But Louis Garrel spends almost the entire film half-naked...
So we love the French for nudity and for treating love with an erotic, poignant nature.
Paul tries unsuccessfully to throw himself off of a bridge after Anna leaves him, of course she loved him more...
Yet is love worth anything if two souls consistently antagonize each other?
Is love better than detachment, could they be synonymous?
If you can let love go, isn't that a great form of personal sacrifice?
You would do it in order to preserve the love, rather than to let it die an agonizing death at the hands of a human flaw.
The film raises these questions, and has a prominent theme of sorrow.
Paul and Jonathan's deceased sister, Claire, presumably had some sort of chronic depression.
"She would cry for no reason at all, she said it herself."
Paul claims that she had an "old sorrow".
Sorrow, he says, is placed in everyone at birth.
It is a person's right to deal with that sorrow themselves...
An interesting concept, as if infringing upon someone's sorrow is kindred to infringing upon their soul.
In the film, old sorrow is described as a residual sorrow from a past-life.
The family members in this movie are detached from each other; Paul deals with heartbreak and depression, Jonathan sleeps with many women but never falls in love, the father smothers them, and the mother is an almost nonexistent spectator in the lives of her children.
Perhaps detachment is the way to survive love.
Paul calls Anna finally, they sing a song about whether they should kiss or break up...
He hangs up the phone as they both have tears in their eyes.
She used to pray every night that he would love her, "Paul loves me, Paul loves me..."
Anna claims he never needed her love; he does, but learns his own heart too late.
Paul finally lets her go and spends the night bonding with his brother, Jonathan.
Jonathan's ex-girlfriend has fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him, perhaps she still loves him.
"It's possible to fall in love with a pig," after all.
Louis Garrel a pig, I can hardly digest that thought.
Oh, well, I'm not sure all this has made any sense.
Is love the same thing as sex?
Can detachment save a love that is beyond repair?
Are we all inexplicably sorrowful in some way?
Who could tell in this strange existence of ours?
Goodnight, dear reader, I hope you have enjoyed my sociological analysis of Dans Paris (In Paris).
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