Beaches of Agnes, The (2008)

[bunniefuu]

I'm playing the role
of a little old lady,

pleasantly plump and talkative,

telling her life story.

And yet it's others I'm interested in,
others I like to film.

Others who intrigue me,
motivate me,

make me ask questions,

disconcert me, fascinate me.

This time, to talk about myself,
I thought:

If we opened people up,
we'd find landscapes.

If we opened me up,
we'd find beaches.

Put it there, just beyond the mark.

Just beyond.

Facing the sea.
No, facing the sea.

Turn it around.

Parallel to the sea.
Closer to me, Céline.

Over here.

Lift it up.

That's the idea.

There. Is it stable?

The north wind will hold it up.

I think I'm doing
this scarf thing on purpose.

I'm hoping it'll blow over,

and you'll film me like this.

That's how I want the portrait.

That's my idea.

Film me in old spotty mirrors

and behind scarves.

This reminds me of the furniture
in my parents' bedroom

in Brussels.

The bed was like this,
and Mom's wardrobe.

But it doesn't make the creaking noise
I liked when she opened it.

We had a hand-cranked record player.

On Sundays Dad listened
to Tino Rossi and Rina Ketty.

On weekdays Mom sometimes listened
to Schubert's "Unfinished Symphony".

That was the only classical music
I heard as a kid.

I liked the title.

THE BEACHES OF AGNES

I'm adding some living,
spoken credits

to thank the young people
who carried the mirrors.

Emilien...

Nicolas... See the camera?

Sarah?

Marjolaine?

Céline?

- Jérôme?
- Yeah, I see it.

Too bad there's no portrait of Alain,
who filmed,

or Didier, my partner.
Didier Rouget, my friend.

There are all these people
willing to enter a reverie,

something imaginary,
I don't even know what it is.

And they don't even ask.

I want them moving all the time.

Good.

Go that way.

The North Sea and its sand
is the start for me...

of what I more or less know of myself.

These Belgian beaches were all I knew.

All my childhood vacations.

When I hear
Knokke le Zoute, Blankenberg,

Ostende, Mariakerke, Middelkerke,

La Panne and Zeebrugge...

the sounds are music to my ears.

I was conceived in the city of Arles,
so they called me Arlette.

I changed my name when I was .
I chose Agnès

and had it officially changed.

- Are you nostalgic for your childhood?
- Not at all.

But I like looking at the pictures.

There were five of us kids,

but I especially remember
being the youngest of the first three.

Then I was the eldest of the last two.

I felt independent in the middle.

Everyone says childhood
is a foundation...

provides a structure, I don't know.

I don't feel a strong link
to my childhood.

It's not a reference
in my thought processes,

it's not an inspiration.

Well, I don't know.

I'd love to see a little girl
in this striped bathing suit

and another in the one
with the big straps.

I'll buy this one. How much?

Three handfuls.

I don't know.

I don't know what it means to recreate

a scene like this.

Do we relive the moment?

For me it's cinema, it's a game.

Did you imagine that years later

you'd do an installation
with flowers and shells?

Must you remind me how old I am?

When the installation I made
for Zgougou's tomb was exposed,

long before this return to Belgium,

I realized where it came from.

Imagining oneself as a child
is like running backwards.

Imagining oneself ancient is funny,

like a dirty joke.

I always like bringing in old people,

very old people,
senior citizens and beyond,

like in " Rooms, Kitchen and Bath"
or like this.

And we also came here
for the casino.

I asked Jane Birkin to be the dealer.

black, odd, manque.

And I was the player.

No more bets.

red, pair, passe.

Père like father
Manque like loss.

Oh my, can you afford to lose so much?

I lost my father in this casino.

Eugène-Jean Varda.

He played... he lost...

he fell down... and he died.

- Are you Eugène Varda's daughter?
- Yes, I am.

- I sei Coritu Vienou Varda?
- Yes.

Scene A, take

- I sei Coritu to Varda, to Vienou?
- Yes.

Are you the daughter...

Are you...

Eugène never spoke of his family.
He forgot he was Greek.

The family tree.

- Jean, the doctor...
- My grandfather.

had Lucien, Georges and Eugène,
your father.

Dad had five children:

Hélène, Lucien, me, Jean and Sylvie.

I have a photo of the whole family.
Only one.

Taken in the courtyard
of the Brussels house.

As a kid
I didn't know my father was Greek.

Of Greek ancestry, naturalized.

He never offered to take us to Greece.

We were raised as French children
in Brussels.

Some time ago,

I received a letter from a doctor.

It said:

I live in your childhood home
and I'm planning to sell.

Would you like to see it again?

So I went to Brussels,

Rue de l'Aurore,

with my little camera.

Headed for my childhood home.

I said, "Let's start with the garden. "

It was the same, but overgrown.

With its brick walls painted white.

I know the shape of the basins by heart.

Especially the pear-shaped one,

and we had a little cement bridge.

The garden is here,
but emotion is absent.

No memories of playing here,
nor of tears.

I know some things,

the ones Mom told me about.

Here she is in her Sunday finest,
near the bridge.

At the Brussels flea market yesterday,

I bought two rusty knives

like the ones
Mom sent us outside to clean.

She'd say, "Do it top to bottom. "

I had Yolande Moreau tell it

in an imaginary kitchen.

That's life.

When I was little,
in the Ardennes countryside,

Mother would send us out
to clean the knives.

We'd push the blade into the ground,
like this,

and rub it from top to bottom.

From the bottom to the top,

I rediscovered things that spoke to me.

At this window, I remember Mom crying
when Queen Astrid died.

She collected photos of Astrid.

With her husband King Léopold III...

Wearing an evening gown...

Dressed for a visit to the poor...

Or holding a colonized child
from The Belgian Congo.

Astrid was the Lady Di of the s.

She met the same tragic end.

She died in a car accident

at the height of her youth and beauty.

I asked if I could go up to my room

on the second floor.

The girls' bedroom
became their living room,

and our terrace was still there.

I did a lousy job of filming!

You could still see Cambre Abby

and the garden from above.

I wanted to locate
where the three sisters' beds were.

He wanted to show me
his miniature train collection.

I bought only Swiss trains.

Can you tell if they're in original
condition or repainted?

Absolutely.
Like a car expert can tell right away

if the used car he's buying
is the original color or not.

The most expensive one

cost me , Belgian francs
in the early s.

It's a brass piece.

It's worth , Belgian francs
in Switzerland today.

There were only of them made.

- And that one?
- A car from the Orient Express.

, francs.

We bought it on the train itself.

You were married recently. When?

Two years ago August.

Couldn't he sell a car
and buy you a diamond?

Actually, he is starting to sell them.

It's an investment.

The collection is currently worth
million Belgian francs.

Two million?

It's a real passion!

We call ourselves "insane for trains".

But the real term for a train buff,

whether he's into toy trains
or real trains,

is "trainopath".

Trainopath!

It was an amusing encounter.

It was also an unusual one.

I was taken in by this couple
and the train collection.

The "childhood home" part was a flop.

But the house and I
were separated by the w*r anyway.

After the w*r I rarely returned
to the Ixelles ponds

at the end of Rue de l'Aurore.

One time was really nice.

I'm years old,

it's the first screening
of my first film in a giant theatre.

It's also my first stay
in a luxury hotel.

I owe these royal pleasures
to Jacques Ledoux,

director of
the Royal Belgian Cinematheque,

who paid the bill.

His face is familiar because
Chris Marker cast him in "La Jetée"

as a perverted inventor,

a mad scientist.

We became friends.

We'd talk about films.

We'd go to the flea market.

He'd look for old books
and I'd look for old images,

old photographs of anonymous families.

Our own family photos
escaped the flea market

as Mom took them
when we left Brussels on May , .

In the rumbling
of the bombs and ambulances

we sped off.

Dad at the wheel,
Mom and the kids

tightly packed in the car

on the exodus throughout France

alongside people in carriages
and on foot.

With my childhood friends the dolphins

Along this shore
Where the sand is so fine

On the beach they call La Corniche

The exodus brought us to Sète.

Sète, with its whale-shaped hill,

its fishing harbor,

its famous jousters

and its vast beach.

I return to this beach today,

heading backwards,

backwards, like this film.

Now I'm rowing backwards
to the quay where we used to live.

Not on the quay, but beside the quay.

On a stationary sailboat in the harbor.

Traffic was controlled by the bridges

and we were linked to town

by a water pipe,

an electricity cable

and a footbridge facing
the Palais Consulaire.

In school two things were mandatory:

Vichy pinafores,

and singing
for old Marshal Pétain.

Marshal, here we stand

Before you,
Who saved our Land

We, your boys,
We swear to you...

"We, your boys... "
That's right, we sang that.

And we played hopscotch.

Another game, near the boats:
fishing for gobies.

Any bites, girls?

Think you're gonna catch a shark?

Gobies are no good for eating.
We threw them back.

I remember this quay well.

It was our playground.

There was a little recurring scene.

We paid him no mind,

and Mom, across from the Palais,

was too busy washing six sets of sheets
to notice.

She never saw anything.

As soon as we came back home
from school...

well, on the boat,

we had to put on our lifejackets.

We wore them like corsets,

and Mom wore a girdle
called "Scandale".

She was worried,
with her husband away,

and mourning a brother
lost in the w*r.

Europe was ablaze and embattled.

Sète was still a free zone,
but there was little to eat.

We were piled on the boat.

She adapted,
but knew nothing of boats.

She was no seawoman,
she couldn't swim,

and she fretted.

But we kids had fun during the w*r.

We had such fun on that boat!

Mom was scared we'd fall overboard.

The lifejackets came in handy.

Every other Thursday someone fell in.

I liked to chorus

with a group of girl scouts.

Little nightingale of the woods
Little wild nightingale

We'd go camping in the woods.

The only trips allowed at the time.

We'd go to the Alps,
and I remember

sometimes the group would split up.

As I learned much later,

some den mothers
were escorting to Switzerland

young Jewish girls.

I had no idea they were Jewish.

Fifty years later I made a short film

about the horrors
inflicted upon the Jews.

And about the people
known as The Righteous,

because they saved
thousands of children.

They were farmers,
pastors and priests,

schoolmarms... ordinary people.

I exposed their photos,
and anonymous ones,

on the floor, under several screens...

depicting the vile spectacle

of French military police
arresting Jewish children...

pushing them
toward the concentration camps.

Saying it, and filming it,
even in fiction,

sends chills down the spine.

Time has passed,

and passes, except on the beaches,
which are timeless.

On the beach of my teens,

I remember not the swimming
but the fishing and fishnets.

The ones on the docks...

The ones at the Pointe Courte
where I hung out.

I took pictures

and discovered
that special neighborhood.

I listened to people's stories,

especially the old folks.

I wanted to do something with it,
make a film.

I seemed to be preparing
a documentary,

but part of the film
was about a couple.

Silvia Monfort and Philippe Noiret
(in his first film)

generously participated
in my cinema experiment.

I had in mind a particular structure
for the film.

It would be two films in one,

with alternating chapters,

like a Faulkner novel I'd read.

"The Wild Palms."

So I'd have a fishermen sequence,

then a couple sequence.

Two stories with nothing in common,

except for a place, the Pointe Courte.

She discovered the place he was born.

He showed her the houses, the alleys.

I asked Suzou and Pierre
to stand in for the couple.

With a mm camera,
I shot tests with them

as the inhabitants looked on.

Before the editing was finished,
Pierrot died of cancer.

Suzou raised their two sons,

Blaise

and Vincent.

I invited them to share
in a little ceremony

with a handcart from the film.

A set up to show them

the test footage they'd never seen.

They'd seen their father in photos
but never in motion.

A little nocturnal voyage with Pierrot.

The kids who were in the film
are the old timers now,

from the neighborhood.

So we hear about it.

I was in the part...
where the little boat arrives

and unloads the shellfish.

The little boy in the boat...

- That was you?
- Yeah.

The little boy grew up.

Take your grapes.

And little "Dédé-take-your-grapes"

became deputy mayor
when the town council was communist.

He was champion
of the Great Jousts twice.

In and , right?

Yes. Good memory,
you know your classics!

I know my classics,
and I know my friends.

There's Dédé.

Images shot in .

and shot in... .

We'd form a heart.

At la Pointe Courte,
the inhabitants surprised me:

They let me into the jousters' world.

And gave my name

to an alley
from the canal to the Etang de Thau.

They even gave me
a little shield my size,

and a matching lance.

This whole mise-en-scene

is simply my way
of expressing gratitude

to the Pointuswho adopted me.

Another family adopted me,
the Schlegel family.

I spent my summers with them.

The couple and their three girls

had a balcony overlooking our boat.

Behind these three shutters...

were three sisters.

Andrée became an artist
and married Jean Vilar.

Second-born Suzou

was my den mother
and introduced me to music.

I met Linou, the rd daughter,
in th grade.

In years together,

we traveled, made discoveries
and sowed our wild oats.

Together we'd go to the beach
to see a dragnet fisherman.

The Biascamano sons

re-pitched the tent
where their father spent summers.

Their sister Patricia
brought the accessories.

The pan Mom made her coffee in.

Agnès is lucky we kept everything!

Even the storm lamp.

Charles, their father,

taught me how to repair fishnets.

Remember the fishing then?

So many years ago.

I remember, yes...

but only vaguely.

You know, I'm years old.

So my memory
escapes me sometimes.

Lovely way of putting it.

Her sons Aldo and Fanfan

organized a bit of dragnet fishing.

This time Suzou's son Blaise assists.

On the other side is Christophe Vilar,
Andrée's son.

He lives in Sète, he's a painter.

Stéphane Vilar is a musician.

This was his table.

He worked here, facing the sea.

Do you realize how much
your sons resemble Vilar?

No.

She used to tell us that constantly,

a while back.

And also a while back,

Andrée began slowly losing her memory.

What she does remember

is poetry.

I like reciting,
knowing poems by heart.

Jean and Andrée Vilar
named their villa "High Noon",

after Paul Valéry's
"The Cemetery by the Sea".

This roof where dovelike sails
go and come

Peacefully trembles
near each pine and tomb

High noon appeases
with a brilliant flame

The sea, the sea,
the sea renewed forever

Any man who gazes at the sea
is a Ulysses

who doesn't always want to go home.

All the children I love,

and all men who gaze at the sea,
I call them Ulysses.

As a teenager I'd daydream.

I'd imagine joining a circus.

Reality meant little to me,

and I knew absolutely nothing of life.

I didn't ask questions.

I knew women gave birth

but Mom never told me girls got periods

or what men and women do
when they were naked together.

You don't fool around with nets,
they're for fish.

This time it's at Sète harbor

that I tirelessly watch the fishermen

in lateen boats with leaning masts

and archaic sails.

Thanks to Mr. Mestre's teachings,

Linou and I navigated
with the lateen sail on Thau Salt Lake.

"Too much water in the sea!"
her father would say.

I'm heading out across Sète

on my own, in a lateen boat

using motor or sail,
depending on the bridges.

Savonnerie Bridge...

Crossing the Cadre Royal,
where the Jousts are held...

heading for Civette Bridge...

From Victoire Bridge, which turns,

to Tivoli Bridge, which rises...

And the two bridges where trains pass,
near the Pointe Courte.

I named my first film
after this neighborhood.

This is the last shot.

- When do we arrive in Paris?
- Tomorrow morning.

We'd say, "Going up to Paris"
as if France were vertical.

The whole family, including my father,
gathered in Paris

while the w*r was still on.

Food ration tickets, wooden soles.

Paris was full of Germans.
The Occupation, you know.

The streets were cold and dark.

The street lights were out.

In the houses, we obscured
the windows with blue paper.

At high school, during air raids,

classes continued in the basement.

Mallarmé poems amidst sacks of sand...

We were given
two vitamin-enriched biscuits a day.

I didn't climb the Eiffel Tower
or Notre Dame,

but I did hang out on the riverbank,
near the boats.

I missed Sète harbor and its seagulls.

They rarely discussed the w*r at home.

People mostly lived day to day.

When Paris was liberated,
we were in the country. We missed it.

First Baccalauréat final,
braids and white bobby socks.

Second Baccalauréat final,

I started the Ecole du Louvre.

To get there,

I took the Pont des Arts,
my favorite bridge.

What a pleasure...
though the first year was intense.

Philippe de Champaigne...

and his sister in the convent.

Cézanne...

and his modest mother.

Art history books
were in black and white.

I'd borrow them
from the Louvre library.

I remember reading
on the banks of the Seine,

just below.

Years later I wrote a script,
"Nausicaa".

The story of a girl
with a Greek father,

studying Ancient Art at the Louvre.

France Dougnac played Agnès

and a young Depardieu
played a beatnik.

Give me back my books!
Why'd you take them?

st answer: No. nd answer:
I have no money to buy them.

- That's no reason to take them.
- Sure it is.

Need is my motive.
I need art books just like you.

Fine, steal.
But not mine, I need them!

Young people are all alike.
They crave revolution

just to disturb the older generation,
the bourgeoisie.

Steal from the old farts,
not from the youth!

The sacred youth,
bourgeois or otherwise.

I'll have to buy them.

That means you have money.

You have money,
so I'll take the books.

- I've got books.
- I'm calling right now!

Call the ambulance or the police.

But you won't dare. Don't you have
a slight aversion to the police?

Sending a poor man
who needs culture to jail

without books or sunshine...

You wouldn't dare.

Peace.

I didn't know many boys.

I was nervous, reserved, insecure,
intimidated by everything.

And I had a problem to solve:

how to enter the world of men,

who frightened me, intimidated me.

I had bad images of men.

I had to lose my virginity.

I had to find a man
to serve this unique purpose.

In reverie,... a delicate stranger.

In reality,... a delicate adult.

Nothing could beat
surrealist poets and painters,

mad love,

and Baudelaire, Rilke,
Prévert and Brassens.

We played with chance.
We played "exquisite corpses".

I feel safe in the belly of this whale.

Sheltered from the world,

sheltered from the coastal wind,

inside my coastal shelter.

Today I'm creating images
which have haunted me for a long time,

since Bachelard's classes
at the Sorbonne.

I didn't always understand
what he said,

but when he spoke of the whale
who swallowed Jonas,

or Jonas in the whale's belly,
unwilling to come out...

I felt involved and happy,

like I do today.

It was the age of questions,
not knowing what you wanted,

knowing what you didn't want.

I'd rather eat an apple in my room.

What did you say?

I just graduated,
and I've been for three days!

Running away, without telling anyone,
seemed necessary.

I plotted in secret,

sold several objects

and bought a rd class train ticket
to Marseille

and a deck ticket
for the boat to Corsica.

Ah, my first night of freedom!

Under the stars,

curled up on deck in a coil of rope.

Upon reaching Ajaccio,
I settled in on a quay

with an old fishing net.

As I knew how to mend it,

a fisherman needing help
took notice and hired me.

My first job

was to row while they cast
or raised the nets.

But the boat was bigger than this,
and there were of them.

Three months of hard work
and unambiguous cohabitation

with these silent men

made me strong and less fearful.

It was a good start, not a profession.

I had to get back to Paris
to learn one.

Ok... photographer!

I took night classes in photography

at Vaugirard, where Jacques Demy
went years later

to study cinema.

Apprenticeship
with Rodin specialists.

I wasn't allowed into the darkroom.

My job was to guillotine prints

and retouch them
with gouache and a little spit.

They gave me several prints,
which deteriorated.

They're beautiful like this.

Like my ceiling,
which I put off repairing.

Training certificate,
first equipment:

a real chambre, as we called them,

and a second hand Rolleiflex
Mother bought

from a "Détective" magazine reporter.

First paying job at Galeries Lafayette,

children per day.

Then a gig with the French Railway.

Photos of my friends,
artists and artisans,

most of them from Sète.

I had photographed
Andrée and Jean Vilar's children

on the beach in Sète

and at the Parc Montsouris.

One day he asked me
to the Avignon Festival

to lend him a hand
and take some photos.

The previous year, ,
I'd missed out.

I'd gone fishing in Corsica.

This time I went,
and I was thrilled.

I discovered the Papal Palace...

The courtyard
where Vilar built his stages...

This was for Richard ll.

There are no more plays
in the orchard.

But I did meet
a wandering musician there.

Where are you from?

Brazil, Salvador, Bahia.

Avignon Festival,
Saint Charles Chapel

Festival directors Vincent and Hortense

proposed I expose here
my photographs

of the festival's early years.

For those who don't know,
Jean Vilar founded

the Avignon Festival.

He was a great man of the theatre

and a remarkable actor.

In ,

when I took this picture

of Vilar after losing his crown,

waving his hand in abandon,

I was really ashamed
that his hand was blurry.

Under the tyranny of the sharp image,
I felt my photo

was an utter failure.

Now I like blurry images,
especially in the foreground.

This is Anne and Gérard Philipe.

I'd like us to film Thierry

putting the ancestral tiles back in.

This whole idea of fragmentation
appeals to me.

It corresponds so naturally

to questions of memory.

Is it possible to reconstitute

this personality,
this person Jean Vilar,

who was so exceptional?

This photograph of Gérard Philipe
stands meters high.

The puzzle side of things pleases me.

There's something of a sleepwalker
in this character.

I asked Gérard to dress as
the Prince of Hamburg in broad daylight.

My idea was to create,

with bright sunshine,

the effect of a full moon.

As to the flashing cameras at openings,
we know their effect.

It's crowded,
everyone's distracted.

Noise, speeches.

Always the same.
Compliments, thank yous, waiting.

Emotion is something you can't control.

Of course it's amusing

to see Vilar wearing his sunglasses

as a mustache,

rather than normally.

He's watching his actors.

But I...

Mostly what I see, is they're dead.

So I've brought them roses.

Roses and begonias.

For Casarès, who's gone...

Begonias.

Begonias for Gérard Philipe, gone.
For Noiret, dead.

For Denner, dead.

For Germaine Montero, dead.

For Vilar, who I admired so.

For this flamboyant young man.
All the girls loved Gérard Philipe.

And he's dead.

I cry for them from my heart.

I expose them as an artist

who's proud of what she can do,

proud to be invited,

and proud when people say,
"What beautiful photos!"

"What a beautiful chapel!"

"How young and beautiful
they were!"

Naturally I think of Jacques.

All the dead lead me back
to Jacques.

Every tear...

every flower,
every rose and every begonia,

is a flower for Jacques.

He is the most cherished of the dead.

I met him in
at the Tours Festival.

In ,
Jacques came to live here with me,

in this house

and courtyard.

This is where we raised
Mathieu and Rosalie.

Rosalie became a costume designer

and Mathieu is an actor.

This courtyard, now so charming,

was in a horrendous state

when I first arrived here in .

I got the idea to rebuild it as a set.

It was an alley

between an old grocery store
and a framing workshop.

I liked it.

My father came to visit. He said,
"You want to live in this stable?"

I said, "Yes, wait and see.

"It'll be nice, later. "

Then my father died

and I moved into this run-down place

with no heat or bathroom, nothing.

Just a Turkish-style toilet
in the courtyard.

These were relics
of those who worked here.

Frames, even.

Like this one.

I actually picked that one here,

and found it beautiful.

Calder was tickled by it.

I liked his neighborly visits
to the courtyard.

I took photos of his wonderful mobiles.

Calder said he made them in no time.

He gave me one
for the time I'd spent for his photos.

What a fellow!

What a wonderful man!

So light on the Sète beach,

so joyful.

I made a mirror of the frame,
and used it in some films.

If you want to look at the spectators,

you have to look into the camera.

I look at the camera constantly.

Even when I tell about my urgent work

to set up a fully-equipped darkroom...

where negatives become images.

My early days as a photographer
were difficult. I was on my own.

A relatively solitary life,

with passing elations,

crushes, love stories...

There were some awfully cold winters.

I had a Godin stove brought in
and coal delivered.

Each day, I'd take my pail

and go pick up the coal.

I lived in rabbit-fur lining

a wool bonnet and gloves

day in and day out.

The cold courtyard

served as a set
for Jane Birkin and Laura Betti.

Little A: Patience.

Little B: Courage.

The law of the wise unemployed person.

Oh my friend,
how you must've suffered from the cold!

But come,

my boss is looking for an employee.

I mentioned you.

Our neighbor, the good baker,
accepted our circus on his turf.

Your stories sure are funny!

I was a baker
and she was a dressmaker.

He was a baker
back home where I'm from.

I'd take bread out to her.

I couldn't wait to see him
on Wednesdays, when he'd come.

I liked his craft.

I was happy to become a baker's wife.

And also,

he was quite handsome.

My neighbors were often my models.

The Tunisian grocer

and Bienvenida,
who was an amazing woman.

She lived in the same courtyard as me,

with her husband and her son Ulysse
who I loved so.

I exhibited my work
in the courtyard.

Neighbors came,

and artists like Hartung,

Prassinos,

Brassai...

A nude in the shape of a walnut,

and a potato in the shape of a heart.

Just one in ,

and hundreds in
for the Patatutopia exhibition

at the Venice Art Biennial,

with kilos of real potatoes
on the floor.

To attract visitors,

I went around as a talking potato,

naming all kinds of potatoes.

When I left,
my costume had a photo for a head...

or a cat...

or a ceramic tile...

or a mosaic...

like my first official self-portrait.

Mosaics and frescoes...
I loved ancient art.

The women of Piero della Francesca

led me to Silvia Monfort,

paired with Philippe Noiret,

who looks a bit like Philippe le Bon.

As for the image of the couple,
I'd seen some Braque.

Back then I also discovered Picasso,

with enthusiasm.

I had to write dialogue for the couple.

Which I did, on Sundays
in my courtyard.

If you want peace, I can leave.

You talk only of happiness.

That's right.

For the editing,

Alain Resnais joined the pool
of volunteers in the cooperative.

I gaze at his classical features.

They don't reveal his passion
and curiosity for art, culture,

and the complexities of surrealism.

He even filmed a missing shot.

My courtyard provided a link shot

for a street in La Pointe Courte.

You'll be telling me once again,
"This can't go on. "

Maybe.

Alain's assistant was Anne Sarraute

who introduced me to her mother,
Nathalie Sarraute.

With her Sioux features,
she was the sharpest of writers.

She enlightened me,
she influenced my work,

and her friendship was a joy.

While we were editing in ,

this one fellow often called Resnais:

Chris Marker.

When he came,
we saw only his leather jacket,

boots, gloves and glasses.

He's so discrete
he has a cat represent him,

a cat named Guillaume in Egypt.

He's the author of amazing films
and assorted commentaries.

I'll have to deal with him.

He's my friend and interlocutor,

but I changed his voice.

Why did you go
from photography to cinema?

I remember wanting words.

I thought if you paired images
with words you'd get cinema.

Of course I soon learned
it was something else.

Were you a film buff?

No, I wasn't a film buff.

I'd only seen about films
by the age of .

I didn't go to film school
or work as an assistant.

I used my imagination

and took the plunge.

I got support

and help from generous technicians.

It's not their fault
the film lost money.

I continued to work
as a photographer for Vilar.

The TNP went from the Papal Palace
to the Chaillot Palace.

Almost daily

I'd go up to Trocadero hill.

I needed a car.

I'd park my first chevaux
at home.

The courtyard and garage
were so narrow

I had to do some tricky maneuvering.

Inching forward...

inching backward.

I had to do it times

to get into this tiny garage.

On a good day
I'd get in there in times.

Take a great leap forward,
go to China!

I told them
you were a sinologist

and a good photographer.

I brought the works:
Leica, Rolleiflex,

bellows...

I was loaded up like a mule.

I brought back
thousands of images.

I focused on the work

and collective impulse
of this brand new revolution.

Sometimes I'd stop
because the landscapes were beautiful.

In China in ,

I was amazed
to hear this waltz everywhere.

In the nurseries, to my surprise,

the babies wore colorful costumes

whereas in France
they were still in baby blue and pink.

I brought back bonnets
that Rosalie wore

a year later.

Before she was born,

I wrote letters to her future father
I was in love with.

But our love affair ended
when Rosalie was taking shape.

I had decorated the envelopes.

He sent them all back.

I made a bundle of his,
never reread.

I raised Rosalie alone,

then with Jacques.

We often went to Noirmoutier.

Jacques wanted to show me this island
where he camped as a teenager.

He was looking
for a fisherman's house.

We found an abandoned mill.

I was intrigued by a glove
hanging there.

The island's specialties
are potatoes and oysters.

What a beautiful oyster!

What a beautiful mussel!

What a beautiful wave...

The New Wave...

Hey! Oyster, mussel, wave!

Enough.

Tell us instead about
the birth of the New Wave.

Truffaut, Godard, Resnais,

Chabrol, Rivette, Demy...

And you, La Varda?

So, Jean-Luc Godard

went to see Beauregard and said,

"I'll make a film, get you back on top.
It'll be great. "

He was right.

He made "Breathless".

It was a big success.

The audience loved it.
Georges de Beauregard asked Jean-Luc,

"Got any pals like you,

"who make cheap films
that make money?"

Jean-Luc introduced him
to Jacques Demy,

who made "Lola" with Anouk Aimée.

So Beauregard
said to Jacques,

"I want a stable of guys like you,
know any?"

Jacques said,
"No, but I've got a girl, Agnès Varda. "

Beauregard said to me,

"Do like your pals,
make a cheap little B&W film. "

So I made "Cleo from to "

with Corinne Marchand.

All the doors are open

The draft is so cold

We had to sh**t quickly
and focus on the content.

Cleo is afraid she has cancer.

I follow her minute to minute,

in real time, in a real situation.

I wanted the film to combine

objective time,
as seen on the omnipresent clocks,

and subjective time,

as Cleo experiences it during the film.

Before and during the sh**t,

I had Baldung Grien's paintings
on my mind.

Voluptuous beauty and bony death.

Sweet flesh cannot live forever.

Her fear of cancer and death
met another fear,

the fear of a soldier
in the Algerian w*r.

That w*r of colonization
was contested by many.

Others bombed the protest sites.

Still others fought that w*r.

In the film,
Antoine Bourseiller plays the soldier

who, before leaving for Algeria
that very night,

experiences a moment
of intense friendship with a tall blond.

The film was selected for Cannes.

Corinne feels like
she's queen for a day.

Nobody knows or recognizes me.

Everything amuses me.

Back then we introduced the film
before the screening.

The presenter, Léon Zitrone,
introduced me as

"Agnès Varga".

Probably because of the Varga Girls
at the Casino de Paris.

After the screening,

we posed together
outside the former Palais.

The TNP costume designer
made my dress,

plus some circus spangles
at my request.

I never imagined "Cléo"
would be invited everywhere,

with or without me,

and that I'd travel here and there,
with or without Jacques,

whose films "Lola" and "Bay of Angels"

went to many festivals

before the mega-tour
of "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg".

In , a halt in Cuba,

in the middle of its revolution.

It was Socialism and cha-cha-cha,

with big hopes and energy,
beautiful to witness.

I took pictures to film later.

I had to photograph Fidel Castro.

When I did,

I saw a tall utopist with stone wings.

And I had to photograph
the sugar cane harvest.

Radical climate change.

In the dead of winter in Noirmoutier,

I sorted and prepared
the , Cuba photos

for my animated film.

Jacques and I

loved arriving on the island
just after the tides cleared the road.

We loved that island,

living there,

writing there.

I feel good by the sea.

Like the sea,
with its changing colors...

Maybe I'm a bit like that too,

gray and blue.

I'd like to make calm films.

Films about happiness.

I made a film
about a particular happiness.

I filmed it in the delicate landscapes
of the Ile-de-France

that had so impressed
the Impressionists.

It's the simple story,
actually not so simple,

of a little family.

With Jean-Claude Drouot, his wife

and their children.

We all know the tender expression
of parents gazing at their children.

Tender is an understatement.

Come see.

Come see... Hélène.

You know, Jacques took this picture.

It's intimidating for me
to film you two.

I'd like to see you always together.

My beautiful children,
the children of Jacques and Antoine,

raised by Jacques...
My beautiful children.

Such as we are!

Here's Rosalie,
at the end of "Umbrellas".

She's the love child.

I was paid, I got a little umbrella
and grocery store.

Here she is in
"One Sings, The Other Doesn't".

- For my th birthday.
- You didn't argue.

I had no choice!

I had no choice.

And this one, Mathieu Demy...

I watched him grow up on screen.

Apparently Nazism wasn't much at first.

They only had six members.

But this is fiction,
while he's still alive he can serve us.

He amazed me in a pastiche
from "The Golden Age",

in homage to Luis Bunuel.

Was that my little Mat?

When I shot "Daguerreotypes",

Mathieu Demy was just little.

I'd had him late
and wasn't keen on leaving him.

Filming in the neighborhood
suited me.

It kept me close to home.

My merchant neighbors
agreed to come to the café

for Mistag's show.

They let us sh**t in their shops.

I promised to use my own electricity.

I'd thread the cord
through the mail slot.

Every morning

we pulled the cord

to the café, the bakery,

the accordion seller,

the guy who sold clocks...

On the other side,

the tailor,

the hardware store...
Then further down,

the butcher,

the grocer,

and this couple I loved so much,

Mr. and Mrs. Chardon Bleu,
at the end.

I said I'd go no further than meters.

That was the limit.

At night we'd pull the cord back

and put away the lights.

The cord stayed stuck in the slot,

and I went home.

We cut the electricity.

One time,
I told the story of this long cord,

meters and all...

And someone said,

"You didn't want to cut
the umbilical cord. "

They may have been right.

Our facade
went through transformations.

So did the Belfort Lion,
who reigned over the neighborhood.

André Breton suggested he chew a bone.

And I replaced him
with my cat Zgougou.

Zgougou is also the mascot

and logo of our production company.

Ciné Tamaris.

You want to speak to Cecilia Rose?
One moment...

I'm calling about
a rental of "Peau d'Ane".

Hello? Please hold.

There's no more tea!

Have you got the estimate?

Not yet, not yet.

Here are the "Jacquot" reels.

Thanks.

I'll put you through...
Agnès?

Me first!

See Stéphanie.

Bank Neuflize OBC?

We need a loan without interest

to finish this film comfortably.
Please.

It's hard to bear the weight
and expenses of a production.

You must strike a delicate balance
between imagining a film,

financing it and paying for it.

Yes, you must spend,

but you must also collect.

If not money, then trophies.

In a closet or on the sand,

Demy's prizes and mine stick together.

The Golden Palm from Cannes
and the Golden Lion from Venice.

Go on, go!

We had the beach days.

First day: gorgeous.

Second day, bad news:
rain, the sand is wet.

Good news: we've got birds.

I'm home. The cats are here.

These two, too.

An imaginary family
found in the street,

along with a handless clock
and two chairs.

But for some people,
finding means eating.

They live on our leftovers.

They go to market when it's over.

People throw away so much.

They rummage through garbage.

In the past,
they foraged by necessity.

Today that's still true.

To see so much waste,

while others are going hungry...

It's deplorable.

I was able to approach them,

and sometimes film them
on my own

thanks to these new little cameras,

digital, sound cameras.

I could even use one hand
to film my other hand

catching trucks during
the long trip North to South

for the "Gleaners" sh**t,

and from the seaside
to the center of France.

These are the departements
I memorized as a child

with the help of puzzles
now relegated to flea markets.

Gone are the days of,
"Corrèze, county seat Tulle... "

"Lot, county seat Cahors... "

I like hanging around flea markets.

Hunting around,
chatting, strolling, filming...

and finding stuff.

Look, a plate from Liège.

I'll give it
to the Dardenne Brothers,

my brothers in cinema.

A sewing machine like the one
in "L'Opéra Mouffe".

And some film cards.

My favorite film.

Here! Ten cents for my film.

Jacques Demy...

Jean Cocteau...

Before we were cinema cards
with cardboard heads,

we were flesh and blood beings.

Lovers, like Magritte's.

We shared a bed, a table,

children, games
and trips to Noirmoutier.

But the courtyard
afforded us two domains.

That's what Michèle Manceaux observed.

On one side, Jacques,
here with Michel Legrand...

Here, cinema is made in every corner.

Across the courtyard
we find Agnès Varda

with Michel Piccoli,

finishing her latest film "The Creatures".

Edgar...
You turn, and immediately...

as soon as you turn around...

Ready? Action!

Edgar?

Easier to do a link shot in Paris

than take Piccoli back to Noirmoutier

where the film was shot.

We'd settled in there, we went often.

The island inspired me.

In the film,
Michel Piccoli talks to a horse.

Then to his wife,

Catherine Deneuve, mute

after an accident.

She looks like
an Angel of Annunciation

when she announces
they're going to have a child.

Jacques was nearby on the island,
preparing a film with Michel.

He'd come to the sh**t sometimes

and take Polaroid pictures.

But for the other films
we were on our own.

We visited each other's sets
only rarely,

and discretely.

I want to point out that Godard,
in friendship,

let me film him
without his dark glasses.

I loved his beautiful eyes
and his cinema.

I took a few photos.

"The Umbrellas of Cherbourg" crew,
like a family.

And beautiful Catherine
on the Farewell Platform.

The yellow raincoat
in the background is Jacques.

Here's Jacques Demy
wreathed in his Cannes Golden Palm.

His film was popular
in the USA

and Columbia Pictures
offered him an attractive contract.

I followed Jacques because I loved him,

and they'd offered him
a wonderful Hollywood adventure.

I didn't expect to stay long.

But in fact,

this town immediately seduced me,

immediately fascinated me.

The hippy movement agitated the town
and its people.

Freedom, Peace and Love,
Down with the Vietnam w*r,

Up with the Black Panthers,
Women's Lib...

Huge peace rallies were held
in public parks.

Jacques was looking for a partner
for Anouk Aimée.

He had me test

a young actor named Harrison Ford.

But the studios
advised him to forget acting.

He still laughs about it.

In - , I shot "Lions Love"...

Then we came back,
ten years later,

and I shot my documentary
"Mur Murs", but...

Thinking about it,
time gets all mixed up.

When we lived in Beverly Hills
with a palm tree,

and a kidney-shaped pool,

Rosalie discovered TV and commercials.

Ten years later,
Mathieu fell for a pinball machine

in a seaside apartment.

My memories swarm around me
like confused flies.

I hesitate to remember all that.

I don't want to.

And now I'm returning
to my films' locations.

I'm not sure I'm happy about it.

The blue-eyed whale
reminded me of Prévert.

California swimming pools

reminded me
of my Hollywood hippy film,

"Lions Love and Lies".

The two guys were Rado and Ragni,

authors and actors
of the famous musical "Hair".

And the divine Viva,
Andy Warhol's muse,

who I'd met
at the Factory in New York.

Here they are in a conjugal threesome,

watching the news of an assassination.

The slogan of the time in action:
Sex and Politics,

Politics and Sex.

As for Emilie's desk,

it faced my favorite landscape,
the beach.

Sometimes we put the camera there,

turned it on and waited.

Passersby staged their own scenes,
invested the space.

Chance was my assistant
for this film called "Documenteur".

Another day while sh**ting,

chance offered us
a nasty lovers' quarrel.

We were alerted by angry voices.

I panned the camera.

I asked if the camera bothered them.

They couldn't care less.

So I sent in Sabine to walk past them.

How to describe Sabine Mamou?
Her grave beauty...

And her laugh,
that we'll never hear again.

She was a film editor.
She agreed to play Mathieu's mom.

A mother and her son.

Emilie and Martin.

In retrospect,

I see she was another me.

- How's Martin?
- He's well.

And Tom?

We're separated.

I don't believe it, not you two!

You got along so well.

Tell me, are you alright?

No.

If I'm not happy, what'll we do?

If he's not happy, what'll I do?

If they're not happy,
what do they do?

Women or men, what do they do?

This pier on the Pacific Ocean

is the end of the line
for the westward rush.

For many immigrants
with dreams of success,

it's the end of hope.

But it's also

a favorite spot
for Venice Beach eccentrics.

On this beach I like seeing friends
from all times.

Tracy and Jimmy MacBride,

the independent filmmaker
I met in .

May ' in France...

ring any bells?

I wasn't there, that's all.

But in ' , the Black Panthers

were organizing.

And I filmed them.

They protested, and I filmed.

And I marched
with Vietnam w*r protestors.

No draft, but there are deaths.

An homage on the beach.

In this gallery,
artists have designed posters.

, of them
have already been distributed,

but the artists don't know
what effect this action has.

I came across our friend Gerry Ayres.

He's the one who brought Jacques
to Columbia in

and gave him carte blanche.

He also followed my adventures
with the Hollywood studios.

Forget the studios.

I used French money to make
my film about murals, "Mur Murs".

This one was an ad
for a wedding dress shop.

This long fresco painted
on six kilometers of wall

is called "Pigs' Paradise"

and surrounds a sausage factory.

They k*ll , pigs per day here.

Other murals express problems
on a local level:

alcohol, battered women...

poverty, drugs...

and the demands of certain groups.

But here a guy painted his wife

for the surfers to enjoy.

I'm back at the beach with friends.

I'd like to make a short film
about each of them.

Lisa,

Gwen,

Tom,

Lynn

and Alain.

Our friend Alain Ronay
introduced us to Jim Morrison.

We'd go see Jim in concert.

He came to the house
a few times.

A short digression, in France:

I once took Alain and Jim
to Chambord

to see Jacques, sh**ting

his fairytale "Peau d'Ane".

With his favorite princess,
Catherine Deneuve.

They came as film buffs, as friends.

End of digression.

Another digression:

a California brunch for two,

sharing the camera.

Thank you.

I forgot I was being filmed

and was caught cleaning myself
less gracefully than a cat.

End of digression.

I'd like to tell a little beach
love story,

the story
of Patricia Knop and Zalman King.

Patricia knows the names
of birds and angels.

They protect her and her family.

For so long now, I've watched them live
in loving harmony.

A wave of tenderness for this couple.

A little twinge of jealousy.

I feel blue.

Back to France, the house

and the tree in the courtyard.

Jacques and I

were working on less gentle films
than we'd made previously.

Sandrine Bonnaire
was Mona the "Vagabond",

a beautiful rebel without a cause.

The film is a portrait
of an enigmatic young woman,

drawn by those who crossed her path.

We get glimpses of her.

Her encounters
are separated by tracking shots

all moving right to left...

all with music
by Joanna Bruzdowicz,

specially composed for these shots.

Can you take me?

I'll get my bag.

Mona is rebellious.

Assholes!

Mona wants to be free.

f*ck being a secretary.
I left those petty bosses behind,

I don't need another one out here.

I'm not sure when I realized

that it wasn't just a question
of freedom.

The feminist struggle
had to be collective to exist.

Down with violence against women

Male chauvinism kills

Among the claims,
the most urgent was

the right to choose
to bear children or not.

No daddy no pope no king

No judge no doctor no legislator

Gonna make that choice for me

I tried to be a joyful feminist,

but I was very angry.

r*pe, domestic violence,
clitoral excisions...

ab*rtion in appalling conditions...

Young girls going to hospital
for scraping

and young interns saying,

"No anesthetic, that'll teach you!"

Twice we loaned out

this charming pink house

for clandestine ab*rtion.

I was among the women
who signed a manifesto.

One newspaper dubbed it
"The Manifesto of the b*tches"

because we'd declared:

We've had ab*rtion! Judge us!

It was true or false,
but the more or less famous signers

made noise whenever
a woman who'd aborted was judged.

Same struggles all over:
Women's rights! Workers' rights!

For his part, Jacques Demy,
along with Michel Colombier,

came up with a way to tell the story
of a huge strike in Nantes.

The film is called "A Room in Town".

We don't want any trouble

Let us through! We won't leave!

Let us come through

We're here to fight for our rights

You have no right.

That's a movie.

But Delphine Seyrig and I
really did march

at the Bobigny trial in

for ab*rtion rights.

And I was pregnant up to my eyes!

They pushed us against the barriers,
and we laughed and shouted.

When she was young
Delphine looked English

and we became friends.

I photographed her in my courtyard,

like other actors.

And again later, in the courtyard.

I loved how the feminist

turned into a fairy.

Magic wands
aren't always where you expect them.

A wave of the wand
and presto!

Joan of Ark.

Jane also wanted a shot at the role.

With my accent, it's impossible.

Imagine, "I shall boot
the English out of France!"

It doesn't work.

I've said it before,

memories are like flies
swarming through the air...

bits of memory, jumbled up.

Do you think you'll manage?

We're sh**ting in bits and pieces.

It's like doing a puzzle.
You place the pieces here and there

until it comes together,
but there's a hole in the center.

It happens at dinner parties,
suddenly it goes quiet

and someone says,
"Sing us a song!"

A song? Gainsbourg...

If I hesitate so often

between the Me and the I...

If I swing between feeling

And playing...

A bit of I, a bit of Me...

I dump it all out,
then tidy up a little.

Even when we dump it all out,
we reveal little.

The Eiffel Tower by day,

the Eiffel Tower by night.

I created an ephemeral monument
to the glory of cinema.

Dziga Vertov

An eye, a camera, a gaze.

Action!

And here's Mr. Cinema,
years old and glorious.

I'm the golden age!

An old man with a fading memory.

That was Mom's problem,
and her freedom.

She got mixed up,
her memory failed her.

She mixed up the names of her children
and her siblings.

But who would correct her?

She had a right to ramble.

I found it charming,

even funny.

I am David O'Selznick!

The other day you were Hitchcock.

I'm Jean Renoir, Nosferatu,
Catherine Deneuve,

and... David O'Selznick.

I created

three or four dreamy creatures
who are now huge stars.

My head is full of stars,

faces, beauties!

It's a dream.

It was a dream to have the means
and a wonderful crew

to film such impressive stars.

But for some reason

maybe it was my fault -

the film took a dunk!

As for the famous Mr. Cinema,

he was also a little old man,
all alone at night

hoping someone would pay him a visit.

It feels better to grow old together.

That was our plan,
even more so when we got back together.

It was sweet and surprising.

We traveled together,

we lingered in a painting.

We went to beaches and museums.

We hung around with Bill Viola

and Rauschenberg.

We were close to Jacques Monory...

And we lived with Prassinos' cat.

We looked. Together.

And boom!

Jacques fell ill. A fatal disease.

He was sick. He stayed home a lot.

Go on now, let me write.

He wrote about his childhood
in the garage in Nantes,

where he lived with his family.

He had me read the pages at night.
One day I said,

"This would make a great film. "

He said, "I don't have the strength.
You do it. "

I said, "Would it please you if I made
this film about your childhood?"

He said, "Yes, do it. "

We knew Jacques
didn't have much time left.

Rosalie, Mathieu and I
were by his side.

Rosalie and I cared for him in turns,
especially when production started.

Cine-Tamaris had to quickly

raise money and assemble a crew.

I remember that crew,
so motivated by the film,

so generous, and sensitive toward me.

Especially Marie Jo,
who was close to Jacques and me.

I met with some of them recently

and we spoke
about those special times

with Didier and Mireille.

Jacques was dying,
he knew he was dying.

He knew A*DS was incurable,

he knew it could only get worse.

We all knew it.

Nobody talked about it.

It was a kind of affectionate silence,

totally respectful of Jacques,
who didn't talk about it.

We accepted this silence
because it was Jacques' silence.

It was his choice to remain silent,
and so we did.

Back then,

in ,

A*DS was considered a shameful disease.

It was taboo.

His illness was part of the project.

We were working
as much for him as for you.

For all of us.

He was somebody, Jacques Demy!

We had this idea that we were...

accompanying Jacques

as long as we could
by sh**ting the film.

I didn't know how he viewed
the reenactments,

how we reinvented
what he'd experienced or said.

Sometimes he'd come
with his brother and sister.

His mother came, too.

You'll draw a crowd!

I was a bit nervous he'd intervene,
or say, "It wasn't like that... "

I approached him.

"How is it? Not too different?

"Can you see yourself in it?
You as a child?"

And he said,
"Oh yes, it's just right, I'm there!"

His words encouraged me to continue,
and structure the film.

There were several films.
One in black and white.

An homage to the films
of the s and s,

telling Jacques' story
from the age of to .

We shot as simply as possible.

Then there was a proposition.
It could've been a Master's thesis.

If we explore Jacquot's life,
will we find

scenes which became scenes
in his films?

And if so,
a scene from Jacquot of Nantes...

The engine still rattles at first
but it's normal.

Thanks.

...became a scene
in one of Jacques' films.

The engine still rattles at first
but it's normal.

Or vice versa.

I'd take a scene from one of his films

and write the script in such a way

as to present it naturally.

It's almost good.

There was another film.

Jacques was still alive.

In this difficult time,
this hard road he was on,

all I could do was stay by his side,

be as close to him as possible.

As a filmmaker,
my only option was to film him

in extreme close-up:
his skin, his eye,

his hair like a landscape,

his hands, his spots.

I needed to do this,
take these images of him,

of his very matter.

Jacques dying, but Jacques still alive.

The sh**t finished on October ...

and Jacques died on October , .

These women are all widows
from Noirmoutier.

I filmed them
and presented them in this way

so we could choose to listen
to one or another,

person to person, confidentially.

Thierry's presence
still fills the house.

His odor, his...

Two days ago we ate green beans
he'd bought at the market.

It's still so new...

He was quite the man, he was!

Never a word.

He came in from the sea
after a drink,

he went to bed, he slept.
That was it.

I'm part of the show
and keep silent.

My exhibition at the Cartier Foundation

was thanks to Hervé Chandez.

He had no idea how happy he made me
by inviting me.

The old filmmaker
turned into a young artist.

Presenting widows
- the heart in winter -

but also the plastic colors of summer.

I was almost years old.

In French slang "broom" means "year".
I'd be brooms!

I was surrounded by
young technicians and friends.

This is an homage to Sempé.

I FEEL PAIN EVERYWHERE

I'm fortunate to be helped in my work
by Rosalie and by Christophe Vallaux.

He's a scenographer.

He's well known for his fashion sense

and his caricatures.

In Noirmoutier we spotted some shacks

for him to build for the exhibit.

The portrait shack, for example.

Full of islanders,

women I encountered here and there,

all beautiful.

The same background

for each woman

and another one for the men.

I went around with this background,

placing it behind
those who accepted to pose.

I also used them for my family.

Rosalie,

her three sons: Valentin,

Augustin

and Corentin.

Mathieu,

Joséphine

and their son Constantin.

Together,
they're the sum of my happiness.

But I don't know if I know them

or understand them.

I just go toward them.

One day a neighbor came to visit.

His father had filmed the mill,
that is now ours,

with a . mm camera.

Thanks, Neighbor Satie,
for such rare images.

The miller's name was Adam Gervier.
He had children.

I got Mom!

Often I stop writing.

The world's in bad shape

and I'm overwhelmed.

At this very moment,
disasters, wars, earthquakes.

I sit in safety
and imagine those situations.

People without shelter,
entire families on the road.

I sit motionless

and think of my dear ones.

Family is a somewhat compact concept.

We mentally group everyone together

and imagine them as a peaceful island.

This shack has a story.

Once upon a time
two good and beautiful actors

played in a film
which turned out to be a flop.

Gleaner that I am,

I salvaged
the abandoned prints of the film

and unrolled the reels.

And the two good
and beautiful actors became

walls and surfaces, bathed in light.

What is cinema?

Light coming from somewhere

captured by images
more or less dark or colorful.

In here, it feels like I live in cinema,

cinema is my home.

I think I've always lived in it.

It's not over!

Sometimes the curtain opens again!

Someone's asking for you.

Happy birthday, Agnès!

After the fiesta I found myself alone

and I counted the brooms.

Yes, there were exactly of them,

including these four.

Then another one, sent by email,

another of bloody Guillaume's ideas.

It all happened yesterday
and it's already the past.

A sensation combined instantly
with the image, which will remain.

While I live, I remember.