“It takes place in a corner, away from prying eyes, where dust ends up, in a corner of my o ce, on my lifeline, my sca old. Here the actors and props of my film give a performance: a message-carrying cricket, a stop-gap worm, a respirator, a baby playing by himself, drinking actors, sex-starved actors, one bell shaker, a tape recorder reading phrases I have found, anything that goes through my mind, my unconscious, just any old thing… 18 films meant for my developing bath.” Such is the synopsis given by Francis Brou, and there is no better way to describe this sequence, assembled upon an anniversary, and momentarily extracted from a long-haul project (two of his previous films were already screened at FID 2016 and 2018). An apologia for mix and match, a home-made animation, the film
is almost like an outsider art piece. Between the shameless confessions and the hand-crafted delicacy, something obviously stands firm: the belief in the possibility of an autobio-cinematographic factory, to our great surprise, and for our pleasure as well. (J.P.R.)
