Martin Rit

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 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.

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 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.

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.