Paris, Je T’aime is a 2-hour long film comprised of 18 unrelated vignettes, each filmed in a different Parisian neighborhood, by a different director, with different actors. The title translates to “Paris, I Love You,” with love being the cohesive theme – usually romantic love, but also maternal love, sentimental love, lack of love, and plain old French lust. The city of Paris is the underlying baguette that holds together all these yummy amuses bouches.
Although most of the movie is in French, a fair number of the skits feature Americans and British. In the theater, a woman behind me murmured the name of every familiar face she saw: Nick Nolte. Natalie Portman. Elijah Wood. She literally squealed when the titles announced Joel and Ethan Coen’s segment, in which Steve Buscemi plays a tourist on the Metro. Unfortunately, this sketch was a faux pas: violent slapstick in a movie filled with charming poignance.
I really liked about half of the skits. Others were forgettable, while several confused me. I’m most conflicted about the obligatory mime sketch. My favorite is Alexander Payne’s (director of Sideways) piece about a lonely American tourist who delivers her narrative in a classroom French accent. For style alone, Emmanuel Benbihy’s (director of Run Lola Run) fast-motion montage of a young couple’s relationship also stood out.
The breakneck pacing left no time for anything to be absorbed, even though there were little masterpieces everywhere. The post-movie discussion was spent recalling entire scenes that got lost in the cinematic pot-pourri. Call it gimmicky, but this billet doux to Paris is original and never-boring.
I let Mr. Pinault buy the tickets for Paris, Je T’aime, not only to give him the pleasure of speaking his language, but also to give him the pleasure of paying. “Two for Paris, Je T’aime,” he said to the teenaged boy behind the window. “Alright, two adults for Pirates of the Carribean,” the teenager said. I quickly intervened.
People ask me “So how’s the French going?” If I’m feeling defensive, I’ll hem and haw about how busy I am, the difficulty of learning a language without total linguistic immersion, and the strangeness of making noises that I’ve gone 30 years without having made (the “r” still sounds as if I’m extracting throat phlegm.) If I’m feeling truthful and a little snide, I’ll say “Je ne parle pas Francais.”
More efficient than actually learning the language is to memorize a half-dozen bons mots that I can lob out in almost any situation. Pronounced with heavy pursed lips and a wide-eyed stare, English speakers will be so impressed as to clam up with inferiority, while French speakers will be so irritated that they will stop the conversation.
Cela va sans dire. (It goes without saying.)
Je te vois venir! (I know what you’re up to!)
Je voudrais t’y voir. (I’d like to see you try it.)
Nous sommes tous passes par le. (We’ve all been through that.)
C’est toi qui le dis. (That’s what you say.)
On se dirait en France. (You’d think you were in France.)
