MONSIEUR IBRAHAIM ET LES FLEURS DU CORAN

Last night I watched this French film based on the novel of the same name by Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt.

I should have read the book.

The film has a lot of beautiful filmography, and some lovely acting by both Omar Sharif and the child-actor.

But it was a disaster, in terms of how it is constructed. Such a disjointed plot, throwing out all sorts of details/questions/problems/etc. that are never answered or resolved or picked up on again later.

( spoilers )

I have, in the past, liked some French-language films. In fact, Jean-Jacques Beineix's DIVA is one of my all-time favorites. I think I just haven't had much luck lately.

Since people seem to have liked "Tom, Dick, or Harry" a few posts ago, here's the rest of the essay

One night, my gym partner and I headed over to A Different Light Bookstore to pick up some titles we'd been arguing about all during our workout. Said workout partner stubbornly insisted that some not-to-be-named writer was actually talented and promising.

"You're wrong," I calmly reasoned as we wandered through the shelves, "he's the most execrable writer I've ever had the misfortune to read."

I could tell by the look on his face that my gym partner was about to cite literary theory, the history of gay writing, Foucault, random quotes from All About Eve, and whatever else he could find in his rhetorical bag to justify his untenable position. Just then, however, I was paged over the store intercom. This surprised me, since usually only the staff are paged for a phone call, and anyway, no one but my querulous gym buddy knew I was there. But, I cheerfully walked to the front of the store, thinking, "Saved by the bell," as this interruption gave me to get the last word.

The clerk had seen me come into the store, he explained when I got to the front counter, and as someone had just bought my latest collection, he wanted me to sign it for him. I smiled my "professional author pleased to meet one of his many fans" smile and turned to greet the customer. Luckily, I was smiling when the shock set in, lest I betray my true emotions. The customer was a man I'd tricked with a few weekends previously. Unfortunately, though our sex had been unforgettable--and I mean that in all the most negative connotations of the word--I could not recall his name.

We had cruised each other on Eighth Avenue in Chelsea--the world's largest flea market of available men--and started talking. I was on my way to get something to eat so I invited him along. During dinner, I learned that he was a thirty-eightyear-old electrician who lived in New Jersey with his mother, and while wonderfully gifted in the brawn department, he was all but a flat line when it came to brains. We really weren't clicking, as far as I was concerned, and though I did my best to wriggle off the hook, I was the Catch of the Day for him and he wasn't about to let me off the line easily. He walked me home and was just so earnest that I felt obligated to go through with the encounter. How bad could it be? I reasoned.

Pretty bad, I soon discovered. Afterwards, I was more than happy to send him home to his waiting mother without giving him my phone number.

I hadn't told him I was a writer, but my apartment was in a bit of disarray, with copies of the aforementioned collection piled up on the floor. Because there's a photo of me on the back cover, it was not hard to put two and two together (even for him).

Now, here I was facing him again. He'd gone out of his way to come into New York City to buy my book--likely the first one he'd owned since Curious George--and even though he'd been one of my worst lays since puberty, I felt like a heel that I couldn't remember his name. And to inscribe the book for him, I'd have to humiliate us both by asking him.

( The agony continues... )