Block 4. Things We Don't Talk About Out Loud

Recasting his newborn son and dog as himself and his childhood pets, a filmmaker confronts his own false memories through a collage of film, digital and video game footage.

In the religious Iranian city of Qom, there are restrictions imposed on women in the name of “sexual safety.” Hossein grew up in this context, but as a young boy he found himself victimized, left to carry this secret into adulthood. Now, with the help of his wife Elahe, he is confronting his trauma.

A boy raised in the mountains films his home surroundings. He shows his sister, his father, their house with a treehouse in the garden, and the family’s old dog. He runs and cycles while holding the camera, creating choppy, chaotic images that match the energetic life of a child. Snippets of a young life pass by, but the result is by no means superficial. The boy’s flowing thoughts produce observations that suggest a strikingly philosophical nature. He thinks deeply about life and feels everything intensely, and that is evident when he talks candidly about his doubts and fears, or disappears under the covers crying. But as things go in the life of a child, a moment later his attention may be grabbed by something else, something mundane, and an existential thought or wise philosophical observation may easily switch into calling the dog or playing with his big sister.

Els is in her late-forties, divorced and in love again. For her, falling in love was not easy: it meant that she had to accept, she has a life even if her twenty-year-old daughter wants to die and has already asked for psychiatric euthanasia which her mother can do nothing about. In the storm of her own emotions, mixed with guilt, anger, fear and hope, love is what teaches Els to try stepping forward even if it seems impossible.

Summer is the season of banger racing. Cars gear up for a long day of races that will culminate in their total demolition. In the background, I reminisce about the violent summer from my past. As I recount the man who was slowly killing me, the cars become unrecognizable, resembling a group of smoking yet heroic carcasses.

6000 mensonges comes to the spectator as lightning in a clear sky. What starts as a recollection of prenatal images we are used to seeing suddenly becomes a dive into an unknown territory, in which the border between reality and fiction is no longer relevant. The result is a striking, haunting and powerful testimony of a devastating experience that is lived by many in silence, told in the most contemporary possible way.