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From Russh Mar/Apr 2009 Issue 27

Interview with Jane Birkin:

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scans by rox_yr_sox
 
beautiful scans, specially the last shot coz i :heart: to see jane with her kids.
 
thank you, rox!, that's one of my favorite Serge+Jane photographs. :heart:
and the interview is hilarious, esp. the coca cola part, I can only imagine doing that in the winter otherwise you'd have mosquitoes all over your head in the summer. :shock::lol:
She sounds so modest, too.. and wrong as the writer said. at this point, I think her style has surpassed Je t'aime in terms of popularity.. she's more likely to be remembered as a representative figure of a special cultural time in the last century, the kind of figure that people keep coming back to for references or start off with (particularly for those interested in fashion). which reminds me of this page from Bazaar 1998 that I found the other day, it was dedicated to Jane and how to 'accomplish' her look.. I thought it was interesting since the late 90s, in hindsight, have little to do with her style.. but it's proof that it's timeless enough to be constantly idolised by others..
 
If anybody are interesting in listen her voice, next march, JB will sing in Madrid (I think around 15 of 16th...). You can buy tickets in www.entradas.com. I could be nice;)

C.
 
I can't really tell much just from seeing a picture, but this person really doesn't seem right for it. That's really who was cast for it? I think I might end up feeling disappointed with this movie.
 
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ugh.. Serge and Buckley's movies are something that I do not look forward to. brbrbrbr.. I hate the thought of them becoming some poser-target a la Joy Division.
ok. *moves on* :ninja: -_-

the cast is so physically accurate, I must say, it's funny. esp. Elmosnino.. :lol:
I'm pretty okay with the choices.. I hope Lucy will make Jane happy. Laetitia Casta as Brigit is also fantastic.. same for Sara Forestier as France Gall. :heart:
 
Glittery_Bug said:
I've not heard good things about this film, and Jane and Charlotte are allegedly very angry and disappointed that it's being made at all...
Click to expand...
:o seriously? where'd you read that?. I wanted to think they were supporting it, such a shame they're not involved cause the direction of the film might've been different, more accurate in a way.
 
I'm not sure if I should say exactly who as it's probably not very politically correct to blab about such things on the internet (you never know who's reading), but from one of the Birkin family themselves. I think the main complaints were with the quality of the script, which doesn't 'get' Serge properly.
 
http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/feb/23/jane-birkin-review

Jane Birkin

**** / *****

Jane Birkin was the epitome of the perfect-fringed, long-legged lovelies that made the 1960s swing. She frolicked in Blow Up and shed any vestiges of English reserve in Serge Gainsbourg's saucy Je t'Aime Moi Non Plus, her overt sensuality softened by a toothy smile and childlike innocence.
Returning to the Barbican after six years, Birkin, 62, doesn't so much cover up as disguise herself. She sports an urchin crop; her body is hidden by baggy trousers, an oversized waistcoat and a low-hung tie. Far from doe-eyed ingenue, Birkin is a cross between Willy Loman's failing salesman and Charlie Chaplin's little tramp.
It is more likely, however, that her new look has been influenced by the same memories that inspired her latest album, Enfants d'Hiver - her debut as a songwriter - which wallows in the nostalgia of childhood holidays spent on the Isle of Wight and teenage years spent dressing in her brother's clothes.
Still, girlish wonder and maternal warmth ooze from Birkin's every pore, her soft voice fluttering between fluent French and Noel Cowardish English. Introducing a night of "extraordinary songs and surprises", she hesitates. "Is everyone French?" she asks. "Should I be speaking in French?"
In her adopted homeland, "l'Anglaise" is a national treasure. Most of tonight's 26-song set is in French; the Middle Eastern flavours she added to the standards on her last visit are replaced here by the stripped-back simplicity of a four-piece band. Cello tangles with double bass; there's electric and acoustic guitar, ukulele and mandolin, together with classic piano and keyboards melodies.
The combination complements Birkin's more whimsical songs - the tender 14 Fevrier, or her cool reading of Tom Waits's Alice. But the subtle strings do not fit the sexy rock of Nicotine or of l'Anamour, and muddy up the reggae of Pas Long Feu.
Birkin, though, inhabits every word. A natural actress, she kneels at the edge of the stage for Beth Gibbons's Strange Melody, her head almost touching the floor as she sings, siren-like, in English. Birkin's frothy French image is pushed aside completely during Aung San Suu Kyi, as she delivers a steely yet passionate monologue about child mortality in Burma and protests that she was not allowed to put posters of the Burmese leader, imprisoned under house arrest, on stage.
Politics aside, an evening with Birkin is enchanting. She is a gracious performer, giving a list of thanks worthy of an Oscar winner, and she is charming company. During Yesterday Yes a Day, she carries through the audience an umbrella frame with lights attached to its spokes, grinning broadly and trilling sweetly as she goes, her timeless naivety as compelling as ever.
 
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/4786472/Jane-Birkin-a-soiree-of-breezy-Gallic-charm.html

Gamine still at 62, Jane Birkin skips on to the stage like an extra from Oliver! Above a gap-toothed grin, her hair is short and spiky. She wears oversized men's slacks, shirt and waistcoat, with her tie at a jaunty half-mast and one of her braces hanging down.
The model/actress-turned-singer (still most famous for the sexually explicit single, Je t'aimee_SLps moi non plus, recorded with her lover Serge Gainsbourg in 1969) draws appreciative whistles from men of a certain age, while younger fans applaud more respectfully. Birkin is a piece of cultural history for them – a bohemian icon of eccentric European romance. They clap for the woman who inspired one of France's greatest songwriters.
But what will Gainsbourg's muse deliver 18 years after his death? The answer is a charming soirée dominated Gainsbourgian chanson, tastefully arranged for guitar, piano, cello and double bass.
The musicians do a beautiful job capturing his easy way with cabaret, jazz and African-inspired rhythm. Birkin's girlish voice never had much depth, but its breathy enthusiasm conveyed a hippyish, cheesecloth-in-the-wind, male fantasy of femininity.
Has her voice shed its naivety to gain weight and wisdom? Not really. But it has retained its core of wonder, compassion and an eagerness to please. She relishes Gainsbourg's lyrical wordplay, dancing through all the puns and tongue-twisters. She tells the audience that Exercice en forme de Z – designed to trip the singer with its repetition of words beginning with z – is "still as fresh and sweet as when he first gave it to me, 35 years ago".
When she speaks in English between songs, her accent is surprisingly pre-war. "Bless you, merci," she smiles when we applaud. The contrast between the soft core chanteuse and this Mary Poppins persona is intriguing. She seems even more like the fictional British nanny when she takes an umbrella spangled with fairy lights and walks among the audience to sing Yesterday, Yes a Day.
Between the Gainsbourgian material, Birkin slips a cover of Tom Wait's Alice and Beth Gibbons's Strange Melody about a woman who commits suicide by walking into the sea. Birkin half-recites, half-sings the traumatic tale, curled up on the stage. A selection of songs from Birkin's 2008 album, Enfants d'hiver, features melodies from a range of musicians, but the French lyrics are all Birkin's, shot through with Gallic philosophy about the "beauty of the complexity of the heart".
The surprise high point of the night is a protest song calling for the release of Burmese political prisoner Aung San Suu Kyi. As Birkin tells the bare facts of Suu Kyi's political career and ongoing human rights abuses, her voice shakes with angry passion that has nothing girlish or naïve about it.
In this wider cause, it seems, Birkin has found her own muse.



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http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/music/article5719792.ece

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Jane Birkin relives her childhood

Now 62, the former Sixties icon relives her childhood


Jane Birkin looks boyish - sticky-outy hair, jeans, three sweaters over a braless chest, no make-up - and the artifice, all the more striking given her beauty, makes her seem vulnerable. The impression is confirmed when she launches into a monologue about her nostalgia for her childhood and, especially, about the holidays her family spent on the Isle of Wight.
“The rough side of the island, I hasten to add, not the chic side,” she says. “It was the black beach, the black sand, and it was being with my brother and my sister and my parents like some sort of sublime ... you know the things that hold doors up in Italy? What are they called?” Plinths, perhaps? “Sublime ghosts, they are in the doorways of my life, and being a 12-year-old on a bike on the Isle of Wight with my brother and sister and ma and pa is for me the epitome of happiness.”
This does not match the rather loucher associations that continue to follow Birkin more than 40 years after her beauty - and it was incandescent - made her a Sixties icon. She was the cinema's first full-frontal nude, in Antonioni's Blowup, and the wife and muse of Serge Gainsbourg, the late French pop-poet with whom she confirmed her image as an abandoned sexpot by breathing heavily on Je t'aime ... moi non plus. She was also married to the composer John Barry. At 62 she has sung lots of other songs - and she'll be singing again at the Barbican in London next Saturday - and made more than 60 films. But it's the apparently naughty breathing that continues to define her, as she knows perfectly well.
She lives in Paris and we meet in a discreetly chic hotel in a business district. Her riff on childhood has emerged because it is a theme on her album Enfants d'Hiver, for which - for the first time - she written her own lyrics.
“When you recognise the happiest time of your life then you look for it again and you try to create it with your own children,” she adds. “It works, to a great degree. I bought a house in Normandy. I let my children go off all day the way my parents let us go off. I didn't bug them. I wanted a place that wasn't like Serge's, where you couldn't even put a cup on the table without him looking nervous. You felt as if you were a right mess, as if you were disturbing his great mind.”
Her autobiographical album was begun ten years ago. “I jumped the bits everybody knows - of being married to John, of being with Serge. You just wake up on a beach one day when you're this ******** adolescent. You don't really correspond with much. You still feel exactly the same as the girl on the bike on the Isle of Wight. It was a nice feeling. I wore my brother's clothes, and tried to get into his school. I even managed not to turn into a girl until I was 16 so there was a definite psychological effort on my part that worked extremely well ” She goes on in her charming, dotty way, not looking at me but with her eyes squinting elsewhere, and you feel entranced that she is being so candid. But this is not a conversation, just her holding forth about how she refuses to completely grow up. It is no less enticing for that, though, and all delivered in an accent that veers from a slightly quaint RP to French. You live on your own, I say. “I live with my bulldog, which is not on my own,” she says emphatically. “The redoutable Dora is my boss, unfortunately, because she's dominant. And I live with a marmalade cat. I'm contemplating a parrot whenever the cat should decide to decease itself. It is nearly 21. So I'm not alone.”
She has six adored friends for whom she throws dinner parties, she goes to the theatre four times a week and she sits on charity committees, not least to support the Burmese pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi. “After shouting my mouth off in Burma I don't think I will be very welcome again but I was able to sing in the street, I was able to do a concert.”
At night she retires with a book and sleeping tablets. And yes, she does, just occasionally, think about being alone and getting older. “It's when you wake up in the morning and ache to have the heavy feeling of someone lying on you. And the day I wake up with pockets under my eyes and then say it's OK, as I like other people's veins and their lines and their faces. Will anyone dare say that they will be your last love? It would be rather nice but it doesn't matter because I'm doing very nicely as I am.”
A few minutes later I pull her back to this and she forgets to be quite so resolutely positive. “I don't know who would put up with it because I rush so much and it's come to practically a frenzy, which I know is also because I don't like going back home at night very much.”
Her preferred world is her family, she says, and she is lucky to live at the crossroads of her three daughters' lives. They are now more famous than she is, she insists. She gives brief biographies: Charlotte Gainsbourg, the great actress; Lou Doillon, hailed as born for the stage by The New York Times; Kate Barry with her photographic exhibitions in Paris and the abandoned feeling that her work conjures up. And she's off on her theme again. They spend the holidays together and this enables her to recreate the sense of being secure that she associates with her childhood.
“It's the grandchildren I long to be alone with because then we can have so much fun. I rush to Brittany with my grandchildren every second I have. My children are really decent because they know I drive really badly and yet they leave me with Marlowe and Alice and Ben. I've had Roman all my life because I was a grandmother at 39, so he lives in a little room above mine. He's like a fourth child, which is lovely, but with the little ones we creep back into childhood again because no one's looking and we can go off on to a really wild beach in Finistère. You can let them play, their shrieks of laughter being cut off on the little island that you can get to on low tide, but we always get caught out. Then you find yourself shrieking with laughter again and everything is back to normal.”
She went to a hypnotist because she was frightened of being on television. “He said, ‘Why are you afraid of being judged so much? Where do you feel unjudged? Where do you feel safe?' I said, 'With my children. Only with the children.' He said, 'So you don't think children have judgment.' I said, 'Of course they do. It's just that they don't mind if you are being a fool.' If you dress them up in leaves you can pretend you're in a pirate's cove. As long as you're out of eyeshot of grown-ups. I love it.”
She no longer does parties or decadence. “Oh goodness, no. I did that so well. I'm not going to do anything like that less well. So no more clubs,” she says. “I really don't feel celebrity. I was well known very young and then I was with a very well-known person. I knew John Barry's talent was vast, he'd already had two Oscars when I was married to him. I was with people who were so much grander than I was and then when I met Serge we were on television every day practically.”
She fishes her make-up bag out of the leather bucket that was named after her, the Hermès Birkin. Hers is battered, with a ribbon and beads and chains wound around the handles. She finds her favourite potions, dabs her peachy skin lightly with blusher and protests that any old red crayon and a little pot of red stuff will do for the lips. “Search for the glasses is the first thing to put on because you look rather gorgeous before you find them. You think, ‘Oh, pas mal'. When the truth hits you, then quickly [splash on] a bit of cold water and any cream that you've got hanging around. I don't like mascara because I think after a certain age too much make-up on and you look like a travesty. I look like a fellow dressed up as a lady.” She is nervous about the idea of cosmetic surgery. “If they get it wrong, if they pull you and it's uneven and it's not you any more ...”
Her album is illustrated with family photographs from the Isle of Wight, and there she is, the boyish 12-year-old who looks like an urchin, the beautiful parents, the incomparable blend of freedom and security. The memories make her very happy.
Jane Birkin will perform at the Barbican, London EC2 (020- 7638 8891, www.barbican.org.uk), on Saturday, February 21
 
^^^yeah, I understand. I guess it's clear that if they haven't publicly showed support for the film, then they must be out of the project, and for a reason.

I started a thread on the movie last night, it's in 'the entertainment spot', someone (Scott or Gainsbourg) was wondering exactly about Jane or Charlotte being involved in some way. I know it's wrong to speculate but if you ever come across some article on it, feel free to share it!. :p
 
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/4568113/Jane-Birkin-marching-to-her-own-tune.html

Jane Birkin: marching to her own tune

Jane Birkin is known for many things: original 1960s wild child, lover of the French songwriter Serge Gainsbourg, mother to a dynasty of talented girls, inspiration for the world's most desirable handbag. But what of the woman behind the headlines? She talks to Tim Auld about – finally – finding her own voice.

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Jane Birkin: 'When someone says, "Madame", and you suddenly wake up to the fact that your outside doesn't correspond at all with the inside anymore.' Photo: Carole Bellaiche

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Jane Birkin with Serge Gainsbourg: 'I escaped from Serge to get out of being a sort of beautiful creature that he wanted me to be'

It's 18 years since Serge Gainsbourg died, but the French singer-songwriter is still giving Jane Birkin a hard time. 'I'm preparing for the concert,' she says, in her almost ethereally refined English accent. 'It's Serge's songs and mine mixed. I somehow thought I'd just be able to sing my own songs. Because I've written them they were awfully easy to learn. Whereas Serge, his genius is that they're of a complication that's terrifying.'
Birkin – whose passionate and very public 13-year relationship with Gainsbourg in the 1960s and 1970s assured her a place in the annals of cool – perches herself on the edge of a squashy sofa and looks tired.
It is late afternoon in Paris. Birkin has just returned to her flat off a fashionable rue in St-Germain-des-Prés after a day of rehearsals for a major concert tour.
She is now 62, but still rake-thin with a gamine figure. A wide, generous smile reveals her to be refreshingly gap-toothed and unreconstructed. The woman for whom Yves Saint Laurent used to put on entire fashion shows in private is dressed today in a pair of light blue jeans, Converse trainers and a crew-necked, grey, chunky-knit sweater. She wears a pair of donnish spectacles and her hair – cropped short – is wilfully unkempt. In short, she looks rather nondescript. However, she somehow manages to make nondescript seem at the same time effortlessly louche and chic.
The surroundings help. Her apartement is like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story, with its dark red walls, clutter of chairs, sofas, crimson throws, stuffed rabbits, burgeoning tropical plants and incense-scented air. Everywhere pinned to the walls are photographs or magazine covers of Birkin, Gainsbourg, her daughters, her mother and famous friends. Through this gothic chaos wanders a bulldog named Dora, whom Birkin describes cryptically as 'being of an unfortunate character', and who pointedly snores throughout the interview and rumbustiously barks when she decides my time is up ('Dora, stop being bossy,' chides Birkin). The whole thing is the antithesis of Parisian restraint, and I feel like I've walked into a parallel universe – which to an extent I have.
Birkin lives in a rarefied world: a world where close friends are people like Marianne Faithfull and Roman Polanski; where Hermès names its most expensive handbag after her; and where President Sarkozy will grant her an audience to talk about the morality of France's oil dealings with Burma. She has accessto this world neither because she's the best actress or singer of her generation (though she can hold her head high in both disciplines) nor because of her political acumen, but because, whether by chance or calculation, she has lived a life that has hit the headlines.
It started in 1965 when, aged 19, she married John Barry, 13 years her senior and famous as composer of the James Bond music. A year later she appeared in the cult film Blowup, her full-frontal nude scene being the first of its kind to be shown in Britain. Then in 1968 she met Gainsbourg on the set of the film Slogan, they fell in love, and a year later released a song, Je t'aime… moi non plus, which, with Birkin's delicate gasps and Gainsbourg's curious lyrics ('I come and I go between your kidneys') now all seems rather tame, but back then caused a furore, leading it to be banned by the BBC and condemned by the Vatican.
Together they were a heady combination, a bit of English class meets a whole lot of Gallic flair, and the press couldn't get enough of them. The French took Birkin to their hearts, and, though she walked out on their beloved Gainsbourg in 1980 (he, by then, wracked by booze, **** and foul temper), she remains akin to royalty in her adopted country.
So large does Gainsbourg's presence loom in Birkin's history that it's hard to concentrate on her life before and after Serge. That, however, is the subject of the album 'Enfants d'Hiver' – the first she has written herself – which she is currently rehearsing for a tour of Europe, Russia and Canada.
The songs, spiky and nostalgic, are rather good, with echoes of Blur, Kate Bush, Texas, Dylan, and, of course, Gainsbourg in the arrangements.
Many of them focus on Jane's childhood holidays on the Isle of Wight with her brother and sister, Andrew and Linda, and her mother, the celebrated West End actress Judy Campbell, and father, David, a former Royal Navy lieutenant-commander who was awarded the Légion d'Honneur for his role in the war. She talks about that time as if it were an idyll.
'When people say, "Where would you like to go in your life?" I'd like to go back to being a child again. We were allowed to be savages. We used to get up at six in the morning and get on our bikes, and we just went to discover things. Wrecks in the Isle of Wight – we were in the very wild part of the island, so there was black sand and there were wrecks from the last war, and there was a porcupine washed up on the beach and we tied it on to our bikes with a few mines that we'd found on the beach.'
Porcupine? Mines? If it all sounds a bit surreal this is what listening to Jane Birkin can be like. Sometimes it's rather wonderfully evocative, sometimes almost impossible to follow (I'm still trying to make sense of the concrete sculpture she described her sister making of an abandoned picnic, which, in some way, I believe, was made to incorporate the ashes of her mother: 'And Ma's in it and what better place? And Linda had made sandwiches out of concrete and with saucissons and other ones with… you could tell the sort of cheese that was in them' and so on). It's engaging and generous – but also, at times, dotty.
The other thing about Birkin is that she's determined to accentuate the positive. When she mentions her brother he is her 'very intelligent brother'; her sister does 'extraordinary sculptures', and her knee-jerk response to questions about what life was like is, 'It was wonderful, it was wonderful.' It wasn't, of course, all wonderful. She hated the boarding school to which she asked to be sent ('How could I be so stupid?'). She was overshadowed by her mother's beauty, and reacted by developing a protective carapace of self-deprecation, which persists to this day: 'People used to say to me, "Oh, are you Judy Campbell's daughter? Gosh, you don't look anything like her." And so I thought, "No." And they'd say, "You haven't got the same" and would fish for words, and I'd say, "Class? Distinction?" And they'd say, "Yes, that's it." So I felt sort of mousey – rightly so.' Later she tells me, deadpan, 'I got sort of ordinary-looking at 18, putting on make-up and trying to look like Jean Shrimpton.'
She dreaded growing up because she knew it would change her tomboyish relationship with her adored brother: 'I think I tried to be a boy for as long as I could to stay with Andrew, because had a sneaking feeling – and I was right – that if I turned into a girl then I'd lose him in some way. I remember when Ma made me a turquoise dress and I stood at the top of the stairs wearing it and when Andrew saw it he said, "It's over." So I realised that I had been right.'
Birkin acknowledges her urge to mythologise: 'Of course, the past is better because you can't verify anything,' she says. 'You can't go back. And so it goes up a notch, like dead people. What I've noticed with dead people is that they go up a nice notch and you can't even think of anything cruel or nasty to say about them anymore because they've just become sort of saintly, and so we only remember the nice things – perhaps that's a rather comforting thought for the future.'
You can understand why Birkin might find that thought comforting. Although today she seems the epitome of maturity, intelligence, urbanity and gritty assiduousness – a matriarch adored by her three daughters and grandchildren – she has lived a high-velocity life, and things could easily have turned out much, much messier.
In 1968, aged 22, the girl in the turquoise dress found herself alone with a baby daughter, Kate, having been left by John Barry. The same year, she met Gainsbourg. Her life with the singer, whom she never married but with whom she had a second daughter, Charlotte, in 1972, was one all-night party.
She and Gainsbourg had terrible fights, one of them resulting in Birkin flinging herself in the Seine on the way home from a club, and the couple and the children found themselves under continual public scrutiny. The situation was not helped by Gainsbourg, who courted publicity at every turn, most notoriously having Charlotte, aged 12, perform a duet with him entitled Lemon Incest in the video they lie on a bed, he shirtless in jeans, she jeanless in a shirt and pants. 'He needed to put people on to pedestals and to hold her on a film to show how much he loved her,' explains Birkin, which probably, in their parallel universe of fame and extreme bohemianism, isn't as weird as it sounds.
'I was no perfection,' Birkin concedes. Nevertheless, apart from Gainsbourg, who never overcame his thirst for the bottle, everyone seems to have got out relatively unscathed. Yes, Kate was treated for drug addiction in her late teens, but she went on to set up a rehab centre in Paris and is now a successful photographer. Charlotte is a renowned film actress, who fiercely guards her private life (go figure, as they say). And Birkin went on to have another daughter, Lou, with the film director Jacques Doillon, after she walked out on Gainsbourg. Today all her daughters live in Paris, and she talks with warmth about extended family gatherings and being in constant demand as a grandmother.
Even after she left Gainsbourg their relationship remained fittingly complicated and passionate – nothing so bourgeois as to make a clean break of it. Gainsbourg continued to write songs for Birkin to sing, and Birkin continued
to sing them to great acclaim ('It was just awful to have to sing songs that were about how painful he was feeling about me having left him,' she says). Gainsbourg became Lou's godfather, and towards the end of his life he'd frequently ring up to tell Birkin what he was going to cook himself for dinner that evening.
How did that work – wasn't it difficult? 'Oh, no, no. I was so grateful,' says Birkin. 'It was entirely due to him. It takes the one that's left behind to want to go on with you. And I saw an interview that I hadn't seen before, and he said, "Oh, Jane's left me." But he said, "I think I'll keep on with her because as far as Pygmalions go she's probably the best I did." And so I thought, "Ah!' The Pygmalion reference is telling. Birkin – who adored her father, idolises her brother and was drawn to relationships with older men – has spent much of her life in the shadow of magnetic male personalities.
But in walking out on Gainsbourg she took the first step in setting herself free. 'I escaped to get out of being just a sort of beautiful creature that he wanted me to be,' she says. 'I didn't want to be told what to do anymore, or not allowed to touch anything in his sitting-room, not allowed to have… It was like leaving home a second time – the way your parents will go on seeing you, kindly, when you leave home, even if you slam the door.'
And, indeed, seeing her today, excited about having written her first solo album, talking passionately about her political activism (one of her songs is entitled Aung San Suu Kyi), it becomes clear that the story of Jane Birkin's impulsive, painful life has been of her struggle to become her own woman.
 
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