My grandfather had been a well-known judge in Berlin.
Let’s say, 100 years ago, I’m not sure how many people had to empty out their relatives’ homes; they just stayed in the same house, because they lived there. Nowadays, almost everyone, at least once in their life, somehow, has to deal with this experience.
I take care to only teach courses about fiction film. I believe that this balances and broadens my documentary work.
After my grandmother passed away, I felt the urge to take my camera to her flat. I knew this flat from my childhood in Tel Aviv. Going to this flat was like going abroad; there was a real feeling of traveling across Tel Aviv and ending up in Berlin.
When WWII ended, the Cold War started, and the interest of the Western world was not to completely break Germany. So all those Nazis who had been controlling the country now had the power to rebuild it. I think there were many of them who just continued their life in society; it’s a very known fact.
I view every film as a commitment to undertake a long journey.
I view every film as a commitment to undertake a long journey. I suppose this has to do with my need to leave no stone unturned, and sometimes to even dig deeper into the mine.
Many people think making a film about history… about war… about the Holocaust, it might be heavy, dramatic and traumatic. I don’t see things like that… you can find irony everywhere. It’s how I look at life.
We lived in the provincial town of Ramat Gan where I spent most of my youth adjacent to the chess board.
You must understand, that for a daughter to protect her father’s image is natural; Freud built a whole career around it.
My grandmother’s apartment had significance for me, even as a child, and I was fascinated by that world that was disappearing.
It seemed like my professional life would take a more scientific route. I guess that plan started to become undone when, at the age of 17, I happened upon a screening of Alain Resnais’ ‘Hiroshima Mon Amour,’ and it took my breath away.