Goodnight, Chantal
GOODNIGHT, CHANTAL CORINA COPP Rules prevent us from living. I go out in my pajamas, I’ve dispensed with fashion. I filmed all of my last film in pajamas. Today, I’m in my pajamas. — Chantal Akerman But before prehistory there was the prehistory of prehistory and there was the never and there was the yes. It was ever so. — Clarice Lispector Top: Chantal Akerman, still from Portrait d’une parasseuse (Sloth), 1986. Bottom: Charlie Chaplin, still from A Beautiful Sunday Morning, 1919. 65 In Portrait d’une parasseuse (Sloth), a short film made for a group commission to support independent women filmmakers in 1986, which resulted in the omnibusSeven Women, Seven Sins, Chantal Akerman’s digital clock—a radio alarm—reads: 12:12. Make a wish. Her second clock, a square analog set atop the digital, a mere insistence, reads: 12:25. What time is it? A classic move by us sloths, to keep more than one clock around the room we sleep in, all set a few minutes ahead or behind another, so as not to know. The camera is held on the clocks, then cuts to the bed. Here, the director sits up straight, under the covers, en face. It’s not unfamiliar, this image of Chantal in bed. Beds dot her films, appearing frequently as grounds zero for lived reality—fromLa Chambre, 1972, where she rests also under the covers, sometimes with apple; to the famous mattress in Je tu il elle, 1974; to Sylvain’s sofa bed in Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, 1975 (not to mention Jeanne’s own, of course, host to the event of events); to the “beds, pajamas, and people complaining of the unbearable heat,”1 of Toute une nuit (All Night Long, 1982); all the way up (and back) to mother and daughter sharing a bed in both Les Rendez-vous d’Anna (Meetings With Anna, 1978) and Demain on déménage (Tomorrow We Move, 2004), tonally dissimilar films that rely on a common, heartfelt thread to entwine them: the actress Aurore Clément, who plays, first, the role of the daughter; and, 26 years later, the mother.
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