Andreas Landeck is a prominent French filmmaker whose two-decade career has been marked by a series of compelling films, earning him numerous awards at both national and international film festivals.

His latest documentary, A Father, a Son, and Sankara, an evocative intergenerational manifesto exploring anti-capitalism and the essence of humanity, recently took home the 'Best Documentary Film' award at the third edition of the Sobh International Film Festival in Tehran.

Filmed over ten years in Algeria, Niger, France, and Germany, the film pieces together the personal and political journeys of three men as they confront the systemic oppressions of capitalism, colonialism, and racism, and illustrates how power structures infiltrate and erode intimate lives.

We sat down with Landeck on the sidelines of the Sobh International Media Festival in Tehran for a freewheeling conversation about his film, its powerful message, the art of his storytelling, and his opinion about the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Q. You visited Tehran for the International Sobh Media Festival. Which places did you have the chance to explore in the Iranian capital?

A. We went to Ghasr Prison (Museum of the Ghasr Prison). In my film, I had this idea that Bouzid, as a journalist and mujahid (holy warrior), was jailed and tortured.

He took me to the same place where this happened. However, this site in Algiers has not been converted into a museum—it remains unchanged—so we were just kicked out by the guards.

For me, as a foreigner, it's meaningful to visit such a museum and discuss your history. It's important to remember what happened there and to honor the memory of those who died.

When I saw the prison, I was really struck—“Wow, I had this idea!”—though it was completely opposite to what is happening here in Tehran. The museum here serves a much clearer and stronger historical purpose, like Madame Tussauds, but a hundred times more powerful and with real significance.

Q. It's similar to Auschwitz (Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum). Isn't it?

A. Yes, it's crucial to preserve memories and learn from history so that we don't repeat the same mistakes over and over again.

Q. The main theme of your film—A Father, a Son, and Sankara—is resistance. The father-son relationship you portray transcends geographical and racial borders. It moves beyond a national identity as we traditionally understand it and constructs a new identity, one rooted in resistance. You also highlight examples of this in France, Germany, Algeria, and other parts of the world. Do you believe this is a genuine form of identity that can unite people globally around this concept?

A. I think that resistance is inside us. Everybody has the potential for resistance if they find their way through this energy. I didn't want to speak on behalf of people from the Global South or colonized communities because I am not colonized.

Speaking as if I were would mean assuming an experience that isn’t mine—I mean, I am still a colonizer, you know. So I had to find another angle to tell this story.

That angle was the father-son relationship, because of the friendship we developed over ten years. He became more like a spiritual father to me, and through his fight, I learned so much—not just about his struggle but about the broader fights of oppressed people and nations.

I think that resistance is inside us. Everybody has the potential for resistance if they find their way through this energy

Q. How did you come to understand these people, as you showed in your film? You’re from the Global North, while they are from the South—we are from the South. Wasn’t it difficult for you, as a French or German, to grasp how we view them, particularly those who shaped colonial laws and systems? How did you understand their feelings and thoughts? This seems to be a crucial part of your relationship with Bouzid. Was it challenging for you?

A. It wasn’t hard in the sense that I had to learn something new. I was already sensitive to injustice. 34 years ago, when I first visited the United States, for example, I went to the Native American reserves and was deeply affected by their living conditions.

Even then, thirty years ago, they were still treated as second-class citizens in their own country. It felt natural for me to recognize their struggle because I’ve always been deeply sensitive to these issues. I wanted to be with them, to connect, and to say: we are all just humans.

Maybe it sounds simple, but at its core, it’s about love—not romantic love, but a broader, detached kind of love. That’s part of who I am, so for me, it wasn’t a challenge.

But I also see that many people in Western countries still struggle to reach this level of understanding. That’s part of why I made this film—to open minds, to tell the story through the father-son relationship, and to reflect on my own relationship with my real father.

At the cinema, I saw how deeply it resonated with people. A lot of men cried—because, between men, we rarely talk about these things. Maybe women are more naturally attuned to these emotions, but this film allowed men to engage with them too.

At the avant-première in my town, the cinema, though small, held 500 people. When the lights came up, there was complete silence. Then I realized—many people had been crying. I had hoped for an impact, but I was truly surprised by how deeply it reached them.

People connected with the core idea—understanding injustice. If they could grasp the injustice experienced by the people in the film, then maybe they could also recognize the struggles of those in the Global South. That was the idea—to start the conversation.

Ultimately, the message is simple: when injustice enters your life, resistance is inevitable. You won’t accept it—you’ll fight back if you truly want change.

Q. So, were there any opposing opinions about that?

A. One situation was really clear. During the film, there was a man who walked out, saying, "What is this?" He was actually from the Harkis (Algerians who fought alongside the French during the Algerian War of Independence (1954–1962)—those who collaborated with the French.

I think they also have their own story. He must have been a child at that time, growing up there—it was his home. But he didn’t understand that it was truly his home.

Q. He didn't have the background.

A. He lacked the historical background to grasp what was happening, and in the end, he lost everything he had. He spent his whole life unable to rebuild something new or fully understand what had happened.

You see something similar in Germany, where many people were displaced to eastern Poland after World War II. Those who were children at the time are still in pain over what they lost. It's complicated because those emotions are real, and they deserve to be heard.

It’s not about whether it's right or wrong—it’s about listening. I believe the first step toward building something collectively is to hear others and understand their emotions.

If they could grasp the injustice experienced by the people in the film, then maybe they could also recognize the struggles of those in the Global South.

Q. I think that's the key idea you use in your movie when you portray Martyr village (Oradour-sur-Glane) in France, where Germany destroyed it and killed all those people. I believe the main purpose is to evoke sympathy, helping French viewers relate to Algerian people. Right?

A. Something happened two or three weeks ago in France—this was the first time a French journalist openly said what I state in the film. He acknowledged what happened there, in the martyr village from the French Resistance, and said, "We did the same, 100 times." The reality is, they did it 1,000 times.

But my film never made it into any French festival. During the editing process, I consulted my director friend, Hubert Sauper, who made The Nightmare of Darwin, a film that was nominated for an Oscar and became hugely successful. 

He told me, "Andreas, be aware that you’re a German, telling French people what happened. This will never pass." And he was right. The film was never selected for any French festival.

Still, I wanted to speak German—because I am German. I mean, I can speak French quite well. But I wanted to stay in my own language. At the same time, with Bouzid, French is our shared language, and that’s the bridge.

Q. Have you shown your film in Germany?

A. No, I haven’t.

Q. Isn’t it difficult for Germans to sympathize, since you depict Germans or Nazis as the ones who attacked that village? Maybe that makes it more complicated.

A. No, it wasn’t that hard. In the film, I mention a survivor from Auschwitz who visited my class, and my generation grew up with this kind of education—a direct confrontation with our country’s history.

For us, it was completely normal to be anti-fascist and anti-Nazi. There was only a tiny minority—maybe 0.1%—who still held different views, but the vast majority fully accepted that what happened was completely wrong and against humanity.

Q. You were in your 20s, I think, when the Berlin Wall came down. Is that correct?

A. No, I was 15 years old.

Q. Which was more interesting for you at first—the sense Bouzid created in you or his background?

A. The first step was his background, because he was talking about all these heroes when I was around 15, 16, or 17. In school, when I studied politics and earned my bachelor's degree in the subject, I was really left-wing, and for me, Che Guevara was a hero.

Then Bouzid would say things like, "Oh, I met him," and I thought Who is this guy? so I just wanted to film and archive his life.

At that moment, I didn’t know that one day we would share a household with my children. I never wanted to build a truly feminist household, created by men. Now, I see that we have built exactly that—a household based on friendship and a broader sense of love.

Then, after 10 years, as he got older, my son turned 18 and started leaving home more often, thinking about where to study. It became clear that I would regain more freedom.

I told Bouzid, now it's time for me to start making films and living my life. I don’t have the energy to take full care of you anymore, and you need increasing support. Someone must stay with you all the time—you can’t go to the market, buy things, or carry them home anymore. You’re not strong enough for that now.

Meanwhile, his family in Algeria had been asking for 10 years: Who is this German guy in the south of France? What is your story?

In the film, I mention a survivor from Auschwitz who visited my class, and my generation grew up with this kind of education

Q. How did you explain it?

A. We both simply said—we support each other. A deep friendship formed, like a father-son relationship. He taught me, and I helped him, bringing him joy—introducing him to my friends, going out, doing everyday things, just as one would do with their own father.

My real father wasn’t present, so it became clear that I wasn’t meant to be the one caring for him forever. He accepted that, too. As I say in the film, the time had come—perhaps he should return to his family, and they would take care of him. We both agreed on that.

That was the moment I started wondering—What is this film really about? Ten years of footage, starting as a portrait of someone, but eventually becoming more—a story about a father and son, a connection that transcends culture, religion, and nationality.

Q. But, still, he is a father to you.

A. And he became a real grandfather to my son. Just last week, my son visited him in Algiers and stayed for a week to take care of him.

Q. And your son is studying Arabic. Is it because of him?

A. He never said that explicitly, but I think so. He was interested in him, and his influence definitely had an impact.

Q. But how did you know? Did you always intend to portray him as the subject of your documentary from the start, or did you decide after 10 years to turn your footage into a film?

A. The Meisel brothers, American documentary filmmakers, once said that if a film ends up exactly as it was scripted, it means the director never truly listened to their subjects. In documentary filmmaking, ideas evolve throughout the process.

Initially, I intended to make a portrait of Bouzid, but through filming, I realized the story was much more than that—I was part of it. A meeting with a late Belgian director helped me define the film’s essence.

When asked to choose a single image that captured the heart of the film, I said, "The couscous scene—the moment when four hands reach into the steaming dish, burning their fingers in unison, like a dance."

Then, a realization struck: Bouzid was the same age as my father. When I asked my son about Bouzid, he called him "a kind of grandfather." That single answer reshaped the entire concept of the film.

In just three days, I shot the missing scenes to bring this idea together. Almost everything was already there—I just needed small pieces to complete the picture, like the final shot where I speak and the sequence of painting the wall.

Meisel brothers, American documentary filmmakers, once said that if a film ends up exactly as it was scripted, it means the director never truly listened to their subjects

Q. What was the main idea behind the final painting sequence?

A. I wanted to reconnect with the beginning of the film, not just because Bouzid talks about losing his mother, but because I talk about losing my father. I needed closure.

Strangely, my father never saw the film and never knew I was making it, yet somehow, over time, my relationship with him transformed. Today, we talk every week, asking about each other and offering help. It feels like a kind of unseen energy brought us back together.

Q. Without him even watching the film?

A. It's like magic—these invisible energies, the unseen connections in life. But if you do the right thing, you are guided by God, and it comes to you.

Q. At the end of the film, you mentioned the phrase 'the revolution devours its own children.' It sounds dark and pessimistic, yet you also emphasize that fighting, moving forward, and resisting are inevitable. Aren't these ideas contradictory?

A. First, I think that every struggle for power, once you have it and don’t share it, leads to corruption. It's like the French Revolution—they started by cutting off the king’s head, but in the end, there was an emperor, Napoleon. It’s a cycle.

French people often get angry when you mention this because, for them, the revolution is a success story. But they only focus on a fixed timeframe, ignoring the broader picture.

At the beginning, it may have seemed like a good idea to free the people, but when you end up with Napoleon and everything that followed, including the chaos after Robespierre, the cycle repeats. Then, the strongman returns, puts the crown back on his head. So, is this really a success story? I don't know.

We should fight for revolutions. But the outcome isn’t always ideal. I believe the true revolution is an inner one. It is like what you have in Islam, there is Jihad, which in Western countries is often understood as external war. But the real meaning in the Quran refers to an internal struggle.

Without this inner revolution, an external one may bring temporary victory, but without the mental strength to sustain it, it eventually leads to another oppressive system for the next generation.

Q. It's impressive that you understand the true meaning of it.

A. Yes, I lived with an Algerian for over 10 years. I learned a lot.

Q. But Bouzid doesn’t have an Islamic background. he's also left-wing. Right?

A. He's very left-wing, he knows the Quran by heart—he learned it thoroughly.

There’s also this American woman—her book is called All About Love, and her name is bellhooks. She was a Black feminist militant activist and passed away three years ago.

I first heard about her during panel discussions about my film, where someone told me, "You are expressing Bell Hooks' theory in your work." I had no idea who she was, so I got her book and read it.

She was a feminist, Black, and completely different from me in many ways, yet we had arrived at the same idea—the importance of loving others and recognizing them as part of ourselves. We are all connected as a community. If you’re hurting, I will feel it.

We should fight for revolutions. But the outcome isn’t always ideal. I believe the true revolution is an inner one. It is like what you have in Islam, there is Jihad.

Q. Like what Iranian poet Saadi Shirazi says.

A. At first glance, this might seem contradictory, but in reality, it isn’t. Of course, you must fight for your rights. But true strength comes from within, and you have to recognize that others are a part of you.

There was an Austrian survivor of Auschwitz who refused to forgive, declaring it out loud. Eventually, he took his own life.

Forgiveness is something you have to learn—it’s necessary for building a shared future. None of us is perfect, and while there are degrees of wrongdoing—not everyone is a mass murderer—the real question is: how do we come together?

Q. The film has only one sequence that directly addresses feminism, but why do you consider it more fundamental?

A. I have a special theory about feminism. I think that when a woman is a feminist, it means she accepts the dominance of men. And so, real feminists can only be men.

Women shouldn’t say they are worse than men, so they shouldn’t claim to be feminists, because in doing so, they somehow acknowledge that the other is stronger in a psychological way. Instead, men should shout out loud that they are feminists.

Q. So, you are kind of criticizing feminism.

A. No, not in the sense of fighting for equality as a woman. I encourage all my brothers to be more feminist, but not women. They are as they are, and they should accept themselves as they are. It is up to us to demand real change within ourselves.

Q. Do we need to disregard our nationality as part of our identity in order to understand other nations? As a German, did you ever feel it was necessary to set aside your nationality to transcend racial and national borders in your film?

A. I still have this little voice saying, "I'm German," but another voice says, "I'm also a little bit French." And yet another voice tells me, "You are from this planet Earth."

When I traveled to Niger, I expected a huge cultural shock—I was seeking it, perhaps to grow. But when I arrived, I felt so at home. It was as if I had spent my whole life sitting under a tree in the Sahara with my camel, drinking tea, as if I had never done anything else.

Of course, there is such a thing as a nation, but maybe a nation exists when we don’t talk about borders. Maybe there’s a slight difference between a nation as a political entity and a nation as a cultural identity.

And I think—especially in our time—that it’s very important to keep your culture alive. When I travel, I want to see other cultures, live them, eat them, wear them. If there is no nation in the sense of a cultural nation, then we will lose a great deal of identity—for everyone.

I don’t like the idea of borders. I think we should all be free to go wherever we want. But nowadays, people go to other countries without knowing where it is—just because it’s cheap. It’s a capitalist idea.

Before, those who traveled far did so for commercial reasons, like the Silk Road, the caravans. Or they traveled in search of knowledge. That’s how it should be. When you travel, you should be aware that you are encountering another culture.

The first thing you must learn is to respect it. So, for me, a nation in a cultural sense is important. But a nation with borders? I don’t like borders. They feel like walls hitting your head.

Q. What will you tell your people about Iran after you return?

I will tell them, “Stop watching TV”!