As we watched La Jeteé– a dystopian short film made up of mostly still images and voiceover– we were to write a narrative based on what we witnessed. There was one issue, though. The movie was played on mute.
The roaring of engines hurtled through the air outside of the Paris airport terminal. The sun beamed down on the wings, the towering wire structures, and the people looking out on the scene from the pier. Matilda, a curious blonde, who often went to people watch on Sunday mornings, stood at her usual station– leaning on the face with a coffee in hand. A piercing scream tore through the serenity of the morning dew, and the crowd looked around expectantly.
A tornado. Ripping through the streets, destroying everything in it’s path. Relentless. Chaotic. Destructive.
Matilda ran for cover without direction. She needed shelter. A tunnel into an unfamiliar underground space was all she could find, and like a horse with blinders on, she sprinted. As she entered the dark room full of strangers in suits and strange yellow overalls, she had an increasingly unsettling feeling that she had found something solely intended to be hidden. Behind the wires and pipes, she curled up, folding her legs into her chest.
Before her, conversation continued. A man with an eye mask connected to wires laid in a hammock, unconscious and shivering, as a crowd of whispering men formed around him. Her stomach churned. Finally, they seemed to have resolved what caused the concern that shook their words spoken in an unrecognizable language. As the men dispersed, each heading to their corner, some falling asleep and others watching from afar, one of them pulled out a needle. It’s almost as though he could sense the instrument coming closer to his skin– he started wailing uncontrollably. What surprised Matilda, though, was their lack of concern. The air filled with sighs and annoyance, almost as though the man’s struggle was simply a blip in their day. They must be scientists, she thought to herself.
As she sat within the machinery, Matilda couldn’t help but think of all the wonders of her hometown that stood in the path of danger above the ceiling of the tunnels. Statues, flowers, children, and even her peaceful Sunday mornings could potentially be taken away from her. She thought back to all the strangers that she had characterized in her head. She assigned them lives. Emotions. Stories. She dreamed up grand romances between the lady in the black button-down coat and the man in the white T-shirt. Of the days they spent walking through the park together. Of the questions they’d ask each other. The questions Matilda would ask them. Do you have siblings? Children? How old are you? Are you in love?
But these questions would never be answered, nor would she be able to ask them. She wouldn’t even be able to ponder them anymore. Her Sunday mornings were gone. Instead, she was left with the unconscious man. Perhaps his name was Jaque. Francois? He didn’t look French. Maybe he was a John, she thought. She settled on John. Perhaps he had a family. Perhaps he was a writer who dreamed up alternate universes with futuristic beings instead of the stories of strangers. Perhaps he was a photographer. A teacher. A lawyer. A murderer. Perhaps he had a love to walk through parks with, and to take to museums, and to take photographs of as she sleeps soundly on Sunday mornings. Instead, John was underground with Matilda and the scientists. And she was not.
