In the Christian tradition, John the Baptist is the final prophet, the prophet who, summing up the past, opens up on the possibility of an advent or coming on the far side of the present. It takes a lot of nerve and a great sense of humour to call oneself a prophet right from the film’s title. But it’s with extreme seriousness and loyalty to his namesake saint that Jean-Baptiste Alazard accomplishes the mission he’s set himself of returning to the past to reveal in it the promise of justice yet to come. The past is his own, and that of those with whom he’s chosen to live. “I’d like to paint men and women with a certain something of the eternal” (Van Gogh) - The filmmaker lays claim to this ambition and - sweet miracle - succeeds. Frames and cuts sculpt each shot like a jewellery case that makes each gesture and face gleam, setting them in eternity. At first, they’re brief, sumptuous shots, dazzling slivers of beauty plucked from a decade spent living far from the city, in the folds and margins where the sovereign life forms of a defiant people blossom. Then there are fragments of a more ancient past, taken from the history of cinema: salutations to admired masters, snatches of their films blended into the raw material with editing that exalts similarities, affirms the fraternity of forms, and produces evidence of a different humanity through the ages. A voice of prophetic resonance sings praise to this minority humanity, to the lives of these deserters - A nostalgic album of a decade of friendships and struggles, a eulogy to a libertarian people and their festive and riotous ethics - this is the miracle of Saint John Baptist: at every moment, in every image, the future bursts forth from among the memories.