When it doesn’t bloom on market stalls and in open fields in southern France, the carnation – blood red, as if bitten by a dapper criminal with a fox-like smile – perishes. North, across the English Channel, London gentlemen wear white carnations in the buttonholes of their silk lapels. In the crimson velvet interior of a cinema, a girl in a film is being used as bait. She stumbles in the eerie flicker of a street light. As usual, she’s poor and her hair is dishevelled. The street corner suddenly goes dark. Unable to see, the poor thing braces herself for the worst. And one fears (and hopes) that it will happen. And it will, unless the projector providentially overheats and the film catches fire, plunging the room into inky blackness. Yes, things look very bad for our heroine. We hear her shriek – No! – and read the French subtitle: Non!

Return to SERGE LUTENS MAIN page