Sabzian #1

Sabzian.be Sabzian is a collection of online reflections on cinema and maps cinephile events in Belgium and surroundings

“If I didn’t have to go on living, and were courageous enough, I’d have liked to be hanged from the beams of cinema.

If I had the courage to protest… I would use filmmaking as a tool to fight all injustice.”

Hossein Sabzian in Close-Up Long Shot (Mamhoud Chokrollahi & Moslem Mansouri, 1996)

www.sabzian.be

nl Sabzian verwijst naar het hoofdpersonage uit de film Close-Up (1990) van de Iraanse filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami.

De film vloeide voort uit een bijzonder fait divers waar Kiarostami op stootte in een krant. Een jonge werkloze uit Teheran, Hossein Sabzian, deed zich voor als de bekende filmmaker, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, misleidde een hele familie, werd opgepakt en uiteindelijk vergeven door zijn slachtoffers. Zijn motief bleek niet crimineel van aard.

Hij eigende zich de identiteit van de filmmaker toe uit liefde voor cinema. Kiarostami ‘re-enact’ deze gebeurtenissen met dezelfde mensen en plaatst hiertegenover het beeldmateriaal van Sabzians proces.

Hierdoor ontstaat een continue dialectische beweging: hoe verhoudt cinema zich tot ons leven, wat is echt en niet echt, is elke fictie een leugen? Bedachtzaam kijkt de film zichzelf in de ogen. Close-Up is een hommage aan cinema en het leven, het filmische equivalent van het staren in een spiegel die tegenover een andere spiegel staat: elke realiteit zit vervat binnen een nog bredere realiteit. De toeschouwer wordt als het ware gedwongen in een tunnel van steeds verschillende waarheden te kijken.

Is Sabzian niet de figuur van de ware cinefiel, die via cinema probeert binnen te breken in de werkelijkheid, die bij momenten helemaal opgaat in het prisma dat film is. De Amerikaanse cineast Frank Capra verwoordde het ooit zo: “Film is a disease.

When it infects your bloodstream, it takes over as the number one hormone; it bosses the enzymes; directs the pineal gland; plays Iago to your psyche.

As with heroin, the antidote to film is more film”.

Deze website wil een cinefiele landkaart zijn voor België en omstreken.

De Engelstalige agenda is een vaak onvolledige, maar steeds persoonlijke gids. Geen geautomatiseerd knip- en plakwerk, maar een teder zoeken naar datgene wat soms gewoon rondslingert.

Een netwerk van evenementen, vertoningen en tentoonstellingen die op een bepaald moment de mogelijke contouren van het cinefiele weefsel vormen, wars van de dictatuur van het nieuwe, buiten het verschroeiende brandpunt van de aandacht.

Daarnaast biedt de website ruimte aan voornamelijk Nederlandstalige teksten rond cinema en beeldcultuur.

Een andere film van Kiarostami uit 1987 stelt een vraag: Waar is het huis van mijn vriend? ‘Het’ huis ligt altijd verderop, aan de rand van de horizon, maar onderweg zijn er nog andere plaatsen om te schuilen, om in te verwijlen: Sabzian wil zo ‘een’ huis zijn. Een huis tussen andere huizen. Want het huis van de cinema is maar al te vaak dichtgemetseld, waardoor het betreden onmogelijk wordt.

Sabzian wil een denken in beweging zijn. Een hangende pas. Een voet op de grond, de andere in de lucht. Schrijven als een beweging naar binnen, als een eindeloos binnenstappen in beelden, klanken, gedachten en werelden.

fr Sabzian renvoie au protagoniste du film Close-Up (1990) du réalisateur iranien Abbas Kiarostami.

pineal gland; plays Iago to your psyche. As with heroin, the antidote to film is more film”.

Le film est basé sur un fait divers que Kiarostami avait lu dans un journal. Un jeune chômeur s’était fait passer pour le célèbre réalisateur iranien Mohsen Makhalmbaf et avait escroqué toute une famille de Téhéran en leur faisant croire qu’ils seraient les vedettes de son futur long métrage. Il avait été arrêté, puis pardonné par ses victimes.

L’imposteur avait justifié son méfait en disant qu’il y avait été poussé par sa passion pour le cinéma.

Kiarostami fait rejouer au jeune imposteur et aux membres de la famille certains épisodes de ce fait divers et oppose à ce ‘re-enactment’ les images du procès réel qu’il a filmé en même temps.

Ce site internet veut être une carte cinématographique pour la Belgique et ses environs.

Cette construction particulière du film fait naître un mouvement dialectique continuel: quel est le rapport entre le cinéma et la vie, entre la réalité et la fiction, la fiction est-elle mensongère par définition? L’étrange mélange de scènes de cinéma-vérité et de séquences de pure mise en scène fait effet de miroir. Close-Up est un hommage au cinéma et à la vie, l’équivalent cinématographique du regard reflété dans un miroir en face d’un autre miroir: chaque réalité est contenue dans une réalité plus large encore.

Le spectateur est pour ainsi dire obligé de regarder dans un tunnel où se confrontent sans cesse des vérités différentes.

Sabzian ne représente-t-il pas le vrai cinéphile, celui qui veut pénétrer dans la réalité par le biais du cinéma, celui qui se perd dans le prisme qu’est un film? Comme le disait le réalisateur américain Frank Capra: “Film is a disease. When its infects your bloodstream, it takes over as the number one hormone; it bosses the enzymes; directs the

L’agenda en anglais sert de guide, un guide souvent incomplet mais toujours personnel qui n’est pas le fruit d’un simple copier/coller mais se veut une recherche tendre et raffinée de choses habituellement hors vue ou à la traîne sur la Toile. Il veut être un réseau d’évènements, de projections et d’expositions formant à un certain moment les contours d’un tissu cinéphile possible qui se dérobe à la dictature du ‘nouveau’, qui échappe à l’attention destructrice du moment.

En plus, le site accueille des textes pour la plupart en néerlandais sur le cinéma et l’art visuel.

Un autre film de Kiarostami pose la question: Où est la maison de mon ami? La ‘maison’ se trouve toujours un peu plus loin, toujours derrière l’horizon, mais ne trouve-t-on pas, en cours de route, d’autres abris, d’autres endroits où il fait bon se réfugier un moment? Sabzian veut être une telle ‘maison’. Une maison parmi d’autres. Car la maison du cinéma est trop souvent murée, bouchée, terrain interdit pour ceux qui veulent y entrer.

Sabzian veut être une réflexion en mouvement.

Un pas en suspens. Un pied sur terre, un autre en l’air. Écrire comme une expérience intérieure, une exploitation infinie d’images, de sons, de pensées et de mondes.

en Sabzian refers to the main character of the 1990 film Close-Up, by the Iranian filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami.

Based upon a peculiar news story Kiarostami stumbled upon, the film follows an unemployed youth from Teheran called Hossein Sabzian, as he convinces an entire family that he is the well-known filmmaker Mohsen Makhmalbaf. After he is arrested for fraud and brought to trial, the family eventually pardons him, as, possessing not the slightest of criminal intent, it was Sabzian’s love for cinema that drove him to appropriate the filmmaker’s identity. Using the very people that were involved, Kiarostami re-enacts these events, placing his re-staging in opposition to the images of Sabzian’s trial.

A continuously shifting dialectic ensues: how does cinema relate to our lives? What is real? Is every fiction necessarily a lie? Thoughtfully, the film’s gaze is directed inward. Close-Up is an ode to cinema and to life. It is the cinematic equivalent of staring into one mirror positioned in front of another: each reality contained within an even broader reality, as if the spectator were forced to look into a tunnel of continuously shifting truths.

Is not Sabzian’s image that of the true cinephile, prying his way into reality through cinema - at times merging completely with the prism that is film? As the American filmmaker Frank Capra once put it: “Film is a disease. When it infects your bloodstream, it takes over as the number one hormone; it bosses the enzymes; directs the pineal gland; plays Iago to your psyche. As with heroin, the antidote to film is more film.”

This website aims to be a cinephile’s guide for Belgium and its surroundings.

This website aims to be a cinephile’s guide for Belgium and its surroundings, offering a mainly Dutch language platform for writing on cinema and image culture.

Its agenda is an often incomplete, yet always personal guide, shunning material replicated elsewhere in favour of seeking out that which occasionally goes unnoticed. Supporting a network of events, shows and exhibitions that share and reveal the potential outlines of a cinephile fabric, averse to the tyranny of the new, well clear of the scorching focus of popular attention.

Another film by Kiarostami from 1987 asks the question: Where is My Friend’s House? This house is always further down the road, on the horizon, but along the way there are other places to shelter, to sojourn: Sabzian wishes to be such a place - a house between houses, because all too often the house of cinema is boarded up, preventing entry.

Sabzian wishes to be thought in movement.

A slow, considered pace, mid-step - one foot on the ground, the other in the air. Writing as an inward movement, as an endless encounter with images, sounds, thoughts and worlds.

nl Mijn liefde voor cinema maakte mijn leven kapot.

Toch kan ik het niet laten om een goede film te bekijken. Wie de film maakte, is niet van belang.

Het kijken naar is het belangrijkste. Cinema kostte me mijn baan. Het beroofde me van mijn leven, van mijn sociale identiteit. Maar zelfs nu nog kan één goede film me reikhalzend doen terugkeren naar de cinema.

Als ik het geld had, zou ik, net als Peter Falk, vliegers kopen om niet te moeten opgroeien.

Cinema. Telkens ik een film zie, los ik er in op... tot ik de bodem raak. Ik vervaag en misschien... verlies ik er mij in. En dit heeft een essentiële rol gespeeld in mijn leven.

Cinema is onontbeerlijk voor mij. Het is als een prisma. Een goede film... is een deel van mijn leven. Telkens ik een goede film zie, voel ik mij herboren. Het voelt alsof ik de film zelf maakte, alsof het mijn creatie was. Ik identificeer me met de regisseur. Ik identificeer me met de acteurs.

Ik voel me verbonden en in harmonie met de geest van de film. Alsof het mijn verhaal is. Dat is hoe films me vervoeren. Zo werden ze mijn obsessie.

Als ik niet in de samenleving zou moeten leven, zou ik beschutting zoeken in de bergen en alleen zijn. Als ik niet zou moeten voortleven, en ik moedig genoeg was, zou ik graag aan de stralen van de cinema worden opgehangen. Als ik de moed had om te protesteren... zou ik het filmmaken gebruiken als een instrument om alle onrecht aan te vechten.

Hossein Sabzian aan het woord in Close-Up Long Shot (Mamhoud Chokrollahi & Moslem Mansouri, 1996)

fr

en

J’ai laissé mon amour du cinéma détruire ma vie.

Pourtant, je ne me lasse jamais de voir un bon film. Peu importe qui l’a fait. L’important c’est de le voir. Le cinéma m’a coûté mon boulot. Il m’a volé ma vie, mon identité sociale. Mais même maintenant, un seul bon film et j’en reviens au cinéma, avec avidité.

I let my love for cinema destroy my life… but I’m still always eager to see a good film. It’s not important who made it. Just seeing it is the important thing. The cinema lost me my job. It robbed me of my life… my social identity. But even now, just one good film and I eagerly turn back to cinema.

Si j’avais de l’argent, j’achèterais, comme Peter Falk, des cerfs-volants pour ne pas devoir grandir.

Le cinéma. Chaque fois que je vois un film, je m’y dissous… à tel point que je touche le fond. Je m’estompe et peut-être… je m’y perds. Et ça a joué un rôle essentiel dans ma vie.

If I had the money, I might, for example, like Peter Falk, buy kites so I wouldn’t grow up. The cinema.

Whenever I see a film, I dissolve myself in it… to such an extent that I reach the bottom. I fade out and perhaps… I get lost in it. And this has played an essential role in my life.

Le cinéma est important pour moi. C’est comme un prisme. Un bon film… ça fait partie de ma vie.

Chaque fois que je vois un bon film, je me sens renaître. C’est comme si je l’avais fait moi-même, comme si c’était ma création. Je m’identifie au réalisateur. Je m’identifie aux comédiens. Je suis au diapason et en harmonie avec l’ambiance du film. C’est comme si c’était mon histoire. C’est ainsi que les films me transportent. C’est pourquoi ils sont devenus mon obsession.

Cinema is important to me. It’s like a prism. A good film… is part of my life. With every good film I see, I feel reborn. It feels as if I made it myself, as if it were my creation. I identify with the director. I identify with the actors. I feel attuned and in harmony with the atmosphere of the film. I feel as if it’s my story. That’s how films carry me away. That’s why they’ve become my obsession.

Si je ne devais pas vivre en société, je chercherais un coin dans les montagnes pour y vivre seul. Si je ne devais pas continuer à vivre, et si j’étais assez courageux, j’aurais aimé être pendu des rayons du cinéma. Si j’avais le courage de protester… j’emploierais le cinéma comme un instrument de lutte contre toute injustice.

Paroles de Hossein Sabzian dans Close-Up Long Shot (Mamhoud Chokrollahi & Moslem Mansouri, 1996)

If I didn’t have to live in society, I’d seek shelter in the mountains and live all by myself. If I didn’t have to go on living, and were courageous enough, I’d have liked to be hanged from the beams of cinema. If I had the courage to protest…

I would use filmmaking as a tool to fight all injustice.

Hossein Sabzian in Close-Up Long Shot (Mamhoud Chokrollahi & Moslem Mansouri, 1996)

Cinephilia as War Machine

BY ADRIAN MARTIN

Cinephilia, as we all know, is the love of cinema. But what a banal definition! What film fan, of any kind or level, doesn’t regard themselves as loving cinema? French critic Serge Daney’s militant sense of his own cinephilia was directed precisely against this widespread, sickeningly populist vibe, as captured in an advertising slogan of the ‘70s that also elicited the ire of Guy Debord: “People who love life go to the cinema!”[1] So, everybody loves the cinema. As N. Paul Todd would reply on the greatest television reality show of the decade, My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss (Fox, US, 2004-5): “Why, so what, and who cares?”

The cinephile, however, wants to be identified as someone different from the mere film fan or film nerd who, in their dreary, uninspired ways, love the cinema. Cinephiles are a band of outsiders, a band apart – or they are nothing. And that is what is galling in the contemporary climate, when every second website is calling itself cinephile-this and cinephile-that, when the books and conferences on cinephilia as a scholarly topic are multiplying: when, in short, the institutionalisation, and thus the taming, of cinephilia looms. Cinephilia has become a kind of brand name or mark, a sexy surplus value that livens up the academy and the Ain’t it Cool News Internet empire alike. This empty cinephilemania reaches its height in the out-ofcontrol ‘best film’ lists swamping the Internet.

And to suggest that the cinephile passion can now be conveniently placed as pre-TV variant of fandom does not improve this situation.

The agenda of cinephilia is not always terribly clear or explicit. Paul Willemen described it as something murky, a smokescreen for some other psychic complex to which we cannot quite put a name.[2] Thomas Elsaesser emphasises that cinephilia is always a drama of displaced time, of deferral: the cinema that is lost, the lost object; the cinema associated with some exotic elsewhere; the cinema of a previous generation, but the kind your parents never watched and

could never have understood.[3] Alain Bergala, in his fascinating The Cinema Hypothesis, gives a positive, even feverish spin to this generational game: for him, the cinephile objects par excellence are those films – from Fritz Lang’s Moonfleet (US, 1955) and Martin Scorsese’s The Color of Money (US, 1986) to Abbas Kiarostami’s Where is the Friend’s Home?

(IR, 1987) – which mirror the tender, secretive transmission of knowledge, of aesthetic passion, from teacher to student, parent to child.[4] But there is no characterisation of cinephilia, such as have been offered in the burgeoning literature on this subject, that I can accept as definitive. I do not believe, for instance, that cinephilia is essentially a solitary activity, a melancholic activity, a Christian activity, or a surrealist activity. I don’t believe that it necessarily equates with either left or right politics, or a total lack of politics either. I don’t believe cinephilia proceeds in tidy generational waves. I don’t believe there is a discernible canon of cinephile films. I don’t believe that cinephilia is dependent on any particular type of technology, whether the old-fashioned movie theatre or the new-fangled DVD player. I don’t believe that cinephiles only truly care about fragments (or Benjaminian ruins) of films in a modernist or postmodernist flux.

I don’t believe that cinephilia is essentially a matter of nutty, obsessive viewing rituals (however much fun these might be), or what Noel King calls “discursive regularities” in the way that cinephiles write or speak or teach about what they love.[5] For there is no such regularity.

“There is no essential form or content to cinephilia, but maybe there is something like an essential cinephile process or gesture.”

I propose a way out of this deadlock, with reference to the premise of Antoine de Baecque’s canny historical account, the title of which translates as Cinephilia: The Invention of a Gaze, the History of a Culture 1944-1968.[6] According to de Baecque, cinephilia may start with a kind of unutterable ecstasy or brute desire (you as the big cinephile baby before the vast cinema screen) but, straight away, that desiring engagement leads to acts – particularly of writing, speaking, programming, or curating (and also, of course, filmmaking – but that’s another story). Acts that happen in public, that are broadcast, directed at the world – and that involve the forming of a community, even if that community is only a gang of friends, an editorial collective, a classroom of students, or an Internet chat group. Cinephilia is a motivating, and mobilising, passion. Cinephilia is always

about thought, always about theory, always about criticism. If it’s not about those things, it’s just a load of nonsense about devising best-film lists and seeing six thousand movies. There is no essential form or content to cinephilia, but maybe there is something like an essential cinephile process or gesture. Let me put it this way: cinephilia is a war machine; a tactical, cultural war machine. Always a different war, and always a different machine, depending on where and when you are, who you’re fighting with, and what you’re fighting against.

In this sense, everything that people have said about cinephilia - that it’s melancholic or surrealist or whatever – can be true, if it fits the particular piece of cinephile history, and if you can tell that story well, if you can give it a mobilising energy.

I don’t mean to suggest by this that the war machines of cinephilia are actually effective, that they actually have succeeded in changing the world, or its culture. Cinephilia is the history of a hundred failed revolutions. Sometimes the Great War is almost wholly imaginary; it’s happening in the columns of a little magazine somewhere, or in the program of an obscure film club. Maybe the heat-seeking missile launched by cinephilia mostly hits nothing. But the stories, the histories of cinephilia as motivating passion are there

for good, if they have been somehow written or documented or caught, if the testament is there, and we can catch them in another time or place.

If the telling of that history is inspired enough, it can connect with some part of the scenario of our own war machine.

The fact is, we know almost nothing about the worldwide history of cinephilia. Accounts that keep locating the origin and primary home of the cinephile passion in Paris, France, in the 1950s and the offices of Cahiers du cinéma are plain wrong.

Every country which has had cinema may have a history of cinephilia. Probably not a continuous history; maybe something which came and went, flowered and died, several times over. Even in France, to take that most mythified home of cinephilia, the story of cinephilia that began in Lyon, the story of Positif magazine, is very different to the story that began in Paris with Cahiers, or the story that began, only about a decade and half ago, in Aix-en-Provence, under the decisive influence of Nicole Brenez. And it’s likely to be the same spread everywhere.

“Maybe the heat-seeking missile launched by cinephilia mostly hits nothing. But the stories, the histories of cinephilia as motivating passion are there for good, if they have been somehow written or documented or caught.”

Let’s consider an example of a particular kind of cinephilic thinking or argumentation. There is a truly warlike cultural ferment going in Spain at the moment around the highly contested terrain of cinephilia – and on the frontline of this war we find the Spanish edition, running since early 2007, of Cahiers du cinéma, far superior (in my view) to the French version (from which it is entirely editorially independent). The vast work done on cinema, at all levels, in the Spanish language is virtually unknown in Anglo countries, as well as in some European countries. One of the key critics and educators in the current climate is Carlos Losilla. In his summing up of the Spanish film production of 2005 for the journal Archivos de

la cinemateca,[7] we can observe a very intriguing dimension of cinephile thought: namely, the usually feisty way it negotiates a fraught relation with the cinephile’s own national cinema. Indeed, I sometimes think I can spot a cinephile by the intensity of their hatred for their national cinema.

Of course, a cinephile such as Losilla will always like something in their local cinema: usually something unsung or marginal. And what he or she will hate is theofficial cinema of their own country, the boring mainstream – that’s the war machine in action.

In this particular text, Losilla’s target is Alejandro Amenábar, who made Abre los ojos/Open Your Eyes (ES, 1997) with Penélope Cruz, The Others (US, 2001) with Nicole Kidman, and Mar adentro/The Sea Inside (ES/FR/IT, 2004) with Javier Bardem.

Amenábar’s sin, for Losilla, is not that he lets his films be remade by Tom Cruise, that he decamps to Hollywood, or that his Spanish stuff is prime Oscar material. No, it is a subtle cinephilic argument, threading back to André Bazin for ideas to cherish, and across to the dreaded Le Fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain ( Jean-Pierre Jeunet, FR/ DE, 2001) for something really worth hating and denouncing. What Losilla says is: look at these three wildly popular, critically acclaimed films

by Amenábar. Nowhere in them is there a real physical presence, a concrete body with tangible experiences palpably conveyed or projected. In Abre los ojos – as in its sorry remake, Vanilla Sky (Cameron Crowe, US, 2001) – everyone and everything turns out to be the figment of a virtual reality. In The Others, most characters turn out to be ghosts. And, most egregiously for Losilla, in Mar adentro, we are presented with an idealised version of sickness, paralysis, and finally death: it’s almost fun to be a vegetable in this movie.

For Losilla, this means that Amenábar, like Jeunet, is a filmmaker who has turned himself against cinema, against the vocation and essence of cinema such as cinephiles prize this ideal essence in Rossellini, Erice, the Dardennes, or even Clint Eastwood. Amenábar, for Losilla, has embraced the morbid soullessness of a certain kind of slick, inhuman artifice.

Now, you can disagree with every point, every assumption of Losilla’s argument. But, whatever you think of it, it’s an argument with soul– in the sense that it animates, in a lively way, a whole tradition or shared network of assumptions and feelings about cinema. That’s the kind of soul we can call, non-mystically, cinephilia.

It is sometimes said that cinephilia is elitist. Why, so what, and who cares? Actually, the thought or the charge of this elitism sometimes gets through to cinephiles; they start imagining they are, instead, absolutely of the people, more like the people than the people themselves, conveyers of the very spirit of popular/populist art. That’s part of what phased Daney when George Cukor, back in 1964, scoffed at his admiration for Nicholas Ray’s Wind Across the Everglades (“He broke out in a peal of laughter where all the contempt he had for this little film could be read”)[8] : some horrifying rift, stretching to infinity, was opening up between Daney and the average moviegoer in that moment.

But remember how Daney gathered himself in and stood firm: “We were very wounded, but we have never changed our minds.” Daney knew that the war machine of cinephilia was sometimes about, precisely, taste: not good taste, not cultivation or sophistication, not a canon of films – but a war over what is to be seen, what must be seen, and even more, what we can get to say in public about we have seen. And that war is never over.

© Adrian Martin June 2008

notes Postcards from the Cinema, trans. Paul Grant (London: Berg, 2007); g u y d e b o r d , In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni, trans. Lucy Forsyth (London: Pelagian, 1991).

[5]

noel k ing

[6]

a n t o i n e d e b a e c q u e , La cinéphilie. Invention d’un regard, histoire d’une culture 1944-1968 (Paris: Fayard, 2003).

[2]

pa u l w i l l e m e n ,

Looks and Frictions: Essays in Cultural Studies and Film Theory (London: British Film Institute, 1994), 226.

[7]

c a r l os l osi l l a , “Contra el cine español. Panorama general al inicio de un nuevo milenio”, Archivos de la cinemateca, no. 49 (February 2005): 125-145.

[3]

“Cinephilia or the Uses of Disenchantment”, in Cinephilia: Movies, Love and Memory, ed.

Marijke de Valck and Malte Hagener (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005), 27-43.

[8]

Serge Daney interviewed by Bill Krohn, “Les Cahiers du cinéma 1968-1977”, http://home.earthlink.net/ stevee/Daney_1977.html, originally published in The Thousand Eyes (1977).

[4]

alain bergala, L’hypothèse cinéma. Petit traité de transmission du cinéma à l’école et ailleurs (Paris: Cahiers du cinéma, 2006).

[1]

se rg e da n e y,

t h o m a s e l s a e s se r ,

in Willemen, Looks and Frictions, 247.

A selection of our agenda for the upcoming weeks

Le chantier des gosses Jean Harlez, 1976

Figures of Dissent: Akam Zaatari

Alexandra Cuesta: Films & Influences

09/01- 23/02/2014 CINEMA NOVA, BRUSSELS

16/02/2014 - 19:00 WIELS, BRUSSELS

17/02/2014 - 20:30 ARTCINEMA OFFOFF, GHENT

La promesse

endwar ds

Wild at Heart

Jean-Pierre Dardenne & Luc Dardenne, 1996

Screening #5: Desire

19/02/2014 - 19:15 CINEMATEK (LEDOUX), BRUSSELS

20/02/2014 - 19:00 EXTRA CIT Y KUNSTHAL, ANT WERP

David Lynch, 1990

21/02/2014 - 19:00 CINEMATEK (LEDOUX), BRUSSELS

Prénom Carmen

Madame de...

Jean-Luc Godard, 1983

Max Ophüls, 1952

21/02/2014 - 21:15 CINEMATEK (LEDOUX), BRUSSELS

27/02/2014 - 19:30 FL AGEY, BRUSSELS

The Stuart Hall Project John Akomfrah, 2013 27/02/2014 - 20:30 BEURSSCHOUWBURG, BRUSSELS

Zéro de conduite: Courtisane 2014 The Machine Which Makes Everything To the Distant 02/04/2014 - 06/04/2014 VARIOUS LOCATIONS, GHENT Disappear Observer 05/03/2014 - 20:30 BEURSSCHOUWBURG, BRUSSELS

Tinatin Gurchiani, 2012 24/04/2014 - 20:30 K ASKCINEMA, GHENT

Sabzian Sabzian is Gerard-Jan Claes, Nina de Vroome, Ruben Desiere, Robbrecht Desmet, Elias Grootaers, Olivia Rochette and Hannes Verhoustraete

Many thanks to Renaldo Candreva, Johanne de Bie, Dirk Deblauwe, Hans Galle, Beursschouwburg, Galeries

Thanks to Vincent Broes, CĂŠline Brouwez, Marie Claes, Stoffel Debuysere, Katrien Desiere, Bjorn Gabriels, Victoria GonzĂĄlez-Figueras, Helena Kritis, Veva Leye, Adrian Martin, Lee Patterson, Nefertari Vanden Bulcke

www.sabzian.be contact@sabzian.be facebook.com/sabzian.be