Martine Rousset Movies

A cinematic metaphor, conceived as part of a compilation of films on AIDS, this is an emotional translation of the disease. The juxtaposition of...

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...

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

One year before starting his famous series "Cinematons", Gerard Courant had made an ancestor to this series: the portrait of Martine Rousset, filmed...

An unknown writer written under the pseudonym of Laure at the beginning of the century. Readings. Geography. The places of a writing. The forces that...

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

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

Filmmaker's visual diary aboard the Vangolu Express.

A film about my relationship to New York since 1962. It deals with the distance between a memory and the image of this memory, a distance one always...

"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...

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

On the one hand: A frame - and then windows in the frame - Spiked - from one to the other - Images designated - fenced, inside / out. Every moment...

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,...

Rousset photographs a train station in the evening, then boards a late-night train bound for mountainous Anatolia.

Portrait of experimental filmmaker Martine Rousset.

Filmmaker's visual diary during her visit to Samarcande.

Night is falling the landscape is disappearing leave the world and its memory the night, rags in its wake last page.