Martine Rousset Movies

Readings. Heinrich von Kleist / Robert Walser. Contiguous. They talk about imagination. Walser imagines Kleist, Kleist nobody, but Penthesilea. In...

Portrait of experimental filmmaker Martine Rousset.

This is what the city offers the passing foreigner: gold and night to the visitor who has barely arrived. Fragments, the stone found by the...

Landscapes. A utilitarian nature. Contemporary. Cruel images. Changing. Seasons. The watch could be eternal. Each image transparent and non-avenue....

Listen to the trace, over the absent times, from the shore, at the very edge of the page, in the blind corner where the reader is held, give a voice,...

"Readings. A place. Purity of lines. Fine angles. Dominance of whites and blues. Fragility of tapered glasses." A visual evocation of the writing of...

Winter, fog, outside. The outline of eyes, sometimes we could ride those trails.

The last part of the Carolyn Carlson cycle. Last look. Oversight. Irreversible erasure. The song is immersed. Blinded.

Traces of stories. The images themselves. Tear off. Stain. To paint. Makes light out of them.

With Istanbul, Martine Rousset puts on the brakes to the world's movement through a cinema of deceleration. At the boundaries between image by image...

"With Un vent leger dans le feuillage, a fixed close-up which for three minutes decays a few leaves of their green color, Martine Rousset films the...

Filmmaker's visual diary during her visit to Samarcande.

The city is leaving, slowly casting off, on the edge of time... It is leaving lightly... Not so far away, elsewhere, where time passes, has passed,...

in the meantime , lighthouse , old lighthouse , far away , beyond the ponds , coolpix , little coolpix , long before the perfect clone .

"Yerevan, Armenia, in the illegible secret of the country, imprisoned in its shadows, in its nights of the underground, nights of the basements,...

Wandering through Central Asia, the Caucasus, Kurdistan… to Istanbul. Cities and trains, steppes and snow, down there where the pulse of time...

"The sea is a language whose meaning we have lost" Jorge Luis Borges