A native Parisienne, Anne-Elisabeth Moutet laments the loss of charm of her old quartier
Jacques Chirac can be blamed for the
1994 'beautification' of the Champs, when he blew a fortune on widening
pavements, buying designer benches and allowing the cafés to expand Photo: Bloomberg
With its garish shops, escort-girl bars, uncouth and drunk visitors, it is
crowded, stressful, overpriced – and shunned by the French themselves. No,
this isn’t the description of a nastier corner of a banlieue, but rather
Hugh Schofield on Paris’s best-known avenue, the Champs-Élysées. And the
French are already furious.
As a native Parisienne, born exactly 160 yards from the Champs-Élysées, who
still lives round the corner, I have mixed feelings about the place. I know
the crowds, because I hear their drunken arguments under my windows late at
night. And it’s true that the avenue has little more to offer today than
chain stores – H&M, Zara, Adidas, Nike – a few cinemas, and
overpriced cafés where no Parisian would ever set foot.
True to the BBC’s default position, its Paris correspondent blames Jacques Chirac’s long tenure as mayor for the change; but he’s wrong. What changed everything was the opening of the RER train station at the Arc de Triomphe in 1973, four years before Chirac’s election. Today between 300,000 and half a million people descend every weekend.
True, Chirac can be blamed for the 1994 “beautification” of the Champs, when he blew a fortune on widening pavements, buying designer benches and allowing the cafés to expand. This brought even more people to the area, drove the rents sky-high, and completed the end of an era.
This used to be my quartier, a strange ecosystem of elegance and old-style seediness which had its own charm. I remember, aged 10 and on my way to the dentist, catching a glimpse of Marlene Dietrich walking along in full make-up, couture, gloves, and a little hat with a veil, not far from the Travellers Club (which is still there, barely, in the old palazzo built for the great Second Empire cocotte, La Païva). Metres away, the side street, Rue de Ponthieu, so offensive today, was then a row of louche bars with girls and hoodlums: indeed, several Jean Gabin and Alain Delon movies are set there.
True to the BBC’s default position, its Paris correspondent blames Jacques Chirac’s long tenure as mayor for the change; but he’s wrong. What changed everything was the opening of the RER train station at the Arc de Triomphe in 1973, four years before Chirac’s election. Today between 300,000 and half a million people descend every weekend.
True, Chirac can be blamed for the 1994 “beautification” of the Champs, when he blew a fortune on widening pavements, buying designer benches and allowing the cafés to expand. This brought even more people to the area, drove the rents sky-high, and completed the end of an era.
This used to be my quartier, a strange ecosystem of elegance and old-style seediness which had its own charm. I remember, aged 10 and on my way to the dentist, catching a glimpse of Marlene Dietrich walking along in full make-up, couture, gloves, and a little hat with a veil, not far from the Travellers Club (which is still there, barely, in the old palazzo built for the great Second Empire cocotte, La Païva). Metres away, the side street, Rue de Ponthieu, so offensive today, was then a row of louche bars with girls and hoodlums: indeed, several Jean Gabin and Alain Delon movies are set there.
In the post-war years, the Champs-Élysées were pure movieland. Darryl Zanuck
was ensconced in the Hotel George V with his lover Juliette Gréco, from
where he produced films such as The Longest Day, thanks to the Marshall Plan
subsidies for European-American co-productions. Every major studio had an
office on the Champs (Paramount was at No 33), and the French and American
film crowd met at Le Fouquet’s long before the man who redefined it in 2007
with his infamous election party – Nicolas Sarkozy – was even born. But in
1975 the Marshall Plan ended, and everyone left, along with the money and
the incentive.
Today, there’s a McDonald’s where the art bookshop used to be. The bullet holes from the August 1944 fighting have been filled in on the walls. The Hôtel de Crillon, recently bought by the Saudi royal family, was the last to sport its marks proudly, like duelling scars. It is now being refurbished.
As a child, I rode the Shetland ponies and went to the Guignol puppet show in the gardens near the Rond-Point des Champs-Élysées; shopped for records at Sinfonia at No 68 and went to see old movie revivals at the Cinéac Élysées, where you can now find only a row of garish clothes shops with pop music blaring out on to the street.
Sadly, I bear some responsibility for the destruction. Back in 1932, my great-uncle Léonard started the rot when he had the first commercial building ever built on the Champs-Élysées, at No 116. It was a daring piece of Cubist architecture by an associate of Le Corbusier, the facade zig-zagging at straight angles: it created a scandal in its time, and for generations was a matter of pride in the family. No longer.
© Telegraph Media Group & Anne-Elisabeth Moutet, 2013
Today, there’s a McDonald’s where the art bookshop used to be. The bullet holes from the August 1944 fighting have been filled in on the walls. The Hôtel de Crillon, recently bought by the Saudi royal family, was the last to sport its marks proudly, like duelling scars. It is now being refurbished.
As a child, I rode the Shetland ponies and went to the Guignol puppet show in the gardens near the Rond-Point des Champs-Élysées; shopped for records at Sinfonia at No 68 and went to see old movie revivals at the Cinéac Élysées, where you can now find only a row of garish clothes shops with pop music blaring out on to the street.
Sadly, I bear some responsibility for the destruction. Back in 1932, my great-uncle Léonard started the rot when he had the first commercial building ever built on the Champs-Élysées, at No 116. It was a daring piece of Cubist architecture by an associate of Le Corbusier, the facade zig-zagging at straight angles: it created a scandal in its time, and for generations was a matter of pride in the family. No longer.
© Telegraph Media Group & Anne-Elisabeth Moutet, 2013
