Youth Under The Influence (Of Pedro Costa) – Part 3: The Natural Sexual One

Michael Guarneri and Patrick Holzapfel continue their discussion about the films they have seen after meeting with Mr. Costa in Munich, in June 2015. Quite naturally, in this part, they end up talking about Mr. Costa’s films and find something between sexual desires and ethical distance in cinema.

Part 1

Part 2

Michael: (…) Maybe it’s an Italian thing, an Italian take on poverty, but when I asked my grandparents about Chaplin’s films, they said something I find very interesting: “Yeah, I remember the tramp guy, very funny movies, I laughed so hard… but being poor it’s another world entirely”.

Please mind that I have consciously chosen Chaplin as he is one of Mr. Costa’s favorite filmmakers. Is Chaplin a traitor, in your view?

Patrick: Again, you make me think of Renoir, who said: “Filmmakers are the sons of the bourgeoisie. They bring to their career the weaknesses of their decadent class.” Did Chaplin know what poverty was/is? If he knew, was he really interested in it? We know that, as opposed to Renoir, Chaplin did not come from a rich household or a secure life. We know that Chaplin enjoyed his money, the money he earned, he was proud, living the capitalist dream by showing its downside. Compared to Ventura almost every other actor seems to be a traitor.

But maybe there is more to being poor and human than the reality of social conditions (which Chaplin in my view was merely addressing, addressing in a very brave manner because he was talking about things in his films that others wouldn’t have dared to – his films are always meant to be a film, an illusion and his acting is the best way to detect that: it is very clear that he is not really poor, he does not lie about it). Maybe there is some truth in his films that goes beyond their credibility. I think cinema would be much poorer if only those were allowed to show certain issues that lived through them.

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Nevertheless I can perfectly understand your points and there is certainly some truth to them. I never really was overwhelmed by Chaplin’s worlds, it is somehow very distant for me, I watch his films in an observing mode. I never understood how one can identify with the Tramp. But while observing I identify with the filmmaker. Which brings me to a rather curious and certainly stupid “what-if”… I just asked myself why Mr. Costa is not visible in his films. He talks so much about the trust, the friendship and his life in Fontainhas. He should obviously be a part of this world. I don’t mean in the Miguel Gomes kind of way, but just in order to be sincere, because we shouldn’t forget that there is someone in the room when Ventura shakes, maybe he doesn’t shake at all, maybe someone tells (I think Mr.Costa has already talked about that) him: “Shake a bit more, Ventura.” But then I know that Mr. Costa and his camera are visible if you look at his films… It is just a question of his body being there, the presence. Do you know what I mean?

Michael: I am not sure if I understand what you mean, especially because I am not well-acquainted with Miguel Gomes’s body of work. Anyway, there is this scene in (near the end of?) In Vanda’s Room: Zita is in the frame, with her little half-brother if I remember correctly, and in a corner you can see a camera tripod against a wall. Maybe it is shy Mr. Costa “revealing himself”? I think so. Otherwise, yeah, as a person, he’s pretty much in the dark, behind the camera, in the 180 degrees of space in which we have been trained to pretend that everything and nothing exists. But is he really “hiding” in the dark? I am not sure. Sometimes it seems to me that Mr. Costa is all over the place, and not just a presence looming at the margins of the frame, off-camera. There’s a lot of autobiography in O Sangue. In Casa de Lava, Mariana is lost in Capo Verde just like Mr. Costa lost himself during a Heart-of-Darkness-esque shooting adventure in the tropics…

About Ventura shaking more than he actually does in real life: yeah, I read that too. I think it has to do with the way the camera captures movement. Did it ever happen to you that something that was perfect in real-time/real-life speed was awful when filmed? Like, you shoot a certain scene, and when you watch it on the screen you realize that this or that real-life movement must be done more slowly to look good once filmed? I think it is the same with Ventura’s shaking. It had to be exaggerated to become “cinematic”, to become visible, comprehensible, dramatic, melodramatic. I guess this is why Chaplin rehearsed on film…

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Patrick: I just looked up the scene with Zita and her half-brother but couldn’t make out the tripod. Can you maybe send me a screenshot? I think it is due to my bad copy of the film or the darkness of the screen I have here because I cannot really see what is in the corners of the frame.

You are completely right about Mr. Costa being all over the place in his films though. I think it is most obvious in Ossos and his portraits of artists at work, Ne change rien and Where does your hidden smile lie?. I think it is a question of approach, the distance to the filmed ones always tells us something about the one who films with Mr. Costa. It is not only his position in spatial terms, but also in ethical and emotional terms. I am very careful with autobiographical aspects though you have your points. After all the way of a shooting, personal desires and memories are part of many, many films. It is very hard not to have more or less obvious traces in a film.

As for the way camera captures not only movement but anything, I think… the notion of something being empty or crowded, speed, relations like big and small and so on, yes, I know that and yes, this is surely a reason to shake more… but still… it only shows me that cheating is part of making films. So for me what counts is what is on the screen.

Gomes often has his film crew acting out in front of the camera including himself. It is a very hip thing, full of irony and self-reflexion. In Our beloved month of August it worked for me because from the absurd body of the motionless director who is Gomes here, searching for money, without motion – without a picture – derives something important which is the fact that cinema can be found, will be found. In Arabian Nights he went for something similar (much bigger, of course) and he is always flirting with his own disappearance or death, the disappearance of the author, the idea of illusion as an escape from reality, maybe he desperately wants to escape because he is a traitor like all of them, like all of us – look at us! But Gomes and the question of the body of the director leads me to another recommendation of Mr. Costa I followed after our meeting: João César Monteiro. Are you familiar with his work?

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Michael: I won’t send you a screenshot of the tripod-thing for the same reason Straub-Huillet didn’t put an image of the mountain when the mother looks out of the window in Sicilia!: I want to give you a space to imagine things. Nah, jokes aside, I cannot find the shot right now, skimming through the movie. But it’s there. Zita is there, I don’t know about the kid. She is in a sort of storage closet, the tripod is leaning against the wall in the background. Or maybe there is no tripod at all, I don’t know. Maybe it’s like the smile in Mr. Costa’s Straub-Huillet film, or the twitch in the neck of comatose Leão at the beginning of Casa de Lava: sometimes it is there, sometimes it isn’t.

About João César Monteiro, I have watched his film about the aftermath of the Carnation Revolution Que Farei com Esta Espada?, and A Flor do Mar. What did you see? Were you impressed?

Patrick: I have seen Silvestre, As Bodas de Deus, Vai e vem and O Ultimo Mergulho. Mr. Costa advised me to see Monteiro’s debut feature Veredas first, but I could not find subtitles.

Silvestre is really an amazing film. It is full of beauty and manages to have one serious and one ironic eye on folkloristic tales and the way they are told. Rarely have I seen such a depth in artificial imagery. O Ultimo Mergulho is also great. It is a sensual comedy of tragic circumstances, and also a documentary on a Lisbon night. For the other two, which happened later in his career, I can only say that I found them to be curious little charmers. No more, no less. But they are very interesting in regards to what we have been talking about: the body of the director in Portuguese cinema. With Monteiro we have this recurring character he plays, João de Deus. As I have seen only two of those films I cannot say too much about it. It seems to be something close to Buster Keaton, just a little madder and sexually deranged (if you google the name you will also find that this is the name of a medium and psychic surgeon from Brazil).

But Monteiro really gives his body to his films. Whereas Gomes tries to disappear, with Monteiro it is all about the presence of his body. He is much more serious as an actor, I think. There is another thing that strikes me about Portuguese cinema which is the use of language. How do you perceive that as someone whose mother tongue is much closer to Portuguese than mine? For me, no matter if Monteiro, Gomes (not as much), Lopes, Villaverde, Pinto, Rodrigues or Mr. Costa, almost all of them, the use of language is closer to poetry than anything else. It is very hard to do that in German though some directors managed to.

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Michael: I wish spoken Portuguese was closer to Italian! On the written page, the languages are very similar, but because of the way Portuguese is spoken – the pronunciation, I mean – it is just impossible for me to understand. I can understand little things and try to infer the general meaning of a given sentence, but most of the time it is impossible for me to follow. Bottom line is: I need subtitles, too, and I won’t risk any judgement to the poetic quality of Portuguese.

Anyway, about Vai e vem, do you know the scene in which Monteiro sits under the big tree in the park? That is the park – Principe Real – where he and Mr. Costa used to meet many many many many many years ago to read the papers together, drink coffee and talk… But it would be really hard to find strict similarities between their films, wouldn’t it?

Patrick: Do you really need to understand to hear poetry? For me, it has more to do with rhythm and sound. Of course, knowing the language is essential for poetry, but to get a feeling if something is poetic or not…well, I am not sure.

Thanks for the info about the park! I think there are some similarities concerning their use of montage especially related to Costa’s first three features. It is certainly hard to grasp. I would have to see more of Monteiro.

So now the youth under the influence of Mr.Costa talks about the influences on Mr. Costa. Do you see any connections to Portuguese cinema with him?

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Michael: For what I have seen, and heard, and read, I think the biggest similarity between Monteiro and Mr. Costa is their being “natural heterosexual filmmakers” (I am more or less quoting Mr. Costa, as filtered through my memory). How did they use to say back in the days? Cinema is a girl and a gun… This is also very Chaplinesque, of course. Rest assured that I am not alluding to anything deranged (though I read that there is some kinky sex and weird stuff in Monteiro’s João de Deus). It is just this idea of approaching interesting girls by means of a camera… I won’t ask you your opinion on this because you told me that you have a girlfriend: we will discuss that in private maybe.

For a more general take on the Portuguese scene, the names Mr. Costa always names are António Reis and Paulo Rocha. The former was his teacher at Lisbon Film School, and together with Margarida Cordeiro made a few films that Mr. Costa really likes, especially Ana and Tras-os-Montes. The latter made Os Verdes Anos and Mudar de Vida, which Mr. Costa recently helped restoring (they are available in a DVD boxset with English subtitles now).

If I had to be didactic, I’d say that the influence of the two early masterpieces by Rocha is more pronounced in O Sangue (whose title could have easily been “Os Verdes Anos”, i.e. “The Green Years”), both in the imagery and in the coming-of-age/maudit/enfant terrible/doomed love mood. I think that Reis, being not only a filmmaker but also a poet and an anthropologist, influenced a lot Mr. Costa’s approach to the cinematic expeditions in Cape Verde and Fontainhas… Reis used to say: “Look at the stone, the story comes afterwards…”. These words must have been a great inspiration for Mr. Costa as he was researching and searching his way into cinema after O Sangue. But of course things are more complex than this… Do you follow me? Have you seen Rocha’s dyptic and Reis and Cordeiro’s films?

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Patrick: I can follow you very well, though of the above I have only seen Tras-os-Montes. I think that this midway between a (natural sexual and political conscious) poet and an anthropologist by means of film and work with film is much of what Mr. Costa is all about right now. There is something António Reis once said when talking to Serge Daney that strongly reminds me of Mr.Costa’s work in Fontainhas: “I can tell you that we never shot with a peasant, a child or an old person, without having first become his pal or his friend. This seemed to us an essential point, in order to be able to work and so that there weren’t problems with the machines. When we began shooting with them, the camera was already a kind of little pet, like a toy or a cooking utensil, that didn’t scare them.”

This idea of friendship of complicity… tenderness… how to film someone, how to work with someone you film, so what is this natural sexual thing really? Though you politely offered to discuss it in private between two male cinema observers/workers/lovers, I have to insist to have part of this conversation in public… I think it is remarkable how much anger and fear is in the way Mr. Costa’s camera approaches women (and men), especially compared to Monteiro, who I can always feel being very much in love with what he films and sharing this feeling. There is a sense of doubt with Mr. Costa, a darkness, this constant feeling of being not able to really enter with his camera and lights. Well, I get this point about cinema as a way of approaching women. Filmmakers like Ingmar Bergman or Leos Carax talked about it and have practiced it very excessively. But you can see/feel/touch it in their films. With Mr. Costa it feels different for me. It is like I can only touch the desire and never touch the thing itself. “Very abstract, very abstract”, like Monsieur Verdoux would say, but I think this is exactly what touches me in Mr. Costa’s films. With him the desire for movement is as strong as the movement. I can only think of two other filmmakers that are able to do that in contemporary cinema: Sharunas Bartas and Tsai Ming-liang. But much of this approach I could sense with Tras-os-Montes, though I am mixing ethics and sexuality here which might be a mistake.

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Michael: No, in general I think it is good to mix them. Maybe they are the same thing, as sometimes the Marquis suggested (e.g., in the incomparable Français, encore un effort pour être républicains)…

I don’t know about the anger, but there surely is fear in Mr. Costa’s approach to filming people, and women especially (Ines, Vanda and Zita above all, in my view). Take In Vanda’s Room, for instance. A heterosexual filmmaker is in the girl’s bedroom with a camera… it’s strange, it’s cool, it’s unsettling, it’s exciting for a guy being there, isn’t it? What will happen? What is the secret beyond the door? What is the mystery of the chambre vert? But it is also scary: it is not a man’s world, and the girl might ridicule him, make him uncomfortable, and so on… He is in her kingdom, after all. He is in her power completely. So there you have it: fear going hand in hand with desire. Somebody even made a debut feature film called Fear and Desire, and then locked it in a cellar because he was too scared to show it to people. You wrote “this constant feeling of being not able to really enter”: it seems to me that the desire to enter and the fear of not being able to enter are what sex is all about. But the discussion is definitely getting weird. Mother, if you are reading this: this is film criticism, I am not a prevert.

Patrick: Your writing “prevert” instead of “pervert” reminds me that recently I have seen Le Quai des brumes by Marcel Carné, a film written by another one of those film-poets: Jacques Prévert. There is a painter in the film who probably ends up killing himself and he is talking a bit like Mr. Costa last year in Locarno when he described and somehow regretted how he always ends up talking about the terrible, fearful things in his films. The painter says: “When I see someone swimming, I always imagine him drowning.” Judging from his films, I think Mr.Costa is a bit like that. And I love that Carné is presenting any other worldview as an illusion.

I want to ask you two questions: 1. Do you think Mr.Costa films more the things he loves or the things he fears? 2. Do you prefer in cinema to be confronted with the things you love or the things you fear?

TO BE CONTINUED

Rage Against the Machine(s): The Blues Brothers von John Landis

Cab Calloway in The Blues Brothers

Macht es überhaupt Sinn sich näher mit einem Film zu befassen, der daraus entstanden ist, dass ein SNL-Sketch unvorhersehbare Eigendynamik entwickelt hat? Endet eine Interpretation der dahingeworfenen Späße und Anspielungen, die nie ganz ernst gemeint sind, nicht unweigerlich in totaler Absurdität? Eine Deutung Jakes und Elwoods als Boten Gottes, die als Findelkinder in einem christlichen Waisenhaus aufgewachsen sind, wo ihnen der Erzengel Curtis, den Blues näher brachte, wäre zwar amüsant, schießt aber weit übers Ziel hinaus.

Vielleicht kann man sich dem Film aber auch anders nähern, nämlich weniger in Form einer textuellen Analyse, die wahrscheinlich zwangsläufig in einer Überinterpretation endet, sondern in einer Betrachtung was der Film als Film macht. The Blues Brothers nicht als popkulturelle Ikone, sondern schlicht als Musicalfilm unter vielen. Denn gerade das Musicalgenre lädt dazu ein, bestimmte Konventionen und eine geschlossene Filmwelt zu akzeptieren, in der Menschen in Momenten großer Spannung mit Gesang und Tanz reagieren. In The Blues Brothers ist das nicht anders.

Aretha Franklin in The Blues Brothers

Nach einer kurzen Eröffnungssequenz, in der der Moloch Chicago vorgestellt wird, besuchen Jake und Elwood die Mutter Oberin des Waisenhauses, in dem sie aufgewachsen sind und das nun geschlossen werden soll. Dort öffnen und schließen sich Türen von Geisterhand und die Nonne selbst scheint gar zu levitieren. Später spielt der von Ray Charles verkörperte blinde Besitzer eines Musikladens, auf einem Keyboard, das gar nicht verkabelt ist. Zuvor werden die Brüder vom göttlichen Licht erfüllt und beschließen ihre alte Band zu reaktivieren, um Geld aufzutreiben und die Schließung ihres alten Zuhauses zu verhindern. Wie ernst es Jake und Elwood, beziehungsweise die Filmemacher selbst mit dieser Offenbarung meinen, wird nie restlos geklärt, das Publikum ist jedoch spätestens zu diesem Zeitpunkt aufgefordert, die übernatürlichen Vorgänge, die durch den Geist der Musik oder die Macht Gottes ausgelöst werden, als Teil dieser spezifischen Filmwelt zu akzeptieren.

Übernatürlich gut sind auch die Musiknummern. Die neu interpretierten R’n’B- und Blues-Klassiker sind fabelhaft und die Riege an Gaststars ist beeindruckend: Ray Charles, James Brown, Aretha Franklin, John Lee Hooker und der altehrwürdige Cab Calloway. Die Inszenierung der Musikstücke ist dabei ganz unterschiedlich. Zum Teil werden die Songs in Bühnensituationen gespielt, andere werden in bester Musicalmanier mit aufwendigen Tanzchoreographien aufgeführt. Liegt im ersten Fall das Hauptaugenmerk meist auf den Liedern selbst, deren Beziehung zur momentanen Situation im Film und der Performance von Jake und Elwood, so sind die elaborierteren Nummern allesamt mit den Gastauftritten der bekannten Musiker verbunden. Da erstrahlt die Bühne des Palace Hotel Ballroom auf einmal im Glanz der Dreißiger Jahre, jene Zeit, als Cab Calloway seine ersten Erfolge mit „Minnie the Moocher“ feierte; da wird die Predigt von James Browns Reverend durch Zirkusakrobatik ergänzt; doch das Prunkstück der Musicalnummern ist eindeutig „Think“ von Aretha Franklin als Jake und Elwood in ihrem Soul Food Cafe erscheinen, um ihren Ehemann, einen genialen Gitarristen, für ihre Band zu gewinnen. Draußen auf der Straße bildet sich spontan eine tanzende Masse, im Inneren wird Franklin von drei weiblichen Gästen unterstützt, während sie ihren Matt „Guitar“ Murphy davon abhalten will wieder in die Band dieser Versager einzutreten. Sie bleibt erfolglos, Matt wirft seine Kochschürze hin und kehrt zur Band zurück, doch die Gegenüberstellung von Innen (Café) und Außen (Straße), Mann und Frau, sowie Spaß und Ernst gelingt im Film nie besser. Die tragische Rolle der Mrs. Murphy, die ihren Mann nicht abermals an die nutzlosen Brüder verlieren will, wird unterminiert durch die Komik des Acts, wenn Jake und Elwood sich, vom Geist der Musik erfüllt der Choreographie der vier Damen anschließen.

The Blues Brothers von John Landis

Neben der Musik bleiben aber vor allem die wohlorchestrierten Zerstörungsorgien in Erinnerung. Dazu zählen nicht nur die berühmten Massenkarambolagen von Polizeiautos, sondern auch die „explosiven“ Anschläge durch Jakes Ex-Freundin (gespielt von Carrie Fisher). Sie sprengt die Brüder mehrere Male in die Luft und attackiert sie mit Maschinengewehr und Flammenwerfer, was die beiden ohne Kratzer überstehen. Bewahrt sie ihr göttlicher Auftrag vor körperlichem Schaden, oder ist es die Slapstick und Cartoontradition und –logik, nach der diese Szenen operieren?

Aufwendiger und wichtiger für die Handlung sind allerdings die Autoverfolgungsjagden, die in verschwenderischer Vernichtung enden. Angefangen mit einer kurzen Jagd durch eine Mall bis hin zu einem mehrere Dutzend Wagen umfassenden Verfolgungskonvoi auf dem Highway. Die Polizei stellt sich dabei nicht allzu klug an und das „Bluesmobile“ (ein aussortiertes Polizeiauto) zeigt überlegene Motorkraft und Manövrierfähigkeit. Wohlgemerkt wurde in diesen Szenen nicht mit CGI getrickst, alle Wagen wurden tatsächlich demoliert.

Im Kern ergänzen die großen Autoszenen einfach das Gag-Arsenal des Films. In dieser Hinsicht ist der Film ohnehin sehr vielseitig. Jake und Elwood fungieren als klassische Doppelconférence, wobei Elwood zumeist die Rolle des Tölpels übernimmt. Der Film beschränkt sich jedoch nicht darauf, sondern bietet auch Slapstick, akrobatische Einlagen und Satire. Die Idee an sich lässt sich als Parodie auf die Musikindustrie und unterschiedliche Bands deuten, ebenso das Auftreten der Beiden als Brüder und ihre Bekleidung, die schwarzen Anzügen und Sonnenbrille, die mitunter für Verwirrung sorgen (eine Dame hält die Beiden für FBI-Agenten, später geben sie sich selbst als Beamten einer Behörde aus). Vieles wird übertrieben dargestellt (z.B. Elwoods Fahrverstöße) oder kehrt die realen Verhältnisse um (der weiße Abwäscher im afro-amerikanischen Café), behält aber immer genug Bezug zur Realität, um glaubhaft zu bleiben – eine Kunst, die heutige Komödienfilme zu oft vermissen lassen).

All diese Szenen, also die Autokarambolagen, die Musicalnummern, wie auch die komödiantischen Stellen folgen dem Muster eines Comedy-Sketches. Sie funktionieren mehr oder weniger eigenständig und sind als Vignetten aneinandergereiht. Die Episoden fungieren als Stationen entlang eines wilden Ritts durch Upstate Illinois. In dieser Hinsicht ist der Film ein Roadmovie. Die Musik, Gags und Action funktionieren allesamt nach dem Muster, dass die Macher bei SNL eingeübt und perfektioniert haben, und das John Landis bereits bei seinem früheren Film The Kentucky Fried Movie eingesetzt hat. In The Blues Brothers sind die verschiedenen Episoden durch Jake und Elwood jedoch weitaus enger miteinander verbunden. Die beiden Brüder dienen als „Masters of Ceremony“, die durch den Film leiten und einen narrativen Faden für die Gags bieten. Nicht zuletzt funktioniert der Film auch deshalb, weil hier ein von sozialen Problemen gebeuteltes Amerika dargestellt und auf den Arm genommen wird und trotz aller Überzeichnung und Leichtigkeit der Musiknummern, immer wieder die alles andere als komische (Lebens-)Realität in diesem Amerika durch die glitzernde Fassade sichtbar wird: Armut, Rassenkonflikt.

Heute keine Projektion: Innocence/Jean Renoir

Some further thoughts on innocence:

Jean Renoir talking to James Blue in 1970:

“I am very bad at casting. I am very bad, and sometimes to be bad helps me. In the way that I am attracted by a certain innocence. I am afraid of clichés, tricks. I am afraid of repeating situations we already saw on screen. People with not too much skill sometimes help me to keep a kind of – I use a very ambitious word, excuse me – to keep a kind of innocence”

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Renoir loved Andy Warhol

Be a standing cinema

Dress my friends up

just for show

See them as they really are

The question remains: How to film innocence? How translate a feeling into film without manipulating it? (stupid thoughts)

Le dejeneur sur lherbe

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la vie de jesus

but the camera poisons

scene/obscene

L’AMOUR “MONSTRE” DE TOUS LES TEMPS – Walerian Borowczyk