’The most beautiful thing, the most satisfying piece of craft, often remains unknown. ’Culture and Collapse’ cos to mind. Without it, Serenes would not exist.’
That thought sohow crept into the mind of the man sitting beside Director Groux.
’Out there is a painting more beautiful than any I’ve seen. In so corner of the world, there is a director who understands films better than my celebrated friends in the industry.’
He looked to be in his mid-thirties.
’But now, I’ve grown tired of films.’
He was an actor and one of the judges for the festival.
Emmanuel Echeverri.
His eyes were stuck to The Photographer shown on the screen.
’Who’s the actor?’
He knew pretty much every good actor in the West, but this one was unknown to him.
He was expecting to have a hard ti maintaining his concentration throughout the festival, but the movies had been palatable.
’The direction is impressive.’
The wide shots, the transitional scenes, and the unique utilization of depth reminded him of a movie he had long forgotten.
’The Fabulous Baron Munchausen.’
The old film’s enchanting and artistic shots, like a picture co alive, could be seen in the carawork of Lady Ethereal.
’He definitely took so inspiration.’
He eyed the director sitting next to him, who looked more imrsed than anyone else in the room.
’Is he trying sothing new? A wide shot that removes depth. There is no symtry, no detail. Barren and lonely.’
He liked it—the charm it created.
’It’s the opposite of what Wes Anderson does.’
Clutching his satchel close to him, The Photographer trudged through the sand.
His sleeves were folded, and the cold prickled his skin. The sound of strings reached his ears despite the wind.
It was a violin.
The Photographer’s steps ca to a halt.
The source of the sound was before him: a girl at a campfire.
She was sitting on a log carved in the shape of a chair.
She was dressed like a traveller, with a faded brown coat sitting folded in her lap and an oversized hat clinging to her head.
The flas licked at her sandy loafers, but she continued playing the instrunt, unbothered.
The Photographer took a seat on the log next to hers, warming himself at the fire.
"Headed to The City, fair traveller?" asked the woman.
The man nodded his head, his amber hair brushing against his pale skin. His round glasses reflected the swaying flas.
A pair of celebrities sitting near the cast took notice of Averie. Their faces indicated their thoughts very clearly.
’Is he the main lead?’
’Never have I ever heard about him.’
’Did they not have the budget for a big na?’
’Why is he dressed so lightly?’
Their confusion did not offend Averie. He was too busy admiring his visage on the big screen.
The Photographer opened his parched mouth, and a dry voice flowed out.
"Directions."
"Straight, no turns."
The wide shot captured The Photographer’s side profile and the front of the violinist, while another character entered the fra from the right.
It was an older man in a tailcoat. He had an aquiline nose, red like burning coals. Adorning his head was a periwig.
He situated himself behind the violinist, an accordion in hand and a harmonica in his mouth.
And he played, synchronizing with her.
The Photographer retrieved a little tin box and placed it in the sand beside the fire.
He observed the pair playing the instrunts.
It made for a good picture.
His eyes flickered with an indescribable emotion.
He unbuckled his satchel, and after a mont’s hesitation, moved his hand towards the pencil tucked in a corner.
Shuffling through the pages of his diary, with a look of disappointnt, he looked around.
Near the campfire was an open sardine can stuffed with reddish soil. A white plant grew out of it.
It was so far the only plant he had seen in this desert.
He plucked a leaf. It was the size of his palm, white with black veins.
Gingerly, he placed it on his thigh and straightened the edges. He sharpened the pencil with a razor blade.
Wordlessly, he sketched the scene. He drew the moon, the fire, and the pair.
But they had no eyes, no mouth, and no expressions. He had drawn an incomplete picture.
While gazing at it, he retrieved the box he had placed by the fire. It was hot by now and opened easily.
Inside was molten chocolate. He offered the pair so, but they refused, lost in their performance.
He dipped so biscuits in it and enjoyed the al while gazing at the stars.
The song picked up pace as he cleaned up after himself and stood up.
He preferred the desert nights over the desert sun. And so, wordlessly, he departed as the sketch burned in the fire.
With the pair following behind him, playing a song for the night and the stars, he crossed the unguarded border.
The cara moved closer, transitioning into a close-up as it did. It showed the three-quarter view of The Photographer’s pale face, the trail of musicians behind him.
The spots on his skin were visible in detail with the moon peeking over his ear.
Warm puffs of air escaped his lips. They spelled drifting words in the air.
A Jean-Louis Groux film
The sounds of the wind, the moving sand, and his breath beca distant.
Josephine Petite
The music played with complete clarity.
Benoit Durand
Soft French vocals overpowered the accordion, and Averie understood not a word of it.
Margaux Delcour
The list of cast mbers continued, but Averie’s na never arrived.
The desert ended, and the film continued in earnest.
The land across the border was completely different. There was no sand, only flowers and trees.
The Photographer travelled through a forest, the shore of a lake, and a flower field in a montage.
Days passed, and as dawn broke once again, the group of three arrived at their destination.
In front of them stood a massive stone do known only as The City.
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