Metropolitan

The allures of cerebral sophistication uncertainly engaged in gallant experiment, solemn yet tenderly familiar rhapsodic intrigue unembellished rapport.

Consistency generating parlay through meaningful harmonized inquisitive exchanges, perhaps forgotten perhaps foundational as various participants focus on detail.

An intricate eclectic forage producing novelty then kink then narrative, divergent degrees multivariably matriculating then suddenly retreating at times leaping forward.

The curious arrive impeccably intent on trying not to make too much of a mess of things, previous encounters traditionally manifesting subjective synergies objective illusion, new data eagerly incorporated to encourage sprightly dis/proportionate parentheses, emergent chronicles timidly testifying frenetic friendship ergo allegiance.

Provocative inklings invoking pause juxtaposed itinerancy serenading scandal, delicate proclivities enriching formulae ephemerally proclaimed with eternal fidelity.

The whirlwind continuously transforming ruminative stimuli with verbatim velocity, guests wildly windsurfing various trajectories with implicit inspired levity.

Be careful, that's a little bit country it may not fit with the paramount clout, no matter in due consideration to random versatile inclusive diversity.

Too many limits at times callously decomposing spontaneous free agile thought, not to embrace an abeyance of filters but neither to laud categorical dismissal.

It's like potential devotees of Proust who have in fact never even considered reading him, instinctually attempted to develop a salon in their quizzical youth with literary bearing.

What blossoms in In Search of Lost Time can be found germinating in Metropolitan, as several young adults gather in Manhattan to stylistically temper strike and ceremony.

Thoughts inevitably stray to the future wherein which imaginative blooms poll and posture.

Statistical reckoning fouling things up.

Best of friends.

Abstract associations. 

La Captive

Imprisoned by his theories, obsessively recycling miserable forecasts regarding his relationship's future, driven by jealousy, and tortured by ideals, Simon (Stanislas Merhar) interrogates his desire in Chantal Akerman's La Captive as Ariane (Sylvie Testud) helplessly perseveres. At least that's what happens in In Search of Lost Time and La Captive follows the text closely enough to suggest that this is what's happening in the film. Bored and frustrated by his inability to create, Simon abandons his attempts to prove himself intellectually and focuses his attention on Ariane's past. Convinced he can understand her present motivations through recourse to her anecdotes and observations, he pursues his goal of categorizing her purity. Being incapable of distinguishing fact from subterfuge, his objective investigations quizzically qualify the labyrinthine other. Leave it alone, let bygones be bygones, just have a good time. Take it easy, relax, drink some wine, she's likely done everything you're considering, twice. Without the guidance of American pop culture to rely upon, Simon sinks deeper and deeper into the abyss. In the end, Ariane does the only thing she can to allow him to find an answer as he assiduously scours the ocean searching for his peace of mind.

A lot of the depth from the fifth part of Proust's novel is lost in La Captive's translation. Françoise (Liliane Rovère) and Simon's Grandmother (Françoise Bertin) don't make an impact and Mme Verdurin's famous snub of M. de Charlus is absent. I don't know how you could have worked the later into a film that's less than three hours and doesn't include some kind of internal narration but an attempt would have been nice. At least a scene with M. de Charlus. The long empty corridors and lengthy nocturnal shots point to Simon's troubles within the novel but without more material it's difficult to capture Proust's incessant meticulous analysis (but it was still fun to write about it as if it's there). But La Captive isn't meant to relate to In Search of Lost Time religiously since it's a film that is only based on the novel. Bearing this in mind, greater liberties with Proust's masterpiece could have been taken (although it's so revered taking such liberties requires disciplined audacity! [I suppose Simon's Grandmother does die in The Guermantes Way]). But Akerman's probably sick and tired of hearing devotees of the novel complain about what's missing in her well-crafted film and it does possess a morosely anxious distraught internal consistency that's rigidly maintained throughout. The moral: don't try and ever love anyone while consistently falling in love. And have multiple extensive lies which you trust ready by your side when loving so that one day you can convince yourself that you've found something to hold onto.