Jacques Perconte

In Le Livre d’Image, Jean-Luc Godard recycles existing images (films, documentaries, paintings, television archives, etc.), quotes excerpts from books, uses fragments of music. The driving force is poetic rhyme, the association or opposition of ideas, the aesthetic spark through editing, the keystone. The author performs the work of a sculptor. The hand, for this, is essential. He praises it at the start. “There are the five fingers. The five senses. The five parts of the world (…). The true condition of man is to think with his hands. Jean-Luc Godard composes a dazzling syncopation of sequences, the surge of which evokes the violence of the flows of our contemporary screens, taken to a level of incandescence rarely achieved. Crowned at Cannes, the last Godard is a shock film, with twilight beauty.

Salammbô is an alchemical game between my images, Othman Louati's music vibrating in Noé Nillni's trumpet and Gustave Flaubert's text carried by Julien Ribeill's voice.

For Jean-Luc Godard, with all the admiration and affection of Jacques Perconte and Nicole Brenez. December 3, 2020.

Musician Jean-Benoît Dunckel, one half of the band AIR, and filmmaker Jacques Perconte, who works with Jeff Mills, an artist known for his colors and landscapes, who sculpts with his digital palette. Together, they created especially for the opening of the festival, a dialogue between improvisation and high-speed chase. Normandy's wooded countryside, magnified for the occasion, turns into a thousand suns rise and dazzle us.

A gentle and patient travelling camera accompanies sunrise on the Père Lachaise cemetery, and by continual metamorphosis of the visual material shows a break through crossed by a chromatic life inexhaustible variations. A film born from Léos Carax's Holy Motors, with whom I collaborated on a music of Jean-Benoît Dunckel.

The island of Patiras is the first land on the water of the estuary of the Gironde (west south of France). It is the first place where the winds of the ocean sink. It is a modest land with no relief. At the point, there is a shelter, an observatory overhung by a lighthouse. It is a rough and delicate corner, where time is suspended, but swept by the wind, burned by the sun, blown by the salts of the spray.

With the immense freighters, the colors of the horizon will come, pushed by the winds, to take the whites of the cliffs, to project them in the green of the vegetation...