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An international co-production between Elisabeth Sylvia (author, Canada)
and Alice Angeletti (filmmaker, Germany) as part of a seven-day film workshop
based on a written work (Hannover Film Festival: Sprungbrett 2014)

--

What she knew (written by Elisabeth)

She was so quiet, so muted and motionless,
that she was hardly there. They did not
name her. Or know where she came from or
if she would leave. She did not bleed. 

She did not cry. She relented to their
every wish. Without ever saying a word.
Because she belonged to them.

And that was the truth.

They never knew where she slept. She
left no traces in the bed or dishes in
the sink. The ceilings would sometimes
succumb to her weight and they would look
to see. But only shadows grew from her
wooden posture. She left no discord.

Just remnant puffs of air.

And that was the truth.

They talked about her sometimes. They
thought that perhaps they should give
her up. They had no children. Just layers
of joy and sadness. They wanted something
different. They were tired and could not
keep up with her. But it would break their
hearts. So they stayed.

And that was the truth.

They would sometimes leave. A few hours,
a few days. Once they left for an entire
summer. But they always returned. She
could not go with them. She never knew
where they went and they never told her.
Maybe they had other lives. They sometimes
brought back things. Unexplained things.
Filling bookshelves and frames. She could
only imagine. And she did. She knew all

of their secrets. Even the made up ones.
But she didn’t care.

Because the truth is boring. 

 

An international co-production between Elisabeth Sylvia (author, Canada)
and Alice Angeletti (filmmaker, Germany) as part of a seven-day film workshop
based on a written work (Hannover Film Festival: Sprungbrett 2014)

--

What she knew (written by Elisabeth)

She was so quiet, so muted and motionless,
that she was hardly there. They did not
name her. Or know where she came from or
if she would leave. She did not bleed. 

She did not cry. She relented to their
every wish. Without ever saying a word.
Because she belonged to them.

And that was the truth.

They never knew where she slept. She
left no traces in the bed or dishes in
the sink. The ceilings would sometimes
succumb to her weight and they would look
to see. But only shadows grew from her
wooden posture. She left no discord.

Just remnant puffs of air.

And that was the truth.

They talked about her sometimes. They
thought that perhaps they should give
her up. They had no children. Just layers
of joy and sadness. They wanted something
different. They were tired and could not
keep up with her. But it would break their
hearts. So they stayed.

And that was the truth.

They would sometimes leave. A few hours,
a few days. Once they left for an entire
summer. But they always returned. She
could not go with them. She never knew
where they went and they never told her.
Maybe they had other lives. They sometimes
brought back things. Unexplained things.
Filling bookshelves and frames. She could
only imagine. And she did. She knew all

of their secrets. Even the made up ones.
But she didn’t care.

Because the truth is boring. 

 

  An international co-production between Elisabeth Sylvia (author, Canada) and  Alice Angeletti  (filmmaker, Germany) as part of a seven-day film workshop based on a written work ( Hannover Film Festival: Sprungbrett 2014 )   --   What she knew  (written by Elisabeth)   She was so quiet, so muted and motionless, that she was hardly there. They did not name her. Or know where she came from or if she would leave. She did not bleed.    She did not cry. She relented to their every wish. Without ever saying a word. Because she belonged to them.    And that was the truth.     They never knew where she slept. She left no traces in the bed or dishes in the sink. The ceilings would sometimes succumb to her weight and they would look to see. But only shadows grew from her wooden posture. She left no discord.   Just remnant puffs of air.    And that was the truth.     They talked about her sometimes. They thought that perhaps they should give her up. They had no children. Just layers of joy and sadness. They wanted something different. They were tired and could not keep up with her. But it would break their hearts. So they stayed.     And that was the truth.     They would sometimes leave. A few hours, a few days. Once they left for an entire summer. But they always returned. She could not go with them. She never knew where they went and they never told her. Maybe they had other lives. They sometimes brought back things. Unexplained things. Filling bookshelves and frames. She could only imagine. And she did. She knew all   of their secrets. Even the made up ones. But she didn’t care.    Because the truth is boring.