S T O R Y
VINCENT is a reserved and introverted young man. His very young appearance and his reluctance to speak are expressions of a silent pain that doesn’t allow him to move forward.
After a visit of his estranged father, followed by a violent argument between his parents, Vincent gets persuaded to follow his friend Bunny to a brothel. At first reluctant about the idea of being there, he will soon notice a figure that seems familiar: a woman that looks like his mother.
An impulsive and unintelligible attraction towards her leads him to her room, where he will try to make sense of what he's looking for.
D I R E C T O R ' S S T A T E M E N T
Vincent is in his 20s.
He has the face of a teenager, as if his body did not want to grow up, as if he was stuck in a certain period of his life and could not move on. His journey in this film is a hopeless wander - a pointless research of something that he can’t understand. He’s looking for a lost intimacy. He’s trying to go back home, but he doesn’t know that yet.
I once felt that leaving home was going to be the best choice for me. As if my motherland had infected me in some ways, had constricted me in a smaller world and wanted me to just quietly survive. And I went farther and farther, trying to find something that could represent a flame, a sort of reason, a hope.
I found myself alone in a very small island called Gili Air in Indonesia, writing in tears on a notebook how much I was missing home.
I recently realised how home is not a place anymore. It’s nostalgia melancholia anxiety, light heartedness, spontaneity, peace and loss. It’s wonder, I think, spreading in my chest, pulling tears down my face. It’s intimacy, very difficult to find, that hides from me in places I don’t usually dare to look, or talk about, or remember and understand.
I often imagine Cinema to be my way back home. Stories manage to provoke all those feelings that are deeply connected to my childhood and cause me to hold my tears because people are watching and as a grown-up I try to look tough. The shield that I have worked so hard to build around my soul since I was 8, simply opens up, melts and slowly disappears, leaving me naked in front of a mirror. I see me as a kid and an adult at the same time, and I feel sorry and happy, discouraged and greatly motivated. Surprised. To see that all that desert land I thought I was walking on was just the result of my sight blurred by loneliness and boredom. Or maybe a consequence of my colour-blindness. Or just the age, that makes me incautiously confuse the drawing of a boa eating an elephant for the one of a hat.
I want to tell Vincent’s story because I’m eager to find some of my intimacy in his, and I’m sure whoever follows his journey will find some of theirs as well.