589 - Bay of Angels, France, 1963. Dir. Jacquey Demy.

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

589 - Bay of Angels, France, 1963.  Dir. Jacques Demy.

I swear, this is the last time I'll gamble.

That is what he, Jean, says to her, Jacqueline.

Do you believe him?

Neither do we.

But if this new disease has begun to take root in him, after haven finally given in to his workmate Caron's prodding, just imagine how much more deeply it lies in her.

After all, she has been doing this a little bit longer than he has.

And she has already given up so much more.

Jean is new to the gaming game.

But Jacqueline is, shall we say, experienced..

She did after all leave not only her husband but also her only child in order to pursue this life.  This more-than roller coaster ride.  This rocket-high, submarine-low extreme extremes existence.

He falls for her.  She is played by Jeanne Moreau.  In the 1960s in France, men fell for Jeanne Moreau.  And in other parts of the world.  And beyond the 1960s.

In that dress.  And the bodice.  And that heavy eye make-up.

She is beyond love.

And beyond money.

She says it is not for the money.  Or even for the hope of the money.  It is for the emotion that it induces in her.

There are days when they are rich.  Filthy rich.  And they spend money like a hydrant blowing water.

And there are days when they are poor.  Filthy poor.  And they scramble for a few sous to buy one more scotch.

Yet she does not care which it is.  She is fine when she is rich.  She is fine when she is poor.

As long as she can hold a chip between her fingers.

And do it again.

And again.

Jean is an upright man.  He works at a bank.  Which implies that he is bonded.  And squeaky clean.  So what would make him fall so far?  And so hard?

He reveals that he was once engaged, but he broke it off at the prospect of living a habitual, sedentary life.  The seeds of his desire had lain dormant already within him.

So he abandons a life for its being too predictable, and then desperately attempts to find predictability in gaming.

He writes down numbers as they play.  Apparently, on the French Riviera in the 1960s, they did not only let you count cards, or Roulette results as it were, but they also allowed you to take written notes and calculate percentages.

Which of course is ludicrous with a game of pure chance.  If it were Blackjack, we might understand.  He could keep track of cards that have been played and cards remaining in the deck.  But for the randomness of the spin of a wheel and the landing of ball?

He tries anyway.  He seems to think he can crack the code.

Demy plays the gambling scenes with a wink.  We see the ball spinning but not landing.  Instead, we see their faces when the results are called.  Euphoria.  Or despair.  Which for Jacqueline is its own euphoria.

Jean is risking his heart to be hooking up with her.  She wants him not for love but for luck.

She openly confesses that she drags him around like a dog.  As her own lucky horseshoe.

If he is the horseshoe, then she is the mare.  She steps on the sap.  She clops on the clod.

Their lives run not merely moment to moment but second to second.  They never know whether they will ever see one another again or be together.  Or go to Paris or to Monte Carlo or to Cannes.  Or to stay here in Nice.  Or if she will run off with that man she just met or if he will go back to his father.  Or if they will be rich or broke.  Or both.  In the same day.  They are the quintessence of dysfunction and instability.

So when you see her casually place all the money she has left in the world on a single number, and then see him walking out the casino door, and then dash off to catch him without waiting to learn the results of the spin, well . . .

Being broke means nothing to her.

She has been there many times.

And will be there many more.

And will be rich again.  And again.

And never care one way or the other.

It is the thing she seeks.  Life on a slingshot.

And he has come to need it too.  Along with her.

These people were made for each other.


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You like this luxury?
What luxury?  Here?
What you call the high life.
Yes and no.  It amuses me sometimes.  But I don't mind not having it.
Yet you gamble to make money.
Not at all.  I don't like money.  You see what I do with it when I have it.  If I loved money, I wouldn't squander it.  What I love about gambling is this idiotic life of luxury and poverty.  And also the mystery--the mystery of numbers and chance.  I've often wondered whether God rules over numbers.  Perhaps you don't believe in God.
No.
So you've never wondered that.
Never.
The first time I walked into a casino I felt like I was in church.  I felt the same emotion.  Don't laugh.  Try to understand.
I'm not laughing.
I'm explaining how gambling is my religion, and you snigger.  Money means nothing to me.  Neither does this dress or this room.  But that's probably beyond you.  A single chip makes me happy.  And all the rest--
And the others?
Who?
Your husband?  Your friends?
I don't owe anyone anything.  Why deny myself this passion?  In whose name?  I'm free!  Let me go.  I don't need your pity.  I deserve nothing.
What am I to you?  Am I nothing more than an object to you?  Don't you have a heart?  Look at me!
Don't ever do that again.  You have no rights over me.  None.  We're partners in a game.  Let's leave it at that.
Forgive me.
I don't want there to be any misunderstandings.  We mustn't mix our feelings with a situation that's hard enough already, at least for me.
Then why are we in this room together?  Why are we staying together?  Well?
I don't want to hurt you.
A little late for that.
I thought you understood.
Well?  Answer me!
You're hurting me!
Well?
You want to know?  Why I drag you around with me like a dog?  You bring me luck.  Like a lucky horseshoe.
Forgive me.

Sure, we could live together and be happy for awhile, but what for?  I'd never stop gambling.  It would start all over.  So what's the use?  Let's part on good terms.  Let's spare ourselves pointless suffering, emotional scenes, harsh words, and a lot of grief.

I love you.

I know.

Do you love me?

Yes, Jean.  But not in the same way.

It's a lovely idea.  But it's impossible.  I know myself too well.

You're making me lose.  Go away.