A cinema of fragments. Of moments. Of love.
After such I walk down the street, I see only les rondelles, feet, hands, shadow. Life as cinema.
Amongst this twilight montage there's a need to inject 40s romance tropes to signify fairytale. The absurd in the random brief encounter. Vincent as real is all wrong, too cool, a throwback to screen past, but somehow Quettier's coupage transcends faciality. Still glad the lead was not Binoche. There's an inaccessibility and vagueness for which I find myself so grateful.
16mm and 35mm. From a time when cinema was still cinema.
The care and score. Anyone who has made love in a Parisian 2-star knows this feeling. There is such tenderness not just in…