Tuesday June 25. D-5 before the first round. The heat suddenly arrived in Paris after weeks of temperatures below seasonal norms. That evening, the three-way debate between Attal, Bardella and Bompard clearly demonstrated the absurdity of this election without head or tail. The first unbearably rude, the second frighteningly calm, the third unshaven. The three talking over each other without the two moderators themselves managing to make themselves heard. And on the other channel, almost at the same time, the French and Polish footballers were also climbing over each other in the penalty area, in the hope of forcing their opponents into making a mistake.
Wednesday June 26. D-4. 10 a.m. It’s freezing cold in the private screening room where I discover Son of a Sicario. It takes place in Mexico, it tells the story of a hitman, himself assassinated, almost in front of his 3 or 4 year old son. Who is in fact in mortal danger: they are trying to kill him so that he cannot take revenge later. He survives, but when the time comes, how will the teenager be able to avoid taking over his father’s prestigious position, refuse revenge, disappear into the anonymity of the big city? Another film directed by two women, which would tend to prove that it is always better to make a film with two people. I don’t really know why. Do we divide the errors by two? It really took me away from the legislative elections, making them seem trivial.
Thursday June 27. D-3. Heavy, overcast, cloudy weather, not a peep of wind. History holds its breath. It seems that it goes back to the presidential majority. Whichever way you look at it, nothing is cheerful. From the debate between Bardella, Faure and Attal, I remember that the latter is “well surrounded” to protect himself from homophobia, and that Faure considers homosexuality as something to “assume” and that we should no longer be afraid to “confess”. To whom should we render all these accounts?
Friday June 28. D-2. But D-zero on the other side of the Atlantic, after the Trump-Biden debate. Early Mornings On France Culture, Laure Mandeville’s report on this debate is unequivocal, Biden is screwed. He will have known the greatest misfortunes in his life, would he seek to taunt his misfortune by dissolving himself little by little?
Saturday June 29. D-1. The electorate in apnea. This is perhaps the most interesting thing in the democratic process, the only beautiful thing. These forty-eight hours of imposed silence, apolitical, mystical hours, which precede the high mass the next day.
Sunday, June 30. Day of the crash. The triumph of goy France. It has been xenophobic, racist, homophobic and anti-Semitic for a long time, since forever, Edouard Drumont in 1886, Charles Maurras in 1914, Philippe Pétain in 1940, Renaud Camus today, ventriloquized by a very clean-cut boy who tells his 33% of French people what they think: “There are too many of them”; and who promises them what they hope for: “We’re going to eliminate them, starting with the dual nationals, these bastards, these cosmopolitans.” It makes me want to become dual national, too. How do we do it? I have the impression that it’s not as easy as changing sex at the town hall.
Monday July 1st. D + 1. Since we’re talking about the wolf, Macron in the streets of Le Touquet has simply changed his look: leather jacket, baseball cap, sunglasses. The guard of his Benalla’s boys at his heels has trouble keeping up with him, so urgent is he to shake hands, smile, be loved, but he walks too fast to be recognized: “Mom! Mom! Is that him, Bardella?” No one is fooled by this fishing for votes, from which he will only bring back a little more contempt. His power of seduction that made hearts flutter is now nothing more than a mania for making enemies wherever he goes. The report in Le Touquet does not say whether he went to the town hall to shake the hand of a trans person requesting new identity papers.