Martine Rousset Movies

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...

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

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...

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...

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

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

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

"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...

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

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

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

Filmmaker's visual diary during her visit to Samarcande.

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

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,...

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,...

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

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