Film Process August 18th

I want to play around with the sound. The voiceover is too clean. It sounds too much like an audio recording, I'm not sure what the point of it is, other than to make sense of the images, so I need to minimise it somehow, make it do something else. The first section, up until the counting, is basically the recall. I like the idea of this being called into question. Who is recalling it? Clearly Cécile, but who is asking her to recall it? As there has been a death, and she may be somewhat implicated, I like the idea of her being questioned, of retelling her story, and I want to recreate this here. So, like an interview tape, and I like the notion of some bits being played over and over, repeated, doubled up. I don't think I need to go as far as making the sound of rewinding, but I will play with the sound.

Below is the text.

At six o'clock on our return from the islands, Cyril would pull the boat into the sand.

We would go up to the house through the pine wood in single file, pretending we were Indians, or run races to warm ourselves up.

He always caught me before we reached the house and would spring on me with a shout of victory, rolling me on the pine needles, pinning my arms down and kissing me.

I can still remember those light breathless kisses and Cyril's heart beating against mine in rhythm with the soft thud of the waves on the sand...

At six o'clock on our return from the islands, Cyril would pull the boat into the sand.

We would go up to the house through the pine wood in single file, pretending we were Indians, or run races to warm ourselves up.

He always caught me before we reached the house and would spring on me with a shout of victory, rolling me on the pine needles, pinning my arms down and kissing me.

I can still remember those light breathless kisses and Cyril's heart beating against mine in rhythm with the soft thud of the waves on the sand...

At six o'clock on our return from the islands Cyril would pull the boat into the sand.

We would go up to the house through the pine wood in single file, pretending we were Indians, or run races to warm ourselves up.

He always caught me before we reached the house and would spring on me with a shout of victory, rolling me on the pine needles, pinning my arms down and kissing me.

I can still remember those light breathless kisses and Cyril's heart beating against mine in rhythm with the soft thud of the waves on the sand...