Torrents of conflicting fetishes and obsessions collide with each other to rip a hole in the fabric of cinema vérité. Disembodiment, which seems to be one of Assayas’ most consistent obsessions, manifests here in the form of sublimation within the image, separating the latex encasing the physical form from the spirit of the voyeur underneath. This separation, however, does not create another conduit of creative expression; instead, it fragments the self into a series of commodities, to be exploited and reconfigured into the production of art that, in turn, exploits. Maybe the perfect encapsulation of Deleuze’s conception of the crystal image? This is a staggering masterwork that leaves both much to be said and nothing at all, because any critique of its own existence is embedded in the text itself.