Here is my reading of the opening to The Wind and the Shore.
The first rule of being a videographer is to always love your subject. I’ve been hired for a dozen things I learned to love. Formula One. Regattas. Speedhikes through the Alps. If you love it, your lens will always show its best side.
The second rule is to never fall in love with your subject. There is nothing worse to someone whose life is his lens to become blind, and there is nothing more blinding than love.
At the top of the hill, the southern French countryside rolls the way only it can, like a lake whose breeze-blown swells take centuries to rise and fall. The rolls of the land are the rolls of her heart: beautiful, lush, verdant, and unmoved even when they’re taking your breath away.
She sings when she’s happy, she sings when she’s sad. When she’s happy, she sings others’ songs, taking the pleasure they’ve given others, putting it inside herself, and letting it back out. She’ll often look at you then, or sometimes in a mirror. She rarely looks into them unless she’s dancing, and even then only as a tool.
When sad, she sings the songs of her childhood, the fifteen years before she became famous for a few good years. She doesn’t look at anything then, at least not anything outside. She looks like she’s looking for the last little puff left of her soul.
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