right – no doubt about it. Or a fabulously finely-formed facsimile thereof. His profile, pitched in a precisely preconceived profile of a pose, the enormous ear, the prominent nose. His chin – smooth, not yet his signature unshaven chin— juts serenely, sagely, slightly upturned. The lips, sensual-soft, poised in mid-exhale. As if he were singing. Or smoking. No mistaking him, this finely-formed facsimile of one of France’s most famously infamous artists, one of the Fifth Republic’s most notorious agents provocateurs, the man who flipped la chanson française upside down and inside out and right side in and right side up all over again. He was Serge Gainsbourg..."