Hiroshima, mon amour

Regie Alain Resnais

16

10. Juni 1959 1 Std., 32 Min. Kinokassen: 3.193 $Drama, Historie,

7.896%89%7.7

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Japan, 1957: Eine französische Filmschauspielerin ist zu Dreharbeiten für einen Antikriegsfilm nach Hiroshima gekommen. Kurz vor ihrer Abreise verliebt sie sich in einen japanischen Architekten. Die leidenschaftliche Liebesnacht mit ihm weckt in ihr die Erinnerung an ihre erste Liebe, einen deutschen Soldaten, der am Tag der Befreiung vor ihren Augen erschossen wurde.

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Besetzung von Hiroshima, mon amour

Emmanuelle RivaElle
Eiji OkadaLui
Stella DassasMother
Pierre BarbaudFather
Bernard FressonGerman Lover
Alain ResnaisRegie
Marguerite DurasDrehbuch
Anatole DaumanProduzent
Samy HalfonProduzent
Minoru EsakaProduction Design
Lucilla MussiniProduction Design
PetriProduction Design
MayoProduction Design
Michio TakahashiDirector Of Photography
Sacha ViernyDirector Of Photography
Alexandre MarcusMakeup Artist
Gerard ColleryCostume Design
Anne SarrauteSchnitt
Jasmine ChasneySchnitt
Henri ColpiSchnitt
Alle

Hiroshima, mon amour Rezensionen & Wertungen

CrossCutCritic5. Mai 2025
“You Saw Nothing in Hiroshima” A Soliloquy for the Soul That Remembers Too Much and Too Little --- There is a silence that follows catastrophe. Not peace. Not even grief. Just silence. The kind that seeps under your skin and stays. In Alain Resnais’s Hiroshima Mon Amour, a French actress and a Japanese architect spend a single day and night together, their bodies tangled in the shadow of two traumas: the atomic bomb and a doomed love from wartime France. What begins as an affair becomes a fugue of memory, confession, and forgetting. She says she remembers. He says she saw nothing. And the film quietly agrees. You can’t remember Hiroshima. You can only be haunted by it. --- This is not a film about war. It is about the aftermath. Not the bang, but the ache. Not the fire, but the ash it leaves in your soul. They lie in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, but it is not intimacy—it is exile. They are not together so much as lost beside each other. Trying, in vain, to turn flesh into absolution. It doesn’t work. It never does. Because desire cannot resurrect the dead. And memory cannot heal what still bleeds. --- Hiroshima Mon Amour is cinema’s most delicate scream. A murmur of a movie that somehow levels you. Its narrative drifts like smoke, circular and hypnotic, just like trauma. It knows that remembering is not clean. It is jagged. Messy. Seductive. Shameful. And that forgetting is even worse. She tells her story, once buried, now erupting from her body like radiation. He listens, but cannot absolve her. She confesses her dead German lover. Her shaved head. Her confinement. Her madness. Her exile. And still—he cannot enter it. He has his own losses. His own wound. This is not a love story. It is a confession booth without a priest. --- And maybe that’s why it hurts. Because it feels so much like us. We try to love our way out of memory. Out of shame. Out of Hiroshima. Out of Nevers. But the wound is still there. And the more we touch it, the more it bleeds. --- There’s a theology hidden in this film—deep, cruciform, barely whispered. It’s not Christian in any overt way. But it is painfully human. And God is never far from the human wound. The cross is not in the symbols here. It is in the silence. It is in the loneliness that love cannot fix. When she whispers, “I’ll forget you,” And he says, “I’ll remember you always,” You feel the full weight of our condition. We are creatures who can’t hold on— Not to each other. Not to history. Not even to ourselves. --- But maybe grace is not in the holding. Maybe grace is in the ache. Maybe the cross means: > “You are not forgotten—even when you forget yourself.” That the silence is not empty. That even our shame does not exile us from being beloved. That God, unlike us, remembers perfectly— and still stays. --- Hiroshima Mon Amour is not a hopeful film. But it is holy. In its haunting. In its honesty. In its refusal to lie about love, memory, or loss. And in its final frames, when names are spoken not in triumph but in mourning— we understand what Baldwin always knew: That the heart breaks not just from pain. But from how deeply it longs to be known… and how often it isn’t. *** If this review moved you, you might find resonance in others like it. Each film below traces the ache of memory, the mystery of grace, and the wound that becomes the doorway: Winter Light – A pastor’s crisis of faith in a world gone silent. Ordet – Resurrection hidden in madness and prayer. Kapò – A Holocaust parable of shame, surrender, and being found. Mickey 17 – Sci-fi resurrection and the trauma of being used. Tree of Life – A cosmic hymn of grief, memory, and divine love. The Safety of Objects – Suburban pain, barely concealed. Through a Glass Darkly – Schizophrenia, divine silence, and the hunger for love.

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