Michel Audiard has no fans it deserves. TV trays for banquet watered, it cites the rhyme to put the laugh on his side. Not sure he would have liked to not retain him that dialogues Tonton flingueurs or Morfalous . Like Gainsbourg who considered the song (which made him live and live well) as a minor art, liked nothing Audiard (half lucid, half cunning) that denigrate the film that made him rich and refined. His hobby was more literature. Certainly not one to tire his interlocutors pedants references but the crazy hermit Meudon as asthmatic Boulevard Haussmann, or the poet of Charleville. As Walsh while filming hiding to read The Charterhouse of Parma , the man with the cap took care to conceal the Travel under the Team and The Search in Paris-Turf . His only real novel, night, day and night all other s demonstrates this devotion there (he also seeks a quarrel with a trollop who do not want a street Celine Meudon) and shows that Audiard was not a dialogue-notch. It was also a writer. Awkward customer, xenophobic at times but a writer.
The night is the raw wound that opens the book, the loss of his son Francis in a car accident, January 19, 1975. Become bitter, even nihilistic, Audiard who abandons the quaint * made his glory, as he writes, "let scroll memories following a protocol where death reigns . Death of Pierrot in an American bombing, dead children of Aristides in the derailment of the Paris-Hendaye Myrette killed, raped, dismembered and mowed by the holder of the cleaning guns. Only haven of peace in this world of sorrows and forgetful beings, the cemetery where the narrator speaks again Montrouge spending time with his loved ones. This does not surprise those who appreciate the "bete noire " of filmmakers Nouvelle Vague, the memories of the Occupation of Audiard lean more Crossing to paris than to The last metro. As of Brassens Two Uncles, screenwriter of Barbouzes refers back to back tough and collaborators (" The other soldiers, including those" shadow "mingle in the same tomato sauce, is worth all basically hysterical blouseurs-blouses, monstrously so similar that their destiny s'emberlificote sticky "). The war, he made as a commission, vaguely paperboy, pacing the capital bicycle (his second love after the books), viewers of "exquisite tribe ", the" hexagonal "(" drunks, racketeers, informers, shopping train anonymographes ). Like so many others either FFI or militiamen, Audiard has just tried to pass between pools in a period and a city ( Paname ) where it was not so easy (I speak to you again soon Trenet's occupation). But the speech he held on this time, for it is questionable, deserves be heard: "I have never seen lot of demos before the red placards. Everyone had it must be said, something else to fuck the milkman ... ... cavaler learn new dance moves ... repaint ... find the bike stolen coal. When it was warm weather, the sunshine of 44, when other manures fielded other manures to other posts, concerns remained the same, just more frivolous ... ice-cream ... chewing gum. .. Lucky Strike "). The heroism of Resistance fighters in late rabbit skin, here's nightmare, the dialogue of Barbouzes. Hard to deny that sometimes crosses the border of drivel but I forgive him for everything that passes comaques well worth the time you spend to get their hands on this book: " At this hour, by that time, Pigalle you fall on your back like an old dog mat. why this shit remember she Venice? The Serene hundred years senile, rinsing his dead snags in the water? Pigalle feels almost as bad. As soon as the candles blown out, the place turns into curd, worse than the big Place Clichy, however badly blech. Sung as if the small stream of water is nothing else in the dawn drowned, a squeeze bottle in a bowl ... "
*: Even if it still happens to write things like" when they know that parents held Quenotte trade lemonade and charcoal, it will be superfluous to specify that they were Espalion "
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