Critiques (1)
Images without characters, houses abandoned years ago, a camera floating on words about human destinies in a deserted landscape of past lives. Dual death, triple death of characters: only their voices occasionally sound in the echo of the backdrop of their demise; only the voice of the narrator, who often takes their place, lets their passions and suffering be heard, about them without them. Without them, and yet everything constantly screams their presence - no character ever appears in the image, but no image ever says anything else than they lived here and were the same characters. Duras is a master of nostalgia for the still living people, now revealing that these people were condemned to the demise of their love, their efforts, their life, their colonial bourgeois and aristocratic longing for brilliance, condemned by themselves and others, condemned while alive and therefore already dead - that's why they can speak even after their end, because the beginning already belongs to their death. It's a joy to watch only the camera and not perceive the sound, it's a joy to just listen and not perceive the image, it's a joy to do both at once. And yet, or perhaps precisely because of that, it can never be completely merged.
()