February 24, 2022, Russian troops descend on Ukraine. Once the shock has passed, how can we respond? For Marine Hugonnier, it will be a matter of using her means—cinema, images—driven, as she specifies in the introduction, by "a desire to present a common front and a common image." This is the announced program. With a twofold gesture, first going to the Polish border, then once there, filming. Then transporting supplies to Kyiv. Thus, in the opening, recorded in grainy 16mm black and white, a familiar but dual universe unfolds before our eyes: an ordinary train station, but a station that also summons all the emblematic images of exoduses with which European history is sadly rich. A night interior, pale light, camera planted in the heart of a crowded corridor. A busy crowd—women and children mostly—gestures, hubbub that resonates like a common voice. The film unfolds from this central point, from encounter to encounter, in multiple narratives, carried by refugees or by those who came to help. It finds its strength in shots of faces composed like so many portraits. Faces and their stories; the decision to separate them allows for a double movement, of listening and attention. Presences appear suspended, between the power of speech and the stubborn presence of bodies to be there, like this female doctor determined to return to Ukraine to heal, or this young man who came to fight. Creating a common image would then consist of impressing the film with a camera like a "body projected into the present." With images which, although filmed in March 2022, already seem to us, a disturbing paradox, to bear History. That of a moment in suspense, of war as a threat just actualized rather than as a reality crushing bodies and landscapes.