My mouth watered while my eyes drank.

As the scene faded into a flashback, I smiled at the bright yellow coloring the screen.  Babette’s Feast had opened with neutral-toned images, and somehow the golden-blonde girls that take the place of the gray-haired old women delighted me.  The flashback ended, and the golden-blonde had aged back into gray.  I felt the same way I did when I first saw Dorothy tap her ruby slippers together and return to the black and white Kansas she’d come from.  The story didn’t make me feel completely sad, but somehow the image made me feel nostalgic.  The sudden return to the colorless world made me thirsty for something exciting.  I wanted for rainbows to have a war above the quiet, Danish town, and spill their color everywhere.

I think that’s why I smiled again when Phillipa removed the hood from the head of her unexpected guest, and I saw red hair.  Though Babette’s hair wasn’t quite vibrant, it opened my eyes to paying closer attention to the color.  I recalled the color that came with the uniformed French soldier, and the well-dressed French singer, and as new colors stained the screen, I recurrently grew energized. 

As I focused on the presence of color, I began to notice a theme.  While my eyes enjoyed the visual feast, my mind pondered the colors and after a time, I realized what the color might convey from an intellectual view.

At first, I connected color to French.  It was almost always associated with a French character.  I pondered the time period as I watched.  Babette came to the uncolored town in 1871.  During the year previous, her country experienced one misfortune after another.  Only months after declaring war, the French Emperor surrendered to the Prussians.  Siege was laid on Paris, and food supplies were drained.  Meanwhile, a state of confusion dominated the political environment of the country.

Though the history enriches the story.  But it offered me no insight to the use of color.  I was farther from an answer than I had been; I could no longer blame color on the French, because I couldn’t explain why the French meant color.  My analytical-scholar-self took a back seat in my mind to ponder, and I was able to sit and enjoy the story.

The pious community was worried about what the feast would bring.  My mouth watered as the food was prepared, and my eyes drank up the colors the feast offered.  The gray-haired Danes ate, and gradually became more accepting of the French meal. 

It wasn’t until one old woman exchanged her water glass for the red wine that my scholar spoke up once again.