Le fils à Jo

January is a pretty terrible month. For a start, I can’t actually spell it; a trait that I discovered, much to my embarrassment, in front of a class of 9-10 year olds when attempting to write the date on the board. It is universally known that January sees the highest suicide and divorce rate (there’s a wiki-fact if ever I saw one). Depression reigns supreme as it is back to work for most, there is little to look forward to until, well, Easter, and the festive season is all but a distant memory, an aching liver, and stretch marks around the midriff. In addition to all that, the weather can be atrocious, as exemplified in the past week in Sarlat. It’s not as if we have been experiencing any sort of extreme weather conditions, it’s just been, for want of a better word, so damn dreech. As I look out of my window right now, it can’t even be described as raining; it’s just such thick mist/light drizzle that everyone and everything is just permanently saturated. Fun.

Anyways, with an afternoon off and little desire to venture out into the ‘wild’, I was fortunate enough to be able to watch the latest release from Philippe Guillard at Sarlat’s Cinema Rex. The film, called Le Fils à Jo, was a wonderfully French film set in a small town in the Tarn region about a widowed father and son, the struggle against losing their beloved rugby ground and house, and the creation of a local youth rugby team that flies in the face of the opinions and wishes of many in their village. It was an absolutely fantastic film, one which I most definitely recommend. Of course it is bursting with clichés – the awkward father-adolescent son relationship, the arrival of the intriguing beauty who works for the ‘enemy’, the familial battle over father-wants-son-to-follow-in-footsteps-but-son-doesn’t-want-to-and-thinks-he-will-fail, and the cringey inclusion of Jonah, a idiosyncratic New Zealand  rugby player who just ‘pops over’ to help coach the young ‘uns at rugby. Yet, taken with a spoonful of sugar, it is actually a really heart-warming film that honestly portrays life in rural France, can be hilarious yet at times is genuinely touching, perfect for a rainy day. Perhaps I am a little biased, as in all honesty, Le Fils à Jo could easily have been filmed in Sarlat with little change to the story line. The small town lifestyle and attitude, the multitude of minor characters who in fact seemed so familiar (such as the simple yet endearing home-bird Ponpom and his sweetheart Mme Quentin, and the foie-gras vendeuse and recently turned lesbian Marie), and the fierce intensity of youth rugby portrayed in the film is identical to that found in Sarlat. Having been to some of the youth matches as Ludo, a friend with whom I am soon to become a co-locataire, coaches the Sarlat U-18 team, everything from the under-stated pitches to the roaring side-line supporters was perfectly encapsulated in the film. In fact, at one point in the screenplay, whilst at a restaurant, Jo (the father) asks for ‘pommes de terres sarladaises’. Haa!

Anyway, it’s definitely worth a watch and you can find the trailer here if interested: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NlrNLXsf-QU

Also, as a little aside, I thought I would give a brief mention to a soon-to-be-released gem from Dany Boon. Called ‘Rien à Declarer’, it’s a hilarious portrayal of Franco-Belgian relations, told through the story of two customs officers, one French and one Belgian, who work together on their post in the commune of Corquain France and Koorkin Belgique. Although it is not out until the 2/2, I thought that this might be enjoyed by the Belgian Francophiles on the Schofield side of the family! [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipxFN1Ls8bI] 

P.S. Despite having just been to the cinema toute seule, I am wary of being that weirdo who goes to things on their own. You know, of the ‘proms front row' ilk, who arrive in their cycling shorts, hair awry, sit miles away from anyone else, always have a book in their handbag, or rather, karrimore backpack, bring a bottle of water everywhere, and glance at their surroundings with as much ease as a hamster on crack, yet still manage to emit that air of obnoxious self-confidence which safely assures that conversation or, for that matter, interaction with other humans will be kept to a bare minimum. I promise, PROMISE, that’s not me. At least, dear lord, I hope not.