Martine Rousset Movies

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

Originally a text in fragments, more or less biographical, of different characters. Crossed stories, mixed times, memories and inventions. Coming...

The unfinished Julien Gracq text, the road 1970, a forest near the sea, the enigma of a trajectory, by this text in this lanscape and this...

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,...

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,...

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...

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...

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

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

Filmmaker's visual diary aboard the Vangolu Express.

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

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...

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

Portrait of experimental filmmaker Martine Rousset.

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

Filmmaker's visual diary during her visit to Samarcande.

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

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