A romantic sonata, masterful and reflexive, between Bergman and Murakami.
A village of black houses facing the infinity of the water in Iceland, by the sea. In his lair, a novelist struggles, on his old Olivetti, to write the truth about a couple who went on holiday to find themselves. Who’s having fun? he wonders, leaving the typewritten pages under the bright south window. The radio, meanwhile, gives news from another world: the earthquake in Fukushima, the assassination of Bin Laden, the war in Syria. To the rhythm of the four seasons of the year, like a Nordic counterpoint to Vivaldi’s famous concertos, South Window transforms this simple story of love and ghosts into an immense book about the twilights of creation. As the ink runs out, the writer will soon be typing white on white, walking across the page like one walks in the snow.
