ColetteDVD - 2018
From the critics
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Very pretty and quotable script, just samples herein:
You found me when I knew nothing. You molded me to your own designs, to your desires. And you thought that I could never break free. Well, you're wrong. Claudine is dead now. She's gone. You betrayed her. And I... I have outgrown her.
I've missed you.
- No, you haven't.
Of course I have. Your ambiguous smile, your lightning intelligence, your capricious joys. Even your brief but violent furies.
"Is that you there all alone under that ceiling, booming and vibrating under the feet of the dancers? Why are you there all alone? And why not somewhere else?" Yes, this is the dangerous, lucid hour. Now, whenever I despair, I no longer expect my end, but some bit of luck, some commonplace little miracle which, like a glittering link, will mend again the necklace of my days.
My name is Claudine. I live in Montigny. I was born there in 1873. I shall probably not die there.
I don't know why you're so keen on nature. Animals are vile to each other.
-Animals are honest at least. They never lie.
Yes, my dear. Well, that's because they don't speak.
"Claudine is a girl from a small village, yet she is all of us. Feisty, opinionated,
selfish, and sensual... She astounds us with her moxie, her desires, and her crimes. It took an extraordinary man to define this modern young woman."
So, do you like it?
No such word. A good writer should be able to describe anything no matter what.
She's a wayward debutante from Louisiana who married a munitions magnate three times her age.
-They sound dull.
He is, but she's anything but.
When you raise your eyelids, it's as if you are taking off all my clothes.
-Don't look away. Look at me. Look at me looking at you.
You have the most beautiful teeth.
-Like an alligator.
But you have to understand, this is what men do. We're the weaker sex. We don't have your strength. We're slave to our urges.
Did you ever feel like you were playing a part, Sido?
-In what way?
As a wife. Or a mother. Like you were just going through with it.
-Sometimes, as a wife. Never as a mother.
A novel by Willy grips you from chapter one, whereas yours... There's too many adjectives. And some of the characters are interesting, but... it's too cloying. It's too feminine.
You may remember a little verse about coveting other men's wives.
-And you may remember one about not trying to remove a speck from your brother's eye with a log in your own.
Your jealousy is misplaced.
- How so?
It was the wife I found interesting.
"It's a lovely spring morning." You know, liven it up a bit. How about, "Perhaps it's the season. It's glorious. The sap is rising almost indecently."
I must get used to marriage.
-Better to make marriage get used to you.
You mean more to me than all the women of Paris put together.
-Have you sampled them all?
Please don't mock me.
-You're very happy to mock everybody else.
It's true, but it's just... Look, it's just horseshxt. Words are deceptive little bastards. But if you trace mine to their source, to my bruised and aching heart...
-Well, I wouldn't credit that as the organ of origin. I can read you like the top
line of an optician's chart.
Oh, don't worry about the facts. You can change events, add a character. Just adapt it to the times. All people really want is the feeling, the emotion, the great sweep of narrative.
-So you mean I can write whatever I want?
Of course. No one will dispute it. And if they do, "It's the hand that holds the
pen that writes history."
Eiffel's tower. Are you for or against?
-Oh, I'm for it, if a little jealous of this giant erection in the heart of our capital
belonging to somebody else.
I suspect you were more intimidated than bored.
-No. I thought they were all... shallow and pretentious.
No. Come on. You're reading them wrongly. It's not so much pretension as exaggeration. The ideal is to be authentic but larger than life. To present a personality with a capital "P."
All the humor and vivacity descends into a dreadful operatic swamp. It releases the very toxins of man's soul, leaving the audience nauseous and pale, like they've just eaten a bad oyster.
Now we have Willy's first novel. It'll have enough literature for the highbrows
and enough filth for the great unwashed, or vice versa.
You married a literary entrepreneur. It's a phenomenal disaster.
-You've married a country girl without a penny to her name. We're doomed, aren't we?
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