Private hotel

Six convicts, locked up since long or for long. Six characters, six prisoners seen openly, invited to become, too actors of the movie, in both senses of the word: actors of their own lived, played fictionned reality. Around them, a prison, all doors locked, Latticed windows, banged doors, spy-holes. The dark cell, the yard, the chapel, the cell. The warden, the doctor, the priest. Six prisoners face to face with the imprisonment. What they have done, what they will do. Their speech: off-voices, dialogue, silence. The hopes deceived the laughter sometimes, the shouting often, in this place woven with suffering and mockery, with human warmth and dream, in such a complex and often inevitably absurd place. To kill time, to wait. The letters opened by others before being read. The Saturday visit, two hours. And finally the holiday, the everyday clothes, the wife waiting. Six characters in search of existence in this in camera where, silently, life and death, escape and suicide as only alternative to nothingness and the loss of oneself, confront. Six men locked up without any mask, without cheating, staging their own reality, exasperated by, or for, the camera, in a movie where reality meets imagination, document meets narration as a part of a actual reality.