Unrest

Hidden in the forest, a naked young woman exposes her body as she pleasures herself. Or could it be that reversely, the camouflage of superimposition reveals even more, through a secret affinity between tree branches and the subtle outline of the young woman’s body? That the tangle of leaves is in fact an invite to stare even more intently at her search for climax? We are given no answer, except for the precise jumble that emerges from the overlaying of two images – the palimpsest of a text that will remain undecipherable. This unrest characterises both the trilogy the film belongs to (White Epilepsy and Meurtrière were both screened by FID in 2012 and 2015), and its final part. But this is only the beginning of this moving tableau. An entirely different movement, to use musical terminology, is to follow. The naked body that had revealed itself in all its glory against a sky of branches suddenly finds its loneliness as the sky goes dark, and gradually recedes into obscurity until it almost fades into the dark – ready to plunge into invisibility. Philippe Grandrieux once again presents us with a strange and archaic journey, stubbornly refusing the obvious and using image to retrace the underlying core of what moves him and compels him. In this eminently tight and intense piece, Grandrieux, a master of anxiety, shares his passion for unrest. (JPR)