La vie en rose

Last week I had an early morning dentist appointment, after which I expected to go right to work. But it ended up being longer than expected, and after, I was exhausted and barely able to talk, my mouth completely sore from the anesthetic. I knew I wouldn't be able to eat much all day, which is kind of problematic with the pregnancy, and I was feeling a little bit poorly. So I decided to take the rest of the day off, which happens, you know, next to never. I ended up taking care of a few things, munching on soup and applesauce, but mostly vegged in front of the TV (which happens, you know, next to never).

And I finally got to watch the Edith Piaf biopic La vie en rose, for which actress Marion Cotillard won the Oscar two years ago. I had tapped it in early January, and believe it or not since then had not found a single occasion where I could sit down for more than two hours by myself and watch without distractions.

I know it's all old news but my, was it worth the wait. The movie was very emotional and great (if you like impressionism more than realism), her performance was breathtaking, but more than anything I was completely blown away and fascinated by the life of the famous French singer. I knew her songs, of course, but could have never, ever expected that she had such an extraordinary, full, peculiar life.


She was born in 1915 practically in the streets of Paris, from dirt poor, uneducated, bohème parents, and mostly raised by her paternal grandmother, who ran a brothel. The prostitutes were her maternal figures, taking good care of her. She was practically blind for a few years as a child, but then recovered (it was apparently keratitis, which is considered benign today and highly treatable). As a teen she lived on the road with her circus acrobat father, and first started performing during this time. She had a child at 17, whom she unsurprisingly barely cared for (the father seemed to do a good job though), her mind only focused on singing. The little girl died of meningitis at 2...

Her talent was discovered at 20, and her claim to fame began. During all of her prolific professional years (until 1959), she met, was involved with, slept with, etc., the most dizzying array of artists and personalities I have ever seen. She worked with Jean Cocteau, launched the career of Yves Montand (who was her lover for a while), befriended Charles Aznavour and spent a few years with George Moustaki... She was married twice, the first time with a crooner named Jacques Pills (with Marlene Dietrich as her witness), the second time with an unknown singer 20 years her junior. She spent a lot of time in the US, where she triumphed and became an household name, appearing in the Ed Sullivan Show eight times and performing at the Carnegie Hall twice.

The biggest love of her life was a French boxer named Marcel Cerdan, with whom she had an extremely passionate year-long affair while she was living in the States. He was married with three children, and she had apparently no intention of ever asking him to choose. He died in a plane crash while coming to see her, and she never recovered from her extreme, debilitating grief. She already had drinking problems (she was involved in at least two major alcohol-fueled car crashes), but she then also became severely addicted to morphine, which precipitated her downfall. She went to rehab at least four times, but could never really kick the habit.

She died in 1963 at the age of 47, looking every bit like a frail and ill woman in her eighties (I guess hard drinking and drugs will do that to you). She had liver cancer and a ruptured aneurysm. Are you also out of breath?

A captivating destiny anyway, even though despite the glamor certainly not an easy one... She seemed to define the proverbial tortured artist type. She was an icon, and remains so even today...