Incest

Nadine is intolerable and I’m not the only one to say so. “It’s a pathological defense mechanism, people become paranoid because they cannot bear certain things.” When we’re at table and she goes on and on about her problems with film shoots, Catherine Decourt here, Dupont there, Durand, Emmanuelle Vigner, who gave her an insanely expensive watch for Christmas last year. She was in the film, Mari et Femme, with André Dujardin, which I went to see in Sète and she’s presiding over the dinner after the screening, Marie-Christine sitting next to her, the crown princess, they burst into laughter at each other’s refined jokes. The entire table follows suit. Like the king, when the king laughs, the entire court joins in. When the jester makes the king laugh, the entire court doubles over. Marie-Christine, I’m neither sitting next to her nor across from her, but catty-corner along the table. Other friends are there. From Montpellier, doctors, professors, whom Nadine knows, lay it on as soon as she’s near, they ask Marie-Christine, “How’s Nadine? Is her film going well? And Decourt? How are things with Decourt? Of course we’d like to have dinner with Nadine.” Or, “I love Dupont.” And, “Nadine is a very warm person, and very generous.” They ask questions about Decourt, offer their opinions, list the films of hers they liked, inquire if, in fact, there is a ‘Decourt effect.’ Nadine calls her “Catou” to tease her gently. She recounts impossible moments on the set. Delays of unbelievable rudeness (but all in lavish juicy detail), and what she did to show Decourt, to teach her some respect, which they owe the technicians and the production team, NC. To embarrass her, to make it clear to her that everyone was waiting. I’m remembering Dominique Quentin in Edward II, her scream in the middle of the movie, I’m on another planet, this scream exists, no one is thinking about it. The conversations are all about plays that will be opening, about restaurants they’ve tried or want to try, about the third Michelin star given to the So-and-so brothers, the Pourcels and their Jardins des Sens, and about film ticket sales.

Paranoia is based on delusions of reference, Quentin or Eustache, I alternate. Persecution, jealousy, grandeur, of course. People become paranoid because they cannot bear certain things. That’s the way it is. Marie-Christine tells me, “I saw Nathalie Bayard, I had dinner with Nathalie Bayard, we went with Nadine to the beach where Nathalie Bayard always goes, if you saw how Nathalie Bayard is with her dog, everything revolves around the dog, she chooses the beach for him, she loves him.” This because she knows I don’t like the way she is with Baya, her dog, but if I saw how Nathalie Bayard is, I wouldn’t make any more comments. I saw Chambord, I’m not just speaking nonsense. Besides, Freud compared paranoia to a philosophical system because it’s so rigorous, because its expression is so logical, and because thought, intention, and action are so clear and ordered. Obviously “people become paranoid because they cannot bear certain things,” that is my case. Except for one scene, the film is so academic, it pretends to be sensitive. And even a little revolutionary, for example with the way it goes after the image of the star. “Look, I’m filming Decourt’s thighs, I’m bold enough to do it, she’s sixty years old and I dare film her thighs.” There was a scene in which Decourt was panic-stricken, I don’t remember what was happening to her (because on top of it all the screenplay is completely muddled), Decourt was supposed to get up and leave right away. But you know what she did right at that moment? Nadine was telling us (this wasn’t the first time I’d heard this anecdote), she said, Catou said, “and my bag?” Can you imagine, Nadine goes on, the bourgeois reflex that is deeply grounded, very deeply grounded inside her, she’s thinking about her bag. So I told her, “but Catherine, you don’t care about your bag at the moment, you really couldn’t care less, Catherine, you leave your bag, naturally, you don’t even think of it.” And everyone at the table agrees. Naturally, she doesn’t care about her bag at the moment. They all agree. Maybe there’s a picture of her son or godson in it, what do they know, all of them?

(I’m annoyed that I changed the names. It makes the book less good. But better that than paying damages.)