T-Port Blog

Hi Rony, can you introduce yourself?

I’m Rony, 34, from Paris. I’ve lived between different languages and systems for as long as I can remember, which probably explains why I make films that don’t quite fit into one box. I’m drawn to what slips through: memory gaps, translation glitches, things we almost say. Lately, I’ve been exploring how AI reshapes the way we tell stories, especially when it comes to memory—what we keep, what we rewrite, and what we forget on purpose. My work tends to orbit around those blurry zones where fiction and systems meet.

If you could watch one film forever on a loop, what would it be?

Teenage me says “Zoolander” and honestly, she’s not wrong. It still makes me laugh in all the right (and wrong) places. Grown-up me leans toward “Holy Motors”—it’s messy, haunting, and totally uninterested in being understood. Which I relate to. I think together they pretty much cover the spectrum: performance as punchline, and performance as ghost.

How many films have you made before this one, and what did you learn from each?

Two. The first, “Iron”, I made at 17. It taught me everything—how to tell a story when you don’t know how, and how to move forward anyway. The second was “Exceptional Talent” (2021), a TV pilot. That one showed me the rhythm and compromises of writing for episodic formats. It was a different muscle.

Do you feel part of any cinematic or artistic movements?

Not exactly. But Laurie Anderson is a huge influence—not just her work, but the way she moves between formats. I love the idea of calling yourself a “multimedia artist” so no one can tell you what not to do. It gives you the freedom to mix mediums, break structures, and stay fluid. I guess I’m more interested in the movement between things than being part of one.

How did “Failing Forward” begin?

It started with my bug phobia. The real ones. Then I started thinking about tech bugs—how they mess with systems, language, memory. Especially now, with AI always lurking. There was a feeling I couldn’t shake off. The process of making it was glitchy, too—like letting the error speak. I wasn’t trying to fix anything, just to watch it unravel.

What would you like people to take from the film?

That sometimes failing moves you forward more than success ever could—especially the kind of success that looks good on paper but feels hollow. Also: go to therapy. Not because it fixes you, but because it teaches you how to sit with the parts that don’t.

Once the idea emerged, how did you approach production?

Slowly, then all at once. I started with fragments—images, texts, feelings I couldn’t name. We shot in New York with a small, dedicated crew. In post, I worked with AI artist Ran Bensimon, and that changed everything again. It wasn’t linear. More like circling the idea until the film revealed itself.

What were the biggest challenges in making it?

Getting it to hold together. Live action, AI, glitch, memory—none of it wanted to sit still. I didn’t want to impose a rigid structure, but I didn’t want it to drift into nothingness either. The challenge was to invent a language that could carry all of it—something familiar but strange. Uncanny but grounded.

Tell us about your collaborators

The New York crew—Nitay Dagan, Hannah Meholick, and Eyal Bau Cohen—brought so much care and clarity. And then Ran Bensimon, who created the AI and animation, is a close collaborator. Working with him feels like we’re inventing a new language. I know we’ll keep building on it.

What about the sound choices?

The score was composed by Avshalom Hasfari, a brilliant musician and childhood friend. We worked like kids in a playground—testing things, breaking them, trying again. The sound had to carry both the digital and emotional world. He managed to make it breathe, glitch and all.

How did you approach the visual style?

I wanted the visuals to feel like memory—not just remembered, but corrupted, reprocessed. There’s live action, AI-generated images, and something in-between. We played with resolution, formats, frame rates. Nothing is fixed. The image had to reflect the instability at the heart of the film. Not perfection—more like what slips through.

What would you do differently next time?

Probably nothing and also everything.

Did you have a strategy for distribution and promotion?

No real strategy—just instinct. Le Fresnoy supported the film early on, which helped. After that, I sent it where it felt right. I’m not great at the industry hustle, but I believe in the work finding its way.

What challenges did you face with promotion?

“Failing Forward” doesn’t fit a box. It’s not fully fiction, documentary, or experimental, which makes it hard to place. Explaining it in industry terms felt like misrepresenting it. Like translating something over and over until it stops sounding like you.

If you had infinite resources, what would you make?

I already am. “Safeguards” is a show I’ve been building for years, set in a near future where memories can be edited by the state. With infinite resources, I’d push the visual language further—mixing analog, AI, and practical sets. I’d even build a walkable archive within the series.

What’s next for you?

Still deep in “Safeguards”—writing, building, dreaming. I’m also returning to theatre, which feels like coming back to a language I used to speak fluently. No screens. Just breath and bodies. Both worlds are feeding each other in surprising ways.