This film completely shattered me, sobbing.

→ July 2009, summer of death.

two mice fell in a pail of milk
one of them yelled for help and drowned
the other kept paddling around and around
’til in the morning he found himself on top of butter.

Typically while watching a film I simultaneously check everyone’s imdb and it turns out the director of Jany’s Les Anges du Péché, Robert Bresson, also made Les Dames du bois de Boulogne (1945), one of my long time favorites. He also made Au hasard Balthazar (1966) “The story of a mistreated donkey. A study on saintliness.” which I will never watch. While I’m generally indifferent to people being mistreated in films, maimed, mangled – mauled even, esp by animals, I’m sure the 7 donkeys “used” for this film* were surely abused and that makes my blood boil. As well as sharing a penchant for awkward non-actors** Bresson also flogs the Pasolini variety of pseudo academic cruelty as a means to canonize his subject. I don’t know why Bresson bugs me so much, I suspect displaced rage. Apparently Andrei Tarkovsky considered Balthazar one of the greatest films ever made, so the joke’s on me.

Back to Les Anges; there are two female leads both built like supporting roles; or two supporting roles both built like leads. Whenever you see one, the other feels principal. It’s like they are both 64% – each, or 36% – each, making a combined total of 100% impossible, something is always lacking or is too much. However, the ending made some sense of that, and my eyes welled up.

———

* “..in a notorious scene, a piece of newspaper is tied to the donkey’s tail and is ignited. This was tightly controlled by handlers to ensure the fire never reached or burned the donkey’s skin.” – Sure, Mary. Like I said, abused.

** “..his film Pickpocket was banned in Finland because of its depiction of authentic pickpocketing techniques.” – Documentaries are not cinema.

→ color

Dug up an article on “Maisons d’artistes” from the May 1953 issue of France Illustration featuring Jany’s houseboat / boathouse La Garonne on the Seine, providing also a delicious Jean Marais connection. 

→ enlarge

Here is a translation:

“Jany Holt, the well-known actress, has made her home on a houseboat near the Neuilly Bridge. She has furnished her floating home with great taste. Here is the spacious and welcoming living room.

Fine furniture and decorative ornaments are among Jany Holt’s favorite possessions. The corner of the houseboat shown above was decorated by herself in a modern style.

From her houseboat, Jany Holt can see Jean Marais’s houseboat.

Life on a boat is truly ideal. Jany Holt has Jean Marais as her neighbor, and from her window she can see La Nomade, his boat.

Every modern convenience has been installed: an electric kitchen, a refrigerator, and central heating. And when Jany Holt goes up onto the deck early in the morning, she has, for a moment, the illusion of being at sea.

Who would believe that this elegant interior was created inside a former tugboat? Jean Marais designed the entire layout himself, where the only thing that disturbs his solitude is the telephone.”

★The term bohemian lifestyle emerged in 1830s France refering to artists’ unconventional way of living that prioritizes creative freedom, artistic pursuits, wanderlust, and community over mainstream materialism and societal norms.  

Panique (1946), L’alibi (1937), Le pays sans étoiles (1946), Le baron fantôme (1943), La Marie du port (1950), La fiancée des ténèbres (1945), back to back to back, so it’s now one 12-hour long French b/w film in my mind; I can vaguely attest to how much La Marie and her damn port sucked, Panique had unfathomably perfect sets and lighting, as did La fiancée des ténèbres which had rich atmosphere but literally no story. Le pays sans étoiles was boring and slow. L’alibi was quite nice, Erich von Stroheim can carry a film any day. Le baron fantôme is a blur, but what a cool title.

An actress by the name of Jany Holt was the star of most of these films. Didn’t know of Jany, I liked Jany, a lot. Unconventional looks, lived through two world wars, born in Romania, moved to France, had one hell of a run in pictures – while simultaneously working as an active secret agent in the Resistance, for which she was awarded the Croix de Guerre by General de Gaulle, lived to 94 years, spending her last few decades alone on a retrofitted barge named “La Garonne” permanently moored on the Seine (!!) with her cats Microche and Képi.
Bloody fucking hell.

So there, I found a new friend, it’s Jany and since it’s only 6:13am, I’ll watch Les Anges du péché (1943) filmed during her active secret agent era, in which she stars as a convict nun.

Just before daybreak I revisited Puzzle of a Downfall Child (1970) for the 7 millionth time and then ran back to Paris for En cas de malheur (1958) which messed me up badly; so much loneliness pain and cruelty. Fantastic sets and lighting ↓ at Franstudio, Joinville.
Gabin perfection, Bardot terrible.

Followed by sad B-rated lazy mystery Toi… le venin (1958) with the wonky Vlady sisters.
Funny how there is always a Françoise Dorléac in every sisterly duo.

Manic with displaced pent up energy, I filled the day (and night) with Blue (1968), Viva Maria (1965), L’enfer d’Henri-Georges Clouzot (2009), Autour de Jeanne Dielman (1975), Le Parti des Choses Bardot et Godard (1964), Vie Privèe (1962) and, for the umpteenth time, La Veritè (1960), after which I sobbed like it was June 2009. Charles Vanel so super cool, Bardot sublime, probably because Clouzot beat the shit out of her, figuratively and, apparently, also literally.

Yet another Avion production meeting Monday.

7:30am, the fucking peasant sun is creeping up, utterly impossible to fall sleep, agitated and restless, yet listless; I’ll watch Diabolique. Clouzot and 50s France is so comforting.

..also, Ascenseur pour l’Échafaud (1958) & Voici le Temps des Assassins (1956, with amazing sets ↓ at Billancourt Studios.)

“Au Rendez-vous Des Innocents”

—

(I hadn’t noticed before that in La Veritè, Bardot’s lawyer is carrying an Hermès Sac à Dépêches, in black box leather, exactly like mine. I wonder how many retards have ever noticed that inane detail. – Chouette.)

touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, touch and go, stop and go, going on 7th goddamn year, retarded fucking greeks. *SPIT*

Hikikomori.

“I found that the only well-paying career open to me, as an unsuccessful actress of thirty-six, was that of a call girl… and began to flirt with the fancies related to little bottles filled with yellow sleeping pills.”

                                                                                                                           Louise Brooks

Jeanna Fine died, dejected and obscured by a world too moronic to recognize the totally singular brilliance of her work and life journey; the unique star that she is, was and will forever be. Many fine things are best hidden from the simpletons, for protection; Jeanna being one of the finest ones. Such is the way of this world that not even the specific date of her death is correctly logged, stated merely as October 2025.

While studying at the Royal Academy of Dramatic fucking Art in London, I kept a photo of Jeanna hidden in my notebook, as a secret friend. I had discovered her at 17, soon after running away to London in the early 90s, when I (a total virgin until 23 y/o) would venture out at night to explore the crummy little porno stores in the dark, narrow, damp, jack the reaper streets of the red light part of Soho.

An entry level introduction to her work would include Hothouse Rose (1991), Brandy and Alexander (1991), Party Doll A Go- Go! (1991), Catwalk (1995) and, imperatively, Velvet (1995) — an absurdist opus ideally enjoyed in tandem with its companion making-of documentary by Dag Yngvesson: Rated X: A Journey Through Porn; a tenderly awkward, fly on the wall, softly revealing, fantastic doc. Dag zeroes in on Jeanna, observing her with kindness and respect. Most of these aforementioned films of her peak era were shot on 35mm, with good (at times, great) production values and original stories, exemplary examples of a forever maligned genre of cinema no less legitimate than drama, comedy, thriller, etc. Jeanna Fine was a brilliant untrained actress, an intuitive, courageous and generous performer, the very best in the history of the adult film genre, in my (very) educated opinion.

What I saw in Jeanna inspired courage, audacity, an anarchic freedom that comes from realizing that cinematic magic can be made under any circumstances, to not be afraid to get my hands dirty, the valor to use my vulnerable body as a tool to communicate with people. When she was supported by good material and a capable director (her preferred environment) she was captivating; when she had neither (quickie gonzo money grab) she usually took over, inventing both plot and dialog on the spot, confidently bulldozing through whatever was available into a solid performance with vulnerability, humor, irreverence, humanity and danger.

Dead at just 62 and I’m livid with you for being blind, for making her feel less than*, which eventually made her retreat and be unkind to herself.

Louise Brooks was dealt a similar hand which drove her to despair and self destruction, nearing death; rescued in the nick of time, nurtured back to whatever little bit of life she had left in her and brought back into the light, re-discovered and restored, rightfully revered. Jeanna didn’t have the same luck but today’s vomitous world is far too cowardly for miracles.

I will forever speak of her.

Godspeed Angelique, secret friend.

*Although you peasants truly do not deserve it, I will nevertheless bless you with a rare audio interview/monolog of Jeanna: part 1 + part 2.

some things, archived :

→ a

→ b

→ c

→ d

→ e

Delivery (2004, feature film)

Feature film by Nikos Panayotopoulos

Starring Thanos Samaras, Alexia Kaltsiki, Errikos Litsis

A young man arrives in Athens searching for work and ends up as a pizza delivery boy, moving through the city’s decaying neighborhoods. Each delivery pulls him deeper into the bleak lives of the lost and desperate, until he finally ascends from the city’s ruins, a messianic figure.

2004 Venice Film Festival Golden Lion Nominee
2004 FIPRESCI Prize Winner

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0431720/reference/

Valse Sentimentale (2007)

Feature film by Constantina Voulgaris

Starring Thanos Samaras and Loukia Michalopoulou

In the ample downtime of a Greek summer-in-the-city, while everybody else is sunning and hooking up out in the islands, Stamatis and Electra, two young bohemian loner misfits, meet in the heart of Exarchia, the bustling artist quarter of Athens.

Yearning for each other but too cool to dare, too clumsy not to step on each other’s Doc Martens, too damn sentimental not to surrender in the end to that old-fashioned thing called love.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1142438/reference/

Θέατρο Αμόρε

IV Δοκιμές Εξώστης 6–16 Μαΐου 2005
Ο Κόσμος στο Βυθό του Γκάρυ Όουεν

Σκηνοθεσία Έκτορας Λυγίζος

Μετάφραση Κατερίνα Κωνσταντινάκου – Έκτορας Λυγίζος
Σκηνικά – κοστούμια Μάγιου Τρικεριώτη
Φωτισμοί Δημήτρης Κλεισιμάτης
Μουσική Νίκος Πατεράκης
Βοηθοί σκηνοθέτη Σοφία Βγενόπουλου – Παναγιώτα Κωνσταντινάκου

Διανομή
Θάνος Σαμαράς …………………Ντάρεν
Δέσποινα Γεωργακοπούλου ……Κέλλι
Γιώργος Τσουλάρης ……………Τζούλιαν
Ασπασία Αλευρά…………………Τάρα

Φεστιβάλ Αθηνών και Επιδαύρου 2008

Βρικόλακες του Ερρίκου Ίψεν
Το Σχολείον, Χώρος B
27-31 Ιουλίου

Μετάφραση Μαργαρίτα Μέλμπεργκ
Σκηνοθεσία Έκτορας Λυγίζος
Σκηνικά – Κοστούμια Μαγιού Τρικεριώτη
Φωτισμοί Max Penzel
Δραματουργική επεξεργασία Κατερίνα & Παναγιώτα Κωνσταντινάκου
Επιμέλεια κίνησης Μαριέλα Νέστορα
Διδασκαλία χορωδίας Χαράλαμπος Γωγιός
Βοηθός σκηνοθέτη Γεωργία Ψυχογυιού

Ερμηνεύουν (αλφαβητικά):
Πολυξένη Ακλίδη ………………… Ρεγκίνε Έγκστραντ
Νίκος Γεωργάκης ………………… Πάστορας Μάντερς
Γιώργος Ζιόβας ………………… Γιάκομπ Έγκστραντ
Ανέζα Παπαδοπούλου ………………… Έλεν Άλβινγκ
Θάνος Σαμαράς ………………… Όσβαλντ Άλβινγκ

for so much time already, this has been the life

Dear diary, apologies for neglecting you but I done broke, so I hide.

Yvette Vickers was a stage and b-movie actress of the 1950s, mostly known for her roles in The Attack of the 50 Foot Woman (1958) and the Attack of the Giant Leeches (1959). Her first movie appearance was more promising -albeit uncredited- in Sunset Boulevard (1950) as “Giggling Girl on Phone”, in the Christmas party scene. It seems Yvette wasn’t as career focused or as lucky as her peroxide contemporaries, Marilyn, Jane or Mamie were. Playboy playmate for July 1959 (shot by Russ Meyer), she drifted to bit parts in the 60s, developing a reputation of a man-stealing, fast party girl, slowly fading out of the industry altogether.

Jump to April of 2011, when a concerned neighbor discovered her dead body in her Benedict Canyon two-story home, a decrepit gem of a tiny wooden pied-à-terre (about 700 ft2 / 65 m2), which had been her home since the 50s. She had no family or friends, preferring to keep to herself, apparently becoming increasingly paranoid that she was being stalked. (What if she was right?..)

The house was built on a steep hill in Benedict Canyon by very dense woods and was literally being consumed by trees breaking into it from all sides, taking over and devouring it from within. It was also infested with ants, rats and spiders. Yvette herself was also in a similar state. The electricity was on autopay and had not been cut off in the 6-12 months she had been laying on the carpeted floor next to a still turned on heater. The following description might be rough but it’s what death naturally does to a body. It still feels disrespectful. Anyway,

“Examination of the decedent’s chest and abdomen reveals no internal organs; these areas are filled with spider web-like material. The head shows a small area with gray hair. No eyes are present. The examination of the head discloses no brain tissue.”

A half brother came out of the woodwork, claimed her humble estate and immediately put the house on the market. He had movers throw all of Yvette’s belongings in the trash; press clippings, movie scripts, clothes, mementos, photographs, recordings, everything was hauled away to the public dump, while Yvette was cremated. The house sold for half the asking price, a mere $275,000 and was promptly demolished.

Somebody broke into her home before the demolition and filmed the cobwebbed, empty space. I recognized it as being the set for many of her pin up photos and I spliced some obvious ones together. It’s so eerie to see the crisp, black and white images of young Yvette next to the somber reality that came to be many years later.

[click on thumbnails for high res]

Within a few weeks, nothing was left of Yvette Vickers, but for some old movie clips on youtube.

She joins the many ghosts of Old Hollywood.

I like and respect Yvette. Well spoken, soft spoken, an artist, unapologetically sensual and chaotic, did her thing against social conventions of her time and she seemed to have really enjoyed her life.

Her orphaned wig among the cobwebs..

P.S.
Check this out:
This is what ghosts are:

από ένα γράμμα προς Στάβερη

“..άσχετο, δεν ξέρω αν στο έδειξα, το καλοκαίρι του 2009 χωρίσαμε με τον ****** και θα έφευγα απο εκείνο το διαμέρισμα. Ένα σούρουπο τράβηξα ένα βίντεο (από τα πολλά video-diaries εκείνου του φρικιαστικού καλoκαιριού) μπροστά σε εκείνο το γαμημένο βιτρώ που μας είχες φωτογραφίσει με τη Lela. Διαβάζω στο ημερολόγιο μου σημείωση· να ξέρω πως δεν θα μπορώ στο μέλλον να ανακαλέσω το μέγεθος και την αίσθηση εκείνου του πόνου, αναποφευκτα και ακούσια θα τον έσβηνα για να μη με σκοτώσει*, αλλά τουλάχιστον να ξέρω ότι δύναται να υπάρχει ένας τέτοιος πόνος, τόσο σοκαριστικά απερίγραπτος, τόσο απερίγραπτα αβάσταχτος, τόσο αβάσταχτα συνεχής που καταλαμβάνει όλο τον χώρο, να μη στέκεται πουθενά το μάτι σου, να μην έχεις πιά ακοή αλλά έναν μόνιμο, θολό βόμβο, να θέλεις να ξεσκίσεις τη σάρκα σου ουρλιάζοντας να βγεις από το σώμα σου, να περιμένεις τον ύπνο για να πάρεις μια αναπνοή.

Πριν λίγο καιρό βρέθηκα σε ένα ρετιρέ σε εκείνη τη γειτονιά για τα γυρίσματα μιας μαλακίας ταινίας ενός Γάλλου. Ένα πλάνο ήταν στο μπαλκόνι και βγαίνοντας – μου κόπηκε η ανάσα. Το σπίτι μου, εκείνο το σπίτι, ήταν λίγα μέτρα απέναντι, σε λευκό σάβανο, σφραγισμένο σαν μνήμα. Τον (με) σκέφτηκα να στέκεται ακόμα πίσω από το πράσινο βιτρώ μη μπορώντας να ανασάνει. Τράβηξα βιαστικά ένα βίντεο πριν χαθεί το φάντασμα.

Για να βεβαιωθώ (και φυσικά για να λουστώ σε λυρικό δράμα) ένωσα τα δύο βίντεο. Κούμπωναν. Το καλοκαίρι του 2009 πέθανα, το φάντασμα συνέχισε στη θέση μου, σύρθηκε σε Αμερικές και άλλες πούτσες και εγώ έμεινα εκεί πίσω από το βιτρώ, ακόμα εκεί, κλεισμένος.”

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Κατά υστερική σύμπτωση το τελευταίο πλάνο εκείνου του γαλλικού φιλμ echoes τη σιλουέτα μου στο γαμωβιτρώ.

κοσμηματοθήκη #8  θάνος σαμαράς

είναι καιρός που έσπασε ο καθρέφτης που κοιταζόταν τις παρασκευές. δεν τον αντικατέστησε. έσπασε αλλά δεν έπεσε. διερράγη. όλο μαχαίρια θαρρείς πολλαπλά και σε σχήματα ανομοιογενή. που αν η κλυταιμνήστρα είχε πολλές αδερφές κι ήθελαν όλες να σκοτώσουν θα εξυπηρετούσε.  κοιτιέται μέσα γελώντας (με) το συντρίμμι του. κάθε που βρέχει πάει κάθεται στη γδαρμένη ροζ βελούδινη πολυθρόνα. δίπλα στο παράθυρο. η γάτα ανάμεσα στα κρόσια παίζει με τις ξεχειλωμένες καλτσες του. του ματώνει τις φτέρνες. αυτός αδιαφορεί. κοιτάζει την υγροποιημένη πόλη με τα ψεύτικα φώτα. ανοίγει το ξεβαμμένο πράσινο κουτί με τα σοκολατάκια βισκόντι. τρώει το τελευταίο κλείνοντας τα μάτια. χύνει αγριοκέρασο. κοιμάται σαν ζώο υπό εξαφάνιση. τα βράδια πετάγεται έντρομος. τρέχει στην ταράτσα. βρέχει καταρράκτες. φωνάζει στο φάντασμα να βγει. νομίζει είναι ελσινόρη. οι γείτονες καλούν την αστυνομία. το τμήμα της καλλιδρομίου δεν αποκρίνεται σε ψυχικά συμβάντα. κοιμάται στο παρκέ. το πρωί στη λίμνη γύρω από το σώμα του κολυμπάνε ερμαφρόδιτοι κύκνοι. μέχρι το μεσημέρι λιώνουν χαρτοπολτός ή τους τρώει η γάτα. οι εραστές διαδίδουν ιστορίες. πως η μισή του μεριά είναι από ροδοπέταλο. άλλος μιλά για στόμα ναρκοπέδιο. χιλιάδες φιλημένους νεκρούς. ψέματα; αλήθειες. τα ταμπλόιντ δεν λένε. τώρα τελευταία σκοτώνει πεταλούδες. τις ντύνει νύφες και τις φωτογραφίζει κάτω από φώτα φθορίου. στέλνει τις φωτογραφίες στην ελίζαμπεθ τέιλορ. εκείνη κολακεύεται μα δεν του απαντάει ποτέ. κάποτε θα συναντηθούν στη βενετία.
θα είναι έξι αυγούστου. θα πεθάνουν χορεύοντας.

Κυριάκος Χαρίτος

..κοιμάται σαν ζώο υπό εξαφάνιση..
..χιλιάδες φιλημένους νεκρούς ..
..τώρα τελευταία σκοτώνει πεταλούδες ..
..νομίζει είναι ελσινόρη ..
..στόμα ναρκοπέδιο..

Πως ξέρει κάποιος άγνωστος τόσα για μένα, με τέτοια ακρίβεια;

Great idea, moving to Exarcheia; so I can envelope myself in the vibrating murmur in dolby stereo surround, of all these buzzing people in all these bars, fervently socializing. How does one arrange these things? Are they all friends? Did they make plans to meet or just happen to run into each other and went for a drink? Sitting across each other, they seem so engrossed in each other, taking turns to chime in or naturally cut in like butter with the next joke or tea. So relaxed and at ease and pleased and in flow. The fuck are they saying to each other? What the fuck is that like? How the goddamn fuck does one do that? 

Writhing with envy; Lucky I don’t own a gυn. 

Emo at 48? Good grief.

All the places that a C- face on a B+ body will accept you.