There is a bearded guy who sings against some unknown hotel room door, then plays guitar at the window. It’s tender and sweet; it’s Thomas Dybdahl’s Take-Away Show.
I was hidden behind the entrance to the hallway. I could see only Vincent’s swinging foot and Thomas Dybdhal’s back. I could only hear and imagine the battle. It’s a battle, what he was playing: a song that promises a large city that he will return soon, one of these days. This microphone wedged between a flowerpot and the wind. This camera leaned over the void, in the small space of a window, to better follow a man who fights with his guitar–and this song that seems to fight to free itself, to find a better space than this ordinary hotel. And at the end, the camera surrenders. After all, it has been held up high…
I’m too polite to tell you about the hesitations. Thomas Dybdahl’s calmness as he waited, since he didn’t understand much. This was hard, but we were happy. Because suddenly, a man was crying against the door to a room at the end of a squalid hallway, and we didn’t know if there was anyone behind that door. He sang, and we, we invented stories.
Translated by Caitlin Caven