Recenziók (1)
Images without characters and houses long abandoned. A camera floating over words about human fates in a deserted landscape of past lives. A double death, the triple death of characters: only their voices occasionally echo in the backdrop of their demise; only the voice of the narrator, who often takes over for them, lets their passions and suffering be heard, about them and without them. Without them, and yet their presence constantly screams - no character ever appears in the image, but no image ever says anything else than that they lived here and were the same characters. Duras is a master of nostalgia for people who are still, which now reveals that these people were condemned to the demise of their love, their efforts, their life, their colonial bourgeois and environment longing for aristocratic shine, condemned by themselves and others, condemned while alive and thus already dead – that is why they can speak even after their end - because the beginning already belongs to their death. It is joyful to watch only the camera and not perceive the sound, and it is joyful to just listen and not perceive the image; it is joyful to do both at once. And yet, or precisely because of that, they will never fully merge.
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