La recensione su Hotel Chevalier

di mck

8 stelle

"Want to see my view of Paris?"

Con la “Pavana per una Infanta (Principessa) Defunta” (1899) di Maurice Ravel (1875-1937) a guisa di BackGround Music for the Hall (eseguita al pianoforte da Pascal Rogé) e la “Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?” (1969) di Peter Sarstedt (Dehli, 1941 - Sussex, 2017) a scandire da un Bose Sound Dock (supervisione musicale di Randall Poster) il ritmo (montaggio di Vincent Marchand) della Storia d’Amore (e a renderla struggente), coccolati – i protagonisti (Jason Schwartzman e Natalie Portman) e gli spettatori – da Marc Jacobs e Louis Vuitton, mentre l’assistere a “Stalag 17” fa venire una gran fame, l’Hôtel Raphaël (1925) – il parigino del XVI arrondissement, ma comunque a pochi passi dai Campi Elisi, corrispettivo un (bel) po’ più disimpegnato del newyorkese Chelsea Hotel [(1885) 1905] di Manhattan, e non quello romano alle spalle di Piazza Navona dove una sera tintinnarono sull’asfalto, le capocce dei capoccia e le loro carrozzerie blindate i sudici spiccioli del popolino fattosi foll’arringatasi - interpreta l’Hotel Chevalier, tra carrellate in avanti e laterali e panoramiche (d’interni) a schiaffo (fotografia eyeswideshuttiana di Robert Yeoman) della stanza (WunderKammer abitata dai personali souvenir culturali del regista: una pervasiva teoria di memorabilia) 4.03 (scenografie di Kris Moran) prenotata per due giorni e mezzo a nome Wes Anderson, e “the Darjeeling Limited” può iniziare a ciuf-ciuffare.

You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair,
Yes, there are

You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard St. Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel,
Yes, you do

But where do you go to, my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head,
Yes, I do

I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on,
Yes, it does

When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pins
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan on your back,
And on your legs

And when the snow falls you're found in St. Moritz
With the others of the jet set
And you sip your Napoleon brandy
But you never get your lips wet,
No, you don't

But where do you go to, my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Won't you tell me the thoughts that surround you?
I want to look inside your head,
Yes, I do

Your name it is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a race horse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh,
Ha-ha-ha-ha!

They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care,
Or give a damn

Where do you go to, my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head,
Yes, I do

I remember the back streets of Naples
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly-born tags,
They tried

So look into my face, Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear the scar, deep inside,
Yes, you do

I know where you go to, my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
'Cause I can look inside your head!