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Whenever I'm Alone with You (2023, France)

 

Whenever I'm Alone with You (2023, France)

by Guillaume Campanacci & Vesper Egon

The film opens with a warning:

“If you want to watch a romantic comedy, I’m sorry.”

Moments later, a woman sits in a bathtub wearing delicate lace lingerie, and the film lays out a few more... conditions.
Is this a strange film? Perhaps.
The typographic “play” at the beginning immediately brought to mind Godard—and the influence of 1960s Nouvelle Vague aesthetics doesn’t stop there.

As in nearly every film, we have a man. His name is Guillaume. And as in nearly every film, we have a woman. Her name is Tatiana. She’s the one in the tub—into which Guillaume eventually jumps as well.
The scene, accompanied by music, works beautifully.
Then we move on to another moment, where a voiceover introduces Tatiana.

So the film begins after a few scenes… or perhaps it only feels like it begins after a few scenes. Either way, it does begin—but…

Since the film doesn’t rely on traditional cinematic narrative, the viewer is left constantly wondering: what am I seeing, and in what order?
Time skips around, jumping between moments and moods, giving the whole film an episodic feel.

There are tributes to Godard everywhere:
jump cuts, sudden audio dropouts, even entire scenes “toned” in red or blue hues.
It’s as if tricks are sprinkled throughout just for the joy of it—but it works.

Sometimes, we’re firmly in the present. The dialogue flows, at times sharp and witty, as in a memorable scene where Guillaume and Tatiana debate gender roles.
Then we’re back in the bathroom—this time sharing wine in intimate conversation.
The tone shifts into something more like a home video or documentary. In certain scenes, we even see the characters’ thoughts appear as text on screen—a gimmick, sure, but one that actually lands quite nicely.

So what, then, is this film really about?
What does it want to say—if anything?

If a film could be a poem—a prose poem—not a poetic film but a film structured like a poem, this would be it:
floating, compressed, moving by the logic of dreams.
A series of moments strung together in time and tone: people falling in love, breaking up, yearning, desiring.

And yes, in such a poem, there would surely be room for King Alain Delon and David Bowie—perhaps as spiritual artifacts, icons glowing at the edges of memory and longing.

As Marcel Proust once wrote:

“Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.”



 

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