#a man from the boulevard des capucines

[destalva25]

Happy Birthday one of the greatest Soviet actor, Andrei Aleksandrovich Mironov🥳🎉

[sometimesigif]

Andrey Mironov as Johnny First A Man from Boulevard des Capucines (1987) dir. Alla Surikova

[izimbracreenshots]

A Man from the Boulevard des Capucines by Alla Surikova, 1987

[shurochka-azarova]

A Man from the Boulevard des Capucines /  Человек с бульвара Капуцинов (1987)

Directed by Alla Surikova.

[elementarno]

Человек с бульвара Капуцинов (1987)

[vintagepromotions]

Poster for a Red Western comedy film, Chelovek s bulvara Kaputsinov or A Man from the Boulevard des Capucines (1988). Artwork by A. Mahov.

[cineaddict]

Человек с бульвара Капуцинов // A Man from Boulevard des Capucines

[thephantomessoftheopera]

Notes on Gaston Leroux’s “The Phantom of the Opera” - Chapter 4: “Box Five”

<< Previous Chapter

In „Box Five“, we learn more about Moncharmin and Richard, the new managers of the Paris Opera, and their blossoming relationship with the opera ghost. Leroux exhibits a witty, ironic style whenever he writes about the managers, providing comic relief throughout the novel as the drama unfolds.

Armand Moncharmin, despite knowing nothing about music, has secured his current position at the Opera House due to his connections. He is a charming and wealthy man, and has wisely decided to delegate a large portion of the work of running the Opera House to Firmin Richard, who he appointed as his co-manager. For Richard, Leroux gives a more detailed and tongue-in-cheek description. Richard himself is a composer with no distinct taste in music (he just likes everything) and a rather vile temper.

As you can see in the picture above, there are in fact several boxes labelled “Box 5″ at the Palais Garnier. The Phantom’s box is specified as “first-tier Box 5″ (marked), the first plain box on the (house) left.

A few days after the new managers have comfortably settled into their new position, they are once again reminded of the existence of the opera ghost. A letter written in the same red ink and clumsy handwriting that the managers have already seen in the „book of instructions“ arrives in the mail. Richard opens and reads it. It is dripping with sarcasm, asking Christine Daae to be given the role of Siebel in Faust if she must be denied the role of Marguerite, and to remind them that they better leave Box 5 empty if they want peace. The letter is signed „O.G.“ („F. de l‘O.“ in the original french version) and stamped in the post office on the Boulevard des Capucines, indicating that Erik made the effort to mail his letters from the post office. After Richard has finished reading, Moncharmin comes into the office, holding an identical letter. Both burst out laughing, not taking the whole business seriously and thinking it only a practical joke that Debienne and Poligny are playing on them. Therefore, they have Box 5 reserved for the former managers for that evening‘s performance of „Faust“.

Moncharmin also notices the ghost‘s interest in Christine Daae, causing him to doubt her reputation of being virtuous and without a (male) benefactor. Meanwhile, the Opera company has been anxiously awaiting their fates outside the lobby, and the rest of the day (Jan 25) is spent renewing and cancelling the artists‘ contracts. After such an exhausting day, the managers go to bed early, not realizing that Debienne and Poligny - being afraid of the ghost - did not follow their invitation, and Box 5 remained empty.

The next morning, a thank-you note from the ghost arrives, praising Christine‘s performance and calling Carlotta a „magnificent and commonplace instrument“. The ghost also reminds them that they owe him his yearly salary of 240,000 francs (minus 6,575.30 francs that have already been paid by the former managers for the first 10 days of the year. We also get an idea of the magnitude of his Opera Ghost salary - it is 100 times the salary of a secretary - so for that amount of money he can be expected to do an excellent job, right?

The managers once again choose to sell Box 5 to the public for the following evening. But they shouldn‘t have messed with the ghost. Loud laughter and foolish remarks are frequently heard from the occupants of Box 5, causing an uproar and ultimately resulting in the removal of said occupants, who refused to go without a refund. It is obvious that the laughter and comments were caused by Erik the ghost himself, using his ventriloquist skills. 

This is a pretty typical action we get to see from the ghost - he is actually rarely violent, and his pranks are usually witty and clever. He is rather charming and mischievous, and even though he blackmails the managers, I can‘t help thinking that he fully deserves his salary for being excellent at haunting people!

The supervisor is sent for the next morning to explain what happened, and upon him saying that he has never seen the ghost, Firmin is enraged and threatens to fire anyone who is unable to find him. Then, the usher of Box 5 - Madame Giry - is summoned.

Image from “Le Fantome de l’Opéra” by Gérard Fontaine

Next Chapter >>

[detnuah]

watching a man from the boulevard des capucines . sobbing sobbing sobbing . romance is real .

[sometimesigif]

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[h-dgp]

I wonder what would someone from the Midwest think of "A Man from the Boulevard des Capucines"

[whynotcallitvanda]

Rings, Roads and Reunions

Read on AO3 here

Wanda sat at the small, round table in the darkened corner of the brasserie, fingers wrapped around a mug of steaming tea. She enjoyed the steady clink of her rings against the ceramic. It's funny how she never tired of that noise, how even through everything, something so insignificant could make just a little bit happier. No one had ever asked her what sound best described her, the essence of Wanda, but if anyone had, she’d have said the continual tinkle of her hands around a mug of tea. 

Why did no one ask that question? It was a good one. Made you think.

Wanda stretched out her fingers, examining the rings on her left hand. It was really a miracle that she'd managed to hang onto them. Lucky they'd found where their personal effects were stored on the Raft—

Lucky.

Wanda blew out a breath and curled her hand up again, shifting on the unsteady wicker chair. She'd lingered here too long. She shouldn't even be in this city. It was far too crowded, too well patrolled, despite the tourists, and of course she knew zero French beyond the few phrases Vision had taught her late one night, before—

Before.

Wanda was on her feet before the thought fully crystallized, dropping a few euros on the table and weaving her way back to the street, ducking her head and shoving her hands in the pockets of her long sweater.

Paris had been fun, but it was time to go. . . after just one more stop.

~o0o~

Paris. City of lights. City of love. The last place Vision wanted to be. 

Or the exact place he did. 

It was complicated. 

Everything was complicated. 

Vision sighed, wandering through the cobblestone streets, looking over his shoulder despite his mostly-perfected human disguise. Since the split of the team, since Vision's world had fallen apart, he'd practically begged Mr. Stark to keep him busy, anything to stay out of the shell of the compound. 

Since then, he'd been travelling the world, doing whatever Mr. Stark required. Running errands, basically, and—

And keeping an eye out, hoping against hope that he'd catch a glimpse of scarlet, feel the brush of a familiar mind against his. 

But Paris was too much. 

~o0o~

“Also in that exhibition was Monet’s Boulevard des Capucines, which he painted in 1873,” Vision continued his mini-lecture, templing his fingers together, unable to stop himself from leaning forward towards her.

Wanda was sprawled on the couch across the coffee table from him, lying on her back, hair spilling over the cushions and down off the side. She stared up at the ceiling, but Vision didn't need to see her face to visualize that little quirk of her lips that meant she was both amused and confused by him. “Remind me how we got on the topic of the Impressionists?”

Vision considered. He knew the answer of course, that a conversation about a movie devolved into one about mental illness, and then about tortured artists, and then about art in general. But he'd learned that sometimes Wanda didn't want an actual answer to these kinds of inquiries, especially when they were accompanied by that smirk.

He must have taken too long to formulate a response, however, because Wanda chuckled and pulled herself upright, swinging her legs onto the floor and leaning forward to mimic his own position. 

She yawned and endeavored to continue the conversation even though it was clear she was sleepy. “So, where is Cappuccino Boulevard?”

“Le Boulevard des Capucines," Vision corrected gently, “is in Paris, France.”

Wanda brightened immediately, perking up enough for Vision to infer that she had good memories of the city.

“Have you been to Paris, Wanda?”

She deflated, the sparkle that had briefly shone in her eyes dimming. “No,” she admitted lowly, studying her fingers.

Vision's breath hitched. There was an odd pressure in his chest, and it had something to do with the sorrow on Wanda's beautiful face. She was always beautiful, even now, but Vision rarely allowed himself to dwell on it. 

As he processed his own strange emotional response—one that under any other circumstances he might have gotten Wanda to interpret for him—the room had fallen silent. He knew he should say something, distract her or ask if she wanted to talk about what was bothering her, but she saved him, again, from having to decide by offering up the information herself.

“It's a cliché, you know. For a little girl to love Paris.” She still wasn't looking at him, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle the weight of her gaze in his current emotionally-jumbled state. “At some point nearly every girl wants to go, be swept off her feet, something romantic.” Wanda shrugged off her words like they didn't matter, but the shake in her breath would have betrayed the truth even if Vision hadn't known her better than anyone. Anyone living, at least.

“I always wanted to go,” she continued. “Read all about it. I was a bit of a hopeless romantic, I guess.” She finally met his eyes. “But we didn't have the money before—and then after my parents—Well, there was no way it would have happened. It was the first thing Pietro and I were going to do after we got revenge on Stark.” Her lips twitched again, this time into a wry smirk. “Pietro always thought the romance was silly—it’s just a city, after all—but it represented something more, you know? Finally getting to have dreams again.”

She shook her head, taking a breath and blinking rapidly. “Sorry, Vizh. Didn't mean to—”

“No need to apologize,” Vision interrupted, wincing internally at his rudeness, but Wanda just smiled. “Perhaps—” Vision started, but broke off, suddenly unsure.

“Yes?” Wanda prompted, reaching across the coffee table to brush his hand with her fingertips. 

“Perhaps we could visit together someday?” Vision offered, meeting her eyes. “If you want. Of course, I understand if that would be too painful or—”

“I'd like that, Vizh.” Wanda nodded, smiling encouragingly. “Really, I would.”

They shared a grateful silence, taking a moment to simply be, a small part of each of them wishing that nothing would ever change. 

~o0o~

Vision forced himself from the memory, glancing up at the blue street sign on the building above his head. Boulevard des Capucines. That night he’d taught her some simple French phrases, but the subject of a trip to Paris never came up again. In all likelihood, she never expected to accompany him here, and was only being polite, considering his feelings even after such a painful admission on her part.

But Paris was irrevocably linked to Wanda in his mind, and being here irritated the edges of that hole he’d felt growing in his chest since she’d forced him through the floor of the compound. It was like he could feel her here on the streets, which was of course ridiculous, but he couldn’t seem to stop the nagging presence.

He shook himself, probably harder than necessary, and continued walking. He needed to finish his errand and get out of the city.

Vision barely made it a block before his sense of Wanda was so strong that he couldn’t continue. He spun wildly, no longer in control of his actions. The Mindstone was burning. Something was happening. He knew she couldn’t be here, knew better than to hope, and yet the pain burning behind his eyes made it too hard to reason. He reached for her blindly. His vision was blurring and ears were ringing. He was tricking himself, he knew it, and yet—

Vision?

Vision stumbled against a small tree, succumbing to the urge to close his eyes and clutch his forehead. It took everything in his power to maintain his disguise, took everything in him to keep from dropping all pretenses and rushing mindlessly towards wherever she was.

“Wanda?” he breathed her name, forcing his eyes open once more.

~o0o~

Wanda knew she should leave. Knew that just because she’d taken a train through Paris on her way to Scotland didn’t mean she had to stop and visit—but, of course, it did.

Natasha would be furious.

Wanda didn’t care. Like her rings, this wasn’t something she’d give up. You could take her name, her hair color, the ability to ever completely relax, but you couldn’t take her. She wouldn’t let it happen.

She needed to see it, to see Paris after all these years, and she needed to see that road, too, the one from Vision’s painting. Even if she still wasn’t sure how to pronounce it and had no earthly clue what the painting looked like. Even if she thought she’d be going with her best friend, instead of completely and utterly alone.

It didn’t matter.

She had to see it.

At first glance, it was just a big street. A pretty, big street. Well shaded. Very Paris looking. Wanda would’ve been underwhelmed, if she’d let herself. But this was Paris, and she was actually here where she’d dreamed about for so long, and nothing was going to keep her from enjoying the moment. A smile came to her lips, the first in a while. People moved around her, but Wanda didn’t care, standing still even if it made her more conspicuous, drinking it in.

Paris.

If only—

Pietro.

Vision.

The names came to her mind one right after the other, surprising her with their intensity. The ache for each was vastly different, but equally strong.

She hadn’t thought that she could ever get as close to anyone as she’d been to Pietro—and she hadn’t, not yet—but she could see herself that close to Vision, in time, if only—

Wanda usually never let herself think of Vision, but she did now, because why the hell not? She was in Paris without him, and she missed him, and it was silly not to let herself feel, just this once.

Her mind cast out for him, an automatic reflex that came from the image of his face, the sound of his voice, of the surprised laughs that only she was able to conjure form his beautiful vermillion lips.

Wanda sighed, about to turn away, when her powers caught on something, snagged on a mind and grabbed hold. She turned, powers pulling her eyes to a tall blond man a ways up the street.

It couldn’t be, and yet—

Vision?

The man—Vision, it had to be, her powers had never been this wrong—stumbled, supporting himself on a tree.

Wanda was moving on reflex again, not considering anything, not the cars barreling down the road she had to cross to get to him, not her fugitive status, or the fact that the man looked decidedly unlike Vision. It didn’t matter.

Until it did.

She stopped a foot from him, the nagging voice in the back of her head, the one that sounded a lot like Natasha, reminding her of all the reasons this was a bad idea. She rocked back on her heels, breathing heavy. He was close enough to touch, but still hadn’t noticed her. She could—

No. She wouldn’t run. That had been pain she’d felt from his mind, and she wouldn’t leave him.

He opened his eyes.

“Vizh,” Wanda whispered. His eyes—so blue, unlike anything she’d ever seen. Her Vision.

His irises whirled for a second, that part of his appearance apparently unchanged, and then he cleared his throat. “Uh. Well. I guess we made it to Paris after all.”

Wanda laughed, and fell forward to wrap her arms around his neck.

~o0o~

[shurochka-azarova]

A Man from the Boulevard des Capucines /  Человек с бульвара Капуцинов (1987)

Directed by Alla Surikova.

[scarlettrhettelizabethrichard]

Chapter 3. Impression, Rising Sun, my GWTW fanfiction

Chapter 3 of The Robillard Boutique

Charleston, December 1873 Sitting back in a comfortable chair, Rhett nervously inhaled the smoke from his cigar, a sheaf of documents in one hand. The other was gripping the armrest firmly. Without taking any notice, his fingers were mechanically scratching the already worn leather of the good old Chesterfield.     He had waited so long for this divorce certificate. As soon as he returned from Atlanta and his altercation with Scarlett, he had gone straight to his notary's office after leaving the station to give him the form signed by Scarlett O'Hara. "Don't flinch! Break the bond now. » And then the wait for the official notification began. For the next three weeks, his nervousness put Eleonor and Rosemary to the test. They could not enter the library. The place reeked of alcohol and the ashes of burnt cigars. At the slightest signal from old butler Michael to open the front door, Rhett would appear, looking for a courier to deliver the envelope. He hoped for it, he dreaded it, he looked forward to it, he hoped it would never happen... How many times had he had to restrain himself from rushing to his solicitor's office and ordering him to cancel his divorce petition! His constant changes of mind had finally caused him stomach cramps. "Thank God I held out! Free at last! "Rhett Butler chuckled to himself. It's true, he had doubted. Scarlett had clouded his judgement with her incongruous declaration of love when Mrs Wilkes died. After twelve years of desperate waiting! But no, it was too late. The little pest had succeeded in drying up her capacity for emotion. In any case, Bonnie had taken all her love with her. "That Scarlett should cry in turn is only fair! » And besides, did she really love him? From the speed with which she had accepted the end of their marriage, he doubted it. When he arrived in Atlanta last November with the divorce form in his pocket, Rhett anticipated many months - even years - of struggle before Scarlett agreed to stop calling herself Mrs Butler. Dumbfounded, he had seen her stand up, take the pen with a determined air and sign "Scarlett O'Hara" at the bottom of the document. Without a fight. A twinge of guilt surprised him, but he quickly banished this emotional reflex. Ah, if it had been for Ashley... All those long years during which she had waited patiently for this vain puppet. But in the case of Rhett, her "great love" miraculously revealed according to her, two months had been enough for the distraught lover to annihilate her patience and to probably change her love target again. "Definitely, no, there is nothing to regret. No more Mrs Scarlett Butler. The rope with which you strangled me for twelve years is cut. It's over, Scarlett! A clean, sharp break. Brutality suits you so well! From now on, there will be no more ties between us. No more enduring your whims and cruelty, no more being in your presence, no more drowning in your emerald eyes, no more wrapping your long locks of hair around my neck, no more being able to touch you... Never again, Scarlett..." He celebrated his new status as a divorced man with his stash of whisky and shut himself up in his room for three days. A week later, judging it best to avoid the ire of a mother outraged by his "abandonment of wife and children", he had run away - "as usual", Scarlett could have said. "Of course not, it's not running away. I'm just going to enjoy my single life. » *************************

Paris, January 1874 He left for London where his English partner was waiting for him. It was while talking to industrialists that he got the idea of starting a new business. "We'll see when I get back to Charleston. I've got time to work on my project. » Then he crossed the Channel to spend a few weeks in Paris, his favourite European capital. There, too, the wealthy businessman planned to do some business and invest in successful ventures. As on his previous visits to the French capital, Rhett the art lover admired the architecture of the Eternal City and its museums. He made a few days' foray into the provinces to visit the châteaux of the Loire. Rhett the epicurean enjoyed the sophisticated gastronomy, the Parisian life and its nightly shows. Rhett the jouster found above all his refined places of priced pleasures. The seductive American with the enticing smile was welcomed with open arms, of course. Every evening he greedily chose his playmate for a few hours, never for the whole night. On Tuesday, this one was chosen because her blond hair contrasted with Scarlett's hair, which was as black as darkness; on Wednesday, this one accompanied him because her skin was the colour of gingerbread, contrasting with the pearly whiteness of Scarlett's body; on Thursday, he preferred the third one because her hips were wide, contrasting with Scarlett's slim waist. It was unconscious. He didn't even notice. At social functions with friends, he was often placed next to young girls to be married. In France, his situation as a divorced man did not seem to panic the families of good society. On the other hand, his bank account was certainly attractive. Jacqueline, a pretty young person with blonde curls, had been his date on trips to the theatre and the opera. She blushed. Rhett, who had been out of the habit of dating "maiden" since a certain barbecue, was flushed. Had the 16-year-old Scarlett blushed at Twelve Oaks in 1861? No, certainly not to him, but perhaps to Ashley... He admired the young Frenchwoman's literary and artistic knowledge. It was a change from his ex-wife, whom he had taken to slyly mocking because of her poor school education! After a few discreet caresses exchanged, kind words spoken, the prospect that the lady would probably become a perfect housewife, submissive to her husband, cultured, pleasant, loving and... so boring, he grew weary. "To my great regret," he confided to her apologetically, "my duties call me back to America. Rhett Butler, a great aesthete since his adolescence, took advantage of his stay in Paris to indulge in more cerebral pleasures. On 15 April 1874, following the advice of his friend Jean, he went to 35 Boulevard des Capucines in Paris, to the studios of the famous photographer Nadar. 30 artists had gathered for the first time to show their paintings, sculptures and engravings for a month. Most of the exhibitors were unknown to Rhett. Their common denominator was an innovative, provocative and revolutionary style, according to the art critics. One of the critics, in mockery, later called them "Impressionists". He did not linger long in front of Berthe Morisot's painting, "The Cradle": a young mother leaning tenderly over her sleeping baby. Scarlett had never taken the time to admire her precious Bonnie in her little bed. Rhett stood petrified before a painting entitled "Impression, Rising Sun". The author of the work, Claude Monet, observing this elegantly dressed American, took care to comment on his creation, the effect of the mist on the port of Le Havre. Rhett thanked him warmly. A disturbing emotion made his imagination wander. He was mysteriously caught up in the scene: an orange sky, symbol of fire, of burning passion; in the background, port buildings and boats reflected in the water, with blue pigments similar to the eyes of his dear little girl; finally the sea, a gradation of green hues: water green, like a tear-fogged eyelid; pale green surrounded by a thousand shining sequins, like eyes flooded with sweetness after love; emerald green, a hard, raging green, heralding flashes of anger, Scarlett's last look on that November day in 1873. He inquired about the price and immediately reserved the painting, making sure that it would be shipped to him in Charleston as soon as the exhibition was over. He cut his visit short. On the way back to the hotel, he stopped at his travel agent's and booked his place on the first boat to leave for America the next day. Rhett was looking forward to seeing "Impression, Rising Sun" in his armchair in Charleston. Perhaps he would install it in his room so that he could not take his eyes off it until he fell asleep. ********************** Charleston, May 1874 When she returned, Eleonor gave Rhett a big hug. As usual, her favourite son had spoiled her and Rosemary. Packages were piled up in the hallway, between Parisian-style trinkets and boxes of chocolate pralines. "I'm finally turning the page! "he thought with conviction. He immediately contacted his solicitor to check that he had not received any letters from Atlanta sent by Henry Hamilton, Scarlett's solicitor and uncle by marriage. "Not that I care in the least, by the way! "he convinced himself. It was high time to manage his business. These were difficult times and Rhett had to take a serious look at his investments. He couldn't help but chuckle as he recalled the ironic coincidence between the resounding financial crash on the New York Stock Exchange in September 1873, triggering a string of industrial bankruptcies, and the day Rhett left Scarlett and Atlanta. The Nothern Pacific Railway was ruined that day, followed by 89 other railways. Fortunately Rhett had divested himself of the company and sold all his shares earlier that year. One of his partners who had speculated on the rail frenzy had not had the same reflex. Overnight he was ruined. Yes, divorcing Scarlett seemed like an earthquake, even on the New York Stock Exchange, he quipped. "And I'm afraid I'll continue to feel the seismic tremors for some time to come," he said bitterly. The former war profiteer Rhett Butler had proved to be quite adept at managing the improperly earned Confederate money. Of course, large sums had been invested in hedge funds. So he too had suffered some losses. But nothing that would threaten his fortune. When Bonnie was born, in order to protect the future of his beloved daughter, he had embarked on a vast real estate project in New York, in Yankee country. In this bustling city, every piece of land was now prohibitively expensive. In 1869, Rhett had acquired a large area of wasteland in a fast-growing district. He had built buildings of about ten storeys. Rhett demanded that his high-end properties be equipped with all the comforts of new technology, lifts, good ventilation and sanitation. Central heating fed by a low pressure steam circuit ensured comfort for the lucky occupants. To make the most of every precious yard, the ground floors opened onto large glass galleries with shops. In short, Rhett Butler's property portfolio on that May day in 1874 was impressive. "Fortunately, I took the precaution a long time ago to convert my financial liquidity into gold bars! "The businessman congratulated himself once again. Unlike many of his acquaintances, who had to endure the catastrophe caused by the decision of the US Congress and its Coinage Act*. Overnight, their fortune in bundles of money was deflated. Thanks to his foresight, flair and experience, Charlestonian Rhett Butler had managed to weather the financial and economic crisis without much damage. Rhett was very rich. "Rich enough to continue paying Scarlett's expensive pension." Deep down he knew he would continue to protect her financially well beyond the five years agreed in the divorce. He laughed under his breath at his ex-wife's incomprehensible and in no way deserved show of generosity. Ex-wife... " It's been seven months, and I still can't get used to it..." Rhett shrugged. "Scarlett, you can continue to squander part of my fortune without fear of running out! "He hoped, with a childish reflex, that Clayton's former county belle would hear him in Atlanta.       ***************************** Endnotes to Chapter 5: *Coinage Act: On 12 February 1873, the US Congress voted to change the monetary standard from silver to gold.

Disclaimers : I do not own the history and the characters of the book and movie of Gone with the Wind, which beloong to Margaret Mitchell.

#novel, #writer, #fanfiction, #GWTW, #Gone with the Wind, #historic novel, #french painters, #Impressionnists, #1875's krak

[cineaddict]

Человек с бульвара Капуцинов // A Man from Boulevard des Capucines

[patchoulism]

You have any recommendations for Russian language movies? The only ones I've ever seen are Stalker, Posledniy Bogatyr, and Matilda

King Lear by Kozintsev (1971), An Ordinary Miracle (1978), Gentlemen of Fortune (1971), A Man from the Boulevard des Capucines (1987), The Fool (2014), The Ballad of the Valiant Knight Ivanhoe (1983) filmed in Ukraine, cause we were the only republic in USSR with european type of castles, Kin-dza-dza! (1986). I’ll dig up more eventually, I actually forgot a lot of movie titles.