French films focus mostly on family life and the protagonist's introduction to sex, often at the hands of a sexy older friend of Maman's or, in some cases, Maman herself.
I begin to think of Maman as one of the people in the ceiling.
Until recently, a steel version of "Maman" stood in the colossal Turbine Hall of the year-old Tate Modern in London.
As the trigger gives way, so, too, does today, the beginning — through the loss of Maman — succumb to death, the end.
As the book opens, the loss of Maman places her between Meursault's ability to live for today and his recognition of a time when there will no longer be a today.
Just how much he has to do with the techniques of production that have been producing multimillion dollar versions of Maman for galleries all over the world is anybody's guess.
The replacement of Maman with Marie, the ongoing descriptions of Marie's breasts and the oedipal worry that still plagues us today in our infantile fascination with breasts is, it seems, best tackled by French philosophers.
Watching an Ingrid Bergman movie engenders this: "I don't know why, nor how to express it: this actress, this actress's body moves me, touches something in me which reminds me of maman: her complexion, her lovely, simple hands, an impression of freshness, a non-narcissistic femininity".
