These excerpts are translated with the permission of Christophe Bourseiller. Jean-Luc often comes to our place, and my grandmother who has mastered the art of using up leftovers, makes vegetable soups for him. One of the scenes takes place on the tarmac at the Toussus-le-Noble airfield. I am supposed to welcome my father, Roger Montsoret, as he gets off the plane. I vomit my guts out in the airport lobby. Am I allergic to the cinema?
Another day, the film is shot in a Paris street. As usual, my grandmother escorts me. In France, we say that a child reaches the age of reason at 7. Nonetheless, I am lacking in common sense and I cross a street without warning. A car knocks me down. The emergency services intervene.
My case must not be completely hopeless. Once again, I survived the cinema. But nothing unfortunate happens, other than the fact that I stretch myself out in a mud puddle on the first day of shooting, ruining my outfit for good.
The production had stingily asked me to supply my own clothes. Now it had to quickly provide me with a new outfit, at its expense. There is some justice. Jean-Luc slips into a cupboard and whispers to me, one by one, the militant lines that I spout, like a young parrot, aged 8.
She incarnates a white, racist, blonde nymphomaniac who seduces a black man in the New York subway so as to kill him. My stepfather directs the play. My mother has become a blonde. She wears an ultra-short red mini-skirt. Henceforth, she cultivates a hypothetical resemblance with the glamorous stars of Hollywood.
