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Louis Trebor (Michel Subor), a robust and mysterious loner, lives in an isolated woodland compound in the Jura Mountains along the French-Swiss border. Heart disease forces Louis to leave his snow-covered wilderness, visit a bank vault in Geneva and withdraw enough cash for a new heart on the black market. Director/co-writer Claire Denis (Beau Travail) takes us on his life-changing journey, where the limits of reality and fantasy collide and images speak louder than words, as Louis receives a heart transplant, travels around the world and searches for the lost son he fathered years ago.

 The Intruder

In my cranium, it is empty, so it seems vast, unlimited, and yet it is enclosed. It is like a large studio and everything seems possible.

In my chest, once past the sensitive boundary of my breasts, where skin is more fragile than elsewhere, in my chest I am swallowed up in the swaying of respiratory movements, breathing, the breath of life.

To find a beating heart, I must change perspective, everything must be reversed. I am inside, in the ribcage. There, I am small, Lilliputian, a larva in a forest in summer. The forest is sultry, powerful, it rustles and quivers. The trunks of pine trees thrust upwards underneath me like columns, they meet and close to form an arch. Like the bars of a cage, like the gray bones of a skeleton.

As a child, the Jura forest where my aunt forcibly dragged me in order to breathe fresh air gave me asthma attacks. I anticipated the day when, finally an adult, I would master it, I would be languid, a real daughter of nature, bare-skinned and confident. Forgetting, as a result, the cage, closed like the teeth in a jaw, and the fragility of a body.

The Intruder, like any intruder, arrived secretly, wormed its way in and gnawed away, bit by bit, at my imaginary territory.

The film is not a person, animal or virus but its design (grand plan) slowly, stealthily unfurls.