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The Auteurs Daily

Sweetgrass

Updated through 1/7.

"One way of approaching Cinema Scope, to me," writes editor Mark Peranson, "is as a curated work that has always straddled the boundary between criticism and programming, attempting to provide an overview of a particular kind of contemporary cinema that is, by popular consensus, festival-based, and trying to guide readers through trends, and exposing them to films they might otherwise have ignored because the MSM (in Canada, at least) doesn't care." Issue 41 features a Spotlight on films that premiered at festivals in the fall of 2009. "True, much of this stuff may have zipped under the radar of rabid cinephiles who might have gorged on 40 or more films at TIFF or other festivals, but let me make a controversial statement: by and large, a film that most people have heard of is by its very nature less interesting than a film that only a few programmers or critics have seen. As Michael Haneke so wisely teaches us, the (film) environment is in a mostly toxic state." Read More

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The Auteurs Daily

Vincere

"Less a biography on the early life of Fascist leader Benito Mussolini than a dissection into creating (and sustaining) a cult of personality," writes Acquarello, "Marco Bellocchio's Vincere is a textured, operatic, and incisive historical fiction based on the fate of Mussolini's secret first wife, Ida Dalser (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) who, along with their son, Benito Albino, were erased from Mussolini's official record as he sought to consolidate power and build a totalitarian state." Read More

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Vincere

Dir Marco Bellocchio

2009 Italy

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article

The Auteurs Daily

The White Ribbon

"As is the case with several films in this year's New York Film Festival, Michael Haneke's The White Ribbon exemplifies the pleasures and drawbacks of auteurism," begins Eric Hynes in Reverse Shot. "On one hand, familiarity with Haneke's (or Denis's or Dumont's or Breillat's or Resnais's or Rivette's) filmography deepens our understanding of his latest film. We can see patterns, hear rhymes and echoes, obsess over variations, while monitoring the path of a larger career arc - the director's progress and maturation. On the other hand, we're all too familiar with what's in store. Viewed in relation to previous work, new films can seem not so new. They are too familiar. Which side gets the upper hand largely depends on one's appreciation or affection for the filmmaker (and filmmaking project) in question. Even indefatigable auteurists, for whom pattern itself - rather than the meaning of the revisited gesture or theme - is sacrosanct, can play favorites. At this point in his career, especially after his disastrous stunt remake of his own Funny Games, Haneke has as many detractors as he has supporters, and The White Ribbon will repel or reward them accordingly. And as it happens, each response will be justified." Read More

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The White Ribbon

Dir Michael Haneke

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Dir Michael Haneke

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Dir Michael Haneke

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interview

NYFF 09

Clarie Denis's White Material premiered at the Venice Film Festival this year, beginning its tour on the film festival circuit, where it next landed in Toronto—where we reviewed it—and will be screening at the New York Film Festival on October 9 and 10.  We had a chance to talk to the filmmaker before her film debuted in Toronto.

***

  • Daniel Kasman: Beau travail was 10 years ago, and Chocolat was 20 years ago…

  • Claire Denis: More than that! I shot Chocolat...let’s see, in ’86.

  • Kasman: That’s nearly a ten-year gap between your features set and filmed in Africa. Why return there again?

  • Denis: There is no shame, no design to look for. It’s a pure coincidence, because a few years ago, after I made Friday Night, Isabelle [Huppert] asked me if I would like to work with her, to which I said “yes!” She wondered if I wanted to adapt a Doris Lessing novel called The Grass Is Singing, which is the story of her parents in the ‘30s in South Africa. It’s about a couple of originated English people trying to farm—although they are not farmers, know nothing about farming—and the fight to farm land they don’t know. It ends with…cows. It’s more or less what Doris Lessing described of her own family. Later, she wrote a novel about her brother who stayed in South Africa, actually in old Rhodesia—Zimbabwe now—who’s a farmer and it’s a disaster.

  • So I was thinking, and I told Isabelle that although I like the book very much—actually it’s a very important book for me because it was one of the sources of inspiration for Chocolat—I told her that to go back to that period in Africa, especially in South Africa—I’m not a South African, and for me, I don’t know how to say it, for me to imagine us to go somewhere in South Africa together and do a period movie in a country that has changed so much, after Mandela has been elected and apartheid is finished, I thought I’m going to make a wrong move. So I said if you want, I have a story, I’ll think about a story of today. I was reading many books about the Liberia and Sierra Leone. I told Isabelle I was trying to do my own…to say “vision” is a bit too much, but to describe something I feel, it could be a very good story for her, and I would be interested.

  • Kasman: You were working with a new screenwriter on White Material.

  • Denis: Yes, I worked with Marie N'Diaye, for the first time. Usually I work with the same scriptwriter, except this time I knew Marie and I thought Marie had a certain, I don’t know, I had something in mind like, Isabelle, Marie and me—we'd be a trio. It was funny, Marie, in the end, her father was from Senegal, and she has a real distance from Africa. She’s been there very rarely, so it was sort of a new approach for her, she was looking at things for the first time. So I took her to Africa, we went traveling to an agricultural coffee plantation in Ghana and in Kenya, in preparation for us to write the script. And for a long time I thought we were going to shoot in Ghana, but eventually I decided to shoot in Cameroon because the location was the best, and not because I shot Chocolat in Cameroon but because it was offering a better location, and also the better assistance. There’s something in Cameroon, this part, which is close to Nigeria and bi-lingual…my relation with Ghana was not very nourishing. People keep a distance—which I understand at the beginning—but I felt a lot of ritual politeness, perhaps because it’s an old English colony, but it created a kind of distance between people. Marie and me, they greeted us very well, but I was afraid we’d never be in the crew, what I had in Cameroon, where people had a sense of humor and people aren’t afraid to say, “this is wrong” or “this is stupid.” Something that makes shooting easier.

  • Kasman: Since you mention the crew, I recalled this was the first time in ages you shot without Agnès Godard.

  • Denis: Yes, I shot only one feature without her, because of pregnancy, and this time, her mother was very sick and actually she died during shoot, and at the last minute I had to choose someone else, who I had a great time with.

  • Kasman: The editing structure of the film was fascinating. There’s a long flashback structure of Isabelle’s character, Maria, on the bus. I know there’s a lot of elliptical editing in your films, but the structure for White Material seems to keep the characters away from each other. Everyone seems to be doing their own thing, in their own zone. Isabelle is always worried about her son but they are almost never in the same room, her ex-husband is constantly away, everyone seems to be drifting around one another rather than ever interacting and staying in the same place at the same time.

  • Denis: I understand what you mean, but for a strange reason, the script is like that. The first coffee plantation we visited with Marie, they used a motorbike to get from one place to another, which gave us the idea of Isabelle riding a bike, and if you work at this end of the plantation you don’t go home every 5 minutes, you leave in the morning and come back in the evening. Sometimes if it’s rainy, you don’t go home because even the motorbike isn’t good to use. I noticed when Marie and I were visiting this plantation in Ghana, we had a driver, and the driver was always with us, he always wanted to drive us, and we were never in a place with the other person.

  • Kasman: That’s what the film feels like to me, everyone in the wrong place at the same time.

  • Denis: I understood that this kind of plantation is spread out; the coffee trees are big so the plantation is spread out. The nature of coffee is that it has to be at a certain elevation on small mountains. And, in the nature of colonization, the house of the owner is far away, the house of the guy who works with the workers is on the others side—so nothing is in the center. I think it is also a system, it reflects the scene of colonization—you don’t have a sense of it. You don’t sleep near the other person. We had an idea that Maria’s ex-husband wants his own house, now he lives with his woman, so we spread it even more.

  • Kasman: And starting the film on the bus with Maria?

  • Denis: The construction with the bus, the thing that happened is that immediately I realized that I was with Maria, White Material was going to be Maria’s story. I told the DP that whatever happened, we walk beside her. We had a lot of contingencies and a lot of problems with equipment, but I said never mind, we stick to her. It gave a strange kind of geography to the film, and also, I found that while the film was with her, I never wanted a voiceover. I wanted her craziness ignoring what’s happening, and with a voiceover it would kill the fact she is blind, it would make her seem knowing when she is not. You can’t say this and this and this happened if you don’t know! So I thought, she’s always in the middle of things but in her own condition. So somehow we designed the plantation in shreds, in fragments. But this wasn’t meant to be a sophisticated form, it was, for me, let’s say, simple. It was more simple for me to do it from the bus, as the film starts, and to have the thread line of a flashback, because I wanted her to be a little bit too late. It’s only a two day story, and I think she’s one day too late. She understands things just after it happens.

  • Kasman: I think that’s the wonderful thing about how the structure of the bus works, as we’re never sure when the story from the past is going to catch up to the present—Maria on the bus. Events keep aggregating and you realize just how much comes between when you start with her and when you catch up to her. The movie seems so swift because of this structure, as you realize how out of it she is and then the end seems to come immediately.

  • Denis: There was something that happened during the shooting that I did not expect. The last day of shooting we shot the scene where she descends from the bus. We couldn’t shoot in chronological order, so the last scene we shot was the one with Isabelle crying on the woman’s shoulder. I had to slightly changed things, as I had shot other scenes with Maria finding the plantation in flames, but for me there was no more than this…when she says “I’m tired,” I didn’t want anything else. So I thought I wouldn’t keep the other scenes even though I liked them very much, because I thought, “this is the end,” or almost.

  • Kasman: There’s this swift agility to the end, where at a certain point the ending just rushes up to you, and it’s not because the very opening of the movie showed some shots from the ending. This reaction may well be because this moment with Maria so exhausted is the emotional climax of the movie and the rest tumbles after that.

  • Denis: Yes, at the end when she lies in the dust watching the fire and can’t help but watch she was crying, but it was not the right tiredness, her tiny body was not that tired…something was not like that moment on the woman’s shoulder.

  • Kasman: Can you talk some about the two actors in the film, who play the father and son?

  • Denis: Christopher Lambert and Nicolas Duvauchelle. For me, I saw the three of them—plus Michel Subor—were really like for me the archaic whites. They looked like a real destroyed white family in Africa, the pale skin, the pale eyes—they looked fragile.

  • Kasman: That first shot of Nicholas after he gets up and steps outside, the shot from behind of the nape of his neck, I felt like I understood everything about that character and why you cast that actor because of that shot.

  • Denis: Yes, it’s that milky skin. And Christopher too, I thought they were white material.

  • Kasman: That’s another angle on the title, which before I saw the film I wondered where it came from, since I hadn’t heard that term before. It is explained, or at least inferred in the movie.

  • Denis: It could mean two things, an object or person. In pidgin English, when ivory smugglers were very efficient they were called white material. Ivory and ebony instead of white and black. And in some slang they call white people “whitie” or “the white stuff,” you know? So I mixed it.

  • Kasman: I liked the sense—the first time you hear the term is when two boys of the rebel army find Christopher’s gold lighter laying around the plantation—that what the term meant was an object that had value for the white colonists that had no value for the people who actually live there, like “oh forget about that, it’s worthless, it’s white material.”

  • Denis: Yes, and the next shot after that scene is of the big white armchair in the plantation house.

  • Kasman: How did the radio program as a structuring device come in? It reminded me of Samuel L. Jackson's role in Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing.

  • Denis: The radio idea came from the fact that in Rwanda, the radio of the southern hills was famous for being the “lighter” of the killing, sending all the venom and hatred across the land. Knowing that in Africa radio is such an important thing, if you want to know if your kid passed an exam, you listen to the radio, if someone is dead, you learn it from the radio, the funeral ceremony, it’s on the radio. If there’s some problem like work on a road and it’s better not to use that road for a day or two—it’s from the radio. The radio is so great in Africa, but suddenly because of the radio in Rwanda it becomes this horrible igniter. That’s number one, number two is that—although I like Do the Right Thing, I completely forgot the radio in that film!—I remember this film, great film, of the ‘70s of this guy who has to drive a car from one place to another very fast and is tailed by the police. There’s a local radio station that helps the guy avoid the police. It’s a famous American B-movie but I forget the title.

  • Kasman: The ending, where Maria is walking back to the plantation in the day to a jump cut to her at night after it has been burnt down, this day/night shift was incredibly startling to me. Almost more so than the violent act which ends the film.

  • Denis: I had shots of her at dusk, but during the day I shot the scene of Maria crying I thought, “no, I’m not ready for that any more.” I think, somehow, when I’m not shooting in chronological order, I find it’s very unfair for the type of actress like Isabelle, which hold their horses but on the last day they give something that’s a salute. And if that scene is not close to the end of the film, it can unbalance it, you know? I’ve noticed that already, once or twice in the past. Normally, I shoot the end the last day, otherwise…I think it’s unfair.

  • Kasman: To the film or to the actress?

  • Denis: Well, to both. Because to the film…sometimes it works. But to the actor or the actress, it’s an emotional scene the last day of shooting, and to not give that emotional scene to them to do with it what they want…like, in Friday Night the last shot is her running away with a smile. I think it’s only fair to give her that last shot. Same with 35 Shots of Rum, the last scene is the one where he puts the necklace on his daughter. I always try to do it like that. It’s not for tears, it’s for…it’s to share this ending moment.


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The Auteurs Daily

Independencia

Updated through 10/7.

"Although it occasionally gets carried away by its own reflexive spirit, Independencia is far more than the cute formal exercise its premise suggests," writes Andrew Schenker in the L Magazine. "As he spins his myth-like tale of three generations of Filipino villagers hiding out in the forest from the threat of occupying Yankees, director Raya Martin fits his colonialist story with a colonized aesthetic to match.... [H]e steeps the picture in the look of early Hollywood silents, an appropriate framework through which to process the experience of the colonized Filipinos who were likely exposed to these very movies." Read More

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The Auteurs Daily

Mother

Updated through 10/18.

"After giving free-floating dread a gargantuan, tentacled form in The Host, Bong Joon-ho returns to human-sized monsters in Mother." Fernando F Croce in Slant: "No less than the toxic leviathan in the director's previous hit, the film's middle-aged, unnamed matriarch (Kim Hye-ja) is a roiling force of nature when it comes to her mentally challenged adult son, Do-Joon (Won Bin)." Read More

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interview

NYFF 09

Above: an enlargement of shot 2 from Ernie Gehr's Waterfront Follies.

3 shots, 3 setting sun, and a world’s worth of light and play.  Ernie Gehr’s Waterfront Follies, screened in the Toronto International Film Festival’s Wavelengths program, as well as at the Views from the Avant-Garde sidebar at the New York Film Festival, sets the rules and let’s the world (and the audience) do the work.  Gehr records three Brooklyn waterfront sunsets in single shot long takes on his digital camera, each take accompanied by a direct sound recording from the area.  Each shot, each sun, each waterfront has a remarkably different character.

The first is the showstopper, the most dynamic of the trio.  With boat traffic at its peak, it plays with depth of space as rivercraft come in and out, closer and farther from the camera, and a lone cloud dissipates while the water gets darker and more desolate as the sun lowers towards the horizon.   As the last ferry leaves the shot it feels like a world has evacuated some impending doom.  If it were not for the hilarious soundtrack at the start of a Spanish man approaching Gehr somewhere behind the camera and talking travel and food as the filmmaker tries to say as little as possible, this vibrant opening gloaming might seem positively apocalyptic.

The high point for light is the second shot, flatter than the first, with a quay breaking into the bottom 1/3 of the shot, changing the quality of light, water texture, and color in the frame.  The drama of the first shot’s water activity is replaced by the drama of the sun itself—not its setting but, shockingly, the way its movement interacts with a horizon of invisible clouds in such a way that the sun literally appears to be disintegrating before our eyes, crumbling as much as a liquid blob can, bit by bit.  Bells sound constantly in the background in what initially seems like mourning—until, several gloomy minutes later, the sun re-emerges, reformed, triumphant.

The bells link the 2nd shot with the last, which peal over a soundtrack where another passerby asks Gehr what he intends to see or find by shooting the waterfront, to which the reticent cameraman replies: “we’ll see.”  Before the screening at TIFF, Gehr suggested the audience “see as much as they can, moment to moment, second to second,” and these three shots, despite their utter simplicity and the patience asked for from the audience, are replete with micro-narratives, color, emotion, and the textures of painting, of cinema, and of the movement of life.

I had a chance to talk with Ernie Gehr in Toronto about the film.  Special thanks to Alley Pezanoski-Browne for assisting in the interview.

***

  • Daniel Kasman: How did this video get made?

  • Ernie Gehr: In the past I would apply for grants. I wanted funding but I was also shy. I didn’t get as many grants as I wanted to, and later on there’s more competition, a new generation of filmmaker, and they’re competing and I’m supposed to be established and when you’re established, they ask, “why are you applying for grants?” But I wasn’t making a living! So there were frustrations and I wouldn’t apply, I made a living teaching, but I didn’t want hold onto a regular teaching position for a long time. I didn’t teach all the time; I didn’t have money all the time, and I didn’t have savings; my parents couldn’t support me. So I made works when I was able to. Otherwise you would have seen—not as many as Brakhage—but probably twice as many pieces. You churn out X number of pieces one year, it doesn’t mean you’ll make as many next year, you might have a break, the tension is out, and I can’t do it. I try to work, try to be interested, but I need to take a break from making something, live my life for another few months and hopefully something will instigate a new work at that point. I can’t predict!

  • Kasman: Did Waterfront Follies come from a period of productivity?

  • Gehr: Between 1988 and 2005-2006 I taught on a regular basis at San Francisco Art Institute, so that was the only time when I taught without any stopping; I also taught at Berkeley at the same time. Then I stopped teaching and moved back to New York, and I have some time on my hands, and I’m getting old, and I know I should work as long as I’m mobile. It’s mostly feeling a pull or being attracted to something, so I just work. When I work with film, because it’s so expensive, I have to pay for every frame, so to speak; I have to be certain what I want to do and how I want to do it. So my shooting ratio was as close as 1-to-1 as possible; it hardly ever was, but I tried. But with video, you have a tape that’s one hour, and buy many of them for cheap, so I allow myself the luxury to follow an impulse without asking myself why do I want to record this image. It takes me a while sometimes to become conscious of why I found that image. I trust my intuition; I’ve been working since the 1960s, and there’s some things you do consciously and certain things where you follow your intuition, you know something is driving you to work in a particular way to follow certain possibilities. You may not be able to articulate that, and sometimes it’s even dangerous for people to articulate themselves, because then you can end up simplifying it, and the tension that you need to feel is gone.

  • Kasman: So I guess we shouldn’t be talking about the work!

  • Gehr: Oh it’s different, what’s completed is completed. There’s work that’s not completed that I never talk about, I never talk about works I want to make. Even when I apply for a grant—I say when—there’s the problem of the description they want of what I want to do. The way I work, it is very difficult to write down what I want to do, then I may not be interested, I would have to refer to that paper, what I said—it’s embarrassing. So I fill out applications so vaguely it could apply to anything, though it may not convince anybody.

  • Kasman: Did this video originate from a specific idea? Or perhaps from the location?

  • Gehr: It’s in Brooklyn, near Carroll Gardens, on the other side of the BQE.

  • Kasman: The three shots, are they all from the same geographic location? Because the last two shots have the bells pealing on the soundtrack, which is missing from the first shot.

  • Gehr: They were all recorded in my neighborhood, in Red Hook. I shot this near Fairway market, on the other side of which the Statue of Library, but I just avoided putting that in the shot. [Laughs] So I shot towards New Jersey. I guess you see Staten Island a little bit in the last shot, I think.

  • Kasman: Where did the sounds of the bells come from?

  • Gehr: If you go to Fairway, to the right, there’s a little barge that has a miniature museum, and that barge has these bells inside. So I just placed my camera near it, and the sound is there.

  • Kasman: How much set-up did you do, or was the location found by chance?

  • Gehr: I was recording material for a different piece, which is still a work in progress at the moment. I was walking around the other side of the area, towards that Ikea, and going back to my car suddenly there it is in front of me—this sunset. I said to myself, “this is such a cliché, how could I do this,” but somehow a thousand different things were running through my mind. It looked a bit like Monet, this sunset; that shot’s actually not in the film, it’s in the other project. But I set-up the camera, I said, “it’s tape, I can always erase it.” And it only took ten minutes for the sun to set, it was very beautiful, and I’ll use that take for something else. Looking at that take subsequently, I had some other thoughts and that included the possibility of making something. So it began by recording an image that seemed too much, for me—someone else might of found this a romantic image.

  • Kasman: What were you thinking that let you get past that immediate negative impulse?

  • Gehr: Let me put it this way. I don’t always succeed, but I’m interested in a work that’s like a field, a force field. A playground where there is no supervision, someone doesn’t say look over here, see that over there now; but more like a place where you can get lost, discover your own movie if you wish, your own pleasures. I look at a lot of works in other media, paintings and music, and I often have a problem. I admire some works that are so careful that ever brush stroke is determined and very carefully placed on the canvas and you can see how it relates to everything, how it makes absolute sense along with every other brush stroke—I can admire the craftsmanship, but I also find it claustrophobic, I find I need a space that’s more open. I’m looking at things for myself, I want the freedom to be able to see and decide for myself what’s taking place there. That’s something that’s not possible with things that are too directed. So both with the title of the work and with in terms of what I looked at, I determined the outer parameters of the work, what’s within the rectangle, zoom closer in, farther out, I determine the focus. The beginning, the ending; I know the work is going to be flat no matter how 3-dimensional the location is. I do hold a lot of control, and ultimately I feel I am responsible for the work on the whole, even if I set the recording, walk away, and come back. Because I look at the work and what it’s doing or not doing, and if I accept what it is, if I release it, I’m responsible, whether something is intended or not intended.

  • Kasman: How much did the soundtrack of each take influence your decision to keep that take in the final work? You said at the screening that you chose these three takes from roughly 20-25 you shot.

  • Gehr: Each take had its own character. That middle section, for example, would have been very tough to put it out there as it is with its duration. Its soundtrack, the bells, are a relief that allows you to have a rhythm outside of the slow change of the shot. Actually, the changes are dramatic.

  • Kasman: When I realized the sun’s color mutation made it look like it was crumbling…I had never seen an effect like that. And then it re-appears!

  • Gehr: Yes, one of the things I’m interested in in this particular work is the color changes.

  • Kasman: At the screening in Toronto, Darren Hughes asked what the video would have been like if you had shot it on film. Aside from saying that you had no idea since it was not shot on film, you said to make Waterfront Follies you set the camera up, set it to manual, and any sort of changes in color or texture in each take was based on the relationship between the light coming into the camera and the digital recording of this light. Is this interaction something that interests you about digital photography?

  • Gehr: Those effects would have happened on film too, though I don’t know how it would have looked. One thing that is different is that when you are working with film you are working with an intermittent projection of light, and even if you think you see it, it is different; on video there’s this interlacing taking place. On digital the image is softer. I wasn’t working in HD, I don’t know if the image would be sharper.

  • Kasman: In the second take, because of the dividing line of the rocks which separate both part of the water and part of the frame, my eyes kept being drawn to the radically different color and different rhythm of the water on the inside of those rocks, closer to the camera. In combination with the long-take and still camera, it achieved a kind of hypnotic quality. I gradually thought—and I don’t know if this is true or a more experiential reaction—that the digital video couldn’t keep up with the roiling texture of the sea. You mentioned that the first take you shot, the one that’s not in the film, had an Impressionistic look, like Monet, and this is almost what I saw, a pixilated swath of color with the movement of the sea that the digital almost could grasp but couldn’t quite capture. A great texture to the image.

  • Gehr: At this point, after so many years working with video, I don’t even know the difference between film and video. I don’t even know what it would be like on film! First of all, I couldn’t do this on film. I didn’t see the clouds when I was shooting, and so when the sun disappeared halfway through the take, if I was filming, once the sun was hiding under the clouds, I would have stopped, “ok, that’s the end of the take.” But with videotape, I held it wanting to see how the light would change, the temperature of the color.
  • And in regards to what you were saying about the digital texture, there are layers in the water. There’s a rhyming thing—it’s almost embarrassing, and it’s only an afterthought—there are the dark rocks in the foreground, and they rhyme of course with the rhyme with the rectangle of the frame itself, and in the background the trees in New Jersey, and its grey. It’s the old classical thing where if you have a color that’s dark you put it in the front and so it seems closer and you make the color lighter and lighter as the distance is supposed to recede. So you have these two bodies of water, and the colors shift slowly. The water that’s further away there’s only a little bit of green at the beginning of the take, but by the end the whole thing is green, it’s amazing. The body of water that’s in the front remains the same purplish color, except for the beginning when it takes on the reflection of the sun, but the farther body looks like something else, it’s this red thing, this red color, but it’s not like the reflection in the closer body.

  • I’m really amazed at how the sky, for example, seems to have a certain kind of depth to it when the sun is there, and when it’s really gone the shot is flat like a Rothko painting, these clouds. I had never thought of Rothko for this!

  • Kasman: You mentioned at the screening this that was only the second time you had seen Waterfront Follies on the big screen, having made it on your 14-inch monitor. How does the work play differently for you when projected?

  • Gehr: It’s important to see on the big screen, at least for me. One level has to do with the scale. There are qualities of the work that only become apparent when you see it on the big screen, maybe not even on the first viewing.

  • Kasman: If you are editing or putting this together on a small screen, that’s a pretty dramatic difference in terms of what you are seeing there versus what might be seen when projected.

  • Gehr: That’s really nerve-wracking for me; I get very nervous the first time it is screened. I know I should project it. When I work with film, the only time I use a viewer is to find the frame. I edit with the projector, so I watch it with the projector. I made films to be projected, not to be seen on a viewer. And I couldn’t judge the character of the work except when it was projected. It’s only been with video, because I don’t want to spend another $800 or $1000 on a digital projector.

  • Kasman: So it’s back to economics again.

  • Gehr: Yes. I feel at this point there are too many times when I’m really thrown off, and I make changes after the screening. It’s happened with little pieces I show at Views from the Avant-garde in New York, I notice things I hadn’t seen on the monitor, so the works get re-edited. Though most of the people who are there never get to see it again. It’s a problem. I try to see it on a big screen, but it’s not the same actually seeing it on a theater screen. There are works that work better on a monitor, of course.

  • Kasman: I remember a work of your screen recently in New York, Shadows where the shadows and light play against the walls; that, for example, I can imagine has a level of intimacy that works better on a small screen rather than blown up.

  • Gehr: Yes, on a big screen that one was nerve-wracking. It’s not just that there’s people, it’s seeing it on this other scale. It’s personal, I have to take a step back because I’ve been too close to a work.

  • Kasman: Would you want to shoot in HD if you could, is that another issue of economics? Or do you prefer standard definition.

  • Gehr: I’ve been working with the same camcorder since 1998. It’s a Sony TRV-900.

  • Kasman: A resilient camera!

  • Gehr: I was lucky; but now the zoom has a mind of its own. I’m interested in an HD; the cost has been a problem. I want something that’s light; ideally I want something like a small little camcorder, but the manual controls on those are ridiculous. And the expensive ones—not that I want to buy them—are too heavy and too intimidating. You can’t work in, say, this coffee shop and record something. With a small camera, I can put it down here and record that couple over there and then put it back in my pocket. The other problem is that I work with tape, which lasts for years. For HD, 99.9% is solid state or something else and there’s this competition between the companies, and they aren’t all compatible. It’s crazy. It’s only a question of time, and then they’ll change to a different format, and then something else. Solid state won’t be around forever, so I have to live with that too. Still, I will be switching, soon.

  • What has really held me back from HD has been the format. Because unless you block off the sides you are working with a widescreen form, going from squares to rectangles.

  • Kasman: I don’t know if this is possible since I’m not a filmmaker, but I assumed because the HD image was so high resolution that you could crop your own frame from the master, widescreen image.

  • Gehr: You can do that, but then you have these two black areas, and if you project it you can matte the image with curtains of the theater, but if you show it on a monitor you have these black areas. It’s a totally different personality, for me. Opening up the frame has this other feel, and I’m trying to deal with that personality, and I’m still having a problem with that.

  • Kasman: That’s part of the fun though, right? Finding a solution to that problem.

  • Gehr: I have to accept it, frankly. There’s something about it I don’t like, the wide image is clunky. Say if I want to cut, once it opens up, the emphasis is on the horizon, and it changes the dynamics. The wider the image, the more violence there are in movies, lighter sound, all in order to get beyond the point that…

  • Kasman: …the edits are jarring?

  • Gehr: Yes, and you need shorter takes, so it’s like clash, clash, clash. It’s an entirely new dynamic. I have to live with it, come to terms with it.

  • Kasman: Well, you don’t have to.

  • Gehr: But my camcorder is dying, so I will.


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interview

NYFF 09

Above: Brunot Dumont (left) and Hadewijch's lead actress, Julie Sokolowski (right).

In Bruno Dumont's Hadewijch, Céline (Julie Sokolowski, in a compelling first turn) has taken on the name of Hadewijch, the patron saint of the convent where she has been received as novice. At the convent her self-mortification in the name of Christ is disruptive to the rules of the nunnery; her behavior perceived as evidence of vanity. As penance, she is sent back into the world of her former life in hopes that she will gain a clearer understanding of how her spiritual calling might apply to the real world. Reluctant to re-enter the bourgeois world of her Parisian diplomat father, Céline struggles with finding a way to reconcile her passion for God with her social world. She befriends two Muslim brothers Yassine and Nassir who introduce her to the dangers of religious extremism and force her to make a life-determining choice.

Bruno Dumont's Hadewijch boasted its world premiere in the Special Presentations Program at this year's Toronto International, where it was awarded the FIPRESCI Prize. Here at The Auteurs Daily, David Hudson has gathered reviews from the film's screenings at both Toronto and the NYFF.

My thanks to Stephen Lan for facilitating this interview and to Robert Gray for his interpretive assistance.

***

  • Michael Guillén: Are you, by nature, a religious man? Or more a philosophic one?

  • Bruno Dumont: These days I am very interested in mysticism because it goes way beyond philosophy. Mysticism takes us to areas that are beyond questions of reason, beyond speech, and beyond our comprehension of the world. It takes us to an area that is very close to cinema, and I think that cinema is capable of exploring that area and expressing it. That's why, necessarily, I am attracted to mysticism. At the same time, it's a complex area. I'm not myself religious—I'm not a believer—but, I do believe in grace and the holy and the sacred. I'm interested in them as human values. I place The Bible alongside Shakespeare, for example; not as a religious work, but as a work of art. The Bible has the definite values of a work of art.

  • Guillén: Hadewijch stages a failing of protagonist Céline's father to provide her spiritual solace. It becomes necessary for her to seek it elsewhere. After being sent back to the world by the nuns at the convent, she comes under the influence of Nassir, a devout Muslim who becomes something of a spiritual father to her.

  • Dumont: Céline's father is a politician. He's unable to follow her. But I see Nassir as being more Céline's brother in spirit than a spiritual father.

  • Guillén: In the scene where Nassir is counseling Céline, she asks him about innocence and he responds, "Can anyone be innocent in a world where people vote?" I'd never thought of democracy's culpability in quite that way before. I'd never wondered if democracy could afford innocence? Can you speak more to what you mean by Nassir's statement?

  • Dumont: I believe in that statement. I agree with it completely. We are all responsible for everything that happens in the world. In our Western democracies, we appear to be responsible, we vote, and we completely don't care. We brush that off. Céline, however, is not like that; she's responsible. Today, our democratic societies are devoid of a sense of responsibility and that's something that has to be developed. That's why—when she goes to the Middle East with Nassir—Céline acknowledges and recognizes her responsibility and guilt.

  • Guillén: She weeps.

  • Dumont: [Nods his head yes.]

  • Guillén: One of my favorite characters of Christian literature is Mary Magdalen, whose love for Jesus—and, later, the risen Christ—I've long read as the love of the Soul for Spirit, and the desire of the Soul to be wed to Spirit. Her story exemplifies for me the longing of the mystics to be—almost physically—connected with Spirit. That longing, that desire, that dalliance runs through all of your films to one degree or another; but, never as consciously as we find it here in Hadewijch. The corporeality of your films, the bodies of your actors, have inferred the incorporeal and the spiritual; but, in Hadewijch they are directly referenced.

  • Dumont: What you speak of is present in so much of the writings of the mystics—the physical experience of the presence of God. It's what you find in so many accounts of the visions of mystics, this direct contact with God. Hadewijch in her writings also speaks of direct contact with the body of Christ and the pleasure she takes in his body. Mystics are able to experience the sense of infinity through their bodies. They refuse themselves food. They don't allow themselves to sleep. It's through their bodies that they're able to experience the sacred.

  • Guillén: The pleasures of renunciation and abstinence are multifold.

  • Dumont: Oui! Abstinence, chastity, yes, very much.

  • Guillén: Why—at this juncture as a filmmaker—have you become specifically intrigued by the mystics? Though, admittedly, even your early films exhibit "the upward glance." At some point your characters always seem to look towards the sky for guidance or solace.

  • Dumont: It's something I find enormously interesting. They're visionaries. They have access to the invisible through their gaze on externals—perhaps the sight of a pasture, a winding path, a small river—but, they access the invisible through the visible world. They know how to see. Because they know how to see, they can see what to others is invisible and interior.

  • Guillén: So when they look upwards, they see into the invisible world through the visible world?

  • Dumont: Voila! Through their gaze, because of their gaze, because they know how to see, the visible becomes an evocation of the invisible. They are like spectators at movies.

  • Guillén: From a very early age I've felt that the word "through" is one of the most beautiful words in the human language. How one sees through physical or visible objects into the invisible fascinates me. Scrying. In my training as a Mayanist, I was fond of the Mayan term il bal, which basically means "seeing instrument", an appellation that could be applied to various objects—a rock crystal, water coursing in a stream, a leaf falling from a tree, a cloud, a book, a Mayan stelae—any number of things that can help you see into the invisible world. In your case, I would say your camera lens and the physically-projected films themselves are il bals.

  • What distinguishes Hadewijch from your earlier films, however, is—as I mentioned earlier—Céline 's consciousness. Though in your earlier films your characters may be visionaries who glimpse into the invisible, they don't seem as conscious; their longing is not as articulated. Would you agree?

  • Dumont: Yes, you're absolutely right. In this film the protagonist is conscious for the first time. There is an element of light and clarity that's not in my previous films. Hadewijch/Céline is a lighter person—"light" in the sense of illumination—and her clear gaze is able to transform the world.

  • Guillén: I hope to understand your film on its own terms and not read more into it than you would perhaps want me to; but, I wonder about Céline's statement that "the sweetest thing about love is its violence"? Is that a statement specifically taken from a spiritual text? What were you trying to say by that?

  • Dumont: That's a literal quote from Hadewijch's writings.

  • Guillén: It sets up a dissonant tension between love and violence, just as there is a tension between Céline's spiritual quest and her involvement with religious fanaticism. By contrast to the politicized martyrdom of Islamic fanatics, Céline's spiritual quest seems almost anachronistic and out of touch with contemporary events, or at least hazardously susceptible to them. I could fully understand why Yassine said to her—"You're nuts."

  • Dumont: I needed Yassine because he's so real. He's the only character who's in touch with reality. I needed him as someone spectators could identify with and also because—through his gaze, through what he says—he puts Céline in a certain position. He sets her up in a certain way and I needed the audience to relate to Céline in a certain way. Yassine is the only person who's "normal" in the film. Everyone else is absolutely crazy.

  • Guillén: [Laughs.] The character of Yassine—as well as the film itself—exhibits more humor than I've seen in your previous work. Yassine was clever. I laughed outloud when Céline clutched him and he said, "You're needing love or something?"

  • Dumont: He is very funny.

  • Guillén: Another distinction from your previous work is Hadewijch's aspect ratio. You've set 'Scope aside to create a more contained, intimate frame?

  • Dumont: The 1-66 projection ratio is best suited to the subject. When I'm determining a film's technical aspects—when I'm choosing film stock, what microphone I'm going to use, what camera, what camera lenses—it's always in terms of what I'm trying to convey. Here, I was trying to use something as humble and as close to the character as possible. This almost square frame is simple and humble. Cinemascope is far more spectacular and conveys a force that I didn't need in trying to come close to Céline. I chose something much simpler which worked better for the film, I think.

  • That was the same reason, for example, that I chose to mix the film in mono-sound and not use stereo because the sound stays right in the picture; it doesn't go outside the frame.

  • Guillén: the accordion band, the church ensemble, the sung Muslim prayer, and the use of Bach's "Passion of St. Matthew" as coda. Were you trying to show through such diverse music how it expresses the different voices of Spirit?

  • Dumont: Yes. Mystics have always used music—Bach's cappella, for example—to express faith. Through music, one can obtain a glimpse of the hidden side of the soul that otherwise is difficult to express.

  • * * *

  • [The following is not for the spoiler-wary!!] I ran out of time before I could ask Dumont the burning question I was hesitant to ask, what actually happened at film's end? Was that scene after the explosion in the Paris subway? Was it a flashback before Céline was sent away from the convent? Was it some kind of dream? Is that withholding of information purposeful? This elision proves provocative and frustrating. At indieWIRE, Michael Koresky writes that "at film's end there remains a baffling opaqueness, both in terms of the director's and the characters' motivations." At Variety, Justin Chang concurs that the Parisian act of terrorism is "quickly called into question by a rain-soaked coda." At Not Coming To A Theatre Near You, Mike D'Angelo muses, "I've read at least three different interpretations of the film's perplexing coda, which makes no logical sense unless you conclude either (a) that it precedes certain other events chronologically (my initial assumption), or (b) that certain other events weren't real."

  • I have vacillated between these various possibilities and imagine I will do so for some time; but, today—conjuring the image of a raven hunched in the rain—I have decided it is a portent, an omen and that the scene is a flashback. What do you think?


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