Vertigo is a feeling of anguish, a state of confusion, a passing madness. It is the men who go round in circles, trapped in Pointe-à-Pitre, a labyrinthine city. They cross it by walking, returning to the same places like an endless pilgrimage. For a long time, Eddy paced it day and night.

I tell the story of Pointe-à-Pitre, the metamorphoses of this city which was that of the working people, of revolts crushed in blood. It is now nothing more than a ghost town.

And yet is there not still something that resists the frenetic pace of change, that persists in the memories of fallen independence fighters like Ti Chal, in the silence of Kanpèch who was a worker at the Darse and who today returns there to offer his services as a fish scaler.
Seers anchored in a city that is wavering, holders of a memory buried in the folds of their silences or the meanders of their inner voices, the characters I film are suspended on the edge of the abyss of the city, on the edge of the chaos of the world. They become my anchor points, I join them, I listen to them, I slip into their footsteps and dive into their gaze.

Their vertigo is ours.