Night Falls

Bursting forth, as only a spring can surge, the penetrating voice of Christian Morissonneau (1939–2019) breaks the night and reminds us of the power of the spoken word in recounting our History. For, as he said, words are the engine of its transmission—now stalled—and we must, at all costs, proclaim and reclaim them so that nurturing History may continue to sow seeds in our imagination.

Thus, carried by the ecstatic splendor of Wagner’s Lohengrin overture, the historian-poet situates the genesis of his tale—like a contemporary Hesiod—in primordial chaos, leading to the Promethean struggle of Shawinigan’s engineers, who “stole fire from water” to bring the indigent farmers of the Mauricie countryside a glimmer of electric hope. This marks the fabulous and exuberant beginning of an “unquestionable” industrial capitalism, which, too quickly, is tragically suffocated by its ruthless successor: financial capitalism. A poignant testament to this are the ruins of the once-glorious Belgo paper mill, traversed by Morissonneau’s double.

Woven with meticulous care, Ariane Bilodeau's film follows in the footsteps of one she cherishes as a brother in spirit and companion of the night: the German Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich (Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog), to reveal the tragedy of the landscape. As mystical mists haunt the depopulated city, drained of its dreams, light and shadow blend torrentially and shimmer in the grain of silver salts. Nature, irresistible, asserts its dominion over vain humanity.

Then, as the horns and bassoons of Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess echo the whistles of trains in a languid elegy, a hand opens onto the void—a metaphor for the elusive relationship we have with the world, and simultaneously a call to sensuality, curiosity, and freedom.

The visual and auditory overlays, like ghostly vapors shrouding the city’s drama, brilliantly conjugate past with future, presence with absence.
 

Richard Brouillette
Filmmaker, producer, chicken farmer, and accountant