Born to be Wilde

Was a return of Kim Wilde possible, other than in an advertising egery of a chain of franchized hairdressers? The answer is yes. In a JT of France 2, one learns of her scenic come-back in 2007. In a Parisian bar, Truskel, Kids in America starts a beginning of riot of twens on the dancefloor. Lastly, in Dans Paris, the serious-light film of Christophe Honore, Cambodia occupies a strategic function, like Ceremony, of New Order, the sonic madeleine of Sofia Coppola in Marie-Antoinette. There, it was a scene of blazing ball. Here, it is depressing chamber music. In both cases, it is a sequence of good regression of thirtysomethings. Strong, in the case of Paul (Romain Duris). Following a rupture with Anna (Joanna Preiss), the young man takes refuge in Paris in his father Mirko (Guy Marchand). Skimped apartment of modern residence. Each one its room in theory. But total promiscuity in practice. Exhausted, broken down, he practically does not leave his bed anymore. Boredom for twenty days. Quasi apathic. His brother Jonathan (Louis Garrel) bouffonne to tear off smiles to him. Nothing goes. In his teenage room, his ultimate refuge, he seizes one 45 disc. It is a funny object in the shape of a vinyl life buoy. Perforated in its heart, it was usually used in the last century to listen to music. The 45 in question turns out to be Cambodia. On the small pocket, the platinum blonde poses as a formless gray docker. She seems to leave an old woman advertizing for Danone where a tropical rain falls down on the heroine. With the back of the small pocket, a small data base. And this mention: “Paul, 1982”, essential paraph at the time to find its discs. While Paul reminisces on his bed, the song lives the part, the screen, the movie theater. Paul mimes the words in very baby-talk English: “wanawanawana” for saying “Well He was Thailand based…”. The depressed one is always regressive. He seems folded up in its burrow. In this intra-uterine position, he finds his small lost paradise. Cambodia covers “the family noise” (Freud). Kim Wilde allows him one moment of phonic insulation. Like psalmodiant a ritual prayer, his English first language moves away the sound-parasites. The hen bubble which clapote in the kitchen. Television games of the Spoke which his wop of a father looks at. The small famished she-cat which scrapes at the door of his brother Jonathan. Slanging matches in the kitchen with the mother (Pisier Marie-France). The door that this one, furious, opera hat finally. There, in his uterine night, Paul smells himself (almost) well. Kim does not leave him. All can be forgotten. All that hides already.