Averroès & Rosa Parks

Nicolas Philibert: Averroès & Rosa Parks (FR 2024).

French Wikipedia: Fiche technique

    Réalisation : Nicolas Philibert

Production : Miléna Poylo & Gilles Sacuto, Céline Loiseau

Photographie : Nicolas Philibert, assisté de Pauline Pénichou

Montage : Nicolas Philibert, assisté de Janusz Baranek

Son: Erik Ménard

Mixage: Emmanuel Croset

Musique: Sarah Murcia et Magic Malik d’après L’hymne à la joie (Ludwig van Beethoven)

Distribution : Les Films du Losange

Genre : Documentaire

Durée : 143 minutes

Festival premiere: 16 Feb 2024 Berlin

Date de sortie : 20 mars 2024

Viewed at MK2 Beaubourg, Salle 2, 23 March 2024

Averroès & Rosa Parks est un film documentaire français réalisé par Nicolas Philibert et sorti en 2024. C'est le deuxième volet d'un triptique consacré au monde psychiatrique, après le documentaire Sur l'Adamant sorti en 2023. Le film a été présenté hors compétition à la Berlinale 2024.

Synopsis

" Averroès et Rosa Parks sont deux unités de l’hôpital Esquirol, qui relèvent du Pôle psychiatrique Paris-Centre. L'hôpital était autrefois appelé « asile de Charenton ». D'entretiens individuels en activités de groupe, le film s'attache à décrire les relations entre les soignants et les patients, malgré le manque de moyens attribués à ce type de centre médical. "

AA: I saw last year Sur L'Adamant (FR 2022), Nicolas Philibert's previous movie, the winner of the Golden Bear at Berlin Film Festival in 2023. He has a unique sensitivity and courage to approach people who are mentally ill. I have little to add to my blog notes about the director's previous film. I keep thinking about the question of authenticity in front of the camera. I am thinking about masks and chameleon metaphysics. Aren't we performing in a different way when a camera is on? Or has reality television and other modern media changed us so much that there is little difference anymore between being and appearing?

BEYOND THE JUMP BREAK: PUBLICITY MATERIAL:

BEYOND THE JUMP BREAK: PUBLICITY MATERIAL:

UNIFRANCE 

David Ezan

Décryptage : le cinéma peut-il sauver l'hôpital ?
2024-03-18

Tandis que l’hôpital semble n’avoir jamais repris son souffle depuis la crise sanitaire, l’agenda cinématographique nous gratifie cette saison de plusieurs documentaires sur le sujet : « Averroès et Rosa Parks », puis « La Machine à écrire et autres sources de tracas », signés Nicolas Philibert (qui avait déjà réalisé « Sur l’Adamant ») ; « Madame Hofmann » de Sébastien Lifshitz ; « État limite » de Nicolas Peduzzi. Que révèlent-ils de la situation et que peut le cinéma à cet endroit ?

S’il n’est pas nouveau que le cinéma documentaire s’invite à l’hôpital public français, au moins depuis Urgences (1988) de Raymond Depardon, force est de constater qu’il y intensifie ses visites. Au point que l’hôpital en devient un sujet prisé, grand thermomètre qu’il est de l’état de nos corps et donc de notre société. L’hôpital est en effet devenu un grand enjeu de société, au centre de tous les débats, depuis la crise du Covid-19. Madame Hofmann de Sébastien Lifshitz et État limite de Nicolas Peduzzi, respectivement en salles les 10 avril et 1er mai (lire p. 64), prennent ainsi place en période d’insécurité sanitaire, de « guerre » comme lancé par Emmanuel Macron dans son allocution du 16 mars 2020.

À tel point que l’hôpital Beaujon, dans État limite, est immortalisé par les clichés granuleux d’une ancienne photographe de guerre – la mère du cinéaste. « Peut-être que la crise sanitaire a marqué une prise de conscience, un intérêt à réaliser des documentaires sur le sujet. Le Covid, c’est devenu une référence dans la mémoire collective ; c’est une manière de raccrocher le public à un dénominateur commun », analyse Fanny Vincent, sociologue qui alertait sur la situation dès 2019 avec La Casse du siècle. À propos des réformes de l’hôpital public, un livre qu’elle a coécrit avec Pierre-André Juven et Frédéric Pierru.

Aussi, c’est sans doute la valorisation médiatique d’un sujet autrefois moins visible qui a permis cette émulation. En témoigne l’Ours d’or attribué à Sur l’Adamant de Nicolas Philibert, sorti l’an dernier comme d’autres films marquants sur la question tels que De humani corporis fabrica de Lucien Castaing-Taylor et Verena Paravel, ou bien Notre corps de Claire Simon. Autant de caméras désormais infiltrées dans un espace aux coulisses presque sacrées.

De humani corporis fabrica de Lucien Castaing-Taylor et Verena Paravel

S’APPROPRIER LES LIEUX

Contrairement à ce que suggère la fausse efficacité des reportages télévisés, investir l’hôpital avec équipe et caméra est un acte fort, qui requiert en premier lieu de gagner la confiance des soignants comme des patients. Une exigence propice à la délicatesse et au temps long, en témoigne la durée moyenne des tournages – jusqu’à plus de deux ans pour État limite. « La récurrence des tournages produit une habitude, presque une routine. À la fin, les gens ont conscience de la caméra, mais, souvent, les situations dans lesquelles ils se trouvent deviennent plus fortes que le dispositif autour », abonde Sébastien Lifshitz, qui a suivi une cadre infirmière à l’hôpital nord de Marseille pour Madame Hofmann. La caméra doit ainsi pouvoir s’effacer, si ce n’est s’intégrer à « une communauté » avec le plus grand naturel possible.

Mieux : elle doit enfin passer du statut d’intrus à celui de complice. Accueillir ces visages, ces gestes, ces paroles, comme le dit justement Nicolas Peduzzi à propos de son travail avec le psychiatre Jamal Abdel-Kader, qu’il suit dans État limite : « Il s’est servi de notre caméra. On a tendance à croire qu’on “vole” ceux qu’on filme. Or, les patients les plus isolés se sont davantage confiés face à elle. Ils parlaient, car ils sentaient qu’on les regardait différemment, qu’on s’intéressait à eux. » Une fois apprivoisée par l’hôpital, la caméra devient même l’outil d’un authentique – et parfois très intime – témoignage social.

« La puissante architecture de l’hôpital Beaujon devient "une espèce d’animal effrayant", un grand vaisseau qui tangue »

Le tout avec l’accord des concernés, systématiquement demandé par les cinéastes, qui mettent un point d’honneur à construire un échange avec ceux qu’ils immortalisent. Si témoignage il y a, il n’est jamais question pour autant de filmer cliniquement le réel. Sébastien Lifshitz en a fait un cheval de bataille : « J’engage à 200 % la subjectivité de mon regard. Ma grammaire détonne avec celle du cinéma-vérité : je tourne en Scope, je mets de la musique, je cadre en longue focale. Je viens me mettre au plus près des gens, j’essaie de faire ressentir leur vie intérieure », affirme-t-il. C’est tout le regard de cinéastes qui déploient un vrai point de vue sur l’hôpital, qui s’approprient les lieux à mesure qu’ils le filment.
Dans État limite, Nicolas Peduzzi retranscrit le chaos ambiant à l’aide de cadres branlants, d’un montage haché et d’une musique aux accents techno qui vient transpercer les couloirs. Par l’entremise d’une caméra-épaule tremblante, la puissante architecture de l’hôpital Beaujon devient « une espèce d’animal effrayant », un grand vaisseau qui tangue. Le cinéaste n’hésite pas à convoquer un imaginaire fantastique, quitte à filmer le psychiatre esseulé en super-héros posté tout en haut du monde. L’espace et sa force évocatrice s’animent sous nos yeux, produisent une émotion tout à la fois romanesque et très pertinente.

C’est également le cas pour Nicolas Philibert, qui s’immisce à l’hôpital Esquirol dans Averroès et Rosa Parks, en salles le 20 mars. En ouvrant le film par des prises de vue au drone sur l’imposant ensemble hospitalier, il dit à quel point l’espace sera aussi important que ceux qui l’occupent. Espace envisagé dans sa féerie noire, l’hôpital public devient comme une citadelle isolée où le temps se serait arrêté.

PRENDRE LE TEMPS

De temps, il est d’ailleurs beaucoup question dans ces trois films. « Pour moi, faire l’histoire de l’hôpital revient à faire l’histoire de la réduction du temps auprès des patients. Dans les années 1960 ou 1970, on lisait déjà des choses sur la course au temps, les horaires à rallonge, la déshumanisation de la prise en charge. Si le temps de travail s’est réduit dans l’idée d’améliorer les conditions de vie des soignants, cela n’a eu pour effet qu’une intensification du rythme », signale Fanny Vincent, qui a consacré une thèse au temps de travail à l’hôpital. On le voit bien dans Madame Hofmann, qui s’attarde sur le casse-tête logistique enduré par l’infirmière, Sylvie. Pendant le tournage, elle confie à Sébastien Lifshitz que les réformes hospitalières, particulièrement celles effectuées sous le mandat de Nicolas Sarkozy, « ont transformé l’hôpital en entreprise et sabordé radicalement la cohésion du personnel, épuisé à force de pression gestionnaire ». Comment prendre alors ce temps, reprendre celui qu’on a volé à l’hôpital ? Nicolas Philibert esquisse une réponse avec le magnifique Averroès et Rosa Parks, réponse à hauteur d’un cinéma lui aussi fondé sur la question du temps.

Et plus encore dans ce film très dense, à la suite d’entretiens entre patients et soignants de l’hôpital Esquirol. Le cinéaste ne triche pas et nous offre le dialogue sur un temps qui permet la rencontre ; entre ceux-ci et ceux-là, entre eux et nous. « Ce qui est beau dans la parole filmée, c’est tout ce qui disparaît lorsqu’on en fait la transcription écrite », précise-t-il malicieusement. Les voix qu’il enregistre patiemment sont d’habitude inaudibles, faute de temps pour écouter. À l’hôpital comme ailleurs : « Un silence de trois secondes à la télévision ou à la radio, c’est devenu insupportable », ironise Nicolas Philibert.

Car son film agit à rebours, donne à voir et à écouter tout ce que l’ordre néolibéral s’attelle depuis des décennies à invisibiliser. Surtout, il démontre à quel point l’écoute est déjà un important geste de soin. D’autant plus en psychiatrie, où la prise en charge est d’abord relationnelle. Et si plusieurs films investissent ce secteur-là, « ce n’est pas anodin », selon Fanny Vincent. « C’est sans doute le premier en souffrance de l’hôpital, le premier aujourd’hui affecté par la réduction du nombre de lits et les destructions d’emplois. C’est une catastrophe. »

Le turbulent État limite en documente les conséquences, à travers le cas très concret d’un psychiatre laissé seul avec des centaines de patients. Un « don Quichotte hospitalier », comme le décrit si bien Nicolas Peduzzi, bouleversé par l’aplomb de ce médecin au bord du burn-out. « À l’adolescence, j’aurais adoré pouvoir tomber sur un soignant comme Jamal, mais ceux que j’ai rencontrés étaient d’une froideur clinique. […] Ce n’est d’ailleurs pas la psychiatrie qui m’a sauvé, mais l’amitié ; les amis que j’ai rencontrés à 16 ans et qui m’ont accueilli sans me stigmatiser », confie-t-il avec émotion lorsqu’on lui parle d’écoute, d’attention accordée aux patients. Une démarche qui rejoint celle d’Averroès et Rosa Parks, dont le geste de cinéma prolonge le geste de soignants encore disposés à accueillir – et cueillir – les singularités.

RENOUVELER LA LUTTE

Au-delà d’une dénonciation nécessaire, ces films, à leur manière, agissent comme de lumineux révélateurs et valorisent des points de résistance. C’est l’ambition de Nicolas Philibert depuis Sur l’Adamant, qui s’intéressait à un centre de jour en psychiatrie établi sur une péniche. Un lieu « à la dimension soignante », dont l’architecture tient en elle-même d’un projet révolutionnaire : « Ce sont des foyers de résistance. S’il y a des films qui dénoncent, moi, je fais des films qui énoncent. J’ai besoin d’aller voir du côté de ceux qui essaient tant bien que mal de construire des choses. » D’une insatiable curiosité, le cinéaste sort, après Averroès et Rosa Parks le 20 mars, un second film le 17 avril : La Machine à écrire et autres sources de tracas. Il y suit une fine équipe de soignants à domicile, affiliée à l’Adamant et baptisée « l’Orchestre », qui dépanne les patients isolés.

À défaut de construire, ces infirmiers bricoleurs réparent leurs objets défaillants. Avec beaucoup d’espièglerie, Philibert établit un parallèle entre réparation des objets et réparation des âmes ; il s’agit d’accommoder un lieu de vie, d’y « faire la place » nécessaire au bien-être des personnes marginalisées. S’y inventent de nouveaux rapports entre patients et soignants, non plus fondés sur la subordination des uns aux autres. Les infirmiers n’ont pas de blouse ; ils sont accueillis par leurs patients comme on accueillerait un voisin, un ami venu prêter main forte. Et la joie traverse ces films de la dernière chance, où l’on n’a plus rien à perdre mais tout à gagner.

On le voit dans Madame Hofmann, porté par l’humour caustique de l’infirmière Sylvie et sa mère, ancienne infirmière elle aussi. Le service oncologique où tourne Sébastien Lifshitz est d’une précieuse cohésion, à en croire Fanny Vincent : « Sylvie cultive une très bonne ambiance de travail, on sent qu’elle a conservé une relation forte avec son corps d’origine : soignante. C’est une cadre de l’ancienne génération, comme on n’en trouve plus. Les cadres actuels ne prennent plus le temps de discuter avec les patients, ils sont pris en sandwich entre impératifs administratifs et management des équipes. »
« Cette génération, qui était en phase avec le service public, avec l’engagement qu’il nécessitait, tout d’un coup quitte un hôpital qui a laissé dépérir cette utopie sociale et politique »

D’une grande mélancolie, le film donne à voir ce que s’apprête à perdre l’hôpital. Un crépuscule incarné par Sylvie Hofmann, qui « porte une histoire de nos corps », selon Lifshitz, prête à quitter le navire après quarante ans de bons et loyaux services. On y observe en effet son corps abîmé, violenté par tant d’abnégation au travail, soudain délesté d’un poids devenu trop lourd. À la joie de Sylvie s’ajoute l’inquiétude de ses collègues, de sa direction aussi : « Cette génération, qui était en phase avec le service public, avec l’engagement qu’il nécessitait, tout d’un coup quitte un hôpital qui a laissé dépérir cette utopie sociale et politique », précise le cinéaste. Après Sylvie, après Jamal, le déluge ? Si ces films illustrent des figures qui se battent au prix de leur chair, ils racontent à quel point la déchéance hospitalière résiste à tous les combats individuels, aussi héroïques soient-ils. Ils nous murmurent enfin que chaque bataille se mène collectivement, à force de conscientisation, des murs tagués de l’hôpital Beaujon à la méditative obscurité des salles de cinéma.

Averroès et Rosa Parks de Nicolas Philibert, Les Films du Losange (2 h 23), sortie le 20 mars
Madame Hofmann de Sébastien Lifshitz, Ad Vitam (1 h 44), sortie le 10 avril
La Machine à écrire et autres sources de tracas de Nicolas Philibert, Les Films du Losange (1 h 12), sortie le 17 avril
État limite de Nicolas Peduzzi, Les Alchimistes (1h 42), sortie le 20 février sur Arte et le 1er mai en salles

Inscri

Mentions techniques

Type : Long-métrage

Genre(s) : Documentaire

Sous-genres : Documentaire

Thèmes : Médecine, Folie

Langue de tournage : Français

Origine : France

EOF : Oui

Nationalité : 100% français (France)

Année de production : 2023

Sortie en France : 20/03/2024

Durée : 2 h 23 min

Etat d'avancement : Sorti

Numéro de visa : 157.000

Visa délivré le : 19/02/2024

Agrément : Oui

Type de couleur(s) : Couleur

Cadre : 1.85

Format son : 5.1

Interdiction : Aucune

...

PRESS DOSSIER

Averroès and Rosa Parks: two units of the Esquirol Hospital, which -

like the Adamant - are part of the Paris Central Psychiatric Group.

From individual interviews to "carer-patient" meetings, the

filmmaker focuses on showing a form of psychiatry that continually

strives to make room for and rehabilitate the patients' words.

Little by little, each one eases open the door to their world.

Within an increasingly worn-out health system, how can the

forsaken be given a place among others?

NICOLAS PHILIBERT

BIRTH OF A TRIPTYCH

  

Before I began shooting On the Adamant, I had told myself

that this highly original day centre – built on water – was

a sort of autonomous little island, not necessarily closed in

on itself, but fairly self-sufficient, say. I of course knew that

the Adamant was part of a greater whole, the Paris Central

Group, that also includes two medical-psychological

centres, a mobile team and two care units, aptly named

Averroès and Rosa Parks, within the Esquirol Hospital –

formerly known as "The Charenton Asylum" – but it was

as if, afraid of spreading myself too thinly, I refused to see

how complementary and interdependent these different

structures were and how they formed, with the Adamant, a

network within which patients and carers were continually

urged to circulate, each one able to "build his or her own

cartography between the different points of reference at

their disposal". Subconsciously perhaps, I had needed to

detach the Adamant from its context as if to single it out

more clearly.

  

Once there, I quickly realized that this off-screen world had

to be given an existence, if only in an allusive manner, at the

risk of falsifying reality. Images are always misleading, you

  

Before I began shooting On the Adamant, I had told myself

that this highly original day centre – built on water – was

a sort of autonomous little island, not necessarily closed in

on itself, but fairly self-sufficient, say. I of course knew that

the Adamant was part of a greater whole, the Paris Central

Group, that also includes two medical-psychological

centres, a mobile team and two care units, aptly named

Averroès and Rosa Parks, within the Esquirol Hospital –

formerly known as "The Charenton Asylum" – but it was

as if, afraid of spreading myself too thinly, I refused to see

how complementary and interdependent these different

structures were and how they formed, with the Adamant, a

network within which patients and carers were continually

urged to circulate, each one able to "build his or her own

cartography between the different points of reference at

their disposal". Subconsciously perhaps, I had needed to

detach the Adamant from its context as if to single it out

more clearly.

Once there, I quickly realized that this off-screen world had

to be given an existence, if only in an allusive manner, at the

risk of falsifying reality. Images are always misleading, you

may say, and relating what we see is only ever

one reading among others, an interpretation,

but, even so, completely masking this plural

dimension would have been an aberration.

While the Adamant attracted attention, the

other structures, more classical, were no less

essential. The two medical-psychological

centres were snowed under with requests

and it took months to obtain an appointment.

At Esquirol, Averroès and Rosa Parks were

continually jam-packed. Moreover, several

"passengers" on the Adamant with whom I

had good contacts were staying there. I am

thinking notably of Olivier with whom I had shot

a sequence at the drawing workshop that had

overwhelmed me, or François, the man who

would open the film – once edited – by singing

La Bombe humaine. Tearing themselves away

from the hospital required them to make a

huge effort. Getting up, dressing, crossing the

grounds and going as far as the metro were

often insurmountable tasks.

One day, I decided to visit them there. The

Averroès and Rosa Parks units share a single

building around a tree-filled patio. Averroès is

on the ground floor and Rosa Parks upstairs.

Neon-lit corridors, doors fitted with portholes,

small single or twin rooms, a TV room on each

floor, a few rooms set aside for meetings,

mismatched chairs, a self-service restaurant.

On the diagonal of the patio, a welcoming

greenhouse where the Tuesday "carer-patients"

meetings, the Wednesday morning "bar" and

the few remaining workshops are held. That

day, Olivier was busy, but I spent two hours

talking to François. The perceptiveness with

which he related his experience of more than

thirty years in psychiatric care made a strong

impression on me.

I returned over the following weeks and met

other patients. Some seemed to be on the edge

of the abyss and avoided all contact. Others

were happy to have someone to talk to. Romain,

thirty or so, spent his days "watching the plants

grow and doing magic tricks." Great! He took a

pack of cards out of his pocket and did several

tricks for me that all failed miserably. He was

a little put out but ended up laughing about it.

Eva had been hospitalized "at the request of a

third party". This wasn't the first time. "I become

obsessed… When I grow fond of someone, I find

it hard letting go, and it turns into harassment."

Myriam did not want the others to hear her

story. We met in the TV room. As part of her

therapy, she had just unlocked a traumatic

experience repressed for forty years. Placed in

the care of her uncle and aunt at birth, she was

abused by her uncle until the age of five. If I

came back with the camera, she would testify:

"It will help me", she said. But she would leave

the hospital a few days later.

Each one of them seemed walled up in

abyssal solitude. From one visit to the next, I

noticed new faces. Absentees too. The rotation

was unending. Some weeks, the shortage of

beds was such that admitting a new patient

meant that another had to leave. But which

one? A headache. I met the nurses, the health

auxiliaries, the psychiatrists, the psychologists,

the social workers, the administrative staff.

Many of the nurses and health auxiliaries were

temporary hires. Everyone was under pressure.

I cautiously expressed my wish to come and

shoot "a few extra shots" that would help to

create the link between the Adamant and the

hospital. The idea was greeted warmly. Nearly

everyone knew about the filming taking place

at the day centre and they had clearly heard

good things about it. I was invited to attend

a meeting. Then the morning staff briefing.

Then the Tuesday "carer-patient" meetings.

Occasionally stormy, always colourful, it was

not unusual to see a patient rebel, hurl abuse

at the medical team, start railing against

psychiatry, medication, living conditions in

the hospital, the French Republic, the Vatican,

the food, the coffee… Extra shots? Deep

down, I felt I'd moved beyond that. The idea

of a second film went through my mind. In it,

I wished to focus on the consultations, those

individual interviews between patients and

carers. An approach that I had left to one side

on the Adamant. It's true that one-on-one

interviews are less frequent there.

Yet, at the same time, a third film had already

begun to take shape. A few days earlier, I had

had the opportunity to accompany and film

two eminent members of the Band at the home

of Patrice after the latter's typewriter had

begun to play up. The Band is a small group

of carers who are skilled with their hands and

who, not content with restoring souls on the

Adamant, occasionally go to patients' homes

to do odd jobs: fixing a bookshelf, unblocking

a washbasin, mending a plug, assembling a

piece of furniture, etc. Patrice is an emblematic

figure at the day centre. Winter or summer,

this seventy-year-old man arrives every

morning as soon as the place opens, goes to

sit at "his" table, drinks a coffee and, without

any further ado, begins writing a poem in

alexandrines. When he gets home, he settles

down at his typewriter and transcribes the

day's poem. This highly regulated ritual seems

to be what has kept him going for years. With

his typewriter suddenly on the blink, he was

in a terrible state. Walid and Goulven offered

to stop by, without any guarantee of success.

Both in their thirties, they had never seen a

typewriter before… except in movies. They

got to work. I filmed and recorded a beautiful

scene.

This initial shift led to others. The members

of the Band were called on regularly and other

home visits awaited them. Why not keep

following them? Restoring souls, repairing

objects. A third film? Of course, this meant

seeking additional funding, but for the rest,

if I got organized… I began to believe in it.

The three films would form a whole while

remaining independent of each other: one

could be seen without the other two. Three

films within the same psychiatric department,

each one of which would raise the curtain

on a specific aspect of this psychiatric care

that, despite the surrounding devastation, still

strives to give priority to human relations. Each

film would introduce new faces and reunite us

with others. 

  

INTERVIEW WITH NICOLAS PHILIBERT

  

This film is the second

part of what will

eventually be a triptych. How does it

connect with On the Adamant?

At Averroès & Rosa Parks is an extension

of the first film. It's a little as if, after having

filmed the stage, this time I was showing

the wings and basement. The atmosphere

at the hospital is clearly not the same, the

place is much starker and the patients who

have ended up there are going through

a period when they are more vulnerable,

shakier. This is clear in the tone of the film,

but it's the same psychiatric care, or rather

what remains of it: a form of psychiatry that

still strives to take into consideration people's

words when the whole system, increasingly

taken over by neurosciences, protocols,

experts and evaluation scales, tends to crush

that by banking on medication and nothing

else. Today, hospitals are in the hands of

managers, everyone knows that. They have

to increase turnover, reduce the number of

beds, shorten as far as possible the length of

hospitalization and cut jobs… even though

many professionals are

leaving of their own accord,

unable to find meaning in what they do

anymore. The film refers to this situation at

several points: a young patient mentions it,

the question arises in a meeting; it is there, in

the background, but that doesn't necessarily

make this what you could call a "militant" film.

Or if there is a militant side, it is working in

favour of a certain dignity.

Bringing a camera into a psychiatric

hospital is far from commonplace. How

did you go about it?

I was not starting from nothing. As my filming

on the Adamant had gone well, I benefited

from a favourable opinion. The carers had

heard good things from their colleagues who

move between the two settings and from the

patients who frequented it. Some of them

knew my films, notably Every Little Thing, the

film that I shot at the La Borde clinic in 1995.

I began by filming a little at "the bar", the

library and the newspaper workshop, three

appointments that mark out the week. I 

already knew most of the carers organizing

them as nearly all of them work on the

Adamant. There's not a lot of those sequences

left, but they helped me to launch the shoot.

Some patients agreed to be filmed, while

others didn't. There was nothing surprising

about that. One man occasionally burst into

the frame making totally surreal comments.

He insisted that I film him, he would soon be

famous, no doubt about it, he'd show us! It

was tricky. How could I avoid upsetting him?

The majority of the film is based on

interviews. What led you to make that

choice?

That was my idea from the beginning. The

interviews and, in second place, the "carerpatient" meetings. I wanted the film to be a

host of interrogations. I wanted to open it up

to the speech of the patients, their words,

their suffering, snatches of their story, to what

afflicts, assails, encloses, agitates or terrifies

them. This porosity that exposes them to the

violence of the world, that strikes them with

its full force. The lucidity and acuteness with

face-to-face set-up clearly shows who is

who. The therapeutic goal is instantly legible

whereas it could seem less focused on "the

boat", at least for someone outside this world.

The interviews that I filmed present a great

deal of diversity. I played a lot in editing on

the film's construction and rhythm. Linear at

times, disjointed, uneven and zigzagging at

others, they do not all advance at the same

pace, nor do they have the same duration or

the same tone. Some are fluid while others

go nowhere. The personality of the patients

and the diversity of the situations that they

are going through clearly have an important

role to play, just like the way in which the

carers interpret what they say, each with

his or her own style, references, occasional

which they talk about their inner world. The

insatiable quest for meaning that torments

them. Their hopes, their potentialities, and

their humour at times.

If mental sickness is a pathology of

connection, filming interviews seemed to me

to be a good way to show how the carers try

to accompany those who suffer from them

and to forge with them the support structures

that will help them to get back on their feet,

make a new start, forge a connection with

the world if not with themselves and reinsert

themselves within the social fabric. It would

show how accepting each one's specific

words is a painstaking task, always on the

edge, very hard to refine.

In On the Adamant, the carers were just

as present, but that presence was more

discreet. They were all the more so because

the film did not designate them as such in an

explicit manner. A certain haziness remained,

rich in meaning. As the distinction between

carers and patients was not underlined, the

audience was obliged to rid itself of certain

clichés. Here, the situation is different. The 

face-to-face set-up clearly shows who is

who. The therapeutic goal is instantly legible

whereas it could seem less focused on "the

boat", at least for someone outside this world.

The interviews that I filmed present a great

deal of diversity. I played a lot in editing on

the film's construction and rhythm. Linear at

times, disjointed, uneven and zigzagging at

others, they do not all advance at the same

pace, nor do they have the same duration or

the same tone. Some are fluid while others

go nowhere. The personality of the patients

and the diversity of the situations that they

are going through clearly have an important

role to play, just like the way in which the

carers interpret what they say, each with

his or her own style, references, occasional 

automatisms, way of being with them, of

letting the words come and of orienting the

conversation or not.

How was this idea of filming the

interviews received?

Nearly all the psychiatrists were for it, as

long as each patient was too, of course. We

talked about it ahead of filming and I relied

on their opinion. With some patients, it was

maybe not the right time. We would see later.

With others, yes, why not? On a practical

level, it was often a little acrobatic. The

psychiatrists were run off their feet. And then,

all of a sudden, they were free for a moment.

But the patient had to be free too, or at least

feel up to it and we needed to find a room 

to film the interview, as the psychiatrists do

not have individual offices. We barely had the

time to set up. There were three of us. Two

cameras, a mic on a stand, another at the end

of the boom and we were ready to go.

Where the patients were concerned, there

were some refusals, but fairly few in the end.

The people that I approached were those

with whom I had an exchange, a minimum

of complicity. I didn't offer to film those who

seemed to me to be going through extremely

intense situations, whose words were

incoherent, or indeed unintelligible, often

transformed by medication. It would have

meant filming them without their knowing

it. And to their detriment. Filming someone 

always means enclosing them, freezing them

in time and space. Imprisoning them. You

must therefore strive to avoid doing any harm.

I wanted them to be in a position to accept the

situation "in all conscience". But that notion

itself is a little vague. When someone is raving,

having hallucinations, or is haunted by voices

for example, that is not necessarily visible. Do

we always know what is going on in our minds?

Even with the best intentions, we never know

what the camera might do to people.

The film does not specify the professional

status of the carers conducting these

interviews.

That's true, but I couldn't imagine myself

putting their names and professions on the

screen, like on TV. In that case, why not put the

patients' names too? Everyone who appears

in the film is named in the credits, but that is

not the same. To answer your question, three

of them are psychiatrists. A fourth, in training

when I was filming, has become one since.

The young female carer was doing a medical

internship at the centre . Finally, the woman

who appears in tandem at two points – first

with one psychiatrist and then with another –

is a social worker.

Usually, a nurse, male or female, takes part

in these interviews alongside the doctors,

but we had to give up on that as it was so

complicated to get everyone together at the 

same time. In addition, other professionals

like psychologists do their own interviews but

I couldn't increase the number of protagonists

as there are already so many. Everyone knows

that a film is not exhaustive.

You also film meetings...

Yes, I was especially keen on filming the

Tuesday "carer-patient" meetings that allow

for all subjects to be tackled freely without

a prior agenda. Their slightly anarchistic

aspect would break up and jostle the ritual

of the interviews and the editing itself. These

scenes testify to the daily life of the hospital,

of the climate that can reign there, of the

desire that the team of carers has to share 

time thinking with the patients, but these are

only brief moments. From one week to the

next, these meetings are very different. The

greenhouse, with its plants, its armchairs and

its bookshelves, is the lung of the two units.

In this film, you don't adopt exactly the

same position as on the Adamant. You

stand a little further back.

Yes, that's true. In On the Adamant, the

patients spoke to me a lot whereas here, apart

from one interview, they speak to the carers.

Even so, I'm not absent. The numerous looks

at the camera testify to my presence and

even, here and there, to a certain complicity.

Let me return to the idea of speaking and

listening. In your films, whatever world

they tackle, this dimension is extremely

present and you show it in many ways

My own relationship to language is far

from simple. My way of speaking has never

been very fluid. I occasionally begin to speak

and, all of a sudden, the words don't emerge.

I don't know if there's a connection, but I

have always liked filming speech, which

is perhaps in my eyes the most precious

thing we have. Yet I have the feeling that it

is increasingly devalued. This is not only

true in the psychiatric world. In the field of

documentary cinema, filming speech is not

very "trendy'. We are living in a strange world,

where we are all "connected", where we have

never communicated so much… and spoken

so little together.

Filming speech means filming faces,

looks, expressions, gestures, silences,

laughs, hesitations, shortcuts, associations,

extrapolations, ways of occupying space and

opening up new ones. It means bringing to

the fore everything that colours or sharpens

ideas. It means filming that share of fiction

inherent in every tale, since speaking is not

only relating the real world, it is also and

always a way of reshaping it and reinventing

it. Relating something that never happened

is what allows it to exist. Speech is the realm

of fiction.

After Every Little Thing and On the

Adamant, this film is your third in the

world of psychiatric care, and there will

shortly be a fourth one . What incites you

to return to it?

Psychiatry is a magnifying glass, an

enlarging mirror that says a great deal both

about the human soul and the state of a

society. You meet all kinds of people who

have suffered, fragile and sensitive beings

who move through life as if walking a high

wire. In talking to them, they can force us to

face home truths, drive us into a corner, or

lead us into lands where we never thought

we'd set foot. It took me time to admit it to

myself, but if these people touch me so much,

it's because they force me to face myself and

my own vulnerabilities.

■

PARIS, JANUARY 2024

1  The Typewriter and Other Headaches, French release

planned for April 2024.

  

CREW

  

Nicolas Philibert

Pauline Pénichout

Katell Djian

Erik Ménard

Emmanuel Fraisse

Nicolas Philibert

Janusz Baranek

Sarah Murcia and Magic Malik

based on The Ode to Joy (Ludwig Van Beethoven)

Lucile Demarquet

Emmanuel Croset

Christophe Bousquet

Delphine Passant

Miléna Poylo

& Gilles Sacuto, Céline Loiseau

Clément Reffo, Coline Perraudin, Joseph Sacuto

TS Productions

France Télévisions

Les Films du Losange

Universciné

Région Île-de-France

CNC

Ciné+

Centre national du cinéma et de l’image animée

Les Films du Losange

the patients and carers of the

Averroès and Rosa Parks intra-hospital units,

Esquirol Hospital, Charenton-le-Pont.

Image

assisted by

and occasionally by

Sound

Drone shots

Editing

assisted by

Closing credits music

Sound editing

Mix

Colour grading

Post-production supervisor

Producers

Assisted by

Produced by

With the participation of

With the support of

In partnership with the

With the support of

French distribution

& international sales

With

T

  

NICOLAS PHILIBERT

  

• LA MACHINE À ÉCRIRE ET AUTRES SOURCES DE TRACAS

 (THE TYPEWRITER AND OTHER HEADACHES) (2024, coming soon)

• AVERROÈS & ROSA PARKS (AT AVERROES & ROSA PARKS) (2024)

• SUR L’ADAMANT (ON THE ADAMANT) (2023)

• DE CHAQUE INSTANT (EACH AND EVERY MOMENT) (2018)

• LA MAISON DE LA RADIO (2013)

• NÉNETTE (2010)

• RETOUR EN NORMANDIE (2007)

• NIGHT FALLS ON THE MENAGERIE (short film, 2010)

• RETOUR EN NORMANDIE (BACK TO NORMANDY) (2007)

• L’INVISIBLE (THE INVISIBLE) (2002)

• ÊTRE ET AVOIR (TO BE AND TO HAVE) (2002)

• QUI SAIT ? (WHO KNOWS?) (1999)

• LA MOINDRE DES CHOSES (EVERY LITTLE THING) (1997)

• UN ANIMAL, DES ANIMAUX (ANIMALS) (1995)

• LE PAYS DES SOURDS (IN THE LAND OF THE DEAF) (1993)

• LA VILLE LOUVRE (LOUVRE CITY) (1990)

• LE COMEBACK DE BAQUET (BAQUET'S COMEBACK) (short film, 1988)

• VAS-Y LAPÉBIE ! (GO FOR IT LAPÉBIE!) (short film, 1988)

• TRILOGIE POUR UN HOMME SEUL (TRILOGY FOR ONE MAN) (short film, 1987)

• CHRISTOPHE (short film, 1985)

• PATRONS/TÉLÉVISION (BOSSES/TELEVISION) (1979)

 et LA VOIX DE SON MAÎTRE (HIS MASTER'S VOICE)(1978) co-directed with Gérard Mordillat