From Russia with love

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Summer: most people are fainting under white and blue umbrellas on the beach, worshipping the sun and all the frivolity that comes with it.

Paris: Dali’s melting clock. An open-air oven, more than Sylvia Plath could ever dream of.

I’m fed-up of wearing ugly Birkenstocks and drink naturally mulled wine. The darkness of cinema, seems to be my only comfort, a spark of civilisation.

So, I just completely spontaneously booked a one week solo trip to Saint-Petersburg, Russia.

It might sound random to you, but an actress needs to draw inspiration from somewhere, sometimes.

(The picture above represents myself as zombie Anna Karenina back among the living to find her long lost love Count Alexis Kirillovich Vrosky)

I’ll stay away from train stations, maybe.

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Robbery in Paris 17eme

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“He said that life boils down to standing in line to get shit dropped on your head. Everyone’s got a place in the queue, you can’t get out of it, and just when you start to congratulate yourself on surviving your dose of shit, you discover that the line is actually circular.” – Scott Lynch, The Republic of Thieves

It was last Saturday, when I discovered that someone broke into my apartment.

It was one of these days when you don’t feel like seeing anyone, but still, you can’t be left alone and coffee is never enough.

I ended up engaging in my favourite activity, going to the movies. I met a friend even though I didn’t have much to say. Soon enough we entered the cinema and watched “Swept Away” aka “Travolti da un insolito destino nell’azzurro mare d’agosto” (the original 1974 version by director Lina Wertmüller), curiously enough the main character is a spoiled rich woman who ends up in a deserted island with her attendant, only to find out the material world to which she was so attached meant nothing after all.

Still feeling dull inside, all I could think about on my way home, was to put on my cherry printed socks on, even if it was warm outside, and persevere in my film addiction. Celine Dion used to sing “all by myself, don’t wanna live”. For some reason I always thought she was saying “all by myself, I wanna be”, maybe because the latter was more appealing to me.

As I opened the door, I found absolutely everything I own scattered on the floor. As soon as I realised that it wasn’t an hallucination, I burst into tears, violent tears of angst (I was in the same time, like a complete psychopath, trying to save that magnificent rage in my emotional data bank, in order to reproduce it on the stage).

The next door neighbours rushed in to check up on me; the tumultuous love-making couple of the building. They are so sonorous that they even distorted my dreams, as most of them are now set in a 17th century brothel. They introduced themselves as brother and sister, as if I wasn’t disturbed enough, and of course, that revelation made me cry even more.

The next day, traumatised by the current events, I jumped on a night train back to my dad’s home in Milan. Sometimes, all a girl needs is a few whiskeys on the rocks and a familiar place where to safely pass out.

As bizarre as it may seem, all the heartbreaks and disappointments I have experienced lately, are suddenly a long distance memory. Logically, keeping in mind the subdominant law, the latest incident has automatically erased the others.

I remember a “Laurel and Hardy” episode in which Hardy, was moaning about his limping left leg and how much he was suffering because of it. Laurel looks around for a moment, scratches his head and says: “I have the solution for your limping left leg”. He suddenly kicks his friend’s right leg. “Voilà!”. Hardy screams out in pain, steam comes out of his ears… The sky is still clear, the kids keep playing in the street. Hardy moans about his right leg.

C’est la vie.

Sleeping Boozy

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It is highly advisable to never show up for a photoshoot hangover and sleepless. I didn’t even do it on purpose, it just happened. A camera shot like a gun fire, eaten alive by the blinding lights. As a result, I’m sleeping in most pictures.

I don’t know why I find myself in these sort of situations. Sometimes I wonder if instead of being because of a lack of maturity, it is just a way to fight the dullness of life. A way to have a funny story to tell in front of a cup of coffee, maybe. A dislike on doing things by the book, a way to make things memorable.

I drink too much, I smoke too much, I girl around too much, I everything too much.

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” Albert Camus

(Photo credit: Jean F Chassaing)

Paris stories of a silly little girl

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Friday morning: I find myself in this sweet studio apartment full of books and music in the air….  Little did I know, it was just the beginning of a long week-end of perdition. I leave the house at around 9am. I meet my good friend Maud as we decide to start drinking in a little square near her home. By the end of the afternoon, we ended up with a massive bouquet of flowers (they gave us a rose for each beer we bought at the convenient shop as a memento of mother’s day). That’s how much we drunk, my dear friend! We’re everything but two English roses.

I kiss her on the cheek, as I run into the metro to get to a house party where we’ve danced on 70s music, had a so must midnight Italian pasta and doodled up the face of a guy who was sleeping so deeply he couldn’t notice. He was extremely odd, resting on a typical vampire position. Crossed arms and a face white as a sheet. It is absolutely rejuvenating, getting that stupid. Stewart and I then had a tour of the Parisian suburb (while waiting for the first morning metro) pretending to be Chinese tourists, we photographed almost everything and joked about the architectural grandiosity of this little insignificant town.

I love Paris at 5 am.

Saturday morning: I got finally back home, just to have a few hours of sleep to reach my friends at an open air music festival, where the music was mediocre but the company was good (except for the rock n’ roll Arabic duo). Another drink at the Sully, and it’s already time to catch the last metro. That typical Saturday night metro, the one when you’re single and drunk, it becomes and audition room where all the guys are untalented actors and I an intransigent casting director.

Sunday evening: I realise I’m still a teenager, as in the way I’m living my life, and I don’t mind it, for the moment. Most importantly, I contemplate the idea of “coincidence”, or better, as coined by Carl Yung “synchronicity”. In a way, my life has always been filled by messages from the universe, signs, meaningful casual events but recently it’s getting quite serious. “When coincidences pile up in this way, one cannot help being impressed by them – for the greater the number of terms in such a series, or the more unusual its character, the more improbable it becomes.”

And just like that, I breath in the electric night.