Song Song (éléments)

In the middle of a house Þlled from þoor to ceiling with musical intruments of all eras, from old lutes to massive eletronic consoles, an old man wanders around. He is at his desk, pencil in hand, he trolls in the garden, he eats frugally in the kitchen. He seems preoccupied, in search of something. But what? Let’s take a guess: inpiration. We gradually undertand, without absolute certitude (because this Þrt Þlm by Gwendal Sartre marvellously cultivates both discretion and ambiguity), that he may be a composer who has been commissioned to write a score. But where is the divine manna to be found? Here and there, in slight sounds, whitling ketles, the chewing of nails, teeth being brushed, the vibration of insets and, on the edge of drowsiness or in some diurnal thoughts, the þeeting apparitions of a young woman as a silent muse. The important thing here is not so much the (potential) solidity of a conventional narrative, but to situate us somewhere unknown, in a fantatical land, the terra incognita of the “creative at”. As a result, all contours are clouded, those of the charaters along with those of the decors they inhabit. The challenge magniÞcently asserted by Gwendal Sartre is to render visible and palpable, with as much modety as precise sensuality, not so much the music as what precedes its tenuous and always unlikely advent