Summer Hours

Summer Hours

(See my other posts about this movie)

I rewatched an old favorite—actually not really that old, 2009 by director Olivier Assayas, subtitled in French.

There is a certain feeling I get from this film, not so much the plot, but the sense of loss, mortality. It is bittersweet.

Synopsis:

When elderly matriarch Hélène Berthier (Édith Scob) discovers that her health is declining, she contacts her three adult children about contending with her valuable art collection after her passing. As the family gathers, local son Frédéric (Charles Berling) is on hand, while his jet-setting siblings, Adrienne (Juliette Binoche) and Jérémie (Jérémie Renier), fly in from abroad. Together, they try to agree on what to do with their mother's collection, as they also grapple with her mortality.

Lately I’ve seen a few articles written about people my age having to deal with what to do with their parent’s stuff. Knick knacks, furniture, the detritus collected over a series of decades.

Summer Hours is about a family dealing with stuff: a beloved vacation house, a valuable art collection. But more than this, they are dealing with memories, secrets. Beyond the apparent and obvious value of the objects is the relationship. Thus, the housekeeper, faithful and loyal, decides to take as a memento a homely vase that she supposes to be worthless. In the last scene I recognize a box on a windowsill. A fancy mobile phone, a present given to the mother on her last birthday. Unopened, unprogrammed, unused.

In the end they decide to sell the house and auction off her belongings. How they feel about the summer home will forever stay in their memories.

I remember helping my brother clear out my parent’s stuff. No one wanted it. It had sat for awhile in a storage unit deteriorating from moisture. I watched as he dumped 10 – 15 years of photos into a garbage bag. They were pics of vacations my parents had taken after Dad retired. We knew none of the people in the pictures.

Still it felt like blasphemy throwing all that stuff out. I couldn’t help wondering about my own life, my own memories—and who will care about any of it after I’m gone. Go to: to readmy flash piece about clearing out my parent’s house after their death.)