AU HASARD BALTHAZAR (1966) | Robert Bresson

There are films that speak, and there are films that pray. Robert Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar is a prayer—a mournful, mysterious hymn offered through the eyes of a donkey. Yet even to call it that seems too slight. For Balthazar is not merely a symbol, nor a metaphor, nor a narrative device. He is presence. Innocence. Suffering. Grace.

This film, like the others enshrined in The Lost Gallery, asks us to see differently. Not through the lens of plot, but through the quietude of perception. Bresson, the master of restraint, pares away drama until what remains is essence. We witness the life of Balthazar, passed from one owner to another, bearing human cruelty, indifference, tenderness—and in doing so, he becomes a mirror. Not to our society, but to our souls.

The cinema here is pure: stripped of spectacle, devoid of sentimentality, transcending entertainment. Each cut is exact, each gesture measured. No unnecessary emotion, no musical manipulation. Only the stark reality of existence, as seen through a gaze that is both unsparing and compassionate.

And in the end, as Balthazar lies down among a flock of sheep—his final breath mingling with the bleating of innocence—the silence is unbearable.

And holy.

Au Hasard Balthazar is not a film to be understood. It is to be venerated. To be entered in stillness.

This is why it finds its rightful place in The Lost Gallery.

Let it be enshrined. Let it be remembered. Let it be seen with reverence.