Before Maria de Medeiros, so many years later, suddenly turned into the girl of An impossible amour, the dark afternoon of last Sunday, in the Lliure. I went back to see the breeding of J'ai faim, j'ai froid, by Chantal Akerman, and then it was impossible not to see her as the Jewish girl of Elvire Jouvet 40, burning with Clevenot, in 1986. That function was its launch. And those were great years for her, in theater and in movies. One challenge after another, one triumph after another. Zazu, Savary's musical, in Chaillot, in 1989. La Rosaura de The life is dream, directed by José Luis Gómez in the Odéon de Pasqual, in French, in the spring of 1992. It seemed always identical, as if time did not pass. That's what Charles Berling told me that summer, after applauding her in Seaside, of Marie Redonnet, and she was right. I'll be damned if I know what it was about, but she was sensational, she looked like a Tennessee Williams creature. Or Jane Bowles. In Avignon, the Mistral burned on the scene.
Then, suddenly, there is the international zambombazo, Pulp Fiction, although that already belongs to a certain point to the present. But today I want to talk about the magical returns to childhood and youth, like the other afternoon, in the Lliure. Maria de Medeiros and Bulle Ogier are mother and daughter in An impossible amour, about the novel (and the tragedy) of Christine Angot, directed by Célie Phaute. The Medeiros is Christine. And Bulle Ogier is Rachel, the poor mother, dazzled by a scoundrel who has simply read many books. Ogier is 79 years old. I wanted to imagine Rachel in her youth because she remembered Rosemonde, in The salamander, by Alain Tanner. I wanted to see her like that because sometimes the older actresses are too old to make their fiction daughters seem credible. The connection shook me in the restaurant scene. The part where they are together again, trying to save themselves, to escape silence. I really like Christine de Maria de Medeiros being a girl again, and also Bulle Ogier as the last Rachel, wrapped in that guilty silence, which she kept because she could not believe in that incest. Worse: because he thought no one would believe her. That brutal silence between mother and daughter, which is the axis of the work and only comes fully distilled in the final third. And then the bridge of words. From bridge to bridge, I thought of Le Pont du Nord, the film by Jacques Rivette that was co-written by, among others, Bulle Ogier and his daughter Pascale, that sweetness that died in 1981 of a heart attack. I see Bulle and Pascale Ogier traveling back in time, playing again on the bridge, preserved in the almost harsh scene of the restaurant. For an extraordinary moment, Bulle / Rachel has the eyes of the salamander again. And Pascale / Christine, Maria's laughing look. In the theater it is always upstream. How to explain? The magas know.