The gesture seems removed from the real world, inviting the viewer to hanker after this quaint alternative.
In one scene, the boy asks a grandfatherly figure to look after the balloon while he goes to school, instructing his airborne companion to wait patiently for him, speaking as if it were a pet. It is mischievous but loyal, often hovering just beyond the reach of its owner, but always keeping close. Gleaming amid the dreary streets is a red balloon, waiting to be collected by a young boy.
The camera snatches repeatedly at the string dangling from the floating orb’s form, trying to tie it down, hoping to wrap it around our hand for safekeeping. Each expressive lilt is an act of manipulation by an off-screen puppeteer, movements determined by the tweaking of near-invisible wires. It is neither digitally contrived nor a visual trick it is palpable and easily punctured. The mortality of this plastic pocket of helium causes us to grow anxious.
Lifeless cityscapes are transformed within the sheen of its reflective, convex surface, as if soaked in rosé, or seen through a vinous cloud.Īs the minutes elapse, the tension inflates. An anthropomorphic bubble of life, it bobs along with buoyant optimism, weaving and swooping with every twist and turn of the tale. We would barely recognise this as a colour film, were it not for the bright, scarlet balloon illuminating each frame. We survey the grey pavements of Paris, sky and streets seemingly laid from the same colourless concrete.
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