What I liked most of all in the film by Xavier Beauvois (with the slow beauty of the images, decency and accuracy of the subject, of course), it is the faces.
It struck me realize how much our time stubbornly n'exhiber as masks. I had already experienced that feeling coming out of an exhibition of Nan Goldin, The Ballad of Sexual Dependency: mostly, photography, film, television, the show completely deprive us of the human face, the 'escamotent, deform, the disguise. And the pupil exhausted by these simulacra bland or ugly (it depends), we are suddenly shocked by the naked truth of a face, for the relief and the imperfections of the flesh between all singular, the light of eyes that will never meet ours, by the quivering of muscle-specific translation of the thrill of a soul, a spirit, not of the same.
So when I watched brother Christian (Lambert Wilson) and brother Luke (Michael Lonsdale), I was already thinking about when I was going to lose, they would fade into death, and trying desperately to burn every detail of their features in my memory.
How did we let so dispossessed of our gaze?
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