Marc Faye

I spent my childhood in Condat, a small town in the Dordogne whose paper mill employed 500 people. The chimneys of the factory spewed thick white smoke. It smelled like cabbage. There was no cinema in town but the factory made the paper for the Cahiers du cinema. Every Sunday evening I listened to "Projection privée" on France Culture. That was enough to make me happy to imagine the week's outings. A few years later I felt like making films.