Cinema has entered my life with arrogance since I was a child. It featured the happiest times and the darkest times. It pampered me and punched me. It ended up becoming a passion, a companion. I have studied it for years and it has been my job for a while.
From the evenings at twelve, accompanied to the first show by mom and dad to see Space Jam, Forrest Gump or Hook, to summer afternoons between grams of weed and smoky discussions with my best friend in front of Polanski and Kubrick and Coppola and Weir. From teenage evenings to discover Antonioni, Fellini, Bergman, Allen and Tarantino with my brothers, to morning screenings to see Griffith and Welles and Renoir and Hitchcock and Truffaut at university. And again Spielberg and Zemeckis.
And then the smell of rotten figs on the driveway that led to an open-air cinema near the sea, the wooden armchairs of the second-run cinema in the village near the house; halftime and the guy with the ice cream. The ruined tape of the vhs.
Cinema has told me about lives, helped me get closer to my father and grow up to escape in the worst moments. And I could go on for hours, creating memories.
But all this, everything I could tell, my every declaration of love is also in Laurent Durieux‘s movie posters. Among the details of his illustrations, the lines of his textures. In his infallible ability to know how to choose whether to tell or tell about living.
“Il cinema è il modo più diretto per entrare in competizione con Dio.“