April is the cruelest month the poet says? Wrong. He should check out this film. April is the month of our faith, brotherly dunes, low-keyed dudes and a wonderful, wonderful nun coated in heartfelt charm. Sophie Quinton is a find. Since our director employs her for some films in the row she becomes something more than a muse. She rightfully tunes the muse theme into offbeat religiosity.
A nun just before christening has to pass through meditative isolation, but an elder nun announces to her that when she was found at the nunnery's threshold she was not alone; she was with a brother, whom she sets out to find. And she does, with the aid of the wonderful male case of Duvauchelle. This is a road movie by the sea and we see it broadly moving.
Such endearing, off-key sensibility in a film it is some time I have not encountered, and I am pleased by the discovery of it. So many themes wonderfully approached: faith with social life, hesitation before the symbolic life in the name of God, how God's names change into love, perception, color, sympathy and the difference between it and empathy, the senses and the sensations, the discovery and the revelation which coincides with the discovery and revelation of love. One is surely tempted to become rhapsodic.
Apart from Sophie Quinton's incarnation, if I may say so, what really bound for me the film together was that it opted for some reanimation of faith in truly contemporary, even avant-guard mode, and this is something that still exists, even if rarely, and exemplifying it into true french tradition. In movie terms, it combines Bresson's spiritual clarity with early Almodovar's irreverent coalitions. From Marguerite Navarre's "Heptameron" to Duras, and that always pervading sense of the troubadours, the film also restores into faith also Yves Klein's abstract, color-specific leap.
Mouchette and Rosette are proud of you, Sophie.
Watch how the church blank fresco restores it all, imbibing us. A miracle for breakfast.
A nun just before christening has to pass through meditative isolation, but an elder nun announces to her that when she was found at the nunnery's threshold she was not alone; she was with a brother, whom she sets out to find. And she does, with the aid of the wonderful male case of Duvauchelle. This is a road movie by the sea and we see it broadly moving.
Such endearing, off-key sensibility in a film it is some time I have not encountered, and I am pleased by the discovery of it. So many themes wonderfully approached: faith with social life, hesitation before the symbolic life in the name of God, how God's names change into love, perception, color, sympathy and the difference between it and empathy, the senses and the sensations, the discovery and the revelation which coincides with the discovery and revelation of love. One is surely tempted to become rhapsodic.
Apart from Sophie Quinton's incarnation, if I may say so, what really bound for me the film together was that it opted for some reanimation of faith in truly contemporary, even avant-guard mode, and this is something that still exists, even if rarely, and exemplifying it into true french tradition. In movie terms, it combines Bresson's spiritual clarity with early Almodovar's irreverent coalitions. From Marguerite Navarre's "Heptameron" to Duras, and that always pervading sense of the troubadours, the film also restores into faith also Yves Klein's abstract, color-specific leap.
Mouchette and Rosette are proud of you, Sophie.
Watch how the church blank fresco restores it all, imbibing us. A miracle for breakfast.