FILM ARCHITECTURES
- Originally published in Now Then, Issue#44, November 2011;
The second stage
of structuring the narrative of a film is to build upon and around the
psychological foundations of each scene.
I realise I
could be quoting at least two of the architects of Cinema I most admire and
that have so influenced my work: Michelangelo Antonioni or Andrei Tarkovsky.
Yet, this is the best I can do in putting into words what I’ve always,
instinctively, implemented in my own output.
The Monastery of Sainte-Marie de La Tourette by Le Corbusier (1953) Photograph by Hélène Binet, Eveux, France (2007) |
Once the
narrative is outlined, with its core fundamental sections in place, there comes
the need to locate those fragments of time, those shreds of mood and atmosphere
in space. This should never just abide to stylistic choices or need to display
production values. The space in which the action takes place has to emphasise a
variety of filmic aspects which, in my practice, are invariably pursued with the
following hierarchy:
Character –
ideally, the most crucial scenes display a coherence between space or
surroundings and the psychological/emotional state of the character; his/her
background may also have an influence, alongside personal aspirations, inner
doubts and desires (repressed or otherwise);
Architecture
itself – that remarkable imprint we leave behind, conjured up by necessity or
sheer need to master the various elements in Nature, can overwhelm (and
override) nearly everything else, at times; with that, goes a sense of
contemplation – an appreciation of geometrical harmony or a very specific gaze
upon the unintentional/previously unnoticed correlation (if not conflict) between
certain lines or details;
Story/Plot – the
way the above are employed is, in effect, more respectful towards the narrative
than conventional filmmaking would let you know; the use of space and
architecture within such parameters guides you more profoundly through the
story than you would consider; it can do so in a subtle manner (or not), but
it’s always aiding the plot to progress, one way or another; in other words, it
may not be what you expect or particularly think to be vital, but it is what
you will need, in order to fully appreciate what is unfolding before you;
Ausências de Espírito (Absences of Mind, 2005) |
By now, I have
mastered the ability to weave mood into a given space or sculpt the right
atmosphere onto the façade of a building, but to come across it in ways that
are beyond my control (that are inherent, regardless of where I position or
turn the camera onto), is as thrilling as casting the right person for a part.
Certain cities
are abundant with such spaces. You find it in their neglected corners, in the
way once innovative (but now traditional) buildings can still stand proud in
the face of baffling planning permissions around or within them... The
suburban, the periphery, the northern city which speaks of quiet resentment in
a country that may favour the more international capital... They all fascinate
and inspire me as potential settings for the right tale.
Ausências de Espírito (Absences of Mind, 2005) |
The films I have
made in these cities, between 2003 and 2008, display key-moments in which
everything that I have so far outlined in this article was eventually distilled
and implemented.
The examples go
as such:
Torpor Revisitado (Torpor Revisited, 2015) |
In Stolen Waters
& Other Absences, the former lover of a deceased poet starts by overlooking
Rome, the backdrop of their affair, from the vantage point of Villa Borghese,
where she herself appears to be scrutinised by the accusing gaze of various
sculpted busts that include the painter Giotto and the poet Dante Alighieri; as
she descends into the city, a stroll around the Trastevere, with its
architectural punctuations of the religious/funereal kind gives way to the
voluptuous seclusion of Quartiere Coppedè;
Ausências de Espírito (Absences of Mind, 2005) |
If this was to
be just about location, anyone with enough time and taste could make a film.
This is about
structuring the film language by means of paying attention to your
surroundings.
It’s about
understanding the essence of your material and setting the right foundations
that will prevent it from crumbling.
L'Eclisse (1962) by Michelangelo Antonioni |
ON REALISM
- Originally published in Now Then, Issue#51, June 2012;
Realism in Film is overrated. This has been my firm belief for quite some time. Since way before I started making films, in fact. What started as a personal inclination, became a predilection in the choice of films to watch and finally a cornerstone in the design of my own fictional output.
This is not to say that I favour Fantasy, Horror or Sci-Fi over a good, solid flick featuring real human beings, dealing with realistic issues within a recognisable world. I’m actually often happy with minimalistic tales which present their content on a smaller scale – so long, for instance, the implications to the characters are varied and the mood is carefully crafted through the available cinematic devices.
My point is that the tendency (of both filmmakers and audiences) to judge a film by ‘real life’ standards is the most limiting, narrow-minded approach I can think of.
Terence Stamp in The Limey (1999) by Steven Soderbergh |
Terence Stamp in Poor Cow (1967) by Ken Loach |
If, to begin with, an assertion of national pride and identity may have had a place after a crippling World War II, to continue to pursue an approach that is light-years from expressing the full potential of the artform is plain vanity. The constant, ongoing regurgitation of issues that highlight ‘who we are’ and ‘where we belong’ - without elevating the form to greater levels of artistic expression - is a tedious ‘marking of territory’.
Terence Stamp in Teorema (1968) by Pier Paolo Pasolini |
ON (A) LOST HIGHWAY
- Originally published in Now Then, Issue#68, November 2013;
- Originally published in Now Then, Issue#68, November 2013;
Interpretations of David Lynch’s Lost Highway
continue to proliferate - like jackals forever digging into a carcass. Still,
whilst death remains at the core of this nocturnal journey, few other films
pulsate with such beautifully muted heartbeat. And, for all its ambiguity and
supernatural overtones, no other piece of Cinema quite manages to brush itself
against the fabric of reality like this 1997 masterpiece.
Robert Blake in Lost Highway (1997) by David Lynch |
But I would argue that to approach the
film from a strictly Jungian/Freudian perspective is to deny its major strengths.
Whilst those elements are undeniably there, Lost Highway expresses something
far more deep-seated: our primal discomfort in the face of the unknown.
Patricia Arquette in Lost Highway (1997) by David Lynch |
Unashamedly masculine, the film employs
the figure of the woman – amidst that most paradigmatic stage that is a
marriage – as the ultimate source of anxiety, doubt and multi-layered depths.
The husband’s failure to penetrate her
mind is reflected in his impotence when attempting to possess her body – on which
he reads an indelibly inscribed sexual history. All ambiguity, external or
otherwise, flows from there and escalates to the point of the necessary scission
with (that) reality.
And then there’s what’s undoubtedly the
most important, misconstrued and underrated aspect of it all: the filmmaking.Bill Pullman in Lost Highway (1997) by David Lynch |
In other words, it’s the way we experience
time in the real world.
The paradox rests upon the fact that
cinemagoers expect a re-ordering of time; a sense of normality conveyed by the
illusion of some sort of realism - hence the vast majority of reactions to the
film being that of perplexity or repulsion.The nightmarish narrative content may get in your way of grasping such notion, but I say: listen to silence that permeates ‘your own time’.
It may very well be as amplified as Lynch’s...
DJANGO UNCHAINED/A TRAVELOGUE
- Originally published in Now Then, Issue#59, February 2013;
- Originally published in Now Then, Issue#59, February 2013;
‘Behold the oncoming night, black velvet
woven from a thousand shreds of skin pulled by whip, oh! Tore by whip, from the
back of our people, when slavery reigned...’
Thus wrote the late Angolan poet Maurício
de Almeida Gomes, more than sixty years ago. He did so with both clarity and an
understanding of how the historical condition of an entire race can be carried
through subsequent and future decades. Despite being a high-achiever in every
sense, he understood and experienced this social branding in the flesh – for
the blood of slaves almost certainly ran through his veins. Maurício de Almeida
Gomes is my grandfather.
I think of him as I watch Django
Unchained, Quentin Tarantino’s brutal Western parable set against the backdrop
of slavery.Jamie Foxx in Django Unchained (2013) by Quentin Tarantino |
Everything that you’re forced to be made
aware about this film, be it hype or controversy, is set aside once the film
starts. It’s an artistic interpretation of a specific period of History. And
it’s as much infused with Tarantino’s trademark reverence of (and reference to)
sub-genres of Cinema, as it is with his passion for language. In the majority
of his films, a foreign language when spoken becomes a subterfuge for hidden
motivations and it’s often used to underline the ignorance characters share of
each other’s culture. This is more than apparent in Django Unchained. When the
subtitles kick in, the plot moves forward quicker than ever.
Miradouro da Lua, Angola; Photograph by João Paulo Simões (2012) |
A bright white cube in the distance
comes into view, seen from the passenger’s seat
of a car in motion. ‘That’s the
Museum of Slavery.’ - states the driver, matter-of-factly. A minimalist
construction situated on a bay from which the vast majority of black slaves
departed. Countless Angolans were extracted from this land to help ‘make
Brazil’ (as the same aforementioned poem exposes).
Kerry Washington in Django Unchained (2013) by Quentin Tarantino |
14th December 2012
Wako Kungo, Angola; Photograph by João Paulo Simões (2012) |
We’re heading towards Wako Kungo –
formerly known as Cela, in the old colonial days. I think of
my grandfather; how he used to come to this area to work and later describe it with wonder, as an old man (once geographically removed).
my grandfather; how he used to come to this area to work and later describe it with wonder, as an old man (once geographically removed).
I welcome the shaking of the Land Rover
caused by the beaten track. It conceals my weeping...
15th December 2012
Wako Kungo, Angola; Photograph by João Paulo Simões (2012) |
Travelogue Extract#2
En route to Cabo Ledo; another driver, another large vehicle... We cross the Cuanza, the long river that cuts diagonally through Angola; over an old bridge – the only one that was left standing after the war.
We return via Miradouro da Lua, where we stop and are forced to put ourselves into perspective: on this crumbling vantage point over vast merciless shores, surrounded by an ancient geological identity of the lunar kind, we’re close to nothing... transient, at best...
Travelogue Extract#3
2nd January 2013
Mussulo is a protuberant tongue of sand
which turns and looks back at the city of Luanda; technically a peninsula, they
call it an island. This is where I have spent the last five days.
With the house on the beach (and its New
Year celebrations) behind me, I enter the sea alone. Only a few boats rock
gently around me.The warm waters feel the closest I can imagine amniotic fluid to be like. I face the place where I was born and it makes sense. The skyline is that of a city bursting at the seams; originally built to host a few thousands, but that now contains over 5 million. It’s a place of extremes; of shocking contrasts... Suddenly, I even understand my filmography better. The people over there are like me - with an endless ability to resurrect themselves...
I emerge from the screening onto a dark,
cold Sheffield. The snow falling catches the light of various street lamps and
it sparkles as it blankets the ground I walk on. It feels as unreal as it gets.
More than a sense of satisfaction with
Tarantino’s film, I feel invigorated by Django, the character. Not so unlike
him, I have faced in the past that presumption of superiority rooted in
prejudice. But my inner fire burns steadily now. And I’m ready to keep my
grandfather’s creative flame alive - with my own. Continues on T a c t i l e T h o g h t s - Volume II