The French Language Is Bangin' Round Me Head

Thanks to three seasons of "Un Village Francais," binge watched with sub-titles.  (Four more seasons yet to be watched.)

Indelible characters.  Gorgeous period automobiles.  Gorgeous period women as well, but each captivating in her own, subtle way.  The farmer's ill-dressed wife perhaps the most beautiful of all.

The plight of the Jews portrayed unflinchingly, and not en masse; we have come to know each before a twist of fate or a betrayal places them onto cattle cars that the "sub-prefect" assures them are destined for a suburb of Paris, and not for Poland.

The factionalism.  The moral compromises.  The intense love affairs that the French simply can't seem to sublimate to the circumstances!

I understand for the first time what it really meant to join the Resistance -- often abandoning every semblance of normal life to live like a hunted animal, for a time indeterminate.

After three seasons, from the perspective of 1942, one can't help but see it through to the turning of the tide.  What will become, for example, of the police superieur Muller, who delights in extracting confessions by snipping strategic and most sensitive spots with the little wire cutters that he keeps in the drawer of his elegant desk?

Meanwhile, resonating at the Hour of the Wolf:

Ecoute-moi bien!

Pas de tout.

Les Americains sont sur les plages d'Afrique du Nord.  Personne ne sait ce que cela signifie.

(and lastly)

Ma cherie, je regrette completement de te connaitre, tu sais.