Our dirty questions to Tsai Ming-Liang

Having been a huge fan of the 65-year-old director – perhaps the most prominent LGBT+ filmmaker in Asia and certainly one of the biggest exponents of slow cinema in the world -, I couldn’t wait to meet Tsai Ming-liang in person. I first watched The River (1997) when I was still a teenager in my native Brazil while working at the Sao Paulo Film Festival, in the year then film was originally launched. Ming-liang’s tender and subversive sensibility shocked and moved me profoundly. He has firmly remained on my radar since.

He attended the 76th edition of the Locarno Film Festival. On August 3rd, he received the Career Leopard Award in a nearly packed Piazza Grande (which can host a whopping 8,000 film-lovers). Giona A. Nazzaro, the Festival’s Artistic Director explains: “The cinema of Tsai Ming-liang entails a passionate convergence of stories and languages. From the outset he has been able to capture the multiple identities of a creative pathway through the complex articulations of both Taiwanese history and his personal story as a Chinese moving between Malaysia and Taiwan”.

The art exhibition entitled Moving Portraits was also held in Locarno. Its included experimental audiovisual works such as exhibition Transformation (2012), Your Face (2018) and The Tree (2021), curated byKevin B. Lee. His experimental pieces, much like his feature films, are very slow-paced and require a lot of love – and hours – in order to be appreciated in their full splendour.

Ming-liang was born in Malaysia to Taiwanese parents, and he moved to Taipei at the age of 10, where he still resides. He has a career spanning more than three decades, and 11 feature films. He won many prestigious prizes around the world, including the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival for Vive L’Amour (1994). The remained particularly active in the 1990s and 2000s, when he became widely recognised for the topics of unfulfilled sexuality, loneliness, alienation and the passage of time. His films have since became more sparse, with most of his recent output dedicated to exhibitions. He only made one feature film in the ’10s, the tragic and gloomy Stray Dogs (2013). His last film Days was released three years ago.

The director does not speak any English, and our brief interview was aided by a sharp interpreter, courtesy of the Festival. We started our conversation discussing realism. “My films come from life, real life. That’s why I show a lot of loneliness. The characters show their personality through behaviour, not words. I really care about authenticity, that’s one of my biggest pursuits. I want audiences to feel this authenticity. That’s why I don’t leave much room for performance. In general, ordinary actors are afraid of not being able to perform. On the other hand, non-professional actors don’t know how to perform, and instead just do what they are asked to do. Even with non-professionals, I don’t give many instructions. I just put them in certain space and environments, and their own actions or behaviours will take care of the rest. And sometimes these reactions are completely unexpected”.

Ming-liang has consistently used a combination of professional and non-professional actors in his films, and he has a very close relationship with them, particularly 54-year-old Lee Kang-sheng, who has starred in every single one of his 11 feature films. “I live very close to my actors, physically and figuratively. Lee Kang-sheng lives in the same neighbourhood as me. So I observe him, I often watch his life”. He then explains that his closeness enables him to observe the passage of time more effectively, and that he intends to do a film about ageing. “I want to shoot a movie about myself at the age of 60. Because that’s when I realised my body is going through a lot of changes. But I want Kang-sheng to play that role, so I am waiting for him to turn 60”. The passing of time is a recurring topic in many of Ming-liang’s movies (such as 2001’s What Time is It There and Days), and also in his filmography as a whole (as the director observes Kang-sheng’s real-life ageing).

We also talked about the importance of sounds, and their purpose on the elusive search for authenticity: “My films are full of sounds. These are sounds of everyday life, reality replaces the music score. Sometimes these sounds are exaggerated. The objective is to highlight the inner loneliness of the characters. [We hear these sounds] as if they were close to their ears”. I asked him why I asked why Days is “intentionally unsubtitled” (as announced in the beginning of the film). “I don’t really believe in film dialogues. They are not real. That’s just too dramatic”, he explains in his soft and calm voice.

Next, we talked about equality rights. His face lit up, and the director became visibly proud when I asked him about Taiwan being the first country in Asia to legalise gay marriage (in May 2019), and whether he thought that his art played a role in changing the nation’s hearts. He gives a prompt and confident answer: “Yes, I think that my films contributed to same-sex marriage. I really appreciate these changes in Taiwan. I arrived in Taiwan 30 years ago, and I met a local activist who was campaigning for gay rights with placards on the streets back then, and he is still doing that. I want to ask you a question. How many different types of people do you think God created? Just men and women? Gays don’t decide they become gay, right? Flowers can be green, yellow or red. In Taiwan the young generation can really be themselves. I’m glad to live in such a place”.

We finished our interview by talking about another topic close to Ming-liang’s heart (and other parts of his anatomy). I asked him: “Is it ok if we talk about sex?”. He promptly replied “yes”, in English and before the question was translated, with a big smile on his face. I carried on: “Sex in your films is very beautiful, but also very subversive. You get a huge age gap [Days], incest (The River], prostitution [What Time is It There?, Days] and even watermelons [The Wayward Cloud, 2005]. Is subversive sex more beautiful than traditional sex?”. He retorted: “I like sex a lot. But I’m old now! The sex that you see in my movies is actually beautified. Sex in real life is like eating, or other human relations. The more authentic part of sex isn’t so beautiful, not so perfect. When audiences look at sex in my films, they don’t just see sex, they also see dominance, the inability of communicate and loneliness. In Days, for example, you cannot deny that sex was transactional, yet you cannot deny it brought consolation to a lonely person”.

Let’s hope that Tsai Ming-liang’s future projects come to fruition, that there is no shortage of sex – beautified or not -, and that we can continue to observe the passing of time in the life of the artist and his favourite actor Kang-sheng.

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Tsai Ming Liang is pictured at the top and at the bottom of this article (alongside Victor Fraga), snapped by Victor Fraga. The image at the middle is a still from Days.

Our dirty questions to Giona Nazzaro, Locarno’s Artistic Director

Images on his article: Locarno Film Festival/Ti Press

It’s been two years since we first spoke to the new artistic director of the Locarno International Film Festival. Now on its 76th edition, the a-list event boasts the distinction of being the second oldest such film festival in the world, founded in 1946 (second only to Venice, established in 1932). Back in 2021, Giona had just taken over his new role, and the film industry was a very different place. The world was still grappling with a pandemic, and the challenges were somewhat different (with many festivals being held online, or in hybrid format). So we decided to talk to him again and find out what’s happened since.

The 76th edition of the Locarno International Film Festival takes place between August 2th and 12th. DMovies will be live at the event for the fifth consecutive year unearthing the dirtiest gems of world cinema exclusively for you. You can check the full programme by clicking here.

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Victor Fraga – You are now on your third year at the helm of Locarno. Can you please tell us what you’d say you’ve achieved or how the festival has changed ever since we last spoke two years ago?

Giona Nazzaro – Well, you know, I’m not a supporter of the idea that you have to reinvent the wheel. What I try to do is work in service of this entity while giving my individual take on what cinema is and where it’s going. We discussed this a lot with the selection committee. We are trying to create a programme that feels unpredictable, that does not explore the usual roads, and that can point in several directions at once.

VF – When you say unpredictable, what exactly do you mean? Unpredictable endings? Unusual aesthetics? Or something else?

GN – I mean looking at different kinds of films without any preconception. This year we have Quentin Dupieux with surrealistic humour and Lav Diaz. We have Bob Byington with his deadpan humour, and Radu Jude. We have Sofia Exarchou and Annarita Zambrano. So these are very talented and recognised filmmakers, and each has a very specific idea of what cinema is in terms of form, how it stands towards the challenges of the present time, how it should look like aesthetically, formally and politically. I very much like very much the idea that Locarno is a place where you can have a taste of different things.

The fact that we have auteur cinema does not mean that we are looking exclusively in that direction. We’ve opened up to comedies, genre films, and so on. When I talk with producers, I always say: “Stop thinking along the lines of ‘I have the perfect film for Locarno’ because probably it’s not what we are looking for“. I really hope that the Competition is perceived as a place for different sensibilities, and that this conversation can be exciting to professional critics, cinephile as the broader audiences alike.

VF – You say that don’t want to be seen as exclusively auteur-driven. I’ve looked at your programme. I haven’t seen Indiana Jones [which premiered a couple of months ago in Cannes] or even anything remotely as commercial.

GN – The notion of cinema being a commercial or anti-commercial is really alien to me. I don’t think along those lines. And I really work to support auteur cinema. We might have a slightly different take on what auteur cinema is. Lav Diaz and Radu Jude are clearly auteurs. Same with Quentin Dupieux, or the Italian newcomer Simone Bozzelli, which I am convinced will be one of the very strong and fascinating surprises of the line-up. For me, the notion of auteur is a bit more open. Ultimately, everyone who makes the film is the auteur. In this sense, you wouldn’t find a bigger supporter of auteur cinema than Tom Cruise. He controls every aspect of the process, and he does only the things he wants. He tells only the stories that he wants to tell. And he brings his films only to the theatres. He doesn’t go with them to the platforms or streaming, so he does what he does on his own terms. I’m bringing to you a dialectic provocation. But what I’m trying to say is that sometimes we are looking at auteur cinema more as a defined a set of conventions rather than the expression of adventurous sensibilities set out to explore the possibilities of the media

VF – You’re going to show 214 films from 113 countries and that you received in excess of 5500 submissions. Can you tell us a little bit where these submissions are from? Which countries tend to submit more films?

GN – From everywhere in the world: Asia, Eastern Europe, the so-called Global South, whatever that means. So they really come from everywhere.

VF – You have a large programming team. Can you please share your biggest secret? What is the most important thing, which they should be at the forefront of their mind when they are selecting a film for Locarno?

GN – I don’t tell them anything. The idea of having a selection team is exactly to put yourself into uncharted territories. I don’t tell them: “You have to look out for this and this because I like this and that”. Cinema today has so many possibilities. When you are working in a selection committee, you have to ask yourself some hard questions. So we challenge each other all the time. So it’s not a downhill drop. It’s always uphill: climbing, debating, strongly but respectfully disagreeing, and bringing to the table all our abilities, all our experiences, all our critical insights, and trying to listen to each other. And I know this sounds a bit sanctimonious, but it’s a very tough process. It’s a long journey. A very long journey. I didn’t look for people that were thinking along my ideas when I put together the selection team,. I deliberately chose people because I was intrigued by their intellectual generosity, their intellectual audacity. So and I feel privileged to be working with people that challenge each other all the time. Yet again, this sounds like very rosy and stuff, but it’s not. It’s hard.

VF – How large is your select committee? How many people are there?

GN – We’re about six or seven.

VF – What are your performance indicators? How do you gauge success after the Festival was finished?

GN – It’s quite easy. Last year, all the films that we had fared very well with the rest of the festivals and achieved distribution, have been bought, have been acquired. Just a couple of examples: Nightsiren [Tereza Nvotová], which won Best Direction, has been invited to 26 festivals, won a lot of awards, was bought by Netflix and so on. The Tamil film Declaration [Mahesh Narayanan] has also been acquired by Netflix. The film I Have Electric Dreams [Valentina Maurel] has been invited everywhere in the world, and won lots of awards. The same with Safe Place [Juraj Lerotić], Rule 34 [Julia Murat], Stone Turtle [Ming Jin Woo], Matter Out of Place [Nikolaus Geyrhalter], and so on. So. These films have managed to establish a meaningful conversation with different audiences. I always say that the Locarno Film Festival begins when actually the last film has been screened.

VF – Are you telling me that literally every single film that you were screened last year, except perhaps for archive, secured a distribution or a streaming deal?

GN – No, I’m not saying this. I said that a lot of them did that.

VF – There are 14 a-list festivals in the world. Fiapf has now suspended Moscow, as I’m sure you are aware of. Eight of these festivals indeed remain in Europe. Europe is such a hotbed for a-list festivals, isn’t it? What would you say that is it that distinguishes Locarno from from the other seven A-list festivals in the continent?

GN – This is a question that I’ve been asked to answer over and over again. Locarno is a very small city in the southern part of Switzerland. And as the festival takes place, the whole city changes. Colours and shapes. You can really feel the Festival. As in a feast, a celebration. We have real film-aficionados, and we also have a lot of film professionals. In the end of the day, it’s really about how films are embraced, and how the Festival is experienced.

VF – Locarno is indeed a very small place. About 15,000 inhabitants, isn’t it? It’s the smallest city where an a-list festival is held. Even Karlovy Vary is much bigger. I read that you have 13 theatres and that you can have 8,000 people in your Piazza. That’s half of your population, isn’t it? How does such a small place achieve all of that? It’s incredible. Is that just because of the Festival or is there is that a broader film tradition in the city?

GN – It’s really linked to how the Festival, what the festival means to the region of Ticino, and to Switzerland. When we opened the Piazza, half of the city came. This is also very moving because you can really feel the connection that film culture has with the city. You can really feel how people are connected to one of the largest screen screens in the world, and certainly the screen with the largest distance from a projection booth to the screen. This is not to say that the other festivals are not doing a wonderful job. You mentioned Karlovy Vary, and Karel Och is a wonderful friend. I deeply respect his work. I deeply love him. So I’m not saying that what Locarno does is better than what anybody else does, but that’s really not it. But since you are asking me of this unique element, I would say that it’s this idea of people celebrating the joy of being a community that gathers around this campfire that still is cinema

VF – Back to my previous question. There are 13 theatres. That’s a lot for a town with just 15,000 inhabitants. Is that a year-round tradition? What happens to these places when the Festival is not taking place?

GN – We have also a film academy. We are working towards the goal of establishing Locarno as a media city in the near future. We have a local film commission. The Festival has renovated a cinema, the GranRex. Our offices are in a building called the Bala Cinema, the former elementary school of Locarno. Instead of tearing down the building, the municipalities and the authorities rebuilt the whole thing and it became the seat of the Film School, the seat of the Film Commission, and the offices of the Film Festival.

You have to understand that the Festival of Locarno came to be in the south of Switzerland in the Italian-speaking part of the country immediately after WW2. The Venice Film Festival had been established by the regime of the ’20s and the festival in Moscow had been established by the by the [Communist] Party. So Locarno, after WW2, was truly the voice of independent cinema.

VF –You were founded in the same year as Cannes, if I’m not mistaken?

GN – You’re not mistaken. Yes. Locarno was one of the places where Italian neorealism was welcomed in real time. The first film that we that the Festival projected back in 1946 was a rather now obscure film called O Sole Mio by Giacomo Gentilomo, which celebrated the uprising of Naples, the Four Days of Naples. Let me tell you another story: Locarno set the tone and at the height of the Cold War. The Festival welcomed the films from behind the Iron Curtain, prompting a parliamentarian interrogation of how legit it was to show the films of the enemy. Pasolini came to Locarno in order to defend the films of Sergio Citti. Rossellini came too, you know. The Festival of Locarno is ingrained in the fight for progressive ideas.

VF – When I spoke to you two years ago, you told me that if a festival takes place online, it’s not a festival. Do you still have the same opinion about online and hybrid festivals, or has that changed since the pandemic came to and end?

GNLet’s say me and you disagree about a film online, right?. If things get really bad, I can simply switch off the conversation. But if I meet you in a in a cinema and we are watching the same film, then we need to discuss. I cannot switch you off! For me, going to a festival is being part of a community. And this is also the reason why festivals and becoming stronger and more interesting, despite the struggles in the marketplace, distribution, production, and so on.

VF – Is it fair to say that the Locarno International Film Festival changed the history of Locarno?

GN – Yes. This is something that the President [Marco] Solari has pointed out himself. Two examples. This is where, for the first time, the Italian comic actor Toto was recognised as a true artist, even before the Italians did. The place where Douglas Sirk was first recognised as an auteur was Locarno. He was still alive, living close by in Lugano, a small town nearby. The region of Ticino and Switzerland itself grew thanks to the cultural push that Locarno gave to the whole region and to the whole country. Culture helps you to become something else. Culture widens the horizons of your possibilities.

VF – Culture is transformational, isn’t it?

GN – Absolutely!

VF – But let’s talk about Britain. You’ve got Ken Loach coming, that’s very exciting. I love The Old Oak [which premiered in Cannes two months ago]. Can you please tell us a little bit how that invitation come to be? And what is the significance of Ken Loach and British cinema to Locarno?

GN – Well, first of all, I’m an Anglophile. I’m really in love with the English cinema culture and so on. Ken Loach has been the protagonist of one of the greatest gatherings in the Piazza when he last was here, and he himself was completely overwhelmed by the warmth of the welcome.

VF – Which film was that?

GN – I, Daniel, Blake [in 2016].

VF – Why do you think Ken Loach resonates so much with people in Switzerland?

GN – It’s his humanity. It even resonates with people who might disagree with this ideology. I know of some people that disagree with him, and they are still touched by the warmth of the way he brings his ideas to you. There’s never an authoritarian stance in the way he makes his points. The Old Oak is a film that truly moved me. Somehow the spirit of great Italian neorealism made itself heard in the pictures of this old pub of the remnants of the working class that are under the pressure of ceding to the temptation of becoming unwelcoming, xenophobic. The humanity of these people that are resisting and being resilient on a daily basis, and who simply try to be decent human being, this is something that resonates in an incredible way!

VF – What is your message to filmmakers aspiring to make a difference like Ken Loach, or just want to show their films in Locarno?

GN – There is no message. As Alfred Hitchcock, another British filmmaker, used to say: “If I want to send a message, I can send a postcard”. I never wanted to be a filmmaker because I always was aware that in order to be a filmmaker, you need a certain degree of obsession that I can only have toward certain things in life. And one of them is doing a festival.

The filmmakers that have been in Locarno are truly individual filmmakers. They play by their own rulebook. I would tell a filmmaker: “Don’t listen to people who ask of you to be reasonable, to be realistic, listen to yourself and follow your instincts and the rest will come”!

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You can check Locarno’s full programme by clicking here.

Two women, one hotel, many dreams!

Belgian directing duo Maya Duverdier and Amílie Van Elmbt don’t believe in ghosts, but they do believe in the “spirit” of a place. Their documentary Dreaming Walls: Inside the Chelsea Hotel (2022) carries us between the present and the past of a landmark of New York’s counter-culture scenes. Once a shelter for the queer and eccentric – with such icons as Dylan Tomas, Jack Kerouac and Mark Twain who lived there – the Chelsea is now a luxury hotel offering rooms for up to £1,000 a night.

The first-time directors capture a pivotal moment during the gruelling renovation of this edifice, which serves as a symbol for the ravages of gentrification. In the documentary, archival footage is projected onto the interior walls like the haunting presence of the Chelsea’s distant memories. Past and present converge in the lives of the residents, some of whom moved to the hotel in the ’80s. Resisting the owners’ efforts to eject them, the residents are the remaining lanterns of the Chelsea’s vibrant history – a time when artists could create freely in New York, unburdened by financial insecurity. Dreaming Walls: Inside the Chelsea Hotel is an ode to the Chelsea and to those sitting in the shadows of the bigger names.

During a videoconferencing conversation (pictured above) with DMovies‘s writer Gaelle Biguenet, Maya Duverdier and Amílie Van Elmbt discuss the challenges they faced during the production of the documentary.

Dreaming Walls is in cinemas on Friday, January 20th.

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Gaelle Biguenet – Could you take me through your journey to becoming filmmakers?

Maya Duverdier – I come from the art field. I did an art school in France, Les Beaux-Arts de Paris, for three years, where I learnt to use cameras with a measure of freedom. Soon I developed a love for documentary filmmaking and I started to film people. I went on to do a master’s in cinema [at the Ecole Cantonale d’Art de Lausanne] but because it was in an art school I still enjoyed a kind of freedom. We learnt a little bit of technique but the emphasis was much more on what we want to express. I didn’t learn cinema very strictly. After graduating, I worked as an assistant on various projects to earn a living until I made Dreaming Walls, which is my first long feature film.

Amílie van Elmbt – I’ve always wanted to tell stories but as a kid I had difficulties with grammar, now we call that dyslexia. When I realised that there was a possibility to use the language of images to produce stories, I was super excited. I remember asking my father to rent a camera for my eighth birthday so that I could direct my friends. In the footage, you can see me scream, “cut!” That was my first experience [with directing] and it was very playful, and I love the playful aspect of filmmaking. When I was a teenager I discovered that there were film schools in Belgium where I could learn to make films. I got accepted in IAD [Institut des Arts de Diffusion], where I studied, but it wasn’t a super nice experience for me.

In cinema schools back at the time, I’m talking 15 years ago, you had to follow a certain programme laid out by teachers who were mostly men. They never asked us ‘why did you make this?’ or ‘why did you tell this story?’ which to me are the most important questions. I wanted to experiment with a 15 minute’ shot, which wasn’t in fashion at the time. Since my projects were always rejected, I didn’t graduate.

I went to Paris because I was very fond of the French New Wave cinema. I was super inspired by Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut and Jacque Rivette – their musical sense of language in the mise-en-scène, which was really important for the movement of camera. But like Maya I needed to make money so I went back to Belgium and worked in television as a director. When I turned 25, I wondered if it wasn’t time to make a film. I was afraid of becoming like my colleagues, who were getting older and still had not made a film. I don’t know, I had this idea in mind that 25 would be the year when I make something, so I started writing a story. It grew into a long feature film and, because I couldn’t find a producer, I did everything myself. Looking back, I think it was also a challenge for me to see if I was able to make a long feature film or if it was just a childhood dream of being a director. I made Head First and it happened to be screened in the Cannes Film Festival in a special section called ACID, which is for Indie films selected by a group of directors.

GB – Is this how you got into contact with Martin Scorsese? How did he come to produce Dreaming Walls?

AvE – Because of Cannes, the film travelled to North America and New York. I won a prize of directing [at the New York First Time Festival], where Scorsese and other famous people from the cinema industry were present. Since he’s the godfather of the festival, I gave Scorsese my film. Three or four months later I received a letter in which he said that there is a lot of quality in my film, [adding]: ‘If you have something else you want to show or do, let me know.’ I needed several months to process that this was real. I was really scared of responding because it far exceeded my expectations.

That’s why I asked him to be a part of my second feature film, [The Elephant & the Butterfly; van Elmbt, 2017]. It was a tough production and we had a lot of trouble with money. But he didn’t want to participate in the production of Dreaming Walls because he was not enthusiastic about producing a documentary. He did, however, help us with digitalising archives from the residents and he’s like a godfather to me because I knew he would see the film and give us his opinion on it. It was really important to know what he thinks since it is set in New York and centres around a landmark that he probably visited at some point in his life.

Actually Scorsese enjoyed the film so much that he said to us: people need to see this film. What do you need to promote it? We asked him to put his credit as an Executive Producer because we knew it would help. So his contribution came later on and was more of a stamp than executive producer work.

GB – How much freedom did you feel in the production of the documentary?

AvE – It’s always very tricky because if you want your film to be seen, you have to make sacrifices. As Scorsese always said to me, you have to be strategic. But the most difficult part for me was the relationship with the production company based in Belgium. It involved many complicated negotiations on choices that would cost money. But we had expectations and ambitions for the film’s aesthetic. So there was always a fight, which was not fun. We lost a lot of time fighting instead of making progress. But it’s part of learning and knowing that for the next film, the person I embark on this adventure with will be the right one and will understand my ideas. It’s really a question of trust between the production company and the author because when you make a documentary, you never know exactly what’s going to happen.

MD – I would add that it’s much more difficult when the production company is not with us because they can’t feel what we are living.

GB – What were some of the ideas that you were clashing on?

AvE – TV Player wanted to have a famous narrator like Ethan Hawke and they wanted us to categorise the film: Is it a historical or pop culture film? We didn’t want those categories. So they were really embarrassed because they didn’t know where to put it at the end. Or they would say: ‘We don’t care about those old folks, you need to have a narrative with things happening.’ It’s true that you have to believe in someone, their artistic gaze or in the story. But they were judging the quality of the art produced by our characters while we wanted the film [to explore] art as a necessity.

GB: How would you describe the themes that Dreaming Walls touches on?

MD: There’s art, of course, but also through art, there’s love. There was a lot of love in the film, between the characters, and we gave them a lot of love, which they gave back to us. The documentary is also about melancholy and the disappearance of people who will be forgotten if nobody puts them in the light. It’s a shame because they are part of the history of the Chelsea Hotel.

AvE: For us, [shooting Dreaming Walls] was a political act of making archives that matter. As Sarah Schulman says in The Gentrification of the Mind: Witness to a Lost Imagination, New York forgets a lot of people who made this city. The characters of Dreaming Walls are the fertile soil of the Chelsea Hotel. It’s because of them that big figures like Patti Smith [became famous] since they created a diverse community which welcomed them in. We wanted to make this visible.

It’s also about gentrification, because The Chelsea was a shelter for artists with no money and places like it don’t exist anymore in central New York. You would have to go really far out in Harlem or the Bronx to find a place where you can create.

Every character is also a polyphonic voice for emblematic sides of the Chelsea. There is the myth of the artist and, for us, Bettina is a feminist figure. A woman living alone, choosing not to have kids and dedicating herself to making art. There is also Rose who is a queer character because she had eight lives and reinvents herself all the time. All of these aspects are only a few particles of the Chelsea. But we chose the particles that reflected something to which we felt connected and that had been neglected. Whenever you talk about the Chelsea, you always refer to the same people, but there were so many more. That’s also why we included archives of Nelson Sulivan, who is widely forgotten. We wanted to remind viewers that the Chelsea belongs to everyone who lived there and made it a shelter for queerness and the marginalised.

GB: Do you believe in ghosts?

MD: Personally, I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe in a kind of energy or fluid. I don’t know what it is but there are things, like inspiration or creativity, that transport you.

AvE: I believe in the spirit, not of ghosts, but of stories. I believe that our images and the mythology that we dream about are passed down from generation to generation. And in the Chelsea that heritage is super strong. You can feel it very much inside. There is a concentration of these energies.

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Dreaming Walls is in cinemas on Friday, January 20th.

The still at the top of the article is from the videoconferencing interview (Maya is pictured left). The other images are still from their documentary.

Our dirty questions to Fatih Akin

Picture above: Getty Images for the Red Sea International Film Festival

Born in Frankfurt in the year of 1973 to Sunni Muslim parents, Fatih Akin is now firmly established as one of the most prominent voices of German cinema, with 18 feature films under his belt. They include the 2004 Golden Bear winner Head-on, the political thriller In the Fade (2017), the dirty serial killer biopic The Golden Glove (2019), and much more. His movies often deal with the topic of Muslim identity in Europe. He is a special guest at the 2nd Red Sea International Film Festival, where he is showcasing his latest creation Rhinegold, the real-life story of Kurdish-German hip-hop rapper, entrepreneur, and ex-convict Giwar Hajab, better known by his artistic name Xatar (review to follow soon!).

Victor Fraga briefly spoke to the talented filmmaker in Jeddah, during day 5 of the 2nd Red Sea International Film Festival:

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Victor Fraga – You are in Saudi Arabia! How did this invitation come to being?

Fatih Akin – I am a good friend of Kaleem [Aftab], who is one of the festival programmers. I knew about the Red Sea [International Film Festival] from the very beginning. This gigantic new festival bang in the middle of the Middle East. I was very curious about it. This is a part of the world I had never been to, and I’m a very curious person.

Saudi Arabia was a very important place for my father because he was a very spiritual person. And my father’s trip to Saudi Arabia changes our lives. He became a far more peaceful person upon his return. He passed away last year while I was shooting,

VF – Is it emotional for someone who grew in a Turkish Sunni Muslim environment to be in Saudi Arabia?

FA – Saudi Arabia was a very important place for my father because he was a very spiritual person. His trip to Saudi Arabia changes our lives. He became a far more peaceful person upon his return. He passed away last year while I was shooting. Knowing how much this place meant to him makes this trip very special to me. It’s not just a trip for the filmmaker. It’s a deeply personal and spiritual experience.

VF – Are you planning to visit Mecca, and do your Hajj!

FA – Actually, I went to Mecca already! But it wasn’t the Hajj. I did the Umrah instead. This is one of the centres of the world. You get Milan for the fashion world. Then there’s New York, LA, Beijing, maybe Mumbai. When you are there, at the centre of the world, in the circle, in the Kaaba, you feel the spiritual strength from all those people. It’s a really charged place.

VFRhinegold has been described as your most ambitious project to date. Is that indeed an accurate description?

FA – It was ambitious because it was a Plan B and it had to be done very quickly. I was working on something else, which collapsed because of Covid-19. I have this tiny boutique company, and we have to shoot in order to survive. I had bought the rights to the biography on which Rhinegold is based a couple of years earlier. It’s something which maybe i would do myself, maybe I would produce and get someone else to direct it. And then suddenly I didn’t have a project, so I decided to do it so my company could survive. But while I was working on it I decided I had to tell the story of his parents as well. So I had to go back to Tehran and to the Islamic revolution, and I have to make a migrant story out of it, set in the 1980s, and it the 1990s, so gradually it became bigger and bigger, and more ambitious. And also more expensive. I had to write to script from beginning to end in just eight months. But I didn’t finish yet. I started looking for financing with an unfinished script, and I started shooting with an unfinished financing. Then there was Covid-19, then there was my father’s death while I was shooting. It was so complicated! But I managed it, thanks God the film is very successful!

VF – How does the integration of immigrants in Germany compare to their experience in the UK?

FA – We have a very different story of immigration. Britain was a colonial empire. India, Pakistan were all part of the empire. The history of immigration in Germany is pretty young, it started in the 1960s with the Gastarbeiter who went there in order to work.

VF – Turks and Greeks?

FA – Turks, Greeks and Yugoslavs. Mostly people from countries who were either Germany’s allies during World War II, or at least neutral. Until the 1990s you could only be German if you had German blood. This is not the case of immigration in the US and the UK. This doesn’t mean there is no racism in these countries.

VF – But Germany has now changed?

FA – Yes, that was 30 years ago that you could only be German by blood. That’s so old-fashioned. I’m not blaming them though. People can’t suddenly change by pressing a button. Real change takes time!

VF – We are bang in the middle of the World Cup, so let’s talk about football. The sport was invented in England and the British Empire disseminated it throughout the globe. Is football nowadays a colonialist tool, or has it become a weapon of resistance?

FA – Let me tell you: I’m not so deep into football! I played it long enough. I now have two surgeries on my knee. I reached the level where it destroyed by body. That’s why I’m no longer so much into it.

Two things. the first thing I say is football and sports in general should not be policitised. The second thing I say is EVERYTHING IS POLITICS!!! [laughs out loud]

Daniel Waters answers our dirty questions

Daniel Waters (pictured above) is the horribly beautiful mind behind a string of cult classics. In addition to the second film in the Batman franchise, the 60-year-old American wrote the screenplay for films such as Heathers (Michael Lehman, 1979), The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (Renny Harlin, 1990), Hudson Hawk (Michael Lehmann, 1991) and Demolition Man (Marco Barmbila, 1993).

Waters is also a filmmaker. He wrote and directed Happy Campers (2001) and Sex and Death 101 (200&), both deserving a cult reappraisal. Daniel and Ian had a chat about his contribution as screenwriter on Batman Returns. His work made Batman Returns a very different film to the 1989 movie (also directed by Tim Burton). He also spoke about working with Burton, how they made it a fresh take on the superhero genre before that became mainstream, how they brought definitive versions of Penguin and Catwoman to the silver screen, and also how he created a brand new villain, Max Schreck. We also discuss the cinematic legacy of Batman, and where Batman Returns fits within it.

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Ian Schultz – I know you weren’t a full-on comic book geek when you were offered the job – how well-versed were you in Batman when you took on the gig?

Daniel Waters – When it comes to be being a comic-book fan, I’m the guy who buys the nice graphic novel version that’s sold at Barnes & Noble of all the comics collected. I’m not there every Friday, Wednesday or whenever they come out to get the new issues. I do like comic books, I do like graphic novels. The Dark Knight Returns to me is one of the greatest pop culture artefacts ever made and I love that.

[So] the rules of Batman were lost on me! I wasn’t a completist, I definitely loved the TV as a kid, but I never liked Penguin, and Julie Neymar reminded me too much of my mother’s sexy suburban bridge partners. I never had that kind of relationship with Catwoman that other guys did.

I knew enough! [But] the whole thesis of me and Tim Burton working on Batman was there was so much we didn’t know, people can’t even conceive that fantasy world that we were living in. We were just two guys in a room making a Tim Burton movie that happens to be a Batman movie—but nowadays you have to write in a tribunal of 12 people and do urine tests, drug tests to make sure you are doing everything correctly, so you’re not crossing streams or breaking any rules. We didn’t even know the rules we were breaking.

IS – Did you even crack out the crate of comics that I assume you got sent when you first got the gig?

DW – No, we didn’t… we are terrible people. They definitely had, like, a tomb underground we were willing to go to. We had an All Access pass to go, but we never quite found where it was down in the basement of Warner Bros.

Sam Hamm’s original draft, if it was graded by comic book fans it would’ve gotten an A. It was so legit, so solid. So, like, a first act, second act, third act, characters, plots—and he’s a detective! I swear to God I found out only recently that my first tweet on Twitter was: “As the writer of Batman Returns all I have to say is…so wait, you’re telling me he’s a detective?” and everybody though that was pretty amusing. I didn’t even know, somebody replied with “DC Comics stands for Detective Comics,” and I didn’t even know that, I didn’t even know that’s what DC stood for. I laughed along with them and was like “is that true?”

I was a bad boy—and as you already know, the lame, shitty detective work that he does tracking down the Red Circle Circus gang and figuring out Penguin’s backstory and the first children of Gotham City was added by Wesley Strick after my commitment to the movie had ended.

IS – Do you think some of issues with “modern” comic books is that they are too often written by comic book nerds for nerds?

DW – I don’t know if it’s the nerds themselves—any writer alone in the room will want to try something fun. It’s just the policing has gotten so much better, and the policing has gotten so intense. Kevin Feige is a masterful grandmaster: he keeps the faith, he is the gatekeeper and does a great job. There is self-censorship that comes in and, you know, you can’t colour outside of the lines, you can go this far but not go this far. Tim Burton and I were just like “nee nee nee nee nee nee,” colouring way out of the lines, off the comic book and under the desk, and breaking all the rules.

I wanted to ask what you think about the whole The People’s Joker (Vera Drew, 2022) fiasco?

IS – I want to see it! Let the people go! I want to see it! I’ve heard a couple things, I definitely want to see it.

DW – It’s not like it’s going to make a billion dollars – the fact that Warner Bros. are worried about it is kinda lame. It all helps the “brand.” That’s why you are even talking to me today, because when Batman Returns came out, it was the highest grossing film that weekend but not so secretly loathed by comic book fans, and that was because who knew if you would get another Batman movie. A comic book was still a precious thing, and we kind of “blew it” by not following the comics.

Now there have been so many comic book movies that now people are finally going back to Batman Returns. It’s all been lined up in a buffet of sushi rolls and hamburgers, you pick out if this was interesting, this was different. And it’s gotten newfound respect.

IS – Even Batman Forever (Joel Scbuhacher, 1995) is getting respect now, which I don’t understand at all.

DW – Forever has some problems, but I never hated Forever as much as most people did, it was alright.

IS – I really hate Forever—I prefer Batman & Robin (Schumacher, 1997) over Forever, but I hate both of them. At least Uma Thurman as Poison Ivy is quite good.

DW – Yeah, but she is kind of a little Selina Kyle redux in a much quicker time frame.

IS – And Forever has Tommy Lee Jones giving one of the worst performances I’ve seen in any film ever.

DW – That’s what I was gonna bring up… I really like Val Kilmer, but Tommy Lee Jones—it’s almost like physically watching him walk his check to the bank and cash it, and wiping his ass with it.

IS – What was your trip to Seaworld with Tim Burton to “research” penguins like?

DW – He went back with Danny DeVito and walked with him into the penguins, which must’ve been much fun than ours. It was a great time. My one memory is of us standing with a bunch of schoolgirls watching a whale masturbate, but that’s of course what I’m gonna take from it.

Our whole concept of Penguin, of all the “fuck it” things we did with Batman Returns and the Batman ethos, seeing those penguins and our misunderstanding the TV show, we thought Burgess Meredith was kind of a mutated person and didn’t think he was a real gangster. Throughout the process of Batman Returns, we had no idea what bad boys we were, we thought we were just having fun, not breaking all these golden rules. Go to Seaworld with Tim, just let us loose—we are not going to make the gangster version of this character, we are not going to make the Burgess Meredith character, we are gonna lean into the line that I mentioned to Tim that he finally got the character to say: “I am not a human being, I am an animal.” A,ll of these movies, The Elephant Man and Raging Bull, would have this triumphant moment where he would scream “I am not a animal, I am a human being!” Let’s have more fun and reverse that.

IS – That’s all just Tim’s ethos in all of his movies.

DW – Yes, Tim’s ethos became my ethos. I tried to shift some of the blame. I worked for the pleasure of Tim Burton, I was not working for the pleasure of comic book fans or Batman. I was fully on Tim Burton’s team. You work for who pays you.

IS – How much flak have you gotten over the years about the fact that Batman kills in the film? Although to be honest, it’s never made much sense to me.

DW – I didn’t even know that, why didn’t people tell me Batman doesn’t…? And yeah, even when you were told the rule—actually, I don’t like it.

And, that wasn’t my writing, I have a way of blaming Wesley Strict for things that maybe he shouldn’t even be blamed for. I have come to love Wesley Strick and his contribution to the movie! [But] I don’t like Batman killing that clown so casually. I’m a big fan of killing the villain. I think as a society we have gone to wrapping him in a net and dropping him off at a police station. I love Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight (2008) but, like, leaving Joker, who has done all of these horrible things, just dangling outside a building after we have established he can get out of any prison… it just seems silly to me.

IS – You’ve got to kill Joker—it’s never made sense to me either.

DW – Kill that fucker!

IS – Why do you think you are so good at writing female characters?

DW – Oh, stop, you! The thing with female characters is, I have this whole thing against that whole thing now: “your film should have strong female characters.” I’m like, “be careful with that phrase” when I hear “strong female characters”—I think of movies where the person on the motorcycle is driving through traffic and then they take off the helmet and it’s a woman, and you are supposed to go: “oh my God, it’s a woman!” And here is your doctor and the woman walks in and “Oh my God, the woman is a doctor!” Five guys surround a woman and the woman beats them up, that is ridiculous… “strong female roles.”

IS – And we have Promising Young Woman (Emerald Fennell, 2021) but let’s not speak about that one…

DW – Oh yes, we can’t speak about that. Boy, I’ve gotten so much trouble speaking about that. I must not speak about Promising Young Woman, must not speak about Promising Young Woman

IS – I got so much flak for hating it, it was funny.

DW – “It’s a great feminist film”—but is it though? Do they have bachelor parties during the day? I don’t think so, but anyway… obviously with Heathers, Catwoman, I’ve created these great and what I think are interesting female characters. I think it’s more subversive to give them a sense of humour and give them complexity. Sometimes they’re likeable and sometimes they’re not likeable. I’m not talking “Daniel Waters: famous feminist” here, I just want to make my movies original. It’s a sad and bizarre fact that if you have a woman who is complex with a sense of humour, and is sometimes weird and sometimes does the wrong thing, that makes the movie original. You are starting on second base of originality if you have a female character that is halfway interesting.

It’s almost less of a feminist bent, but let’s face it, with Shakespeare and David Mamet… men have been done. I have nothing to learn from men, men are checkers and women are chess. The mere attempt to tackle women is gonna be beneficial to you. Note to screenwriters: get some female friends, and don’t try to have sex with them! It makes your writing that much better if you don’t put woman in a compartmentalisation of “sexual beings.” More female friends will help your female characters. That’s my lesson of the day.

And also, write roles that can make great Halloween costumes. That’s my other new screenwriting rule.

IS – How much of the Sam Hamm’s script were you able to use as a template, or was it strictly written from scratch?

DW – It was pretty much from scratch, Sam Hamm got story credit just merely for the fact that he choose Penguin and Catwoman as the villains, so that gives him a plank of story credit.

I kind of regret this, because it makes Wesley Strick feel bad because he cost him a lot of money—and you’ve referred to this before—but the best writing I’ve ever done on a Batman movie was my arbitration letter. I kind of overinflated Sam Hamm’s contribution to thereby dismiss Wesley Stick’s contribution… so I was a bad boy. Bottom line, it was just the characters Catwoman and Penguin, and they were completely different characters, even Batman just personality-wise. They all had their same name on their driver’s license, but they are totally different characters. I read the script knowing that Tim didn’t vibe with it, and then when you meet Tim, oh my God, it must’ve been like reading a tax return for him. It was against everything that Tim is.

IS – It’s pretty obvious that he didn’t want to do a “sequel.” In his commentary track he is, like, “this is the next chapter with Batman, there are some other characters and that’s as much DNA as there is with the original.”

DW – That is true. Even when I tried—no offence to Robert Wuhl, but I couldn’t stand his character in the first one. I wanted to bring his character of Knox, the reporter, back for the second one so I could kill him, I had him crucified on the bat-signal with the outline of his body shooting up against the sky.

Tim was like “No, let’s close…” he let me have the VickI Vale joke, but let’s pretend the first one doesn’t exist.

IS – How was it to create a new Batman villain, Max Schreck, since I think you are the only writer so far who has gotten to do that in the films? I can’t imagine that today you would be allowed to, they would be, like, “go find some obscure character.”

DW – It’s funny… he is helpful from a plot standpoint, he is a conduit. Even with the gatekeeper Marvel films, they will create a conduit, like the mercenary who helps the bad guy. There are slightly original characters, but the thing with Max Schreck is that I almost wanted him to be a controlled experiment. He is just a normal politician, a normal city leader, and he is the true villain of them all.

One of your followers on Twitter mentioned today that he was supposed to be a boring character, and a lot of that is true. I can’t help myself writing overly snappy dialogue, [but] I wanted him to be like a normal businessman. I wanted Christopher Walken to play him, Christopher Walken was number 1 on my casting list, David Bowie was number 2 on my casting list. Number 3—if you even know who this guy is, he gives you a clue of how I really saw the role, but there is no way you are gonna know this guy. There is an actor named Ron Vawter, he worked with Jonathan Demme a lot, he was the psychologist in Sex, Lies, and Videotape (Steven Soderberg, 1989) just the calmest strange guy. He is like a rational Peter Lorre. I wanted somebody who was the most chilling voice in the room.

When people ask: “Hey, was Max Schreck based on Trump?” Well, maybe deep down tangentially, in part by the way he is treated by New York. But Christopher Walken was my number 1 casting choice: I wanted to play him, like, ice-cold, like The Deer Hunter (Michael Cimino, 1979) first act / Heaven’s Gate (Cimino, 1980). I wanted Christopher Walken to be chilling, clinical. And obviously Walken gets on the set and he sees Catwoman and Penguin, and is like “Get me a fucking wig, I’m gonna fucking knock this out of the fucking park.” And he does it terrific, I can’t complain. I should’ve known Tim Burton wasn’t going to have a Mitt Romney character in his movie, to compete in the Burtonverse you’ve got to be flamboyant. I had him as a secret conduit character, but he ends up being on Mount Rushmore with the rest of the Batman Returns villains and is definitely of the piece.

IS – I know there was a conflict with Tim Burton at some point. What was the final straw that brought Wesley Strick in as a screenwriter?

DW – I was contractually obligated to do three drafts, and I did three drafts. We were going into production, and I was expecting to be brought back into production. It wasn’t really rancorous between me and Tim, I just think the studio thought I wasn’t the guy to do their production notes, and Tim knew that we both had the same weaknesses. My line has always been “Tim Burton and me has been like Rain Man (Barry Levinson, 1980) but with two Dustin Hoffmans, and he needed a Tom Cruise to come in and make it a little more palatable.” The word Denise Di Novi used was “normalise.” I almost made a Tim Burton Altman film where we created these really distinct personalities and had their neurons bounce off each other and interact. The glory of the movie isn’t that plot…

IS – Oh yeah, the plot doesn’t matter at all, I could give a fuck about the “plot.”

DW – Yeah, but they thought they needed something to answer all the “save the cat” questions, hit all the “save the cat” marks and save the Catwoman. It goes to my general problem with movies, or me and movies… I find screenwriting has become Madlibs: they have these set structures, we will do this here, we will do this there, just fill in the blank at certain parts…

IS – As I posted the other day, there is a fill-in-the-blanks version of the script for Batman Returns for kids!

DW – Oh, fuck you! The Mad Magazine parody of Batman Returns, the last frame is the Joker behind the typewriter: “It was I, the Joker, who wrote the terrible screenplay for this miserable movie!” It’s like I intentionally made it fucked up, so my Batman would be more remembered.

IS – If Max Schreck comes back, do you get a percentage or something?

DW – Yeah, I don’t see Max Schreck in any of these reboots! I probably don’t think so… I don’t even get money when they openly remake Heathers!

IS – Why do you think the film has lasted so well when the ’89 one hasn’t? I can’t imagine watching the ‘89 film again.

DW – I’ve been wanting to see it again because I was really hard on it. Part of my disappointment was what fuelled me to read and write the second one.

IS – It’s very well shot—it’s Terry Gilliam’s cinematographer!

DW – Oh yeah, and Anton Furst can’t be denied.

I know Tim didn’t really edit it, he was talking about the editing from the first cut to the last cut was really minimal, when it should’ve been a little more nuanced. I went to an anniversary screening of Batman Returns, and everybody was dressed up and it was a packed audience and were reacting to everything. And first thing I said when I was brought up on stage afterwards was: “Where were you when the movie came out?” When the movie came out, people were confused: “why isn’t Batman showing up right away?” “Why are Catwomen and Penguin stars of the movie?” Asking all of these housekeeping questions instead of just enjoying the movie.

As I said before as there is a grand expanse of superhero movies, but this one sticks out for not being faithful, for being its own unique film. If you think of all people who worship superhero movies, think of how many more don’t worship superhero movies. My friend Josh Olson and I’ve quoted this line before… he said—and he is a huge comic book fan, he is the one who does show up every week when the new comics come out—“Batman Returns is great Batman film for people who hate Batman.” I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s the movie for people who don’t feel the need to slavishly follow the rules of superhero movies, it is its own thing.

It’s what I try to do, even with Heathers, too: I try to make movies that are different. I like Marvel movies, I like them a lot,  there are few really horrible ones. Not at all a horrible one…

IS – I would say Thor: Love and Thunder (Taika Waititi, 2022) was pretty close…

DW – Even then I had a good time, I’m not even gonna comment on that one… Well, that one aside. When you consider most Marvel films, everyone has the same experience, normally. It’s like Space Mountain at Disney: you go in, you come out, and you’ve had a reasonably good time. Batman Returns—and this is the glory of it, I think—is everybody has a different experience watching it, everybody reacts to something differently. It doesn’t hit anyone the same way. I remember the critic from the Village Voice criticised it, calling it “a eurythmic rumba.” And I thought, “sure, it’s a eurythmic rumba. I like it, it has its own rhythm. I did a eurythmic rumba—fuck you!” It has its own pacing, it has its own style, and on repeat viewing, it’s a different movie every time.

I think when you watch Marvel movies over and over, you can have a great time but it’s the same drug every time. You can watch Batman Returns 20 times and there is something, even I notice something different.

IS – Why do you think the film feels more artistically satisfying and even sexy in terms of the whole Batman-Catwoman thing, as compared to the Marvel films or even the sexless world the Nolan films inhabit? I do think the new Batman brought some of that back. I know Matt Reeves has said he is a big Batman Returns fan.

DW – Yeah, and Robert Pattinson is a big Batman Returns fan, too. I’m a big fan of The Batman. I even didn’t mind Anne Hathaway’s Catwoman in The Dark Knight Rises, even the film as a whole I like more than most. It’s still prose and not poetry, and Batman Returns is… even if you think it’s bad poetry, it’s poetry. It’s trying to be artistic. I can’t say it’s a sex romp or anything, but even giving any big-budget commercial movie some sexiness is audacious and secretly welcomed by people. You will have people who are like: “I don’t like sex in my movies, it takes me out of the movie”. It puts me into the movie

I love that with Batman Returns, when you see it when you are too young, it’s gonna fuck you up a little bit, but in the best way. When you see it again as an adult, it’ll be “I can’t believe watched that as a kid.” It goes back to: every dip into Batman Returns is a little different.

IS – What is your favourite Batman movie, other than Batman Returns?

DW – Oh boy, I can’t believe this obvious question… uh let’s see here… I’m gonna be controversial and go back to The Dark Knight Rises (Nolan, 2012). It had a lot of crazy shit I wanted to do, crazy political shit I wanted to do in my movie but it was just too much. I love the too-muchness of Dark Knight Rises and I think Marion Cotillard is very not talked about and underrated, and a very chilling villain. The movie freaked me out, the movie was unexpected. The Dark Knight, great as it is, I kind of expected it. The Dark Knight Rises is the only one that fools me. But I need to see The Batman again. I really liked it the first time I saw that, and that may take the cake for me.

IS – What do you hope people who haven’t seen Batman Returns before or who are seeing it theatrically for the first time will get from this big release?

DW – Who knew having it taking place during the Christmas season will give us a little way to come back at you every December? This is the first time it’s been a full-fledged re-release, but it always shows up in December—although it was summer movie—because of the Christmas elements.

I will be overjoyed if Batman Returns virgins see the movie, it’s the ideal thing. When I wrote Heathers, everybody knew what a “teen movie” was, and when everybody knows what a teen movie is, you can lure them into a tent and beat the shit out of them. I think everybody knows what a concept of a superhero is supposed to be and what it is, what is the formula, and they will be in for a surprise that we had such a good time in the early ‘90s. We broke all the rules before they became rules!

Hey, that’s pretty good—we broke all the rules before they became rules! Hey, that’s a pretty good one, man! Come on, you got that one, Schultz?

IS – I’m gonna see if I can get my friend to bring his five-year-old so he can get traumatised.

DW – Get those early traumas going! I think it’s hilarious that we have a whole generation that as kids will see Terminator 2 (James Cameron, 1991), they see all these violent movies that was out at the time. Even now, they see these violent movies where they will see all these people get their heads cut off with chainsaws, people having their eyes ripped out, but there is something about a man and a fish and biting a nose that causes more trauma than outward violence. It feels more real—and there is something about Catwoman bending over a prostrate Batman that ends up in your blood stream and freaks you out more than watching PornHub.

That’s the most pride I have with the movie: there is certain ickiness and perversion that fucks with you even more than the more explicit violence and sex you experience in culture in other places. That we still have the ability to create trauma more than the obvious ones.

Batman Returns is in theatres from the 2nd of December and playing throughout the Christmas Season.

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The image at the bottom of this articles is from director Tim Burton on set of Batman Returns with two protagonists. The two images above it are stills from the film. Daniel Waters is pictured at the top of this interview.

The ugly face of female violence, from the horse’s mouth

We first meet the hero of Askar Uzabayev’s latest film, Happiness, standing in front of the mirror. Pulling down her bathrobe to reveal her naked chest and shoulders, illuminated only by candlelight due to regular power outages, she inspects her many bruises. Played by actress Laura Myrzakhmetova, but named archetypically as just “Wife”, she is one of millions of women across Kazakhstan living under the brutal spectre of domestic violence.

This issue is of epidemic proportions. As producer Bayan Maxatkyzy tells me, “Every year, about 400 women die from domestic violence. Only seven per cent of victims report domestic violence, despite nearly one in two women in the country suffering some sort of abuse. And this is just the official data. There could be more.” And with no official law for the protection of victims, “thousands of abusers get away with this crime on a daily basis.”

Maxatkyzy suffered intense domestic abuse herself, but counts herself as one of the lucky ones. She’s a genuine movie star in Kazakhstan, talking to me across Zoom while wearing large sunglasses and sitting on an opulent couch with an expensive-looking handbag in full-view. Rising to fame for her role in the popular 1993 Kazakh melodrama Love Station followed by a successful journalism and acting career, she has four million Instagram followers, more than any other celebrity in the country. So, when her first husband, Bakhytbek Yesentayev, beat and stabbed her four times in 2016, the story became national news, eventually leading to his 9-year imprisonment.

Happiness

Maxatkyzy’s fame give her case widespread attention, but the woman at the heart of Happiness, which recently won the Panorama Audience Award at the Berlin Film Festival, has no such protection. The first half is utterly drenched in sadness and desperation, a culture of misogyny permeating almost every scene. Her daughter (Almagul Sagyndyk) is getting married, yet nobody seems to be celebrating. The perennially drunk Husband (Yerbolat Alkozha) tells the bride-to-be in an embarrassing liquor-sodden speech to “never raise your voice” if she is to be a good wife, displaying a cycle of submissiveness and shame handed down from generation to generation.

When he later rapes his own wife on his daughter’s wedding night, a cardboard cut-out of a beautiful woman wrapped in clingfilm lingers in the background; an ironic contrast of feminine perfection that perhaps represents the ideal, voiceless woman. Despite her tragic home life, the Wife works as an influencer, selling perfume that she promises will give other women happiness.

In her posts, the Wife lays out a rehearsed theory, underscored by Antonio Vivaldi’s “Winter”. She says that happiness is 50 per cent nature, 10 per cent living conditions, and 40 per cent a result of free will. But the reality of the film, imbued with endless beatings, police corruption and sexual menace, lives within that middle 10 per cent, resulting in a horrifying, hard-to-look-away portrayal of living under the fear of death with little chance of state protection.

Both Maxatkyzy and director Askar Uzabayev, who adapted a script co-written with journalist Assem Zhapisheva, avoided state financing models when finding funding for the film. Maxatkyzy crowdfunded $20,000, with many women “sending one, two dollars” to the cause. “As many rich producers are men, and this was [Kazakhstan’s] first movie about domestic violence, they didn’t want to take part. Because they are men,” Maxatkyzy says. “Maybe they just didn’t believe in this project.” Uzabayev also believes the crowdfunding was the right choice. “When the government pay, they tell us what to do, like not showing police corruption,” he says.

The film takes a freewheeling turn by the end, anchored by Myrzakhmetova’s performance. The actress both empowers and teases out the nuances of her unnamed hero, who is neither victim nor a stereotypical “strong woman”. But Myrzakhmetova was not the first choice for the role. In fact, according to Uzabayev, “six candidates before Laura rejected the role. Our last candidate refused to take it two days before we planned to start shooting. In the beginning [the actresses] were inspired, but after discussions with their husbands, they were prohibited from taking this role.”

The film’s overwhelming atmosphere of shame and fear, coupled with the wider, grim context, is a far-cry from stereotypical Hollywood portrayals like The Invisible Man or Promising Young Woman, which can lean more poppy, revenge-laden and digestible. Happiness is so powerful because it doesn’t borrow inspiration from genre cues, such as the meticulously-planned revenge or a final belief in the police to fix the problem, and pursues its own uncompromising, highly distressing path. As Maxatkyzy says, “We didn’t take ideas from American or European movies because our mentality is completely different. Our society is totally patriarchal.” Her hope is that the movie will be widely-seen in order to start a conversation, both in Kazakhstan and further afield: “My intention is that people will remember situations that happened among their own families. I hope the inconvenience that they feel will lead to the realisation that they could take action to change the situation.”

Happiness premiered at the Berlinale. Stay tuned for a wider release.

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All images in this article are stills from ‘Happiness’.

Gazing into the abyss of dirty masculinity

Actress turned director Romola Garai’s feature début is a cry from femininity about the horror of what it is to be a woman in a patriarchal and misogynistic world. Ironically, she chooses to express this through the form of horror cinema, whose detractors label as misogynistic, and yet it can be said to hone in on the strength of femininity against unrelenting adversity.

Curiously, this cry comes through the attention to Tomaz (Alec Secareanu), an immigrant and ex-soldier from an unnamed country, trying to survive in London. Sister Claire (Imelda Staunton) offers him a place to stay with Magda (Carla Juri), a young woman whose days are devoted to caring for her ailing mother. In exchange for the rent free accommodation, Tomaz will maintain the decaying house. As he begins to develop feelings for Magda, he cannot set aside the feeling that there’s an insidious presence inside the mother’s room.

In conversation with DMovies, Garai discussed challenging a toxic version of masculinity film has been complicit in creating, the need for diversity in art, and the decrepit sense of national identity through the British aesthetic.

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Paul Risker – How do you compare and contrast the creation of the character as a performer, to your experience as a writer and director?

Romola Garai – They’re incredibly different jobs that live in proximity to each other, but have very little in common. Acting requires almost a losing and negating of yourself, and directing requires a very intense connection with yourself, with your ego if you like. You first of all need to create your story and then fight for, defend and realise it against the odds, whereas acting is about stripping away yourself as much as possible in order to be part of someone else’s story. They’re both extraordinary things to do with your life, and I feel happier and more balanced as a person having a combination of the two, than just having one of them.

PR – What compelled you to believe in this film and decide to tell this story at this particular point in time?

RG – It’s a story about a version of masculinity I feel very angry is allowed to exist in the world, and I’d also felt very strongly that film had played a role in creating this myth of the male protector. My experience of being a woman is those men that fantasise about protecting women, are often very dangerous to women. They’re not the antithesis of the “evil man” that want to do women harm, they’re often the same person. The veneration of women, the idea of the perfect woman, and of woman being limited to a very specific idea, when they then diversify from that idea, those men are disappointed and angry. They take revenge on them, and that’s something film has collaborated in doing. A big part of me wanting to tell this story was to put a microscope on this idea and force the audience to collaborate, before pulling the rug out from under them.

PR – How can film as art challenge its complicity in creating negative ideas around gender?

RG – My view is that the experience of watching something should be challenging. It should force you to confront some part of yourself, and if no part of you is critically engaged, then you’re watching entertainment, which is a completely valid thing to do with your time. I put my kids to bed and I have a glass of wine, and I don’t necessarily want to be morally challenged every time I turn the television on, but there needs to be a space for both.

My worry is that sometimes things that I see as entertainment, are venerated as art, but art should always be asking difficult questions, doing interesting things stylistically, and defending new and bold ideas. This has obviously been a big conversation in our industry, and you’re more likely to get that with the largest possible range of people telling the stories. If the stories are only being told by one kind of people, it’s not that you’re never going to get new ideas, but you’re less likely to.

PR – You’re not talking about creating elitism or a classist approach to how we receive art. It’s about understanding the nuance between pleasure and the critical engagement.

RG – Obviously they’re not mutually exclusive. You can have both in a film, but if there’s no part of you that’s being critically engaged, then I don’t think it’s elitist to say that’s entertainment. It’s also important to say that a film doesn’t have to be lacking in any kind of pleasure, or desire to watch it, in order to be art. Eventually you’d end up with a sophisticated balance of the two, which most filmmakers do. My worry is when you’re watching something that seems to have no critical element to it whatsoever, and it’s being held up as art.

PR – On the surface Amulet (2020) is emotional, but with ideas and themes present beneath the surface around revenge and forgiveness, recurring cycles of violence and suffering, that feed an intellectual reading.

RG – It was an unusual process because I wrote it and then went into development very quickly. There’s a rawness to the ideas in their meaning. They’re unformed, and they’re also raw in that they’re violent. Then there are the more intellectual ideas about forgiveness and how it’s often used in terms of religion, particularly to protect men and to hold up the patriarchy. These are things that are laid over this rage that exists underneath.

In terms of how much I want people to understand it, when I watch a film, and particularly with horror, I tend to have a strong visual reaction to what I’m seeing on the screen, usually the visuals and experiencing the tension of the film. Those are the things you exist with when you’re watching it, and then afterwards you engage your critical faculties.

I thought a lot about Dead Ringers (Cronenberg, 1988) when I was making this film, not because they’re similar in any way, but because Dead Ringers is a film I found extremely intense. I cried at the end, and I didn’t know why I was crying when I was watching it. I didn’t consciously understand that it was a film about love for your sibling, and the essential psychic break that has to happen when you move away from a close relationship with your sibling. I guess that’s what I mean when I talk about horror being something that exists on a primal level while you’re watching it, then afterwards, it requires that second experience when you’re walking home from the cinema, or when you wake up the next morning, and you’re thinking about the film. Cinema works on two different levels.

PR – One of the tantalising things about Amulet is the friction between a dark and dank vision that leans towards British social realism, and yet also feels European.

RG – Hellraiser (Clive Barker, 1987) was a reference for us. I definitely wanted the film to feel grounded in a British aesthetic. It’s something obvious, but in every home in Britain there’s that black mould around the windows. The fact of growing up in a damp country and what that does to our houses, the corrosive effect of that dampness, was something we talked about with our production design. Subsequently, His House (Remi Weekes, 2020) is making similarly interesting comments about the corrosion of our victorian or turn of the nineteenth century buildings, a corrosion of our natural character in the way that we see ourselves as a nation, and drawing a parallel between those two things. It’s interesting because Tomaz is an outsider, and he suffers as a result.

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Romala Garai is pictured at the top of this article. The other two images are from Amulet.

Amulet played at Arrow Video FrightFest Halloween 2021 and is released theatrically in the UK from Friday 28th January 2022 by Republic Film Distribution.

Our dirty questions to Peter Francis

Despite a tumultuous, pandemic-hit launch schedule, The Father (Florian Zeller, 2020) has seen runaway success in the 2021 awards season, landing the supreme Anthony Hopkins his 2nd Academy Award for Best Actor and a Best Adapted Screenplay for writer-director Zeller and fellow playwright collaborator Christopher Hampton. DMovies was fortunate enough to catch a screening back in late 2020, at the San Sebastián International Film Festival and named it one our dirtiest movies of 2020 (The top 10 dirtiest movies of 2020 – DMovies).

The hype train is set to keep rolling on with follow-up film The Son (Zeller) recently announced, to star Hugh Jackman, Laura Dern and Vanessa Kirby. Amidst this starry, storied background, we sat for a down-to-earth discussion with production designer Peter Francis, to find out firsthand how the careful crafting of this single location dementia drama was managed. Peter was also nominated for an Academy Award in this capacity and for obvious reason – the constant reimagining of the apartment is essential to the storytelling. Indeed, we said that “spacetime itself seems to fold along with the turns of Tony’s mind, reminiscent of the scenery quick changes used to create location transitions in theatrical productions”.

The Father is available now for Digital Download, and also on Blu-ray and DVD, from Lionsgate UK.

Spoilers follow from the first – you have been warned.

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Charles Williams – So we at DMovies loved the film – I saw it last year in a press screening full of battle-hardened film journalists and the atmosphere the film created was extremely memorable. Everybody was hyper aware, hyper silent, then audibly gasping as the film reveals its true nature. It’s really quite an affecting film and I was first wondering how you came to be a part of it. Had you seen the stage play from which it is adapted beforehand?

Peter Francis – I haven’t seen the play! I got involved like I usually do, in that they sent the script to my agent and my agent got in touch and said “there’s an Anthony Hopkins/Olivia Coleman film, would you be interested in reading this picture?”. Absolutely, yes, just without even a doubt! They sent me the script and I loved it obviously and the opening page on the script explains that the set has to be like the third character in the film. The challenge of the architecture having to stay the same but with the set evolving and changing into these different locations… It grabbed me straight away. I had a few days to prepare and I’d worked out a little layout of the apartment in my head and I’d done a sketch of it for when I went in to meet Florian for the first time.

We talked about references and ideas and how we wanted it to look and so I described my ideas, showing the plan that I’d drawn. He put his own plan on the table and said “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine” and it turned out he’d also been working on a plan whilst writing the script they were virtually identical. So we got off to a good start. Really, we were both in exactly the same frame of mind about how the layout of the apartment should be. So I hadn’t seen the play and I’m glad I haven’t seen the play because I think I would have then been influenced on a look, on a feeling, and I know Florian didn’t want it to look or feel like the play either. He wanted to do something cinematic.

CW – The plan that you speak about the apartment, is that the apartment at a fixed point in time or is this the of the various different faces of the apartment you see during the film?

PF – Well the layout never changes, the space is the same all the way through. So the plan is identical in each situation. We changed it a little bit for the doctor’s surgery but architecture stays the same. What changes is the colours and the dressing and the feel of the space, and so it’s getting your head around how you make it feel like the same place but also feel different. Compare it to redecorating your home in a way, but then it also had to be different places. The way I approached it and the way for me to make sense of it is to say that Anthony is in the care home from day one. This was how my logic worked. So that everything we see is through Anthony’s eyes and how he sees it and what’s on the walls and the furniture are of his memories. We might go into that apartment, stand next to him and see something completely different, but what we’re seeing is what the character is seeing through his point-of-view. So, I take it from the outset that he’s in the care home, all the way through, and that’s why the architecture doesn’t change. It’s just the atmosphere that changes.

CW – Can I ask whether you have any personal experience of dementia that informed this kind of sensitive understanding of how it could be?

PF – Yeah, my uncle actually had it and died of it about four years ago. So it has all the elements that we went through and also all of the quirks and the mannerisms are there. I think everybody who has had some experience of somebody with dementia sees that in the story. They can see it in the way he reacts, and how he thinks – how he approaches problems with other people. I understand that Florian had a personal experience as well with his grandmother, so he’d written the play from his own perspective and experience. He said that many people would see the play and come up to him afterwards to comment on how it really struck home because of having a mother, or a father, a grandparent that experienced dementia or Alzheimer’s.

It affects different people in different ways of course – there are so many different variables in the way it affects different people. Anthony Hopkins fully embraced it and he’d obviously done a lot of homework and understood the problems that they face. The mannerisms and how it confuses people. So yes, I had some firsthand experience but Florian has said that this is a film about memories. We don’t specifically mention Alzheimer’s or dementia but of course that’s what he’s got, we see the doctor, but the film is also about memories.

CW – Please tell us more about the effective use of changing colour schemes and furnishings!

PF – When I first started I was looking at the care home. For example, you know how in dementia care homes they use colour in a certain way, they use patterns in a certain way. All the floors are the same because a dementia patient moving from one room to another with a changing floor thinks that they’re going to fall off the edge. There’s all sorts of these things but we decided that wasn’t the way to go for the care home. We were just going to go as if it was a normal care home, not necessarily for dementia, and so talking about changes in coloration at the different time points was informed by the typical kinds of decor during the events in the film. In the beginning it’s all yellows and greens and oaks. He’s lived there for 30 or 40 years by then so we wanted a colour palette that reflected that he hasn’t redecorated in quite some time. We also wanted something that was very different to the blue, which was the important colour in the end. It was dictated to us by the end of the film in the care home, so that cold blue was where we were aiming at.

We needed a transition so Anne’s apartment was like a dusty blue but we wanted a strong change in decor from Anthony’s flat to Anne’s. I gave him a little bit of a backstory for myself, to come up with a look for his apartment. I told myself that he’d been an engineer, that he’d worked all around the world. Maybe he’s been to South America, maybe he’s been to India… So he’s worked in all these different countries and developed an eclectic taste; he’s brought furniture back with him. We wanted it to feel like his apartment told you a bit about his life story and then Anne’s apartment had to feel very different. Florian wanted Anne’s place to feel much softer – he used the word ‘pastel’ but not necessarily meaning pastel colours, more a softer tone all over.

The shapes in Anthony’s place are quite hard and angular, from his engineering background, and then softer colours and softer shapes… The paintings, for example. We have very sort of hard, linear, angular paintings in Anthony’s and Anne’s were much softer and gentler. It wasn’t a masculine vs. feminine thing, it was more just a contrast between the two to give us that difference in feeling. Then the blue became very important and colour became more important as the job went on. We started talking about and playing around with the colours. Of course, the blue came first when we went to shoot a scene in a hospital which had a very cold blue wall. That was the colour that we decided was essential for the care home in the end and so we went back from that. I worked very carefully with Ben Smith, the director of photography. We tried lots of colour samples, we did boards of different colours, with different tones to try, to give us a flavor and a feel of the different characters. Working with Ben we found out what worked best on camera and what would tell the story better. So that was how the colours evolved, really. We went for this very distinct change from Anthony’s apartment then to this inevitable colour change. The film gradually gets colder as we move to the end.

CW – You can pick up on the colour changes, but it’s very interesting what you say about the different artworks as well. There is a central painting that is very integral to the film, with the link to the daughter who passed away sometime previously.

PF – Yes, there’s a trace there in the branching of the two art themes. The painting of the daughter is meant to have been produced previously and is kind of branching painting to delineate the difference in taste between the two flats. That painting is the same painting right the way through, so that one key element persists through the story and is a constant in all those different locations. It’s present in Anthony’s apartment and then you see it in Anne’s. There’s a confusion there and that then brings in the story of the daughter. However, the original concept of the painting above the fireplace is that the final shot of the film, looking out the window at the leaves, originally was going to pan down and become the live version of that painting. We were going to see the little girl dancing in the park in that final shot but they cut it shorter at the end. The painting was actually created from some footage that we shot of a little girl dancing in the park, so that was going to be the final image and they changed that in the end to hold on the leaves because that tied in with the dialogue better.

CW – Yeah, I agree that would maybe have introduced a bit too much ambiguity, if he’d been imagining the painting the whole time.

PF – It would have been different, but everyone else was seeing a painting as well, the same painting. It’s interesting, though. Somebody else asked me a question about how things evolve and how things planned on paper change and evolve. Things like that evolved naturally. If you are involved in this kind of problem and involved in the editing, once we come up with all our different scenarios and once it is pieced together then you can decide what works and what doesn’t work. That final shot of just the leaves on the trees blowing gently just ties in beautifully with the dialogue in that final final moment. So the painting above the fireplace is the one constant but then all the other paintings in there were interesting because we when we redressed Anthony’s back into Anne’s flats, for example, we hung the paintings on the walls when we stood back and looked we realised that we’d put all the paintings in similar arrangements, in similar places. It was sort of planned but in a way it was a happy accident. It worked in that you have a triptych of three paintings in the living room, above where the piano was, and that makes one arrangement.

Then, at Anne’s, we didn’t try to make a similar version, so it’s slightly different, but it’s still three paintings and your eye goes to paintings on the walls once more. You don’t necessarily notice that they’re different paintings. We didn’t want to give it away totally, to say “Yes, we know it’s completely different – this is a different apartment”. You don’t notice you’re actually somewhere else at first and some members of the audience don’t notice until later than others, if you know what I mean. We wanted to be subtle and subtlety was really key throughout, apart from the colour changes. Subtle changes and gentle changes were key and they work better than trying to drastically change something.

CW – I think that I need to revisit the film with this in mind. I was so focused on the characters and the narratives that it was only when you see the big changes, like the kitchen completely changing, that’s when it clicked into place for me. I’d love to go back and look for more of these subtle differences.

PF – It’s quite interesting that some people notice different things than others. There’s no right or wrong way around it, like some people get it straight away and some don’t notice it until the second time they watch it. Most people say that the second time they notice that things have changed, the third time they notice different things again. It’s the same for me as well, actually. It sort of brings back different memories, because gradually things disappear out of the flat. It actually empties, so by the last time we see the flat, we see it virtually empty . Everything’s gone but there’s quite a lot of inbetweenness. You’ll see some boxes in the corner and you’ll see the corridor without the lamps in it… You’ll see some paintings stacked on the floor or a carpet rolled up. It’s all been redecorated throughout completely different colour schemes as well. It was one of those jobs that comes along where it was complicated but once you put your head around it, it made sense and was exciting to do, to play with it and to play with the audience. To kind of cheat, just a bit, and see if they notice or not, because subtlety was our key word all the way through.

CW – You mentioned references in your early discussions with Florian. Did you mean reference films as well? What kind of films came to mind when you were envisioning this project?

PF – We talked about Polanski obviously – Repulsion (1965) was a key reference visually – but in terms of other films… Of course we reference other films but in terms of production design, in terms of a look of small interiors and styling what sort of things might work, paintings were key as well. I don’t mean the paintings in the set but using paintings as a reference source of which way to go with a design. There’s a painter whose name I always forget but I’ve used him quite a few times… A Dutch painter. They used him as a great reference for ‘The Danish Girl actually… Hammershøi. Vilhelm Hammershøi. We quite often look at paintings because paintings are always a great source for atmosphere and color and tone, as well as composition. Hammershøi always paints doors and corridors. It’s all very much like Polanski and it was doors through doors, rooms beyond rooms. What was something that you get with the cinematography in the film as well, these kinds of telescoping corridors. Ben Smith gave the whole thing a more claustrophobic feel as the film went on, but that whole thing of interconnecting doors and rooms and corridors and linking doors… They’re a bit like synapses in your brain. You’ve got different rooms connected and we wanted this set to feel quite labyrinthine, in that you know the living room has three sets of doors, so you’re never quite sure where he’s come. He’s in the corridor but you’re not quite sure what’s behind the door so he’ll suddenly appear in the dining room, for example, and that’s linked to the living room which is linked to the study and all those are linked to the corridor, so he could come through any door at any time. That helped to give the feeling of ambiguity and confusion for the audience and obviously you can do that as well with the camera. Ben did a great job with lenses to give the sensation of claustrophobia. He also had a beautiful lighting rig, which gradually moves as the film goes on to mimic the setting of the sun. The light gets lower in the sky as the film moves. Again, it’s just a very subtle change. We’re not shouting about it, but just adding another layer of subtlety to show the progression of the film.

CW – I love that analogy about the doors and synapses in the brain. I’m a biochemist by trade so that really speaks to me, a model of dementia stopping the connections between memories.

PF – Doors became very important in the film. It’s all about doors opening and closing, isn’t it, but you think about it in your mind it’s the same. They don’t shout at you, but they’re the same. You notice the same doors in each of the locations so that was quite important for those to be distinctive and so we would do shots of doors open, doors closed. We did quite a lot of shots of the flat with no actors in it at all, so it’s quite often you’ll move through to an empty room and that’ll set the scene for the next part of the story. But certainly, doors open and closed was a big, big deal. You’re in the dining room, for example. Double doors open, it’s the living room, double doors opening to the study. That’s a very long vista to then shut one off and suddenly you’re in a completely different space. We played a lot with the layout of the flat by closing areas off again and again to add confusion. That was an interesting way to help tell the story and one thing which appealed to me about this project was that the flat itself is almost the third character in the story. It plays a really integral part in the way that characters behave, living in this space.

CW – It’s really the distinguishing feature of the film. There’re so many films recently about dementia but most of them just depict the main character having an episode or forgetting something, none of them quite draw you in the same way that having the space shifting like that. The concept of this third character really manages to hammer home the reality of it.

PF – It was certainly a novel approach to telling the story. Florian came up with this great concept in that you eventually realise it’s from Anthony’s point of view, but you don’t really understand what’s going on at first, until it becomes fully apparent that we’re seeing it through the patient’s eye. It was fascinating for all of us, as well. Quite often you read the script and you have to read it three or four times before you can visualise the film. Then, you watch the finished product once, you see it twice, see it three times and again you understand something different from it. We were the same with the script. We’d ask about Anne, does she ever go to Paris and Florain would say that we don’t know, we never know, nobody knows. It’s all ambiguous, there’s no right or wrong answer to any interpretation. f you like um so all really interesting and you know quite some time well like where are we now you know just even for us it’s like i’m confused you know

CW – It’s like a remixing of memories into new ones, memories and falsehoods intertwined.

PF – When Anne walks into Anthony’s bedroom and starts strangling him, you’re thinking that you know what’s what, but then that happens. You don’t realise it’s sort of a dream sequence flashback. It’s more to confuse the audience so that you’re never quite sure of yourself. When he’s walking at night down the corridor and goes through the cupboard, and there’s his other daughter lying in the hospital bed… Everyone’s asking where’s that coming from but it’s all just another level to the jumbling up of memory. It was a very brave thing to do, to really try and confuse the audience as Florian did because it’s one of those things where you never know if they’ll quite work or not. We all knew it though, we all had real faith in it. The Father was one of those jobs where it just felt good and it was such a fantastic team of people who were fully behind the project. I believe it helped massively and it shows in the final film. Everyone worked so closely together and got on well which was really one of the keys to its eventual success.

CW – I wanted to quickly ask about your work on Mindhorn (Sean Foley, 2017) as well. I grew up with that kind of British TV comedy – The Mighty Boosh and Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace were quite influential to me. The kind of experience you describe of a team being very invested and pulling together, was that something you experienced there as well?

PF – Mindhorn! That was brilliant, honestly. That was really quite a film and we had a great time doing that as well, actually. That was quirky and interesting and there weren’t really any rules with that, because we were sort of living in this sort of slightly retro world. We weren’t in the ’80s, apart from one scene, but it was all slightly surreal which for me was great fun to do. The director, Sean Foley, was great and he was keen for us all to just have fun with it. He wanted it to be a bit quirky so we tried to give it a slightly not-quite comic book feel, but just slightly off . Melly’s lair, which is Russell Tovey’s underground hideyhole. I mean, we just had a ball with that. Honestly, I really enjoyed that film. Of course the script in The Mighty Boosh, it’s all just like “whoa, that’s really weird”, but that’s the way that type of comedy goes. I think that because it wasn’t a big budget, it worked because people seemed to really embrace it. With that film, the London Film Festival really took it on board. i think and really liked it and um yeah i was great i’d love to do another one actually i i should they should do a sequel because we could really do i always thought actually they sort of slightly set it up in a little bit that you can do a sequel and i think they should yeah.

CW – A team up with Steve Coogan’s character, perhaps?

PF – Something like that you could do but they developed the original script for such a long time. I think that script was like 10 years in the writing… I loved Mindhorn, I really would love to do another film like that again, actually, because there were no rules on that one, that was fun.

CW – To again bridge the two films, do you prefer working in that more expansive, outdoors setting or the kind of bottle episode atmosphere of the flat in ‘The Father’? Was that something you’d like to continue in or was that just a one-off challenge in your mind?

PF – To be honest, I’ve done quite a few apartment films. I did The Children Act (Richard Eyre, 2018), of which much was set in a single apartment. It’s nice to do a bit of both, it’s nice to have interiors next to us. To stay honest, what I’d really like to do is something quite stylised, actually. That’s what I really liked about Mindhorn. Although we didn’t have that much money we had a chance to play around a little bit. I’d actually like to do something stylized, something. slightly quirky – another sort of off-kilter film. They’re the ones that interest me. The Father was a challenge because we had such a short preparation time and we had to get so much into it. It was a really rewarding project in the end because the final result was so fascinating and worked really well for everybody. I don’t just do a certain type of film, so I’d love to flip into a quirky setting in future. It doesn’t matter to me so much in terms of interiors vs. exteriors. I mean, interiors you get to design it more, if you know what I’m saying. Exteriors are harder because as soon as you get outside, unless you’ve got a huge budget to build a huge set then you sort of tie the set dressing into the location.

If you’ve got the money to build interior sets and if you’ve got a director who wants something slightly quirky… Wes Anderson or Guillermo del Toro, perhaps. There’s some people who have really got the money to do something extraordinary . I worked on a couple of Harry Potter films with Stuart Craig, who is the best production designer in the world, I would say. When they started Harry Potter, a lot of the budget was originally for on location work and gradually, as the films went on, Stuart built more and more in the studio, because he loves to build sets. If you build them in the stage you can control them a lot more, you can design what you like, come up with whatever you like, easier to light. In the end, interesting scripts, with a director that has an interesting vision or that wants something slightly interesting and unusual is always better. For us, as production designers, that’s what we want. Something that is going to stretch our imagination and challenge us.

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Peter Francis is pictured at the top of this interview. The second and the third picture are from ‘The Father’. The last image is from .Mindhorn’

Our dirty questions to Abel Ferrara

Abel Ferrara is back in Locarno, in high spirits and ready to talk about his latest work, Zeros and Ones, shot last year as Rome was under strict lockdown. Just before the interview at the industry lunch (I somehow wrangled an invite for), the three directors of Juju Stories take pictures with him and call him the “King of New York”, a reference to his iconic 1990 film. Cutting a distinctive figure as he walks across the Piazza Grande and shakes hands with programmers and critics, the veteran figure has returned to Lago Maggiore ready to wax lyrical about his latest work — a genre-ish spy thriller that’s heavy on mood and very light on plot. We talked about his productivity during the pandemic, shooting in his local neighbourhood in Rome and wanting to work for as long as he can.

Redmond Bacon – So the film is set during the pandemic. How did it affect your work?

Abel Ferrara – I was fortunate that I was editing a movie. I was able to edit in the beginning when no one knew what was going on. I’m scared like anyone else. I was 69 (70 years old now) and, you know, it’s two different diseases: if you’re 25 it’s a different disease to my age. I spent a lot of my life trying to kill myself. I don’t want to die now. For us, it was just the opposite, because the editors had nothing to do but edit: there’s no going to bars or taking the wife to dinner. At a certain point, I just really wanted to shoot and then this idea that I had before the pandemic started to come into focus and to work.

RB – You have Americans and Russians in a city under occupation. Throw in French and English and you could have The Third Man (Carol Reed, 1949)…

AF – Yeah, like the French movies under occupation. Who’s that director of those beautiful movies?

Abel Ferrara

RB – Jean-Pierre Melville?

AF – Yeah. There’s genre aspects of films like Casablanca (Michael Curtiz, 1942) too. Ethan’s character himself is one of the lone American solider smoking a cigarette… even the uniform he had is like, they don’t wear that. The uniform that our guys are wearing is a stylised memory.

RB – You seem to prioritise atmosphere a lot more than plot. Is creating a vibe more important than making it clear-cut?

AF – There’s nothing clear cut! That’s the point of the movie. Who’s who and what’s what? What’s everybody’s agenda? Who’s your enemy and who’s your friend? I mean this is real life. You don’t know what side anybody’s on because everybody’s changing. The idea of espionage creates counter espionage, so once you’re in that world of intelligence, it’s by its nature, a lot: you’re accepting that no one is who they are.

Unless you’re a soldier. To be out of uniform, that’s a crime punishable by death. Because if you’ve got a green uniform and I’ve got the other uniform, I know who you are, you know who I am, and we know the rules of engagement. Once you start not wearing a uniform, now comes the great world of what we’re talking about: a world of espionage, William Gibson and Melville.

Zeros and Ones

RB – The Vatican comes off as quite a mysterious and malevolent place, especially with that shot of the saints that ring around St Peter’s Square. Do you feel cynical about Catholic Church and its role in modern society?

AF – I’m not cynical about any place that is preaching spirituality versus consumerism. A: I’m a Buddhist; B, I’m about the word of Jesus Christ. This religion is about a guy who had nothing, who gave everything away, who lived on the street, who didn’t even have shoes. That’s a far cry from what I’m looking at at the back. By the back there’s a political entity. I’m not cynical, I’m just looking at what I’m looking at.

RB – The cinematography is very striking, capturing Rome in the dark. What was it like working with Sean Price Williams, who has worked with the Safdies and Alex Ross Perry, and has such a distinctive style?

AF – He worked with us when he was a kid. I’ve known him since he was young. We live and work in New York together. He was on the crew of Chelsea on the Rocks (2008), we shot The Projectionist (2019) together, we did Sporting Life (2020). He brings the goods.

RB – The film is shot all at night in a deserted city. What was the schedule like?

AF – We didn’t have to wait. We were lucky it was a pandemic. Everything was locked down at 9pm. We used the pandemic as an advantage.

RB – Rome is usually filled with life and vigour, at least in the films I’ve seen. Did you have any references for making it more noirish?

AF – I live in the neighbourhood. I did the documentary Piazza Vittorio (2017). I’ve been living here for seven years, so it’s my hood. Like when I shot in New York, I shot in my neighbourhood.

RB – A lot of films have come out about the coronavirus. And yours is one of the more interesting because it shows just how the world has been thrust into darkness and despair. Would you say it’s been a terrible time for humanity?

Zeros and Ones

AF – All these people dead! I mean, is it terrible? Fuck yeah. Is it true, is it real, do we have to deal with it? Yeah. Is global warming cool? No. The same thing happened one hundred years ago. Nobody’s sitting there nostalgic for 1919. But it is what it is. Your concept of thinking the world is just this place that’s going to be this place that’s going to be here forever and everything going to be the way it is is a fucking fallacy. You’re delusional. Anything can happen at any minute and you’ve got to deal with it. It’s life on life’s term bro. So, is it going to throw you into a deep dark depression? I’m not going to let it. Unless I get it, then I’m either gonna die or get over it.

RB – Does it make you want to create more as an artist?

AF – We’re working. It’s neither here nor there. We’re doing our thing. At this point of my life I still believe in movies. I want to make movies. And I still have the ability to: I can walk, I can talk. I don’t know about thinking straight, but just as long as I can point. At this point of my life I still believe in movies.

RB – What about for streamers such as Netflix?

AF – We’re final cut directors so as long as we have control of the financing, of the budget, of the final cut, we’re not sweating where the money’s coming from.

RB – What are you working on next?

AF – A film about Padre Pio, with Shia LaBeouf. I’m dealing with the period of 1920. There was a massacre in San Giovanni Rotondo. He got the stigmata at the same time, so it was just an incredible moment.

Zeros and Ones premiered at Locarno Festival on Thursday 12th August as part of the Concorso Internazionale.

Picture at the top by Redmond Bacon.

Conversations with Peter Greenaway: the heart of the matter

Asking Peter Greenaway to adhere to my script was never going to be a simple task. The 78-year-old British has penned every single one of the films of the past five decades, so it’s hardly surprising that he should wander in every direction at his will upon answering the neat questions that I had prepared for him. “Although I’m supposed to be a picturesmith, all my scripts – and I’ve made 60 films – are always my films”, he ascertains emphatically. All of his films are written and spoken in complete, elegant, literary sentences.

Despite his superb writing skills, Greenaway often describes his films as “non-narrative” and after nearly three hours interviewing and chatting with him in a private dining room of Soho House in Amsterdam, I can ascertain that the non-narrativeness extends to the filmmaker himself. Our conversation does not move forward in a linear fashion. He is well aware and jokes about it. “We are hopping from topic to topic like a kangaroo”.

Alex and I traveled to Amsterdam in order to interview the iconic filmmaker (the three of us are pictured just below). I am the founder and editor of DMovies, one of the leading independent film publications in the UK. Alex is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of the nascent film & fashion mag Doesn’t Exist. In addition to working together, we have been good friends for more than 10 years.

Our trip to Amsterdam took place in July 2020, just after the first Covid-19 wave ended, travel restrictions between the UK and the Netherlands had been relaxed and we no longer had to go into self-isolation for two weeks upon our return. The virus of course wasn’t gone and an understandably cautious Peter asked to be alone in the room with us, and the food had to be prepared in advance (so we didn’t have to share the space with other guests and waiters). Peter was far less restrictive about the meal itself. I had asked him days earlier on the telephone about dietary restrictions, to which he swiftly replied: “I eat anything, even human flesh”. Strangely, he skipped the visceral, ensanguined gazpacho starter and tucked into the far more mundane chicken and pasta main, wrapping it all up with a heavenly cheesecake. All washed down with white wine, which he actively requested.

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Beyond film

Peter does not like being described as a filmmaker, preferring the “artist” accolade instead. In the past two decades, he has progressively veered away from the seventh art (which he proclaims to be “dead”) in favour of pastures green: multimedia installations, exhibitions, painting and drawings. In fact, Peter started out as a painter, and he’s still very fond of it: “I think painting is the most important thing that exists on the planet”. He goes further, evoking biblical references: “How can Adam go out into the world as God-commanded and name everything unless there is something to name? So in the beginning was the image. And I think it stands for all of our culture.“ Peter Greenaway’s movies are as close as you will ever get to a motion painting, complete with music, dialogues, textures and smells. A hybrid blend of Brecht and cubism: viewers are alienated, while the narrative is broken down into asymmetrical yet digestible bite-size pieces.

Peter attended art school in London in the swinging 1960s, with the likes of Keith Richards and Ian Drury. None of the people he studied with became painters, but instead fashion designers, filmmakers and such. Peter eventually dropped the brush and the pencil in favour of the movie camera as his weapon of choice. He worked for the Central Office of Information creating short films for the British government. He describes the organisation as “Russian politburo” that created “propaganda”. He talks about a movie assignment about malaria and another one about milk. He confesses that he was a keen Marxist back then, and cut all materials for the Socialist Party. He then notes “I am not as politically active now as I was then”.

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A European love affair

Amsterdam has been home to the British director for 26 years. One year for each letter of the alphabet. He’s married to the Dutch multimedia artist Saskia Boddeke. He has Dutch children, including a daughter who wants to become the editor of American Vogue. His relation with the Netherlands (a country he prefers to call “Holland”) started in his early years as a painter, perhaps because he didn’t think very highly of English painters (“I bet you couldn’t name three or four English painters who have been transported around the world”). His first feature film The Draughtsman’s Contract was made in 1982 (he does not consider his earlier mockumentary The Falls, from 1980, to be a feature film), and it already included references to the Netherlands, with Dutch shortly spoken in one of the dialogues. This film changed his life because it attracted the attention of his lifelong producer Kees Kasander, who of course happens to be Dutch. “He said that he would look after my career, provided that I didn’t go to Hollywood”. I can’t picture Greenaway living the glitzy life on a Californian hill. He looks far more comfortable in the Dutch capital, brimming with historical painters, designers and philosophers.

His relationship with Britishness is a tricky one. Despite being born in Newport, in Southern Wales, Peter often describes himself as English. All of his films are spoken in English and I’m not entirely sure of his fluency in Dutch. He explains it: “England has always regarded itself as a literary nation. Shakespeare virtually created the English language. Most of the time I speak, without even knowing it, I’m quoting Shakespeare”. And he hates Brexit: “It was a terrible, terrible mistake. I got children. They are universal, they are Europeans. A couple of years ago I decided to stay European, so I got my Dutch passport. Even if the UK disappears, I’ll still be a European”.

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Playing with language

An auteur. A provocateur. A titillator. A taboo-breaker. There are many ways of describing Peter Greenaway. I think he’s comfortable with any of these badges, and many others. He likes playing. Narrative play, visual play, numeric play, sexual play. He also enjoys toying with language: wordplay. Pillow Book is all about Japanese characters printed on the human body (particularly on Ewan MacGregor’s character Jerome), in every private nook and cranny. In Goltzius and the Pelican Company he ascertains: “God is dog spelled backwards”. He is fascinated by foreign words with multiple connotations. He asks me: “do you realise that the French don’t distinguish between heaven and sky, they just call it ‘ciel’?”. He then challenges me, aware of my Brazilian origins: “Do you have such an example in Portuguese?”. I reply: “we don’t distinguish between fingers and toes. In Brazil, we all have 20 fingers”. He seems genuinely interested in my answer.

Peter is neither waspish nor unpleasant, but instead passionate and affecting. His tone is never retaliatory. His rhetoric is indeed spiced with both recognisable and obscure citations, and the outcome can be a little elliptical and esoteric, even if you are very familiar with his work. Check out the long version of the interview on the print edition of Doesn’t Exist for more juicy bits.

There is no regular flow to our conversation, but instead a complex patchwork of painting, film, fashion and music references. Peter passionately navigates from one topic to the next without telling a story, without closure. From Vivianne Westwood to Stendhal Syndrome and Calvinism, often in the same sentence. He often interrupts me before the question is finished and veers in a completely different direction, without being rude and dismissive. His enthusiasm is such that he loves repeating words: “My sense of identification with the UK is getting less, and less, and less”, “the Greek were concerned about death years and years and years ago” and his favourite “Etc, etc, etc”. Peter isn’t being vague. It’s just that he’s just heaving with knowledge and ideas of his own. My head spins vertiginously intoxicated by the abundance of intertext and the wealth of references.

Being non-narrative does not mean being disjointed. Peter’s films are structured upon various systems, both numerical and alphabetical. Peter is entertaining, and his commentary punctuated with sharp and witty remarks, provocative banter and very peculiar anecdotes. He too seemed to enjoy the time he spent with us, often asking questions and sharing his very provocative views on various topics without reservations about the menacing recording devices in front of him.

Engaging with Peter is a visual experience, just like his movies. He is hypnotic to watch: his gaze firm and magnetic, his attire elegant, his body language subtle yet unambiguous. He dons a black striped suit, which he has worn for many other interviews in the past (“look at me, dressed like a Chicago Gangster!). He refuses to say where he got it from. At times, he gesticulates with his hands in good ol’ Italian style. How un-British!

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Playing games

Peter has authored 15 feature films plus countless documentaries and short movies. He has also directed a handful of mockumentaries (such as The Falls, from 1978). The line between fiction and truth is increasingly blurred. “I don’t think there’s much difference nowadays between documentary and feature film”, he explains. I often wondered whether this extended to our conversation: did Peter make up some of his answers? Was he pulling my leg when he denied he ever planned a trilogy of Dutch masters (something broadly publicised in the media)?

He enjoys the freedom to change his mind and to toy with reality: “I think that game-playing is a very, very serious occupation”. He thinks that this also applies to journalists: “Creative journalism. I’m sure you’re gonna do it too”. Is he giving me carte blanche to reinterpret and reimagine his manifold myths and anecdotes? He does seem to trust me.

On the other hand, the artist doesn’t like being confronted with his own past remarks. A grumbling Peter rolls his eyes upon being reminded of an old quote about the remote control spelling the death of cinema: “Look, I don’t have to think this now, this is what I thought last week”. I retort: “Absolutely. You are entitled to disagree with yourself. And we’d love to hear that”. He smiles back and finally gives us a long answer blending wallpaper, Hitchcock, and Marilyn Monroe’s knickers.

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Dirty talk

I ask that we talk dirty. Peter is delighted: “If we are going to talk about sex and death nothing else is important. Balzac suggested that money was important, but money hasn’t been around for very long, has it?” Sex and death are prominent topics in every single one of his 15 feature films. Nudity is abundant, particularly male nudity. Sex is highly is pompous and conversational – such as the adulterous protagonists of The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (1989) or the bizarre love triangle of A Zed and Two Noughts (1985) – and rarely sweaty. This is different from being anti-erotic. Despite the loquaciousness, sex is beautiful and pleasurable in Peter Greenaway’s movies. He is dismissive of the filmmakers who portray the actual coitus: “In [Nicolas Roegs’s] Don’t Look Now (1973), the two characters, about them having real sex, it’s just game play, propaganda to distribute the film”.

Nine years ago Peter told the Guardian that he planned to kill himself when he turned 80. That’s in less than two years from now. So I gently poked him: “You wouldn’t dare to die before Jean-Luc Godard, would you?”. He no longer seems to contemplate suicide but instead wants to allow nature to take its course: “the average age of death even for foreigners in Holland in 84, so if I’m lucky if I have five more years, I’m very conscious of that”. There is a reason why Peter sees little purpose in living past 80: “Did you see the last 10 films of that Portuguese filmmaker who died at 107?”, he asks me, referring to the late Manoel de Oliveira. He carries on: “There are one or two good prints by Picasso he did aged 82, the two most famous paintings by Titian Tiziano he did aged 84. Don’t worry, I have done all the research, I’ve worked it all out. But there are very few works of great significance done by anybody over 80.”

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Random fragments

Our conversation was peppered with random and very entertaining anecdotes of all sorts. He talked about the day he took Vivianne Westwood to the Rijkesmuseum of Amsterdam in order to see Rembrandt’s The Night Watch and she started giggling uncontrollably, and staff – unaware of who the eccentric lady was – asked him to take her out of the room. Or the day David Cronenberg “grilled” him in a bar in Hamburg before he went on to make his very own version of A Zed and Two Noughts (incidentally, Peter Greenaway’s personal favourite film by Peter Greenaway, and also mine), and named it Dead Ringers (which became a much bigger hit, starring Jeremy Irons), in 1988.

Naturally, we also talked about music: “Unfortunately I cannot write music. But I do everything else”, he said. Peter Greenaway and his long time composer Michael Nyman were inseparable for 15 years. Like two human legs. I told him that Drowning by Numbers (1988), Prospero’s Books (1991) or any of his early movies would be an amputee without Nyman’s collaboration, similarly to Andrea Ferreol’s character in A Zed and Two Noughts. Peter is far less fatalistic: “They also said that about Sasha Vierny, Alan Resnais’s cameraman, who also worked with Bunuel. And they said there would be no Peter Greenaway without Vierny. But most marriages end in divorce”. And he is right, having worked successfully with other composers since. The Pillow Book, his first film without Nyman, had a surprising soundtrack blending French experimental music and Buddist chants with Mozart and U2. Peter Greenaway is no one-man man.

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Film & fashion

Then we talked about fashion. At first, Peter was reluctant to answer my question about the role costumes play in his films, and whether these clothes have a life of their own. He kept drifting off-topic, talking about paintings and Rolls Royces instead. Until he finally erupted, referring to his experience with Jean-Paul-Galtier in The Cook, The Thief. He asked the French fashion designer to incorporate a whole series of paintings from the Eighty Years War between Holland and Spain into the movie. “I organised the painting space as a cinema space with the camera man to be a pastiche of a civil war painting”, he explains.

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Acquired taste in film

We also talked about Peter’s surprising taste in film. He’s not a huge fan of some of the most important non-narrative movies ever made. He described Tarkovsky’s Mirror (one of my favourite films of all times, and the one that inspired me to create Dirty Movies) as “extremely boring”. Similarly with Godard’s The Image Book (2018). He believes that these films fail to enrapture viewers: “I certainly believe in the pleasure principle. You have to entertain. The Roman architect Vitruvius said: a very great work of art has to be 50% entertainment and 50% instruction”. He is far more generous about Alain Resnais’s Last Year in Marienbad: “Many people find it to be pompous, wholly intellectual, etc, etc. But that’s the closest a film ever got to non-narrativity in a way”. He is also a fan of far more linear, mainstream cinema: he showers Blade Runner and Gladiator (Ridley Scott, 1982 and 2000) with praise: “Very Hollywood films, but extraordinary, amazing visuals. An amazing imagination”. He laments that his countryman is not counted amongst the greatest directors of all times: “he’s highly respected. but he’s not not up there in the great echelon of filmmakers”.

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Before Peter dies…

Peter shared the details of his various upcoming projects. He’s finishing off his upcoming feature film about the Romanian sculptor and painter Constantin Brancusi, Walking to Paris. He’s also working with Morgan Freeman on his following feature film, Lucca Mortis, about an African-American GI soldier who makes an Italian girl pregnant in the titular Italian city (which is also the birthplace of Puccini). “It’s all about death, but it’s not a zombie movie”, he sums it up. He also intends to do another two movies about Eisenstein, and that’s primarily because he enjoyed working with the Finnish actor Elmer Back in Eisenstein in Guanajuato. There’s also a movie about Austrian expressionist Oskar Kokoschka and his sex doll of Alma Mahler. He intends to call the movie The OK Doll (in reference to the artist’s initials). His upcoming non-filmic endeavours include an opera of his most successful movie, The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. Sadly Michael Nyman has already turned down his invitation to take part in the project. Peter sounds very forgiving of the English composer: “I can understand him completely”. There are so many projects that he’s guaranteed not to complete them before the age of 80. “It takes a human gestation period, nine months, to make a film. So if I’m very quick, I don’t know whether I’ll get through it all”. We all look forward to seeing the babies Peter is still to father. We hold no prejudice against octogenarian parenthood.

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In order to read the long version of the interview with Peter Greenaway, including the various anecdotes, peculiar snippets of history and philosophy, witty remarks, dark gags, eccentric antics combined with a thrilling visual journey, you have to buy the impressive second edition of the fabulous film & fashion magazine Doesn’t Exist.

A return to cinemas this summer? Yes, we can do it!

There is light at the end of the tunnel. Most Western European countries are now very gradually and very cautiously lifting lockdown measures, and there is abundant faith that we will resume some semblance of normality this summer, at least in some smaller places such as Locarno. Giona Nazzaro, the newly-appointed artistic director of the second oldest film festival in the world, has a positive message for filmmakers, industry professionals and film lovers alike. He is confident in the ability to hold the Festival in bricks-and-mortar format this year, inside a real dark chamber – just as cinema is intended to be.

Victor Fraga, the editor of DMovies, spoke to Giona Nazzaro in a Zoom meeting. He was sitting in front of a plush leopard print, as in the Festival’s mascot [pictured below]. To my disappointment, the background was just a PDF image; I was indeed tricked into believing it was a glamorous decorative piece in Nazzaro’s lounge, until the hard truth was revealed to me at the end of the call. The Swiss-born, native German speaker describes himself as “Italian”, and ascertain that Switzerland is very cosmopolitan and integrated within the EU, without concealing his profound dislike of Brexit. Nazzaro has a calm and stern demeanour, yet he becomes very passionate and assertive when discussing the new industry opportunities, an explaining why the word “hybrid” no longer means anything!

Victor Fraga – You have a relationship with Locarno dating back to 2009. Can you please tell us how this marriage blossomed?

Giona Nazzaro – It’s really easy! I was invited to Locarno by one of the previous artistic directors, Fréd Maire, through the intersection of Carlo Chatrian. They invited me to Locarno in order to moderate the German Q&As, press conferences and also to deal with the German, Austrian and Swiss delegations. That was my first gig. It took off from there. One of the great memories that I have from Locarno was working with Carlo Chatrian in one of the retrospectives. After Fréd Maire, I stayed when Olivier Père became the artistic director, then Carlo, and so on!

VF – There is a lot of confidence that Locarno will take place in situ this year, and it might be the first a-list festival to achieve such an accomplishment. What measures (including contingency measures) have you got in place in order to ensure this happens?

GN – We are planning for a full-scale physical edition and we are working accordingly in order to implement the safety measures set by the federal sanitary authorities in Switzerland. We have seen that it is possible to hold a festival at pandemic times, like Venice, San Sebastian and Zurich proved quite eloquently. I think that festivals in small places – where you can control the audience, trace them and closely follow safety measures – are better off. We haven’t moved our dates [August 4th to 14th]. We’re working full steam ahead. The announcements will follow soon.

VF – Are there any targets for this year (number of films, number of admissions, etc) that you could share with us at this stage?

GN – We scaled down the number of people that will come. We still need to tread carefully. We won’t be able to welcome the usual 8000+ figure to the Piazza [pictured at the bottom], but instead 4,000 people. We will divide the Piazza in different sectors. We will allow people to come and to meet progressively.

We will have to present fewer films. At the moment, we are thinking of 16 films in Competition, 16 in Cineasti del Presente, nine slots for the short films, and a reduced number of films for Histoire(s) du Cinéma and out-of-Competition movies. We normally show 19 films in Competition, so 16 is still a lot.

I hope we will attend screenings with a mask.

VF – Will there be social distancing?

GN – It might be be every other seat. This is becoming yesterday’s news because the vaccine programme is moving quite steadily in Switzerland. Why would you need distant seats if people are vaccinated?

VF – So there’s hope no social distancing might be necessary inside the cinemas?

GN – I can’t take this situation anymore. I would have no problem showing my sanitary certification, proof that I have been vaccinated. On the other hand, as far as civil rights and civil freedoms go, it seems that even this has become an issue. I personally have no problem showing my certificate in order to enter a cinema, a discoteque, or to board a plane.

VF – Once the pandemic is over, should A-list festivals such as Locarno return to physical-only format, or should they remain hybrid?

GN – This is a very interesting question and we must be very clear about this. I don’t think “hybrid” means anything anymore at all. In Locarno, we are developing a completely different strategy. There will be the core of the Festival, the 11 days of the Festival. Then throughout the year we will have the rest of our activities – Locarno Kids, L’immagine e la Parola, the different activities from our industry hub, and so on – in this new digital hub, which we are planning, developing and structuring ourselves. We want to be present for the film industry throughout the year. This is not because of the pandemic. We started doing this before the pandemic struck.

Quite honestly, if a festival takes place online, it’s not a festival! Call it what you want, but it’s not a festival! I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s just not a festival. Festival comes from Italian “festa”, or French “fête”, and even English “festive”. A festival is an expression of the community. Cinema is a collective experience. You might get angry at your neighbour for crunching away his popcorn. You might not want to have him next to you, but that’s it.

Watching the films on a laptop in the frame of a festival, or watching it on a television is something different. When it comes to business, it’s completely different when you can evaluate the person in front of you: sales agents, producers, distributors, you name it. What I’m saying is: Locarno will fully address the needs the ever-developing film and audiovisual communities are going through, but don’t call it hybrid. We are already hybrid. Every time I send an emoji – happy or frustrated – that’s a hybrid reaction because I don’t have the person in front of me. They might be in Eastern Europe of South America.

VF – What about people who can’t fly to Locarno due to the pandemic. Will they get online access to the movies?

GN – We are currently evaluating the situation. There will be opportunities for people requesting an accreditation, as well as for potential buyers, to watch the film. It’s still embryonic.

VF – What are your personal aims and ambitions for Locarno in the long term?

GN – It’s very easy. I want Locarno to be the festival that it was and I want Locarno to be the festival that it can be. This project that we are working on – Locarno Plus, or Locarno 365 – means that the Festival will be firing on all cylinders all year through. Most of the activities that become synonymous with Locarno will take place on our digital community. The heart of the matter in Locarno, however, will always be the physical experience.

I’m a music fan. It’s like being a record label that puts out a selected number of very fine printed records over the years. That diversifies the business model, allowing you to buy the same record in flag file, in MP3, whatever. We are fully aware of the transformation of the whole audiovisual industry. The real change is to move forward with a plan.

VF – You are doing a retrospective of a largely unsung hero of Italian cinema, Alberto Lattuada. Please tell us how this came about?

GN – When we did the Titanus retrospective, there were a couple of Lattuada films that triggered extreme curiosity in the cinephile community: “How come we didn’t know more about him?”, “How come we don’t know his films”? He’s an extreme eclectic director, he did not develop some auteur mannerisms, such as with Fellini and Antonioni. He loved to challenged himself by constantly changing his visual approach. He loved to experiment with genre cinema. He managed to have a very good relationship with the Italian audience, but the critics struggled to understand what he was doing. An auteur was doing the same film all the time. Alberto Lattuada did 33 feature films, all completely different from each other. He constantly challenged his creativity.

VF – This sounds a lot like Locarno itself. The Festival is defined neither by genre nor by one specific film practice, and it constantly challenging creative concepts!

GN – We are trying to reshape Locarno, which is perceived as a quite radical auteur, experimental-oriented film festival. I would love to keep the edge, while also adding new nuances to this perception. I would love to push Locarno in a more audience-friendly direction. A direction which would allow us to interact more creatively with the industry protagonists: sales, producers, distributors and so on. Popular doesn’t mean populist. All the great filmmakers have been popular filmmakers. From John Ford to Fellini, you name it. That’s the idea: to broaden the appeal of the Festival, and to try to attract players that do not think of themselves as Locarno material.

The message is: come to Locarno, we’re open for business!

VF – Let’s talk about British cinema in Locarno. Please share with us the biggest achievements/ highlights or even curious anecdotes since you joined?

GN – I pay very precise attention to the British film production. Maybe you are familiar with what I did in Venice for years at helm of the Critics’ Week. I am in a constant conversation with people in the UK. I have already scheduled meetings with key players this year. I am extremely interested in upcoming British talent.

VF – Brexit has now come to fruition. Will that affect the relation between British and European cinema? Are there lessons to be learnt from Swiss cinema, which has thrived outside the EU?

GN – Oh my God. Look, there is absolutely nothing to learn from Brexit. Brexit was a scam brought forward by Nigel Farage and his stooges.With regards to Brexit, I stand with Elton John. The UK was one of the strongest partners and voices in the EU. As usual, it’s always the fault of the dirty foreigners! Don’t get me started.

The Swiss confederation has a completely different attitude, and the situation is not comparable. Switzerland is still cooperating with its neighbouring countries. We speak the languages on Italy, France and Germany. And we have our own language. The situation in Switzerland is fully integrated into a wider European context, with its own identity.

VF – When you say European, do you mean “EU”?

GN – Look, I’m Italian. I was born Switzerland, and I have now lived in Switzerland for 14 years. Switzerland is a cosmopolitan reality.

VF – What’s your message to both nascent and established filmmakers who want to take part in Locarno 2021?

GN – The doors are open. Send us your films!

VF – Do you have any uplifting and inspiriting messages to struggling filmmakers who have not managed to complete their film due to the pandemic?

GN – Last year we did the programme The Films After Tomorrow. We did not have a physical festival the way we wanted, but we put this programme in place, with a competition for films that needed to needed to be finished, and required financial support. So we already put programmes and strategies in place in order to support struggling filmmakers. This year, we are looking at other support instruments that we can put implement in order to help people who are going through very rough times.

The Locarno Film Festival will take place for 11 days, between August 4th and 14th. DMovies will cover the event in loco and exclusively for you.