It is the chronicle of a man before an empty bed, the most famous film scene before some recently abandoned sheets, a frustrated honeymoon aboard a barge that is as full of cats as it is of dreams. It is one of the best boat movies of all time; the twelfth best film according to Sight&Sound; a posthumous film by a premature, daring and committed filmmaker. It is a collage of kisses that roll around on the floor, a milonga devoted to a disagreement, an essay on slovenliness on a never-ending river. It is the tune of an accordion that sings to eyes the colour of the weather, a film that is submerged to capture a nameless dance under the water, the song to the dumbness of a man who runs towards a horizon that moves away. It is the best tribute to the daughter of an unrepeatable filmmaker, the memory of her time on our table, her eternal smile in one of our squares. It is L´Atalante.