Original subtitles

Subject: An amateur photographer and two of his friends

comment on a selection of photos from around the world.

THE BEASTIARY Or, The Parade of Orpheus

The Camel

With his four camels,

Don Pedro d'Alfaroubeira

toured the world and admired it.

He did what I'd like to do.

If I Had 4 Camels 1966

First Part THE CASTLE

The photo is the hunt

It's the instinct of hunting without the desire to kill

It's the hunt of angels...

You track, you aim, you fire and--click!

--instead of a dead man, you make him eternal.

And here is something more...

...a sculpture organizes a certain face with a certain gaze

whose photo eternalises you with your own gaze...a circle.

I look at myself from out of the photo that looks.

-All in all, an inferior kind of art: the art of viewing art.

-My brothers, art is neither inferior nor superior, it is art.

It doesn't always have to boast, that's not its quality.

It's like a nationality.

A hunchbacked Chinese doesn't cease to be Chinese.

There is life, and there is its double

and the photo belongs to the world of the double...eh!

Moreover it is there that there is a trap.

By approaching some faces,

you have the impression of sharing in the lives and deaths of their faces

--of human faces. It's not true:

if you participate in something, it's in the life and death of their images.

In any case, if one can say one thing modestly

it's that photography is a pleasure.

The number of times people said thanks, knowing they wouldn't get the picture.

Even in bizzare situations.

Some hairdressers, for example.

A boss even told her staff not to show their husbands...

Fine, that's Paris, that's Babylon...

But in Pyong-Yang, I began to shoot and all the ladies began to laugh...

Then why, in Cuba, did the outdoor barbers begin to chase me,

shouting and brandishing their scissors? That's the mystery!

"Since these mysteries are beyond me, let's pretend we're organising them."

That's the motto of every photograph.

It's true, one cheats.

Between the Arctic Circle and the bottom of the Negev, things inevitably happen.

The sun rises, among others.

It's like for people suddenly seized: one can't help but feel possessed,

as if one had organized these daybreaks.

And then, I don't know, this feeling of gathering up the world, reconciling it,

of flattening out all the time zones...

It must be the nostalgia for Eden.

It's the same time everywhere.

I can't resist the kind of film that walks you from one dawn to the next,

saying things like, It is six o'clock on Earth,

six o'clock at Sain-Martin Canal,

six o'clock at the Göta Canal in Sweden.

Six o'clock in Havana.

Six o'clock in the Forbidden City of Peking.

The sun rises over Brussels,

and over Prague, over Tehran, and over Berlin.

The last passer-by of the night on the Notre-Dame square,

and on a street in Amsterdam, the first of the day.

Everyone is already on the English Promenade

but only one Chinese on the Great Wall.

The fountains of the Estonian Villa and Rome begin to flow at the same time,

the pretty nymphs of the Piazza Esedra.

A train enters the station at La Ciotat.

A train arrives in Jerusalem.

A station for a subprefecture of Jerusalem.

The snowplow trains wait in Kiruna Station.

The fastest train in the world leaves from a station in Tokyo.

It passes commuter trains full of sleeping Japanese,

already exhausted, already used up by the city.

There are new posters in the Paris metro

and in a cable car in Lausanne, a cabalistic sign.

A Yugoslavian hog considers the day to come.

In Paris, young women are presented as in a competition of idols.

In Santiago de Cuba, open-heart surgery begins.

Santiago de Cuba, the world's freest bodies.

The game on the street begins.

From the sidewalks of Santiago to those of Tel-Aviv,

to the sidewalks of Moscow.

In the Mosfilm Studio, Tatiana Lavrova prepares herself for shooting.

In Havana, someone distributes "capitalist parts"

parts taken from American or French cars.

like this 1950 model advertised in Shanghai, which never arrived.

A soviet dog in Moscow

A bourgeois dog in Paris.

A perfume store in Oslo that invokes the Nefertiti of Berlin.

Lottery in Cuba,

lottery in Lisbon,

and for this Japanese, his little personal lottery: the Pachinko

Some Chinese go to a meeting.

Some Koreans go to a meeting.

They pass some people who carry loads,

frown at some boats.

The game of the day begins.

In all these twists, there are some who are different from others

They are distinguished by their dress,

and from the balconies on high in the cities, they hear an untiring voice

by their uniform;

that says: "One day, all of you will belong..."

Zakrit na remont

-"Closed for repairs." Without a doubt, this is Moscow.

It's the building of the Sputniks and the Vostoks at the Industrial Expo

-Those the little Koreans applauded like victories of socialism.

-What is it now? Victories of revisionism?

-One day there'll be Martians there, I'm sure of it.

Waiting there, we described the giant rockets, the space stations.

It is a fabulous place.

-That's not New York... -No, no.

-It's the Air Museum in Meudon, the most technological...

What is it now? -No...

-What is it now? The most technological, but at the other end of history.

-The same history. -No, Nungesser and Gagarin weren't the same.

-Oh! That's romanticism...

-Because you were 10 at the time of Nungesser and Coli?

-No my good friends, for a simple reason:

because no dog has ever flown across the Atlantic.

-What do you mean, 'revisionism'?

-The cosmonauts, I don't know, but the pedestrians, yes.

Is that where the cosmonauts buy their dogs?

It's the animal market in Moscow.

Why do I love the Russians?

One must see it in my images,

but it would be necessary to make them understand it...

I'm not naïve.

In moments of goodness or humor,

they can applaud when a writer is imprisoned for 7 years

because he displeased two dozen old crabs...the same people...

...who can play like little kids with flying wheels and water pistols.

It was epic, the water pistols.

In the week when they were imported,

one couldn't ring a friend's doorbell without getting shot in the face.

That was already a while ago. Remember, Varvara.

That was the time of the two-seater car. [STALIN]

One still made one's way down toward "Joseph Stalin" in a Volga

and one winter, the chaperones of the 'little red'

could cross Gorki Park without meeting a cop.

There, ten thousand participants of the Youth Festival disembarked

from a boat called Molotov when it had left Leningrad...

...and Baltika when it returned.

It was still better than the water pistols.

In the streets one saw little planetary systems:

a stranger in the center...and the Muscovites played all around him.

Everything that helped the Russians' preconceptions about foreigners,

and even more, those of the foreigners about the Russians

was already contained in that summer.

It was the summer one first heard Moscow Nights

by Soloviov-Sedoi,

when millions of people discovered the kindness of the Russians,

Russian curiosity,

and it's strength that makes friendship there charge like a calvary...

It was also the summer one first saw

the girls play with the signs of a foreign coquettishness

and for the first time since the war, the U.S. flag waved.

It returned less innocently, two years after the American Expo of '59

It was the great seduction.

Abraham Lincoln married Marilyn Monroe

and they had many little refrigerators.

The Russians took all that very seriously, to the point of envy.

But there was a lot more common sense than expected.

Marian Anderson and Mickey Mouse were mobilised to jazz everyone up.

Evidently, most men focused on cars, and most women on fashion...

Since the Russians love books, there was a beautiful library.

They even had The Question by Henri Alleg

"Read my lips: It's not us Americans who would go and start a colonial war."

The greatest site was of course

the distribution of plastic bowls, hot out of a big machine

--and one of the greatest perplexities, of course:

the Contemporary Art Expo.

I also would have liked them to see the bit of cargo on Le Coubre,

you know, the one that exploded in the port of Havana

to which the Cubans made a monument just by changing their perspective.

I could launch into a great eulogy for the Russian gaze

but if I say everything I I think, I will sound like a racist.

It is true, however, that there is a line of sight

as there is a life-line.

There is not an American gaze, nor a Scandanavian gaze, nor a Black gaze

a Jewish gaze,

a Russian gaze...

If I say that it's a light that shines in the poor and dies in the rich,

I'll be roasted by the Russians.

It's also the gaze of icons.

Let's talk about icons...

A people who had this painter here, this gaze there

and resulted

in the Tretiakov Gallery.

All the same, it's curious that the Vikings knew of form

and not just a useful form, a breathtaking form,

and that the Soviet Academics didn't have the character to suspect it exists.

It's true that now there's a kind of official pop art

that is rather cool, but all the same...

Me, I'd to put all the academic apologists in a big boat

-And sink it? -No, no!

Lead it to Cienfuegos, Cuba.

I have a friend named Samuel Feijoo,

he directs a school for the peasants.

There's a sculpture of a peasant.

He called it "Hunger,"

with the comment: hunger has no face...

And that there: "Thinking".

-That doesn't just apply to socialist realism.

-Yes, it also goes for the consumers of the Mona Lisa.

When a peasant from Dalarna pastes cut out images of cars on his bed

because he needs them,

it's a truer movement toward art than hanging a reproduction of a Van Gough

above an easy Lévitan. -You speak of the painter, of course.

-Of course.

That doesn't stop other galleries besides Tretiakov in Moscow

from showing some Picassos and Renoir's, and admirable ones at that...

That's where the Russians come to learn that painting exists.

They sometimes say that they don't understand Picasso.

But they have a way of getting him wrong in saying, "So...what?"

...and Picasso is forced to respond.

Whereas three fourths of the time, he doesn't give a damn

for the looks of approval from comprehending Parisians.

-It causes, it causes...

but what would he say if he was born Russian, like me?

When he photographed a cosmetics ad, an extravagant shirt with Brigete Bardot

Lucia Bosè and Marina Vlady,

the Soviet version of the Vespa, or a vendor on Gorki Street,

when he found a jazz orchestra in southern Siberia,

or a self-service restaurant in a Moscow suburb,

he truly raved about the Russian gaze and the Slavic soul.

He thinks like a European.

He thinks: thaw, elevating the standard of living, liberalization,

comfort,

in brief, a turn toward this consumer society

that he condemned with sarcasms as he saw it materialize.

Between the bourgeois who already rejoice at their black sheep

falling back in line and the new romantic generation

that jumps with both feet into Stalinism,

and who dreams of an impossible 1917,

between the Russians who have indeed earned the right to breathe a little

and the Chinese who are cuckolding them,

we find ourselves there, we, the sons of immigrants.

We have learned other countries, we have learned other languages,

and despite all of that, in our hearts there is

an imaginary homeland

for which we are hard to please...

...punctilious, unjust...

When we go over there

it is not to be amazed at how it resembles the West,

it is to understand, within the dimension of a country,

the tenderness, which we learned

from decorated forefathers, from chatty mothers,

and from little pig-tailed sisters.

-But that's a little different. It's still a fashion show,

but it's in the factory, during the break.

-Men's fashion too? -Yes.

Elsewhere, the women follow it closely, while the men are indifferent to it.

-Bores! All of them!

Do you like Moscow?

-The fist time, I hated Moscow.

Since it's true that, apart from the monuments it's not a city that's very...

...beautiful.

And then one day everything changed.

I understood that this city is nothing without its inhabitants.

It's not obvious, you know, there are a lot of towns that carry on very well.

If one doesn't just have connections, but true connections,

Russian connections, with some Muscovites, one doesn't pass it up.

It's like in their hot pools in the middle of the snow

it's the encounter of two worlds, a frontier between

summer and winter.

Now, I love Moscow...

...I love...

Also it's probably

the only capital in the world where I can say that I love

what remains of the rustic in the rhythm of the street.

Dynamo Beach--it's not Coney Island, it's The Grande Jatte.

And the metro--it's the Hall of Mirrors!

It is also the only city where one can breathe,

it is surrounded by gardens, by parks.

The people go to see

real pears, real apples,

as we go to see Braque and Cézanne.

Even the chess tables in Gorki park have an air of rustic festivity.

-Say then, the Grande Jatte, the Hall of Mirrors, the ferris wheel...

It's the nostalgia for 1900 that you love in Moscow.

-I believe we have a myth

of 1900 that is just the image of an epoch when people had space,

when they had time to watch and to breathe...

Moscow's 1900 aspect is in the lucidity of the Children’s Library engravings.

Save that one has put the daughters of

workers in the sleds of the models' daughters

-Is this still Moscow?

-No, it's a Russian monastery.

The bell ringer was a sailor on the Potemkin

-That's not true...

-It certainly isn't,

but nothing's really true in this place, starting with the monks.

-Are there a lot of them? -No, just a handful...

There, all that remains,

in a refectory built for a community of several hundreds.

Don't accuse the atheist Marxist propaganda too much:

it's a Russian monastery, but it's not in Russia.

It's on Mount Athos in Greece.

And around it, the Greek monasteries are in the same decrepit state.

I walked all morning,

I arrived at Xeropotamou at the most hopeless hour: noon.

Perhaps since the mid-day siesta resembles death more than sleep.

The corridors were cold,

I saw only one guard there,

who immediately disappeared.

Later, a cook offered me a handful of olives and a dried fish--

the usual for the community.

Another course of beans.

The monks sleep in their cells, the corridors were empty.

I saw an artless painting on the wall, depicting a miracle.

On another,

the portrait of Metaxas, the fascist dictator who disappeared 12 years ago.

Later, I met a young monk,

one of the rare young monks in this empire of the elderly.

He came from the islands.

A hermit proposed that I join the hermitage.

I declined.

I saw a cat on a table.

It was against the rules.

The peninsula is off limits to women and female animals.

At least when one can prohibit them...

In fact, the rule says:

Beardless faces are prohibited.

There again, it seems like it's made up.

All of the monasteries have young novices,

but the shadow of femininity they carry is not a reduction,

on the contrary...

-Ah, you won't see the women fight over the Pope with umbrellas there,

as he's represented in the Museum of Atheism in Leningrad...

-Where one explains that there is no God in the sky,

since the cosmonauts haven't seen him!

But I wonder if the monks of Mt. Athos are more advanced than the cosmonauts.

What was one of the highest sites in Europe is now a site of agony.

Certainly, the rites continue. And the images are there.

But the faces one encounters there

don't resemble the Pantocrator or the glory of Christ.

They don't even look like Christ crucified.

But perhaps like the Christ of Gesthemane,

like Christ abandoned...

-It's bizarre...

No one believes in God any more,

but one speaks of Christ with an air of understanding.

One cites him, one copies him, one finds resemblances of him.

The Japanese have made a Noh about the death of Christ,

the first Christian Noh in history.

The missionaries are no longer burned in Japan--it's progress.

Progress toward indifference.

Fidel Castro wrote on the walls:

"To betray the poor is to betray Christ."

It also seems to be the opinion of the council.

Christ would be useful, then,

you'd need to have one in your home.

"Put Christ in your happiness."

As if, despite dispensing with belief in him,

it was still useful for someone, for some part

to be charged with carrying all the misery in the world.

We live in the Castle.

There are worse things than tyranny, than silence.

The distance between those who have power

and those who don't.

The impossibility of communicating.

The only race line...

...is the Castle.

The poor live in its shadow.

They grow there.

And when they open their eyes,

how will they close them again?

-One day I saw the poor happy...

It was in Nanterre, in the slum,

the first day of Algerian independence.

One instant of happiness paid for with seven years of war

-They were happy.

and one million deaths.

And the following day, the Castle was still there.

And the poor are still there, day after day.

And day after day,

we continue to betray them.

("One must not demolish the castle")

Second Part THE GARDEN

("Elephant's Defence" or "Tusk")

-How do you say "elephant" in Russian? -"Slôn"

-"Slôn": That's obvious.

An elephant who's been asked its name can only respond:

"Slôn"...

-Then all elephants are Russian.

-The elephant of Moscow lives in a marvellous place.

Dourov corner.

Correct? -"Dourov"

-Dourov was a genius who discovered

that species-relations can be based on trust.

A little girl spent some hours in a raccoon's cage,

she trusted it; by the end, it did her laundry...

-Just like family. -In public, to please her.

The work became another form of play.

-If I understand you well,

you're training children for docility?

You think trust can get you

washer-citizens as perfect as raccoons?

-We shot ourselves in the feet with the law of the Jungle,

for there is also the law of the Garden.

The Jungle is the Castle of the animals, but their garden...

-Could equally be our model, is that it?

-Yes, as in the theatre: Castle side, Garden side...

-What is he doing there? -He's playing.

He's playing with a cat.

The cat's no longer playing. He's dead. Strangled.

-There is a formula for the universe,

but not for childhood.

Nothing can explain both the kids of the rich

and the kids of the poor.

Neither the starving little Asians,

nor the little Irish who beg in the streets,

neither the little blacks,

nor the little Persian students, nor the little Arab...

There are no more United Children

than there are United Nations.

Children are first what they eat,

and what they are taught second.

It would be reassuring if there was a children's-land under the fatherlands,

a class of children beneath the classes,

or beyond,

and if it relied on trust,

truly.

But children are not a country.

At most they're a family.

"The Great Family of Men"

Fine, understood, man is a family.

So were the Atrides.

-I loved the coquettishness of the Korean workers.

I imagined it as a new relation to work.

I thought twice about that years later, when I re-visited the same fish cannery.

The difference between these workers

wasn't initially the standard of living,

nor in this unweighable element, happiness.

It was precisely this: a certain relation with one's work.

Work: a weight on life,

or a meaning given to life?

A suffered necessity?

Or a shared necessity?

A burden or an ascent?

I had asked to follow a young worker for a day.

Naturally, I was shown the best.

The best in study, in construction, in leisure--dreadfully boring...

Thus, I no longer asked anything

though it was only for myself that I tried to surprise the Korean sweetness

and, above all, the change in these Asian women

in whom alone all revolutions would be justified.

The war was still everywhere nearby.

It didn't take much to rediscover its color or provoke its echoes.

Recollected in memories, revived by images and slogans,

I was less amazed by finding its presence

than by its absence--

in the nonchalance of a man,

in the smile of a woman with her baby, like a distracted kangaroo,

in the animated discussion of peasants on the curb,

and in the wonder absolutely devoid of impartiality that I always feel with

children who have slanted eyes.

With the Koreans, it was also the beauty

and the science,

a science that goes far back,

back to their invention of the printing press (before Gutenberg),

armour-plating (before Potemkin),

and their thousand ways of living or painting,

which the Japanese have borrowed,

with the acknowledgement for which they are known.

I'm not playing the eternal Korea against the popular Korea.

Its atemporal dances--I seized them at the time of their pause,

in a factory, in a workers' club on the Pacific coast

--in time.

But before leaving Korea, another word.

I left this country where I had worked, where I had friends.

I had received a telegram greeting from them,

some images, magazines, and tons of brochures--but not one letter.

From Cuba, I received one. The whole world received one.

One evening, a few of us were to keep this letter fresh in our pockets,

at the meeting to protest the Bay of Pigs invasion.

The stage was full of the usual stars

and there were familiar faces in the crowd.

I spotted one that belonged to an older woman, to whom I ascribed a militant past

which was perhaps pure imagination

--but all the same,

her presence here, this evening,

this tender expression...

I thought she had lived a whole era

which for us was submerged:

1917,

the battleship Aurore,

the marines of Petrograd, the rising of the Tempest over Asia.

She belonged to the only generation

in which life advanced step by step

with the Revolution, like a tree planted at childhood.

A tree to which she had been passionately attentive,

except when it came to injustice.

One day, however,

it was necessary to see the crimes of Stalinism and the schisms of Mao.

The socialist world was no longer

the place of a single fidelity and a single fraternity.

It was necessary to face the nightmare:

The heirs of the only two revolutions of the 20th century

arguing over the voices, the alliances, and the territories...

Even when some of their brothers

were plunged in war against the common enemy.

For the enemy hasn't changed.

Here, in Europe, and elsewhere,

the struggle continues, the same against the same.

The police weren't mistaken about that.

They weren't mistaken about it anywhere.

Thus I imagined the drama lived by this woman,

the drama lived by millions of militants across the world,

who had given all they could give

to something, they believed, that was greater than them

--and which, ultimately, drew its grandeur from them.

-Tell me, do the Chinese seem to have fun at the demos?

-The ones who try to prove the Chinese lack humour are their newspaper editors.

-And him, he protests by himself?

-He prays on a street in Tokyo.

The Japanese consider themselves happy as the first victims of the Americans.

It's there to be seen.

Would one atomic bomb on Berlin have cleared Buchenwald?

-And there? What's that?

-Demo in Oslo. I arrive in Oslo.

The Pussycats are there.

It is the event of the day for the young Norwegians.

Their parents have more classical tastes.

Everything here is luxurious, calm,

and the complete absence of voluptuousness.

A well dressed military

wearing the strange hats

of the Saint Cyriens, who would've waged a war of secession,

guarding the leisure of a population that's tranquil, rested...

resting...

A conformism without aggression,

something eternally new,

something eternally polished,

the apparent absence of profound troubles,

of particular threats, everything's smooth

and affected, a likeable and civilized people

whose catchphrase is: "Information...

...Demonstration...

...Cremation."

At the top of the Scandinavian tree is Sweden.

At first sight, a masterpiece of human societies,

according to the standards of the time.

There I met a teacher who owned three refrigerators.

There the relations of production know an unrivalled harmony,

and the proletariat bears

only a faint resemblance to what we ordinarily designate by it.

Add to that some dream creatures,

some cities, dream cities in any case (it's true),

Stockholm is in part a model of urbanism,

the most beautiful actress of all time,

an irresistible Nordic poetry in the air,

and a considerable civic education effort on the ground,

with real nature always in breath's reach,

its sprightly farmers,

the students on vacation, whom one doesn't need to know about,

and beyond all that,

the most beautiful landscapes in the world.

One needs to look closely at this Scandinavian man.

He has everything

truly everything that the nine-tenths

of humanity doesn't dare to imagine, even in their wildest dreams.

It's for his standard of living that

the Black, the Arab, the Greek, the Siberian

and even the Cuban militiaman are striving.

He has everything the revolutions promised.

And when one shows him some Brecht,

--free moreover-- in the Stockholm gardens,

he doesn't really get the message.

-Then what do they lack?

-In my opinion one thing, but it's not important...

Immortality.

They no longer hope to embark on the stone boats of their ancestors.

You know, death is strange when one no longer believes in eternal life.

In the face of total disappearance,

one happily becomes difficult to please. One needs everything immediately.

The cemetery gardens never successfully mask this:

their happiness doesn't outweigh an eternal absence.

The light boredom that bleaches Scandinavian life:

perhaps one comes to accept it as eternity

It has its charms--

not for life, but for only one life.

The little currency of nothingness, that's the passion.

Scandinavian perfection offers a passionless happiness

--not a human happiness.

-Perhaps a people's cemetery is a measure of their passion

In the blockade cemetery, in Leningrad,

one doesn't forget the dead under the flowers.

One knows the price.

Look, it's the tomb of the son of Gorki.

Maiakovski's.

Tcheckhov's.

Some of the dead have no tomb, like those at Pompei...

...or those of the Camps.

And sometimes, there are tombs that have no dead.

("TO THE HUMAN PERSON")

-There's a tomb I like as well.

Webern's, in Mittersill.

That this century's greatest musician

was killed on his doorstep, one evening, by an occupying military

like that, to enforce the curfew,

always seemed strangely under-noticed.

There it is, a neighbour showed me the exact spot.

It's true--the military was American.

I've always asked myself what would have happened if it was Soviet.

I think there's something of this story in every international crisis

But it's surely better like that.

The destiny of Webern

wasn't to make a hullabaloo, even in his death.

A man who was nothing but song continued to be only song.

I met a man who lived his own death.

It was in Moscow, during the Youth Festival.

I thought I saw the Hungarian head somewhere,

foundering in a space of distraction, absence...

It's useless to fabricate the suspense for you:

it was the type the entire world saw in the photos of gunfire in Budapest.

We said it was the police-- they confirmed he was a soldier

--it seems that the difference is important.

In short, he survived.

Now he travels about the popular democracies,

distributing a little propaganda that recounts his death.

Sometimes one sees this grin on their faces,

-There are those who live with death, who are close to it every day.

this upside down smile that one also sees on the heads of funerary urns.

These urns where, for eternity, Samuel Beckett contains

one man and two women.

But the game is not equal.

Woman maintains a particular relation with death.

It's not because she's more courageous

--although that's true.

Nor more patient

--though she's that too.

It's perhaps because she knows that she holds--without pride,

oh, without pride--

one possible response.

In the museums' corridors,

in the rooms,

light and dark, of the museums,

beneath all pretext,

beneath all the hypocrisies,

beneath all of the divergent forms,

men seek only one thing,

the response to a single question:

all of the Desire of the world.

-There's another space of the museum...

He says what he means.

-What did he write there?

-In three languages: "life is ugly"

"das Leben ist langweilig"

--and I suppose, the same thing in Swedish.

And that there:

"I love someone..."

-We are a little far from the garden by this point.

-The important thing is not how far it is, but that it exists.

And that it exists through our most irrefutable part, our animal part.

This is not a refuge,

it's there, it's in us, it's as true as cruelty, or the will to live.

There is indeed a Law of the Garden.

It expresses itself by very simple gestures,

by the most simple gestures.

It isn't the Golden Age, it's not the Lost Paradise

--that would be where the farmers of Dalécarie represented the Hymn of Hymns.

It's true that, when one looks around,

there are horrors and monsters, there's madness...

But there's already...an underground,

a clandestinity of happiness,

a Sierra Maestra of tenderness...

...something that advances...

....towards us, despite us,

thanks to us, when we have... the grace...

and that announces, for we do not know when,

the survival of the most beloved...

If I Had 4 Camels 1966

Voices

A film produced by

written and photographed by CHRIS MARKER

Subtitles by zerohour