It was an unforgettable evening, I would even go so far as to say historical. All these French stars, and the foreign Roberts, the unalterable freshness of the eternally new Catherine Dorléac. But above all the alcoholic atmosphere after two hours spent at the Fouquet’s to drown his stage fright-“I’m going to have it, this fucking Caesar”-or its bitterness-“Look at me these assholes that have not appointed me”. Act before reassuring when we understood, with the presentation of Jean-Pascal Zadi, that the high mass of national cinema could be animated by a black actor of the cities. Is it because he was there that he was not funny, or because he was not funny that he was there? Conversely, it bothered a little of finding the “alpha male” of franchouillard cinema becoming the excluded, the visible minority of the corpo, until, in the tragic role of the supplicant loser: “I signal to the academy that I played in comedies which were not funny”, Franck Dubosc fails to make us laugh.
The highlight of the evening was elsewhere. Because to hide anything from you, I taste this cinema party as little as that of theater. And to tell you the truth, the parties of anything have been supporting me since always, I find almost each time a good excuse to avoid them. Boredom is torture. Staying in bed during the music festival, going to the cinema on the evening of the Caesars presentation is my rule.
However, it happens that I find myself stuck. Either because Dora asks me to massage her foot while she likes Scarlett Johansson with Tarantino, which allows me, what relief, to turn my back on the screen. Either, as was the case this year, because my niece competed in it for the César for the best documentary short film, the LEVONTIN of the evening. It was she, my niece, who told me that they were going to alcoholic at the Fouquet’s first. But not damn to tell me at what time, inevitably late, she was going to pass and perhaps go on stage to receive her trophy.
Was I going to have, for low family reasons, to endure the parade of lenifying congratulations and the sperm thanks? Well no, when it’s unbearable, I can’t stand.
Sitting at my office, in front of my computer screen, and knowing Volodymyr Zelensky in the middle of the last season of his autobiographical series entitled Putin kill meI clicked on the BFMTV tab.
I fell in the middle of what was already the hundredth passage of the sequence you know. I took a while to achieve what was going on:
– You think if you speak very hard you go …
– He doesn’t speak loudly. Your country is in great difficulty.
– Can I speak?
– No no, you’ve talked a lot. Your country is in great difficulty.
– I know !
– You don’t win. You have a hell of a good luck to be able to get out of it, thanks to us!
I think I was afraid, or it was a feeling of humiliation, a deep sadness, all at the same time. Suffocation. Until the anger restarts my breathing. I do not need to tell you that the outsourcing Bamboula was not making the weight, media speaking, alongside heads of state in the process of crimping the bun in the oval office. It put it into perspective the disappointment of my niece which was not so deep: “I saw how it worked.” Nevertheless, the lack of channel + responsiveness is dismaying. How did they not take advantage of this “big time of TV” to launch with the most sensational duplex White House in the history of the Césars evening!
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