Admittedly Romania may not be the most obvious destination for a holiday. A family event however gave us the perfect opportunity to discover this country. Our first impression of Bucharest, which was subsequently borne out, is that it is a city in full swing reconstruction. Numerous buildings are currently covered in scaffolding and the dust of their on going work is everywhere. A determined air hangs about the city; as if everyone is anxious to shake off the dust of the communism away from their boots permanently and present a more modern face. Easily the most striking (and perhaps definitive site) sight in the city is the palace of Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu or the Palatul Parliamentului. It is quite simply enormous. It stands over 12 stories high with over 1000 halls and rooms. It was built over Bucharest’s old quarter and over 26 churches and 7000 homes were destroyed to make way for the civic center, where the Palace was later on constructed. That said, it is only possible to visit the interiors during the authorized guided visit, which only takes place once a day.

While the palace may be the most impressive in terms of size, easily the most beautiful building is the Athenaeum. It is with right that it is considered as the jewel of Romanian architecture. And it miraculously survived the war unscathed. It was designed by Albert Galleron in the neo-classical style and its graceful lines remain remarkable even by today’s standards. It is now the home of the Romanian Cultural society and as such has hosted a number of concerts over the years. It is a lovely building and one that was the subject of several of our photos of the day.

If Bucharest is in a hurry to reveal a new face to the global stage, the countryside is taking things a bit more leisurely. A drive to the highway toward the Carpathian region immediately reveals the difference. It was not uncommon during our drive to share the highway with horse carts driven by Romanian men folk astride with not a care in the world that cars were whizzing by in great speeds. In one memorable occasion we were obliged to trudge behind a slow moving donkey with his load of wood. An experience to be sure. That said, I have to acknowledge that the Carpathian region is beautifully vibrant with the mountainside all covered in hearty pine. Even to my city accustomed lungs, the air seemed fresher. Hard to believe all this pretty countryside was in fact smack in the middle of Vlad country. Yes, we were within striking distance of the notorious castle of Dracula. Unfortunately for us, we couldn’t completely escape the mania for construction and all the roads leading to the famous or infamous Castle were undergoing road works. Given the time constraints we had we were unable to visit. We had to content ourselves with visiting Peles Castle in Sinaia which it turns out was the royal summer home. It turned out to be a surprisingly rich visit and we were privileged to visits several lavishly decorated royal apartments laden with intricate wood work and rich Ottoman carpets.
It wasn't Vlad's castle but it was certainly well worth visit.

View of the exterior wall of Castle Peles

The region of Castle Peles

Thessaloniki

While Athens undoubtedly pulls in the most tourists visiting Greece for the first time, Thessaloniki in the north is no slouch when it comes to history, culture and myth. It is the largest city in Macedonia, the largest region of the country. It has the advantage of being in close proximity to the mythical Mt. Olympus, Pella the birth place of Alexander the Great, the sacred city of Dion and can boast as being one of the preeminent cities of the Byzantine Empire. All this, plus the city enjoys scenic views of the Thermaic Gulf.

By virtue of our late arrival to the city, we headed straight to the Kastra and were promptly awed by the views over the city. It is actually the only part left of 19th century Thessaloniki and the streets are narrow and wind themselves over the hills where the remains of the city’s walls can be seen. Yedi Kule, the old Byzantine fortress that was left was used till recent history as a prison.

Funnily enough the city’s emblem and most prominent landmark is the Lefkos Pyrgos or the White Tower. It was built in the 15th century but was achieved notoriety in the 18th century when it was used as prison for insubordinate janissaries (the elite troops of soldiers composed of Christians forcibly converted into Islam by their Turkish masters). In 1826 the White Tower became known as the Bloody Tower when Sultan Mahmud II ordered the massacre of many janissaries at the tower. When the Greeks obtained their independence, the tower was white washed to symbolize the washing away its odious Turkish function. Nowadays it is a peaceful place, serving as a quiet backdrop to the many who fish along the Gulf.

This being a Greek city, there is no shortage of roman ruins around. We started with the Arch of Galerius, rambled off towards the Rotunda and finished with the Palace of Galerius. The Arch of Galerius was originally built to commemorate Greek victory over the Persians. The Rotunda on the other hand was designed to be a mausoleum for Emperor Galerius, but Constantine the Great later turned it into a church. As such it has the distinction of being the city’s oldest church. And because it was later occupied by the Turks, a minaret was later built on the Rotunda grounds to mark their presence. Inside, you have crane your neck to view the remains of the frescoes but here you get a good idea of its great age. Finally, to round off the roman part of our visit, we took a peek (literally since the site is in plain sight –pun unintended) at the remains of the Palace of Galerius. It is laid out much like ancient cities and there is enough left of the structure, notably its mosaic floor to make a visit interesting. What was especially nice was to see the juxtaposition of the remains with the modern buildings that surrounded it now. Thessaloniki is a thoroughly modern city but there are visible signs everywhere of its glorious past.

Roman ruins ticked off on my list of things to see, museums duly visited, what I particularly liked about this city was the all the hidden plazas with their little cafes where people calmly gather to drink and gossip. It seemed like every street we turned opened up into a plaza or square where people could gather. They were invariably bustling but still serene and I can imagine that copious cups of Greek coffee are consumed while the days news are parsed and digested. The relentless summer heat notwithstanding, people chose to sit outside under the cheerful parasols, all the better to see the world going by. That said, we ended our lovely visit by doing exactly as the locals do.

Où il est prouvé que l'homme a toujours été trash

Sorte de Les dix petits nègres, mais version réelle, l'affaire de Road Hill House relate le meutre véridique du petit Saville Kent, cinq ans, en 1860. Le meutre n'a pu être commis que de l'intérieur, soit à l'intérieur du foyer domestique: père, demi-frères ou demi-soeurs ou encore domestiques, qui est le monstre?

Si le travail de recherche sur l'enquête effectué par Kate Summerscale est excellent, le livre est surtout passionnant par l'analyse du contexte social. La société victorienne est à son apogée, et les moeurs commencent à évoluer. Développement de la presse, émergence des détectives et des romans policiers, premières apparitions d'un goût public pour la violence, la société est en mutation.

Ce qui fait de ce livre bien plus qu'un simple roman d'investigation. On y croise notamment Dickens, ainsi que ses confrères littéraires, mais aussi les journalistes de l'époque.

Enfin ce roman entraîne un véritable questionnement sur la question de la rédemption. Un meutrier peut-il n' avoir agi que sur une pulsion momentanée, et n'être donc pas un danger pour la société? Si l'en croit la destinée de ce meutrier, on répond positivement. La conversion d'un pêcheur n'est pas un phénomène nouveau, mais de nos temps il se fait rare. Alors il est bon d'en retrouver quelques preuves...

Où il est prouvé que l'homme (ou la femme plutôt) apporte une valeur ajoutée

Qui dit Valentino dit Italie, dit rouge, dit haute-couture, dit Jackie Kennedy, bref le contraire de la robe rose ci-dessus qui illustre pourtant la rétrospective sur Valentino.

Outre le fait que Valentino fasse partie de mes couturiers préférés (enfin en théorie, n'ayant pas de vêtement de lui, et n'en ayant même probablement jamais touché), cette photo a piqué ma curiosité.

Le musée des Arts Décoratifs expose donc quelques 250 modèles, organisés par thème, ce qui augmente l'intérêt de l'exposition. En effet Valentino est bien plus que le rouge Valentino, ou les robes fourreaux. On y découvre des volumes, des lignes et des imprimés dont je n'aurais jamais soupçonné l'existence chez ce couturier (encore une preuve de mon inculture).

Outre l'organisation par thème, la date et la composition de chaque modèle sont bien évidemment indiquées. Ce qui renforce mon opinion que le vêtement est partie intégrante de la culture sociale. Dis-moi ce que je porte, je te dirais à quelle époque tu as vécu...

Cependant certains modèles exposés comme cela ne me semblaient pas particulièrement esthétiques ou admirables... jusqu'à ce que je sorte de l'exposition et consulte le catalogue. Celui-ci montre en effet certaines tenues portées par des mannequins/actrices/personnalités lors de shootings, et les tenues qui me semblaient jusqu'ici assez quelconques prenaient vie. Un vêtement n'est certes qu'un vêtement (quoique certains vêtements se suffisent à eux-mêmes), mais un vêtement porté par une femme transcende sa fonction première.

Certains disent que les mannequins ne sont que des cintres lors des défilés. Je trouve cela un peu réducteur. Le mannequin est là pour donner vie au vêtement, et cela les cintres de mon armoire ne le font pas...

Pour les infos pratiques, c'est ici:

http://www.lesartsdecoratifs.fr/fr/02museemode/valentino/page01.html

Où il est prouvé que ce que je dis est toujours vrai...

Je commence à écumer les piles de dvds traînant chez moi, dû à mon craquage de soldes (je sais la vie est dure).

Toujours dans l'esprit de me mettre à la page, j'avais donc commandé Prison Break, la série dont on a tant parlé .... il y a quelques années.

Encore une fois, je ne sais pas si c'est parce que je ratrappe le train en marche beaucoup trop tard, mais je ne peux pas dire que la série ait changé ma vie. Cela dit, force est de reconnaître ses qualités. Alors mes réactions à chaud:

- les personnages pricnipaux (l'équipe PI, d'ailleurs que veux dire PI?), notamment à la fin de la saison, sont truculents. Mention spéciale au pervers, qui joue divinement bien son rôle.

- pourquoi les évasions semblent-elles toujours faciles en prison? Bon manifestement ce n'est pas si facile, mais je suis quand même étonnée que les prisonniers se baladent assez librement, qu'après avoir presque provoqué une révolution, les conditions ne se soient pas durcies. Je sais aussi que le marché noir existe partout, mais il semble assez facile de se procurer ce dont ils ont besoin. Après tout, c'est une série, donc ce n'est pas censé être un reflet exact de la réalité...

- il y a de l'humour, et la perle revient à Michael Scofield demandant à son infirmière de l'attendre. Je ne sais pas si c'était censé être romantique. Personnellement, je l'ai pris comme de l'humour, et j'ai trouvé ça férocement drôle.

Mais surtout, cette série m'a permis d'apporter encore quelques preuves à la véracité de mes propos:

- les homos sont physiquement mieux que les hétéros. Je demandais pourquoi on m'avait caché que Wentworth Miller était si bien, on m'a répondu que de toute façon il était gay (c'est vrai qu'après tout c'était l'unique obstacle....).

- et je n'ai pas de chance das la vie. Vos y croyez que mon coffret a 2 dvds n°5 et pas de Dvd n°6? Ce qui veut dire que pour l'instant je suis bloquée au soir de leur évasion, et que je ne verrai probablement jamais la fin! Comme je suis très intuitive, je suppose que tout va bien se passer pour les personnages principaux mais quand même....

A day at Aghios Saranda

On our recent vacation, we wanted very much to have the chance to swim in the sea. It seemed a good idea since there is no shortage of water around Greece. A friend counseled us to visit the one that was “just over the mountain, reachable by going up the mountain then going back down. Oh and that it would take about 45 mins to reach it”, he added casually. It seemed a simply enough thing to do so we set out the next morning in high spirits. Our friend failed to mention that the mountain route would be full of dizzying hairpin turns and would in fact last one hour and a half. To fight the increasingly queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach I had to concentrate on the view which was pretty wonderful. We were blessed with blue skies (currently unimaginable while we suffer through the dreary gray August sky) , and the whole Pelion peninsula was a vibrant green. The whole mountainside was planted with olive and apple trees, each of which seemed to be in full bloom. So the air was scented with the sweet smells of olive and apple. All throughout the drive, we caught dazzling glimpses of the blue of the Aegean.
Finally, we reached the point where we were descending down the mountain and not a moment too soon, I have to say. And there we were rewarded with a stretch of beach just waiting for our toes to curl into and the magnificent sea ready to welcome our frolic. We were fortunate that we didn’t have to share the beach with too many people. Those who were there seemed mostly to be local folk just enjoying the fine summer day. Ah it was bliss to lay our towels down and just soak up the rays of the sun, albeit under a bit of shadow for me. And the Aegean sea. It was even more magnificent up close. A dip into those crystalline waters, with its smooth rocky bottom proved to be well worth the torturous drive. Now that, is what I call vacation.

I confess that I've never had much head for mathematics. Cosines, angles and algebraic formulas frequently left me cold, if not bewildered. Never mind that mathematics is supposed to be the universal language. I always said, count me out (Hahaha!).

Well, Gifted by Nikita Lalwani is exactly about one of those special individuals for whom math holds no secrets. Rumi and her family are immigrants from India hoping to carve out a better life for themselves in the United Kingdom. When they learn that Rumi has an exceptional talent for math, it transforms their life. Their lives increasingly begin to revolve around her gift and the goal of making it to Oxford by the time she is 15. Unfortunately for all of them, the gift turns into a curse as they become increasingly isolated from the rest of the community and Rumi chafes against the limits placed upon her by her gift. To wit, she becomes addicted to cumin! How one can become addicted to a spice is entirely bizarre to my mind but I guess everything is possible.

The biggest enjoyment I derived, in reading this story is the way the language is employed by Lalwani. Whether she is describing the immigrant experience or the teenage Rumi’s growing sense of isolation and confusion, she is able to capture the situation in a language both elegant and which rings true. There was real pleasure just from the way the language flowed, funny and pithy at times, at other times, belligerent and bleak. I loved the way she transposed the language of math into Rumi’s daily life. One scene I particularly liked was one where Rumi is walking home after a particularly bitter rejection by a friend, and while walking counts of to the beat of her shoes “powering up to exponents of two with the left and subtracting one with the right each time, creating Mersenne numbers (2 to the power n minus 1). Each time she created a new total she checked to see if it was a composite or prime number, working out the possible mutations in her head. Whenever the number was prime, indivisible, it felt like a little stab, a minute betrayal, the tiny catheter of pain, insinuating its way into her heart. 2 to the power of 7 minus 1= 127, which number was particularly painful. Maybe because it had such promise-carrying all the world in it: the certain 1, the right now unbearable 2 and then 7, which would always be lucky and sexy, cheeky and cool. Everything she wasn’t .” Enjoying the language with which Gifted is written in a way, allows the reader to get past the sometimes unlikeability of the characters and the somewhat negative slant it takes towards family and the perpetual concern of fitting in and making something of oneself, which is especially poignant when far from the familiar comforts of home.

Another great first book

After having read the excellent Uwem Akpan’s debut novel, I turned my attentions to Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger. It is another first novel, this time from an Indian writer and like Akpan’s novel has been drawing a lot of attention. It is even in the Booker Longlist for this year. What made me curious was the fact that opinions are divided about the book. Some bloggers have been less than kind, while others have lauded Adiga's effort. It seemed a good enough reason to pick it up.

The first lines immediately drew me in. It is in fact written as a series of letters over a period of seven days to Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao. Through these letters, Balram Halwai wants to tell the story of how he rose from the position of lowly servant to respectable entrepreneur. And it is quite a tale. Be prepared to be hooked. From the beginning he is different from the rest of his family in his desire to be something else than what has been planned for him. And he is prepared to take the necessary steps to achieve his goals. So he eavesdrops on people, resorts to blackmail and finally, commits murder. As I said it’s quite a tale.
Balram is an amoral and deeply cynical character but despite this, he is an oddly charismatic one. One can’t help but be fascinated by him and his story. He commits murder yet still honors the memory of the man he killed. He saves his nephew yet ponders the thought that it might one day be necessary to do away with him. Perhaps the trait he possesses, which we can all identify with, is his enormous will to make something of himself despite all the odds against him. And the India described in this tale certainly stacks the odds against him. There is the caste system or in Balram’s words the Rooster Coop that prevents anyone from getting out. It is the kind that is self perpetuating and perpetual because the family conspires to keep its members in it in order to survive. How to get out? Only someone prepared to see his family destroyed will be able to fly the coop, as Balram points out. Then there is the immense poverty and pervasive corruption that eats away at everything and anyone. This India is brutal, corrupt and downright ugly. In Adiga’s hands, this India is fascinatingly drawn and more importantly his prose rings with the uncomfortable ring of truth. Maybe as some of the critics have sniped, the characters haven't been as fully fleshed as they could have been, but it is nonetheless a fascinating story. Definitely worth a try!

Perhaps subconciously, I've always shied away from African writers. There was always one reason or another to postpone reading them. I told myself that there was a time and place for them. And honestly, they always seemed so heavy and forbidding (Disgrace comes to mind, for example). When I came across Say You're One of Them by Uwem Akpan, I thought that finally, it might be time to try. This debut book by Akpan is a collection of short stories that has been reaping wide critical praise everywhere. Its primary theme is the experience of the children of Africa. However these are not gentle children’s tales but rather harrowing tales of poverty, abuse and racial conflict escalating into violent murder. Akpan doesn’t flinch at the gruesome details and instead relates them dispassionately and almost with a clinical detachment. Word to the wise, this book is not for the squeamish. But you’ll be drawn in immediately as I was. From the first story, I realized that this was not going to be an easy read yet the prose is compelling and I was almost unable to surface for air till the last word. There is a masterly grasp of first, the subject matter and second, of the language.
These stories take place all over Africa. From Kenya where a child’s sister turns to prostitution to send him to school and to put food on the table, to Rwanda where the tribal conflict forces parents to do the unimaginable and finally to Nigeria where to my mind, the best story of the collection is set. Luxurious Hearses is by far the longest story in the bunch and can pretty much stand on its own as a novella. What is interesting about this tale is the way it shows a microcosm, through the interaction of the characters , the different aspects of the country itself. All sorts of issues arise and the characters interact in myriad ways with each other. At times they are antagonistic against each other (two women battle for space) at times they band together to come against another (such as when they defend Jubril against the Chief who usurps his seat). When tragedy does befall the principal character, it comes so swiftly that you are left feeling bereft that it could not have been otherwise.
All these stories are heartbreaking in their own way and they bring the desperateness and brutality that are the everyday conditions of these countries in a way that cold hard news doesn’t. So my initial impresion of being replete with heavy themes is well founded, but as far as literature goes, they are also carefully woven things of beauty.

Parce que c'est tellement vrai...

Michelangelo's David is returning to Italy

After a two year visit to the United States , Michelangelo's David is returning to Italy . .

His Proud Sponsors were:

Petite bouchée de nostalgie plaisante

L'affiche ne paie pas de mine, et la mention "films pour enfant à partir de dix ans" ne motive guère plus. Michel Blanc me faisait de l'oeil, mais il en faut plus, puisque quand je vois Michel Blanc, je pense Jean-Claude Dus, donc question séduction on repassera. Mais la bande annonce est bien faite, et pour une nostalgique comme moi, l'affaire était dans le sac.

C'est une comédie sans prétention, légère come une bulle de savon, qui éclate avec plaisir. Portée par des jeunes comédiens plein d'énergie, ce film conjugue humour (notamment l'humour pince-sans-rire du personnage incarné par Michel Blanc, un pur bonheur), musique entrainante (comment résister à "wake me up de wham"? c'est artistiquement assez nul mais cela fait un bien fou!), et un peu de drame pour un bon sens du rythme ( on n'a pas sérieux quand on a dix-sept ans, donc pas de quoi s'angoisser non plus).

Le personnage principal ayant de superbes grands yeux bleus, je risque de ne pas être objective sur ce film, mais pour ceux qui sont un peu nostalgique de ces années là, on passe un excellent moment.

Une petite mise en bouche:

Desesperate housewife version battante

L'été, c'est par définition la saison du vert, et de l'herbe (et oui, quand on habite un pigeonnier, pour voir un peu de verdure, il reste le parc municipal...). Mais comme la foule, ce n'est pas mon truc (parce que pigeonnier ou pas, tous les parisiens en manque de verdure squattent les parcs), j'ai décidé de m'intéresser au vert de façon interposée, par la télévision (après tout, les gens font tout de manière interposée: internet, tv... il est tant que je me mette à la page).

Weeds (comme son nom l'indique) est davantage tournée herbe que pelouse, mais ça m'ira tout à fait comme erstaz.

Une banlieusarde américaine type (ok, type dans les classes -très- supérieures; encore une qui a une superbe baraque) se retrouve légèrement à court de cash lorsque son mari meurt d'une crise cardiaque (j'ai toujours été partisane d'une vie professionnelle modérée, on me donne enfin raison!). Les choix qui s'offrent à elle se réduisent comme peau de chagrin quand on recoupe son parcours: statut social élévé (donc on oublie le mcdo), femme au foyer (on repassera pour l'expérience), niveau de vie élevé (le smic ne doit pas vraiment couvrir ses besoins mensuels). Donc en mère courageuse, elle décide de dealer (de l'herbe, on est dans une série américaine quand même). Si ça ne c'est pas un sacrifice pour ses enfants!

Le générique donne déjà le ton, critiquant le modèle américain reproduisant à l'identique un seul modèle (jusqu'à là rien de nouveau à l'horizon).

La série se laisse voir avec plaisir, même si cela ne risque pas d'être la bombe du siècle. C'est comme le téléfilm du dimanche soir avec le pot de haagen-daaz: on sait qu'on ferait mieux de manger des brocolis en relisant ces classiques, mais on apprécie quand même plus la première option.

Certains personnages sont truculents, comme la fournisseur de la desesperate housewife. La série ne manque pas d'humour, même si cela reste un peu mou, et un peu attendu, voire politiquement correct.

Le problème des bonnes séries étant qu'on n'arrive pas à s'arrêter avant d'avoir vu la fin, celle ci a l'avantage de permettre au spectateur de faire des pauses. Et en plus le format (25mn par épisode) est particulièrement pratique!

Comment ça je suis trop pragmatique? Regardez la série, et vous verrez que même un dealer se doit d'être pragmatique!

Desesperate housewifes version ennuyeuse

Arlington Park eut d'excellentes critiques, et fut décrit comme Le Desesperate Housewifes version littéraire, transposée en banlieue anglaise... à croire que toutes les banlieues se ressemblent.

Rachel Cusk se donne donc pour mission de décrire la vie quotidienne de ces femmes qui semblent passer à côté de leur vie. Ou en tout cas cela ressemble à une mission, tellement le livre est ennuyeux. Peut-être que ces femmes s'ennuient prodigieusement dans leur vie, mais l'auteur doit-elle vraiment nous le faire ressentir à ce niveau?

L'action (quoique le terme ne semble pas vraiment approprié) s'étend sur une période de 24h, mais cela semble durer 24 siècles pour le lecteur... Le roman est censé se concentrer sur les sentiments de ces quatre femmes, mais finalement, on n'a qu'une envie, c'est fermer le livre afin que les laisser dans leur misère. C'est mon côté altruiste qui parle.

Bref il est bon que j'apprenne que parfois une série TV vaut mieux qu'un bouquin. Ceci dit, la lecture m'a refroidi sur mon envie de découvrir la série dont tout le monde parle tant (ou a parlé, puisque j'ai toujours quelques années retard sur ce qui est hype)!

Qui dit plage, dit polar

Pas de meilleur moment pour finir la trilogie Millenium de Stieg Larsson (cf critique du premier). Les deux derniers volumes sont fidèles au premier, mais l'intérêt s'essouffle. Le polar devient plus politique et plus technique, ce qui plaira probablement aux vrais fans de polars. Pour une vraie fille comme moi, qui préfère les romans contemporains explorant les sentiments et le mal-être de notre société, je n'ai donc pas été particulièrement séduite. Certes, je n'allais pas lire Kant sur la plage (ni ailleurs d'ailleurs), mais bon...

On ne va pas cracher dessus, ce sont deux bons polars. Mais pas de quoi rester éveiller toute la nuit (de toute façon les gentils ne gagnent-ils pas toujours dans les polars?). Le plus dommage est que l'auteur n'ait pas pu profiter du succès de ses oeuvres, qu'elles soient excellentes ou pas...

Petit bijou d'été

L'été n'est généralement pas synonyme de séance de cinéma vu la programmation, quoique les dernières années ont commencé à montrer l'inversion de cette tendance.

Je pensais donc me retrouver seule pour une séance un jeudi de fin juillet, mais c'est avec plaisir que je fus (encore une fois) dans l'erreur. Parce qu'il est toujours regrettable qu'un bon film passe à la trappe.

Le film ne paie pas de mine, mais le casting donne déjà une idée de sa qualité: Zabou Breitman, Jacques Gamblin, acteurs talentueux qu'on ne présente plus et l'excellente Deborah François, remarquée (et remarquable) dans L'enfant, La Tourneuse de pages, et les Femmes de l'Ombre.

Le premier jour du reste de ta vie présente cinq journées phares de la vie d'une famille ordinaire avec ses ratés comme ses succès. Rien d'extravagant, pas de love story, pas d'action, un ptit film d'auteur. Pour ceux qui vont au cinéma pour sortir de l'ordinaire, cela ne leur conviendra probablement pas. Pour ceux qui aiment les petits films d'auteurs de qualité et sans prétention, il faut y aller. Pour ceux qui sont d'une famille sensiblement pareille, les spectateurs s'y retrouveront (partiellement, le cinéma reflète rarement la réalité), et c'est fort agréable. De l'humour, des sentiments (sans sentimentalisme), des drames familiaux, on en ressort touché.

Et pour finir le clou, le film est bercé d'une part par la musique d'Etienne Daho, Le premier jour du reste de ta vie (d'où le titre), et le film se finit avec la superbe chanson de Lou Reed, Perfect Day. Comment résister?