Talking to the Trees - temp trailer por Antony Ford, musica por Winter People
TALKING TO THE TREES: Una mujer europea de clase media descubre que su marido es un turista sexual pedófilo y arriesga su propia vida tratando de salvar a tres nenas de un prostíbulo.
Rodada independientemente en la Camboya con amor, proyección en Cannes 2012. Guión, dirección y producción: ILARIA BORRELLI + GUIDO FREDDI
|foto por ALEX ROBINSON|
foto por PIETRO FREDDI
I remember lying under you on that bathroom floor as we slowly reverted back into human form.
You felt so warm, so close, so utterly tender as you whispered, “We’d make a good couple… don’t you think?”
I said, “You must never, ever leave your wife.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to be with me?”
“Because without her you would die,” I said, feeling more wedded to you than ever.
Was it hard to give you up? No, because I love you. (Something neither of my alleged husbands found the strength to do while there was still time to, you know: end it honorably.)
Women chew up their lives trying to heal themselves from the bad arrangements they’ve made with men says lorrie moore (lorrie te amo)
my arrangement with you being the only one I still draw strength from after all these years; and this must be why a part of you comes out of me in these lines from time to time.
A temporary trailer for the new feature film by Ilaria Borrelli and Guido Freddi, Talking to the Trees. One woman's quest to rescue the child her husband had abused in a brothel and return her home to her village. The film will have its first industry screening during Cannes 2012. Trailer by Antony Ford, music by Winter People.
producer GUIDO FREDDI director ILARIA BORRELLI cinematographer DAVID GARCIA VLASITS
editor MARIE CASTRO music GUIDO FREDDI production designer PIETRO FREDDI sound DUCCIO SERVI
script supervisor STEFANIA FUMO second AD PIPHALLAREE CHAMPA first AC ALEXANDER ROBINSON
and this is us, with our heroic Cambodian crew:
The only true paradise is the one we've lost and regained. I sit on the balcony with the pale early spring sun on my bare skin as the first bee of the season in this northern city hovers in front of my face, drawn by christopher’s lavender perhaps, all the way from the park threading along the nearby canal with its ducks and swans,
which I can see from here as I look out over the wide gritty avenue, at the gigantic mural on the side of the ex red brick factory across the empty lot where a muscular old lady in a parka watches her rottweiler nosing around gently in the unkempt grass and a lone sapling stretches a silvery crown of leaves towards the sky,
and rickety vintage café tables spill out onto the sidewalks which are interspersed at regular intervals with thickets of parked bicycles, across the street the age-old rock and roll club spells Lido in cursive blue
and it’s all as seamless and specific, as familiar and serene to me as Avenue C, as though I never left, or had just this moment returned, and I go very quiet as I listen to the city's heart, which is glamorous and louche as suzanne would say, also radical and mellow, welcoming and courageous, transgressive and civilized, and it's beating so very close to me, something special indeed.