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Camille, a beautiful 40-year-old woman, finds the cell phone that Suzy lost on the train. Suzy calls her number, she arranges to go to Camille's house where she meets her girlfriend, Clara. Meanwhile, Fabrice, Suzy's ex-lover, also appears

A decade after a man was killed in an accident in an isolated part of the French countryside, a family tries to come to terms with what happened.

We were already familiar with Gaël Lépingle's taste for provincial small towns, and with his precise, insistent, and often generous interest in their inhabitants and their lust for adventures, as shown in his work, from Julien (FID 2010) to Seuls les pirates (FID 2018). Provincial towns are shown here through the prism of the journey of boys who like boys, narrated by Gaël Lépingle like three tales set in three different places, three slices of life involving choices. In each of these tales, the director portrays in delicate touches various ways of living as a homosexual, in places where it is possible, or sometimes unthinkable, but always steering clear of the usual drama and clichés of the genre. In the opening scene, a young man seems to be dreaming of a reality different from the business he is about to take over and the married life that goes with it; he is drawn to the spicy life of a queer vaudeville troupe performing in his village. Then we follow the wanders of a teenager, the unlikely experience of his slender figure walking the streets of his village. Finally, we catch a glimpse of the fetishist passion of a respectable teacher, before he is sent back to his path of renunciation. These three portraits end up composing a fresco. Gaël Lépingle becomes the cartographer of uncharted areas of desire, in landscapes that are devoid of qualities and sharpness, but filled with the dreadful banality of preordained destinies. So many paths to take and decisions to make for these provincial boys. Lépingle subtly delineates dead ends and openings, and lingers on the in-between: in between words and bodies, in between desire and bleak life, in between bodies and landscapes, searching for the right distance between beings. With dressing-up and its possibilities as a secret formula that connects them all. (Nicolas Feodoroff)

The peregrinations of a group of boys and girls from Paris. Two girls swap the capital for the countryside near Montpellier. One of the girls hesitates between dream world and reality.La croisée des chemins marks the start of a significant oeuvre and is a film in which reality and dream are mixed. Jean-Claude Brisseau shot this film on Super8 in 1975. Screened in Studio 43 in Paris, the film was noticed and admired by Eric Rohmer, who attached the name of his production company Les Films du Losange to several films by Brisseau: Un jeu brutal, De bruit et de fureur en Noce blanche.

Rosa and her friends have decided to spend the night on "the island", a stretch of beach that has become their realm. It's the last night of the summer, they're turning eighteen, the time to live it all.

A woman hosts some friends, but does not give them the keys of her apartment. Its window overlooks a migrant camp. One day, the migrants are no longer there. The following days, newcomers appear in the apartment. They are not migrants.

An act of love, the portrait of a painter, an ode to life... We had the day bonsoir is all these things. "It's in the sound of an ending that the music of the living is played, of which we are all, wherever we're present, an invented note." These are Narimane Mari's words to describe the film made in tribute to her late partner, the painter Michel Hass. As the notes of Amor Amor by Norie Paramor resonate across the opening images - water lit by twilight - names scroll across the screen, the names of people, living or dead, unknown or well-known, whose presence and voices populate this cosmic film. Mari puts together fragments of life gleaned over the years, during films or wandering the streets, and makes them dance with the images of her accomplice. Michel Haas' mischievous gaze is echoed by those of strangers picked up on a Parisian boulevard, and his body as he works by the bodies of Loubia Hamra's children bathing in the Mediterranean, his tender speech by the languid voice of Elvis Presley. In this way, Mari continues the painter's conversation with the world. She builds a refuge to shelter his creatures, sculpted animals and other characters made of paper, letting them cohabit with their companions in life, in thought and in music. Between the silences, spaces for remembrance, seeps the breeze of words from loving gestures - reminiscing about happy memories, calling each other to describe them, recounting them in voice messages. The director thus creates an intimate dialogue that goes beyond death, enhancing the poetic operation by superimposing some of the words onto the image as subtitles or set out like poems, like the notes in a musical score that sing the music of the living. A veritable love song, We had the day bonsoir offers thanks to the exuberant vitality of Michel Haas, an inexhaustible source of life for Narimane Mari and for us.

Women and men are lost in their thoughts at random hours of the day and streets of the city. From this sudden intimacy, the murmurs of their little inner voice let us hear the anxieties of love.

My friend Franck Venaille, a poet and radio man, died. Starting from the archives of his voice, I set out to make a film, as a form of mourning. Since his office was emptied, this film is the journey of two bereaved; his wife and I, guided by a voice, his own.

Jean lives as a hermit in a forest. From his cabin, he listens to and records the sounds of the animals that inhabit the surrounding area. One night, he hears the cry of an unknown animal. Along with Mana, a young girl who sings with the birds, he goes in search of the mysterious creature.

Following an urban redevelopment project, Géro is about to be evicted from his home and his small theatre, where he no longer plays since he lost his voice. A nephew he barely knows suddenly settles in his home. He wants to write.

In a small mountain town, chic and bourgeoise, families live on the streets. Children gather their strength to endure the beatings and "look like" they live a normal life.

A famous docking: Algiers, the White City, in a radiant light. The picture darkens with a voice-over reading of the text of the surrender of the Dey of Algiers in 1830. About the Conquest confronts us with a page of the French national novel that was too hastily turned. Franssou Prenant audaciously gathers a community of complicit voices who read a succession of archives (reports, testimonies, memoirs, historical, geographical, and urbanistic considerations) in a matter-of- fact tone. Recounting the stages of France's colonisation of Algeria between 1830 and 1848, they outline the ideological landscape of a staggering annihilation effort. The film could just as well have been entitled About Destruction. Franssou Prenant thus constructs a memorial with a technique common to History and cinema: montage. A montage of texts: the words of Victor Hugo, Ernest Renan, Tocqueville are interwoven with those of military men, senior officials, brigadiers, without any way of distinguishing the authors. Then, a montage of images through which yesterday's acts of violence and dispossession echo in the present: in contrast to an account of murders, the film presents a desolate desert landscape or the frank and innocent smiles of teenagers. The promises of riches offered by colonized Algeria are accompanied by shots of an opulent, Haussmann-style Parisian city centre. We are plunged into a reflection on the nature of this extraordinary violence, through a pictorial meandering into contemporary Algeria, entwined with archival extracts heard in an interplay of convergence and divergence. The piling up of texts brings to light both the ethnocentric and racist imaginary and the cold logic of economic exploitation that dictated the colonization of Algeria and its irreversible consequences, from which Algerian society still suffers today.

Seven young autistic adults in a house Saint-Hippolyte-du-Fort, in the southern Cevennes in France. Daily chores structure their existence, where each plays their piece, and a form of life is composed on the margins of society, without words.