battle of the sexless, or PMS rant-o-rama
Slim pickins, Germaine?
Siren Song
This strange ad hominem attack on la Deneuve's career as an actress and a symbol for her sex generation sounds like axe grinding with rusty tools, and not the right ones at that.
While the premise makes for mildly amusing holiday reading (with Guardian intent on proving that newsworthy events never occur between the first and last day of Christmas break) moving through the paragraphs becomes a painful, irritating chore as Greer compares Bacall's apples to Deneuve's oranges- to what greater purpose, the article never succeeds in revealing. Instead, we learn that since Bacall made headlines in the 1950's with her ballsy demeanor and Deneuve in the 1960's with her vapidity, society's preference of the latter over the former marks a downhill slide into what can only denote latent misogyny, and a vile predilection for girls with Barbie doll manes.
I would venture to say that what Greer has interpreted as obliterated sexuality chez Deneuve in "Les Parapluies", "Belle de jour" or any other Buñuel film, might in fact be a subliminal French/European approach to film, communication - both verbal and corporeal, and the game of seduction. As a pioneer of the communal connubial arrangement in the late 50's, perhaps Greer simply doesn't like suggested sexual torpor, preferring the angst grotesquely splayed for all to see and judge.
The feminist movement in the U.S. took hold earlier and easier than it did in France. To boot: American women's suffrage was ratified in 1920; France legislated a woman's right to vote in 1948. (Not to say that sexism in the U.S. went out with the arrival of the 19th amendment or that France is an insufferably macho land; we both took far too long to consider women capable of casting a ballot. But I do think that de facto gender roles are not perceived to be as flexible and fluid in France as they appear to be in Anglo Saxon cultures.)
Pro-feminist jurisprudence is only the tip of the iceberg. In the U.S., we pride ourselves on our direct, forthright manners: let's get to the point, keep it real, time is money, sex is time is money. As a witness to and player in French romance rituals, of varying quality and duration, I think I can say- with more than anecdotal assurance- that French seduction is to American seduction what cooking is to baking: while both require an array of ingredients and equipment (um), in cooking, much is left to artistry and instinct, whereas with baking, precision and a scientific devotion to following the rules are key; unforeseen meanderings will get you a lop-sided amuse-bouche.
So. While Bacall certainly plays the tough girl to a ravishing, sexually evident hilt, beautifully embodying all that is good, direct, and no-nonsense about 50's American love, Deneuve could be argued to portray less the despondent, detached Valium-addled sexuality of the 1960's woman, and more the culmination of a French appeal for romance and sex and love that begins veiled, must be tweaked according to taste, and finally revealed in all its steamy, spicy glory.
Perhaps I like Demy's "Les Parapluies de Cherbourg" too much to judge without bias. The music is haunting. Truth be told, though, I find his wife's work more gratifying.
Siren Song
This strange ad hominem attack on la Deneuve's career as an actress and a symbol for her sex generation sounds like axe grinding with rusty tools, and not the right ones at that.
While the premise makes for mildly amusing holiday reading (with Guardian intent on proving that newsworthy events never occur between the first and last day of Christmas break) moving through the paragraphs becomes a painful, irritating chore as Greer compares Bacall's apples to Deneuve's oranges- to what greater purpose, the article never succeeds in revealing. Instead, we learn that since Bacall made headlines in the 1950's with her ballsy demeanor and Deneuve in the 1960's with her vapidity, society's preference of the latter over the former marks a downhill slide into what can only denote latent misogyny, and a vile predilection for girls with Barbie doll manes.
I would venture to say that what Greer has interpreted as obliterated sexuality chez Deneuve in "Les Parapluies", "Belle de jour" or any other Buñuel film, might in fact be a subliminal French/European approach to film, communication - both verbal and corporeal, and the game of seduction. As a pioneer of the communal connubial arrangement in the late 50's, perhaps Greer simply doesn't like suggested sexual torpor, preferring the angst grotesquely splayed for all to see and judge.
The feminist movement in the U.S. took hold earlier and easier than it did in France. To boot: American women's suffrage was ratified in 1920; France legislated a woman's right to vote in 1948. (Not to say that sexism in the U.S. went out with the arrival of the 19th amendment or that France is an insufferably macho land; we both took far too long to consider women capable of casting a ballot. But I do think that de facto gender roles are not perceived to be as flexible and fluid in France as they appear to be in Anglo Saxon cultures.)
Pro-feminist jurisprudence is only the tip of the iceberg. In the U.S., we pride ourselves on our direct, forthright manners: let's get to the point, keep it real, time is money, sex is time is money. As a witness to and player in French romance rituals, of varying quality and duration, I think I can say- with more than anecdotal assurance- that French seduction is to American seduction what cooking is to baking: while both require an array of ingredients and equipment (um), in cooking, much is left to artistry and instinct, whereas with baking, precision and a scientific devotion to following the rules are key; unforeseen meanderings will get you a lop-sided amuse-bouche.
So. While Bacall certainly plays the tough girl to a ravishing, sexually evident hilt, beautifully embodying all that is good, direct, and no-nonsense about 50's American love, Deneuve could be argued to portray less the despondent, detached Valium-addled sexuality of the 1960's woman, and more the culmination of a French appeal for romance and sex and love that begins veiled, must be tweaked according to taste, and finally revealed in all its steamy, spicy glory.
Perhaps I like Demy's "Les Parapluies de Cherbourg" too much to judge without bias. The music is haunting. Truth be told, though, I find his wife's work more gratifying.
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