I
spent a rare sunny spring afternoon confined in the dark with a friend at the Cine
Lumière. Despite the generous legroom and comfortable seats, and the frothy
latte in my hand, our chilled mood took a sharp left turn onto Dread Street five
minutes into the film.
Daniel
Auteil, who plays the part of a very successful neurosurgeon, is married to the
lovely Lucie, played by Kristen Scott Thomas, in the latest French release, Avant
l’Hiver, Before the Winter Chill.
From
the outside, all appears idyllic: the couple, their family, their
magazine-spread home and prize-wining gardens she so lovingly tends to, day in
and day out. (Okay, so a little too much gardening and not enough socialising
outside the house…) All said and done, the couple’s home is an architectural
feast; look as hard as you wish, but you will not catch so much as a streak on
its many massive glass walls.
As
the viewer, you and I get to stroll inside their exquisite home and admire
everything about it, down to the Eames chair and appealing array of art, lamps
and curio objects. His offices are equally easy on the eye - until a
self-appointed ‘decorator’ of sorts proceeds to mar all the beauty and goodness
of the visual canvas, petal by petal, stinking of a Shebug’s cloying odor.
Her
name? Lou Vallé. Or so she tells him one afternoon when she chats up the
respectable doctors in a café before he heads home after a long day of
operating. She tells him that she remembers his removing her appendix as a
child and has remained forever grateful to his tender care – the first of her
cascading lies.
The
neurosurgeon immediately corrects the too young and too chatty barmaid explaining
that she must have him confused with another physician. But Lou insists on
being right and casts her calculating murky eyes at him over her exposed
shoulder.
A
nonstop delivery of blood-red roses kicks off the very next day. He finds her
calling card on his windscreen, in a vase at his reception, fanned about in his
very office and being sent his own home… Does the shebug own up to being the
culprit? That’ll be the day…
Meanwhile,
Lucie’s perfectly arched right eyebrow hikes up to a 90° angle. Only because
she is English-born is she able to maintain her commendable calm. She is
respectable, caring, intelligent, elegant and very much a lady.
The
Shebug’s persistent Mephistophelian machinations serve her well: soon unspoken
heaviness and loose ends between the doctor and his wife shoot up like cracks
on the surface of a frozen lake.
The
doctor is a good man; you cannot help but like him. But watching an honourable,
intelligent grandfather become entangled in a hooker’s dark web is not for the
weak of heart.
The
tale is twisted, chilly and downright unnerving. But we cannot shake him out of
the Shebug’s carefully conceived bewitchment no matter how much our hands itch
to. Equally, we cannot urge the enviably controlled Lucie to grab hold of the
reins soon enough. We sat helplessly awaiting for zee Jaques-in-the-Box to pop out in her true sordid colours
before more damage occurs.
But typical to French cinema style, the truth of
Lou Valle’s motives drop onto the unraveling scene one drop at a time. Though
the danger finally seems to have been averted, does it really?
As
the lights in the Lumière brightened and the curtains closed, my polyglot
friend and I exited le cinéma agreeing on two things:
1)
There is no fool like
an old fool;
2)
I get to pick the
French films for the remainder of the year!
