Au Cinéma ce soir

Description

At the Cinema tonight…
And every other day of life…
“Cinema is probably the only place in the world where a man can cry, even sob, without the slightest shame,” confides Jean-Marc Luisada.
The artist is much more than a film lover. He becomes a creator himself when he multiplies encounters between music, image, and text. Because he is primarily, at the piano, a storyteller, he draws inspiration from the stories of the world, from the most mundane to the most extraordinary, to enrich his own universe, the one he conveys when he is on stage, facing the audience.
In truth, his own playing and that of his students - for he is one of the most sought-after teachers - is above all “retinal.” Indeed, he captures the vibrations of light, the wave of movements, the dialogues that have become silent at the piano and yet are shared with two hands. One does not know, then, if the image is imprinted on the score or if the score reflects in every shot imagined by the director. The final work, projected or edited, is of an unyielding logic; it invites one to travel into the ineffable, to confession like a mazurka by Chopin, a silence by Bergman. Every composer, every director is the signatory of their own climate, of their almost tangible scent that clings to the film, and the films, the most beautiful ones, those that tighten the throat or make one laugh out loud, distill a unique atmosphere, just like a page with only the strings of Mahler. Immortality in just over an hour…
Each feature film thus accompanies a human destiny. It lives again under all the costumes, languages, and latitudes: Mahler and Death in Venice by Visconti, Brahms and The Lovers by Louis Malle or Rendez-vous à Bray by André Delvaux, Gershwin and Manhattan by Woody Allen, Wagner and Ludwig by Visconti, Rota and Casanova, but also La Dolce Vita by Fellini, Chopin and Cries and Whispers by Bergman, Joplin and The Sting by George Roy Hill, Mozart and The Wind from the Plain by John Huston…
These dramatic and happy moments represent much more than mere fragments of life. They nourish our soul, on par with the greatest texts of which we only imperfectly remember. It doesn’t matter. Such music makes us hope for the greatness of humanity, for its dreams, for its disappointed hopes, sometimes, but mad, so often.