A man with nothing to do all day decides to take guitar lessons. He falls for his music teacher’s flatmate who flirts with him slightly and even has the same name as the Serge Gainsbourg chanson he’s struggling to learn “Laetitia”. Not so much a passionate love story as a finely woven, laconic film about what it’s like to be just that little bit in love.
Two park benches, chewing-gum, a student waiting for her exam results, a strange young man who hangs around the park walkways, another who is bored. And a lot of sunshine. We are in a little southern French town at the end of June. Beads of sweat dot skin, skirts are shorter. The afternoon has only just begun.
A couple wordlessly makes love then she dresses and leaves. He follows her to the door and kisses her. She hurries off, a bag over her shoulder. He discovers that a black thread, probably from her stockings, has caught on a bolt near the door and it's unraveling behind her. He follows, gathering the thread as he runs. He reaches Orly; is he in time?
