VAGABOND (1985) is a film about a young woman who wanders through the French wine country one winter and ultimately freezes to death.
12/22/09 | Film


by Elizabeth Hildreth


“Glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig glig.”

If I were an American, I would have said “brrrr.” But I’m not, so yeah: glig. Which sounds better than “brrr” does anyway. Like ice clinking against a glass tumbler. Or an empty two-liter–gligging and filling up with nearly frozen lake water.


Speaking of.

It ain’t easy being frozen. In a drainage ditch on the side of the road. Or anywhere I would guess. It ain’t easy being a drifter or being easy. But I am and was and was . . .


[Cut out]. Six months of a cube. Head down, clickety clackety. Ten billion paper glasses. A bunch of dick-offs, myself included. Then one day: too much. Or not enough.


The road between freedom and loneliness:


No trespassing.

Beware of the dogs.


Goats are good, if they’re in a book. So are big stretches of land. Theoretically, potatoes, too. The problem is doing stuff with them. It can be boring. Even pulling your pants down for a couple of equally unwashed strangers doesn’t make it all that much less so.


I always wanted to be one of those girls who could give someone the “fuck you” sign without using my thumb to hold down the fingers surrounding my middle one. I always thought it looked more elegant that way, but I never could, so whatever, too late now. Even unelegantly, a point is being made. “Champagne on the road is better.”


You would think: wine country = drunk. But, I mean, maids can be weird, not to mention, notoriously jealous. Even farm ones. I’m thinking, do you even SEE me? I don’t you. I’m just here, that’s the point. And granted, I like wine as much as the next guy and I’ve had some, but not enough to be like, “Oh, look at this filthy camper, I owe you everything everything everything.”


Yes, my name is Mona, and, no, I’m not named for the Mona Lisa, don’t be retarded.


I have been described as not-so-likeable, cold, distant, “nobody knows the true Mona” kind of thing. I haven’t thought all that much about it. He’s in my ear, “You could be the next Sasha Grey but smoking hash and sitting on a Tunisian.”


It is the golden rule: If you need something, you tell somebody else they need it. If they say, “no, actually I don’t,” you physically abuse them.


The End. Don’t be sad. You knew I was dead.