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A FILM BY SEBASTIEN LIFSHITZ

PRODUCED BY CAROLE MIRABELLO

I really wanted
to come back to Algeria with you.

This is where I was born and raised.

It's where I made
the crucial decisions in my life,

the decisions
that enabled me to live.

I had come to the conclusion
that life was impossible

and that I had to find myself

at a time when I felt trapped.

Imprisoned.

It was vital
to break out of the shell.

I was born in 1935.

November 1935.

In Issers.

I already had an older sister.
Roughly four years older than me.

I had my mother and father,
who was a mechanic in Issers.

And there was a family home
in Bordj Menaiel.

That's where I spent a childhood
that was happy

as well as secretive and perturbed.

I lived with my older sister,
mother and grandmother,

and all my cousins.

I had very little
to do with that life

because its reality
was completely unbearable for me.

I couldn't breathe freely there.

I remember that I used to wear
my sister's old dresses,

which had been let out,

sometimes quite ridiculously.

With...

Because I was slightly obese.

I was born obese.

I'll tell you about the last dress
I wore, my favorite.

It was a red dress with little dots,

little dots that were stitched on.

Not polka dots,
but little raised white dots

on a delightful red dress
I really liked,

with puff sleeves that I adored

and mother-of-pearl buttons
down the front

that you buttoned up
one after the other.

I loved that dress.
I had my eye on it and I got it.

When I looked at myself
in the mirrored closet

that was passed down to me
a few years later...

Looking at myself,
I thought I was very pretty.

I gave myself a kiss,
a quick kiss, on the mirror

with lots of love

and narcissism, even then.

My sister peeked through the curtain
since her room had no door.

It was closed by a curtain.

She said,
"I see you really love yourself."

Deep down, she was very upset.

But I also remember my mother
taking me out onto the porch,

sitting me down on her lap

and saying, "Tell me your name.

"What's your name?"

It wouldn't come out

until she kept on so much I cried.

"I won't stop
until you say you love me

"and prove you love me.
Tell me your name."

I was yelling, "Mom, please, no!"

I had to give in.
I'd lost another battle.

"My name is Jean-Pierre."

And I cried and cried.

My sister watched and said,

"Mom, why's Jean-Pierre
crying like that?"

I refused to say my name.

That name, Jean-Pierre,
was something I despised.

I loathed people
calling me Jean-Pierre.

I hated that name.

I didn't want to be that name.

I refused to accept the idea

that being born a boy

meant they could make me a boy.

I wanted to sew,

knit, embroider
and maybe make little doilies

like the ones for Mother's Day.

There was no end of remarks.

"What are you doing?
Why sit here with us?

"Why don't you play with the toys
you got from your cousin?

"What about that pedal car?

"That lovely pedal car.

"Don't you want to drive like daddy?"

There was nothing I hated more.

It really hurt.

But I shut it all out.

I didn't answer back.

I just kept going.

There was a sense

of passivity.

Passivity can be a force.

A resistive force.

Then I reached school age.
That changed everything.

Wearing my sister's dresses?
No more.

Letting me grow my hair a bit longer?

No more.

My passing fancies...

Passing fancies,
that's how people saw it.

Something that mattered so much to me
was seen as a passing fancy.

I was aware of that.

I sensed it.

It all had to end.

We threw the dresses out but...

I refused point-blank
for the red dress.

My mother said,

"I'll let you choose,
but you only get to choose

"what you do with that dress

"as long as it disappears
Immediately."

And I said...

I adored that dress
no matter how patched up it was.

I decided
I'd leave the dress in the street.

I waited,

my heart pounding,

to see who'd take the dress.

The streets were always empty,
especially our street.

It didn't go anywhere.

Eventually, somebody came by...

And that somebody

was disabled,
both physically and mentally.

He couldn't speak, or very little.

He hardly understood what anyone said
and he was cross-eyed.

When he walked,

it looked like
he'd fall over with every step.

Everybody called him Lafama.

So Lafama came by.

He stopped and stared at the dress,

and with a strange movement...

he lunged at the dress and took it,

letting out a kind of squeal
when he grabbed the dress.

What did it mean to him?
I haven't a clue.

Away he went,

and my sister burst out laughing,
at the sight of all this.

I didn't feel like laughing.

That was it, all over.

My mother didn't stop there.
She said, "Now, your hair."

She put a chair on the porch

and she cut my hair.

After, I went up
to my sister's room...

I went up to my sister's room,

looked at myself in the mirror

and surveyed the damage...

Maybe it wasn't a huge difference,

but I looked at myself in that mirror

and said to myself,

"Right..."

I felt a sense of despair but I...

I kept fighting.

It was in me, I couldn't help it.

I thought, "Right..."

And I stopped seeing myself

as chubby.

I stopped seeing myself

as other people saw me.

I started to see myself differently.

It was the beginning

of the long process

of construction.

Or reconstruction.

Which would last

until I was 18.

It's been so totally modernized,
I don't recognize a thing.

Not a thing.

It could be here. Isn't that a caf�?

The street's in ruins.
I have no hope of recognizing it.

Is that the pharmacy?

That could be the old pharmacy.

I don't recognize a thing.

Is that the post office?

Post Office. That's it.

My street!

GENERAL MECHANICS

GENERAL MECHANICS

My father's auto shop.

That wall's where my bedroom...
Behind that wall was my old bedroom.

Through that door,
there was the dining room.

And then the kitchen.

My room went from here

to here.

On the other side.

With a door to the dining room
and a window onto the courtyard.

That was where I did so much dreaming

and so much reading.

And so much composing of myself.

I also had to calm myself so much,

or I got so excited
about traveling, going away.

It's where I decided everything.

As I had been obese,
until the age of 14 and a half,

I had little breasts.

I used to love looking at them but...

By age 15, they'd disappeared.

It was awful.

Because I saw

what is usually called reality

radically countering me.

What would become of me?

I could see my body changing.

When I got to 15 or got to 16,
what would happen then?

I was as scared of that as of death.

The fear of passing time

that would bring
a catastrophe down upon me.

And that would...

make me look like my classmates?

I had classmates
who were one or two years older

who were little men.

It was awful.

Peering every day and praying.

It was very clear in my mind.

If I felt any desire...

Romantic desire I might feel...

I remember studying Andromaque,
for example.

Andromaque was me.

I made a discovery on my own,
without talking to anyone.

I read in my own time

a verse novel by Lamartine,
called Jocelyn.

When I return at night
from my distant hunting

And from a far-off peak
I glimpse my blue lake

Taut as a drop of water that trembles

When I say to myself, over there,

I have the best part

The other part of myself

Eyes that seek me out

Memories that love me

A friend whose heart beats
at my approach

Jocelyn is the story of an old man
who protects his daughter

by disguising her as a boy.

Before he dies, he places her
with someone living in the mountains.

One day, Laurence has an accident.

Laurence, answer me.

He opens up the top buttons
of his waistcoat and shirt,

and what does he find?

He finds she has a bosom.

She was a woman all along.

And beautiful love,
the greatest love, ensues.

It was in all respects me.

I would be uncovered and that was me.

And that was me.

People would say it was a dream,
it was crazy. Never mind.

Let people say what they want.
I never told a soul.

I say it now.

I say it with no inhibitions.

But I wouldn't have told a soul.

They wondered how I enjoyed
being cooped up, reading.

"Why coop yourself up in your room?"

It's not all I did.

I stood in front of my mirror

and I looked at myself.

And I made an effort

in the face of murderous reality,

to try to imagine myself.

"You'll part your hair on this side.
No, that side."

And I puffed my hair out like this

and I had big, languorous eyes.

And I thought I was pretty.
Not in the mirror,

but I worked on

having that other reality.

After 9th grade,
I had to move away for 10th grade,

so I was found a place in Algiers.

My room was over a caf�
in Pointe-Pescade,

owned by my uncle's
very good friend, known as Rosette.

I was made to feel so welcome
by that lady.

She immediately
became a source of oxygen.

She said, "Forget Jean-Pierre,
I'll call you Jean-Pi".

She was an absolute blessing for me.

I was young and, believe it or not,
extremely shy.

One day, she said,

"How about you help out
behind the bar?"

So I started working there.

PEOPLE'S CIRCLE
OF THE NATIONAL LIBERATION FRONT

In comes this guy,
who was a regular in the bar.

His name was Ludo.

He sits down, plays some cards,
shoots some pool,

plays table-football,
hums to himself.

A hit of the day called
Love Has Burst Into My Heart,

while looking at me.

Of course, I was very intimidated.

Right then, looking at him,
I felt no sexual desire

but I felt

intense hope of love.

Of being loved like in novels,
or songs, or stories...

But I also felt terrific fear.

I could sense people looking.

I took those looks to be accusations.

My mother said,
"Come to see me in Issers.

"People wonder why you never visit."

She had been extremely lonely
since my father died.

I said to my mother,
"Fine, but I'll come with a friend."

She thought I meant a school friend.

Naturally she said,
"Of course, bring your friend."

And I showed up with Ludo.

Ludo was years older than me.

He had a thick mustache.

My mother was stunned
when she saw him.

That evening, we slept together
in the same bed.

Around 10 o'clock the next morning,

my mother came along
to find out which bedroom I was in.

The door wouldn't shut properly.

And she saw me lying there
in Ludo's arms, fast asleep.

Little Jean-Pierre, who in her eyes

was a paragon of virtue,
hard work and intelligence even.

I'd won prizes for academic
achievement throughout my schooling.

And he turned out
to be a sordid individual.

She said to me,

"How could you?"

She tried to hold back the tears
but they kept flowing.

She said, "How could you do this?"

I didn't feel a sliver of pity
for her.

On the contrary,
I felt hatred for her.

Because she was condemning me.

Back in Pointe-Pescade,

Ludo said to me, "It's for the best.

"This way, she knows what you are."

His words offended me even more
than my mother's.

I felt like asking,

"What am I? Do tell.

"And what does that make you?"

I was horrified.

If there was one thing
I categorically rejected,

it was the idea of belonging

to a world of homosexuals.

That was out of the question for me.

I wasn't one and had no desire to be.

Being homosexual once again meant
being a man.

But what I am is a woman.

And everything's
telling me the opposite.

It had to stop.

Quite simply, it had to stop!

When you see me,
I know what you think

That I'm not what I seem to be

You consider me somewhat unusual

So look at me from top to bottom

And up and down

In 1952, the summer attraction
at Le Casino de la Corniche

was the show
by Le Carrousel de Paris.

I hide nothing, look closely

Everything in me reveals it

Ludo said to me,
"Le Carrousel's coming."

And he explained

all about Le Carrousel,
all about transvestites and all that.

He seemed pretty well informed.

I pricked up my ears
and took in every single word.

What on earth could all this be?

Rumors started flying,

"This year, Coccinelle is with them.
Unbelievable!

"People have seen her around town.

"She's a Parisienne,
she's extraordinary!

"She lives dressed as a woman!"

People talked about her as "she."

I went to the show one day.

Rosette took me along.

She asked me, "Aren't you intrigued?

"I'm really intrigued. Let's go."

Watching the show,
I was just overwhelmed.

It was a kind of fashion show.

They paraded in gowns
with their incredibly slim waists

and shapely legs.

And somebody chirped into a mic

the dresses' names. Evening in Paris,

Sleeping Beauty...

It amused the audience,
which stared in fascination.

Perhaps not admiration,
not without moral judgments.

It was an amazing
breath of fresh air,

an epiphany for me.

I saw how to knock down
the wall in front of me,

which I couldn't break through.

Everything I had seen in my dreams

was now feasible.

In my mind,

that was it.

I was going to live

as a woman,
and I'd live with Ludo in Algiers.

I wrote Ludo
to inform him of my intentions

and awaited his reply.

I went to the market to buy a dress.

It was packed with people.

I also bought some blush

and some lipstick
in a very light tint.

I waited every evening.

On the third evening...

He came. There he was knocking
on the shutters.

He came.

He looked at me in my dress

with a touch of makeup
and my hair done...

I had the curling iron
my grandfather used on his mustache.

I'd kept it safe
to curl my hair with it.

He said, "What the hell is this?
You look abominable!

"Like that, you'll always be a fag.

"I'll teach you to sleep with women."

That hurt

so much...

I don't think
I've ever been so hurt in my life.

More fool me.

It taught me a lesson.

But I was hurt...

I was going to say, to death.

To death. I burst into tears
and he turned on his heel and left.

He was petrified of being spotted
climbing out the window.

My being in tears
was all the same to him.

I felt like dying.

Right then, I felt like dying.

I've never been suicidal
but at that moment,

for the first time in my life,

I had the...

The urge to kill myself, never.

But I glimpsed the chance of death.

I glanced at the kanoun, a kind of...

a stove we used
to keep warm in winter

by putting coal and charcoal on top.

It gave off carbon monoxide,

which kills painlessly.

I thought, "Yes!

"Seal the windows, you must die."

I don't recall
how long I felt so devastated.

Did it last one minute? 10 minutes?

Hardly any longer.

I said to myself, "Die? Not a chance.

"Not over
that imbecile rejecting me."

Right then, I hated him and...

I said, "No, I want to live.
On the contrary.

"I want to live."

I thought, "But how?

"I quite simply can't stay here.

"I don't want him
and I can't stay here.

"There's nothing for me at school.

"I have to go away."

And I got it into my head,

in the sense
that the decision was automatic.

I made the decision, driven into it,

constrained
by an overpowering reality.

"No, there's nothing here
for me now!"

What should I do?

Go home to Issers right away,

see my mother and plan for Paris.

In Issers, my mother said,
"What's happened?"

"Nothing.
I just can't take any more."

And then we began to talk.

And talk and talk.

I said, "What else can I do?

"I have no choice.

"Do you want a scandal here
in Issers,

"whenever I go out?"

She realized
the scale of the disaster

if I stayed in Issers.

She didn't argue.

She told me, "You're saying things
I don't understand.

"I can't understand."
I said, "You must accept it."

And she replied, "Yes, I know."

We left it at that.

She gave me emancipation
and I was gone.

We have all you need
to make handsome guys' heads turn

All the assets and everything
that rhymes with passion

If we're in love,
rest assured, it's for life

When I arrived in Paris,

I went to Le Carrousel
and asked to see the boss.

I said to him,
"I want to work at Le Carrousel."

He said, "How old are you?"

I struck a nerve, I think,

because
he'd fled Algeria aged 17, too.

Maybe that won him over.

He smiled and said, "Can you sing?"

I said no.

"Can you dance?"

No.

"Well, no matter.

"You'll start at Madame Arthur's

"to learn the ropes."

I have my Parisian air
That charms you all

Then the chic of dresses
From Christian Dior's atelier

Jewelry from Cartier
On Rue de la Paix

I am a woman through and through

In every little detail
With my very own Parisian air

I am for you
Always at home from 5 to 7

I made my debut.

When my name was announced...
They called me Cathy.

The MC announced me,

then came over to me and said,
"It's now or never."

I saw my life
on the edge of the precipice.

I didn't dare go on stage.

It's awful,
going on stage the first time.

Madame Germaine saw I couldn't go on.

She crossed the stage, grabbed me,
and said, "Come on!"

She pulled me on
and I sang Spring in Rio.

Don't go thinking
I was out discovering Paris.

I did no discovering whatsoever.

I was horrified by the climate.

It was so terribly cold.

After one year, the boss said,

"You never go out.
What's wrong with you?

"Have you even been
to Place de la Concorde?"

I smiled. I'd never been there.

I'd no idea it was at one end
of the Champs-Elys�es.

First and foremost,
I had devoted myself to the stage.

I had so much to discover,
starting with myself.

As a singer, and only a singer...

I had absolutely no moves at the mic.

They said, "Learn to move.
Don't just stand there."

I was singing
and that felt like a huge feat.

I couldn't move my hands.
My arms were stuck to my sides.

I did one number
around 11:30 or quarter to midnight

and another around 4 a.m.

That's all the work I did.

I was paid accordingly,
so I could hardly afford...

my rent and a sandwich.

But there was no choice.

It was working in a cabaret

or on the streets.

There was no choice.
If you don't want to die,

you live.

And if you want to live,
you take whatever you can.

Do you like girls?

No.

-It's complicated.
-In one sense, yes.

In another, no. Sexually, no.

What can I say? It's true.

It is.

-Do you wish you were a woman?
-No.

Yes and no. Not anymore.

I wish I were a virile man.

-You're not virile?
-Absolutely not.

My first night was on Christmas Eve.

People came in droves
to the cabarets.

The streamers and confetti,
I'd never seen the like.

I'd never seen confetti in my life.
And it was all there.

I saw transvestites from Madame
Arthur's leaving after the show,

in full makeup,
to go play on the bumper cars.

They said to me,
"Come play on the bumper cars."

At Pigalle,
the Boulevard de Clichy back then

was one big fairground.

The bumper cars,
I'd never seen anything like it.

I kept getting rammed by other cars,
I was petrified,

but I couldn't stop laughing.

It was like a dream.

Then I started to live.

There were the rehearsals,
my friendship with Capucine

and there was life backstage.

We had fun backstage.

It wasn't fun every day.
There was fussing and fighting,

but there was so much wit
and self-mockery.

"Isn't she a smart one!

"A woman of letters,
used to deliver the mail."

"I am not an old biddy!
I'm only 40, that's not old."

"Honey, you've been 40 for years."

I couldn't stop laughing.

All the girls
constantly teased each other.

I was enchanted.

We joked about things
I'd found serious,

such as homosexuality
and sexuality in general.

Everything that seemed so dramatic

had the drama taken out of it.

You arrived in the dressing room
down in the dumps

and no sooner were you there
with all the other girls

than everything was forgotten.

You left your troubles at the door.

It was a vipers' nest, a henhouse.

A birdcage.
The rivalries could be frightening.

Everybody kept an eye on the others,

checking out their makeup,

shooting
each other nasty little barbs.

An extraordinary school of life.

We'd never admit to being jealous,
but we were.

Hormones were another story,
a whole other story.

A saga between us.

Coccinelle
was rumored to be on hormones.

It was true.

When we arrived one day,
Capucine told me,

"She won't tell us
what she's taking."

Maybe she wanted to be the only one.

Anyway, one time, in a restaurant,

Le Calypso, after work,

Coccinelle was with us.
They were friends and ex-roommates.

Capucine peeked in her purse
and saw a box of Ovocycline.

She said,
"Got it! It's Ovocycline. Let's go."

So...

We went to the pharmacy

and bought a box of Ovocycline each.

There was no medical supervision.

Hormones were sold over the counter.

There was a guy who worked
at the pharmacy on Place Pigalle,

who could give shots.

He started giving us the shots

and then...

Very soon afterward,

we learned to do the shots ourselves.

We came off Ovocycline
because the shots were a pain

and we switched to Distilbene.

That was it.
We tried various other brands,

but mostly Distilbene.

I remember Capucine and I
taking up to a box a day

when we were
in Juan-les-Pins on tour.

There were 25 pills
in a box of Distilbene.

One day, she'd take 12
and I'd take 13.

Next day, we'd switch.
We shared boxloads.

In 1953, at Madame Arthur's,
there weren't many transsexuals.

Only Capucine and I.

The others were boys,
who dressed as boys in everyday life

and lived with their parents

or wives if they were married,
which wasn't unknown.

Or with their girlfriends
or boyfriends.

Sometimes, someone would shout,

"Hormone girls die a horrible death."

The transvestites
were very critical of transsexuals.

"You're nuts.
You want to live as a woman,

"but you can't change what you are.

"It's impossible.
Don't be ridiculous.

"You've no idea
what you're getting into.

"You'll have the police after you.

"They'll give you trouble
at the border every time.

"They'll see your name.
It's there, in writing.

"You refuse to live as a man,

"but look at us, we're happy."

Great advice!

And then, "What's our line of work?

"We're transvestites,
professional drag artists,

"which means knowing that we are men.

"Our private life
is nobody's business,

"but we're men who dress up in drag

"and become pretty women
who have lots of grace,

"and can sing and dance.

"Look at so-and-so,
doing her fan dance."

I heard comments like that
pretty much every day.

I'd say, "Sure, you're right."

But when I undressed anyone
could see I was on hormones.

It was obvious.

Through the embodiment
of a dream woman,

men try to understand

how beings
with no solid moral foundation

dare to go as far
as committing unnatural acts

and behaving in ways
that defy creation.

The fascination of femininity
is so strong

that it can drive the weak of mind
with no hold on reality

into the pathetic perversion
of a dream.

It would be hypocritical to ignore
these monstrous inversions.

These lost souls are in fact
in need of medical help.

Between female beauty,
attesting to good health and balance,

and its grotesque
or puerile imitation,

there is an abyss of obsessions,

from which these sad creatures
cannot find legitimate release.

If their appearance shocks us,

what of their language and ideas?

It's an understatement to say
they unsettle us

or revolt us.

They leave us dumbfounded.

The gap between us

is a gulf.

There was no legislation,

unlike the laws against prostitution,

but there were police orders.

The police

had vowed to exterminate us,

in the words of Monsieur Guyot,
the head of the Vice Squad.

He was hot-tempered,
a kind of monster.

We drove him crazy.

The police were intolerable.

I remember there was one pizzeria

that banned artistes
from Le Carrousel.

The owner said,

"If the police find out I served you,
they'll shut me down.

In hotels...

Hotels wouldn't accept transvestites.

They asked to see ID.

And ID papers
were incredibly difficult to obtain.

In the summer of 1954,
they suddenly announced

that cross-dressing was prohibited.

Even on stage.

At Madame Arthur's, all of a sudden,

the artistes were told, no dresses.

No heels.

No wigs.

No fake boobs.

They had a real headache.

Capucine told me,
"They can't stop me.

"It's all the same to me.

"I'll perform in ballet shoes,
not heels.

"And I'll wear a two-piece swimsuit.

"It says nothing about bras."

With the boys who came in,
in 2-3 days,

we made fake skirts,

by which I mean
it was only for one leg,

but it was so voluminous
it covered both legs,

to the same effect.

No wigs? We wore raffia.

A raffia pony tail
that came down to your behind.

And on the Champs-Elys�es...

My boyfriend
dropped me off every morning.

I've no idea how he knew,

but he'd say, "Cops."

Plain-clothes cops
strolling by, smoking.

He spotted them. How did he do it?

It beats me.

He'd refuse to let me out.

He'd look 50 meters up the road
to check for "cops,"

as he put it,

then he'd drop me off
and I'd hurry inside.

It was forbidden
to arrive for work in a skirt.

We were supposed
to wear slacks and flats.

And of course,

none of us abided by that.

Not me or the others.
Some things were just too much.

I accept a lot of things,

I'm fine with not shocking society,

but I want to be allowed
to live my life.

That's who I am and always have been.

So we put up resistance.

Our resistance vanquished, in a way,

society's resistance.

All forms of society's resistance.

Paris!

Queen of the world!

Now the most
surprising male striptease.

Male? Those dancers aren't nude!

No, but the pretty woman with plumes
is a man.

Coccinelle, the star of Le Carrousel.

An upturned nose
A mischievous expression

Their eyes

Always laughing

All those

Who know its excesses

Are thrilled

By those caresses

They leave

But they always return

To Paris!

City of love!

I loved the stage.
I loved being part of a troupe.

The circus aspect.
It was so over the top.

The performers I've known all my life

were the most beautiful transvestites
in the world.

100 million francs
in costumes and jewels. Really!

You had to show yourself off.

Put on a show.

And if you had something extra,
perfect!

All together, you were a hit.

Coccinelle!

On the Champs-Elys�es,

When I cut through the fray

All the men turn my way

Coccinelle!

Crossing the road

Out of the crowd

They honk their horns and go wild

I'm so unmissable

The poor police officer

Swallows his whistle

I wonder why

I wonder why

I fluster all the guys

Could it be my pert little nose?

Or my big eyes, I suppose

I wonder why

I wonder why

I'm from Paris, that's the reason

And of all the Parisiennes

I'm the exception!

Coccinelle and I were roommates.

She had such prestige.

Such lust for life

that I simply had to follow
without a word.

I remember one day
I received a letter of notification.

Mr. Jean-Pierre Pruvot, etc...

With an appointment
at some hospital or other.

A military hospital, I think.

For military service.
A medical prior to military service.

Coccinelle doubled up laughing.

I thought,
"What on earth is this now?"

Coccinelle said, "All right,

"let's rehearse
the review board meeting.

"You're going to...

"First, we'll buy you
an open cup bra.

"An open cup bra...

"Your bust is too small
to show it without a bra.

"Especially showing it covered.

"With an open cup bra,
you'll have two bazookas."

Those were her words, "two bazookas."

We buy the open cup bra
and she says, "Two bazookas!"

And then she picked out a dress
from my wardrobe.

I had quite a few dresses by then.

She picks a dress and says, "Okay,

"you'll come up
before a military doctor."

She never said
if it was her own experience.

"You'll come up...

"First, you arrive at the hospital.

"You hand them the notification.

"They'll say, 'Ma'am or Miss,
tell him...

"'Tell him to come himself.
We don't accept representatives.'

"So you say
it's an administrative error.

That's your name."

And it all went off exactly
as she said. It was extraordinary.

How can I not admire Coccinelle?

So we did our rehearsals.

She said, "When you see the doctor,

"you present yourself head-on.

"He'll say, 'But, miss...

"'you need to undress.'

"And then...

"you start by saying,
'Of course, doctor.'

"You start by unzipping the back

"and when you slip out of the dress,

"you'll turn around out of modesty
to hide your boobs.

"And with your boobs like that,
arch your back

"and he'll see your two bazookas.

"You'll be standing there
in panties and open cup bra.

"And he'll say, 'Oh, miss...'"

And the doctor said,
"Miss, it's fine. Sorry."

Exactly as she said.

Like in a show.
With Coccinelle, life was a show.

Paris!

Sexy!

Champs-Elys�es!
The name alone's a dream

Paris!

Sexy!

Mesdemoiselles, be careful now!

Success plays a part.

And a reputation.

Not necessarily a good reputation.

An outrageous reputation even.

BAMBI
PLEASURES OF PARIS

People talking must have embarrassed
my mother, who was moving to Paris.

My mother eventually arrived in Paris

In early March, 1956.

My mother didn't come alone.

My mother brought her sister.

Perhaps she was scared
to come to my place alone

for fear of the reception
I'd give her.

The first thing I did

was to take them to Le Carrousel.

I wanted them to see Le Carrousel

because I knew
they had misapprehensions.

My mother, after all,
had been asked if Le Carrousel

wasn't some kind of bordello,

and wondered if it was.
I wanted her to see it.

I saw her cry
when I made my entrance.

I didn't let it affect me.

I went right on with the song,

maybe performing
with even more nerve.

I was pleased she saw me there,

makeup on,

hair done.

That she saw me sing.

I took my mother backstage
to say hi to everybody.

I wanted to show
I was with my mother.

Lots of us wanted
to live with our mothers.

F�tiche brought her mother in
and she wasn't the only one.

We liked living with our mothers.

It was a need in some way.

So my mother...

When my aunt left,
my mother started to go with her.

I said, "No, mom, stay here.
We live together.

"It's for good.
You had to leave Algeria.

"My aunts told you
to move in with them.

"I'm saying, move in with me.

"Come and live with me."

I've no idea what she thought

but in a sense

she obeyed.

I started to realize that...

I was in charge, not her.

My mother had to endure

sidelong glances from people,
from family.

What was said to her, what she heard,

I will never know.

She refused to talk about it.

Sometimes I'm asked,

"Did your mother understand?"

She didn't.
There was nothing to understand.

I didn't understand either.

But my mother

accepted that's how it was.

She accepted it.

When I was at middle school,
my father asked me,

"Nobody bothers you at school?"

"No," I said. "No, dad, nobody."

"If they did, would you tell me?"

"Sure."

"You promise?"

"Yes!"

Later, I wondered
if he'd sensed something.

Had he been scared for me?

I don't know.

Did my parents discuss it?

No idea. We never discussed anything.

Julia was there.

Julia...

This is my sister's grave.

This one's my father's grave.

And my grandmother's grave.

HERE LIES JEANNE PRUVOT

WHO DIED ON NOV 24, 1945,
IN HER 14TH YEAR

I'd like to make a little trace.

It's absurd but...

I know it's absurd

but I need to retrace

my sister's
and grandmother's graves here.

There.

There we are.

There, my sister's grave.

And my grandmother's.

There we are.

Right there.

Right there.

It's history, it's gone now.

Long gone.

I've looked for love

Through different loves

Changing my love almost every day

But I never
found the guy of my dreams

Who'll be able to make me forget

Desires of love

I rarely indulged in easy pleasures.

Growing up, I'd been conditioned
to think that way.

To indulge oneself
was to wallow in the muck.

I was still impregnated by that.

I became very attached to one boy
because he really reciprocated.

I grew to love him very deeply.

His mother brought him
to Le Carrousel with some friends.

She often hosted friends
from overseas,

and back then
you took them to Le Carrousel

to see the circus freaks,
which delighted us.

One day, when her son turned 18,
she brought him in,

and I caught his eye.

When his mother found out,

she told him,

"Go see a psychiatrist.

"If the psychiatrist tells me
you're not mad,

"I won't say another word."

There.

I felt utterly humiliated.
Psychiatry was barely heard of then.

Recently, Coccinelle,
the famous Parisian transvestite,

caused such a stir
she had to leave Rome,

where "la dolce vita," in films,

at least, has topped
the bill in recent years.

Today, metamorphosed
by a surgeon's artistry,

Coccinelle was wed.

Exploiting subtleties of the law,

Miss Jacqueline Dufresnoy
became Mrs. Francis Bonnet

in civil and religious ceremonies.

This happy ending will be

one of Parisian society's
most original love stories.

One day, Coccinelle was out
for a walk when somebody stopped

and said, "I'm a boy like you."

What did Coccinelle see there?

She saw a petite young woman.

An astonishing sight, with her hair,

cropped, dark brown,

and curly,

sitting on her Vespa,
with her toolbox on the back.

A lady electrician!

The following year,

Coccinelle met her in Casablanca.

She said, "I had the operation."

Coccinelle said, "What operation?"

"You know, the operation.

"I had the operation."

Coccinelle was absolutely captivated.

So she said to her,

"Where? When? How?

"Is that possible? It's impossible."

Coccinelle was knocked off her feet.

She made an appointment right away
and she did it.

I was in absolute suspense.

I was in suspense
because my life had great balance,

living with my boyfriend
and my family.

My life was well balanced.
It wasn't an issue.

But

I wanted to know

if this operation

removed something

or added something to our life.

That's what I was wondering.

The question was, "How is it possible

"to feel the pleasure we have felt

"without the attributes
needed to feel it?"

It was a mystery.

It took me two years to decide.

And I made my decision
because I became convinced...

More or less,
because it was no more than 80%.

But when you have an 80% chance

and you want something 100%,

you go for it.

With my fear of flying,
I was thinking,

"Oh God, oh God..."

God was there when I needed him.

"Oh my God,

"please, let me arrive safely
and have my operation."

Later, I said,

"God, you let me have the operation,

"now let me live many more years."

I've lived many more years.

Quite frankly,
my boyfriend was against it.

He'd known me the way I was.

He had...

He'd accepted me,
which was a struggle for him.

I really think
it was a painful period for him.

He cried over me, as if in mourning.

He was very shaken up.

Then... as people do, he got over it.

We continued
to live together a while,

until I said to myself,
"No, I need to make a fresh start."

And I left.

I left with Ute.

The most surprising episode
in my life, perhaps,

is my relationship with Ute.

One fine day,
I see a tall woman walk in.

Nearly 1m80 tall.

Blonde, with her incredible hair
parted on one side,

bangs falling over her eyes,
held back by a barrette,

and extraordinary, mesmerizing eyes

that never blinked.

The girl was a one-off,
a show-stopper.

Increasingly,
I sensed her gaze on me.

Increasingly momentous.

I sensed that she was very attracted

by the love
that was clearly burgeoning

on her part

and mine.

And gradually,

we became a kind of attraction
when we danced together.

There was mystery,
with a hint of scandal.

We even kissed

in front of the audience.

I was blown away

because it was...

It was so outrageous, and I knew it.

It was outrageous even to me.

I was so mixed up, saying to myself,

"You can't fall for a woman.

"It means you repudiate..."

That was crucial for me.

"It means you repudiate everything.

"Your personality."

The development of that love,
and even the desire,

is something
that still puzzles me today.

I can't begin to explain it.

All of that...

brutally reminded me

of the absurdity of our love.

I found our love absurd

and dangerous for me.

As I was and as I had become,

I could not claim to be for her

her absolute equal.

I knew it.

It was absolutely impossible.

Sexually...

how would we discover each other?

It was unthinkable.
It's a miracle it went so well.

How would we discover each other?

She didn't know my reactions.

She knew those of women like her

and adjusted easily to them.

Mine? She had no idea.

So it was absurd.

I didn't do all I had done,

driven by that extraordinary force,

to end up in love with a woman.

That was ridiculous in my eyes.

I was ridiculous in my own eyes!

I gave into a force.

A force that pushes and pushes
and sweeps everything away.

With Ute,
our bond is still extremely...

Ute is my whole family.

I can't imagine life without her.

I never set out to provoke.

I wanted to live my life, that's all.

When you live
on your youth and beauty,

you know it'll come to an end.

You know you'll be old one day.

And before being old,
you won't be the same.

You know it.
With your hands on your cheeks,

you scrunch your face up

and you say,
"That's me at 60. What a hag!"

You say all that.

One day, when my car broke down,
Capucine drove me home.

I said I was worried.

"We're already 27. What will we do?"

She said, "No, don't worry because...

"We'll be beautiful until we're 35."

She tranquilized me.

But I soon woke up, thinking,

"No, it's impossible,
just impossible."

"We can't stay in cabaret."

And that's when L'Alcazar opened.

With an article on L'Alcazar

and an article on Le Carrousel,

saying Le Carrousel
was totally outdated,

L'Alcazar was extraordinary
and so on.

And it was.

It was 6 years
since Le Carrousel opened,

and its decline was slow but certain.

Unlike what happened at Le Carrousel,
the artistes,

despite the police ban...

The artistes went into the audience.

The artistes got to know
patrons who came along,

who tossed them a flower
so they'd come down.

All that, to my mind...

It debased the show.

I had been...

molded with another mentality.

At Arthur's or Le Carrousel,

we didn't socialize
with the audience.

It was a no-no. We kept our distance.

I liked that. I liked that distance.

There was an old guy,
who must have been around 60

and who invited the girls
over in turn.

When he saw me coming, he'd say,

"Here comes Old Glory!"

I was 26

and I was Old Glory
according to this elderly fellow.

Deep down, I didn't care.
I knew I looked great at 26.

But it stung and I said to myself,

"Maybe not yet, but one day."

All these things came together
to create a force,

gradually leading me to consider

how I would manage to get out.

It took a very long time

because it slowly ferments
in your mind.

Between the ages of 26 and 33,
when I passed my high school diploma,

that's quite a stretch of time.

I had to get used
to the idea of leaving,

of giving up things I loved,
like Le Carrousel.

even a Carrousel falling into decay.

I absolutely had to find a way out.

I turned 30
and I was growing impatient.

In 1968, I thought,

"Of course, it's school,
it's college.

"It's La Sorbonne.
That's my way out."

As soon as
I got my high school diploma,

I registered at La Sorbonne,

I passed my teaching certificate

and joined the public school system.

I was posted
to a suburb of Cherbourg,

a small town called Querqueville.

I lived in Octeville,
an urban renewal project.

Off I went

with my kit and caboodle.

I increasingly wanted to be Jane Doe.

When I realized
I had to leave the cabaret,

I realized I had to join
the ranks of the anonymous

in order to be happy.

So I grew my hair a little longer

and wore headbands.

I didn't want anything
to give me away.

I didn't want anyone tripping me up.

I wanted to be a teacher
and I was scared to death

that something would get in my way.
Terrified.

What if a parent
came up to me and said,

"I know you.
You used to be at Le Carrousel"?

I thought,
"I cannot allow it to happen."

I kept an eye out for signs,
little looks,

or maybe hesitations
when they saw me.

No way.

But one thing that gave me
great protection

was that nobody,

absolutely nobody,

would ever imagine

it was possible to leave Le Carrousel

to go into teaching.

It defied the imagination

and gave me wonderful protection.

One day, in the teachers' room,

a young teacher
with a wispy ginger beard

called to me across the room,

"Miss Pruvot! Miss Pruvot!"

I said, "Yes?"

"Have you heard
of the little transvestite?"

The little transvestite?

What was all this
about a transvestite here?

The blood drained out of me.
I felt my legs give way.

Not figuratively, literally.

I felt myself start shaking.

It took all my energy
to stay upright,

smile, talk and appear calm.

It was a considerable effort.

I said, "No, what's that?"

I acted very curious.

"The class didn't tell you
about the little transvestite?"

I replied, "No, nobody
mentioned the little transvestite.

"Where is he? Who is he?"

He said, "I told them,
let's make a little transvestite."

When they showed me it,
it was at least 1m20 tall.

"We'll make a little transvestite.
Choose a star.

"You can choose Johnny Hallyday
or Sylvie Vartan or..."

He mentioned various names...

"You choose."

And the class said, "No.

"We want to make Miss Pruvot."

Actually, it was a big manikin.

He had that one class
building a manikin.

I have to say

I was very scared.

The terror of being recognized

stayed with me
for four to five years.

It takes people
less time than that to forget.

I was happy there.

Happy, and unhappy so far from Paris.

To tell the truth, I left Paris

broken-hearted about giving up
my life in Paris.

I was totally unsettled.

I was in depression

and struggling
like mad to overcome it.

And whenever I felt
like I was coming back to life,

I saw my mother subsiding.

It was hopeless.

I saw her gradually fade away.
It was horrible.

Shortly afterward,

she died at the hospital
where I'd taken her.

I adored my mother.

She meant everything to me.

After my mother passed,

I asked for a transfer to
or near Paris.

I was posted to Garges-l�s-Gonesse.

10 km from Paris, Garges-l�s-Gonesse
pops out of the fields.

40,000 inhabitants.
20 years ago, there were 6,500.

A population crammed in concrete,
and 30% immigrant.

Lots of youths. 8,000 aged 15-24.

Most have left school
but don't yet work.

Conditions that favor
the spread of delinquency.

We loiter.

No, we don't.

Okay, we hang out, if you prefer.

I filled out
the intern application form

but I've been waiting

a year.

I'm waiting, there's nothing for me.

-We're bored.
-For sure, very bored.

There we are, in Garges-l�s-Gonesse.

I arrived in Garges-l�s-Gonesse
in September 1976.

And I left my job
in Garges-l�s-Gonesse

in June 2001.

25 years.

I think. That makes 25 years?

25 years in Garges-l�s-Gonesse.

At first, all I wanted to do

was to get a transfer.

Each year, I missed out.

I was under no illusions.

There's a points system for teachers.

You need so many points to be able...

When you've just been transferred,
as I had,

there's no hope.

I applied every year.

It maybe went on
6, 7 or 8 years like that.

Meantime, I'd been evaluated,
which raised my points score.

And...

Eventually, I had enough points.

And I stopped applying.

I stopped applying
for a transfer because...

There's an expression...

Here, people say
"you make your hole."

I came to realize
that I had made my hole

in Garges-l�s-Gonesse.

I was at home here.

I was happy here.

I was happy despite the difficulties.

Teaching middle school

is perhaps the most difficult.

That's when students
are at their most rebellious.

Against parents and teachers,
questioning everything.

You must stand firm

and show them resistance.

Then, one fine day,

I saw this girl,

and this is an everyday occurrence...

I asked if I taught
her big brother or sister.

When, which class, and so on.

I went over and said, "Wasn't
your big brother here sometime?"

She looked at me shyly,
blushed, and said,

"That was my dad."

I thought, goodness,
the next generation.

It's time to go.

Those are things
that irrevocably mark

the passing of time.

It's a bit like ruins.

Despite all my frivolity...

In some respects,
frivolity is very important.

Frivolity
is very constructive because...

It's also a front behind
which there is a life of substance.

There is love, disappointment,
struggles, all those things.

And you get by

through showing
something superficial.

That's all.
Frivolity is a kind of mask.

It's not all there is.
Only frivolity, no substance.

No.

Performing nude
has an intellectual aspect.

Naturally, it's not...

It's not Foucault but...

It has an intellectual aspect.

There's a certain way of doing it.

I have to say...

I took pleasure in it.

It was extremely important.

It wasn't hollow.

It wasn't completely empty.

It's like saying
a painting is only different colors.

Or only forms.

No, it's also a mind.

Of course, you're not Picasso
just because you dance nude.

And you'd hope to have other forms.

But...

it's not the complete opposite
of whatever's intellectual.

Not the complete opposite
of thinking.

One shouldn't...

I don't especially like
people comparing my life in cabaret.

It's a life on the heels of another.

My 29 years in teaching
felt like a single day.

My life was a daily routine.

A happy routine.

The illusion
of making a difference, maybe.

Partly.

Interacting with students...

That teaches you lessons,

lessons in life,

lessons in humanity, every day.

I truly adored teaching.

I adored teaching.

I became profoundly attached.

For me, it was about discovering

and trying to show

who you are, perhaps, deep within.

And what life has been, deep within.

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