With a firm hand, she opens the letterbox of her house in Montreuil. In an envelope, “Dominique Cabrera. The intimate and the political ”, the book that Julie Savelli has just dedicated to him (De l’Incidence Editeur), with contributors Annie Ernaux or Jean-Louis Comolli… “This book which tries to find meaning in my journey is a great gift, but it scares me. I plunged into my past, tried to look at the traces left as if it were the existence of another. ” All of her documentaries screened at the Center Pompidou, until May 14, and her five fictions shown at the Cinémathèque should shed light on the work of a director of whom Chris Marker said:
“Some filmmakers have the grace, we forgive them a certain carelessness. Others have the method, we forgive them a certain heaviness. Here, nothing to forgive, everything to admire. “
She offers to sit in the garden, heat the lemon water. And, since everything is sewn from childhood, here she is in Relizane, Algeria, where she was born in 1957. In her stroller, wedged behind the screen of a cinema from which she had reached a huge image: “A very strong and very violent memory” ; in his father’s shop, showing Chaplin movies in Super 8 on a white wall; in those theaters in France where Ford and Bergman were programmed, on the other side – the one where we had to live. 1962, year of the uprooting. “My parents, these heroes, arrived crushed by events which
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