Film Show 049: Claire Simon
An interview with the French filmmaker about how TikTok has shaped filming children, her approach to shooting documentaries vs fictions, and her new feature film 'Elementary' (2024)
Claire Simon
Claire Simon (b. 1955) is a French filmmaker who has spent more than 45 years making tender, thoughtful films that function as a form of archival work. Whether making fiction or documentary films, she’s always interested in capturing some sort of truth about reality. She began her career in Algeria, helping to edit Mohammed Lakhdar-Hamina’s Chronicle of the Year of Embers (1975). She would also learn from the ethnographic filmmaker Jean Rouch in his film training program called Ateliers Varan. She would spend the following decades making numerous feature-length films, including documentaries about kindergarteners at recess (1993’s Récréations), the Gare du Nord train station (2013’s Human Geography), and the gynecology department of a Parisian hospital (2023’s Our Body). Her newest film is titled Elementary (2024), and documents Makarenko, a public school in a Parisian suburb. The film has its US premiere this weekend at the Museum of the Moving Image—more info can be found here. Joshua Minsoo Kim spoke with Simon on March 4th, 2025 via Zoom to discuss her own childhood experiences, TikTok’s impact on filmmaking, and improvisation when making documentaries.
Joshua Minsoo Kim: I’m a teacher myself and I wanted to start off by asking about the teachers who meant the most to you throughout your life. Who comes to mind?
Claire Simon: I went to school in a small village in the South of France, and all the children of the village were always in the same room regardless of the class. The teacher was amazing—she was an incredible, nice person. She could teach all kinds of children, and it gave me a feeling of citizenship in this village and in this country. My parents were a bit different—my mother was English, my father was crippled—and she gave me the feeling of belonging.
What sort of things did your teacher do that made you feel this way?
All the children were from different social backgrounds and she was able to teach younger and older children together. I loved her, I really did. My parents were not always around, so I would sometimes go to her apartment, which was a part of the school at the time. She had a daughter who had a genetic disorder and we learned with her—we learned how to behave with people who were not typical. I think that teachers are the most important people—they’re teaching civilization. In France, the relationship between elementary school and the Republic is very strong. This teacher organized a way for us to read and understand reality, to understand history. She would also dig holes in the courtyard so we could play with marbles.
My daughter went to Harvard and I thought I could do this film [Elementary (2024)] at an American school. I came to Boston and scouted different schools, but I felt that watching American children in courtyards didn’t have the same feeling of what happens in France. When you vote in France, you go into schools to vote, and children have this feeling that this school courtyard is a public space. It’s a space where you’re rehearsing your public life. You are linked to the city, to the history of the country, and that’s why in my film it is very important that it is in a school near Paris where 95% of the children are children of immigrants. These children still feel like French citizens, and that’s the point.
You have your film Récréations (1993) where you filmed in the playground of your daughter’s school. You don’t film the teachers in that—there are points where the camera frames their bodies such that their heads are cut out; it’s like we’re watching from the point of view of children. But in Elementary, there’s a larger focus on seeing the interactions between teachers and children. What do you feel like you learned in this new film that you didn’t learn in this old one?
Récréations was shot in a kindergarten and this new one was with an elementary school, and that changes the way kids think about playtime. In kindergarten, children are poets, y’know? They want to rehearse life and to find a good story between themselves. It happens a little bit in elementary school but they also have conventional ways of playing—they’ll sing, they’ll dance, they’ll play soccer. And then they have these moments of invention that I seek out.
When I began scouting for Elementary, I was initially only interested in playtime, but then I noticed that these children were always going to their teachers—they were trying to sort out a conflict or to be cuddled. So this time, I thought I would focus on this relationship between the teachers and the children. And when I went to that school, it was obvious that these relationships were strong as a way to avoid physical violence. This was important for the school because it’s the poorest one in the area. The children are very poor. Eight years ago, when the director [of the school] started working, he said that there was a lot of violence in the courtyard, but it changed because they developed these relationships between the children and teachers. The teachers learned how to be mediators—they did this thing where you have to express your emotions, where they wouldn’t hit others but talk.
The main change between Récréations and this film is that they really noticed the camera when I arrived. They’d tell me to make a TikTok or to take photos. I thought to myself, this film is going to be rubbish, everything looks stupid (laughter). But after three days, the children accepted that I was only interested in observing real life and not in taking selfies. I was there every day for three months; me and my sound engineer completely became a part of the school. Eventually, the students didn’t really notice us when we were around in the courtyard or in the classroom; I could move around as much as I wanted. I’ve been presenting the film with some of the teachers and they always say that I was part of the school. When the film was in Cannes, we went to a cinema and the students saw the film and they said, “How did you film me? I don’t remember that you were there, I don’t remember you filming!” They were so happy about the film, but they’d forgotten that I filmed them.
I’m curious if you can shed light on how things have changed with how people present themselves or want to be filmed in light of TikTok’s rise. Have you noticed anything since making Young Solitude (2018), though of course that was with high schoolers.
This idea of presenting yourself as if you were always seeking celebrity, fame, or a good job… this has become really strong. At the end of the year, a teacher asked the children what they did on social media. They just wanted to do something—to put out a message, to share stories about the school or their friends. It was this idea of doing something on their own. This feeling is very different from being part of a classroom or playing in the schoolyard. They want to say something, but they don’t really know what they want to say—they just feel happy to be active, as if they were adults. Here in France, there’s a lot of cycling everywhere and the children like to be free on their bicycles, to do something by themselves as if they were grown-ups. None of this is bad, really. What is boring is the fact that they mix this with this idea that they should be famous, that they should be selling themselves.
Do you have any thoughts about authenticity and performativity and how these things are affected by the presence of a camera? How much of performativity is embedded into reality and authenticity?
You’re right to use the word performance. In my films, I film the encounter between me and the place or the people I film. In this school, during class, they’re supposed to perform—they have to answer questions and do things that are asked of them. They also perform with their friends in the courtyard. The relationship between the students and the camera is less important than the performance they give in the classroom. In some films, like the one I made about the woods of Vincennes [The Woods Dreams Are Made Of (2015)], we were making a piece of cinema together that would be for an anonymous audience. But it’s less a performance than a relationship.
Are there things you’ve learned from making fiction films, like Sinon, oui (1997), that you’ve applied to how you make documentaries?
When I do fiction, I’m interested in how real it can be. Well, maybe not “real” but convincing. You can watch it and start to think it’s all made up. I like the idea of things not seeming intentional. I always say that with documentaries you’re always looking for a story, and with fiction you have a story, so you’re seeking reality—a convincing reality. I still find that there are actors in both kinds of cinema, and the relationship my camera has with the people I film is always the same. Everyone is an actor; I just try to make sure the camera can help testify about their feelings and truth.
What makes something convincing for you in a fiction film? And what is sufficient for a documentary to feel like there is a story?
I’m very happy in fiction films when I feel I’ve made an archive. When I did Gare du Nord (2013), there were a lot of people—these figures—that I felt belonged to Gare du Nord. I felt that I made a portrait of this place at this particular moment—it was a true archive! I make films about “lacking archives.” Nobody has seen, for example, a conversation with the lover [Yann Andréa] of Marguerite Duras [I Want to Talk About Duras (2021)]. I made a fiction film about family planning [God’s Offices (2008)]—this was also a lacking archive. When I did this film about a girl who sets fire to the forest [Ça brûle (2006)], it was the same thing. I remember that I felt relieved at the exact moment the fire began—it was only then that the film was going to be complete. And fire is really reality. I always thought that with this film, with the horse and fire, that “the real” must be bigger than fiction.
There is always a part in the films I make where reality is stronger than fiction. In Sinon oui, it was the baby—it was completely true, it’s bigger than the story. The fire is bigger than the actors. Marguerite Duras… in any existing archive, she’s always above the story, not under it. In all my films, I’m interested in this confrontation where reality is bigger and stronger than the story. When I film a documentary, I’m always looking for a story of the people I’m filming. In Elementary, I like that each child is a real character—they have a real story and their own problems.
I’m intrigued by this notion of the real coming out of fiction. I feel that’s always been present in your career, even with something like Tandis que j’agonise (1980) with the different TVs and the different representations of film present. You mentioned Gare du Nord, and now I’m thinking about how Jean Rouch has a film with the same title and that you studied under him. I’m thinking about how you were an editor on Chronicle of the Years of Fire (1975). Do you mind sharing what you learned from these early experiences in your career?
I’m amazed that you know so much about my work—I really want to thank you. What I discovered with Jean Rouch is the idea of improvisation. In jazz, you of course have certain patterns and structures, but there is also improvisation. And I feel like documentaries are improvised cinema in this way. It’s a wonderful thing to try and see what film you can make right away in your current situation, with your bare hands, with nobody to help you. Just be open to the people you meet and what’s inside the frame—it’s always amazing. I just finished a film about Annie Ernaux, the Nobel Prize winner. I decided I would go to a lot of high schools in France and see classes studying her books. I filmed some classes, but I also said to the students, “I’d like to see you talking about these books on your own, without any teachers.” I would go to some place in the high school and say, “Okay, talk!” And they would talk! It was so amazing—I couldn’t believe it. They were so good, so strong, so real, so passionate. It’s so incredible that you can just ask two or three young girls to talk and they just do it. And they have so much grace!
I’ve interviewed musicians who have shared with me that improvisation is ultimately about listening—listening to the room you’re in, listening to other musicians. And this is a sort of listening that is incredibly focused. What is the act of looking and listening like when you’re in the process of making films? Do you have any thoughts on that, especially with regards to what you said about documentary filmmaking being an act of improvisation?
Oh, I am a listener. I can’t shoot with headphones—I can’t! I sometimes shoot without them but it’s very rare. I’m always defining what I’m filming based on the sound—that’s why I’m so happy with the sound engineer I work with, Pierre Bompy. He understands exactly what I need to tell a story. And really, he’s telling the story and I’m doing the mise-en-scène. For me, what I did in the Duras film was completely improvised. Even though I had these ideas for how I would use my camera, I would change my mind and we’d have shots that would last 35 minutes. Everyone was doing this together, and we were all listening to each other—the actors, the sound, the DOP Céline Bozonwho was changing the lighting if I was getting closer to the actor. It was wonderful. And that’s what I like—being in a moment where everyone is together.
How do you feel like making films has impacted the way you approach your everyday life? Do you feel like it’s been impacted?
I don’t know… I’m always working (laughter). I’m very lucky because when I don’t know what to do, I can watch a film, which is part of my work in some way. I am finishing this film about Annie Ernaux and I’m rewriting a script for a fiction film, and I’m thinking of different documentaries that I should do. Again, I’m thinking about lacking archives.
Are there any lacking archives that you want to make sure you document right now?
It’s complicated right now because we are in this terrible political moment… it’s this pre-war time. We’re terrified here and we don’t know what to do. It looks like Nazis are everywhere. I imagine that Philip Roth must have awakened in his tombstone, thinking that what he wrote as a fiction is actually happening in the States. I hope that people in the US find a way to resist—it’s against humanity what is happening. My thinking every day is, how can I work on my fiction as the war seems to be coming? This is my question all day long.
I saw Our Body (2023) at True/False Film Festival in 2023 and the person giving the introduction noted that it was the most radicalizing film of the festival because, as an American, it’s alarming to see the amount of thought and care that is on display in this film. Obviously the healthcare we have in the States is very different from what exists in France. And I think the film feels even more timely now given the hateful anti-trans rhetoric that politicians are more loudly spouting.
Thank you, it’s very nice of you to tell me how it was like at True/False—I really love this festival. I was really happy that it was released in the US. I feel that American critics sometimes understand me better than French ones (laughs).
How so?
I think it’s because in France, they don’t seem to understand documentaries very much. They always say, “All you did was put your camera in the courtyard” and I say, “No, I don’t just put it there. I carry the camera and I look through it. I have a specific way to film the kids, and I have a specific purpose.” I wanted the viewer to feel like they’re a kid in the classroom, and I wanted what was happening on the faces of the children to be visible. This is so important because what they feel, what they think… you can see it. I can tell you that, for example, there is another film about a primary school called To Be and to Have (2002) and you don’t see the faces of the children in that way. It becomes very different—it’s this different idea of film. Films aren’t just defined by the topic or the place where you film them; it’s about the way you approach things.
You’re taking an active role in your films at times, and there are personal aspects to some of them too. Mimi (2003) was about your friend, for example. How often do the relationships you make in the filmmaking process persist?
I see Mimi still, though she’s getting very old and can’t move. I have a good relationship with some doctors from the hospital [in Our Body]. I have a very good relationship with the teachers and the director of the school [in Elementary]. I keep in touch with some of the students in Young Solitude. But really, it’s like a love that has finished. We had a great love and now it is over. Most of these relationships are done, except right now with the teachers at this school. It was really nice for me to discover these people because I have so much admiration for them. They’re really incredible. Most of them had another job previously, and some of them had much more money beforehand. The teacher who sang the Rihanna song was working on a website for a bank, the teacher of religion was making glasses in a shop, another was working in a company based in Africa, another was a social worker. They have this conviction that is so strong, and they want to give to these children. They want to teach them how to talk, how to think, how to be a citizen. I’m just amazed by them. I admire them so much.
You mentioned that filming is like a love that is finished. Is it hard to come to the end of production, to leave the space you’re working at?
No. This is a passion, and like with all passions, you can’t stick with it too much or it’ll end badly (laughter). The exception is that you must do as well as you can with your children—you can’t have a bad story with them. I’m very proud of my daughter, who is a feminist philosopher. I try to have the best relationship I can have with her. That’s the thing with children—the love you have with them or with your grandchildren must be eternal and you must be very good at it. You have to learn every single day. It’s like dancing—you learn every time you dance. You can’t go into it with good intentions; it’s much more difficult. You must know that yourself, as a teacher (laughter).
I love that you compared it to dancing. Do you feel like you’ve learned a lot from dancing in your life?
The rhythm is something you are always learning. Always. The rhythm is endless.
There’s a question I end all my interviews with and I wanted to ask it to you. Do you mind sharing one thing you love about yourself?
I hope to be funny, and when I’m funny, I’m proud of myself. I think it’s very important to laugh—it’s one of the most important things. And in Elementary, the fact that they’re able to laugh about religion is so wonderful. So yes, I’m proud when you can laugh while watching my films. The thing about laughter is that it happens when you are surprised, and with documentary filmmaking, you’re always surprised. It’s never like you think it’s going to be, and then you laugh. You laugh at your own stupidity, that you really never understood this thing before.
Claire Simon’s Elementary plays as part of MoMI’s First Look this weekend. More info can be found here.
Thank you for reading the 49th issue of Film Show. Laugh at your own stupidity!!
If you appreciate what we do, please consider donating via Ko-fi or becoming a Patreon patron. Film Show is dedicated to forever providing its content for free, but please know that all our writers are paid for the work they do. All donations will be used for paying writers, and if we get enough money, Film Show will be able to publish issues more frequently.