YES!!!

I could not have been more thrilled last night, when "The King's Speech" garnered four Oscars...including Best Original Screenplay; Best Director; Best Leading Actor (Yaay!); and Best Picture!!! An (almost) total sweep!

Here's what I wrote on 1/13:

Review of “The King’s Speech”
Directed by Tom Hooper
Screenplay by David Seidler
Music by Alexandre Desplat
Bob & Harvey Weinstein, Executive Producers

Starring Colin Firth; Geoffrey Rush; and Helena Bonham Carter
Also starring Guy Pearce; Michael Gambon; Derek Jacobi; Jennifer Ehle; and Claire Bloom

The circumstances surrounding the abdication of King Edward VIII (Guy Pearce) so that he can marry his lady love, Wallis Simpson of Baltimore—during the rise of Hitler to power and the ultimate confrontation that would lead to World War II—provide the backdrop for what is, in essence, a story of friendship based on mutual admiration and respect.
Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush), a self-styled speech therapist from Australia, had first heard King George V’s (Michael Gambon) younger son, Prince Albert, the Duke of York (Colin Firth), give a speech as early as 1925. The poor Duke embarrassingly stuttered his way at the time; which led to long pauses as the audience waited to see if and how he could finish it. His wife, Elizabeth, the Duchess of York (Helena Bonham Carter), stood patiently by his side; always aiming to comfort and console her distressed husband, who had stammered since he was a little boy.
Fast-forward to 1934: in vain, the Duke had been seeing “experts” for years. The Duchess actually found Lionel Logue through an advertisement; and went to see him on her own; using the pseudonym that the Duke had used while he was in the service of the Royal Navy during the First World War. At first one can detect a battle of wills even between the Duchess and Lionel; including when she reveals her true identity; and that of Lionel’s potential “client.”
The Duke agrees to go meet Lionel on his own terms (which is the only way Lionel will see him). The Duke is known to have a short fuse; and quickly displays it. However, he agrees to read the “To Be; or Not to Be” speech while listening to music through headphones, all the while that Lionel is using new technology to record a recording of what the Duke is saying. The Duke’s temper flares up again; the session is cut short; but Lionel offers him the recording as a parting gift.
There is even talk of betting in this first session; which is rather difficult for a Royal to do, given that he never carries money! However, the most amazing thing is the informality that Lionel insists on: namely, that he be called Lionel; and that he call the Duke “Bertie,” which is what only members of his own family are normally allowed to do!
Back at home, the Duke eventually listens to the recording one evening. His voice sounds perfect; without a trace of a stutter! Elizabeth looks on, dumbfounded. So they agree to work with Lionel on his terms.
Lionel tends to use “unconventional, unorthodox” methods (“Not two of my favorite words,” says the Duchess.) They end up meeting every day; jumping this way and that; doing throat exercises; singing; and, eventually, even cursing, to help cure the Duke’s stutter. For Lionel is sure that his problem stems from fear—of his father, the formidable King George V; and from ridicule by his other brothers, including David, the Prince of Wales (Guy Pearce)—and the heir to the throne.
Bertie’s story interweaves with David’s; who has always done precisely what he wants; and eschews public duty, more and more, especially as he falls under the spell of Wallis Simpson (Eve Best). An ailing King George tells Bertie that he might very well have to take on more and more of his brother’s responsibilities.
On the other hand, we see an example of perfect domesticity in the private lives of the Yorks; who carry through with their public duties; and dote on their two daughters, the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret.
The time comes when King George passes away. His widow, Queen Mary (Claire Bloom), is stoic (as a Royal, she was raised this way). David throws himself at his mother, crying; she does not respond in kind. She obediently kisses his ring; as he is now King Edward VIII. His brother, the Duke of York, follows suit.
But what about Wallis? That’s all David can think of; cares about. By this point in time, he’s convinced he wants to marry her. Not possible! Twice—soon to be, thrice—divorced. With David as the Head of the Church of England! Government officials—plus the Archbishop of Canterbury (Derek Jacobi) begin to become quite concerned.
Life continues in the Logue household, too. There are several vignettes that show—actually—comparable (in their own way) scenarios to the way that the Yorks conduct themselves. Bertie and Lionel have more in common than they probably originally realized.
The cursing in the sessions finally draws the attention of Logue’s own children. The Duke and Lionel go for a walk. By this time, they know a great deal about each other. Lionel dares to bring up that Bertie would make an excellent King. “That’s treason!” he thunders. And, after making unkind references to Lionel’s background, he storms away.
Meanwhile, the government is poised to strike. The Wallis situation is out of control. After some serious talks all around, David decides he has no choice: he must abdicate the throne of England to Bertie. So he does just that, at Fort Belvedere; and then gives the famous speech in which he refers to not being able to carry on “without the woman I love.”
Shortly before this, Sir Winston Churchill (Timothy Spall) had had a conversation with Bertie. “Albert? Too Germanic, Sir. How about a good English name: George VI? A nice continuity to your father.”
Bertie needs Lionel. And, fast. He and Elizabeth show up for tea at the Logues’; startling Myrtle Logue (Jennifer Ehle) to no end!
Preparations begin for the Coronation. At one point, Bertie is besides himself; with Elizabeth comforting him, as always. At the rehearsal, though, he insists that Lionel be seated in the King’s Box, much to the consternation of the Archbishop! With Lionel’s assistance, King George VI is duly crowned.
He finally confronts Lionel about his not having any formal training. “Life has taught me. I’ve learned everything through experience.” Bertie already knows that. Over the objections of the Archbishop, Lionel continues to be the King’s speech therapist.
When Hitler invades Poland, England has no choice but to go to war. The King must prepare to give the biggest speech of his life.
Lionel is summoned to Buckingham Palace. They don’t have much time. However, singing and cursing his way through the preparations (in private, of course), Lionel divides the speech into manageable bits (and shortens it). “Read it to me. As a friend.”
Much to the relief of Queen Elizabeth; the government; and the nation, as a whole, the King reads his first wartime speech over the wireless “with just a little stammer on the w,” Lionel notes.
The Royal Family then goes out on the balcony; for the traditional greeting to the crowd.
But not before we catch a glimpse of Lionel’s eyes: they’re shining a bit, with tears. He’s very proud of his friend, Bertie.
Lionel Logue continued to assist King George VI with every wartime speech. The King came to be known as a symbol of England’s resistance.
In 1944, he awarded Lionel the Royal Victorian Order, reserved only for individuals who had performed a personal favor or contribution to the monarch.
They remained friends for the rest of their lives.
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It is very difficult for me to decide who was better in this movie: Colin Firth, as Bertie; or Geoffrey Rush, as Lionel. It was probably more of a stretch for Firth to portray the stammering, short-tempered—but good hearted—King. I felt that Rush was in his element. Helena Bonham Carter was perfectly cast as the supportive—and resourceful—Queen Elizabeth. I still remember Derek Jacobi from “I, Claudius.” Guy Pearce would not have been my personal depiction of David (but he played him right). Michael Gambon and Claire Bloom had brief roles; but they knew what to do with them. And the two princesses and the Logue children were delightful: Elizabeth was portrayed as being very perceptive and observant, even then. And it was nice to see Jennifer Ehle again: my chief memory of her is from “Sunshine.”
The clothing was perfect! The men: impeccable. Queen Elizabeth: precisely as we remember her. The princesses: yes, they were more often than not dressed alike when they were children.
All the “British” touches: the tea; the huddling around the wireless in sweaters; the Corgis at both 145 Piccadilly and at the Palace! All: very well researched.
At the end of the day, though, this was the story of a very special friendship between King and commoner—that probably would not have developed quite the way it did if world circumstances were to have been different.
I hope Colin Firth finally wins his Golden Globe (and, maybe, Oscar)!

Copyright, 2011 by Georgina Marrero 1461 words

Well...YES, HE DID!!! CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL AFFILIATED WITH THIS WONDERFUL MOVIE!

Paris, 11/22 - 12/1/09

Me standing in front of the plaque denoting that Clovis Vincent practiced neurosurgery in this batiment (pavilion) at the (then) Pitie Hospital. 11/27/09

Borrowed from another piece:

The Air France flight was smooth. I arrived very early, the morning of November 22.
Let it suffice that I became a “subway rat”, running from Metro to Metro, with my self-made map in hand. Jose had guided me around back in 01; I’d muddled my way through in 00; and I did so, again. Food was not essential (with the exception of the celebratory meal at the Closerie des Lilas on the tenth anniversary of my mother’s passing [which had me running back to the hotel and lying, prone, watching CNN International just as the Tiger Woods story was breaking: a half-bottle of red wine; and steak tartare? A no-no.]) Clothing: well, I did rediscover Le Mouton a Cinq Pattes; found Kookai too expensive; and—yes!—H&M, Trend—which I could no longer get in D.C. I also did a little window shopping at Galeries Lafayette and at Le Printemps. Jewelry: I was able to afford a pair of earrings at The Parthenon (it had been three necklaces for about $150 in 01). Gibert Joseph: a little purchasing.
Most of my time, however, I spent at the Louvre, which I hadn’t seen since I was seventeen (I kept returning to the Carrousel du Louvre on a regular basis; especially after I’d discovered the parfumiers, Fragonard!); the Musee d’Orsay (too much construction); the Musee des Arts Decoratifs (where the Madeleine Vionnet exhibit beckoned, almost as if on cue!); the Jewish Museum (which I found very interesting—I wish it hadn’t been raining so much as I explored the Marais)…and what made the trip for me: the Musee Rodin.
I’d tried getting into the Pompidou Center…twice. On strike: only the French…A brief outing on the Champs Elysees: too cold. No Montmartre: quel dommage! Le Quartier Latin: off and on. Cluny: I’d already done that in 00 and in 01. L’Hotel des Invalides: I’d already done that in 00. No Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame: I’d done those with Jose in 01. No Pantheon (I think I went there in 00.) At least, I’d salivated at the rue du Mouffetard my first groggy day. (And the Closerie constituted Montparnasse.)
However, it was the Musee Rodin—apart from exploring my parents’ hospitals—that made the trip for me. And it was sunny that Thursday: so sunny my digital camera didn’t allow me to snap all the outside pictures! I didn’t wander the gardens beyond Le Penseur and the Burghers of Calais, though: again, too cold.
Inside, however, I discovered a world I did not know existed. I’d seen a version of Camille Claudel’s Le Mur at D’Orsay; and wondered, “Who’s the artist?” Being exposed to her work—in a room to itself—kept me returning, over and over. I couldn’t believe I’d never really been exposed to her (or didn’t think I had)—only to Rodin.
It just so happened that my little hotel with its grandiose name of “Le Grand Hotel des Gobelins” is almost right around the corner (well, a bit of a walk) from the Boulevard de l’Hopital, where one finds the mega-complex that is now known as the Pitie-Salpetriere. It was there that my father learned neurology; neuropathology; and neurosurgery. Jose and I had briefly explored it back in 01; but we were primarily interested with finding the neuropathologist Professeur Hauw so that I could hand over my father’s booklets containing formulae and notes he had learned from his teacher, the renowned neuropathologist, Don Pio del Rio Hortega. It was a comfort to have the Pitie-Salpetriere so close! My mother often spoke about the Gare d’Austerlitz, the train station close by. She never told me about the Pitie-Salpetriere’s chapel, though.
On a very cold Friday—armed with my new H&M coat and a stylish tartan-like beret/cloche hat—I stepped forth to locate, first, L’Hopital Broca, where my mother had served her first rotation in General Surgery. Conveniently enough, it was also situated in the 13th arrondissement (though I had to walk in the opposite direction). I kept looking; and looking; until I found it: a small modern hospital with the shell of a medieval monastery on its side, fronting a garden. As with all the hospitals I encountered, there was obviously an attempt at historical preservation; if not, downright, restoration. I took its picture; and then headed back whence I’d come—past my little hotel—to the Boulevard de l’Hopital, where the Pitie-Salpetriere complex is to be found.
Now this was not quite as neat and tidy as the Broca! For, it is massive; with paved paths; dirt routes; hills; and signs. Signs, everywhere! I decided to veer to the left, first, where I soon encountered—around a rather long curve—the pathway leading to the Salpetriere’s chapel. (It is otherwise known as “L’Hospice de la Salpetriere.”)
Let me backtrack a bit: I’d been fiddling with the camera. For some reason, I could only produce black and white pictures, now! And, actually, I’d begun my explorations down the central path (of what must have originally been the Pitie). And…I’d seen the batiments (pavilions) with plaques on them denoting that Vincent had worked in one; and Babinski, in another. I was so thrilled! And, fortunately, I found a nice man to take my picture in front of the Vincent plaque.
And it was then that I’d decided to round the curb; and had found myself walking down that path toward the chapel. All French hospitals appear to have one: always distinguished by its cross spiraling toward the sky.
I’m not a religious person by nature (though, spiritual); and I felt I was intruding a bit. However, curiosity got the better of me; and I entered what turned out to be a beautiful chapel; with various altars; beautiful murals; and row upon row of votive candles! The place was nearly deserted; so I felt emboldened and took some pictures (still in black and white; which I found gave them a special historical glow). There were a number of flyers scattered about: I collected them all. I finally stumbled into someone praying; and backed away as gracefully as I could.
The image of the chapel stayed with me long after I’d departed. I walked back down that long curve; wandered around here, there (and even went into a building!)—perhaps I was looking for the Bibliothèque
Charcot; where Jose and I had deposited my father’s notes back in 01? After slipping and sliding around a bit—and getting colder by the minute—I decided it was time to leave the Pitie-Salpetriere. It is truly a massive hodge-podge of buildings!
I did manage to take one more look at Vincent’s and Babinski’s batiments, though, before I took the Metro to my standby, the Quartier Latin, where I browsed through the Gibert Josephs and had an Ile Flottante at the Viennese Pastry Shop on the rue de l’Ecole de Medicine, which I had discovered back in December of 00, during my first trip back as an adult. I’d been dreaming about having one of these for years now! However, it didn’t taste as good as I remembered: perhaps I got the last, slightly stale piece of the day?
And, after wandering about a bit more, I ended up at La Creperie de Cluny—which Jose and I had frequented—before I headed back to the Gobelins.
On Saturday—oh, what fickle weather!—I returned to the Broca; for I hadn’t really taken more than one picture the day before. The sun was out enough for me to get some shots of the monastery—still in black and white—before I got on the Metro and headed toward the Laennec and the Necker; both on the rue de Sevres.
This was the special day of the trip—the day why I’d come: November 28, 2009, the tenth anniversary of my mother’s passing. No longer with tears; but with joy; I greeted this day. She was happy I was there, in her Paris. So was my father.
The weather, alas, was turning. I was able to take only outside shots of the Laennec, which must be a huge complex inside! This is where I feel my parents met; where they shared a rotation in Chest Diseases under Dr. Rist. Papers were plastered all over this (since 2000) abandoned building. What would the French do with the land, I wondered. Since the trip, a decision has been reached. Condos: no surprise. Prime real estate in the 7th arrondissement.
By the time I reached the Necker/Hopital des Enfants Malades (where my mother had externed in pediatrics), the rain was coming down. And—at some point—I pulled a toggle this way or that on the camera…and the pictures again came out in color! This happened shortly after I reached the Necker: another combination of the old and the new (with the old prominently in front; on the side fronting Les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower; in the 15th arrondissement). This part of Paris I’d actually gotten to know—around the Boulevard Pasteur—when I’d visited our great family friend, Ramon Morales, in 00 and 01.
I felt comfortable here, although I was being pelted with rain. I just kept snapping away.
At this point, I wasn’t that far from Montparnasse, where I’d be lunching at the Closerie des Lilas. Some very kind folks directed me toward the correct bus.
I’ve already talked about the lunch. The next day—recuperated, fortunately—I visited my cousin, Jacqueline. She picked me up at the hotel. It was another horribly rainy day; but I was indoors the whole time. I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome. Her husband, Michel, directed me and waited with me until the right bus came along to take me back to the Gobelins.
Monday: my last full day in Paris. I’d done the museums as best I could; shopped; perhaps not quite done justice to the sights (but it was so cold; and the weather was so unpredictable!). I had two hospitals left to explore (and this time I really was to find myself in terra incognita: in the 10th arrondissement for L’Hopital Saint-Louis; and in the 12th for the Hopital Saint-Antoine). The weather was not too bad.
I loved the 10th arrondissement! Very eclectic and ethnic; very…real. This was where my father had had his first rotation, at L’Hopital Saint-Louis, in General Surgery. I walked down the street and rounded the bend, following the road until I found the cobblestoned path that led down to the hospital. To the left, I saw old. Finally—on the right—I saw new. A banner strewn across the front of the building proudly proclaimed, “400 Years of French Medicine.”
It was what was on the left that interested me; and which I explored to the fullest. Archway after archway led to courtyard after courtyard; all flanked by the batiments! The Laennec and the Necker must be something like this. Always, the cross spiraling toward the heavens over the chapel; not too far behind the central archway.
I walked around, almost mesmerized. So this is what young Efrain first encountered as an extern; after having finished his competitive examinations! General Surgery would only be the beginning…
The weather was holding up. It was time to go visit my final hospital: L’Hopital Saint-Antoine; in the 12th arrondissement. This is where my mother had externed in Internal Medicine; after having spent two years at the Necker. From all indications, she was getting set to become a pediatrician.
Set back from the street, across from the Metro, this hospital also had its combination of the old and the new. One could notice where old buildings meshed into new ones. At its end, the modern building faced outward. In and out: very busy. A very different feel on the Right Bank than on the Left.
But L’Hopital Saint-Louis had left an indelible impression on me. Truth is, I’d begun the day by leaving a yellow rose in front of the Vincent plaque in front of his batiment at the Pitie-Salpetriere; where French neurosurgery had begun. Where my father had learned his craft.
I had wanted to go to the Musee Guimet; to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery (to pay homage to Oscar Wilde; Edith Piaf; even Jim Morrison!): there was so much I had not gotten around to doing.
By the time nightfall arrived that last evening, the rains had begun again. In earnest. I’d run, bareheaded, from the Metro to the wonderful Pho restaurant I was now experiencing for the second time.
And then I returned to Les Gobelins for—well, not the last time—for the following morning I made a mad dash through the neighborhood. I bought a half-bottle of champagne; and a half-bottle of crème de cassis. What a nice Kir this would make, I thought. Perfect for New Year’s.
And at the airport I bought a bottle of Chanel Number Five for Katharina. I had promised her I’d bring her back one.
The Air France flight back to Washington was, however, not very not eventful: it was downright turbulent! I’d never been on a 777 that, I guess, was encountering such bad winds!