Synopsis: 1830s Paris. Novelist George Sand, who is known to be writing her memoirs, is causing a sensation in the literary scene not only for the quality of her writing, but because of her extreme views and manners, including blurring the lines between the sexes - she generally wearing men's clothes - and her non-belief in the sanctity of marriage after having gone through the institution once before, now preferring sexual liaisons outside of her own wedlock, with the marital status of her lovers of no concern to her. She is just coming to the end of a turbulent affair with Félicien Mallefille, who she is now trying to avoid in his continual pursuit of her. Despite thinking it will be a bore because of their insufferable hostess, she invites herself to a weekend gathering of some of France's greatest artistic and creative minds - many who are attending solely for a weekend of free food - at the country estate of the Duke and Duchess D'Antan in Angers. George's want to attend is largely to get a
Director(s): James Lapine
Production: MGM Home Entertainment
  1 win & 1 nomination.
Rotten Tomatoes:
107 min

Aurora! Aurora!

Hear me,

O Corambe.


thou who art man, woman and god in one,

hear me.

I free this bird in thy name.

Come to me, sublime being.

I want to know the meaning of life.

And I want to find perfect, perfect love.

I free this lizard in thy name.

Don't be dead.

Oh, balls.

My little ritual in the woods

didn't always go smoothly,

but I was never discouraged

and I never gave up hoping for an answer.

- That won't work.

- Fish are attracted to a bright colour.

Your fish will die of fear first.

- Are you coming?

- Mallefille will come looking for us.

- We're supposed to have our lessons.

- No, he won't.

He's sleeping with Mummy.

She doesn't get up till noon.

He's not sleeping with Mummy.

She doesn't like him any more.

My love?

My soul?

My sweet?

My heart?


George, please let me in.

Are you from the printers?

We've been waiting...

Madame Sand. Pardon. Please excuse...

Madame Sand is on her way up.

Don't do that!

It is rather far.

- I'll have to face her, that's all.

- Alfred!

I'll be perfectly behaved.

Even a little scornful.

No, you won't. You'll be impossible.

I don't want a scene. Now get in there.

And hurry up!

Hello, George!

I wasn't expecting you till next month.

- How are the children, the country?

- Fine.

Listen. I need another 3,000 francs.

What happened to the advance you got?

You know my expenses.

The children, the estate,

my mother's nursing home...

The divorce took half of everything.

All right. But let me have

one more instalment first.

How? I've got no place to work.

What's wrong with the country?

Mallefille is there.

The children do need a tutor, but...

I just can't

stand the sight of him any more.

I tell him outright I want him to leave

and he plainly refuses.

I'm a coward, of course. I can never

simply boot my lovers down the stairs.

- Ha!

- What?

Why don't you stay here

in Paris and write?

Because Alfred's here.

I've got to go somewhere.

Anywhere, I don't know.

Maybe I should just

curl up and die, yes?

Listen, Buloz. I need 3,000 francs now.

Let me read this... and we'll talk tonight

at the Baroness Laginsky's party.

I hadn't planned to attend.

Alfred might be there.

I know for a fact that he won't.

All right.

- What's that?

- Marvellous.

- Her memoirs? Am I in it?

- No!

This bit's about her childhood.

You'll come in later, after she chews up

her husband and a hundred others.

It's true. She's a cannibal.

She'd drink her children's blood from her

lover's skull and not feel a stomachache.

Alfred, go home.

Put it into verse, I'll publish it.

Then and only then you'll get paid.

Thanks to you

I can't go to the baroness's party.

- In fact, I'll have to leave Paris.

- No more advances.

I don't need your money, old sow.

I've had an invitation to the country.

From a duchess, no less.

Good day.

This summer dust is ruinous to my lungs.

I hope the air will be better in Angers.

The Duchess d'Antan has invited you too?

- Well, yes.

- How delightful.

Please continue, dear fellow.

- Good day, Countess.

- George!

I'm sorry I frightened you.

I had the most fearful dream.

Blandine was a terrible creature

with fly's wings

that was draining my life from me.

They are deadly little charmers.

Chromatic glissando.

The wings of a butterfly.

Or the wrath of God.

He wakes the baby,

then complains about the crying.

- How is Franz?

- He's a saint. Sublime.

He'll even stay that way

if you don't marry him.

Yes, well, there's no danger of that.

The count won't divorce me.

Since I left him, he won't even allow me

to see the children.

Well, now you've begun a new family.

Still, I prefer to be married.

I know you thumb your nose at all that.

It's funny.

I thought I'd die of suffocation

when I was married.

Now it's my freedom that's killing me.


Tell me, have you been invited

to Angers next week?

The Duke and Duchess d'Antan

have asked us to their estate.

Sophie! Where is that wretch? Excuse me.


I will see you.

You're not going to Angers too? Eugene!

A whole fortnight

among some tiresome old aristocrats.

A fortnight of free food,

exquisite scenery and no bills.

And all you have to be

is brilliant at dinner.

She doesn't seem bothered

she's being eaten alive.


She'd probably say

"Better to feel something than nothing."

Even if it's teeth.

Madame Sand!

Oh, what a great honour

you do my humble salon!

Delighted to meet you, Baroness. I'm

looking for my publisher, Monsieur Buloz.

He's in the salon with the others,

but you'll have to wait to go in.

I've so longed to meet you!

I knew your father when he was young.

- Really?

- Yes.

We girls were enraged

when we heard he'd married that dancer.

- You mean my mother?

- Oh... of course.

- Is she still living?

- Yes.

- But she's ill now.

- How sad.

And what a tragedy

your father died so young.

The Count de Saxe. So dashing.

Those idiots!

Excuse me.

Not yet!

Madame Sand! Is it true

that you're writing a memoir?

- Do you pray, Baroness?

- If you must know, I'm secretly devout.

- Do you ever hear an answer?

- To my prayers? Well, no.

There... is the answer.

Ah, you mean Monsieur Chopin.

How clever.

It's very rare

to hear him play, you know.

The Duchess d'Antan is having him for

a whole fortnight at her house in Angers.

I could only wish I were

a fly on the wall.

Rate this script:5.0 / 1 vote

Sarah Kernochan

Sarah Marshall Kernochan (; born December 30, 1947) is an American documentarian, film director, screenwriter and producer. more…

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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