Monday 26 February 2007
Louis LUMIERE / The Light Lit / 40
By David Pitt, Monday 26 February 2007 - 20:36 :: Best
Despite his statement “the cinema is an invention without a future” Louis Lumiere (and his brother Auguste), probably have one of the strongest claims to inventing the cinema. Thomas Edison, with key inventions in 1891 and 1896, also has a strong claim. At any rate the brothers did invent the ‘cinematographe’ a machine that was a camera, projector and printer all in one. It was patented and then first shown publicly in February and December 1895 respectively. Between 1895 and 1901 they made about 1,400 short films (1 or 2 minutes in length), mostly of a documentary nature. One of the very earliest of a train arriving at the station was spectacular as it scared the patrons with it’s realism. Another called L’arroseur arrosé (The Sprinkler Sprinkled) might classify as the first comedy. Considering their uncannily apt name, perhaps they should have made one called The Light Lit. Anyway, in 1901, with the quote above, they retired from the cinema and went back to still photography.
Original appearance Nov 26, 2005, © 2005 / Louis LUMIERE / 1864-1948 / business, inventor, cinema / best / A- / 40 / CIP 340, OO 23, RD 26, YP 30/10-26
Who would of thunk it? From a palace, to a railroad station, to virtually abandoned (it was scheduled for demolition in the 1970’s) and now to a world class museum. Only the French could do it and they did it magnificently. The serpentine lines at the entrance are worth the wait. When you get in, the abundance of light is almost ethereal, making the luminaries shine even brighter. Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Gaugin, Renoir, Degas, Rodin, it’s endless. Actually the focus is relatively tight – art and it’s environment 1848-1914. With the possible exception of the Renaissance no period before or after can match the artistic fecundity. Impression, expression, real, symbol and cube – nearly every ism known to man including Naturalism and Pointillism, and with sculpture and Art Nouveau thrown in for free. Okay, 7 Euros.
Fleuristes is what they are called here. So you see, we can almost speak French. One of the nicest things about Paris is the number and diversity of flower shops in the capital. Monceau Fleuristes is the big one – there are numerous branches – but no chain dominates and, in fact, it is the independents who are by far the most numerous. I looked it up in the yellow pages (yes they have them here and they are arranged primarily by Arrondisment, which is what they call districts here). There are over 60 florists just in my 17th Arrondissment alone, and there are 20 different Arrondissments in Paris. That would probably put the number of flower shops at over 1,000 in this city. The French take their flowers seriously.
A touchy subject. And no way around. At least not honestly. Class exists very strongly in France and colors most relationships. It is ugly. Equality is, at best, a slogan. Perhaps it exists in law but it is practiced nowhere else. The French nose is often prominent primarily for its altitude. Condescension is an art form. At a homogenous dinner party (kept so by careful selection of the guests) the altitude and attitude shifts are a little less evident. Individuality is tolerated though not admired. Elsewhere the herd instinct is prevalent and it is best to stay with your herd. Class is everywhere evident in France and frequently the upper haven't any. 
I first read about the Café in a recent (Aug 8, 2006) article in The Wall Street Journal. Really! While I was there the sounds of Janis Joplin, somewhere between wafted and reverberated from the sound system. They opened on May 19, 2006 and have already been written up in a major international newspaper. Not bad! And the address is good too. 75001 Paris, France – the First Arrondissement, Louvre territory. It doesn’t get any tonier than that. Okay, the article also put emphasis on France Télécom, restrictive labor laws and entrepreneurship in France. Still, I imagine Sébastien Pellegrino and Raphael Carrasco, the proprietors of L’oustaou, couldn’t be happier. By the way the name means something like ‘home’ in a southern dialect of French. And the cuisine, the décor, the ambiance and the bartender were all quite good. I hope the Wall Street Journal revisits them on their 10th anniversary.
Satiric, sometimes funny and usually melancholic: “…. and the sea erases from the sand / the steps of lovers gone their ways”. Many of his poems were sung in the nightclubs of the day by Piaf, Montand and others – with the booze setting right, the blues in the night. Jacques Prévert was a surrealist, a poet, an astute observer of Parisian life, and a screenwriter. Perhaps it was the screenplay Les Enfants du Paradis (1945, The Children of Paradise) that first made him famous. He was most prolific between 1946 and 1955, with his first volume, ‘Paroles’ (1946, ‘Lyrics’ or ‘Words’) a real treasure. Personally I think he was just a soft and gentle soul who saw a little too much. He is taught a lot in French schools (though I doubt they emphasize ‘The Dunce’ with it’s dim view of the educational establishment). Many of his works are considered too vulgar for American High Schools (perhaps ‘inappropriate’ is a better word). A good sample, somewhere in between: “An orange on the table, your dress on the rug, and you in my bed, / sweet present of the present, cool of night, warmth of my life.” I’m a little old so it makes me a bit thirsty for orange juice; but I can remember ….
I am neither as smart nor as dumb as many intellectuals, and I do not pretend to comprehend existentialism. In the end you die is true but there may be more to it than that, and that’s not, for most of us, our first choice anyway. There is a quote from Jean-Paul Sartre: “Three o’clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do.” That is about as existential as I get. I will concede that his ‘Being and Nothingness’ was a little more weighty. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1964, but declined with some prattle about not wanting to be ‘institutionalized.’ Actually his refusal could be considered noble, but his request for the money anyway, 11 years later, was decidedly less so. A little research: in the 58 selections before he refused the prize 10 French authors won, in the next 40 only 2, and one of them (Samuel Beckett) was much closer to Irish than French anyway. I am not sure whose choice that was, nor whose responsibility. It is all too existential and ignoble for me.