Rasmenia

It recently occurred to me that I haven’t made fun of any French weirdness in quite a while. I mean, it’s been like, 2 whole blog posts ago. It’s not that I’d stopped noticing, having grown accustomed & become part of the weirdness. Okay, okay… I may have become a wee part of the weirdness, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take notice of it.

One thing that has been a constantly baffling source of amusement here is the French titles for American movies. This isn’t something confounding only to Americans, either. There are plenty of savvy French movie goers who understand the absurdity & hilarity of the French titles, but those bizarre titles keep showing up, anyway.

It often seems that there is no rhyme or reason to it. After seeing countless movie posters, TV spots & theater signs, there is no discernible pattern to this madness. Believe me, I’ve tried to make sense of it. I can’t do it.

Sometimes, they keep the original English title. However, there are many cases where this is impossible, as the English title is an idiomatic phrase that makes no sense in French & has no equivalent, creating the need for a new, hilarious French title.

The Crystal Trap	58 Minutes to Live
A Day in Hell	Return to Hell

What amuses me most about the French posters for the Die Hard franchise is, the phrase “Die Hard” gets larger with each poster. I think that’s a good sign since “A Good Day to Die Hard,” the 5th movie in the series will be called: Belle Journée Pour Mourir. That translates to a Beautiful Day to Die, so, hey… they’re getting better.

Other times, the title is still in English, but has just been changed to some other English words that have nothing to do with the original title.

You probably already figured out that the first one is “The Hangover.” This is one of the most ridiculous French titles I’ve ever seen. In spite of the fact that there is a French expression for a hangover (gueule de bois) this movie was retitled in a way to associate it with the 1998 movie, Very Bad Things. The two movies are completely unrelated, but both are about a group of guys who go to Vegas before one of them gets married.

If you’re lucky, you haven’t seen the second movie, titled “Guess Who?” in the States, is a shitty remake of the 1967 Spencer Tracy/Sidney Poitier classic, “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.” Evidently, when they released it in France, they cut right to the point & said, “Fuck guessing. It’s a black guy & a white guy.” Which, to be fair, is often enough to let ticket buyers know they’re in for some wacky hijinks.

As we all know, sex sells, which is why there are several instances of movie titles getting a little bit of sexing up for French audiences.

No Strings Attached

Step Up

Cruel Intentions

My favorite is the sexing up of “Cruel Intentions”, which most people know is a horrible, young 90′s American version of “Les Liaisons Dangereuses,” a French novel written by an old-timey French guy named Pierre Choderlos de Laclos. Yeah, sometimes they inexplicably give weird, sexy titles to their own stories.

It doesn’t happen very often, but some of the biggest laughs come when the French & American posters seem to be for two very different movies… even though once you hit “play,” you still get the same boring shit.

Before the sexy Photoshop

The Harvests of Fire

Sometimes, the new & improved French titles just like to ask questions.

Is There a Cop to Save the Queen?	Is There a Cop to Save the President?
Is There a Cop to Save Hollywood?	Is There a Pilot in the Plane?

The inquisitive title isn’t just for zany comedies, either. It also works for cheesy horror flicks.

Vampire? Did You Say Vampire?

The recent remake of Fright Night didn’t get this clever title. It kept the same title as the American release, which is a good example of the fact that this is something that seems to happening a bit less in recent years. However, I kind of feel like they should have changed the title to “106 Minutes of Colin Farrell in a Wife Beater.”

You know, to sell more tickets.

And speaking of horror movies…

The Claws of the Night

The Teeth of the Sea

One thing that I see a lot of is a title that’s been changed & effectively gets the point across, but just sounds dull & doesn’t stand out as a unique title.

My Best Friends

Friends Forever

The Escapees

To be fair, that Adam Sandler nonsense where he filmed himself hanging out with his friends could have been called anything & it would still be horrible. And though it won’t surprise anyone, it may still be worth mentioning that the French DVD cover for “Bridesmaids” does state that the movie is a “feminine Very Bad Trip.”

There are the movie titles that in my mind, are amusing, but seem a bit misleading.

The Kites of Kabul

Just think of all those people sitting in the theater, expecting to see a nice movie about kites who ended up sitting through 2 hours of people doing things & talking about stuff.

Animal House

Hey! It’s a movie about an American college! Probably all American colleges are like the one in this movie. As you likely already know, anything you want to learn about another culture can be learned from watching movies. Sure, go ahead & laugh, but just like many Americans, thousands of French people watch American movies & believe those things to be an accurate representation of our lives.

Then again, it probably isn’t so far-fetched.

There are many, many more, but that’s enough for now. You get the idea. Besides, all of these is really nothing compared to the French titles of some American TV shows.

I’ll get to that later.

Before I even get started, let me warn you that if you get squeamish when it comes to chatter about doctors poking around in lady bits, then this post will not interest, amuse or inform you in any way. You’ll likely be too preoccupied with all of your squeamishing to to focus on reading, so… off you go while the rest of us talk.

Like a great many people, I’ve never cared much for going to the doctor. Any doctor. For anything. I’m not afraid of doctors, but in the past, I usually had to feel as though I were at risk of coughing up my aorta, or maybe shitting out a spleen or several yards of intestines. Even when I had broken bones, I was reluctant. I didn’t mind carrying my broken wrist with my good arm if the alternative was sitting in the emergency room. A busted eye socket… well, I didn’t even go to the hospital. Luckily, I didn’t end up paying for my stubbornness with a weird, crooked face.

Admittedly, a weird, crooked face can be quite endearing.

As I got older, I realized this is fucking stupid. I had a good job with fairly decent medical insurance, so it made sense to take better care of myself. At least as much as my insurance would let me.

But that was nothing compared to the socialized medicine in France. With socialized medicine, there is no reason whatsoever not to see a doctor when something hurts, snaps, makes weird noises, or when you have demon possession vomit & rapid-fire machine gun poo.

My first doctor visit in France was in Paris. I didn’t speak any French at all, so like most English-speaking expats, I found an Anglophone doctor. She was British, I’m American, so we could chat about those French quirks that only Anglophones find amusing or irritating. Communication wasn’t a problem & she seemed nice enough, so I decided that she was worthy of poking around at my body & my lady bits with cold, metal tools.

“Alright, then. Go on and drop your trousers,” she said.

“Um… right here? Now?”

“Yep.” She laughed. “Go on, then.”

Wait a minute. What was this shit? Where was the nice assistant in the lab coat to lead me into a small room with a paper-covered table? Where was the 5 to 10 minutes of alone time for me to strip down & where in the hell was my giant sheet of tissue paper to cover my nakedness?

After a mild jibe about my American modesty, British doc had me on display on her table.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, “I’m out of swabs. I’ll have to make due with something else.” I watched her come at me with a tongue depressor. I’d like to say that she vanished from sight, but since I didn’t have that nice barrier of tissue paper, she had nothing to vanish behind, leaving me with a front-row seat to my pelvic exam. After a brief moment of scraping my insides with a stick, she popped her head up & said, “Sorry ’bout that! The bleeding should stop by tomorrow.”

What. The. Fuck.

I got dressed, got my shit together & a few minutes later, I was sitting across from her at her desk again. We were in the middle of the usual post-exam small talk when she suddenly stood up, turned off all the lights in the office & said that I would have to go, as she had a party to get to & didn’t want to be late.

Yes. She kicked me out of her office.

Okay, so that was only one doctor. I decided that day to find a new general practitioner with an ample supply of cotton swabs.

Or one that looked like this. Whichever I could find first.

However, with the free health care, I found myself going to the doctor for every ache, pain, sniffle, snuffle or discomfort. I began to feel like a hypochondriac, even though I’ve never been like that at all. And with free healthcare, you don’t see your regular doctor for everything. Migraines? Here’s a note. Go see a neurologist. Allergies? Okay, here. Go tell it to the allergy specialist. Oh, you wear glasses? Go see the opthamologist. All of this has made it possible for me to get acquainted with all sorts of colorful characters from the French medical profession.

Like the crazy dermatologist in Paris who screamed at people on the phone, snapped at my husband repeatedly, then was soft-spoken & kind to me when no one else was around.

There was also the nurse at the pathology lab who scolded me repeatedly because I peeked under the wad of cotton on the inside of my elbow after having some blood drawn for a routine blood test.

Most recently, it was the dentist who splatters my face with water & my own saliva so much that I always make sure to wear my glasses to our visits, just for the eye protection.

Is this to say that all French doctors are crazy? No. But, there are differences. The appearances aren’t the same. I haven’t seen a lot of those white smocks & lab coat looking get-ups. The environment in their offices & waiting rooms isn’t as sterile, or reeking of pine cleaner. And yes, their bedside manner is different. Absolutely. Even the ones who seemed batshit crazy ultimately solved my problem – quickly & efficiently, without insisting on more tests, visits & procedures. They’ve all seemed to really know their shit, so if they are insane, it seems to work.

The only disappointment I’ve had with any doctor in France has been with the Anglophone doctors. I hate to say it, but that’s been my personal experience. I’ve been to one other since the tongue depressor incident – an American opthamologist in Paris. Both of these docs overcharged, made me feel like a number & didn’t solve my problem.

So, I gave up on that. Now it’s all small-town French doctors for me.

It’s been a few years since I was splayed out on that English doctor’s table in Paris, so recently, I had to go in for my routine examination – with my new, small-town French doctor. I talked with her using my ridiculous imitation of the French language as I watched her remove the metal stirrups from a cluttered storage closet, then fasten them to her examination table.

By now, I’ve abandoned my American modesty at the doctor’s office. I’ve given up hope of ever getting another sheet of tissue paper. Now I just drop trou & hop up on the table.

“Okay,” she says. “You make a fist.”

“A fist? Like this?” I hold up my fist. Until now, I’ve never been told to make a fist in the middle of a pelvic exam. I briefly wonder if this is some European, turn-your-head-and-cough sort of thing for ladies.

“Oui.” She nods. “Now you put it under your butt.”

Oh. Of course.

So, there I was, propping up my ass with my fist, sans tissue paper, thinking that no matter how fucking bizarre this might feel, at least she knows her shit. At least I’ve got excellent medical coverage & she has a plentiful supply of cotton swabs.

Wave a hand full of these in my face & I’ll love you forever.

If you’ve ever suffered through any humiliation or ridiculous incidents at the doctor’s office, please feel free to share. We’ll only laugh at you a little bit – mostly we’ll be laughing with you.

Mostly.

A couple of months ago, I got a few messages from friends back home in the States about this:

Oh… & also, this:

For a few days, the Internet was abuzz with various articles about the Star Wars burgers in France & Belgium. Not surprisingly, those articles were riddled with comments from all of the very smart Americans who made it their mission to correct the spelling of “Dark Vador.” Even the very smart writers at Huffington Post were confused as to why the name was “misspelled.”

To avoid that here – & to prevent me from having to make fun of you – let’s clear it up right away & make it known that the character’s name in France is Dark Vador. Okay? Got it? (This translation prevents his name from being pronounced like “Dart Vah-day.”)

Now, then… moving on. As soon as Olivier & I found out about these, we knew we had to give them a try. We don’t eat at Quick very often & the closest one is about 30 minutes away, but we decided to make an exception.

The first problem was, the dates on the advertisement didn’t apply to the Quick in our area. Possibly, they were dates for the same promotion in Belgium. So… we waited. We kept an eye on the Quick advertisements & as soon as they arrived, we drove to the Quick in Chartres.

When we got there, only the Dark Burger & the Jedi Burger were available. The Vador burger would be available a month later. Okay, no problem. We immediately made plans to return in a month to get our weird, black-bunned burgers. I ordered the Dark Burger & Olivier got a Jedi Burger & as an added bonus, some cheesy stars. Cheesy stars!

Exhibit A & Exhibit B.

There was some mystery surrounding the Jedi Burger. What was it topped with? What could those mysterious chunks poking out from under the bun be? Big onion chunks? Cheese curds? Apple chunks? Marshmallows?

Seriously. Marshmallows? Sorry, people don’t eat a lot of marshmallows around here. Cheese curds? This isn’t Wisconsin. Cheese here might come in a wheel or a block, a slice or a slab, but never a squeaking curd.

As underwhelming as it is, it’s just chunks of cheese. Chunks that are melted by the time you actually have the burger right in front of you. Like most food, the real thing has nothing at all to do with what’s pictured in the advertisement.

There really is some meat & stuff in there. Honest.

As far as the taste, it was mustardy. The bun was heavily dusted with flour & it was filled with cheese & a mustard sauce. This is all according to Olivier, who was able to provide me with feedback on his Jedi burger when he wasn’t otherwise occupied.

Making Darth Maul box battle with Yoda box is actually a damn good time.

The Dark burger, much to my surprise, had a reddish-orange bun. I guess I couldn’t really see that in the ad, but I saw it right away when I opened the box. I saw somewhere, in the comment section of one of the aforementioned articles, some speculation as to what might be on the bun. Special spices? Bagel seasoning? (What is bagel seasoning?)

Well, prepare to be underwhelmed again. It just had some poppy seeds on it.

There was a black pepper kind of mayo in it. As far as I could tell, it was the exact same black pepper mayo that Quick uses for some of their other burgers, like the Quick ‘n’ Toast, which is what I typically order from there when I do go to Quick, so… really, the Dark Burger didn’t taste much different than my other visits to Quick.

I have no idea why the bun was reddish-orange. I’m guessing it’s just food coloring, since there was no special taste.

But that isn’t what you want to know, is it? You want to know what in the hell is up with that funky black bun, right?

Prepare for more disappointment.

Like I said, we made plans to return the following month so that we could try them out. Yes, we were actually willing to put those things in our mouths & bodies, in spite of the fact that neither one of us really gives much of a shit about Star Wars. (C’mon… it’s not like they were Star Trek burgers, people.)

Unfortunately, Quick fucked us. Usually, the limited edition burgers last for one month. The Dark Vador Burger? Four days. FOUR FUCKING DAYS.

Which made me think… maybe it was a little too weird for the French public to justify putting it on the menu for a full month. This wouldn’t surprise me at all. I mean, these guys feel revulsion at things like blue cake frosting or peanut butter, so the black bun might a be a bit much for anyone who’s not a full-on Star Wars nerd.

But, we did get cheesy stars. Did I mention the cheesy stars?

I’m willing to bet that we’ll get another chance. I’m sure that the next time George Lucas releases a Star Wars movie in 3D, there will be some bizarre fast food item or black bunned burger being sold in Europe that I can eat for my American friends back home.

Until then, I think I’ll be eating normal, green-colored salad. I think I might still have some star cheese floating around in my system.