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| Me on Kieslowski |
| 05.29.05 (1:44 pm) [edit] |
I dropped by Guillermo's new pad the other night before we headed out to dinner. He was still in the midst of unpacking and settling in. There were stacks of books sitting on the floor of his living room, just waiting for a shelf to reside in.
"You can borrow anything you want," he said. An NYU film school grad, he had plenty of cinema literature. I picked this up, and for the following week, I was magnificently engrossed, thumbing through and tabbing the pages like my newfound bible, resisting the urge to highlight these words of wisdom on a book that wasn't mine.
The remarkable thing about the man is that despite his indisputable talent and reputation, the essays intimately revealed someone who was modest, introspective and very much in touch with humanity and his place in the world. Unlike many auteurish filmmakers who become increasingly jaded and egotistical over time while stubbornly claiming their artistic superiority, Kieslowski was always evolving, always learning, always examining his films, his ideas and even his shortcomings.
A number of films have stayed in my memory simply because they're beautiful. I remember them because I always thought that I'd never be able to do anything like that in my life (no doubt those are the films which always make the greatest impression), not due to lack of money or because I didn't have the means or technicians, but because I didn't have sufficient imagination, intelligence or enough talents. Watching the great films, it wasn't even jealousy I felt because you can only be jealous of something which, theoretically, is within your reach. You can envy that, but you can't envy something which is completely beyond you. There was nothing wrong with my feelings. On the contrary, they were very positive; a certain admiration and bedazzlement that something like that is possible - and that it would always be beyond my reach.
When I came up with my manifesto as a filmmaker, I never thought of it as a social responsibility to the audience. Kieslowski nailed it in the head, because this is in fact what I've subconsciously seek to achieve in my own films:
We don't give the public much of a chance.* Apart from the Americans, of course. They care for the public's interests because they care about their wallets; so that's a different sort of caring really. What I'm thinking about is caring also for the audience's spiritual life. Maybe that's too strong a word but something which is a little more than just box-office. The Americans take excellent care of the box-office. And while doing so they make the best, or some of the best, films in the world anyway, also on the spiritual level. But I reckon that this realm of higher needs, of something more than just forgetting about everyday life, of mere recreation, this realm of needs has been clearly neglected by us. So the public's turned away from us because they don't feel we're taking care of them.
Oftentimes, I underestimate the significance of the encounters I've had with my audience. When a festival coordinator broke down in tears after my Philadelphia screening of "Happy Birthday." When an elderly woman thanked me for giving her the insights to the inners lives of gays & lesbians. When a young Latino and his lover attempt to explain their indescribable feelin gs about the Chapstick monologue. When an Australian asked me if I have experienced true love because the film struck her as profoundly sad. When one of the supporting actors received a letter from Germany where a man was grateful for his honest portrayal of a character much like himself. When an Italian first e-mailed me a year ago with a closing sentence that says, "It is so great to know that there's gonna be directors like you around who will give us such precious visuals and emotions."
The audiences I like most are those who say that the film's about them, or those who say that it meant something to them, those for whom the film has changed something. I met a woman in a street in Berlin who recognized me because "A Short Film about Love" was being publicized at the time. This woman recognized me and started crying. She was fifty. She thanked me profusely because she has had a conflict with her daughter for a good many years; they weren't talking to each other although they were sharing a flat. The previous day, they'd been to see my film and the daughter kissed her mother for the first time in five or six years. No doubt they'll quarrel tomorrow again and in two days' time this'll mean nothing to them; but if they felt better for five minutes, then that's enough. It's worth making the film for those five minutes. It was worth making the film for that kiss, for that one woman.
At a meeting just outside Paris, a fifteen-year-old girl came up to me and said that she'd been to see "The Double Life of Veronique." She'd gone once, twice, three times and only wanted to say one thing really - that she realized that there is such a thing as a soul. She hadn't known before, but now she knew that the soul does exist. There's something very beautiful in that. It was worth making "Veronique" for that girl. It was worth working for a year, sacrificing all that money, energy, time, patience, torturing yourself, killing yourself, taking thousands of decisions, so that one young girl in Paris should realize that there is such a thing as a soul. It's worth it. These are the best viewers. There aren't many of them but perhaps there are a few.
I believe that when we venture into filmmaking, we have to choose a creative path. It has to do with what we're drawn to (be it horror, comedy, drama, experimental or whatnot), what our goals are (to be the next or to have the career of so and so) and what we ultimately want ;our films to accomplish (to scare them shitless, to make them laugh, to move them to tears, etc.). For a while, up till the moment before I started reading the book, I always felt a little ashame d of the path I chose. Like I've put it upon myself to not being able to obtain funding and easy popularity because of the type of films I seek to make. Now, I've come to terms with my choice. I am wearing&nb sp;it as a badge of honor. That yes, I'm walkin g on this path and I'm not turning back. Because it is worth it. Not for the fame, the fortune or the accolades; but for the daughter to kiss her mom, for the girl in Paris to know that there's a soul, for the overweight man who cried after my screening (and who subsequently e-mailed me a year after to let me know that he has finally gone out to a club and danced), for the couple to feel like a simple three- minute moment r evolving around a lip balm had given them an unrealized emotion to ponder upon.
*An essential read: David and Matt had some fascinating exchanges about the relationship between filmmakers and the audience; an issue that certainly has indefinite conclusions and will keep us intrigue for years to come.
~
The book has also thrown me into a trance-like state. A state that's somewhat inspired, somewhat melancholy, somewhat musing of my life before and the one ahead.
I came across my high school’s website a couple of days ago, and there was an alumni database. I went through it, recognized some names, and wondered if I should register and get connected with those people again, those friends I promised to stay in touch with. Then there was the gallery link, pictures taken at different events, like the 20th year reunion dinner. Obviously, nobody I knew were in those photos, but still, as I saw these men smiling to the camera; some aging gracefully, some balding, some chubbier, I thought, "Hey, that could be me." And something about it made me feel so sad, so filled with regret. When I said goodbye to those buddies, that was the last time I would have seen most of them. Goodbye was in fact farewell.
~
I'm glad I did not make fun of them when they geeked out beyond belief, but this little film managed to justify their adolescent adoration with genuinely bittersweet emotions.
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posted by: jmj (reply)
post date: 05.29.05 (9:32 pm)
Yen, I adore you.
posted by: dvd (reply)
post date: 05.30.05 (1:55 pm)
I adore Kieslowski. Although I still haven't seen Double Life Of Veronique. The Decalogue is as good as film gets, in many ways. I wonder if Soderbergh's remake is still in the pipes.
posted by: DeSilentio (reply)
post date: 08.03.05 (1:22 pm)
Good God, Soderbergh better not touch the Decalogue. It's such an inimitable film. Yen?
posted by: Wanda (reply)
post date: 03.27.06 (12:01 am)
You really Gotcha nice blog here
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