Jenni Ajderian

     Buddy-Comedy-Road-Movie-with-added-cathartic-death is perhaps an underpopulated genre of film. Between drunken stumblings and snap decisions to drive to Corsica, your three lead males from different corners of life have to calm down every now and then just enough to remember your lead female, tragically deceased. Don't worry, this isn't a spoiler- you'll find out as much from AlloCine 's page on the film. Point is, you might not get much more from the film itself.      Bitter and sweet are put very, very close together in this coming-of-age-slash-putting-feet-on-the-ground tale  of three friends united by their love, platonic or not, of Charlie (Mélanie Thierry), the vibrant sister-mother-lover of every Frenchman's dreams, with whose funeral the film opens. So our three musketeers Elie, Boris and Maxime (Nicolas Duvauchelle, François-Xavier Demaison, Pierre Niney) then decide to leap into a car and take the holiday they'd always planned with their fourth

Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y chante on y danse...      But only if you pay to. The bridge stretches only about a fifth of the length it used to, not even reaching the island-peninsula in the middle of the river Rhône which used to house gambling dens and all kinds of sinful endeavours. According to my ever-trusty guidebook, the original song was " Sous le pont d'Avignon "- not on, but under , describing the impatient dance of those awaiting tourists with light heads and heavy pockets.      Not quite so heavy-pocketed, we got into Avignon on one of the windiest days I've experienced in France. Our guide explained that here we're out of the shelter offered to Aix by the nearby mountains, so there will of course be more wind than we're used to (actually, because of his accent, I at first thought he said that Aix was protected from wine ( le vin ) as opposed to wind ( le vent )).      The bridge is an impressive affair, even in its slightly depleted for

     In the 50s, having a job as a secretary may have been considered modern, or even empowering, but mostly, as Rose Pamphyle (Déborah Francois) says in her job interview, it's the chance to work for an important man. Seen in this light, the rise and fall of a Speed-Typing champion is just as much to do with a woman's personal victory as it is to do with her boss' encouragement and coaching, as well as the freedom he allows her to have.      In the film, and in life, the Speed-Typing Championship probably stemmed from a cigar-fuelled "I bet my secretary types faster than yours" argument, and the exclusively female competitors inhabit a space somewhere between real sportsman(woman?)ship and simply being allowed to play. The rocky ground of post-war sexual power-play is tested with bright colours and the happy clack-clack of a typewriter, and leads us somewhere a little more patronising than first-time director Regis Roinsard may have been hoping for.      But

     There's an advent tradition here in Provence that was entirely unknown to me until a few days ago when I picked up a leaflet in town about Saint Barbe and Le Blé de l'Espérance . Today, the 4th of December, is Saint Barbe's day, and many Provencial people will have bought wheat seeds from street vendors to plant in her honour.      Sainte Barbe was around in Lebanon in the 3rd century, and according to various highly respected sources accessible via Google, was either locked in a tower to keep her away from troublesome leanings towards Christianity, or locked herself in there to get out of marrying some Prince. Either way, she managed to sneak a priest in, who gave her a good baptising, saved her soul, and really annoyed her dad.      You know how it goes with these saints: once they've sworn their faith aloud, they get a get-out-of-death-free pass, though sometimes this isn't such a blessing. Every time they re-swear their faith, God likes them that little

     It's quite appropriate that the above quote comes from none other than Desiderius Erasmus, the eponymous hero of the European exchange scheme I'm currently on.      The Book Market is in Aix only one day a month, and this was the first time I managed to make it to Place de l'Hotel de Ville at the right time. The square is full of outdoor seating for cafés still in use even in December, and on Tuesdays hosts a flower market. I think I'd prefer a romantic present from this selection though.      These French translations of Shakespearian plays are a real favourite- the tomes themselves are huge and way out of my budget, even with money from Desiderius' representatives, but they look beautiful. The translated titles alone are worth a look and a giggle. The two comedies pictured here are 'Love's Labours Lost' and 'Much Ado About Nothing'      The market itself is as typically French as you might expect- if you chat with the s

     A marriage rife with Bovarysme and ennui, this 1920s power-struggle follows the marriage of young Thérèse (Audrey Tatou), who sees only one route to life until her best friend shows her otherwise.      What is most interesting is that this girl, who crashes onto screen on a bike, kills rabbits and pidgeons for the family, takes a lover and is then imprisonned by her powerful parents, is not the protagonist. These are the actions of Anne (Anaïs Demoustier), the childhood friend of Thérèse, whose story, far more dramatic and classically cinematic, is told through letters and painful pleas for help. The two women are both destined for powerful marriages arranged to monopolise the ownership of riverside pine forests, and Thérèse, the elder, goes through hers first. As she does, Anne's story of forbidden love begins, and Thérèse sees that her path was not the only one available.      In some respects, this is a story we've heard before. Unhappy with her moustachioed husband

     There's a kind of irony in seeing a French-made film shot in New York. The city, like Paris, brings with it certain stereotypes and traditions of film-making, which will always creep into any director's vision, regardless of nationality. There will be a dramatic city-skyline shot, an inspiring panorama of downtown, a nice view of the Brooklyn Bridge. People like New York. People fantasise about New York. Even the French. New York is a kind of brand that can be put on a film to draw in an audience, but once we're there, we need a storyline to keep us there. This is when directors Géaldine Nakache and Hervé Mimran stopped trying.      Three French guys go to surprise-visit their two French girl mates in the Big Apple. And. That's about it. They make friends, they explore, they buy those annoying I Heart NY tshirts and they shout "Obama!" a lot. Between flash-in-the-pan arguments and on-the-spot personality changes we see the panoramas and the skyline shots

     Aix is a tricky city to drive in. The trademark French winding cobbled streets and semi-pedestrianised alleyways which turn into markets three days a week can't be an easy thing to steer a ton of metal down, even on a lazy wednesday. So it's not surprising that there are a lot of bikers here- and before they all go into hibernation for winter (which, oddly, has not happened yet. It's mid-November) I thought I'd give them a little showcase       As well as the beautiful tourers and big macho bikes are the little girly scooters that whizz around Europe whatever country you happen to pick. If anything these seem more appropriate here for inner-city driving, as usually bikers (scooterers?) are going at near-walking pace to weave in and out of pedestrians and nip in front of the white vans and lorries which still seem to manage to negotiate Aix's streets.      But what's really got me interested are these little things- at about waist-height, they l

     Goscinny & Underzo’s bandes dessinés are beloved by the French, and quite a few English people too. Trying to figure out how our copies of Asterix and Cleopatra and Astérix et Cléopatre corresponded with one another was the first time I really wanted to learn French. For those who have never read them before, it’s all about a tribe of Gauls who are the last stand against the Roman Empire, and spend their days hunting wild boars and occasionally chugging down some of Getafix’s magic potion so they can beat up their surrounding legionnaires with super-human strength and some very satisfying comic onomatopoeia. Oh, and they go on adventures around the world with their little white dog, meeting various different cultures, making jokes and sorting out people’s problems, so it’s kind of like Tintin, only, you know, good.      The studio may have been jumping on the Anglomania bandwagon following this summer’s Jubilee and the Olympics, but for a group of Brits and Irish living in

     I’ve written before about how eager students are for anything that is free. Food, clothes and branded pens can be the carrot on the string of any advertiser or local business looking for a new batch of regular customers, and, it would seem, l’Opéra de Marseille is just one such business.      It was clear from the start that last Friday night’s Concert Offert Aux Etudiants was no normal night at the opera. Hipster glasses and ripped jeans took up seats usually reserved for suits and ballgowns as l’orchestre philharmonique de Marseille drew out the first few notes, but even before that the musicians seemed far more relaxed than I’d ever expected. A few were already in their seats before I was, tuning and reading over parts or just chatting away. During the performance a whole string of them made corrections in their music while not playing, then passed the pen on to the next person once they were done. At the back, a surly tuba player sat with arms folded and back hunched, prob

     I sat on the edge of the wall and held my arms out so I could no longer see it under me. Though I'm well aware that Mont Ste Victoire has been solidly standing for a thousand times longer than I will ever live, and the wall was probably put there a hundred years before I was born, I could feel them both move under me.      In the 1870s a troupe of church-goers did the same two-and-a-half hour hike I had just done, but with ten feet of metal on their backs. The cross now erected on the peak of Mont St Victoire is visible from miles away, has now rusted and charred in a hundred and fifty years of weathering, and makes a simple, omnipresent statement: we were here.      It's easy to see why people build churches on high points. The walk up took us sixteen Erasmus students from sea-level to over a kilometre in the air, and each rest-stop was punctuated with sounds of awe and breathless, admiration-filled statements. In our last half hour, barely anyone spoke as we navigate

(originally published by Edinburgh Exchanges blog)      Well, they DID warn you, before you came to France, that the bureaucracy would be a nightmare. You thought they were just comptes de fée, but it turns out they're all true. Slaying all the demons and finding all the magic keys you need to get what you want to get done done can leave you with both sore muscles and damaged pride. I write with tales of experience from both myself and fellow Erasmus students.      Our first tale is of the Erasmus student who wanted to exercise. Moving to France means moving into closer proximity to more boulangeries than you can shake an enchanted baguette at, and to counteract the  mille feuilles  and  pain au chocolat aux amandes , a gym membership might be necessary. But, hark! what is that on the horizon? Our brave Erasmus hero steels hisself- it's the demon of  bureaucratie .      "Kraaak!" (this is the noise the bureaucracy monster makes. Work with me here.) "La Fac

(originally published by  EdinburghExchanges  -go here for bigger versions of pictures!) (also vlogged about at length at Etudiante X -go here for less static versions of pictures!)      Yes, we're in France. Yes, we're studying. Yes, we're really trying very hard to speak our foreign language.  But we've been doing that for A WHOLE MONTH now. It's time for a break.      Zadar is nothing short of breathtaking. A coastline pocked with tiny beaches and bathed in warm water lead from our hostel (the  Drunken Monkey - HIGHLY recommended) to the Old Town, which seems to have been built around its plentiful Roman ruins rather than making a tourist attraction of them. Monasteries and wells galore, a walled garden and the remains of the forum are all surrounded by normal high-street shops and low-price restaurants, as well as bountiful amounts of icecream vendors. On our second day it became apparent that for all sixteen of us to get to Krka national park (

     Well, perhaps not strictly free, I'm yet to ask the owners' permission...      I've mentioned before the abundance of weird and wonderful fruit growing around Aix- while at home we're surrounded by blackberries and maybe the occasional sloe, the South of France's climate and soil mean the local flora are just about as strange and foreign as the University system.           First up is the humble fig. These are a long way off being ripe, but I always check them anyway on my way into Uni. The tree is in someone's garden but hangs over onto the road quite a bit, and, as my good friend Steph pointed out, for some reason smells like coconut. Both this and all the chestnut trees around make me a little nostalgic of my days as a Wwoofeuse near Alès.      I think these are walnuts, although I don't have my Kernel Identification badge so my quick Google search will have to suffice for now. These were spotted on my way to the supermarket,

     I've also just jumped aboard the Edinburgh Exchanges blog, which contains snippets from students around the world on International or Erasmus exchanges. I do so hoping with all my heart that this will not entail any deadlines. http://edinburghexchanges.wordpress.com/author/jajderian/

     I'll admit it, I spent most of my day in Marseille on the beach, so I don't have a proper feel for the city yet. Ask a local and they'll tell you France's third city is dirty, dangerous and full of rude people, though I'm sure the Marseillais would say much the same about Aix. The rivalry between the two sister cities puts me in mind of that between Bristol and Bath, or Edinburgh and Glasgow- the smaller city pulling tourists in with its looks, the bigger with its personality.      Still, Marseille does make the effort. Making one's way out of the la Gare St Charles, the first view of the city is nothing but stunning, and the city's success as a port has made for some breathtaking architecture through years of development and eventual rebuilding after the second world war.      And so to the beach, where we spent several hours lying on tiny pebbles and getting a little bit sunburnt. Two metro trains and a bus took us out to the coast, and the dee

     How very new and exciting, I'm trying to do a vlog alongside this more textual effort!      I'll keep linking back and forth between here and there, but just so you know there is now a YouTube playlist with my name on it which I promise to fill with weekly updates and bits of language. For anyone who has time to watch (hi, mum & dad), but particularly people who may be considering the rich world of Erasmus themselves.

     So here we are in Aix-en-Provence, Bouches-du-Rhône, one of the most popular tourist destinations in France. People come here for the ample sunlight, proximity to the beach and, in part, for the food, so I thought it right to look at some of the local delicacies.        First stop is the Sunday market next to the Palais de Justice en centre-ville, where I think much of my student loan might end up going this year. Sundried tomatoes are a nice pretentious snack anywhere in the world, but the French (and the Italians, I think) don't seem to drown them in oil like we do back home. These dried tomatoes are fine for putting in salads or eating with some equally pretentious hummus, as well as just munching while walking around the rest of the market. The taste is like sundried tomatoes you may have had before, but even more tangy and naked of all that oil.    I didn't go for these in the end, but it's an odd little way to sell garlic. The Frencha re of course fam

     Unfortunately, I'm not Scottish, and neither am I overly familiar with whisky. I am, however, a fan of Cranachan, a Scots pudding that involves cream, raspberries, oats and honey, and of course a nip of wonderful Scots whisky. I devised this recipe from a basic cheesecake we once made at school (can't beat a bit of food tech sometimes) with the aforementioned ingredients snuck in. 175g oaty biscuits (hobnobs or own-brand equivalent), crushed 50g butter 2tb honey 200ml creme fraiche 200g cottage cheese 1 large egg 1 tsp vanilla essence 3 tb whisky (or more to taste, you cheeky thing) small handful of raspberries      It's best to use a loose-based cake tin for this, otherwise it could be pretty difficult to excavate the cheesecake. Melt the butter and take off the heat before mixing in your runny honey and those crushed biscuits . This should hold together, but you can play with the exact consistency by adding more oats for a crisper base or more

     It's rare you have the excuse to throw a really all-out dinner party, so when it comes up it's important to do it right. I came across a recipe for gin sorbet on another wonderful blog, Domestic Sluttery , which used a mythical being named 'squeezable glucose', but this works perfectly well without, and was probably the most stand-out course with my twenty-year-old taste-testers... 175g sugar, plus extra to serve 350ml water 100ml gin lime rind in strips shot glasses to serve (about fourteen) (picture stolen, quite unprofessionally, from bridalsnob.tumblr.com. Mine were gone long before I considered snapping a picture) Quite simply, boil your water and throw in the sugar and lime rind, turn down the heat and simmer while stirring until this thickens up a little. Take off the heat and remove the lime rind (careful now) and allow this to cool a little before adding the precious precious gin. Leave this to cool completely before pouring into a tub and stic

     There are few things for which someone with a hangover as bad as this will trudge through the rain, and fewer still which take place in a converted church. But this band, this particular combination of formidable horn section, guitars, drums, orange beanie hats and dual vocalists, has proven itself all over Edinburgh throughout the festival and beyond. The Victorian Trout Conspiracy , a group made up of too many locals to count, begin their set with a wall of sound that dissolves into higher, janglier stabs on that lead guitar. As the beat picks up, its player, Fraser, pumps his legs up and down, bassist Calum becomes a swirl of hair and the whole front line is a blur of moshing, jumping musicians, and suddenly sleep deprivation and the Hive's unidentifiable gunk are things of the past.      The music is stompable, danceable, chantable, shoutable, and soon the Tron church is full of early drinkers and tourists curious about the noise, all of them smiling by the third song,

WOMEN     SPOKEN WORD     FREE     DISCUSSION     POETRY      Yes, we've added in some extra boxes just so we can tick them here, since this year's Fringe programme contains a whole section devoted to the still hazy title of Spoken Word acts. First things first- DO NOT BE SCARED. Yes, You, the one who remained a wallflower during our forays into improvised comedy, You who skirted round the Physical Theatre section of the programme, You who baulks at anything involving a 'fascinating real-life story' or puppets (they are creepy). Yes, You is, in this respect, Me, but we've gone past that now. My first Spoken Word event was attended on a whim and I'm very glad I went. Ranging from rap to epic poetry, this section is small for now, but promises to bloom in future years. A large amount of the performers here give their words away for free, and the smaller venues they occupy create a more intimate atmosphere for any performance. A lot of first-timers, but some o

UNEXPECTED     PLAY     WOMEN     NEWBIES     LOCAL     IMPROV      There is an award, I learned this year, for Comic Originality, which bares the infamous name of Malcolm Hardee, a comedian who in life drove tractors into neighbouring performances who he thought to be too loud, and in death continues to encourage 'alternative' comedy and 'cunning stunts' similar to his own. The award is not given to run-of-the-mill stand-ups. No Michael McIntyres here, no family-friendly stuff and no knock-knock jokes either. We've already discussed the darkness in comedians in Mark Olver's Dancing About Architecture , and in acts like these it gets onto the stage. The line between dark humour and just plain darkness is so fine as to be almost imperceptible, so these acts can be forgiven for teetering over to the other side every now and then... Casual Violence: A Kick In The Teeth      Winner of the Hardee Comic Originality award last year, Casual Violence are bac

FREE     WOMEN     NEWBIES     UNEXPECTED     LOCALS      I've told you before about the merits of seeing free shows, and to that I wish to add with three of my favourites from this year's selection. It's worth knowing that the Free Fringe is split between two promoters, the directors of which apparently have beef with one another from a mysterious event that happened a few years ago (Laughing Horse hit on PBH's mum, or possibly vice versa), and as such there may be twice as many free shows to go to as you may expect. Programmes are organised by time, which is a godsend if you just have a couple of hours to spare and fancy a free giggle. Hurt and Anderson      Since we're vastly under-represented as a gender in the realms of comedy, I've been trying to head to female comedians' shows in particular this Fringe, but have still avoided them if they sound awful, or make a big deal about the whole not-having-a-penis thing. The write-up for this show conta

CHAT          UNEXPECTED          HEADLINERS       Once you've seen X amount of stand-ups and sketch shows and improvised comedy troupes, patterns start to emerge. This is an art form, like sculpture or baroque music, and it has its precedents, classics, techniques and stories repeated time and time again. Comedians are a clever bunch, and they know all of this. Talk to one and you'll feel this experience beaming through, as well as a real love of their chosen profession.      Sit four of them down for an hour with a talented host, such as in Mark Olver's month-long chat show Dancing About Architecture, and all of this comes to light in a way it never can by simply watching Dave of an afternoon. Olver's guests vary by the day, and many of them are well-known faces on the comedy circuit- Seann Walsh and Gareth Richards today, Russel Howard on Saturday- and all seem genuinely enthusiastic about having an intimate discussion with their small audience in the dark of

CHAT          IMPROV          WOMEN          UNEXPECTED      It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Fringe show must be in want of an audience. Since the best form of advertising seems to be word of mouth, it makes sense to promoters to give out a small number of free tickets in the initial stages of a show's run, so that seats are filled, laughs shared, and memories made. In these early stages it is therefore worthwhile for an audience member to not have a plan, to go out of an evening and see what you may stumble upon, even if it ends up being just a cheeky pint in the shadow of a huge up-turned cow.      On just such a night, a friend and I stumbled into Monkey Toast: the Improvised Chat Show, imported from Canada by David Shore. The format of such a show seemed alien at first (which helped to make it all the more intriguing) and really lent itself to the whole getting-bums-on-seats idea, but seemed to contain some kind of mix between chat and improv, though the adher