Filed under: Published film reviews | Tags: Best Screenplay, Catholic church, Catholicism, convents, film adaptation, Ireland, Judi Dench, Magdalene homes, Oscars, Philomena Lee, Reagan, Steve Coogan, Tipperary
After losing his job as a spin-doctor for the government, Martin Sixsmith (Steve Coogan) resolves to return to journalism. Then the story of an Irishwoman, Philomena Lee (Judi Dench) happens upon his doorstep. As a teenager in the 1950’s, she had a child in a convent that she gave up. A secret she has kept for 50 years. Together, Martin and Philomena set out to find him.
Philomena confides in her daughter that in her teens she had a baby boy out of wedlock. Disowned by her family, she was sent to a Magdalene home in County Tipperary, where she endured forced labor, seeing her child for just an hour a day. In order to leave the home, she would have had to pay 100lbs – an unimaginable sum for her at the time – or stay for four years. One morning, a couple takes her son away in an expensive car, along with the daughter of her best friend, and Philomena is advised to put her son out of her mind. Believing she has committed a grave sin of the flesh by having sex and conceiving a child out of wedlock, Philomena keeps her secret until the event of his 50th birthday, when she confides in her adult daughter. Is he still alive? Is he a drug addict? Is he homeless or lost? Every mother’s worst fears flicker through her mind.
This is harrowing subject matter, but writers Steve Coogan and Jeff Pope make the astute decision to distil Philomena’s story through a man who, initially, isn’t interested in her story, and the film keeps this remoteness throughout. While the two characters come to a mutual understanding of each other, they do not alter who they are as a result of the experience. Additionally, despite the themes of cruelty and injustice of the Magdalene homes, and the disgraces of Ronald Reagan’s administration, this is a droll film. Praise notwithstanding, there is one aspect of the film that leaves this writer troubled by its inclusion as well as the script’s nomination for best screenplay at the Oscars. There is a scene in which Philomena and Martin meet her son’s adopted sister, who came with him from the convent. Mary (Mare Cunningham) states they did not have a happy childhood, and suggests cruelty on the part of their adopted father, but this is not developed. She claims that Philomena’s son never mentioned or considered their origin, Ireland, or his biological mother, a fact that is later completely discredited. I was left with many questions about Mary’s motives for lying, and the inclusion of this scene in the film, and believe that without developing these provocative storylines introduced here (which the film did not) this scene should have been cut. Its insertion niggled me, and I suspect its inclusion is a clumsy attempt to create a sense of ‘jeopardy” before the third act. It is, I believe, the subject matter, with all of its historical and ethical implications, its humorous treatment, and the talent of the actors that make this film a great picture.
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: Beaufort, Chamonix, Cremeaux, French Alps, French foods, mont blanc, pussy willow, Tomme, winter sports
“In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.” Albert Camus
Clear, crisp air that feels like it’s cleaning your pores. The squeak of your shoes in the snow. Mountains on all sides rising so high against blue skies that they look false. Glacial run-off creating rivers that you can feel the cold emanating from when you walk near them and can hear in the quiet of the night. Little crosses and chapels dotting the hills. Chalets with snow logs on their roofs to keep the snow from falling on their inhabitants. Red shutters. Copper roofs. Darkened and aged wood on the older homes. Sunshine that tans the face even as you wear several downy layers. Pussy willow trees. Skiing and waffles and chocolat chaud. Beaufort and Tomme cheese made by special cows in the Alps and local farmers, sold at the market each Saturday. Men in thick wool sweaters smoking while driving their snow plows and tractors. Mountain lakes so clear that the colors range from dark blue to aqua. Population explosion in the winter and summer bringing big, fancy 4wd BMW’s, huge tourist buses and queues for the gondolas. Paragliders, climbers, skiers, hikers, bikers, snowboarders. Helicopters overhead. The sound of avalanches and the explosion of dynamite to set off controlled avalanches. The smell of pine and wood- burning stoves. Nights so brightened by the moon that you don’t need artificial light and your body casts a shadow. The single light on the mountains indicating the snow machine levelling the pistes (ski areas). Tartiflette, fondue, and cremeaux in the evening as Haute Savoie fare. Quiet nights. Starry skies. Snow and ice.
Filed under: Published film reviews | Tags: American film, comedy film, Emma Roberts, funny film, Jason Sudeikis, Jennifer Aniston, pot dealer, runaway, stripper, virgin, Will Poulter
A neighborhood pot dealer and underachiever (Jason Sudeikis) needs to put together a fake family in order to complete a drug smuggle that will save his skin, so he recruits a stripper (Jennifer Aniston), a runaway (Emma Roberts), and a sweet, but stupid boy (Will Poulter), to be his family as they take the stock over the border from Mexico.
I’d never heard of this film before renting it. In the mood for light comedy, and hopefully a few laughs, I began watching it with skepticism. Oh-my-goodness, it is a hilarious film! I laughed consistently throughout, and was in a giddy mood afterward. I’d normally attribute my enjoyment of this film to my having had poor expectations in the first place and consequently being happily surprised, but my normally dour husband, a critic of American humor, laughed out loud throughout the film, too. There are moments when the scenes slip into a mild awkwardness – an inevitable result of everyone’s improvising – and the third act is weaker than the first two, but it doesn’t matter because each member of the cast is so talented and comedic, the result is an incredibly funny and heartfelt film.
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: Alps, carollers, Christmas, France, French, infant, mulled wine, Pere Noel, Santa Claus, sprite, vin chaud
“There’s nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.” Erma Bombeck
When my first nephew was a child, I remember thinking that Christmas was definitely for children. He “oohed” and “aahed” at the Christmas lights, the decorations, the colourfully wrapped packages, and his excitement for everything was so palpable that it became infectious for us grownups, making our Christmas truly joyous and warm-hearted.
Now I have a child of my own. And I’m in the French Alps, which is an idyllic setting for the holidays. It’s snowing here as I write, and the chalets everywhere are emitting tufts of smoke from their chimneys. There are Christmas lights along the streets, and a huge Christmas tree in the village square. Moreover, there are all sorts of activities in honour of the Christmas season: Pere Noel (Santa Claus), will pass through the village on a sleigh Christmas Eve and Christmas day; the local community centre hosts animated Christmas films most evenings; there are carollers and little musical concerts with flutes and violins and even accordions; snow “sprites” will ski down the slopes all day Christmas Eve; there is a torchlight ski with the children from the local school skiing in decorative formations down the slopes; there are Christmas story readings at the local bibliotheque (library); and, of course, Midnight Masses in every chapel and church that dots the countryside. Additionally, each of these celebrations provides the additional luxury of vin chaud (hot wine) and chocolat chaud (hot cocoa), courtesy of our local mairie’s office (and our various habitation taxes – fees we pay to live in the province). I intend to take my son to most of these events, even if he can’t quite grasp what is happening. My hope is that some part of his brain will register the festivities, the gathering of people in song, music and celebration, and it will begin his love affair with this season of the heart. At home, I find myself singing the classic Christmas songs to him, such as “Jingle Bells” and “White Christmas” in anticipation for his understanding the pleasure of this season.
But I may be optimistic. Just short of nine-months-old, my wee one is able to pick up a toy and throw it, but not to crawl over and grab it, so I’m not sure if his sensory register is sophisticated enough to make any connections between the specific time of year and the celebration. He’s also eating a mushed up version of Christmas dinner, that doesn’t quite give the same pleasure as loading one’s plate full of gorgeous, especially tasty offerings…ah well, it’s an excuse to attend the festivities and to eat to my heart’s content!
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: baby POV, baby sitting up, dust, Perspective, POV of baby, six month old baby
Some people see the glass half full. Others see it half empty. I see a glass that’s twice as big as it needs to be. George Carlin
I’ve often felt sorry for my son not having much perspective on things. He’s always carried, lying prone in his cot, or staring at the ceiling. He’s not been able to sit up by himself till now, and propping him up has often led to his slumping to one side or the other like an old drunk. So, when I have had to put him down, I lay him on the floor, where he can only look to his right, his left, and at the ceiling. I’ve purchased playthings that dangle over him so that he can reach up for them, but it’s a rather dull perspective even so. I lie down next to him to see what he sees and am left thinking that I should clean under my couch more…
But, now he’s sitting up on his own! And for the first time in six months, I can take a shower without feeling guilty. Before I had, maybe, four minutes to bathe before he’d cry, and five minutes if I put him in a soft seat just outside the shower and sang to him. I get it. Life can be rather dull when you’re trapped in a body that doesn’t move as and when you want it to. Now, however, I can leave him for an entire fifteen minutes or so if I put some toys and books within his reach. I’ll be able to shave my legs properly again. And I don’t have to lie down and worry about vacuuming in the corners anymore.
Once they begin sitting up by themselves, the experts on various web sites instruct us parents to begin putting things out of the child’s reach. This encourages them to crawl, they say. I can see their point, but I just don’t have the heart to make him yearn for more just yet. I think I’ll let him feel chuffed with himself for having this new point-of-view…
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: Diptheria, France, HIB, kids in France, Polio, Tetanus, vaccination, Vaccines, Whooping Cough
Vaccines are the tugboats of preventive health. William Foege
Dearest son,
You had your booster immunizations yesterday – five at once – Diptheria, Whooping Cough, Polio, Tetanus, and something called HIB…you were stellar at the doctor’s office, never crying, not when the doctor examined you, placed you on your front, poked and prodded you for your six-month check up (as you’re six months next week) and then gave you your injection. Your father and I had screwed up and placed the patch that would serve to numb the area that you’re ostensibly injected, in the wrong place, so you had to take it “cold” and, as mentioned, other than letting out a bit of a protest (you seem to be chatting and speaking a lot recently, so it seemed more like an ‘awww…”). Luckily, you’ve got really pudgy, lovely big thighs and didn’t seem too bothered. On the way home, you were chuckling and smiling, then suddenly you started crying, then you passed out asleep. The rest of the day you were your normal cheerful self, sleeping, eating, giggling and smiling and you didn’t have a temperature…
But today you’ve been out of sorts – fussy, hard to settle, obviously uncomfortable, not eating as much as you normally do, making us think its affecting you a day later…I went to get my haircut in town (and also got a fresh bouquet of flowers) and you were, according to your father, difficult and didn’t fall asleep for the entire time I was out (and even as you were asleep when I came home). You did watch a few cartoons in earnest and tracked and grabbed your Brio classic bell/cage ball (very impressive) and played with your over-the-head jungle gym, and laughed when I was dancing for you to THE KILLERS. That said, we’ll take your temperature tomorrow and hope that you’re your normal wonderful self. If there’s a temperature, I’ll likely want to take you to the hospital (in Sallanches, where you were born) and let them call me paranoid.
Much love,
Mom
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: birth certificate, Danish Embassy, Danish passport, social security card, U.S passport, U.S. citizen, U.S. Embassy, U.S. sponsor
I would like to take you seriously, but to do so would be an affront to your intelligence. George Bernard Shaw
My son’s Danish passport came faster than a Gap order I placed on the very same day that we made the Danish application. The American passport application process is not straightforward. I can’t simply give them my US passport and birth certificate. I have to “prove” I’m an American. Which prompts the question how easy is it to get a passport or a birth certificate in the first place? And why aren’t they enough for me, then, to prove my citizenship and right to sponsor my son? Is it personal? Some disapproving or disparaging remark I’d made at a party, which may have been overheard? Is it because I’ve been abroad too long? What I do know is that for better or for worse, I want my son to have a passport to my home. Makes me laugh. My British friends are astounded at how Yankee I sound after 15 years abroad.
How to “prove” that I’m American? Hmmm…I made a list, and then I ticked off everything that my mother – the woman on the ground for me stateside – and I collected for the dossier to submit to the US Embassy here:
- My elementary school burned down years ago, so there are no records of my attendance. However, the local newspaper has a picture of me descending the steps of the old school, circa 1978, and my mother knew the principal there (now on his last legs) as well as my music teacher, and was able to get letters of support from them, testifying to my attendance.
- My high school transcripts, a straightforward request, easily attained. I bolstered these with letters from the (then) vice-principal and the librarian there, who are in my mother’s book club.
- My undergraduate transcripts as well as letters from previous professors.
- My employment history in income tax forms, letters from employers, and friends, PLUS Frequent Flier statements that reflected my take-off and return, from the respective American cities I worked from, in order to confirm my living in a given US city at a given moment.
- Dental and medical records from my childhood through secondary school. Thank goodness for small towns and my parents’ being ‘big fish’ there.
- My son’s birth certificate from the US (as I’d already had his French birth certificate translated, and received his American birth certificate from abroad, as well as a social security number for him – how was I able to do this and yet not get him a passport?).
You might think I was being overly suspicious and O.C.D. organised, but I swear that each and every document was necessary.
Unlike the Danish embassy, where the official came down the many flights of stairs to help us with our pram (the lift was broken), the American Embassy had a Marine guard on the door and a security detector. My husband and my passports and mobile phones were taken from us for the duration of our visit, and our son’s nappy bag was scanned. I submitted the dossier to a very supercilious official, and we took a seat in a waiting room. It was a beautiful, old Tudor building, but there was no air conditioning. I was nervous in the errant-child way I get anytime there’s a policemen, security guard, priest or politician present. We waited hours and were the last to be interviewed by a Consular Official. He had a file created from my file, which was also three inches thick. Luckily, he was from Cobble Hill in Brooklyn, an area I lived in for several years many years ago (before it became fashionable and expensive), and we chatted about that. He okayed my son’s passport application, gave me his card in case there were any delays or problems, then ominously told me that when my boy’s passport expires in five years, to submit photographs of my son over the years to show how he changes, as continuing evidence that he is, indeed, still, recognizably our son.
My husband has given me nothing but grief about this. He says that he never wants to live in a country that treats its citizens like this. While I can see where he’s coming from, I don’t like anyone bashing my country (certainly when they are not aware of all its merits, which I think only comes after living in a given place for at least a year). I simply told him that the only reason it was easy to get a Danish passport is because no one wants to live there.
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: Danish, France, infant, Lyon, passport, passport photos, photo, Snappy Snaps
There is nothing more miserable in the world than to arrive in paradise and look like your passport photo. Erma Bombeck
It’s time to get my son his Danish passport. The American one will be a bit delayed given the dossier I must prepare first, but I’ll tell you about that later.
First we must get a passport photo. One that manages to capture his full face and both ears. Sound easy? Not on a six-month-old who moves constantly – involuntarily and voluntarily. Moreover, there are no “Snappy Snaps” shops or quick photo shops in our provincial French town that are familiar with various countries’ diameters and take photos all day for passports. In fact, there is one shop in town that touts its abilities to do passport photos but which is not a photo shop.
So, my husband, young son and I set out for the store, having carefully printed the specifications for the shop assistant. She was very sweet and helpful, but not competent in photography. There was a tiny little room at the back of the store in which to take the picture. With my husband, me, the baby, and the shop assistant in there, we were literally cheek-to-cheek. We laid the boy on the floor, as he’s unable to sit up completely by himself. I tried to keep his head straight so that she could get a full frontal, but of course my fingers couldn’t be in the picture so his head would only stay direct for a moment or two once I removed my hands. The shop assistant repeatedly tried to get my son’s full face, with both ears showing, and his eyes open (thank god for digital) but she’d fuss with the focus for so long between each-and-every shot, that just at the moment she’d take the picture, he’d move. Very exasperating. Additionally, she had to go and serve clients of the gift shop when they came in. After thirty minutes or so of this (consider that time with an infant is like the Bermuda Triangle in which things seem way longer than they actually are, and we were in a room the size of a small closet), we chose the photo most likely to work for the Danish authorities and she assured us she’d print them and cut them to specifications and have them ready after we went for a coffee.
When we returned, she’d put the four photos in a nice little envelope ready to go. We took them and left, thinking all was well, we’d seen the photos already, but then discovered a major error as soon as we got home. The photos were 4”x4” and even at this grand size, they were literally filled with our boys face. No distance or perspective. No space around his face. No full face with ears in view. Just our boys face filling out the entire, huge photo. A passport page is smaller than one of these photos. We went back the next day and went through the whole palarva again, and again there were no useable photos, but she did manage to cut the ones that might work down to a passport-sized photo. To be on the safe side, we opted to go to a little photo shop similar to “Snappie Snaps,” just outside the Danish Embassy in Lyon. We literally plopped our son on a seat with no back, and the guy took a picture before I’d even wiped my brow, and it was perfect! Wow. Guess there is something to specialising and, after repetitive action, getting your endeavours right. Now just to get the passports for him…
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: Antoine de Saint-Exupery, assistante maternelle, baby, Balzac, Calvin Coolidge, Chamonix, Colette, creche, Flaubert, France, Godard, kids in France, nanny, nursery, toddler, Truffaut, Victor Hugo, Voltaire
If you see ten troubles coming down the road, you can be sure that nine will run into the ditch before they reach you. Calvin Coolidge
After putting my son’s name on the waiting list for the crèche (nursery) when I was four months pregnant with him (almost a year ago), and intermittently popping by to say ‘hello’ to the Directrice of the creche, show her my growing belly, then my new baby, and reiterating my desire for a place when there was one available – we have been given one! Hooray!
But in addition to keeping myself on the forefront of the Directrice’s mind, there’s an official process. I quickly had to go to my ‘fixer’ – an Irish woman who knows the French systems of bureaucracy like the back of her hand and gets paid by expatriates to delve into these waters on their behalf. In order to employ the services of the crèche, and an assistante maternelle (nanny), I must show that I earn income and, more importantly, pay taxes to the French government. So, she set me up as an auto-entrepreneur (self-employed). It quickly gets you into the system, which is why there has been a huge amount of criticism in France about this scheme and its supposed abuse by foreigners. But, for the moment, it exists. I must report income every quarter and then pay around 25% of my income, give-or-take.
For the crèche, my husband and I must produce an Avis d’Attestation (official breakdown of earnings) for last year, utility and bank bills proving we live locally, a letter from the doctor declaring our son is fit to be in collective care, as well as an ordinance, or prescription, for Doliprane in case of a fever, proof that we have supplementary healthcare (for that 20-30% not covered by your taxes and the state), official paperwork proving that we have gainful employment (the letters from the organisation that oversees profession liberales, or freelance and contracted workers), and duplicated pages from our boy’s Carnet de Sante (a health book given at birth in France that records all health visits, vaccinations, hospital stays, etc.) proving he’s had his necessary vaccinations. The French love paperwork, but I’m freakishly organised, so compiling this dossier and putting it neatly in a binder is actually fun for me. It’s perverse, but it’s also useful in this country.
Then there’s the adaptation process. It is literally a period in which your child is adapted, or assimilated, into the crèche. If your child does not meet their expectations, for example, not eating and sleeping when they have that scheduled, then your child loses his place in the crèche and you must apply for a place in the following year. I agree with this in theory. I think it’s a great idea to slowly introduce your child into a new environment and its regimens and people and if it doesn’t work for all involved, so be it. But something in it also makes me think of the last person picked for a team during physical education in school. If you’re not accepted, then you’ve not fitted in, and regardless of what one may say about the entity that has rejected you, or the reasons for the rejection, you’ve been rejected.
The first day you go with your baby into the crèche and sit with him there for about an hour. The second day, you sit with him for an hour, and then leave him for an hour. The third day, you leave him for two hours, which coincides with either their eating time or their sleeping time. The fourth day, it’s three hours, which again coincides with their eating or sleeping schedule. The fifth day, he stays half a day. The sixth day, he stays the whole day. I found it exhausting and overwhelming, so I can imagine what my wee one thought. The women seemed nice enough, with the exception of one who was rather shrewish, though all of them would be coquettish with my husband and look me up and down with a cold, polite smile every time I came in. There are two or three women working on a given day, and eleven babies at a given time. I was amused to see that they have a wooden contraption that has four baby seats on it in a row, and they literally feed the babies a mouthful and move down the line at feeding time. The babies sleep on separate cots in a room together. They would let the babies cry rather than going to them- they’ll fall asleep on their own (or they should!). But dang! I was amazed and pleased when my baby came back to me tidier than when he went in – even his nostrils were cleaned!
At the end of the adaptation process, the shrewish woman told my husband that my son was ready, but she was not sure if the mother was ready (me!). She didn’t mention that to me when she told me he was accepted. But who cares? He’s in for two days a week (as the lovely Welsh assistante maternelle has agreed to take our boy three days a week!) and hopefully it will be the start of his French education and a great introduction to the best of its culture, to the lessons that have given birth to its auteurs, and its wonderful writers and philosophers, rather than the beginning of his training to be a clerk in a Balzac-ian society.
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: baby sleep, breastfed, Chamonix, co-sleeper, cot, crib, formula, France, French Alps, infant sleep, nursing, Ralph Waldo Emerson, sleep
There was never a child so lovely but his mother was glad to get him to sleep. Ralph Waldo Emerson
The sleep situation with my baby boy has caused a lot of strife in our household. When I first came home from the hospital after having a c-section, I was unable to move in bed, and it seemed ‘safe’ and easy to let my baby boy sleep in the crook of my arm, which I laid upon a pillow to keep it level. Every well-meaning woman whom I know told me this was unacceptable and dangerous- my baby could be smothered by me or by my husband in our sleep! Websites confirmed this. But it also seemed as though most of this death-by-smothering was a result of a parent being intoxicated in bed next to them. And almost all of them were a result of the father. For me, it seemed natural, and practically speaking, it seemed to be the only way to get him to sleep.
After many ‘discussions’ with my husband, however, and his dissatisfaction with the sleeping arrangement, we moved the baby onto this little cot that was cut at an angle so that his head was higher up. On each side, there was a little velcro’d buffer to keep him on the wee bed. This little cot fit right in between the pillows where my husband and I rest our heads, and also seemed to work for awhile. I liked having the boy so close, because it allowed me to hear his breathing over the snores of my husband. Even so, my husband expressed repeated dissatisfaction with this arrangement and after many ‘discussions,’ we bought a ‘co-sleeper’ that we put on the side of the bed. To be honest, I never liked this situation because my boy seemed close but very far, too, and it seemed rather pointless to have him on my husband’s side of the bed, but he claimed it made it ‘easier’ for me to sleep. Finally, we put the boy in a crib in the corner of our room and hoped that this would be a fine option. The boy was able to sleep in the crib, but he woke up every couple of hours, anyway, to feed, and going over to the crib, picking him up, bringing him back to the bed with me or sitting in a chair to nurse him seemed tedious and I’d be wide awake afterwards.
The doctor told us that the baby can literally smell the milk of its mother if it’s in the same room, and this is why the baby was frequently waking up throughout the night. Consequently, my husband and I put together a sleeping schedule. Because my husband goes to bed early each night, anyway, I would be the ‘point-person’ to attend to the boy when he cried in the evening and early night while my husband would sleep in the guest-room and get several hours of uninterrupted rest. At about two am, after being awaked for another feeding, I’d nurse the boy, we’d change places, and I’d sleep peacefully until morning, and when our son next woke up, he’d be fed a bottle of formula by his father, the rotation manoeuvre completed!
To be honest, when I was in the room with the boy alone, I’d simply take him back to bed with me and feed him while I was lying down and then doze off at some point till his next revival. I could have gone on like this for a number of months, but my husband has badgered me to put the boy and his crib into a room of his own so that we can sleep in the same bed together like a ‘normal’ couple. Because I can’t think of a logical reason not to, and I’m really too tired to argue, I have complied. The first few nights that the boy was in his own room were hideous. He cried at an ear-splitting pitch and I nearly had to be tied down not to go to him. These last few nights, however, have been blissful. It seems to be true what the doctor said about his smelling me in the room, because he does not wake as frequently as he once did. As a consequence, I am feeling a renewed sense of energy and wakefulness that I have not known since I was seven months pregnant and could still sleep at night!
Victoria Jelinek 