Charlotte Rambling
French people have often compared me to Charlotte Rampling or Jane Birkin, but only because we’re brunette and they think they detect an English accent — one that cuts like a knife — when we speak French.
I thought a lot about Charlotte last week. I went to see as many Paul Verhoeven films as I could at the Cinemathèque and I had to see Benedetta twice. I do that when (A) I can’t quite decide if I like it or not, and (B) I can’t get enough of it. So when my mum asked me what I thought of it I said: Well, Charlotte Rampling plays an incredibly haunting Mother Superior.
That’s funny, mum said, I was thinking of her this week because an old school friend got in touch. Your dad used to fancy her, said she looked just like Charlotte Rampling.
This sent me on a Facebook stalk, but I saw no resemblance between mum’s blonde friend and the actress I had seen in more films than I could remember.
I also went to see the documentary about Helmut Newton, L’Effronté, that same week, because I had read that Catherine Deneuve made an appearance. But no, Charlotte Rampling was the main actress interviewed and the pictures Helmut took of her remain clear in my mind: Muscles, Chandeliers, Goblets, Gilded Mirrors. Like a linograph. Think Miss Havisham on her honeymoon night when everything had been polished.
Therefore, while sitting waiting for Leos Carax’s film Annette to start, I was surprised to see Charlotte — masked and wearing glasses- walk through the door I was sitting next to. (I had sat through L’Effronté with a bursting bladder and wanted to feel safe). I could hear it in her voice as she talked to the man who was with her and the two of them sat down in front of me. She was so tiny, her neat grey hair-cut feathered over the seat. I thought I’d properly broken through to a different realm, taken the red pill. Too much Total Recall (Verhoeven overdose).
Well, whether it’s really her or not, I thought, I messaged my parents:
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“Oh my god, Charlotte Rampling is sitting right in front of me” I wrote to dad — and to mum I added: “Based on our conversation the night before last, how can I prove to you I’m not making this up?”
I switched back to airplane mode as the lights dimmed.The film sent me into a nostalgia spree for films I’d seen before: Marriage Story, Rust and Bone, Holy Motors. More than anything, it reminded me of how good Jacques Demy’s ‘musical films’ are, and how everyone should watch The Umbrellas of Cherbourg or Demoiselles de Rochefort. As with every film I watch in the cinema, I must wait until the very end — once the credits have stopped rolling. Charlotte and her friend had got up with their masks around their chins, looking and smiling in my direction. My eyes, spread-eagled, kept resolutely to the screen, believing myself some strange bird behind a yellow beak. Resting by the wall, they got all excited when the name they had been waiting for was the very last to appear. Just then, the lights came up.
As they went out the door I stood up quickly for Charlotte to hold it open for me. She was still speaking away in French, leaving no gap. Not even enough of a breath for me to say “Well, I think I prefer Benadetta to Annette…”
Outside, I took off my yellow mask and hid next to a restaurant menu and checked my messages.
“The first film I ever saw her in was Caravan to Vaccarès”, Dad had replied.
“Well can’t you take a sneaky photo?”said Mum.
It was as if Mum granted me the permission I wouldn’t have had the courage to give myself. The two of them had come out now, standing in front of the Odeon cinema, gesturing wildly with hands, talking about God knows what, imitating all the other people who were now gesticulating wildly beside them.
Once I’d sent the photo to the parents, mum was the first to say “Oh, she’s with Jean Michel Jarre”. And then the image of that Equinoxe album sleeve cover came into my head. The man who played live at Notre Dame on New Year 2021. Only in Paris…
Like a fool, I pretended to have just ended a call, snapping my phone back into my bag. They walked in front of me. He smiled and she, not unlike Diane Keaton in Annie Hall, remained deep in conversation with her hands engaged . I wonder whose ears might have been burning.
