Francophilter

A couple of packages came in the mail today: a book and a soccer jersey for my two oldest boys. I'm stockpiling little treasures with each paycheck, getting ready for the big smooshfest* that is Christmas.

*Smooshfest is a word I just now made up which can be applied to pretty much any and all celebrating we do as a family.  It is appropriate because whatever revelry we're getting up to is usually a crazy quilt of customs, some of which are rooted in shared observance or family traditions, some of which are completely invented by us, to be abandoned or changed at whim.

Case in point: when I asked George and Mae what we should make sure to include in our Thanksgiving day celebration, they suggested muffins and fireworks, respectively. Sounds fun! We'll see.

Anyway, back to today's mail, which arrived around the time the "Why didn't all the profile pics change when X tragedy occurred?" talk started on Facebook today; a reaction to the global reaction to a massive, heart-breaking terrorist attack in Paris, France, last night. Of course, that conversation needs to happen. But does a big bustle of clicktivism retroactively diminish the humanity of others who have suffered something similar? 

Why do people seem to care more about some things than others? I mean, we can say we care, but when do we really hurt along with someone else? Easy, when it feels closer to us. 

The whole world is welcome in this house, as long as you don't track in too much mud. We love art, food, ideas, and sports from all the places. Still, as my son and I watched the terrible news yesterday, the pain we felt was closer to our hearts because it was happening to Paris. 

There is nothing accidentally occidental about our fondness for Paris, that's exactly it. For my son, Paris is home of the team of his favorite futboler, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, a Swedish player and son of a Bosnian Muslim and Croatian Catholic. Quite a smooshfest, no? For my oldest son, who has been baking baguettes, teaching himself French, and planning to travel there as soon as possible, this has to feel like someone just attacked the place of his dreams. 

Glittering, gritty, rich, and poor, Paris has been a magnet, attracting artistic souls from all over the world for centuries. Thanks to its daring diversity, it will always be a place where there are no easy answers, and never will be, and how beautiful that is. So many people from everywhere else, living together, and today, grieving together. Nous vous aimons. 

Watch It: The Red Balloon

We're on day two of our Queue de Grâce challenge, and things have taken a radical turn. We scamper out of the shadowy world of The Mummy and find ourselves bouncing cheerfully around Paris, France with Albert Lamorisse's The Red Balloon. (1956)

Let me warn you right now, if you haven't seen this film, and you'd like to, we are about to spoil the ending for you. If you'd like to be surprised by what happens, stop reading here. But, by all means, watch The Red Balloon on Netflix and come back to the party.


He got the red balloon. It was on the wall. He climbed up.

As somebody who wants to go to France someday, I thought this movie's setting was beautiful. Paris looks like a lovely place, and I'd like to go and visit it while I am in France some day. The cobblestone streets and the architecture, it looks like a beautiful place to grow up in, except for all of the mean schoolmates.



This film will always hold a special place in my heart.; a perfect little slice of life as a child in Paris, it is spare in dialogue, plot, and running time. Don't let that make you think it is frivolous; there is a lot being said here. As the main character, a little boy, finds his inflated companion and carries it around for the day, we see all of the elements of life in a bustling city play out in the background. Here is a statement about young and old humans, from all walks of life, and everything they do for and to each other. As Henry said, during the movie, "That balloon represents something! I just can't put my finger on it!" It does, indeed.

 

We all have our words for it, "childhood," "happiness", "joy", whatever it is, it's whimsical, fleeting, and somewhat obnoxious to adults who work in buildings and on trolleys.

To me, the red balloon represents childhood, with its different aspects: playfulness, curiosity, imagination, bonding, separation, friendship, and independence. The movie reminds us of what it's like to be a child. When the balloon follows the trolley, it flies into every nook down the sidewalk, like a child would look into every interesting little corner.



The red balloon is outside, popping! The boy is popping the balloon.







The red balloon popped. The little boy was sad because the red balloon popped. He had more balloons and he flew away.

This time, what stuck out to me most was the effect of how they were able to make the balloon follow the boy around. Also, how they made all of the balloons move in the end. It must have taken a lot of work and a lot of balloons to make this movie possible.Even still, there are some parts where the effects baffle me. Like, when he was on the trolley, how did they make the balloon follow the trolley without it looking like the trolley was just pulling the balloon along?

At first, when I saw all of the balloons, flying out of their master's hands and windows, to go to the boy, I thought they might avenge their fallen comrade by attacking the boys who destroyed it. But it did make for a happy ending, because instead of killing all of the school children, they lifted the boy into the sky. they cheered him up. It's like the very first Up, for those who have seen that movie.


A very simple story. Just right off the bat. Man, France is a really great place. I even know what the balloon represents: childhood. Bright, light, fragile, mischievous.  It was a nice little calming story, but I just wonder where he's going to keep all of those darn balloons.

 For its lightness, and its depth, it is the perfect movie for any family. If you watch it with kids, you won't likely have to remind them to sit still and pay attention often. Every second is like a page from a children's book. It will transport you to Paris, France, and lift you away.