This isn’t the kind of suffering that’s proud of itself, but silent, contained, having few words and images at its disposal. What counts is that it’s there. In the place that he’s had to pass through. In a convulsive gesture (watch Wiazemsky’s hands in the final scene) or a toneless voice (listen to the man talk about his psychiatric confinement: the pain of ‘putting himself together again’ between two periods of absence from himself). It’s in the ugliness of hotel rooms in a freezing cold Paris. It’s on a blood-stained sheet, in the overdue smile of one character, in the grin that passes for a smile of another. There’s nothing to say about suffering. It’s every man for himself, shot by shot.
Serge Daney, Ciné journal vol. 2 1983-1986