2001-07-18 || 12:18 p.m.

|| le fou ||

a story (all mixed up). jean paul belmondo is in the bathtub, smoking. his lips aren't moving but his voice fills the bathroom and the hallway connected to the open door, french words popping soap bubbles and bouncing between wall and mirror and woman dressed in a pink dress. she calls him ferdinand. he answers, mutters let's go, daddy-o, but in french, as he ushers her out the door. he is at a party. he is in an american car. there is a girl beside him. she calls him pierrot. 'i am putting my hand on your knee,' she says in french, not moving. 'me too, marianne,' he says in french, not moving. 'i am kissing you all over,' she says in french, not moving. 'me too, marianne,' he says in french, not moving. i do not speak french but know this is what they are saying because of the little white words at the bottom of the screen. there is jean paul wearing a hat handing the girl a rifle. there is a fiery explosion and a ruffled white dress. there is a fox and a parrot and notebooks filled with cursive french words written in pencil. anna karina is singing in a forest, wearing a beautiful red dress, answering to the name marianne renoir when the music stops. a story (all mixed up). jean paul is speaking again without moving his lips. he is back in paris, in marianne's apartment, and does not flinch at the dead man on the floor. or the way the algerians put him into the bathtub to torture him. there are no bubbles. no empty hallway now. there is the beautiful red dress soaked in water over his head. there is his mouth gasping for air. there is no voice now, just jean paul belmondo in the bathtub.

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