Robert Bresson’s Mouchette feels less like a film and more like a silent wound. Every frame is stripped of comfort, yet somehow filled with compassion for a girl the world refuses to understand. Bresson doesn’t ask for tears, he simply observes suffering with unbearable honesty. That ending left me empty in the most beautiful way possible.
Robert Bresson’s Mouchette feels less like a film and more like a silent wound. Every frame is stripped of comfort, yet somehow filled with compassion for a girl the world refuses to understand. Bresson doesn’t ask for tears, he simply observes suffering with unbearable honesty. That ending left me empty in the most beautiful way possible.