The Umbrellas of Cherbourg

Smart Boris: The French are out of control. Or at least they were, a long time ago. Umbrellas? I didn't expect to like this musical, or movie, or whatever, but I did. In fact, I loved it. The plot makes my head hurt, like La Bohème but with less tuberculosis and more umbrellas. That's not the point, though. Musicals are supposed to be stupid. Just consider Rent, while we're panning Puccini updates. As if bohemians weren't dirty and hysterical enough the first go round. Anyway, fake French jazz is better than you think, and Charlemagne munchkins dressed in Indian feathers and beating kitchen crap as though it were a war drum, these things make time precious. The music is clever and unguarded, and even, at times, wonderfully, achingly open, and by the end of the movie (movie? musical?) I actually cared about the faux-operatic cliches. And astonishing use of brass dissonance! So gentle and subtle! So subdued! I can't wait to watch this again. And by the way, big scary Boris just about cried. He didn't, but almost. So don't make fun. Also by the way, he's writing theme music for his rabbits. Really, he is.

Slothrop: This was exactly like watching Lost Highway again. Except there were indeed more umbrellas. And lots and lots of colors. And instead of German death-goth-industrial there were french lullabies. And lots of sweaters. And instead of ambivalently hating it, Slothrop really liked it and wondered afterwards why people don't sing all the time, even when at the car mechanic's. But the point is the same: Women are devilish beings and our fantastic predilection to think otherwise leads only to misery and rain, for which, paradoxically, a woman will be the one to sell you the umbrella.