Marcel Proust (1871-1922) is on his deathbed. Looking at photographs brings memories of his childhood, his youth, his lovers, and the way the Great War put an end to a stratum of society. His memories are in no particular order, they move back and forth in time.
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Magnificent film-making. I haven't read Proust but this gives the impression of being one of the finest literary adaptations in cinema. Enigmatic, complex and subtle in execution with wonderful acting, compelling cinematography and the master touch of a directorial genius throughout.
Reminiscent of Eternity and a Day, Time Regained is a poignant film and a delightful experience through the numerous paths of one's life. A foray into memories engulfed by all of life's senses. Universal and charismatic. One of my favourite films of his without doubt.
I just LOVED this film. It's mystifying, melancholy, haunting... The music, the perfect cinematography, not to mention the period reconstruction, make it just perfect. Emmanuelle Beart might prompt me to change my sexual orientation, she's that perfect!
35mm, rewatched, re-rated. Between the first time i saw it and now, i read Proust's magna opera and that was exactly the reason that led me to re-approach a film by a filmmaker of whom i very much care and a writer that i admire and, again i realize that the meeting is a failed one. On one hand, the recurrences of ideas and times through literary phrases can never find a cinematographic writing as an illustration...
As a gateway into Proust's mastery, an accessible biopic; his surrounding milieu of early 20th century French aristocratic life is authentically depicted. Superimposed apparitions, montages of time, an ellipsis of colliding memories, linearity playfully manipulated; the blur of each soirée, a canvas of aesthetic and sensory inception, even if it is not definitive in articulating his poetry beyond sight and sound. 3.5
Exquisitely choreographed magical realist take on Proust; those memories both sweet and bitter, but also not a little of the disillusionment of the present that drove Proust into his self-imposed exile on Boulevard Hausmann. Like Proust's masterwork, the great films implant something in us that cannot be satisfied by the film itself; not an ending but a beginning, an awakening of a forgotten life.