Yes hello Nicolas, hello to all. It has now been eight months, that despite all legality of labor law, little Justine Malzieu, 24, is a trainee journalist at the morning of France Inter. She gets up at 3:45 a.m., crosses the city – on a bicycle since taxis are only reserved for employees – and works tirelessly on the 5th floor of the radio station. In eight months, she has not been able to propose a single subject, to give her opinion on a column once, or quite simply to have her first name pronounced correctly. She didn’t snatch a single encouragement, nor any form of consideration whatsoever.
Justine is confined to photocopying, preparing coffees, hand-washing Sonia Devillers’ mohair sweaters and Mathilde Serrell’s weekly foot massage. Can you insist on the arch of the foot please? And find me two or three subjects for the pro week? And light me up? Hey, there’s an article that interested me here, can you read it to me aloud? Don’t stop massaging though, you don’t read with your hands do you? Good…
This morning, while Justine waits, morose and exhausted, for Claude Askolovitch’s coffee to flow, she drops into a chair, and soon the hubbub of the editorial staff turns into a hazy hum…
In less time than it takes to tell, Justine finds herself on a majestic three-master in the middle of a raging ocean. At the helm, Nicolas Demorand and Léa Salamé shout the orders: take two reefs in the mainsail, the rigging will break, we will dismast -I say nonsense- Claude Askolovitch and Mathilde Serrell, soaked to the bone, winch as much as they can, while Sonia Devillers and Yaël Goosz struggle with the storm jib up front. Suddenly, on the port side, a wave the size of the Radio House crashes into the ship. HAN!
Then nothing. A resounding silence. Justine hardly opens her eyes, and in front of her, a huge expanse of sand. The ship ran aground on an uninhabited island. The morning team gets up chin caha. They’re safe and sound, but now…it’s about surviving!
Thanks to reminiscences from a week with the Cubs, Justine managed the feat of making a fire and gathering some edible plants.
It doesn’t take much for the survivors of the morning shift to see her as a natural leader. And Justine takes advantage of it. Very quickly, under her wise mask of a diligent little intern, the face of Justine la Terrible appears.
Taken by a vengeful madness, Justine measures the food rations, and does not hesitate to take the lion’s share. First of all, she cowardly entrusts the manufacture of the latrines to her former employers. Then it was up to Léa to struggle with the game, to Nicolas to make the shelters, to Claude to prepare a bamboo throne to the glory of the new empress. She scolds, chants, orders, lectures, while they strain their backs, their knees, suffer from the sun and splinters.
Sonia is of course in charge of the laundry in the camp, as for Mathilde, aaaah Mathilde…She is forced to spend several hours a day fanning Justine and braiding her hair. And then sing for me Mathilde, I can no longer hear the sound of the waves. And Claude, make us a cassava stew and a swordfish ceviche, and quickly I don’t give a damn…
“Hey big, did you go roast coffee in Costa Rica?”. Justine is brought out of her daydream by Claude, furious. How sweet it was, this world where she could vociferate about her bosses…
If I’m telling you about Justine’s wanderings, it’s because, oh coincidence, she resonates perfectly with today’s cinematic news. Because, yes, today comes out Without Filter, Robert Ostlund’s film Palme d’Or at Cannes. The film – a France Inter film of course – is a variation on Slave Island, a play by Marivaux, which tells the story of a reversal of roles between masters and slaves on a desert island in the middle of nowhere.
Justine is still far from having the power to shout over the chefs, but in the meantime, she can console herself by going to the cinema.
Here is your coffee Claude.
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Justine the intern wanders off