Cinéma Femme
While wasting more time goofing around in Polyvore last week, I put together this montage. Then I looked at it and thought, there’s a story there, somewhere.
In fact, there’s a scene from a fabulous little French movie that hasn’t been made yet. But I’m too lazy to write it, so let’s have a contest!
Here are the rules:
1. Write a 1-2 minute scene inspired by the montage above in the comments by 6am PT on December 8. One entry per person, please.
2. I’ll pick my favorite.
3. Winner will be awarded a $25 gift card from L’OCCITANE EN PROVENCE!
C’mon you budding screenwriters, I know you can capture l’essence of this picture in the inimitable fashion of French cinéma. Remember, just a short scene, so make every sign of ennui count!
~
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 United States License.
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I love the Parisian feel to the outfit. And that’s not just because the Eiffel Tower is in the background. It’s just an effortless cool.
Hello Une Femme,
I love your blog. Would you like to link exchange?
Cas
Cas – thanks, and I’d love to exchange links. Your blog is cool!
Goodness, every blogger is SO demanding of their followers this week. Miss J is no exception- Miss Deja Pseu. you’re tagged.
Her great grandmother, Marie, was a dancer at the Paris Opera when Edgar Degas first captured her in a sketch, then later on canvas.
Her dream was always to go back to Paris and trace the steps of the petite dancer.
She tucks her umbrella into her bright red bag, adjusts the antique fabric rose (from Marie’s silk sash) on her shoulder and dashes off on her bicycle.
A woman wearing a sweater and carrying a red bag, walks through the streets on a misty day in spring carrying an umbrella.
VO
It wasn’t exactly the same as I imagined, but close enough to erase the years
between my first dream of Paris and this day 59 years later
She passes a bike resting on a wall, glances at her comfortable shoes,
smiles and shrugs and starts walking again.
She picks a flower from a bush just before she rounds a corner
that reveals the Eiffel Tower.
Camera to close up:
her right hand reaches to her mouth
as the sun comes out, sparkles from her earring enhances her smile of
obvious pleasure at seeing the symbol of the City of Lights.
fade to white.
Lovely umbrella. I’m too tired to write anything wonderful though.
WendyB – you have two weeks from today, just in case inspiration strikes you later.
She rode quickly along the river as the sky opened up…
Rain fell upon the last breath of a bloom Pierre had greeted her with this morning as she woke.
‘So naughty’… she blushed, but she could not tear herself away last night. He had whispered to her as she snuggled next to him in his four-poster. “Meet me at the tower….Noon, Please!”
She unlocked the door, entered and pulled on the warm wool cardigan and slid into dry shoes.
Her tiny golden earrings glinted as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror…..’It’s love”….she thought…
She grabbed the red leather sack, and headed out under her old umbrella to Pierre…..
Fantastic contest. I am going to have to submit my entry at a later date as I am running around trying to get ready for my trip to SF. But I will be back!!
I am susand…for some reason my id link didn’t work
It was her first day out of the apartment since the surgery. Comfort was key because the incisions had not completely healed. A long walk might help and then again, it might not. She chose a cozy sweater, casual slacks and her suede brown lace-up shoes. No need to worry they would be ruined – there was no sign of rain this morning. She chose her “sun” earrings, as she thought of them, to remind her: “Live!” There was still plenty time before her appointment so she left her bike inside the gate and walked to her usual cafe. She forced herself to take a table with a view of the Tower. To sit down and drink her coffee from a real cup. No more rushing about with the ubiquitous paper cup. Not anymore. As leaned back against the wall, she noticed an umbrella in the stand. Someone must have left it behind yesterday when the rain storm cleared into searing, blazing afternoon sunlight. She left a few coins on the table and walked straight to the doctor’s office to get a copy of the final report. She would be sore after her long walk. But not for long.
“This will do nicely,” she thinks to herself as she admires the darling red leather handbag. She opens it and dumps the contents into the trash bag that already contains the maid’s uniform and gray wig. Removes the contents of several wallets, slips the large wad of euros and collection of passports into the clandestine zipper compartment. In the main compartment she places laminated street map, phrase book, reading glasses and lip balm.
She admires the glittering diamond snowflake drop earrings one last time before securing them snugly into the hidden inner knot of the her silk lapel flower. Pins the corsage onto her gray cashmere cardigan. The disguise is nearly complete. Nearly, but not quite. It was impossible to contain that distinctive gait of hers in the costume of a window shopping tourist. That old hip injury, the one she’d learned to mask with a bit of bravada swagger. It was a trait that served her well when she’d assumed the character of the middle-aged hotel maid. One day it would be her undoing. “One day, but not this day,” she laughs to herself, raising her chin and bracing for what is to come.
Pulls the strap over her shoulder and tucks the bag under her arm, shakes and smoothes her wavy auburn hair, regards herself one last time in the mirror. Steps into the hallway, closes the door behind her. Drops the trash bag into the chute near the ice machine and takes the elevator down to the lobby. Selects an attractive umbrella – “Bien sur,” she thinks – from the stand near the entrance. Files through the revolving door behind an elderly German couple and a brace of teenagers on holiday. Pretends to tighten a shoelace as she surveys the cluster of bikes in front of the cafe next door. Mais oui, perfect camouflage for a bum hip.
A red one catches her eye. “Naturellement, it matches my purse.” The corners of her mouth curl up slightly, she particularly enjoys this charade. Hearing the siren’s distant wail, she mounts the bike and slides off down the boulevard, at once remembering that she forgot how much pleasure she feels in that silky bouyant feeling of breeze passing across her face.
The woman with short, red hair sits in the Paris cafe, finishing her cafe creme and croissant, reading the International Herald Tribune. It’s a cafe for tourists, with a mural of the Eiffel Tower painted on one wall.
She flicks a croissant crumb off the silk camellia she has pinned to her sweater.
She folds her newspaper on the table, gathers up her furled umbrella, slings her red bag over her shoulder and steps out into the misty morning, looking around the Parisian street scene with obvious delight. Smiling, she walks a block to the Seine and then starts across the bridge there. She pauses halfway, and sighs, props her umbrella against the bridge railing and leans forward to take in the river view. After a minute she smiles again and walks on.
“Pardonez moi, madame?” a handsome man in a leather jacket calls after her. She stops and turns, clearly puzzled.
He asks, “Parlez-vous Francais?” She shakes her head and he gestures to the umbrella she has left behind.
She walks toward him and he holds out the umbrella. As she nods her thanks he says in a low voice, “Nicely done Sue. You look the chic American tourist, out for a stroll in Paris–your comfortable clothes and walking shoes. No one would guess you have a million euros in stolen diamonds hanging from your ears. Is that how you got them through Customs?”
She nods silently, a pleasant expression on her face.
“Well, now that Pompadour’s earrings are back home again we will be able to get a good price for them. Walk to the end of the bridge and go into the doorway next to the red bicycle. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”