Folco

Alain Emery, who acted the boy Folco in the film I was telling you about - I wanted to know what happened to him. He was only 11 years old when he was picked in 1951 this being one year before I was born. The more astute of my readers will have noticed another link - like me, he went about barefoot.

I could not find out much on the internet about Alain. True, he acted in several other films after Crin Blanc but none of any consequence. He was born on August 5, 1940 in Marseille, which makes him 75 now. I found a 2012 interview in French and here are some excerpts from Google's rough translation.

Alain, age 12, as Folco in the film Crin Blanc

Alain in the interview, 60 years later

His eyes held green pond reflections. And his face held the dark pout that was the charm of Folco, companion of the legendary White Main.

"No I was not made to be an actor. But Crin Blanc has changed my life"... He discovers the world of cowboys, horses, learns to ride, and becomes a larger than life Folco, blond and shy, a little wild, and clinging to White Mane. "In fact, there were six horses during the filming."

The infinite horizon of the Camargue reveals a sense of freedom, "a taste of paradise" which never left him. "During the filming, which lasted six months, I was going to school on horseback". Alain identifies so much with intrepid Folco. The producer Albert Lamorisse asked him to "play more", and even smile. "I could not, I really lived the tragic fate of the boy and the horse. And then I was terrified by Lamorisse and his camera."
...
For the last twenty years Alain Emery has lived in a village in the Alpilles. He became a father late in life and his daughter Louise handles the saddle with great happiness. "At school, the other kids call her the daughter of the boy Crin Blanc".

There is a 2008 documentary "Portrait d'Alain Emery, l'enfant qui ne savait pas sourire" which roughly translates as "Portrait of Alain Emery, the child who did not smile". 

I was captivated by the film's beautiful photography and its motif of child integrity versus adult avarice, and so I have pondered to what degree it meets the test: "whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise". There will always be those that look for a more sinister side but to the pure, all things are pure.

* * *

And, indeed, what happened to the producer's son Pascal, the Red Balloon boy, who was Folco's baby brother in the film Crin Blanc and then only 3 years old? In 1960 Albert Lamorisse produced a sequel, Le Voyage en ballon, staring his son but it was not so much of a success. Here is a low quality rendition on YouTube:

the above has been removed for Copyright reasons. For a poor resolution rendition try here

Pascal, age 3, as Folco's baby brother in Crin Blanc

Pascal, age 6, as himself in The Red Balloon

Pascal Lamorisse, 50 or so years later

In the Los Angeles Times, November 15th, 2007, Susan King records:

When Pascal Lamorisse was a child, he got to run around Paris followed by a magical red balloon. "I enjoyed it," recalls Pascal. "I was playing with magic."

Now 57, he will forever be known as the boy in...the short film "The Red Balloon," which was written and directed by his father, Albert Lamorisse.

Pascal, who has run his father's company since his death in a helicopter crash in 1970, has restored his father's beloved children's film, which was shot in vibrant Technicolor, as well as his Cannes award-winning 1953 family short "White Mane."

...

So how did the balloon follow the little boy like a family pet around the City of Light? "Very thin strings," says Pascal.

Because his father wrote his films as the shooting progressed, Pascal says that every day was an adventure. "He didn't' give me direction," he adds. "I knew what I had to do, but I could do it my way. It was very easy to play whatever he asked me to do."

Pascal says he had "a wonderful youth." His father, who was only 48 when he died, was "extremely creative and very sweet. Actually, he could relate to the world of the younger generation in the sense that he lived in a very poetical world himself." 

His father had rules, though -- no cheating or lying. But Pascal did lie once to his father when he was about 4. "There was a book about Tibet, and for some reason I was in love with a photo from the book," he recalls. "I got my scissors and I cut it out and put the photo in my room someplace.

"One day he goes, 'Pascal, did you use the scissors and cut anything out of the book?' I said, 'Of course not.' He said, 'Well, well, well. I have good reason to believe that you did it. You should have asked me, and I would have given it to you.' I realised I couldn't lie to him. He could understand more than most people. "And I still have the book!"

Which reminds me - as a child, one Christmas I was given a book about electricity (my favourite subject). Whilst the present-opening festivities continued I was doodling (as one does) - designing some amazing imagined invention - and found to my horror that I was doodling in ink on a page in this book. I hastily exited the room and found paper and sellotape to cover up my sin. Whether anyone realised what I had done I know not, but I was ashamed of that page as long as I kept the book, even more as the sellotape began to yellow with age.

Sunday bike

Only having a few hours this Sunday afternoon I decided to explore and ended up following the route of the disused Naas Tullow railway. Total distance 33.8 miles, average speed 13.3 mph. The OSI map viewer helpfully gives the railway route as a grey line and I have noted a few Points of Interest that I stopped at. In case you are interested in disused railways...

POI on OSI map

Zooming in on POI #1

An aerial view of POI #1 makes this part of the route look rather interesting and possibly navigable by foot however, when I got there, closer inspection shows it would be hard going!

POI #1 looking North

The next crossing was a granite bridge which, surprisingly, was in excellent condition.

POI #2

POI #2 and my trusty steed

What little remains of the bridge at POI #3

POI #4 at Colbinstown

The last crossing I found was an iron bridge near Colbinstown - a residence has been built over the track route on one side of this bridge and on the other is farmland with no visible trace of the railway route. And the railway was last in use within my lifetime so not very long ago.

The N81 from Merginstown Glen road

There is a sign to "Merginstown Glen" off the N81 near Donard. The name intrigued me so my return route took me via this road which runs along the top of the Carrigower river valley through which the N81 runs - you can see both just beyond the horses in my picture.

BTW the Naas -Tullow railway bridge over the Liffey in described in my previous post.

Wind up bird

My previous post "In remembrance of me" was a mishmash of notes for a talk I gave and echoes from a book I had read. I've just finished another book by the same author, even more whacky, and yet there is stuff in it that stirs my being and which I can identify with. I by no means understand it all - I think it is not even meant to be fully understood. To me it aptly describes those often random and scary thought processes that murmur in one's sub-consciousness but sometimes erupt into the conscious. The stuff dreams are made of. And the indistinct division between what is real and what is imagined. And how that line grows less distinct with the passage of time. And that what really matters often consumes such a very small portion of our day-to-day living.

A passing smile on a child's face. A bouquet of flowers. A beautiful sunset. Realising that you have touched another's heart. Undeserved kindness received. The deep, velvet taste of good chocolate. The warmth of the sun on an otherwise cold day. That illusive feeling of well-being that warms to the core. Autumn colours. The cold chill effect of some music. Lying, warm, in bed after a hard day's work. Knowing that you are loved. The relief waking from a nightmare. Driving home after a visit to the dentist. An aroma that triggers a fond childhood memory.

Leonid Afremov

I love this art by Leonid Afremov! Partly because I love his use of vibrant colour and the level of realism achieved with bold palette knife strokes. And partly because the rich colours remind me of the carpet in my parent's front room - the pattern depicted autumn leaves in similar rich colours and I loved it. But then they tell me that my idea of "taste" has always been a bit whacky.

Passion Evening

Night Fantasy

Club Orange at Ballinabarny Gap

Bike ride today: Wicklow Gap, Rathdrum, Aughrim, followed the River Ow, lunch stop at Ballinabarny Gap, Knockanarrigan, N81, Piper Stones, home. Total 61.4 miles, max 38.8mph, avg 11.1mph, knees hurting towards end. Consumed one can Club orange (as good as Jusoda was, and so much better than Fanta), one cheese sandwich, half a 200g bar of CDM. And a bit of water.

Ballinabarny Gap, osi

Downhill behind Knockalt caught in morning sun

Bridge over river Ow

View from Ballinabarny Gap

Off the N81 near Hollywood

Piper's stones

Piper's stones

The horse and his boy

Having enjoyed The Red Balloon I naturally looked to see what else French filmmaker Albert Lamorisse had produced and so found Crin Blanc. I found this also to be a beautiful film even if the plot is a little dull. When I first wrote this post I included a link to the whole movie on YouTube but this has since been removed for copyright reasons. So instead here is a trailer for both films:

Although I didn't cry, this observation sums up my feelings: “Grown-ups, who know too well how fragile this beauty is, are likely to cry.” Terrence Rafferty, The New York Times

Some interesting background from here:

Though Alain Emery actually did his own bareback riding (a tremendous physical feat, considering he had to learn how to ride for the film), during the scene in which White Mane drags him violently, facedown, through the muddy marshes, the director himself doubled for the boy. Also, though the majestic stallion seems such a unique, commanding, and truly wild personality, he was in fact a necessary composite of several trained horses. It’s the sort of invisible magic that Lamorisse would become famous for with his creation of the illusion of a sentient helium balloon floating over Paris with teasing charm and surprising wit.

Also like in “The Red Balloon”, “White Mane” ends on a strikingly ambiguous note, launching its child protagonist off to an undetermined (and, in this case, even vaguely threatening) future. Whether that “wonderful place where men and horses are friends, always,” as the narrator intones, is on some magical island or in the cold depths of the sea is open to interpretation. But what’s definite is that Folco and White Mane’s final flight is a necessary escape from a world that Lamorisse has painted as irredeemably corrupt.

Lamorisse lived for 14 years after “The Red Balloon,” mostly making documentaries. While he was shooting what would be his last picture in Tehran in 1970, his helicopter crashed; he was 48. Even he might not have been capable of imagining a more fitting end: he rose to get a clearer, freer view of the world, and fell from the sky.

part 2

The red balloon

After digging potatoes in the morning, yesterday afternoon I run beside and swam briefly in the lake - probably the last time this year unless we get an "Indian summer" - and then today I biked to the Curragh and ran 9 miles (barefoot and shirtless), average speed 6.4 mph. Two youths in a sports car stopped to ask directions to the motorway but in reality to ask if I was hot - it was a beautiful sunny afternoon so of course I get hot when running. My track includes part of the bike journey home.

My track

Mountains of home from the lookout post

The Braveheart hill

Curragh golf course

Pink sheep

Curragh race-course

Home to pizza and chips, thanks Ali! And then, since I mentioned it in this morning's meeting, I watched the beautiful fantasy "The Red Balloon".

Celibidache

View from our home

The Adagio from Bruckner's 8th interpreted by Sergiu Celibidache - thirty five minutes of sheer bliss.

In remembrance of me

Kafka on the Shore

I've just finished and enjoyed reading a book by Haruki Murakami. The translation from Japanese is faultless and, rare for me, it was a book I could hardly put down in spite of its strangeness. I guess, as usual, because it is about a boy with whom I could identify. It moved me, perhaps even changed me.

I won't explain the plot, indeed I don't claim to fully understand it - you'd be better reading the book yourself. If you do, I figure you'll either passionately love or hate it. The story is the portrait of the subconscious of a fifteen-year old, and tells of the indistinct borderline between reality and imagination, the power and importance of poignant memories, of love and rejection and release from family curse, of forgiveness and remembrance. It's depictions are tender, honest, human, sexually explicit (from a mature fifteen year old's perspective), disturbing, surreal, ridiculous, metaphorical, random, beautiful, dreamlike. As the story resolves towards the end of the book:

I burned up all my memories... all sorts of things including my time with you... that's why I wanted to see you and talk with you... while I still can... the most important thing is you've got to get out of here. As fast as you can.

But you don't understand - I don't have any world to go back to. No one's ever really loved me, or wanted me, my entire life.

Just one thing... I want you to remember me. If you remember me, then I don't care if everybody else forgets.

A question wells up inside me, a question so big it plugs up my throat and makes it hard to breathe: Are memories such an important thing?

It depends... in some cases they're the most important thing there is... Kafka? I have a favour to ask. I want you to take that painting with you... after all the painting is originally yours... You were there. And I was there beside you, watching you. On the shore, a long time ago... I want you to have that painting with you forever... A long time ago I abandoned someone I shouldn't have, someone I loved more than anything else... but the whole thing was a huge mistake. You were discarded by the one person who never should have done that - do you forgive me?

I do forgive you, I tell her... and with those words, audibly, the frozen part of your heart crumbles... Silently she lets go of me. She takes a hairpin out of her hair and stabs the tip into the inner flesh of her left arm, hard... I bend over and put my lips on that small wound... only now do I understand.

Farewell, Kafka Tamura, she says, Go back to where you belong, and live. Keep looking at the painting, just like I did.

As I read this I am reminded, a little obliquely, of: and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said "Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me." After the same manner also he took the cup, saying "this cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me."

Human as we cannot help but be, we need the tangible bread and wine just as much as Kafka needed the picture to keep an important memory fresh. Lest we forget...

To gym or not to gym

I may have mentioned this before but, for exercise and stability of mind, I run typically 5 miles or more, barefoot, several times a week. I wear shorts for modesty, a T-shirt if it is cold, and don't care too much what I look like. Of those that live in the same community here some don't exercise but those that do... well that's what this post is about. Don't get me wrong - I am not saying what they do is wrong, just that it is beyond my comprehension.

These folk require special and expensive machines to do what they do. The machines in turn require a "gym" to house and use them in. They have to dress up in special, strange and generally skin-tight gym outfits. As a result they no doubt keep themselves fit, no doubt fitter (but then they are a good deal younger) than I am. But the expense, and the rigmarole they have to go through!

I am reminded of our hi-tech coffee machine, the type that grinds beans freshly for every cup. This machine needs constant TLC - emptying the drip tray, emptying the grounds bin, filling with beans and water, periodic de-scaling, etc. It has a zillion error indicator lamps (well, almost) and malfunctions in almost as many ways. And the coffee it makes - frankly, most people prefer that from a plunge-pot. I compare this with: put a tea-bag in a mug, pour in boiling water and add milk to taste and, voilà, one mug of tea.

Crazy Cherry Bakewell

Saturday afternoon. Having finished my job-list I had a Cherry Bakewell with a mug of tea and read a bit, then figured I needed to do something so got the bicycle out and figured an hour or so's ride before dinner. Within minutes of starting out the heavens opened. I tried in vain sheltering under a handy tree.

Wearing my thin cycling shorts and T-shirt, I took the latter off before it got too wet and stowed it in my pannier and continued my ride bare-chest thus demonstrating the efficacy, in a rain storm, of removing rather than putting on more clothes. It worked. It continued to rain steadily for almost the whole duration of the 13 mile ride backside of Knockalt. True it was a bit cold, but not so cold as it would have been wearing a saturated T-shirt. Speeding down the long downhill to the main road was awesome and scary; the rain stinging my skin and with my eyes screwed almost shut.

Doubtless drivers that passed me thought I was crazy but, if being different from the status quo equals crazy, perhaps I am.

The Cherry Bakewell and tea was good. The mad cycle ride was good. And the long, hot shower upon my return was good.

Morning lakeside

Early morning swim

Here is a small selection of the 92 photos I took during this morning's run, just to demonstrate how rich I am to be able to run barefoot along this beach. Without doubt this is the best time of the day and the time most people miss. But that's OK - I would not want the whole world sharing my treasure.

The yacht club

The bridge

Morning glory

More running in the rain

It rained all day. Having determined to take the afternoon off, and having a fresh supply of Creme Eggs, I cycled to the Curragh again. Round trip 25.6 miles average speed 12mph. Having got there (a feat in itself in the rain) I enjoyed running barefoot on the wet, sheep-cropped grass. Strange - I saw no other pedestrians.

This is my track whilst running. A mere 6.37 miles, average speed 5.7mph. Starting at lower right my path went clockwise - at the furthest extent to the left (west) is the hill on which a battle is waged in Brave Heart.

New platform for viewing the Liffey at Ballymore Eustace

I took the following pictures around the top-most part of my track - they bring back happy memories of numerous sorties with a trailer carrying my son's various scrambling inventions...

Monument at Donnelly's Hollow

Curragh grave-yard

Here be where JM rode his machines!

and here

And finally back to my bike for a well-earned Creme Egg and drink of water. At this point leg cramp was setting in - on which account I had to stop several times on the return journey.

My trusty bike awaits me

Home again. Fried sliced new potatoes and cod served with peas and crusty bread, followed by brownie with ice-cream and pouring cream. And a can of cider. Thanks Ali!

Running in the Rain

I generally wake soon after sunrise every morning which leaves me with time by myself on Sunday mornings. This morning it was raining so I went for a longer than usual run (maybe 8 miles) along the lake shore, with a couple of short swims. The rain was steady all the time - and still is - and the temperature an acceptable 12'C. Did I mentioned before that I love running in the rain? Oh, and the lake water actually felt warm in comparison - an illusion but a nice one none-the-less.

Take Courage

As a child I thought the adverts to "take Courage" rather clever. Coincidentally the idea has been revived in a banned recent advert. I hadn't realised just how many times the Bible talks about taking courage, though doubtless not the bitter kind.

I have heard various takes on the extraordinary relationship between the apostle John and Jesus as in "there was leaning on Jesus' bosom one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved." Was John Jesus' favourite? Come to that, what about the extraordinary relationship between Lucy and Aslan in C.S.Lewis's Narnia stories. Was Lucy Aslan's favourite? Any suggestion of something merely sensual is as absurd here as it was for Jesus. Both relationships were on a higher plane than the mundane. It is like... I was listening to my favourite composer the other day when, first, the sound of our petrol lawnmower outside my open window cut across, and then came the yells of several children running along the corridor outside my door - noises that had no bearing on the blessèd music, noises that could mask but could not adulterate.

True relationship is not fuelled by a pretty face or by common interest but is about the heart. "The LORD is nigh to those of a broken heart; and saves those of a contrite spirit". King David did much worse things than Saul and yet Saul was rejected whilst, even after his death, David's heart was said to be "perfect with God".

Paul could confidently say "for I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day" and Abraham "believed God, and it was imputed unto him for righteousness: and he was called the Friend of God." In comparison any such relationship I might claim to have seems decidedly weak and second-hand. But in any event true relationship gets proven only in adversity. Faced with difficulties we discover how we measure up.

The Dark Island in Lewis's Voyage of the Dawn Treader was such a difficulty. It seemed hopeless - there was no way out. And so the heart which was in Lucy whispered, "Aslan, Aslan, if ever you loved us at all, send us help now." The darkness did not grow any less, but she began to feel a little - a very, very little - better. "After all, nothing has really happened to us yet," she thought.

"Look!" cried Rynelf's voice hoarsely from the bows. There was a tiny speck of light ahead, and while they watched a broad beam of light fell from it upon the ship. It did not alter the surrounding darkness, but the whole ship was lit up as if by searchlight. Caspian blinked, stared round, saw the faces of his companions all with wild, fixed expressions. Everyone was staring in the same direction: behind everyone lay his black, sharply-edged shadow.

Lucy looked along the beam and presently saw something in it. At first it looked like a cross, then it looked like an aeroplane, then it looked like a kite, and at last with a whirring of wings it was right overhead and was an albatross. It circled three times round the mast and then perched for an instant on the crest of the gilded dragon at the prow. It called out in a strong sweet voice what seemed to be words though no one understood them. After that it spread its wings, rose, and began to fly slowly ahead, bearing a little to starboard. Drinian steered after it not doubting that it offered good guidance. But no one except Lucy knew that as it circled the mast it had whispered to her, "Courage, dear heart," and the voice, she felt sure, was Aslan's, and with the voice a delicious smell breathed in her face.

In a few moments the darkness turned into a greyness ahead, and then, almost before they dared to begin hoping, they had shot out into the sunlight and were in the warm, blue world again...

...The Dark Island and the darkness had vanished for ever.

"Why!" cried Lord Rhoop. "You have destroyed it!"

"I don't think it was us," said Lucy...

...So all afternoon with great joy they sailed south-east with a fair wind. But nobody noticed when the albatross had disappeared.

Those words "if ever you loved us" and "Courage, dear heart" echo in my heart whenever I feel down. And notice how it is only Lucy who sees the detail: it is as if she is tuned to a higher plane. Some folk criticise Lewis but one thing can be said - he knew his Bible. This was no sickly emotional dribble but an allusion to those times Jesus imparted courage to his listeners. I like Lewis's writing because it is uncomplicated yet deep in meaning, concise yet rich in connotations. So what is this "courage" thing?

Courage is mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty (Merriam-Webster). In the New Testament the Greek word is tharseo and has the idea of inner warmth and thus an emboldening from within. It is variously translated "be of good cheer", "take heart" or "take courage" and always in the imperative. In all but one instance Jesus is speaking, for example (1) Seeing their faith, Jesus said to the paralytic, "Take courage, son; your sins are forgiven." and (2) But Jesus turning and seeing her said, "Daughter, take courage; your faith has made you well." and (3) "These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world."

Each time Jesus is exhorting folk who have already moved in faith. As if He knew that past faith in God does not preclude but rather almost guarantees future difficulty or tribulation. Like Lucy, I find myself needing courage.

The measure of a man

The other day I was listening to an audio-book of a short Sci-Fi story "The measure of a man" and the twist at the ending made me cry. The plot, in brief, is that the protagonist sacrifices himself to save the human race. I am not normally emotional - so why did this bring tears to my eyes? Perhaps it is because a story like this echoes the Greatest Story ever told epitomised by all that is implied by "For God so loved the world that He gave his only Son that the world might be saved through him".

It is the same story that Lucy found in the magician's book where, on the next page, she came to a spell "for the refreshment of the spirit". The pictures were fewer here but very beautiful. And what Lucy found herself reading was more like a story than a spell. It went on for three pages and before she had read to the bottom of the page she had forgotten that she was reading at all. She was living in the story as if it were real, and all the pictures were real too. When she had got to the third page and come to the end, she said, "That is the loveliest story I've ever read or ever shall read in my whole life. Oh, I wish I could have gone on reading it for ten years. At least I'll read it over again."

But here part of the magic of the Book came into play. You couldn't turn back. The right-hand pages, the ones ahead, could be turned; the left-hand pages could not.

"Oh, what a shame!" said Lucy. "I did so want to read it again. Well, at least I must remember it. Let's see . . . it was about . . . about . . . oh dear, it's all fading away again.

And even this last page is going blank. This is a very queer book. How can I have forgotten? It was about a cup and a sword and a tree and a green hill, I know that much. But I can't remember and what shall I do?"

And she never could remember; and ever since that day what Lucy means by a good story is a story which reminds her of the forgotten story in the Magician's Book.

And later when Lucy asks "Shall I ever be able to, read that story again; the one I couldn't remember? Will you tell it to me, Aslan? Oh do, do, do" Aslan answers "Indeed, yes, I will tell it to you for years and years..."

For me a good book or film makes me cry. Would that I might also measure up.