The spring rain says to me: The world is made of fragments. He has to run all the time. To seep into other people's homes, to invade the mazes of the Paris subway, where fluorescent lamps wink sarcastically, spurring to constantly increase speed. Run a hare through the fields on a vague, barely guessable route.
The symphony of the plot is based on coincidences, coincidences that fall with a ringing coin from the pocket of a restless veil. Sonoristics in “Diva” Benex gracefully crossed with aleatorics: while on the screen playing another game of stoss, somewhere nearby looms crafty Jack, which runs the performance. It is he who makes the young postman Jules, grabbing someone else's tape, jump fast-legged grasshopper in a world where it is more difficult to achieve the truth than to reach the sky. There is a large shortage of white and fluffy, so it is more promising to hide from everyone: from comrades presenting police crusts, and from monsieurs with an imported eye incision.
The characters seem to have fallen out of nowhere, their memory is not occupied by worthless files. And fleeing Jules, and his pursuers, and his acquaintances - a girl who rhymes with innocent facial expressions with theft of records, and a mysterious guy who dreams of slowing down the waves - are deprived of a clear past. There are no anchors that would keep them in a port of pesky routine. The proportions are shifted, the floodgates are open and theatrical illusion seeps into them. Everything is not what it seems, and even making a sandwich is almost magical action, ritual, shamanism. High coexists with low, and passes in the kitchen are quite naturally equated with a special genre of art, where the main thing is the movement of the hand, which is replicated again and again. Or surreal bait - the dwellings of the heroes, they are deserted and huge, which gives the opportunity to turn them into an aesthetic cemetery of broken cars, or wind circles on rollers around a haughty bathroom.
In the film, where the new is asserted, the principle of universal denial, however, elegantly sent to the trash: only scumbags with a crooked lip do not like everything here, lining up in one associative row Beethoven, dirty elevators and old cars. And yet the world is showered with trembling autumn leaves, turns into puzzles, shuffled on the floor of his studio by a visiting philosopher in a carelessly cast jacket. Defragmentation is strong, and therefore sometimes we see not reality, but its split reflection in a trap of window windows, a car mirror or glasses lenses. These deftly formatted miniatures are surprisingly good: they contain the breath of life, its freedom and space. Even taken out of context, quoted, the beauty stubbornly remains beauty: a fast-cooked breakfast is drawn from the canvases of Caravaggio - a jug, slightly touched by a grid craquelure, texture apples, a silver knife forgotten on a tray. And the song of the roller, sounding in the frame, not accidentally brings out the formula of a certain comforting monastery, where the sun is golden with sunflower, the sky is classically blue, and snow is white. At the same time, Diva clearly shows how helpless, unreliable and fragile traditional means of communication are, the abyss can appeal to the abyss as much as possible, and not wait for an answer. The conductor of meaning is music, it replaces and complements speech, it is listened to by closing its eyes and holding someone’s hand. The ideal is the one who can replace endless monologues with modulations of the voice - the opera diva, the daughter of the black continent Cynthia Hawkins. Music becomes a text that insistently requires deciphering, sounds crumble, break, burst with champagne bubbles, and from the headphone that fell next to someone who has to wander on completely different roads, a bravura melody continues to pour ...
The film, gaining momentum with atrial fibrillation, sometimes makes a sharp tilt in meditative contemplation. And while the heroes wander under the high sky of Paris, sheltering under an umbrella from the unevil rain, watching how sculptures and arches sink in the purple marsh of twilight, and the branches of trees, driven by air, draw fantastic patterns, the only truth emerges: there is only a successfully caught today, yesterday, perhaps, did not exist, and tomorrow must still be earned.