The Gleaners & I
Leftovers rarely look this alive. Agnès Varda takes the humble act of gleaning—picking up what others discard—and makes it quietly radical. Misshapen potatoes, furniture on sidewalks, even her own reflection: all become part of a moving essay on waste, need, and the hidden value of scraps.
The film is as much about Varda as her subjects. Her DV camera becomes a second pair of hands, roving with curiosity, dipping to the ground or tilting up to the sky. She pauses on mould in her kitchen, lingers on her aging hands, and folds herself into the film with a wry honesty that makes each digression feel essential.
Gloss is absent, but that’s the point. The Gleaners and I turns fragments into something whole, showing that cinema, like gleaning, is an art of salvage. Varda doesn’t just capture what’s overlooked—she elevates it into a feast.
The film is as much about Varda as her subjects. Her DV camera becomes a second pair of hands, roving with curiosity, dipping to the ground or tilting up to the sky. She pauses on mould in her kitchen, lingers on her aging hands, and folds herself into the film with a wry honesty that makes each digression feel essential.
Gloss is absent, but that’s the point. The Gleaners and I turns fragments into something whole, showing that cinema, like gleaning, is an art of salvage. Varda doesn’t just capture what’s overlooked—she elevates it into a feast.
Mini Review: Leftovers rarely look this alive. In The Gleaners and I, Agnès Varda takes potatoes, furniture, even her own aging hands and weaves them into an essay on waste, value, and time. Shot with a DV camera that feels like a second pair of hands, the film is modest in form but radical in spirit—cinema as salvage, scraps turned into a feast.
Watch the Trailer