Hiroshima, Mon Amour has scored filmland’s grand slam. It has won the New York film critics’ award as the best foreign film of the past year and posies from the Freudians, CORE, SANE and the New York Times. Now it is being shown in local American theaters to instruct the populace that, whatever happens, we must never contemplate war again.
As the film opens, the audience is treated to a close-up of a woman’s hands convulsively caressing and digging into a man’s bare back. It is abundantly clear that the featured dramatis personae are not picking huckleberries; but as the players continue, we learn from their dialogue that contemporary Hiroshima is the mise en scène, that she has seen the World War II ruins during her stay (She: “Now I have seen it.” He, somberly: “No, you have not seen it”); that the twin atomic bombings took many lives (“These figures are official,” she reminds her lover, nibbling on his ear) ; and that the world is still sadly plagued with political systems that allow class conflict.




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