We (2021) - full transcript

A bat.

- Here comes an animal.
- There's an animal.

There, it's a stag.

I thought I saw something move.

Here, have a look.

Adjust them to your eyes.

- You see? Over there.
- Yes.

He really doesn't want to come out.
He's right on the edge.

He's too cautious.

He's not moving.

He's going from left to right.



No, he's not moving at all.

He's off to the right.

He's bellowing.

Listen, listen.

WE

Hello, a be ka sonner.

How's it going?

All good?

You're OK?

A be ka sonner.

Where are you?

Yeah, I'm fine. How about you?

Are you at the depot?

At the depot?



I'm done soon.

You're done soon?

Soon.

I went ahead and fitted the engine.

I fitted the cylinder head.

But the red thing,
I took off the lower case,

pulled out the wires,
then tried it.

But it's still flashing, you see?

You said you found a scanner system.

So the battery was dead.

Damn!

I had to take the battery
off Tanti's Ford.

I put that in.

Then I tried to take out the chip

but it's not a battery problem,
it's an indicator problem.

Indicator?

The anti-start indicator.

That's the problem.

What a crap car.

I'm telling you, it's a piece of shit.

I've never seen such a wreck.

A total wreck.

Alright.

- Why've I got no internet?
- Maybe you're out of credit?

Shouldn't be.
It's not the end of the month.

I bought some
in the middle of the month.

I don't get it.

Is it the network?

No, the network's good.

Here we go.

You were right, it's Zoumana.

There, that's a good one.

With his tie.

Play that guy, Séko Bouaré.

Sékou Bouaré.

Right, Sékou Bouaré.

Check that out, Zoumana!

Alright!

She hasn't seen him.

He can dance, too.

Mocking laughter's good for you.

It's not warm yet.

The heater takes a long time
to warm this truck.

Petrol engines are better for that.

As soon as you start them,
they give off heat.

Hello.

Let me put my earbuds in.

I'm just doing it.

Hello, Mama.

How are you?

Is everything OK?

How's things in Mali?

Everything fine?

Good.

It's been a while.

Yes, we're doing well.

We're all good.

He's doing fine.

Mama, I gave all that up.

You only know what they're like
once you're here.

They're mean to us,
when we've only come here to work.

To earn a living.

We don't like it
when they're mean to us.

Apart from that, I'm doing just fine.

Amen!

No problem.

OK, Mama.

I have to sort out the paperwork first.

Then I'll come home.

I can't stay here.

Keep saying your prayers for me.

Anyway, I'll get everything ready.

I'll get the paperwork together.

I wanted to send the car over

but my bag was stolen
and the vehicle's papers were inside.

I have to get a new document.

But I'll get my papers first.

Then I'll do the necessary for the car.

I was told it takes 8 months
to get the papers.

Amen.

So they couldn't pay 15,000 francs
to fix the phone?

Don't worry, Mama,
I'll send you a good phone.

Inshallah.

I've got a cold.

I'm fixing a car outside and I'm cold.

It's cold here right now.

Too cold for me.

If Mamadou is with you, tell him
I'll call him back when I'm done.

I'm under the hood right now.

I'm under the hood, Mama.
I'll call you back.

I'll call you back, Mama.

Amen.

Amen.

May God grant your wishes.

Bye bye.

Bye, Mama.

That was my mother.

- Is she OK?
- She's fine.

She told me that she misses me.

She hasn't got a decent phone.

I've got a nephew,

and he calls me on WhatsApp
and hands it to her.

- Where is your mother?
- Back home.

- Where's that?
- In Kati.

Near Bamako, 15km away.

It's like here, you've got Marseille.

Marseille, the military camp,
you've got that there.

Marseille?

The base camp here is...

It's Normandy.

Like Normandy here, right?

When did you last return to Mali?

In 2000, 2001.

You haven't been back since?

Since then, I haven't been home.

When my mother caught the first train
to go to work,

I was still fast asleep.

She was a cleaner.

She died 25 years ago.

Her name was Rokhaya.

I knew that there were tapes
with images of her.

But I had never wanted to watch them.

I was afraid of what I might see.

And even more of what I might not see.

Maybe you should do it later.

I'm doing it on the part...

The TV?

- Wait, it says...
- You don't press play?

My elder sister
bought a little Hi-8 camera,

which she used to film our family life.

I found only 18 minutes of footage.

18 minutes during which
my mother only appears fleetingly.

A tour of the house. There's no light.

That's bad.

Go down.

Take it easy.

I can't see a thing.

What can you see?

My Van Goghs hanging up on the wall.

Can you see me?

A scene from everyday life.

Wait, Mimi, I can't see clearly.
I hope it will be in focus.

Wait, wait.

Don't worry about your hair. It's a test.

Wait, wait.

She's filming you.

Miss Eva Dramé, is that how you revise?

Her father will get to see the tape.

Today, there's no class.

What? You don't have class today?

Mama, you did your hair.

Look how beautiful Mama is!

I'm recording.
Later we'll see what we've got.

Most frustrating was finding
the tape of that last Christmas.

My mother didn't know she was ill.

I imagined our father
proudly presenting the turkey.

I imagined my mother
wearing her best boubou,

and how she sat graciously
by my father, laughing and chatting.

We missing someone?

Is everyone here?

Where's Fama?

Fama!

She's on her way.

Here she comes.

You not going to sit, Eva?

There's a chair here.

Françoise is going to say a few words.

None of this exists.

All that remains are people
whose name I cannot remember.

I search for traces of my mother.

I'm sorry
that she only appears fleetingly.

She's always a silhouette
on the edge of the frame,

ready to disappear.

I'm old, so I can't always do it.

Everyone, clean up! Let's go!

Especially her.

Both of you.

Ndeye, are you filming me?

Kiéra will do her tricks.

Kiéra and her tricks!

These images of our family life
are the only traces of what once was.

I start thinking about all the things
that weren't filmed,

recorded, archived.

Events of which no trace remains.

I regret all that has vanished,

all that has been erased.

Testament of Louis XVI,
King of France and Navarre.

In the name of the Holy Trinity,
the father, the son, and the holy ghost,

today,

the 25th day of December, 1792,

I, Louis the Sixteenth,

King of France,

having been locked up with my family
for more than 4 months

in the Temple tower in Paris,

by those who were once my subjects,

with God as sole witness to my thoughts,

and to Him I may address,

I declare here, in his presence,

my last wishes and my sentiments.

I bequeath my sole to God, my creator.

I ask that he receives it in his mercy,

to not judge it on its own merits,

but by those of our lord, Jesus Christ,

who gave himself in sacrifice
to God, his father,

for his fellow man,
however unworthy we may be,

especially myself.

I pity with all my heart our brothers
who may have strayed from the path,

but I would not judge them,

and I love them all no less
in Jesus Christ,

according to the teachings
of Christian charity.

I ask all those who I may have offended
by inadvertence,

for I do not remember
having deliberately offended anyone,

or those whom I may have given

a bad example, or outraged,

to forgive me the evil
they believe I may have done them.

I forgive with all my heart those
who became my enemies,

without me giving them any cause,

and I pray that God forgives them,

along with those
who, through misplaced zeal,

caused me great pain.

I commend unto God my wife,

my children, my sister,
my aunt, my brothers,

and all those bound to me by blood ties,

or by any other manner.

I especially pray
that God looks with pity upon my wife,

my children and my sister,

who long suffered with me,

to support them through His grace,
should they lose me,

for as long as they remain
in this ephemeral world.

I ask my wife to forgive me
all the pain she has suffered for me,

and the sorrows I have caused her
in the course of our union,

and she can be sure
that I hold nothing against her

if she felt she had done any wrong.

I commend my son,
if he had the misfortune to become king

to bear in mind he owes everything
to the happiness

of his fellow citizens,

that he must forget any hatred
or resentment,

notably all those pertaining
to the misfortune

and chagrin that I have suffered.

I conclude

by declaring before God

and ready to appear before him,

that I am not guilty
of any of the crimes

which are leveled against me.

Written in duplicate at the Temple,

on 25th December, 1792.

Signed, Louis.

I now invite you to descend
into the royal crypt

for the blessing.

Last night, I dreamt about
our old apartment in Aulnay-sous-Bois.

It was the middle of the night.

There was no-one around.

I didn't have the door code or the keys.

I looked over the names
on the interphone.

Ours had disappeared.

I read the name Sadas.

That meant Marie,
our neighbor from Pondicherry,

was still alive

and that made me happy.

I read the name Cloarec,

a former neighbor.

I read other names:

Lefebvre, Ben Sadek,

but I didn't know them.

A woman arrived.
She asked me what I was doing there.

I told her
I used to live here with my family

and I wanted to see the place again.

She let me in.

Deep in my pocket,
I found a heavy bunch of keys.

I tried the door to our apartment.

The lock was rusty, I had to force it.

But the lock finally turned.

I pushed open the door.

It was dark inside.

I didn't want to go in.

I knew no-one lived there anymore.

It felt like opening a tomb,

but a tomb

in which there was no body.

I woke up

and thought of the images of my father

that I had shot before he died.

It was nice thinking of them again.

They were more alive than an empty tomb.

This was footage for my first films.

And I know that it's because of them
that I still make films today.

Mimi, shut the door.
I'm going to lock the car.

What's that you've got?

It's my ticket.

- You found your ticket?
- Yes, my boat ticket.

I sailed with Ancerville.

Back then, it was boats.

We couldn't take the plane,
it was too expensive.

So I came by boat.

That is...

What is it?

It's what we had to fill in
before disembarking in Marseille.

The 17th.

March,

'66.

17 March, '66.

Tell us about your arrival.
You've never told us before.

My arrival? There's not much to say.

I arrived here, I knew a guy.

A friend who came before me.

I arrived in Marseille.
I took the train to get to...

to Paris.

He lived in Belleville.

Since I didn't know my way,
I took a taxi.

I gave him the address,
he dropped me there.

I knew his address.

He'd gone to work, so I waited all day.

I waited outside all day.

That's it.

What jobs did you do at the start?

I did a lot of things.

I was a warehouseman.

Then I found work

as an industrial painter,
which is what I did in Dakar.

Industrial painter.

When I first came here,

I wasn't choosy.

I'd take any job on offer.

Once you're set up, you can choose.

I stayed at that factory

from 1966 until 1970.

In 1970, I left and found another job.

I've always had work in France.

From '66 to retirement,
I was never out of work.

I've never been jobless.

I left here to go there.

And the result of the 40 years
that you've spent here?

The result is positive,
there's no doubt.

The result is positive.

My kids were born and raised here,

I bought a house.

- And that's all positive for you?
- Absolutely.

16 March, 1966.

Date of arrival.

Good morning!

How are you?

Be right there!

Let's let some light in!

There.

I'll just put the TV on.

- Is that OK?
- Yes.

Did you sleep well?

You're on channel 6.
Don't you want to watch the news?

I'll switch to channel 2.

Because that channel's for kids.

It doesn't tell you what's going on.

I'm going to lift you up.

There's a World Day for everything.

- Really?
- Yes, for meningitis.

Now then, your dressing.

I'll just take your hand.

My sister is here.

She'll come see you later.

- Is your sister here?
- Yes, she's here.

Once I've finished your care,
she'll come say hello.

That's looking better.

What it needs is Vaseline.

Very good.

It's hard.

That's good.

I'll put the little strip back on.

There you go!

Tomorrow, it's Cyrielle who'll come.

- Is that so?
- For the next 2 days.

Friday I have to be at the hospital
for a series of check-ups.

I'm thirsty.

I'll get you a glass,

because this bottle isn't practical.

No, I'll get you a glass.
It'll be easier.

Who's that?

- Yes?
- Hello.

How are you, sir?

- She's doing it again.
- I see.

Last night she was banging on the wall.
In the morning she started tapping.

Before, she didn't do it in the morning.
Now, she does.

Between when the lady comes

she taps

from around 5pm to 7.30pm.

She taps and calls for help.

She does it a lot in the day.

She didn't before.

And then last night,

from 11.30 to half past midnight.

OK.

I'll see with the doctor
if we can change her medication.

It seemed to work before.

Two days ago, she started tapping
at 4.30 in the morning.

OK. Two days ago when I came,
she'd been sleeping well.

Perhaps the medication
is no longer working.

You can get used to it.

There.

OK, thanks, goodbye.

That was the neighbor.

- You decide.
- I'm not sure.

We did that side yesterday.

- Yes.
- OK, let's do it.

I'm starting to gradually lose it.

I think it's because you're on your own,

so you speak less.

There's a lot of...

Sure, I speak less.

And I see her all the time.
She woke me up twice yesterday.

- I saw her yesterday.
- Yes?

I did.

She's like a shadow,
but that's just how it is.

What can you do?
I just try to keep going.

That's what you have to do.

It's normal, it's the first year.

It's always a bit difficult.

But 62 years, that's a lot.

After 62 years,
I'm not going to forget her in a year.

No way.

Not even after 10 years.

- But you adapt.
- That's right.

I never wanted to be alone.

And now, well...

You don't want to go
on the town outings?

You know, the trips the town organizes?

They organize outings.

But you know I'm mean.

Sure, but there are cruises,

the spring feast,
the All Saints' day feast.

Not for you?

No, I don't want to go
with the old folks.

They're all gaga, it's a pain.

They don't even know
what they're saying.

I'd rather stay home,

fix my own food, take it easy.

If I have to go out, I do.
I have to go out shortly.

Tomorrow you're seeing Dr Busao?

- Tomorrow.
- Yes.

That's why I'm going out today,
because after I'm going to rest.

I'll potter around a bit, not much.

Just to pass the time.

What else can you do?

The next 2 days I won't be here.

OK.

Alright, that's fine.

- Since I'm off early tomorrow.
- OK.

To be first in line.

That's right. But then,

we can chat. I've known her for...

a long time.

You haven't seen her
since your wife died?

Doctor Busao?

- No.
- So she doesn't know.

They were told, they know.

My son works in the school

near there.

- He told them.
- OK.

The main thing is,
they take good care of me.

And you too, you take care.

When they see my file,
they say what's this?

How is this guy still standing?

And you know...

It's pumping!

She gets it.

I'll see you Monday.

OK, no problem.

Wait, I'm lost, which day? Monday!

Right, goodbye.

No problem, don't worry.

There's enough for 2 weeks.

- 2 weeks of treatment.
- That's good.

Here you are.

Hold on,

is there a glass of water?

You need a drop more.

Pour me a bit. The jug's right there.

Here, let's top you up.

There's plenty.

Let me pass it to you.

Thank you.

Tomorrow I'll bring your fries.

Tomorrow I'll bring your fries.

- Great.
- Do you need any vinaigrette?

- Yes, please.
- You'd like some?

Hey there.

Look at that.

You've started?

The spring clean.

- You well?
- Yes.

Your brother's not here?

No, he's not here.

I'll go right in.

Knock knock!

Hello.

Here we are.

Ah, The Young and the Restless.

The Young and the Restless, as usual.
Hello, folks.

What was yesterday's meal?

I forgot to ask about Monday's meal.

Sausage and mash.

And the big dinner on Monday?

I forgot to ask about Monday.

- It was...
- Fatima?

- Fish gratin.
- Right.

That's right. Did your neighbor like it?

He didn't say
because he didn't eat it till yesterday.

I put it in the fridge.
He wasn't feeling well.

- He's not well?
- No, he hurt himself.

The doctor gave him and his son
antibiotics.

You didn't take the other pills?

I went to the dermatologist.

She said I should stop taking them.

You're stopping them.

So you can take them back.

Where's Gilles?

He's gone.

- Has he gone?
- Yes, but he'll be back.

- He's back soon.
- He's gone to his mom's.

Right, he's gone to have lunch.

It's Wednesday, his mother is here.

She's not in dialysis.

I should give her a phone call.

I always forget to call her.
She called me the other day.

Would you like to try the beans?

Are they done?

They're still tough.

- Shall I...
- Yes, the peas can go in now.

What are you making?

- Mixed vegetables.
- OK.

I don't like peas.

Really?

You could cook an egg.

That doesn't go with mixed veg.

No, with the cucumber.

Egg with cucumber?

- A hard-boiled egg.
- OK.

- Hard-boiled egg and cucumber.
- Right.

No, we'll give him his medication.

Don't worry, we'll give it to him.

Leave us your dates.

Yes, I'll do it in the week.

OK, fine. See you later then.

There's someone in the yard.

It's me. Knock knock!

- Bye, my love.
- Is that your daughter?

I'm with my sister,
who came last time to film.

They're filming me.

- Why are they filming you?
- Because I'm famous!

Because you're beautiful.

The card club starts again in October.

- It's starting again?
- Yes, in October.

They went to Brittany for a week.

- To the Bretons.
- Right.

That's where I'm from.

They do that every year.

- I've got 5 in Brittany.
- Five?

My older brother is in Normandy.

All living?

I'm here, and the others are in Brittany.

So how did you end up here
if they're all in Brittany?

Because...

At the time I was going out with someone

who was a soldier at Le Bourget.

His sister was leaving her job.

And she hired me
to replace her in a café.

I lived at her place.

She was the sister

of this guy from Le Bourget.

It wasn't like all those Bretons
who arrived at Montparnasse station.

No, I'm used to working.
But then later...

it didn't work out with the guy.

Did you have to quit your job?

No, I kept my job.

And that's where I met my husband.

He worked in buildings
in Drancy, Bobigny, round there.

- Do you know Avenue Edouard Vaillant?
- Yes.

There's a café opposite,
and I worked there.

And on a Saturday night,

all the young folk came for a drink.

Right.

They came to have a coffee
during the week.

But on a Saturday night,
they met in groups, and everyone...

Today, it's your turn to pay,
tomorrow, it's...

for everyone.

That's how I met him.

And then one day,

I was feeling very depressed.

I nearly drowned myself.

Drowned, like how?

- I wanted to do it.
- Oh, right!

He grabbed me by the shoulders

just as I was about to jump
from the bridge into the Seine.

And that's how he...

After that,
he would walk me home every night.

To make sure...

- To make sure I got home safe.
- That's nice.

But we weren't going out together then.

He would walk me home
and we'd have a little drink.

We went to the cinema twice a week,

because I didn't like dancing.
Well, I didn't know how to.

He loved that.

Since my mom wouldn't let me go dancing,
I didn't know how to.

Where was he from?

We went to the movies twice a week.

Where was your husband from?

- From the north of Italy.
- Right.

- Did he teach you to dance later on?
- No.

So you never did.

I can do a few steps.

A few steps.

We'd go to the cinema and then,

he didn't like paying for it,
so we stopped going.

What do you mean, he didn't like paying?

My husband was...

When we would go the café
I paid as often as him.

Today, it's your turn, tomorrow it's me.

He was sending money back to his family,
I suppose.

He sent back most if his wages.

He just kept enough to buy food.

Was the rest of his family in France?

- What?
- The other children?

They were in Italy.

Only my husband came to work for a firm.

Back then, he left his job.
He was working on a dyke.

But when the dyke was finished,
there wasn't work for everyone.

So the youngest left.

And that's when he met a gentleman

who came to the Paris region.

So he came here.

To begin with, they slept in shacks.

- Yes, I heard about that.
- Shacks.

Victor Rogorzyk, born 29 January 1941
Deported to Drancy on 10 February 1944.

From 1942 to 1944,

around 10,000 children were interned
in the Drancy camp

before being deported.

They wrote final letters to loved ones.

If they couldn't post them,

they sometimes threw them from the train

during their transport to another camp,

or from the convoy that took them
to the death camps.

Thursday 2 June, 1944.

My dearest,

As you must know, my parents
and I were taken after being denounced.

I have no courage, I am in despair.

I cry all the time and I don't know why.

I was beaten up
and taken to a cell with my father.

I don't know where my mother is.

We leave this evening for Drancy,

after that, I have no idea.

Cécile,

I strive to overcome this pain
which befalls us poor innocents.

My darling, do not shed any tears.
Instead, have faith.

I must see you again.

And if I do not return,
do not forget me.

Hold onto your childhood memories,

keep your diary safe,

and avenge me.

Above all, be very careful.

I'm leaving you with great courage

and hope.

I'm sure I will see you again,

even if I come back a wreck.

Alfred Eisenberg died on 8 March 1945,
Buchenwald.

Do not abandon me.

- 9 September.
- See you soon.

My dear Ida,

It's the first chance I've had to write.

I hope we can now correspond normally,
since we're allowed one letter a week.

I'm sending you an envelope
so you can reply.

You can imagine
that after so many days with no news,

I'm desperate to hear from you.

I hope you won't omit anything
that has happened.

Here, we don't have enough space.
However, we are fed quite well.

Black coffee in the morning with sugar,
soup at midday,

soup in the evening with bread.

I'm sending a coupon for a parcel.

Put in whatever you like and can find,
except preserves.

There's no weight limit on parcels.

I also need a box of face powder from
the beauty institute n°850 Elisabeth,

ochre color,

and a Cher Ami lipstick,
poppy red, large,

some non-greasy face cream,
and toothpaste.

Nabi? I don't know, but...

Don't be dealing with
your girlfriend problems on my birthday.

I'll call you back,
I've got another call.

Cut the engine!

Use the key.

We went all around.

They turn, turn, turn,

The little marionettes,

They turn, turn, turn,

Turn around and then they're gone,

Then they come right back,

The little marionettes,

Then they come right back,

Turn around and then they're gone.

I film to have a souvenir.

You cry when you see me?
That's not right!

My father and mother
are buried in Senegal.

Their whole lives,
they paid into a "burial fund"

which guaranteed immigrants
this final return home.

They paid in for us for years.

One day,

I think I was in my early twenties,

my father told me
I should start paying in for myself.

That day, I knew I had to tell him.

I told him
I didn't want to be buried in Senegal.

I told him if one day I have children,

I'd want to be buried wherever they are.

He didn't respond.

There was silence between us,

loaded with the weight of these words,

and all that couldn't be said.

Guys, let's take a break!

I want to take a break.

Go on, cut it.

I hope it works. Let's do both together.

- Let's race.
- Bring it on!

- I'll go first.
- Me, too.

Let's push them off.

Someone pull on the side.

Go on, I'll pull.

Let's take it in turns, that's fair.

Who's pushing?

I wanted us all to go,
because otherwise...

Hold on.

Wait!

One, two, three!

You win.

That's cheating.

Pull it up.

- I hurt my foot.
- Let's start again.

Yesterday, my mother,

listen to this,

she gave some money
to go to the seaside.

We come out the building.

She calls out of the window.
We go back up.

She tells us no, blah blah blah.

She gives us it.

Sidi takes the money
and throws it on the floor.

- She gave it to us again.
- He's crying.

She gave it to us again.

Then we went off,
as if nothing had happened.

We went to the station,

where a guy got upset
cos I pressed a button.

- Then what?
- He called an agent.

- What button?
- A red button.

When we left Paris,
we said we lost a little brother.

He pulled like that.

They said he's dressed in red,
his red pants,

black Nike shoes,

and a black baseball cap.

Then, she said
I'll call an agent right away.

She said, one of them's still here.

She said one's still here,
I said it's not me.

Then there was a guy in a suit,
I don't know who.

- What did you see?
- The pigeon flew right over.

Those planes will be flying
a very long way.

See how huge they are.

Why are they so small up there?

Look, there's one right over there.

Oh yeah.

Why's it catching up?

No, that one.

There's one every two seconds.

There's even one there.

There's two, they'll cross over.

That one's landing.

I'm going to lose.

Wait.

Red.

Too late, I've played it.

- She's coming back!
- No way.

- No way!
- Uno!

No!

Game over.

I'm sick of this.

OMG, check this out.

Awkward.

I'm not gonna answer that.

"Trying to feel pretty."

What does that mean,
"Trying to feel pretty"?

Are they dissing me or what?

I don't know.

Is he saying I don't feel pretty?
I wanna be?

Really? Someone compliments you and...

That's not a compliment!
Trying to feel pretty?

Why are you so full of yourself?

Earlier I said you smell nice.
And you said "Oh, so I stink usually."

You should say thanks.

I didn't ask you to write that.

When someone pays you a compliment,
why do you have to reply?

That's just what I do.

Even then you're aggressive.
What's your problem?

That's how it is.
Wait, I'm checking my messages.

She's nuts, she's so funny.

You're crazy.

What are you replying?

I told you I'm not talking to him.

It's not your problem.
He's getting married.

Didn't you know?

Apparently, it's true love.

- You can't say he's...
- I don't know, it's weird.

Did he say it's true love?

She's on his screen saver and all.

When he comes round,
he talks about her with my mom.

I swear.

The other day he was
at my uncle's place.

- His sister's place.
- His sister?

He bought a ton of stuff for her,
I couldn't believe it.

When he talks about getting married,
I'm like, what?

Not so long ago
you wanted to kill yourself.

Remember?

I think the same.
How can you move on so quick?

You want to kill yourself,
then one month later...

That can't be true.

It was right over there.

- But he's getting married.
- In August.

How do you know?

So you've been talking to him...

Look.

Look at the sister
hiding behind the camera.

Hiding behind the camera.

Shout out to Paris.

Shout out to Paris!

Play some Jacques Brel!

Shout out to Paris!

Swept up by the crowd...

Listen to this bit.

Yeah, man! That's it!

Together? No one's together now.

Listen to this.

You really dig that bit.

Why do you like coming to the park
each day?

Because...

To go jogging, that's all.

It's lovely here.

When everything is in flower,
there's birds,

it's lovely to see.

- It's nature in the middle of the city.
- It is.

There's birds from all countries.

- All countries?
- Sure.

How do you know?

It says on a sign.

Many countries, anyhow.

Alice, can you say something?

Do you want me to read a bit?

No, it's fine for me.

Overcast.

The late summer
which took the place of fall has gone.

I detail classes in the first semester,
then the test papers.

Is that OK?

Shall we start?

Perhaps you could start reading

the first extract
and we'll adjust it later.

Sunday 1 January. I wake at 6.15
with persistent chest pain.

Unable to swallow anything.

I start typing out last month's diary.

Cathy has cooked pigeon and partridge
that the gardener gave her.

In the afternoon, Paul,
considering we're too old for such work,

cleared the gutters of dead leaves
before cutting and stacking some wood.

He then cut down 2 oaks
growing out back.

Along with Soulef,
we took them to the station at 8am.

Saturday 7 January.

Up at quarter to five.

I finished correcting
the last pages in the notebook.

Then I tidied the papers
on the shelves,

literature relating to the arts,

notes on student essays,
administrative documents, etc.

Cathy went to the store
and came back heavily laden.

In the afternoon, she did the garden.

After dinner, a stroll to the lake.

Near the dam,
we startled 5 or 6 pheasant hens.

And when we were halfway round
the opposite bank,

I saw some agitation
in the long grass below.

I thought it was a bird,
but since there was much movement,

maybe a dog.

I stepped forward,

and 4 deer bounded out
of the undergrowth

and disappeared into the young alders
that have grown on the dam.

Tuesday 14 April.

I don't wake until 7am,

anxious about what the day has in store.

Cathy, still in the kitchen,

shows me an owl perched on an oak branch,

15 meters away on the edge of the wood.

Having checked,

it's a little owl,
with white-flecked plumage.

The entry says it is partly diurnal

and does not mind human presence.

My blood pressure is still high,
and the day has just begun.

It's going to be a lovely day.

Hardly time to do anything.

I have to take the big car in at 10
for its safety inspection.

On the way, I realize
I've forgotten the car's paperwork.

I call Cathy, who will bring it.

The weather's so fine that
instead of waiting in the drab office,

with the car mags on the coffee table,

photos of soccer players on the wall,

and the roar of engines revved to the max
on the other side,

I go and sit on the edge
of a nearby flower bed.

Cathy arrives soon with the documents.

She pops into the supermarket,
then comes back and sits with me.

It's a bit like going back 50 years,

when we met in Tulle,
and then later in Paris.

"We didn't know each other,"
she observed.

I didn't know anything about her life,

at the opposite end of the county,
a remote and strange place.

But I knew in one second

that I had to spend
the rest of my life with her,

or perish.

Tuesday 25 September.

It's gray and I'm cold
as I go down to the shops.

I correct the last student essay,
think again about Voyages aux enfers,

then take my mind off it by reading Marx.

Gaby telephones at 7.

The hospital called to say
they're not keeping Mam

after 17 October.

She'll never walk again.

Three possibilities:

she could go back to her apartment,
but after the visit,

either near...

Three possibilities:
she could go back to her apartment,

but after the visit,

either near Orléans or here.

I'm in favor of the last solution.

Of course,

she won't be in Brive,
where she wants to live.

On Saturday, it'll be my job

to tell her
that she can no longer go into town,

but must stay home

and will only see a handful of people.

If she agrees to move in near us,

she'll see us often, and the kids,

who she barely saw once a year.

On top of all that,

the complications, the move,

the tough choices on what to keep
and what to throw away,

and all that at a distance of 500km,

once work had resumed.

I had a sudden hike in blood pressure,
with all the symptoms,

feeling cold, frozen extremities,

churning stomach, deep anxiety.

Cathy fixed dinner, but I can't swallow.

I can only chew over dark thoughts
during a sleepless night.

I wonder if I'm going to have a stroke.

Can we take a break?

- If you like, Alice.
- 4 pages.

Every 4 pages.

Don't you think this great chunk
might get stuck in your throat?

Not at all. Not at all.

It's funny, because...

Don't mind me.

Oh, alright.

What strikes me listening to you

is that suddenly I realize

why I wanted to adapt your diaries.

All that I couldn't see.

We came for 3 days

to find images
that would go with the texts.

Listening to you read, I realize

how much you recount a life

that I never had, nor will have,

and yet which moves me
as if it were my own.

Friday 11 December. Rose at 7.

It's cold but not yet freezing.

High blood pressure,

which fell in the afternoon
before rising again.

High blood pressure,

which fell in the afternoon
before rising again.

Pen in hand, I think again

about the 3 years Mam spent near here
before she died,

and, step by step, the life we shared,

at first very close,
then separated by exile,

studies, work, time,

before age and its ills
brought us together, until the end.

One month after her death,
she remains intensely, painfully present.

I think of her

and the happy times
which one never appreciates

until they're gone.

I met you thanks to an article I read,

maybe in Le Monde or Télérama,

in which you said
that you had decided to become a writer

to confer literary existence
to the lands of Corrèze,

which had not until then
appeared in literature

because it's a poor place.

That's exactly right.

And when I heard that,

my approach as a filmmaker
suddenly became clear to myself.

I realized I'd been making films
about the suburbs

in an obsessive way

for the past 15 years,

and in fact that is really part

of the same obsession
to provide a trace,

and to conserve the existence
of ordinary lives

which would have disappeared
without a trace if I hadn't filmed them.

There is quite clearly a link

between a young girl
from the northern suburbs of Paris

and those people that

a German philosopher
called rural cretins,

in whose ranks, alas, I must be counted.

That is to say,

we have the aim,
perhaps somewhat sacrilegious,

of dragging from the darkness
in which they were buried

folk who had lived, existed,

without ever finding any traces

or reflections
of themselves or their lives

in the pages of books,

or in images that appear on screens.

All early accounts

only show us members
of the dominant castes,

kings, princes,

noble soldiers, and so on,

we get a fairly clear picture
of successive moments

when groups that were excommunicated
from this second order,

which is that of the symbolic,

burst onto the scene.

There's a great example

from the pen of Molière,
in a wonderful play called Don Juan.

It features a peasant and 2 villagers,

who are ridiculous
and act as counterpoints

to the elegance and cynicism
of a great lord and cruel man.

Time goes by
and we get to the 18th century,

with its authors who are no longer
part of the aristocracy,

who start to portray

commoners, ordinary people,

the bourgeoisie, even peasants

mingle there.
I'm thinking of Jean-Jacques Rousseau,

who told of the base, dark lives they led

knowing that the hour of truth
was coming,

because soon after those young people
who had read Rousseau

would take part in the French Revolution.

Whole swaths of humanity

still remained on the margins
of this symbolic order,

which had been constructed
since the invention of writing

and which was then continually enriched

as other techniques of representation
were developed,

the most recent of which
being digital cinema,

offering the possibility,
at relatively low cost,

to treat modest people,
the little people, as they say,

and to give them in turn
this secondary existence

in that register

in which they had never been seen before.

Wait, look up there on the track.

I don't think the animals are here.

Nothing.

Let's go back.

I heard
that you were absolutely dazzling.

They say you did a terrific job.

I know, I know, I heard all about it.

I know everything about it.

Did I say hello to you?

- Hello young man.
- Hello.

Did it go well last time?

Sure.

We needed you this morning
to do the Polygon.

How are you?

Good job on the Polygon.

I've got a gift for you.

Really? For me?

A gift?

Look at that beast!

Take one, or a couple of pieces.

Let's start with Marcel.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.

This morning I scouted
the crossroads of La Haute Borne

with Alice and...

her film crew.

Of course, I put her on lookout.

We headed on the road...

We went out on the Route Circulaire,

and we returned by the Route des Larons.

And we located two deer, Sir.

That's all from me today.

We spent a pleasant morning
with the camera and mic,

so I'm obliged to be on my best behavior!

Good job. That keeps you on the rails.

Must be tough.

Laroche!

Ladies and gentlemen.

This morning,
I started my search at Joinville.

I left to scout on foot

this morning.

I spotted a small stag at 7.30,

not far from the red pine.

Near our old meeting place.

- That's all today, Ma'am.
- Thank you, Laroche.

Niagara, Niagara!

She's behind Marcel's car.

- Niagara!
- She's behind the car.

Grandpa, you look left.

- There!
- No, it's a dog.

That's a deer.

There's something there, but...

They've got a deer!

Tally-ho!

It's a stag, but not a very big one.

- Is it a deer?
- A small stag.

I saw something go past, not sure what.

It's not a stag, it's a deer.

There it goes.

It's quick for a deer.

There!

It's not a big one.

- How many dogs?
- Two!

- Can you stop them?
- We've done it.

Very good.

WE

I dedicate this film to author
and publisher François Maspero.

His book,
Les Passagers du Roissy Express,

taught me to see and love
what was before my eyes.