In
summer 2001 and 2002, this man in his rocking chair rocked, impassive,
1000 times 20 seconds per day at Mont Parnasse, between two
advertisements. One day, a woman dialed the telephone number marked on
the bottom of the screen. She simply wanted to thank this man, as well
as the person who had filmed him. "Every night when I return home, I
watch the Indian. He comforts me. Thank you." A real moment for a true
fiction in which the Indian is the image that does the calling
a natural history that takes detours by/with Richard Ray Whitman, Joe dale Tate Nevaquaya, Pierre Lobstein
Archetype
of the dream factory and forever barbaric. He looks at us. It looks at
us. She looks at him. This is the story of a see-sawing between a white
world and a red world. Of a see-sawing between man and woman. Between
reality and myth. Between light and shadow. Between anthropology and
fiction. It is the story of the toppling of our gaze where, in the end
the flame of Eros ignites the magic of the image. It is a natural
history of human nature. It is already written as it will be written on
the way... Can an image change lives? Can two sexes imagine its magic?
It is the story of two barbarians lighting up in the heart of the Empire