Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. I am your hostess, Sara Morton, for Skye Channel's Master Petits Pois Anglo-French Mystery Theater, brought to you by Robins-eye Frozen Foods, Ltd.

Tonight, we have a real treat, a sweet and savoury tale of unrequited love, requited passion, rather na-h-s-s-ty sex, jealousy, generational resentment, mother-daughter yearning, youthful indiscretion, exquisite touches of Gallic logic, vicarious and ambiguous murder, the creative process, chilly London settings, tasteful French country interiors and the to-die-for scenery of Luberon in the Spring. (And not a boorish American in sight!) It is Francoise Ozon's SWIMMING POOL, featuring the formidable Anglo/French veteran, Charlotte Rampling; that darling Tinkerbell of a new star (watch for her at Christmas), Ludivine Sagnier; and our own insidiously gracious Charles Dance (in a small but key role).

The talented American actress, Vicki Lester (Mrs. Norman Maine), over at Epinions' recently acquired Elstree Studios, might have played all the parts, both English and French, but alas, it was not to be.

First, I must add a modest disclaimer. The main character (played by Miss Rampling) takes my name and was modeled after moi. However, she is not me, and I refused to allow my name to be listed as a consultant on the Credits.

Indeed, when M. Ozone approached me, I exclaimed: "No! No! Never!" Why should I care if P.D. James, Patricia Highsmith or Ruth Rendell live disciplined (perhaps lonely) lives, are a bit standoffish, have solitary flings, and sometimes drink too much? (I didn't even care if Agatha Christie had such character eruptions, for goodness sake!) I do not deal in slander, as the French and Americans often do. (I do beg the pardon of all our loyal viewers, across the Channel . . . and Overseas.)

Alors! Monsieur Le Directeur questioned me, you understand, if I ever borrowed experiences from those around me? And if so, how often? Had I ever lost myself so deeply in my creative process that I didn't know reality from fiction?

(None of his business!)

Did he actually think I was going 'round the bend?!!

But he persisted. Had I ever had an abortion? a Caesarian Section? a child out of wedlock? Did I farm the little bastard out? Do I ever wonder what happened to her -- um, him?

I actually threw my pen at Francoise, but he just laughed in that most gentle way of his, and said we were both artists . . . which is true. I must be a professional, I suppose.

So I sat still for more of his questions, warming to his subject: Would my Catholic upbringing make me guilty, if I had . . . made a mistake? Do I read other people's diaries? Have I ever fondled or hidden another woman's undergarments? When it came down to it, would I really be capable of murder myself? Worse, would I be sexually stimulated or jealous by the sight of a woman young enough to be my own daughter having it off with an attractive Frenchman? I ask you. Such cheek!

Still, I must admit, that despite malicious rumors spread by my girlfriends in the Industry (unfounded, I'm sure), that Francoise is gay (because of the contents of his early oeuvre), there soon came a time when I for one found that he had . . . a way with women, in more ways than one, if you know what I --

Anyway, I can tell you that I enjoyed giving suggestions to the director and stars of SWIMMING POOL. I simply contrasted my self-enforced purgatory of grinding out over a dozen popular detective novels with my life since -- as a serious novelist, and, as you know, hostess for Robins-eye Frozen Foods, here on Master Petits Pois Anglo-French Mystery Theater.

And that familiar BOING! is our cue, that we must have a word from Reginald Warfield about delectable peas and carrots from Robins-eye Frozen Foods . . . I shall return in a trice . . . .

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Ah, and now to our story for tonight:

As Francoise, mon petit, imagined it, Sara -- not me, you understand -- had never married and lived with her father, writing mystery novels. One day she made an impromptu visit to her publisher, John Bosload (Dance), and confessed that "Kumquat in a Kilt," or whatever it was -- her last novel -- had bummed her out. People recognized her on the Underground and annoyed her with their familiarity, their belief that, from her novels, they knew what a twisted character she really was. Old John gave her that slow, dazzling head-cocked smile of his, and suggested she go to work in the quiet of his summer home in the South of France. Well, what well-educated, smart, fashionable Englishwoman would demur? Especially, if John might slip down, away from his seat of power in London, to audit her progress.

Sara (Miss Rampling) is soon receiving the keys to the house from old Marcel (Marc Fayolle), whom she obviously knows from other visits, years ago. She unpacks her things, puts into a drawer the crucifix over her bed, and goes to the study, where she unlimbers her portable computer, and sets to writing. The days, then the weeks pass wondrously, the old rhythm returns. After knocking out her quota in the morning, afternoons she shops in the village, or has a small lunch in the local cafe. She quite fancies a handsome, lean waiter, a partner at the cafe. (Has she known him before? I shall never tell.)

Then, there is John's swimming pool, which she can see from her bedroom balcony, but which does not attract her. She has looked under its cover and has seen leaves from the previous fall floating in it. (Symbolism? you ask. I shall let you decide.) Ah, yes, better to spend her time getting on with the novel. But some evenings, even afternoons, she unwinds with one of John's excellent sherries or a drop of Brandy. Just the thing to send you for a nap or to your beddi-byes, don't you know?

Sacre Bleu, one night, she is awakened by a commotion downstairs. Arming herself with what's handy, she discovers a young, half-in-the-sack -- if you know what I mean -- adolescent blonde French girl (Mlle. Sagnier), who informs Sara that she is John's daughter by a French woman. She plans to hang out for the summer at her father's estate.

Well, I've told you quite enough, and they have informed us with that precious . . . BOING . . . that it is time to begin: Francois Ozon's SWIMMING POOL, additional dialogue by Emmanuelle Bernheim, photographed by Yorick Le Saux, music by Phillippe Rombi --

Act One:

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So, you're back!

Preparing to introduce Act II of SWIMMING POOL for you, I thank Reginald Warfield for whipping up these authentic Italian Negronis, as prepared with genuine French Sweet Vermouth by Pierre, Chief Bartender of Nice's famous Negresco Hotel, expressly for Robins-eye Frozen Cocktails. Delicious! makes me recall sitting in the Negresco's courtyard, watching the Mediterranean and an incomparable procession of celebrities, of which I was but one. Ah, memories! But now that Robins-eye Petits Pois French Mystery Theater has gotten you hooked, let me drop only a bare clue or two more about SWIMMING POOL before Act Two begins.

Sara, as we can see, is puzzled about the appearance of Julie who, half French and half English, has mastered both of her "mother tongues" fluently. (We do apologize, hence, for the subtitles.) A growing mystery nags Sara in the existence of this rudely beautiful, almost grown daughter who John has never discussed with her. (We fail to learn the daughter's last name. Is it Bosload . . . or something else? We must wonder.) Like an understandably self-indulgent, suspicious, modern teenager, whose mother has apparently died when she was an infant, whose father is distant, emotionally and geographically, Julie plays loud Euro-rock music (which seems just noise to Sara), doesn't do her dishes, and spends her day, either sprawled naked on her bed, writing in her diary; or sunning herself by the pool in one of those "teensy-tiny" bikinis (which I must say become more scandalous by the year) -- when she is not in a monokini, or entirely in the nude.

OOPS! It's BOING-BOING-time again!

Act Two of SWIMMING POOL, with an almost ethereal Production Design by Wooter Zoon:

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Well, now that Reginald Warfield has demonstrated how easy it is to whip up in three minutes Eggs Escoffier, with Robins-eye frozen scones, slathers of butter, and a generous dollop of Robins-eye Brambleberry Marmalade, let me set the stage for Act Three:

At first, you will see, Sara is irritated, then infuriated by this . . . snotty young girl, who stymies her creative writing process, never more, my dears, than when Julie begins luring the local young bums home with her ripe young body for noisy sex in the middle of the night. But as more weeks pass, Sara's curiosity as a writer is also aroused. She listens in and spies on Julie's . . . "relationships," shall we say; clandestinely examines Julie's journal; and on the basis of what she learns there, she travels down to Nice, where she attempts to investigate the mother's background, but finds only a reluctant dwarf. (Have you figured it out yet? All I can say is, the final twists are almost too subtle for comprehension) Nevertheless, Sara learns enough to begin to incorporate details of Julie's life into her novel. (What were those details? Titillating, isn't it?)

Julie, for her part, displays resentment toward what she sees as a censorious old English spinster, who has no business sojourning in her father's home. Not of the reading generation, and not party to much of her father's life, she can't understand, as the weeks and frigid irritations continue, what is so important about this novel "the English B*tch" is writing. One day, while Sara is down in the village, Julie reads a printout of the novel's continuity, in draft. From that moment, she begins to show a certain tough kindness and respect toward the older woman. In fact, she wants to turn her on, take her back to the end of the "Swinging Seventies."

And one night, that crudely handsome brute from the cafe appears --

BOING! BOING! BOING!

Ah, there's the urgent signal. Subscribers to Robins-eye Frozen Foods, Ltd., Master Petits Pois Anglo-French Mystery Theater are hurrying down the aisles to reclaim their seats. Act Three of our generational psycho-sexual mystery, SWIMMING POOL. (I shall be back with a brief afterword.) The Lights are going down . . . .

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No, no, Reginald. Not another Negroni. Perhaps a drop of Amontillado Sherry or a glass of De la Force Port . . . . Oh dear, that's right, we don't freeze those . . .

Ah, there you are! Wasn't that an absolutely maddening finish to our little mystery drama? It kept me pondering, and I shall confess, shedding tears of remembrance, from time to time, for days afterward. The answer to the enigma is the life I live now.

Did you understand why my dearest Francoise Ozon left off the article adjective in the title, SWIMMING POOL? It will take you a while, I suppose. I am reluctant say so, but credit must be given, that he received help on the screenplay from the novelist Emmanuelle Bernheim (who received similar credit when she co-wrote UNDER THE SAND with him in 2000), but I am certain that little touch of subtlety in the title belonged to Francoise. (Very naughty!) For that reason, a myriad of others, he will soon be regarded as a Master; an equation of Alfred Hitchcock and Ingmar Bergman which produces the product of a new, younger Claude Chabrol.

And of course, saucy, sexy Ludivine Sagnier, an English-speaking French Star, is today what Charlotte Rampling was at 24. (And a tableaux scene of Rampling laid out on a bed like Claude Manet's "Olympia" suggests that Mlle. Rampling . . . still is. Gives a woman of a certain age a surge of inspiration when she kicks her knickers off in front of a mirror at bedtime!)

Well, my dears, I trust you will agree that I have not given too much away -- in fact, if I had given you more, the less you would have understood, and that -- whatever -- you shall want to see the film again at a theater, or on re-broadcast, in our Overseas Service. I'm away for a dessert of delicious Robins-eye freeze-dried English Strawberries, with real Devonshire Clotted Cream. My daughter, who is preparing the dessert, insisted on real Clotted Cream. (It's her diverse background.)

Sinful!

This is Dame Sara Morton wishing you a good night for Robins-eye Frozen Foods, Ltd., and on behalf of Master Petits Pois Anglo-French Mystery Theater.

Cheerio!

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If you would like to read Macresarf1's Epinion of Ozon's UNDER THE SAND, click on the following link:

http://www.epinions.com/content_21469695620

Or a link for the Macresarf1's review of Claude Chabrol's THE SWINDLE:

http://www.epinions.com/content_29284798084

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If you wish to explore a majority of Macresarf1's reviews, indexed by title and category, many with URL's, go to the following hyperlink --

http://www.epinions.com/content_2514526340







Recommended:
Yes

Video Occasion: Good Date Movie
Suitability For Children: Not suitable for Children of any age