That ole devil called love

I finally got around to watching Amour, and a beautiful picture it is too, even if it held few surprises after all this time. “It’s depressing,” people warned me, and it is, though it’s strangely uplifting too. I love the defiance of the name, how romantic it is, how dignified the pair remain throughout; there’s this one scene where Georges has to lift Anna from the toilet seat, and as bleak as that might sound, I swear Michael Haneke almost choreographs it to echo a couple dancing during the first throes of love. That’s what struck me anyway, I’m maybe reading too much into it…


I was fairly encouraged by how much French I picked up while watching it. I think I’m going to hang out with some old folk, they speak slower. I’d buy myself a set of boules and infiltrate them by posing as some kind of petanque hustler new in town, though these days you’ll mostly find young bucks rolling up their trousers and checking out girls as they toss those things down by the canal. Maybe I’ll just sit indoors and watch Amour over and over to improve my grasp of the language, that surely signifies hours of fun ahead. One summer my brother and I would sit in and watch Scum every other day for god knows what other reason than we wanted to disturb ourselves(?), so I definitely have a capacity for some serious cinematic misery. Though I draw the line at ever watching Haneke’s Funny Games ever again. The 1997 version (rather than the Hollywood remake) was as brilliant as it was beastly and I reserve the right to have nightmares about it for eternity. I thank you.

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