Autumn trampoline
Small children on a trampoline, playing their own insular, circular games; having their monologues, their tentative steps, their inconsequential fall. It seems quite chaotic. The fallen leaves and protective netting only, remind us in a mute way that nothing lasts, that falls could be very well have consequences. The film displays little effort to interact with the subjects: can the distance be bridged? Perhaps this works like a small child: closed-off in its idiolect and play.

Night-time trampoline…

Damien Chazelle doesn't care. Not about Stroheim, not about Arzner. Does not care that he lacks the grace of Gene Kelly (I was going to call this film pachydermic, but that would be an insult to elephants everywhere who are capable of much more grace than this exhibits) or the charm of Blake Edwards (S.O.B. more than Sunset) or the wit of Robert Altman. Not that his film looks like a fluorescent nightmare with little light on the peripheral actions…

I could try and wrap this great little film in quotes of assorted greats, as I have done in private in the past. I could compare influences, produce an ancestry and thus paper over everything that makes Veranito idiosyncratic. I won't do that, the film does not require that discourse to be enjoyed: it merely demands to be taken seriously. Some may be put off by this object, eloquent though it may be. The word amateur will be bandied about…