I had sworn off OST, vowing to myself never to return, having been consigned either to the flames or to the bottom of the sea depending on who’s talking at the moment. But habits are hard to break, and as I found myself clicking onto the site my attention was captured by the title and photo at the top of this post.

Last night my wife, daughter and I watched The Red Balloon, a French short film from 1956 about a little Parisian boy who finds a red balloon. The balloon becomes his friend in a harsh grey world of oppressive schools, mean and indifferent grownups, and crude and violent children. Eventually the other kids wrest the balloon away from the boy and pelt it with stones, killing it. As the deflated balloon lies crushed at the top of Montmartre, which has proven to be its Golgotha, the perspective changes. We see in the streets of Paris another balloon escape the grasp of its owner and float into the air. Another balloon escapes, and another, until the sky above Paris is festooned with balloons. They gather together, a squadron of balloons setting sail for Montmartre. The little boy, mourning his red balloon, watches the balloons come to him. He grasps the string of one, then another, and another. He begins to smile again. When at last he has them all in hand he finds his feet leaving the ground — the balloons are lifting him above this killing ground. Up up he rises into the sky, until at the end of the film we are watching a whole host of balloons of every color of the rainbow carrying the little boy across the Parisian sky, heading who knows where.