#Marguerite Renoir

[genevieveetguy]

. Did you feel an immense tenderness for it all… for the grass, the water, the trees? A vague sort of yearning. It starts here, then it rises. It almost makes me want to cry.

A Day in the Country (Une partie de campagne), Jean Renoir (1946)

[streamondemand]

Jean Renoir takes 'A Day in the Country' on Max and Criterion Channel

Jean Renoir has long been called the cinematic successor to the French Impressionists—he is, after all, the son of Auguste Renoir, and his generosity and humanism and interest in the lives of working-class folks is in the spirit of the movement. But while his style helped define French poetic realism of the 1930s, his films were also rooted in politics, class, and social commentary, both…

[eucanthos]

Lee Miller: Picnic, Ile Sainte Marguerite, 1937.

Edouard Manet: Le déjeuner sur l'herbe, 1862-63. Oil on canvas 208 x 265 cm. Musée d'Orsay.

Marcantonio Raimondi: The Judgment of Paris (detail), ca. 1510–20

Lee Miller and Roland Penrose, lovers, in the summer of 1937, lived in Mougins village above Cannes near Picasso's studio. Miller was probably staged their pose: Paul Éluard kiss Nusch Éluard, Penrose and Man Ray look bored. - Manet's female nude is thought to be Victorine Meurent, his favorite model, subject of Olympia. The male figure on the right was based on a combination of his two brothers, Eugène and Gustave. The other man is based on his brother-in-law, Dutch sculptor Ferdinand Leenhoff. By portraying an ordinary scene on such a large scale, Manet validated the seemingly mundane subjects, inspiring Impressionists like Claude Monet and Auguste Renoir to follow suit with Water Lilies and The Luncheon of the Boating Party, respectively.

https://artblart.com/2015/07/12/exhibition-lee-miller-at-the-albertina-vienna/

https://picnicwit.com/timeline/19001949/lee-millers-picnic-ile-sainte-marguerite-1937/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_D%C3%A9jeuner_sur_l%27herbe

https://www.leemiller.co.uk/media/yx9mJNx_8Bo_ceV4W34srw..a

https://mymodernmet.com/edouard-manet-the-luncheon-on-the-grass/

[moominofthevalley]

The Girl with the Glass

Trystan finds a mysterious scrapbook. Emily has a deep conversation with a stranger.

trystan x emily

teen | wc: 2.5k | cw: mentions of grief

cfwc prompt: ‘visiting a holiday market’ & ‘the holidays won’t be the same now that they’re gone’

a/n: happy holidays, everyone! this drabble is inspired by an influx of things – mostly my favorite film, “amélie,” if you couldn’t tell by the title. (which, of course, is not-so-subtle-symbolism). enjoy! ♡

“It’s your turn, Trystan!” 

Snow sprinkled downwards, little husks of angels drooping to the wintry ground. Crowds of faces walked the busy New York streets, surrounded by shiny knickknacks and dusty clothes. Cheeks were stained pink, and lips curled upwards in the holiday spirit. Trystan urged out a cocky grin, arms around Emily’s waist. 

“Is it, now?” 

“Yes, it is! I’ll go and get something for us to eat.” 

Trystan pecked her forehead, whispering, “Do something good!” before disappearing into the crowd. He grew fond of these new habits of love, searching for a trinket to take back to their hearth. 

It was a silly tradition, but a tradition nonetheless. It began with a scratched Pierrot figurine Emily bought from a vintage shop. Ivory skin and porcelain eyes, and a black-and-white costume with a frilled collar. Like some haunted elf on the shelf, the clown explored the apartment all by itself – according to Trystan, at least. The second well-loved piece was a gift from Marguerite: a brass ladybug ashtray. Neither Emily nor Trystan smoked, though the aureate bug was far too interesting to be thrown away. The most recent find was a print of Renoir’s The Luncheon of the Boating Party Emily purchased from a local art gallery. Both of them adored it; the celebration of warmth and good company, the splendid wines and fruits, calmness and beauty in the mundane. Drinks and company aside, Emily was far more fascinated with the girl with the glass. A sullen woman drinking wine in a sea of chatting strangers.

It was Trystan’s turn, and he was keen on finding an old book of sorts. He insisted on a leather novel of yellowed papers and annotated lines, with intricate Victorian details along the spine. Trystan paused, exhilarated at the antique booth before him. Forgotten scrapbooks, noir polaroids, rotten thrown-away cameras, and fringed lamps cornered him with an enticement to explore. 

Emily wandered around the opposite side of the market, searching for food vendors. A strange harmony bubbled inside her; a soft scent, a beam from the clouded sun. She breathed in the scent of chestnuts and red wine, a wintry chill slipping through her bones. Silver bells danced in the December wind, faces greeting each other with a blissful smile. It was a perfect moment, a painting from her own eyes. 

On the sidewalk stood a white-haired woman in a vibrant Christmas sweater, her cane tapping the frozen ground. Breaths escaped her parted lips in subtle clouds of white. Trystan’s words repeated in Emily’s head, a determination settling within her. This was peace and contentment; the mundanity of a random December afternoon. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you need help?” 

“Yes, please!” 

“Careful of the curb, here we go!”

The woman held onto the cane, her other hand wrapped around Emily’s. Her heart burst at the scene developing around her. Laughs and joyous days echoed around her, the wind so sweet she gulped for more. 

“Hear that? That’s a florist laughing, he has crinkly eyes! A booth that smells like eucalyptus and rose is selling crystals and botanical postcards. The food truck across them is selling lollipops and hot cocoa for children. A farmer’s booth has rows of persimmons, oranges, and tangerines. Next to the fruits, a baby is watching her dad throw his hat in the air. We’re at the end of the market, there’s a bookstore and a vinyl shop in front of us. I’ll leave you here, goodbye!” 

The elderly woman struck out a pleased laugh, touched by moments folding around her. Memories of today fell like dominoes, scattering about like new snow. Her cheeks shined pink as Emily cradled her hand, stilling the woman’s trembling fingers. 

“Have a good day,” She whispered before walking off. 

“Wait,” The woman called out, “Are you hungry? Let me get you something to eat!” * * * *

Emily and the white-haired woman split an orange and two empanadas on a quiet bench. Emily, of course, peeled the oranges in thirds, ignoring the pith underneath her nails. 

Familiarity struck her as she handed the woman an orange. Her father’s willow-leaved eyes resembled the stranger’s. Perhaps in another life, Jimmy Rose grew old and never walked the grounds of Box Thirty-Two. To breathe with wrinkled skin and grey hairs, lines creasing about his lips and forehead.  

“What’s your name?”

“Diana.” 

“I’m Emily,” she hid the third orange wedge in her coat pocket, “Do you like the food?” 

“I love it,” Diana grinned, “God, that vendor was beautiful, wasn’t she?” 

Emily gulped, taken aback, “How could you tell?” 

The other woman laughed and patted her lap, “Partial blindness. I can only see things if I’m up close.” 

“Oh!” Emily blushed awkwardly, “I’m sorry – I didn’t-” 

“Don’t worry.” 

“But, er, yes, the vendor was beautiful.” 

Diana perked up, casting an amused grin, “Are you a lesbian?” 

“Bisexual. My partner wanted to check this market out. He’s looking for…I dunno, some trinket to take home, and I told him I’d get us some food. Are you…also…?” 

Diana nodded. 

“How old are you?” 

“Sixty-eight. And you?” 

“Twenty-eight,” Diana winced. 

“Don’t worry, it does get better.” 

Emily shrugged, unconvinced. Her bones were brittle as if made of glass, jaded memories of Drakovia hitting her like violent waves against a sandy beach. Grief thrashed inside her head so intensely she’d wake up in the night, begging for air. There was avoiding it, no going under or over it. Whether she’d acknowledge it or not, trauma and grief permeated her life. 

“When?” Emily asked innocently, her eyes burning. Diana scooted slightly closer, resting her wrinkled hand over Emily’s. 

“When does it get better?” Emily nodded, cringing at her childish question, “However long it takes. Eventually…it’ll pass.” 

It had been sixteen years. Sixteen years, and it had, indeed, not passed. She swore that she’d be done with everything by twenty. That foolish promise broke, and twenty-eight was no different than twenty. All that was left of Jimmy Rose’s legacy was a cruel memory. 

“It’s been almost twenty years. I don’t think it will.” 

Emily gritted her teeth, furrowing her fingers into her hands until they became beet red. With a blink of an eye, she was no longer the famed private detective who took down the Heartache Killer; but a tall child with no father. 

“Oh, Emily,” Diana cooed, “I’m so sorry. But that’s simply not true,” She murmured, struggling to find the right words, “Nothing lasts forever. Things pass, lives go on, and it feels fucking awful when you’re…stuck. But when we are stuck, all we have is each other. To get by, at least.” 

Emily’s walls began crumbling. Her hands instinctively covered her face, sheltering herself from the world. Diana granted her some space, moving closer to the other end of the bench. 

“I’m sorry,” Emily rubbed her face, grasping at anything to change the subject. With a pained sigh, she uttered, “Y’know, I don’t really like Christmas. I just–I’m just here because of my partner.” 

“I don’t either,” Diana said, “But my wife loved it. Every year, God bless her soul, she’d always cook the worst beef wellington ever!” Diana laughed with a familiar gleefulness, “I’d always eat it. I mean, it was atrocious and entirely raw, but she cooked it. Made with love…and absolutely no seasoning. I would do anything to have it this year.” 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Emily whispered, “Her wellington must’ve made your day. My dad took me to Rockefeller Square every year until he passed. I always thought he was a king for that,” She chuckled, “I remember seeing it for the first time. I didn’t even know trees got that big.” 

“He sounds like an amazing Dad. I am so sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you. I try to remember the good things about him. It helps keep his spirit alive.” 

Inklets of snow trailed down and stained their hair, solemness in the wind. Emily cleared her throat, pushing past the silence. 

“Can you tell me more about your wife?” 

“Of course,” Diana beamed, “Her name was Dani. She lived in the apartment next to mine. She was an amazing pianist - I’d always hear her playing through the walls. One day, I knocked on her door and asked if I could listen to her.” 

“Do you remember what song she played?” 

“Yes! It was, hm, ‘Camptine?’ No – ‘Comptine d’un autre été.’ You really should listen to it sometime.” 

“I’ll hold you to that…how long were you two together?” 

“Twenty years and ninety-eight days – but who’s counting? We were completely different,” Diana’s face grew serious, “And she was so different in the end, too. It’s odd to see someone go when they’re already gone and so, so small.”

Emily fiddled with her hands, jaws clenched, “I’m so sorry, Diana. I can’t imagine losing–” She choked on a small pit in her throat, “I just can’t imagine a loss like that.” 

“Thank you. The two of us had an amazing life. We really did. I mean – sometimes I still see her, even in little things, I still feel her with me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I see her everywhere,” Diana’s lips quivered, “I see her when it rains, and I think of the song she played for me when we first met. I saw La Traviata last summer, and all I thought about was her. Whenever I walk by a deli, I think of her God-awful beef wellington.” 

A glint of doubt shimmered in Emily’s eye. Uncertainty twisted her insides, striking with fierce ripples of despair and mourning. 

“Listen to me,” Diana said sternly, “One day at a time is all we got. So go on and live. But, when the time does come…kiss his forehead, rub his feet, play a song. It will be hard, and I don’t think it will ever go away completely. But I promise – after some time, you’ll wake up and feel, maybe not better, but as if you’ve adjusted to the pain of it all. And then it won’t hurt so much.” 

A surge of preemptive grief washed over Emily, though tears never flooded her eyes. The burdens of the past and deaths of the future weren’t gone, but instead quiet and still in her mind. Death is only a moment, a bitter soul slipping into the next room. Two words repeated in Emily’s head until she was content. 

“Thank you. I never thought of it that way…thank you.” 

Easy silence lay upon them, the words shared by each other warm in their throats. Flurries of unknown faces passed by, snowflakes tangling in their hair with ease. Spotting Trystan in the crowd of strangers, Emily greeted the mischievous smirk on his face, hands tucked behind his back. 

“Hey partner,” Trystan kissed the top of Emily’s head, “And who’s this?” 

“I’m Diana…and you must be who Emily was telling me about!” 

“Oh, yeah? What’d she tell you?” 

“Your deepest and darkest secrets, obviously,” Emily deadpanned, “...You hiding something back there?” 

With a smug grin, Trystan unveiled a wrapped gift. He chuckled, “You’ll see! I’ll show you later.” 

“Hey, I also got you something!” Emily grabbed the orange slice from her pocket, wiping away tiny beads of lint. Trystan’s face lit up, mouth agape. 

“I love you. Thank you,” Trystan pecked her forehead once more before biting into the citrus, “And it was lovely meeting you, Diana. I hope Emily didn’t tell you every secret of mine.” Diana laughed, shaking his hand. 

“Of course not. And Emily?” She whispered into her ear, “Remember what you’re here for.”

* * * *

“Do I seriously need to be blindfolded for this?” 

“I mean,” He pressed his hands tight against Emily’s eyes, “Yeah, you do.” 

Emily grumbled, rolling her eyes through the thick wad of fabric tied around her head. A week had passed since she met Diana, and all that was in her mind were her tender words. Emily fixed her pout, forcing a tooth-shining smirk as Trystan led her across the apartment. 

“The things I do for you.” 

“Careful, darling,” Trystan gently moved her away from hitting the coffee table, “And sit…err, right here!” 

“Can I take the blindfold off now?” 

“Not yet!” 

Sounds of scuffling surrounded her, and Emily grew curious. Trystan had been hiding something since the trip to the market. Whenever she’d mentioned it, he’d waggle a finger to his lips and utter gibberish. 

Emily scoffed, amused, “Is this about that thing you got last week?” Trystan snickered with a childlike excitement. 

“...Maybe.” 

The tussling stopped, and Trystan sat beside her. Resting a hand on her thigh, he grinned, “Okay! You can take it off now.” 

“Oh…my God!” 

A leatherbound scrapbook and a dainty film camera plastered with Hello Kitty stickers sat across them. Colorful children’s doodles scuffed the book cover, crayons covering every inch. Squiggly letters in blue and red revealed the title: RoSe fAmilY aDveNtureS. Emily gasped, flooded with faint memories of her father. With flushed cheeks, she turned to Trystan and gawked. 

“Trystan!” Emily squealed, “You found this last week?” 

“Mhm,” He bobbed his head, “I showed it to Tommy to make sure. He said he must’ve accidentally donated it while cleaning up the attic. It…may or may not have taken me a long time to figure out how to use the camera – but it works! I’ll hook it up to the TV, okay?” 

“I fucking love you.” 

Emily and Trystan flipped page after page, soaking in long-forgotten moments of Emily’s past. At the top of each page contained a laminated label. Little Emily as San, Halloween 2002. Trip to Luzon, June 2005. Fluffernutters and Chocolate Rocks! 

Stacks of polaroids were taped against each other, smiles and blissful memories in every photo. One quickly seized Trystan’s attention. ‘2001’ was written at the hem of the photo. At the center, a pigtailed Emily smiled widely at the camera, boasting her half-eaten yan yan. 

“God,” Emily grazed her thumb over the polaroid, “I can’t believe you found this.” 

“Me too. Maybe we can look through Tommy’s attic sometime. There has to be other books we can find.” 

“Can we look through the camera now?” 

“Of course!” 

Emily grinned at Trystan, warmed by his gift. It’d been years since her heart grew so fondly, a quiet ease running through her body. Her bones were, indeed, not made of glass. She was not brittle and weak, but rather brimming with love and sentiment. Pain and sorrow were in her veins, too, yet on this still and snowy morning, Emily was at peace.

* * * * A/N: This fic was both such a pain and so nice to write lol. I wanted to give a little thank you to @jerzwriter @lexicook74-blog and @logolepzy for helping me edit this fic! Thank you all so much for your feedback, I appreciate you all SO much.

Tags: @choicesprompts @choicesholidays @choicesficwriterscreations @jerzwriter @logolepzy @mooserii @starsarewithinme @jonathanmoores @shadyinternetblizzard @urcowboyboyfriend @lexicook74-blog @leahtine @jahrobin @icarusfallsforever @kyra75 @calisomnia (let me know if else would like to be added to my crimes tag!)

[mybeingthere]

Édouard Manet 1832–1883, Letter to Isabelle Lemmonier, Musée d'Orsay, Paris, 1880.

Isabelle Lemonnier (1857–1926) was the daughter of a successful Parisian jeweler and the younger sister of Marguerite Charpentier, whose grand portrait by Renoir is also in the Metropolitan’s collection (07.122). Between 1879 and 1882 Manet made several portraits of Isabelle, of whom he seems to have been fond; in the summer of 1880 he sent her a series of letters decorated with charming watercolor sketches.

The Met Museum.

[byneddiedingo]

Chantal Goya, Catherine-Isabelle Duport, and Jean-Pierre Léaud in Masculin Féminin (Jean-Luc Godard, 1966)

Cast: Jean-Pierre Léaud, Chantal Goya, Marlène Jobert, Michel Debord, Catherine-Isabelle Duport, Evabritt Strandberg, Birger Malmsten. Screenplay: Jean-Luc Godard, based on stories by Guy de Maupassant. Cinematography: Willy Kurant. Production design: Philippe Dussart. Film editing: Agnès Guillemot, Marguerite Renoir. Music: Jean-Jacques Debout.

In an intertitle during Masculin Féminin, Jean-Luc Godard suggested that his portrait of French (or anyway Parisian) youth in the mid-1960s "could be called The Children of Marx and Coca-Cola." But the movie kept reminding me of Lena Dunham's portrait of American youth in the early 2010s, the TV series Girls, which might be called "The Children of Milton Friedman and Xanax." Godard's young Parisians find themselves in a time bursting with revolutionary energy but no particular channel in which to direct it other than sex and pop culture. The political activity of Godard's protagonist, Paul (Jean-Pierre Léaud), largely consists of pranks: distracting the driver of a parked military staff car so an accomplice can write an anti-war slogan along its side, and ordering a staff car on the phone under the guise of "General Doinel" -- a cheeky allusion to the role of Antoine Doinel, which Léaud played in The 400 Blows (1959) and four other films directed by François Truffaut. But most of the young people in the film are as shy of committing themselves to anything political or social as the beauty queen called "Mlle 19" (Elsa Leroy) whom Paul interviews at some length in one of the film's more spot-on satirical moments. This is a movie of fits and starts: moments of great energy interrupted by stretches of talk. As usual, Godard plays with viewers' expectations throughout, staging a sequence near the beginning in which a woman guns down her husband, only to ignore any follow-up action, and having a political protester immolate himself off-screen with only the somewhat indifferent reports of Paul and his girlfriend, Madeleine (Chantal Goya), as reactions to the event. The soundtrack is spiced with what sound like gunshots but turn out to be only billiard balls clashing against each other in a neighboring room. There is some of Godard's characteristic self-conscious "movieness" about Masculin Féminin, as when the characters go to a film within the film and Paul has to make a special trip to the projection booth to complain that it's being shown in the wrong aspect ratio. But like the best of Godard's movies it provides a necessary tonic against complacency.

[lleah]

Cinéma français

Truffaut

L’enfant sauvage

Jacques Becker

Falbala (1945)

Jean-Luc Godard

    Masculin/Feminin     Le mépris

Varda

    Cléo de 5 à 7

Robert Bresson

    Pickpocket     L’argent

Francois Ozon

    Huit Femmes     Sitcom (court)

Quentin Dupieux

Wrong Cops Le Daim Incroyable mais vrai *** Au poste

Christophe Honoré

Les bien-aimées Chambre 212 Plaire, aimer et courir vite

Rohmer

    Ma nuit chez Maud (69)     Le genou de Claire

Tati

Mon oncle L'illusioniste (inspiré de )

Resnais

Nuit et Brouillard (55)

Bertrand Blier

Les valseuses Buffet Froid Tenue de soirée ***

Leos Carax

Boy Meet Girl (CHOC) ** Pola X     Les amants du pont-neuf (91) Holly Motors Mauvais Sang

Renoir

Les règles du jeu

Joan Sfar

Le chat du Rabbin Gainsbourg Vie héroïque

Riad Sattouf

Jackie au royaume des filles Les beaux Gosses

Valérie Donzelli ****

 La reine des pommes  La guerre est déclarée Main dans la main Marguerite et Julien

Jacques Demy

    Les parapluies de Cherbourg     Les demoiselles de Rochefort     Peau d’Ane

Haneke

    Amour     Le 7eme continent     Funny games (97) (choc)

Helena Klotz 

L’Age atomique****

Louis Male

    Le feu follet****

George Perec et Bernard Queysanne

    Un homme qui dort ***

Matthieu Kassovitz

    La Haine (95)     L’ordre et la Morale

Justine Trier

Sybil Victoria La bataille de Solferino Anatomie d'une chute *** (palme d'or 2023)

Antonin Peretjako

La fille du 14 Juillet La loi de la jungle La pièce rapportée

Kervern et Delépine

En même temps Effacer l'historique I feel good Saint amour

Céline Devaux

Tout le monde aime Jeanne *** Le repas dominicale ( animation)

Eric judor

Platane Problemos Steak

Jean Pascal Zadi

Tout simplement noir

Agnès Jaoui et Jean-Pierre Bacri

Le gout des autres Place publique Un air de famille Cuisine et depandance

Alain Chabat

Astérix et Obélix, mission Clépatre Didier La cité de la peur RRRR

Nakache et Tolédano

Nos jours heureux Intouchable En thérapie ( série) Le sens de la fête

Maiwen

Polisse Mon roi Jeanne du Barry

[recovecosyrefrotes]

Una rosa es una rosa, pero de la rosa de Anacreonte a la rosa del Roman de la rose, de la rosa de las catedrales a los ramilletes de Renoir, se excluyen y se suceden todos los puntos de vista posibles sobre la rosa y la vida.

Marguerite Yourcenar

Art: Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Roses - 1919

.

[books0977]

Reading Couple (also known as Edmond Renoir and Marguerite Legrand) (1877). Pierre Auguste Renoir (French, 1841-1919). Oil on canvas.

Edmond-Victor Renoir was a French journalist and art critic, younger brother of the painter Auguste Renoir. Marguerite Legrand, known professionally as Margot, was Auguste Renoir’s model and girlfriend in the mid 1870s. This romance was transient and ended tragically as Legrand died in 1879. 

[met-european-paintings]

Marguerite-Thérèse (Margot) Berard (1874–1956), Auguste Renoir, 1879, European Paintings

Bequest of Stephen C. Clark, 1960 Size: 16 1/8 x 12 3/4 in. (41 x 32.4 cm) Medium: Oil on canvas

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437425

[genevieveetguy]

Toni, Jean Renoir (1935)

[guyeguia]

Una lista de Amy Taubin

1. Rules of the Game (Jean Renoir) 2. Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock) 3. Au Hasard Balthazar (Robert Bresson) 4. Man with A Movie Camera (Dziga Vertov) 5. Two or Three Things I know About Her (Jean-Luc Godard) 6. Jeanne Dielman (Chantal Akerman) 7. Ikiru (Akira Kurosawa) 8. Citizen Kane (Orson Welles) 9. Some Like it Hot (Billy Wilder) 10. Tokyo Story (Yasujiro Ozu) 11. Apu Trilogy (Satyajit Ray) 12. Xala (Ousmene Sembene) 13. The Rise to Power of Louis XIV (Roberto Rossellini) 14. The Puppet Master (Hou Hsiao-Hsien) 15. Barry Lyndon (Stanley Kubrick) 16. Shoah (Claude Lanzmann) 17. Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese) 18. Do the Right Thing (Spike Lee) 19. Flaming Creatures (Jack Smith) 20. Les Vampires (Louis Feuillade) 21. Screentests (Andy Warhol) 22. Videodrome (David Cronenberg) 23. Through the Olive Trees (Abbas Kiarostami) 24. A Woman Under the Influence (John Cassavetes) 25. Vampyr (Carl Dreyer) 26. Sunrise (Murnau) 27. In the Mood for Love (Wong Kar-Wai) 28. No Fear No Die (Claire Denis) 29. Spoor (aka Pokot) (Agnieszska Holland) 30. Wavelength (Michael Snow) 31. Walden: Diaries Notes Sketches (Jonas Mekas) 32: Daughters of the Dust (Julie Dash) 33. Vagabond (Agnes Varda) 34. I Am Not Your Negro (Raoul Peck) 35. The Social Network (David Fincher) 36. Orpheus (Jean Cocteau) 37. Killer of Sheep (Charles Burnett) 38. Touch of Sin (Jia Zhang-ke) 39. The Gleaners and I (Agnes Varda) 40. The Body Beautiful (Ngozi Onwarah) 41: Time (Garrett Bradley) 42. Gunda (Victor Kossakovsky) 43. Wanda (Barbara Loden) 44. Love is the Message the Message is Death and The White Album (Arthur Jafa) 45. Ken Jacobs’ Vimeo site. 46. Christmas on Earth (Barbara Rubin) 47. Scenes from Under Childhood (part one) (Stan Brakhage) 48. Army of Shadows (Jean-Pierre Melville) 49. Mulholland Drive (David Lynch) 50. Donnie Darko (Richard Kelly) 51. A Family Finds Entertainment (Ryan Trecartin) 52. India Song (Marguerite Duras) 1. I May Destroy You (Michela Coel) 2. The Bureau (Eric Rochant) 3. Top of the Lake (Jane Campion)

[timeless-hollywood-classics]

Greta Garbo[a] (born Greta Lovisa Gustafsson; 18 September 1905 – 15 April 1990) was a Swedish-American actress. Regarded as one of the greatest actresses of all time, Garbo was known for her melancholy, somber persona due to her many portrayals of tragic characters in her films and for her subtle and understated performances. In 1999, the American Film Institute ranked Garbo fifth on their list of the greatest female stars of classic Hollywood cinema.

Garbo launched her career with a secondary role in the 1924 Swedish film The Saga of Gösta Berling. Her performance caught the attention of Louis B. Mayer, chief executive of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM), who brought her to Hollywood in 1925. She stirred interest with her first American silent film, Torrent (1926). Garbo’s performance in Flesh and the Devil (1927), her third movie, made her an international star.

Garbo's first sound film was Anna Christie (1930). MGM marketers enticed the public with the tagline "Garbo talks!" That same year, she starred in Romance. For her performances in these films, she received her first of the three nominations for the Academy Award for Best Actress. In 1932, her success allowed her to dictate the terms of her contract, and she became increasingly selective about her roles. She continued in films such as Mata Hari (1931), Inspiration (1931), Grand Hotel (1932), Queen Christina (1933), and Anna Karenina (1935).

Many critics and film historians consider her performance as the doomed courtesan Marguerite Gautier in Camille (1936) to be her finest. The role gained her a second Academy Award nomination. However, Garbo's career soon declined and she was one of the many stars labeled box office poison in 1938. Her career revived upon her turn to comedy in Ninotchka (1939) which earned her a third Academy Award nomination, but after the failure of Two-Faced Woman (1941), she retired from the screen, at the age of 35, after acting in 28 films.

After retiring, Garbo declined all opportunities to return to the screen. Shunning publicity, Garbo led a private life. Garbo was an art collector whose collection contained many works that were of negligible monetary value, but also included works from Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Pierre Bonnard, and Kees van Dongen, was worth millions of dollars when she died.

[a-bittersweet-life]

Masculin Féminin, directed by Jean-Luc Godard, screenplay by Jean-Luc Godard, cinematography by Willy Kurant, music by Jean-Jacques Debout, and edit by Agnès Guillemot and Marguerite Renoir.

Follow @a.bittersweet.life for your daily dose of cinematic inspiration.

[mybeingthere]

Édouard Manet 1832–1883, Letter to Isabelle Lemmonier, Musée d'Orsay, Paris, 1880.

Isabelle Lemonnier (1857–1926) was the daughter of a successful Parisian jeweler and the younger sister of Marguerite Charpentier, whose grand portrait by Renoir is also in the Metropolitan’s collection (07.122). 

Between 1879 and 1882 Manet made several portraits of Isabelle, of whom he seems to have been fond; in the summer of 1880 he sent her a series of letters decorated with charming watercolour sketches.

The Met Museum.

[byneddiedingo]

Jean Renoir, Roland Toutain, and Nora Gregor in The Rules of the Game (Jean Renoir, 1939)

Cast: Nora Gregor, Paulette Dubost, Mila Parély, Odette Talazac, Claire Gérard, Anne Mayen, Lise Elina, Marcel Dalio, Julien Carette, Roland Toutain, Gaston Modot, Jean Renoir, Pierre Magnier. Screenplay: Jean Renoir, Carl Koch. Cinematography: Jean Bachelet. Production design: Max Douy, Eugène Lourié. Film editing: Marthe Huguet, Marguerite Renoir. 

The first time I saw The Rules of the Game, many years ago, I didn't get it. I knew it was often spoken of as one of the great films, but I couldn't see why. I had been raised on Hollywood movies, which fell neatly into their assigned slots: love story, adventure, screwball comedy, satire, social commentary, and so on. Jean Renoir's film was all of those things at once, to my confusion. I had to be weaned from narrative formulas to realize why this sometimes madcap, sometimes brutal tragicomedy is regarded so highly. And I had to learn why the period it depicts, the brink of World War II, isn't just a point in the rapidly receding past, but the emblematic representation of a precipice that the human world always seems poised upon, whether the chief threat to civilization is fascism, pandemic, or global climate change. The Rules of the Game is about us, dancing merrily on the brink, trying to ignore our mutual cruelty and to deny our blindness. Renoir's characters are blinded by lust and privilege, and they amuse us until they do horrible things like wantonly slaughter small animals or play foolish games whose rules they take too lightly. I'm afraid that makes one of the most entertaining (if disturbing) films ever made seem like no fun at all, but it should really be taken as a warning never to ignore the subtext of any work of art. Much of the film was improvised from a story Renoir provided, to the glory of such performers as Marcel Dalio as the marquis, Nora Gregor as his wife, Paulette Dubost as Lisette, Roland Toutain as André, Gaston Modot as Schumacher, Julien Carette as Marceau, and especially Renoir himself as Octave. Renoir's camera prowls relentlessly, restlessly through the giddy action and the sumptuousness of the sets by Max Douy and Eugène Lourié. It's not surprising that one of Renoir's assistants was the legendary photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson. And, given my own initial reaction to the film, it's also not surprising that The Rules of the Game was a critical and commercial flop, trimmed to a nubbin of its original length, banned by the Vichy government, and after its negative was destroyed by Allied bombs in 1942, potentially lost forever. Fortunately, prints survived, and by 1959 Renoir's admirers had reassembled it for a more appreciative posterity.