Notes on ‘Hiroshima, Mon Amour’ (1959)
Every now and then a film comes along and shakes the foundations of the things you think you know: cinema, the human capacity for yearning, warfare and trauma that lingers on you, eventually becoming part of who you are. What is the human condition, the nature of the living, than a completely random constellation of wandering souls? Every now and then colliding with another can feel like the full force of an atomic bomb, and leave you just as war-torn.
We all carry around scar-tissue bodies around with as much grace as we can muster, offering them to each other at times like strange misshapen trophies: here is what I am today, shaped and molded by what I have lived through.
More often than not, words are far too structured, too restrictive of the languid nature of longing. The human capacity to hold memories can sometimes be our own wickedest enemy. We do not choose the tragedies that come upon us. We only do what we can with the violence we all carry, all throughout our lives.