This past weekend, a movie was being filmed in Moncontour, the medieval village 2 km away. They were filming a made for tv movie – a mystery story of some sort, taking place (from what I could tell from the costumes) in the 30s or 40s. I walked up to Moncontour to join the crowd of tourists and old people and those otherwise not required to be working on a Tuesday afternoon to see what was going on. The scenes were being filmed in the square in front of the church. Signs had been painted and placed on the facades of a number of businesses in the area, changing an eyeglass shop into a furrier, and a private house into a hotel. Vintage cars littered the square, being doted over by various white haired men. Production assistants ran around muttering into their walkie talkies, carrying around pieces of construction paper, cables, overcoats, and baskets of produce. I’m sure there was good reason for all of this. An older man, who I can only assume was the director, judging from the fact that he was not carrying anything and had very chic black framed glasses, wandered up and down the street, eating an apple. Having little else to do, I watched the filming for about an hour, wherein one scene was shot. A girl, trying to adjust a suitcase that sits on top of a shiny black cab, is approached by a young man in a nice suit who offers to help her. She rejects his offer, but reconsiders and allows him to strap the suitcase down. The have some banter of a flirtations nature, she says something about Spain, tosses her shawl over her shoulder, and after throwing a coy look behind her, walks into the hotel. This scene, a total of 4 minutes long, at most, kept the spectators enraptured. A number of townspeople had been recruited to be extras in the movie. The women stood waiting for their cues very patiently in their period costumes, reapplying their lipstick and adjusting their hats. The men, too, stood waiting stoically, and I noticed a number of them had digital cameras to document their adventure. A few children, looking excited and uncomfortable, pulled at their short pants and pigtails.

Eventually I got tired of watching, and as the bar was closed due to the filming (I had planned to get a coffee and maybe try to practice small talk with the proprietors) I went instead to the patisserie. Despite being seduced on every side by the tarts and cakes in the window, I controlled my urges and got a comparatively virtuous croissant. It is a mixed up crazy world when a girl controls herself by getting a croissant, but that’s France for you. After I received my little paper bag, already going clear from the buttery pastry inside, one of the actors wandered into the store in all his sharp suited 40s finery and ordered what I understood to be 5 cakes. That’s showbiz, people. Excess. I took my one croissant, humbled by the tv actor’s complete disregard to moderation, and imagining the decadence of the night he was going to have, walked down the hill back to Tredaniel.