Frederic Erk

Posts Tagged ‘Culture’

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Violence des Echanges En Milieu Tempéré (film)

In Uncategorized on January 11, 2010 at 11:31 am

Jean-Marc Moutout

The French Dilemma

A review of “Violence des Echanges En Milieu Tempéré” by Frederic W. Erk

Destructive alternative

Destructive alternative

France is a land of contradiction. It is a Republic and has destroyed meritocracy. It has one of the last Communist Party in Europe, but elects reactionary and populist Sarkozy as President. French culture is elitist and exclusive, and yet the French just love American pop culture. We are a land of romantic lovers, and husbands rape and murder their wives in increasing numbers.

“The Economist” wrote in its survey of France dated 26 October 2006 that French teachers and intellectuals are leftists. This would explain the reluctance of French students to integrate the world of business. The contradiction is that France is hosting elitist Grandes Ecoles like “H.E.C” and popular Universities with radically opposed values of excellence and merit. France is “The Art of Impossible”, according to “The Economist”.

France is a land of social unrest and recurrent strikes. Winter time is for SNCF and Air France strikes. Summer is for truckers and farmers. French people are joking about Air France real job, which is to be on strike.

France has a Ministry of Culture, which is to distribute medals of merit to foreign artists and be lavish with tax payers’ money that French movie directors can make movies about French decline and American globalisation.

Film industry of France is about making movies no one wants to see. There are exceptions, though, to this rule of thumb. From time to time a French film director can make a movie, which is not about despair, suicidal intellectuals and ordinary French mediocrity. Unfortunately “Violence Des Echanges En Milieu Tempere” is not an exception to that rule.

This is the story of a young man, who goes to Paris to make a career. He meets a girl. His job is to provide consultancy services to companies in trouble. His mentor is a French ambitious Young Turk, who is making his living out of firing people and optimising profits for shareholders. The girl is leftist, anarchist and (surprise) working as flight attendant for Air France.

If the plot sounds familiar, it is because American movies have explored that subject with great assiduity and talent. Billy Wilder would have made a sarcastic masterpiece in the like of “The Apartment”. Alas, French director Jean-Marc Moutout has made a movie about a young ordinary French couple, which is discovering that living together is about sharing the same values in life.

The young apprentice in love and business will turn into a master, meaning that he will dump the girl and get promoted for firing people. His philosophy has evolved from empathy to self-pity and selfishness. Hollywood would have tried to find a balance between those two extremes. “Fun with Dick and Jane” is about two people trying to survive and who end up saving others. French ethics is the reverse. You begin with trying to save the world and end up caring for yourself only.

The movie provides a gallery of characters with a potential for elevating the story to the next level. There is the director of a workshop who is living the reorganisation of his business as a personal tragedy. He knows everyone in his team and has to choose who will stay and who will be fired. This struggle between his conscience and his loyalty is a credit to the movie. There is also the cook at the cafeteria who is dedicated to integrate French society as the son of an immigrant. His disappointment is the only tragedy of the movie.

The Spanish play “El Método” illustrated the manipulation of the individual in the sphere of business management and consultancy. It highlighted the personal choice of saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in a Faustian dilemma. “Violence des Echanges En Milieu Tempéré” is a movie about the contradiction in French society between its elitist entrepreneurship and socialist values of integration and justice. It could have been the movie of a personal revolt and redemption, of a fight to amend the system by adopting its rules to better combat them. Alas, it is only the statement of a society of individuals living for themselves and hoping for the best, with no vision for the future.

French films are about destructive alternatives. “La Discrète” is about love and betrayal. “Violence Des Echanges En Milieu Tempéré” is about love and business. Why could a French director not make a film about someone in love and doing better in business? France is the land of Romance, and yet French lovers are cold dilettante. What they take, they forsake it. Why are the French so pessimistic? I am dreaming of my country laughing to destiny and challenges with a grin of universal meaningfulness. Shall we have another Revolution to achieve this?

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France: Stranger in Paradise

In Uncategorized on December 30, 2009 at 10:52 am

According to the Economist, it is becoming both easier and more difficult to experience the thrill of being an outsider. The advent of new technologies and traveling for the masses have contributed to making culture more intimate. A real outsider is someone who is drawing his cultural identity from his own personality.

The Economist journal has published a very interesting article about “Being Foreign, The Others”, which is about the thrill of being an outsider. I don’t think that modern technologies have transformed the thrill of discovering a foreign culture. Quite on the contrary, with the Internet, we experience a renewal of cultural intimacy, and this is shown in the statistics of languages of online content. We could have expected English to dominate written content, but it is falling back.

I think that new technologies like cell phone and SMS, global positioning systems and Internet have made the choice of approaches more confusing. You will meet Japanese tourists in areas unknown to inhabitants of Riga, as a consequence of online information. But as Irina, the city guide I met in Riga, wisely said: “You can walk the city, but there is a difference to walk in the city.” Meaning that the thrill of being an outsider is unchanged, it has only evolved to a more sophisticated and enriching level. Read the rest of this entry »

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Back to Paris

In Uncategorized on December 29, 2009 at 10:59 am

One should avoid negative people at all costs, says the American credo. Returning to France after Latvia could not illustrate better how France has become a country of negative people, or over eager excessive optimists. Take Sarkozy. He is chilling as leader, as his energy is not about facing problems, but covering them up. As such he is largely contributing to the French malaise of today.

A common held opinion of the French media is how fortunate we are to live in such a beautiful, innovating country. We have no war like in Afghanistan, and economic growth is there. People asking questions about social contract and individual right to happiness are called defeatists. Our gesticulating President is calling for France, like a bad trainer would shout to his defeated team.

What is wrong is how we process information. News are bullshit. Important information is withheld, and we are entertained with tales of ordinary madness.

So what does it really mean to be positive? Acting positive is not about smiling to bad luck or fate, it is tough to lose your work, especially with a family at charge. The positive answer is that nothing you can do will change the fact that you are in trouble, and even if positivist thinking has the low calorie diet of a Big Mac, it is all about knowing that right now, you are on your own about how you are going to react constructively.

In short being negative only adds to the overall burden of life. It does not help at all. And it does take available energy and time for no result. Negative is to think too much, and too narrowly. The magic of doing is that it does free your brain from that paralysing chain of thoughts, about risks, etc. exactly like a General who would ponder for hours everyone of his moves. Positive attitude is about dynamics. Read the rest of this entry »

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Orthodox Riga, A Vibrant Faith

In Uncategorized on December 27, 2009 at 5:04 pm

While French churches have magnificent architecture, their spiritual life has dwindled. Priests come from Africa. You have to book in advance to get inside a French Church, because their doors are always closed.

Now consider Orthodox Riga and enter a world of vibrant faith, where young people with typical Dostoevsky passion pray with a vibrant faith, while Babushkas kiss and mutter in silence.

There are many ways to tour a city. You can follow police cars. Open garbage bins and check out their content. But you can be more inspired, or shall we say, more spiritual and go to its churches.

Riga has an unbelievable diversity of churches, some of which are only distant a few hundred meters. Lutherans. Christians Orthodox. Catholics. Jews. And Evangelists. Methodists.

Of course we could add the numerous banks from Sweden, Germany, etc. to the list of spiritual locations as they remain impervious to crisis and really are all about faith in greed.

Going to Russian Orthodox church is a matter of coordination. You need to avoid the patrolling babushkas, who are part of a network of international beggars. Then you have to climb stairs and go through gates while security guards are staring at you. Eventually you are in, and well rewarded with a silent devoted crowd of women, some very young with child, other older with grandchildren, faces aglow with the spiritual exertion.

Orthodox religious art has the harmony of a patient gaze under veils of gold and silver. The Orthodox Madonna is holding the Sacred Child like a Pieta. Candles are illuminating portraits of Saints, and reflecting rich gold and silver. Read the rest of this entry »

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Irina, Icon of Riga

In Uncategorized on December 25, 2009 at 9:55 pm

Today I had a lovely adventurous day with Irina, a Russian woman, former teacher of linguistics at Riga university, occasionally cook in Dublin, and now ruined by 70% cut of pension in Latvia. She is living with 150 Euros a month. So she is walking from hotel to hotel with a plastic bag, bread and cigarettes. She is a great lover of Pushkin, Dostoievski and we talked for hours about literature, Soviet history and France. She has a devotion for the Russian tongue, so liquid and full of variations.

Tell me about a language with so many ways to spell a name like Irina, she asked. There is no one in the world!

I have to agree that Russian is a very sophisticated language combining French richness of vocabulary with more flexibility, or customization. For instance, in Russian, one word can explain a whole lot of different things, either pleasing or not.

She is occasional city guide, and it was indeed a dramatic walk under sheets of rain, cutting wind, as we were plowing in melting snow. She introduced me to true Riga on the Russian side, and it was great to be welcome as a guest in special parts of town, totally outside of classic tourist circus.

True to Russian icons, she was chain smoking and appeared oblivious to the blizzard, while I was thinking what a true Russian wintertime must be. We ate like pigs, soup from Georgia, red wine, liquor and roasted meat as part of traditional Latvian diet.

We went to Doma concert hall to listen to Bach, and I fell asleep to my great shame. And as we were having another swing of red wine in the Black Cat, a trendy bar in city centre, she jumped and disappeared with a ten Lats bill in hand, leaving all her little belongings to me. I waited, but the waitress kept shrugging. With Irina you never know, did she say. Read the rest of this entry »

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Riga, D-Day.

In Uncategorized on December 25, 2009 at 8:18 pm

Traveling with airplanes is a revealing test of sanity. Airports have become the bazar of modern times. Queues have been the joke of Communist states for ages. Airports are reintroducing queuing with refinement. You have long queues, short ones, some are S shaped, others disappear in stairs. People waiting there have the determined stare of British fusiliers at Waterloo. Try to sneak in, and the queue will react with millimeter precision.

I was waiting in line behind a couple of Russians, when a French boy tried to sneak in with the excuse of asking innocently if the queue was for Air Baltic, or not. I reacted with sidestepping, and pushing my leather bag ahead. The youth remained unfazed, and installed himself in a parallel, and yet menacing way. The girl in front had interesting blond hair, tied in a loose knot, and a giant laptop protruding from her carry-all. Considering her waist I opted for a business woman, in various state of transformation into office plant.

After an unadventurous reptilian approach, of just one hour, I registered my luggage, while praying that my bottle of red wine would survive the abuse of air transport.  Airport security in Paris Charles de Gaulle has evolved with time into a matter of exploding luggage seemingly abandoned in a hall. I advise pet owners that Chihuahua dog-lets are shot on sight, and that disabled persons in rolling chairs are considered a danger, and exploded by fire-workers. You want to kill your stepmother, left her 15 minutes in the lobby of Paris airport. Police will do the job for you.

Security check was great, I had to expose my socks to public inspection, and holes were embarrassing. Baltic airlines was a Boeing 757-200, and I stumbled to my seat, wondering whom would seat next to me. The stern bearded man with a plastic bag at hand, and glazed eyes. One of the blonde beauties with artificial furs and bleached hair, hugging imitations of Louis Vuitton handbags. Or one of the mafiosi looking guys, who had just escaped Berlin Wall with a grumpy voice.

Fate decided otherwise, and a young couple of Russians sat near me, and at once began to rehearse practical sexual intercourse in a crowded airplane-with-the-passenger-seating-next-to-them-pretending-to-remain-aloof. The blonde businesswoman sat in front of me, and at once began to play with her seat, so that I felt sandwiched between her and the plastic bag man behind. So eventually we left Paris behind, and while I was still wondering about it, stewardesses began to unroll the usual program for belittled passengers. Fake survival exercise, food in little boxes and plastic dish.

When the Russian sex machine stopped for a minute, I could use my arm rest, and begin to unpack my food, and so began the first stage of tactical management of arm rests. Unpretending, and yet stubbornly I petitioned for every millimeter of ownership of that shared armrest. When he was kissing the girl in a swoon of sexual ecstasies, I used the opportunity to capture additional millimeters. So that after several hours, my seat belt was between his legs, and my hand dangerously close to his erupting fly.

Fate came to my help, as the airplane was jolted to the side, and the pilot announced that for safety reason he had to crash land the aircraft in Vilnius. So we did, and spent two hours on a tarmac, waiting for gasoline. Some passengers broke ranks and decided to leave the airplane without their luggage. I was oblivious to all of this, as I tried to invent derivatives to the sexual orgy of the seats next to me. I tried the chocolate trick, and had for sole reaction two sets of black eyes, reducing my peace talks attempts to nil. I tried the Swiss approach, and talked about the delay. No answer. I tried the Apple approach and displayed my computer expertise in real time. No reaction, but for a dangerous tightening at the armrest contact zone.

After ten hours of that war game, we landed in Riga, and I could escape my seat, while the two lovers renewed their assaults. The first impression of Riga was vivifying air, cold and cutting. Giant tractors were cleaning tarmacs, and the bus skidded in front of the terminal in an eruption of tortured brakes and geysers of dirty snow. Rushing inside gave the impression of a devastated airport, with minimal activity, crying children, fierce looking local policemen, and exhausted looking personnel.

So began the waiting period for luggage, and one hour later I escaped the airport in company of blonde girls, skidding with the practice of ballerinas in the sea of snow, and ice awaiting us. I looked for the Air Baltic green shuttle for Riga centre, and there it was. Twenty people for twelve seats, great for sexual intercourse, but not after ten hours of flight. The inside was stifling hot, and I was despairing because the chauffeur had to check each ID with the hotel card, after letting the people inside the shuttle. I saw my chance when a cute lady pulled a cart of luggage to the car, and happily left my place to her, so much for French reputation of gallantry.

I chose a taxi, and this is how I reached my hotel with nine hours of delay, in the middle of the night, and Riga was magnificent under the snow. Very few people were walking the streets, which came as a shock after the crowds of Paris. But the buildings are superb and Christmas decoration completed with merry songs. I really loved my first impression of Riga. And it is important, as the French say that the first impression is usually the good one.

The hotel lobby was empty, but for a couple of lovers hugging. The girl turned herself to me as I entered, and she was very cute with her Slavic complexion, heightened by glowing cheeks and smoldering eyes. Her companion was so much older than her, perhaps forty, which is difficult to estimate, as he was wearing oversized coat and sport denim. The girl was crazy about him, and really hugged him for good. It is with a philosophic sigh that I saw them walk to the scene of a battle in their bedroom.

The receptionist was truly helpful and friendly, and we shared a slight smile at the sight of the couple disappearing in the lift. When she asked if I had a lady for my double bed, I had to laugh, no, my lady is away and hugging her pillow, at least I hope. The room was clean, and absolutely correct. I chose that hotel for its location to the north of Riga town centre, and yet within walking distance of the Old City. Security is top notch, as within 50 meters there are not less than five embassies, including the World Trade Centre.

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Christmas Eve in Riga

In Uncategorized on December 25, 2009 at 9:17 am

In perhaps the most magnificent introduction ever, Herman Melville began his monumental work of “Moby Dick” with those words: ” Call me Ismael.” And went on to explain that Ismael is going to hunt whales as he feels drawn to funerary carts and cemeteries. There is traveling, and there is journeying. It is my journey I will tell you about.

I will not write about the location itself, but about the things, which I learned about myself. “Oh how interesting”, will you think! Another suicidal writer on rampage, as if Russia was not exporting enough of them. First, I am not a writer, and then I have not the talent of Slavic people for suicide. So I will try to keep the story short, which is quite a challenge to me.

I have discovered that I can delay important decisions, and even miss opportunities I thought were unique, but that there is something as a deep instinct buried in myself, which is a both a reserve of calm and serenity, and a source of inspiration to my life. I must learn to trust that instinct.

I am drawn to a woman I love like a moth to a flame. I feel awfully bad when I think that the love I have is part of my imagination, perhaps hallucination. As a lover I have an incredible capability to imagine dramatic lies and illusions. I will read words several times, until I am quite sure of their meaning. And then I will imagine another meaning, and read again those words. Until the meaning is changed again.

I have to trust my instinct again, and my instinct is telling me that the person I love is loving me, and perhaps more than I do. She is seeing me. I mean, no level of introspection can approach that. This is why Marcel Proust said that spending an afternoon with a young girl was more gratifying than any literary masterpiece.

I am the one responsible for my happiness. I am the one who can take the decisions. Say “Yes!” or “No!” I am not saying I have full control, because it is ridiculous. I need friends, and I need love to reveal myself as I truly am. No one can decide what I have to do. There are things I am doing, because I have to. For example, I had to care for my mother out of love. I have to hold on to my beloved, and care for her, because I know she is the one person I need in my life, and I love her deeply. And also because I know that no one else will help her as much as I will.

So that as a human being I cannot decide if I am walking north or south, if the wind is right for sailing, because there is a single course, which I have to take. I can miss the right time for sailing away, but I cannot miss the journey. I have to trust myself.

There are things I am ready to do, and others I will not do even out of obligation. I will never work for something I don’t believe in. But I would do it if I have to, out of love, or perhaps because there is no one else around to do it. I have cared for my mother during fifteen years. And I did it, because there was no one else to do that. And I could not forsake her. Period.

I was free to say “No!” because I could not save her. But I said “Yes!” because I saved myself doing it. She made me become the man I was born to be. And if today my thoughts are confused, and that I am walking to visit cemeteries, and following funerals, it is because I am not trusting the instinct of the man I am. Reason is not helpful here.

I had every reason to stay at home for Christmas. To save the money. Even to save the planet by reducing greenhouse effects. But my instinct made me book tickets, and call my beloved to ask her for advice. So I knew I had to ask, and trust the reaction of her words within myself. And we had the most beautiful discussion ever, exchanging shots like a married couple, totally trusting, totally in love.

As the plane lost altitude and the pilot explained he had to land in emergency because there was no fuel left, I had sweaty palms, and my heart was racing, but there was no word I said of regret. I knew deeply that my beloved told me to go to accomplish what I have to do. There are many ways of dying, and you cannot control that. What you can control is the attitude you have, and her beautiful face was smiling to me, all the time, as we skidded to a stop.

There is a danger, and this danger is the “Me Thing”. Me wants this. Me wants it now. Me is unhappy. Me is happy again. A life like this is no good. Since Mother died, I have known terrible moments of despair and doubt. There is something, which does help. Sleep. Or walking. Or smiling, even if you feel like crying. No literature is of help. No kind advice. You are alone to walk the Path, but Love can be your Light.

I know that only my beloved can save me. I can walk the Path and give my muscles food and exercise. I can train my mind. I can write as much as I want. But only love is going to make me do it. I mean, surviving. I am here because I loved, I will be following that light to the end.

There is not a single way, but there is a single Path. You can walk it in reverse, on your knees, or like the Tibetans on your belly. But you are going to take that Path, because the Path is you.

There is something, which is helpful. It is patience. Much harm has been done in the world out of impatience. Everything is so immediate. We are surrounded with injunctions to speed. And the Arabs have an admirable saying:” Speed is the Sheitan”. Which means that Speed is the Devil. Again on your Path, it is not speed which matters, but if you are advancing or not.

For example, there is an admirable love story in a French movie. It is about a man who is always angry and bitter. He is alone. Criticizing everything. And everyone. He has to travel. He hates it. Then at the end of the movie, you will learn he is dying out of cancer, and hating it. And the door of the train station opens to an older lady, and she says: “Is that you?” And it is his beloved of thirty years ago. And he tells her, and she says, then we still have time to do it. And be happy for the time we have been allocated to have.

So who is saying you can delay, and miss? I waited forty years to meet my beloved. And the day I understood it was truly her I want to spend my life with, my chest was about to burst, and I felt wings. Truly wings. And the words of wisdom of my mother occurred to me. “One minute of pure happiness is worth a life of bitterness and unhappy things.”

So be patient, but trust your instinct. You can be patient in the waiting, without expecting, but patience is not about not doing, it is like snow resting on a mountain, it will eventually melt, and join the torrent. Patience is about ripening. Patience is trust.

Am I patient? No. I used to believe I was. But it was only lack of interest, or lack of wish. Life was not stirring me, jolting me. With the death of my mother, it seems I have lost patience and trust in myself. I have hurt my beloved, because I want answers to questions. But there are no questions. And because of this, there are no answers.

I have been impatient with her, and now I have lost her confidence, and she is staying clear. I wanted immediate bliss, and to live together, without understanding that the time had not yet come. So the forester has to learn again that planting a tree is about wishing for a forest, giving the opportunity to be a forest by planting and caring, but that the tree has a life on its own.

I have seen a touching thing in Riga. There is a pond with ducks. And a little bridge is crossing it. And there are hundreds of locks around the metallic structure of the bridge. And every lock has an inscription. Two names, with a loving sign. Yes, love is about hope, as life is flowing under the bridge.

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Darwin’s Nightmare

In Uncategorized on July 19, 2009 at 8:38 pm
Warning! European Culture Ahead

Warning! European Culture Ahead

Baldur von Schirach smiled as he waved his pistol to a crowd of German Hitlerjugend. ‘When I hear the word ‘culture’, I am grasping for my gun,’ were his words.

Theatricality of power. Horrible fascination. Culture. Gun. Erection.

Ask any true artist and he will tell you, ‘Yes, culture is a gun. Which is pointed at my head.’ What does culture mean? There are many interpretations, some more flatulent than others. Ministries of Culture, what a wonderful name for latrines. Read the rest of this entry »

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France: Where do we get from here?

In Uncategorized on July 12, 2009 at 5:55 pm
All for yourself

All for yourself

To live in the country has some pleasant advantages. A peaceful neighbourhood only disturbed by the casual gun shot and lone agony of a poor soul. A native population all smile and eagerness to please with an extended forefinger. Local authorities with the transparency of the last days of Roman Empire. A police force ready to take on the challenge of watching Starsky and Hutch.

To live in the country has all the delicate charm of bourgeoisie. Marriage is a matter of shared capital and failing chromosomes. Babies enjoy all the inheritance of generations of lawyers and attorneys, with a touch of farmer’s blood, when really the sperm is too weak. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Will of the Allobroge

In Uncategorized on April 18, 2009 at 6:03 pm

From their expedition in the far countries of Eastern Europe the Gauls who eventually returned to their home came back with a relatively interesting loot.

Jewels, rich dresses, dishes, precious metals, statues, all this loot was cramed in heavy chariots of war, of which the plain wheels would leave deep ruts in poor trails.

Somptuous presents they were, but for the captives walking slowly in procession, as it was custom of that time to take slaves. According to the law of the Gauls, lots had been drawn for everything, and shared among chieftains and soldiers, and nobody complained. That is nobody among the Gauls as no one cared to ask to the slaves.

So it happened that Cassanorix, a warrior of the Allobroge tribe, fair and swift with sword, whose courage in battle had been impressive, was most happy with the loot he had received. Read the rest of this entry »