July 2023 Newsletter
My thoughts on the Barbie movie, Bastille Day, and there are some mussels cooked with bacon and tarragon
To watch:
Raw (French title: Grave) directed by Julia Ducournau
I want to pre-empt this recommendation by stating in no uncertain terms that this is a horror movie. With that little disclaimer out the way tralalala (in case it turns out to mentally scar you), Raw is full-throttle - it’s the kind of film where you don’t want to look but your eyes can’t tear themselves away, where you find yourself physically squirming and then barricading yourself with sofa cushions.
So, what is Raw? Justine starts her first term at veterinary college where brutal hazing is the norm. During this difficult adjustment, Justine, who is a vegetarian, starts to develop cravings. Cravings for human flesh. How the director makes cannibalism erotic is honestly spell-binding. Watch it if you dare.
To read:
Carolina makes stunning food. Her Éclair Cake 2.0 is my next birthday cake, I don’t care if I have to make it myself. Go for the bright colours and vibrant flavours and stay because her recipes deliver. Every single recipe she shares makes me salivate (sorry, too soon after a cannibal movie?)
You may have come across James Breakwell’s tweets back in the day, he’s been kicking around for a while drip-feeding us through his children’s one-liners about what life is like fathering four daughters. And it looks absolutely hilarious. From this perspective, it seems - dare I say it - tempting? Or at least he is such a good writer, we forget the actual daily stress of raising preteens and are swept up by his joyous, laugh-out-loud stories.
To check out:
Annastasia Art
For the most eye-catching, colour-popping illustrations gastronomiques, you must check out Annastasia Art on Instagram. Based in Dijon, she not only paints macrons and madeleines, but also cocktails, cakes, piles of fruit and oozing doughnuts. She’s an illustrator for the eternally greedy, so she’s a fantastic fit here.
Her work is hyper-realistic, proving just how vibrant food can be. Best of all, all her work is bespoke so if you’re looking for a framed illustration or a personalised illustrated recipe, send her a message on her Instagram here!
And so, onwards! Here’s to July, to my Barbie review, to firework-crazy Toulousains, and the quickest dinner of mussels with white wine and bacon…
It was on la Fête Nationale, otherwise known by the world as Bastille Day, le Quatorze Juillet, that I realised Toulousains have a death-wish.
Their chosen method? Watching the fireworks.
Not even setting the fireworks off themselves - although I am sure there were some who stupidly played around with them in their gardens - no, this was simply to watch them.
The sad thing was that I was waving my firework-loving flag along with them all. Is there something about glittering colourful fire that sparks the human imagination? Does it turn every adult who earlier that evening was making dinner, doing the laundry, paying their taxes, into hyperactive children who’ve eaten too many blue Smarties?
What seemed to be the whole of Toulouse was squashed along the river Garonne on the night of 14th July. The fireworks were scheduled to start at 10:30pm. I stood sandwiched between a guy with a haystack of curly hair which I very seriously worried would be an obstruction to my view, and some reclining British tourists who’d evidently been camping there for god knows how long because they had blankets and snacks. I stood my ground for around an hour and a half as the crowd thickened around me. Bodies pushed into any crevice available, and my only access to air was up. It was then that I realised my emergency exit was the murky depths of the river.
I’d arrived at the river two and a half hours before the fireworks. While I evidently like fireworks as much as the rest of Toulouse, there was also a free concert on the opposite bank. Hordes of people charged down the river banks, over the bridges, and squeezed onto benches, low walls, the ground, to be able to witness this musical broadcast on the pitched cinema screens along the water’s edge. I was very much the detached English observer, utterly clueless about who the singers were but also curious to know when my integration into French culture will actually begin - note to self, listen to more French music perhaps.
These spectators I could understand. Some were singing their hearts out. It was the people on the bridge I didn’t get.
My approach to the river took me down the sloping pavements of a side road. It folded back on itself, peeking out from beneath the overpass, and my first thought was weird, the bridge looks more bobbly than usual. That was quickly followed by oh that’s because the entirety of Toulouse is up there. The bridge - probably a 4-minute walk to cross - was more tightly packed than a London underground carriage at 5pm on a weekday. And what were they watching? Absolutely nothing. But it was going to be an excellent viewpoint for the fireworks. In two and a half hours time.
During that wait, the bridge only got busier, and I soon saw people sitting on the bridge’s edge, legs dangling over like they were skydivers about to exit the plane. One person was gripping onto their toddler sitting on the edge. I still feel a little panicked thinking about it. Luckily there was no splash followed by screams, but - I can’t believe I’m speculating this - since when were fireworks worth falling to your death?
All that said, they were utterly spectacular. A few of the guy’s curls extended into my vision, and my camera lens, but barely. After such an aggressively patient wait, everyone was incredibly civilised as the fireworks smashed and popped away in front of us. Many stayed seated, considerately giving the packed crowds who were straining their necks a much easier view. And, yes, I can now say they were possibly worth the risk of death.
My Thoughts on Barbie
When I was in my teens and early twenties, I wanted to be a film director. I studied Drama at university, and while I didn’t know how to go from finishing my degree to becoming the new hotshot directing talent on the BBC drama scene, I just knew I’d one day make a Harry Potter TV series. Although it looks like someone’s beaten me to it.
My work on a filmset only cemented my belief that my destiny was to work in… food. So, I waved goodbye to being a glorified runner who would rush out to get the director cashew nuts, to enter the world of cookery. In the meantime, my love of cinema never died. Instead now I recommend erotic cannibal films rather than make any.
As I wrote on Monday, this month could be a watershed moment for summer cinema with two enormous releases occurring on the same day thereby, as the kids say, breaking the internet.
I saw the French subtitled version of Barbie last Saturday. The cinema in Toulouse was packed. This movie can only be described as divisive - there are some political commentators burning their Barbies (or went out to buy a Barbie simply to burn it) versus aggressive cancellers on Twitter who reviewers have to cautiously circle around in the very real fears their lives will be destroyed for saying they don’t like the movie. Any film that wades into contemporary political waters, no matter how pink and cheerful they seem, will become fodder for rivalries.
I went to the cinema with an open mind,