Guest
In a bird-warbling prologue, we skim over the green and dense water to reach an undefined piece of land, an old woman’s wonderful cobbled-up shelter, a timeless off-the-map place. Motu Maeva is the name of that island from where happy memories, as well as some others we guess are more painful, will spread out: a beautiful life-long trip across Africa, Asia, Polynesia. Without troubling about using any chronology or following a specific route, going as memories arise and mix without hierarchy great moments of the existence and small anecdotes, this portrait, in the form of a trip or a survey, follows an unceasing movement. We jump unexpectedly from Chad to Indochina, then to Tahiti. We stop for a moment, listen to a song, then set off again a few years later, or ’s where the beauty of Motu Maeva lies: a total freedom, with no required stop, only trembling images captured on super-8 film and the voice-over of a woman whose civil status or secret wounds we’ll never know. Free from the commonplaces of
