Song Always starts with a Cry

How did your desire to make this film in a Closed Educational Centre first arise?

My desire to make this film was born out of an encounter with young people placed in a CEC. I had the opportunity to enter one of these institutions while following musicians who were offering writing workshops there. The young people immediately called out to me, asking me to make a film to show they were not “wild beasts.” “Someone needs to tell them we’re civilised, that we can do more than hit, insult, or break things!” said one young girl. That first encounter instantly made me want to offer them a space for expression.

We know that filming in detention settings is never easy. How did it go in this particular establishment?

Of course, filming in a CEC was complicated for a whole host of reasons. The young people have medical appointments, psychological sessions, trial preparations—sometimes court appearances with barely any notice… The staff team is large, which complicates internal communication. I sometimes showed up only to find the kids I was supposed to meet weren’t there. But the director of the centre was fully supportive of my project, as were several educators, team leaders, and staff members, and that support was essential.

What can you tell us about your encounters with the young people?

Aged 15 to 17, these young people arrive at a CEC after longer or shorter histories of delinquency, sometimes following the failure of various community-based measures. Drug trafficking, theft, violence—or sometimes simply bad luck, coincidence. Their stories are varied, but what they mostly share is a lack of the invisible essentials: love, care, protection, kindness, gentleness... Many of them built their identity through delinquency, climbing the social ranks of that world just as other children might strive to excel in music or sports to gain recognition.

Meeting these nine boys was an intense experience for me. At times it was hard, because they were dealing with very heavy, painful situations for their age. It was difficult for them to stay focused on the filmmaking process, as they were overwhelmed by personal troubles. And it was hard for me to see them stuck in such complicated circumstances, knowing I couldn’t help them. There’s something uncomfortable about being the person who comes to “take” images and sound, when the people you’re filming are in such distress. So, there were days when we just gave up on filming and sat around having coffee, talking about life. This was truly one of the richest human experiences I’ve ever had. I learned a lot from them, including how to deconstruct many clichés I hadn’t realised I carried. All those well-meaning but simplistic ideas we all more or less absorb—about what it means to commit a crime or an offence… These boys made me understand that misfortune and life’s detours can happen to anyone, at any time. In the end, I mostly feel I met children who never had a real chance.

How did the initial contact with them unfold? What approach did you take to build trust and encourage their participation in the film?

I told them the plain truth. I introduced myself, and made it clear I was not a social worker, a journalist, a judge, or a police officer—I was simply someone from the outside. I shared the story of my first encounter with young people in a CEC and how they had asked me to make a film. I explained that I had come to offer them the chance to speak—to say whatever they wanted to say. I told them I wasn’t expecting anything in particular, but that I was there for them, to make *their* film, if they wanted to.

After this collective presentation—which stirred up emotions, even if I sensed their discreet attention—I decided to meet with them one-on-one at first. Working alone, I chose to simplify the technical side of cinema, without entirely ignoring it. So I suggested we “do radio.” Through a sort of lottery with slips of paper bearing the names of different places within the centre, I asked the boys to describe their living spaces freely. This also let them explore the sound equipment—listening to their own voices through headphones, recording ambient sounds, and so on.

Doing sound together encourages conversation while requiring calm and concentration—unlike the camera, where the presence of the lens can provoke excitement. Recording sound also meant we could, for the time being, avoid the thorny issue of image rights, and slowly get to know one another. These early sessions were rich in speech. Some of the boys quickly recognised that a space for expression was opening up—and seized it in surprising ways.

After those sessions, I made quick rough cuts of the audio and played them back for the boys. Then I brought in the camera, and together we revisited the same places. They got to handle the camera themselves—behind the viewfinder rather than in front of it. Those who wanted to tried things out; others told me what they thought should be filmed in certain areas. By then, I believe they were already “on board” with the project. They started imagining the masks they would create. Our relationship unfolded gently, from there.

The decision to have them create masks originally stemmed from the legal constraint of the ‘right to be forgotten’ for minors. How did you turn this constraint into a creative and narrative device?

Yes, this idea came about due to the French law requiring the anonymity of underage offenders in the media—no recognisable images, names, or identifying details. This “right to be forgotten” gives young people a chance to start over, but from a cinematic standpoint, it’s a huge challenge. It turns them into silhouettes, blurred smudges, shadows—ghosts, really. Not characters.

In most films I’ve seen involving minors “under judicial supervision,” the actual characters are the educators, the directors, the guards—because they’re the ones whose faces can be shown. But it’s on faces that we read fragility, humour, intelligence. Empathy in film often comes through the face. So I had this deep desire to make a film, but I had to work around that constraint. I needed a form that would allow us to stay close to the young people without revealing their faces.

Little by little, the idea came to propose working with masks—offering them the chance to take back control of the image being denied to them. That felt like the most honest approach. And then I discovered—what I had suspected but hadn’t yet experienced—that masks both conceal and reveal. They distort, they protect, and they expose all at once.

When the boys put on their masks, they present the image they’ve crafted for us—one that shields them—and they dare to speak, sometimes even to bare themselves emotionally. The mask also gives the image a mythical, epic, or tragic quality. A simple statement like “I was born in autumn, I’m 17, I’m a human being,” or “I’ve never killed anyone, I dream of getting out, and I’m afraid of prison” becomes incredibly powerful. It’s no longer just that boy speaking—it’s marginalised adolescence as a whole, addressing the camera.

How did the mask-making process unfold?

I first showed the young people several references: ritual masks, masks from ancient Greek theatre, commedia dell’arte, the masked superheroes of our time... And then I proposed that they invent a mask that would represent them, using whatever materials they wanted. I suggested that these masks be made in papier-mâché, cardboard, plastic, fabric, plaster—whatever they could find.

We tried to make this a fun, creative process, but I had no idea what would come of it. Would they really play along? Would the masks fall apart? Would they be too fragile or too bizarre to film? We weren’t aiming for aesthetic perfection—we were trying to create objects that meant something to them. I asked them to think about their identity: “Who are you when you’re alone in your room?” or “If you could walk down the street wearing a mask that would show others who you really are, what would that mask look like?”

Some of them made very elaborate masks; others went for minimalism. All of them were striking. And all of them spoke volumes. It’s through these objects—these interfaces—that the film found its form. The masks allowed the young people to express something of themselves, to speak, and to play. And also to tell stories.

How was the actual filming organised?

We filmed over several months, with long breaks in between. The institution asked me not to shoot too often, as it was already a big adjustment for the staff and the young people. I came alone, with a very light setup. I didn’t want the kids to be intimidated by a large team. I carried everything myself: sound recorder, camera, tripod, lights… We used natural light as much as possible. I wanted the equipment to be as discreet as possible, so as not to disrupt daily life in the centre.

Sometimes, I filmed a scene planned with one of the young people; other times, it was more improvised. The institutional framework made it difficult to plan much in advance—things changed constantly. But I had chosen this flexibility. I wanted to be able to adapt to what came up: a story, a desire to talk, an image that emerged.

There was no script. I didn’t want to superimpose a narrative onto their lives. I wanted them to be the ones to shape the film with me—through their words, gestures, silences, their masked presence. It was a kind of collective writing process, even though I remained the one behind the camera and in the editing room.

You chose to combine voiceovers, scenes from daily life, and very stylised sequences. Why this hybrid form?

Because that’s what best suited the situation, and the young people. These teenagers are in constant movement—emotionally, psychologically, physically. I needed a cinematic form that could mirror that instability and inner turmoil.

The voiceovers allowed them to speak freely, without the pressure of the camera. The documentary scenes show us the place, their routines, the interactions between them. And the more stylised sequences—those are like dreams or nightmares, windows into their inner world. The mask bridges the gap between these different levels: the intimate, the real, and the symbolic.

This hybrid form was also a way to avoid the usual clichés—either miserabilist or sensationalist—about juvenile delinquency. I didn’t want to “explain” them, or reduce them to their crimes. I wanted the film to offer a different way of seeing: more poetic, more open.

Would you say the film is political?

Absolutely. Deeply political. Because it questions the way our society looks at youth, at difference, at error. Because it gives voice to those who are usually spoken for. And because it challenges a system that locks up children in the name of protection, but often forgets to offer them a real future.

It’s political in its form too. I chose not to show the institution’s logos or signage. I didn’t want the audience to locate the CEC geographically or associate the young people with a particular neighbourhood or city. What mattered was not where they were, but who they are.

The film doesn’t seek to accuse or to exonerate. It tries to listen. And in that sense, yes—it takes a stand.