În România nu este promovat talentul, şi asta începând cu muzica clasică. Sunt foarte mulţi copii care studiază la şcoli de muzică şi n-au unde să se manifeste, să fie încurajaţi.
Mi-am făcut o formaţie, sau mai bine spus, m-am asociat unei formaţii a unui prieten bun, un foarte bun chitarist, Adi Manolovici. Sunt în căutare de clăpar, cu ocazia asta dau şi un anunţ. De Revelion voi cânta în Piaţa Mare a Bacăului. Lucrez şi cu mulţi copii în această perioadă, copii foarte talentaţi. Eu nu încurajez niciodată pe cineva fără talent. În general spun şi eu ce spun şi alţii: arta formează caractere.
Sunt un om care permanent încearcă să se cunoască pe sine şi să-şi cunoască şi bunele, şi relele. Omul care nu se cunoaşte pe sine nu va şti niciodată să întâmpine nici o critică, dar nici o laudă. Îşi va judeca cu suspiciune fie o critică, fie o laudă. Sunt foarte ambiţios, perfecţionist, nu renunţ niciodată la ceea ce ştiu că pot să fac, nici până la 100 de ani. Cred că şi la 100 de ani o să mor pe scenă. Acesta este crezul meu pe care-l urmez indiferent de regimul comunist sau de regimurile care se tot perindă prin România. Îmi urmez idealul şi asta le spun tuturor – dacă ai ceva vocaţie, urmează-ţi vocaţia.
Compoziţiile sunt consecinţa unei stări permanente. Un compozitor, ca şi un sportiv de performanţă sau un inventator, se află într-o stare de veghe permanentă. Un muzician este pregătit oricând să compună, dacă îi dai nişte impulsuri, impulsuri care vin din orice... şi din necaz, şi din bucurie sau dintr-o poveste auzită de la cineva. Eu în general scriu teme trăite de mine. Nu privesc în urmă. Prezentul e raportat la trecut, este inevitabil, dar nu îndrăznesc să mă uit în urmă. N-am ajuns la un moment în care să trag o linie şi să văd ce am făcut. E prea devreme...
Mă consider un om norocos. Există un destin... m-am născut cu un talent, deci din start sunt norocos. Dacă mai ai şi norocul să întâlneşti şi oameni care să te ajute în viaţă, cum a fost Titus Munteanu, căruia îi mulţumesc. Este un noroc să întâlneşti omul potrivit la locul şi timpul potrivit. Sunt foarte mulţi oameni cărora trebuie să le mulţumesc.
Pentru mine, timpul are o semnificaţie destul de relativă. Există doar un prezent. Am senzaţia că ce s-a petrecut acum 20 de ani parcă s-a întâmplat ieri, şi evenimentele recente mi se par mult mai îndepărtate. Nu percep timpul ca o curgere cronologică, ci ca un şir de evenimente emoţionale care mă fac să simt că trece mai repede sau mai încet.
Laurenţiu Cazan
(si) despre eliade via coppola
After enjoying one of the most celebrated careers in Hollywood, you’ve decided to go the art-house route and make “Youth Without Youth,” a Romanian fable about an age-defying linguist and his lover who is reincarnated as a seventh-century Indian. Is the film intended for a mass audience? No, not at all.
Skip to next paragraph
Christian Oth
How much did it cost to make? Under $15 million.
Do you care if you earn the money back? No. When I finished “The Rainmaker,” I thought, This is the last movie I am going to do basically as a job for money.
That was your last film, and it was made 10 years ago. You’re right. The clock is ticking.
Your new film is based on a philosophical novella of the same name by Mircea Eliade, the great Romanian scholar who believed archaic religions created a kind of time-outside-of-time. That’s his big book, “The Myth of the Eternal Return.” What I understand of it is that all things come back in some sort of cycle that is regenerative. Or, in the words of the Lion King, it’s the circle of life.
How are you going to be an indie director if you compare your work with “The Lion King”? God, I think you’re right. I am sure the Eliade notion was more subtle. They said about Eliade that he never had a thought he didn’t publish, so there are about 400 books he wrote.
His reputation has been tainted by his politics. He was one of several well-known Romanian intellectuals who reportedly had fascist leanings and supported the Iron Guard in the ’30s. Does that make you uncomfortable? It’s sort of like saying my grandfather was an Italian fascist. In those days, in 1937, or even earlier, all the Italians were fascists. It might have been like the Communist thing in this country. If you were young in the ’30s, and very humanistic, you might have flirted with Communism, and then it came to haunt you.
No, Communism was rooted in a utopian vision, the Iron Guard was rooted in hatred. Well, there were people who felt that the Communist effort in the ’20s and ’30s among our writers was orchestrated by Stalin, but the people who got into it I’m sure got into it for idealistic reasons.
It’s hard for me to talk about this with you, because my father was born in Romania and fled as a child in 1938. That’s like going to Miami and talking about Cuba. Oh, boy, is that tricky.
Yes. Are you religious? I think I am very religious.
You’re an observant Catholic? Oh, no, no, no. I was raised as a Catholic, but I didn’t like the Catholic Church at all. I thought the nuns were mean.
Do you believe in the afterlife? I sort of think that the people I have loved and lost are somehow still there. I can’t believe that something so specific is gone.
If you were given the chance to relive your life, like the hero of your latest film, would you do it? It would be the same life. When I die, I am not going to be there saying, Oh, I wish I had done this, and I wish I had done that. Because I did it.
You must regret some things. Are there any movies you regret making, like “Jack”? “Jack” is sort of fun. I would do “Jack” again. Movie-wise, there is nothing I wouldn’t do again. It’s not possible to make one perfect movie every time. I don’t know of anyone who has done it. I guess Kurosawa has come the closest.
You sound very analyzed. I never went to a psychologist or psychiatrist in my life. Never. You know Italians are a little prejudiced against that kind of thing.
We haven’t mentioned “The Godfather.” Is there anything left to be said about it? I am very proud of “The Godfather,” and it is obviously what I will be remembered for. I don’t care.
Is there something you would prefer to be remembered for? If I have to be remembered for something, I want it remembered that I really liked children and was a good camp counselor.
Interview by Deborah Solomon, published in New York Times
Skip to next paragraph
Christian Oth
How much did it cost to make? Under $15 million.
Do you care if you earn the money back? No. When I finished “The Rainmaker,” I thought, This is the last movie I am going to do basically as a job for money.
That was your last film, and it was made 10 years ago. You’re right. The clock is ticking.
Your new film is based on a philosophical novella of the same name by Mircea Eliade, the great Romanian scholar who believed archaic religions created a kind of time-outside-of-time. That’s his big book, “The Myth of the Eternal Return.” What I understand of it is that all things come back in some sort of cycle that is regenerative. Or, in the words of the Lion King, it’s the circle of life.
How are you going to be an indie director if you compare your work with “The Lion King”? God, I think you’re right. I am sure the Eliade notion was more subtle. They said about Eliade that he never had a thought he didn’t publish, so there are about 400 books he wrote.
His reputation has been tainted by his politics. He was one of several well-known Romanian intellectuals who reportedly had fascist leanings and supported the Iron Guard in the ’30s. Does that make you uncomfortable? It’s sort of like saying my grandfather was an Italian fascist. In those days, in 1937, or even earlier, all the Italians were fascists. It might have been like the Communist thing in this country. If you were young in the ’30s, and very humanistic, you might have flirted with Communism, and then it came to haunt you.
No, Communism was rooted in a utopian vision, the Iron Guard was rooted in hatred. Well, there were people who felt that the Communist effort in the ’20s and ’30s among our writers was orchestrated by Stalin, but the people who got into it I’m sure got into it for idealistic reasons.
It’s hard for me to talk about this with you, because my father was born in Romania and fled as a child in 1938. That’s like going to Miami and talking about Cuba. Oh, boy, is that tricky.
Yes. Are you religious? I think I am very religious.
You’re an observant Catholic? Oh, no, no, no. I was raised as a Catholic, but I didn’t like the Catholic Church at all. I thought the nuns were mean.
Do you believe in the afterlife? I sort of think that the people I have loved and lost are somehow still there. I can’t believe that something so specific is gone.
If you were given the chance to relive your life, like the hero of your latest film, would you do it? It would be the same life. When I die, I am not going to be there saying, Oh, I wish I had done this, and I wish I had done that. Because I did it.
You must regret some things. Are there any movies you regret making, like “Jack”? “Jack” is sort of fun. I would do “Jack” again. Movie-wise, there is nothing I wouldn’t do again. It’s not possible to make one perfect movie every time. I don’t know of anyone who has done it. I guess Kurosawa has come the closest.
You sound very analyzed. I never went to a psychologist or psychiatrist in my life. Never. You know Italians are a little prejudiced against that kind of thing.
We haven’t mentioned “The Godfather.” Is there anything left to be said about it? I am very proud of “The Godfather,” and it is obviously what I will be remembered for. I don’t care.
Is there something you would prefer to be remembered for? If I have to be remembered for something, I want it remembered that I really liked children and was a good camp counselor.
Interview by Deborah Solomon, published in New York Times
Haneke despre doua traiectorii de film
Michael Haneke has his own theory for the divergent routes taken by Hollywood and Europe, one in which, perhaps not surprisingly, the darker side of German and Austrian history plays a central role. “At the beginning of the 20th century,” he told me, “when film began in Europe, storytelling of the kind still popular in Hollywood was every bit as popular here
. Then the Nazis came, and the intellectuals — a great number of whom were Jewish — were either murdered or managed to escape to America and elsewhere. There were no intellectuals anymore — most of them were dead. Those who escaped to America were able to continue the storytelling approach to film — really a 19th-century tradition — with a clear conscience, since it hadn’t been tainted by fascism. But in the German-speaking world, and in most of the rest of Europe, that type of straightforward storytelling, which the Nazis had made such good use of, came to be viewed with distrust. The danger hidden in storytelling became clear — how easy it was to manipulate the crowd. As a result, film, and especially literature, began to examine itself. Storytelling, with all the tricks and ruses it requires, became gradually suspect. This was not the case in Hollywood.” At this point, Haneke asked politely whether I was following him, and I told him that I was. “I’m glad,” he said, apparently with genuine relief. “For Americans, this can sometimes be hard to accept.” (from NYTimes)
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Your work seems an ongoing critique of current western civilization.
I think you can take that interpretation, but as I'm sure you know it is difficult for an author to give an interpretation of his or her own work. I don't mind that view at all, but I have no interest in self-interpretation. It is the purpose of my films to pose certain questions, and it would be counter-productive if I were to answer all these questions myself.
I'm interested in your sense of the modern landscape, in particular your images of architecture and technology. In a film like Der siebente Kontinent the cityscape comes across as both alluring and deadly, somewhat in the manner of Antonioni.
I think that this landscape operates in both of the modalities you mention. It isn't my interest to denounce technology, but to describe a situation in a highly industrialized society, so in that sense my films are very much concerned with a predicament specific to this society, European society, rather than, say, the Third World. My films are aimed, therefore, more to an audience that is part of the conditions of Western society. I can only deal with the world that I know, to be a little more precise. As for Antonioni, I very much admire his films, no question.
There seems to be some degree of competition in your films between classical culture and popular culture. I'm thinking in particular of the opening of Funny Games, where the music of Mascagni, Handel and Mozart suddenly changes to John Zorn's thrash-punk music.
This question has been asked a great deal. I think there is a certain amount of misunderstanding here, at least in regard to Funny Games. That film is in part a parody of the thriller genre, and my use of John Zorn was also intended as parodical. Zorn isn't a heavy metal artist. I have nothing against popular music and wouldn't think of playing popular against classical forms. I'm very skeptical of the false conflict that already exists between so-called "serious" music and music categorized strictly as entertainment.
These are totally absurd distinctions, especially if one insists that an artist such as John Zorn must be seen as either classical or experimental or pop, since his work cuts across all categories. I see in John Zorn a kind of über-heavy metal, an extreme and ironic accentuation of that form just as the film is an extreme inflection of the thriller. I think Zorn's style tends to alienate the listener in a sense that heightens awareness, which was effective to the points I wanted to address.
In that film it seems the first "funny game" is the guessing game that the bourgeois couple plays with their CD player, guessing the classical compositions. Is there some association here of the bourgeoisie possessing classical culture?
That wasn't my first concern. Of course, there is a certain irony here in the way that the bourgeoisie has insinuated itself in cultural history. But I didn't intend for the Zorn music to be seen solely as the music of the killers, so to speak, with the classical music strictly as the theme of the bourgeoisie. This is too simplistic. But, of course, with the guessing game at the beginning of the film there is an irony in the way their music suggests their deliberate isolation from the exterior world, and in the end they are trapped in a sense by their bourgeois notions and accoutrements, not just by the killers alone.
The two yuppie psychopaths seem to be intellectuals, especially in their chatter when they dispose of the wife. They are rather unusual serial killers, at least when we look at the genre.
I think this may be true only of one of them, not Dickie, the fat, slow one. They really don't have names—they are called Peter and Paul, Beavis and Butthead. In a way they aren't characters at all. They come out of the media. The tall one, who is the main "plotter" so to speak, might be seen as an intellectual with a deviousness that could be associated with this type of destructive fascist intellect. I have no problem with that interpretation. The fat one is the opposite; there is nothing there on the order of intellect.
Funny Games seems to be a contribution to the self-reflexive films about media and violence along the lines of Natural Born Killers (1994) or C'est arrivé près de chez vous (Man Bites Dog, 1992).
My goal there was a kind of counter-program to Natural Born Killers. In my view, Oliver Stone's film, and I use it only as example, is the attempt to use a fascist aesthetic to achieve an anti-fascist goal, and this doesn't work. What is accomplished is something the opposite, since what is produced is something like a cult film where the montage style complements the violence represented and presents it largely in a positive light. It might be argued that Natural Born Killers makes the violent image alluring while allowing no space for the viewer. I feel this would be very difficult to argue about Funny Games. Benny's Video and Funny Games are different kinds of obscenity, in the sense that I intended a slap in the face and a provocation.
If we can return to music, it seems in La Pianiste that classical music, while embodying the best sensibility of Erika, is also implicated in her pathology.
Yes, you can see the music functioning in that way, but you need first to understand that in that film we are seeing a very Austrian situation. Vienna is the capital of classical music and is, therefore, the center of something very extraordinary. The music is very beautiful, but like the surroundings can become an instrument of repression, because this culture takes on a social function that ensures repression, especially as classical music becomes an object for consumption. Of course, you must recognize that these issues are not just subjects of the film's screenplay, but are concerns of the Elfriede Jelinek novel, wherein the female has a chance, a small one, to emancipate herself only as an artist. This doesn't work out, of course, since her artistry turns against her in a sense.
Schubert's Winterreisse seems central to La Pianiste. Some have argued that there is a connection between Erika and Schubert's traveler in that song cycle. This goes back to the broader question as to whether music represents the healthy side of Erika's psyche or simply assists her repression.
Of course, the 17th song holds a central place in the film, and could be viewed as the motto of Erika and the film itself. The whole cycle establishes the idea of following a path not taken by others, which gives an ironic effect to the film, I think. It is difficult to say if there is a correlation between the neurosis of Erika Kohut and what could be called the psychogram of a great composer like Schubert. But of course there is a great sense of mourning in Schubert that is very much part of the milieu of the film. Someone with the tremendous problems borne by Erika may well project them onto an artist of Schubert's very complex sensibility. I can't give a further interpretation.
Great music transcends suffering beyond specific causes. Die Winterreisse transcends misery even in the detailed description of misery. All important artworks, especially those concerned with the darker side of experience, despite whatever despair conveyed, transcend the discomfort of the content in the realization of their form.
Walter Klemmer seems to be the hero of the film, but then becomes a monster.
You need to speak to Jelinek [laughs]. All kidding aside, this character is actually portrayed much more negatively in the novel than in the film. The novel is written in a very cynical mode. The novel turns him from a rather childish idiot into a fascist asshole. The film tries to make him more interesting and attractive. In the film, the "love affair," which is not so central to the novel, is more implicated in the mother-daughter relationship. Walter only triggers the catastrophe. In the book, Walter is a rather secondary character that I thought needed development to the point that he could be a more plausible locus of the catastrophe.
One comes away feeling that sexual relationships are impossible under the assumptions of the current society.
We are all damaged, but not every relationship is played out in the extreme scenario of Erika and Walter. Not everyone is as neurotic as Erika. It's a common truth that we are not a society of happy people, and this is a reality I describe, but I would not say that sexual health is impossible.
Images of television recur numerous times in your films. Could you address your uses of TV, and your understanding of media in the current world?
Obviously, in Benny's Video and Funny Games I attempt to explore the phenomenon of television. My concern for the topic isn't quite so much in Der siebente Kontinent, Code Unknown, and La Pianiste, although the place of television in society influences these films as well. I am most concerned with television as the key symbol primarily of the media representation of violence, and more generally of a greater crisis, which I see as our collective loss of reality and social disorientation. Alienation is a very complex problem, but television is certainly implicated in it.
We don't, of course, anymore perceive reality, but instead the representation of reality in television. Our experiential horizon is very limited. What we know of the world is little more than the mediated world, the image. We have no reality, but a derivative of reality, which is extremely dangerous, most certainly from a political standpoint but in a larger sense to our ability to have a palpable sense of the truth of everyday experience.
In Der siebente Kontinent there is a privileged use of both TV and pop music in the moment just before the murder/suicide. The family watches a rock video of "The Power of Love" on their TV as they sit in the demolished apartment. There is a sense both of the song as a genuine plea as well as the inadequacy of pop culture.
There I asked the producer to supply me with certain types of songs. The issue of copyright was a problem, of course. I chose a song, actually a series of songs which appealed to me, not so much because of the text, but because of a certain sentiment. As you suggest, the moment generates a certain ironic counterpoint to the story.
There is another very interesting piece of music in Der siebente Kontinent, where you use the Alban Berg violin concerto, suddenly interrupted, as the young girl watches a ship go by while her father sells the family car in the junk yard. She seems to possess a vision of utopia that her family can't realize.
You can certainly interpret it that way, or simply as the girl spotting a boat, a very banal moment. Of course, the Berg piece is not accidental. There is also a citation of the Bach chorale which could be a motto of the entire film.
In the same film, the series of shots showing the couples' destruction of the apartment recalled to me somewhat the end of Antonioni's Zabriskie Point (1970). The shots of the destruction of the household goods are beautiful, but there is real anguish and horror as well. The color scheme, here and elsewhere in the film, is extraordinary.
I'm a little surprised that you found beauty in this sequence. You could look at the phenomenon of the destruction of one's own environment in terms of a German notion, which in translation is "destroy what destroys you." It can be seen as a liberation.
But the way it is represented is rather the opposite. They carry out the destruction with the same constricted narrowness with which they lived their lives, with the same meticulousness as life was lived, so I see this as the opposite of the vision of total destruction in Zabriskie Point. The sequence is portrayed as work. I have tried to portray it as something unbearable. As the wife says, "my hands really hurt from all that arbeit," so all this hard work of destruction merely precedes the self-destruction.
As for the color, I have always tried for cool, neutral colors. I couldn't say that I tried for a rigid color schematic in Der siebente Kontinent. In this film, however, my aesthetic centered mainly on the close-up, the emphasis on enlarged faces and objects. From an aesthetic standpoint, much of the film could be said to resemble television advertising. I have many reservations about television, but saw a use for its style here. Of course, if Der siebente Kontinent had been made for television it would have failed totally in my view. But in the cinematic setting, a close-up of shoes or a doorknob takes on a far different sense than a similar shot in TV, where that style is the norm. This was a very conscious choice, since I wanted to convey not just images of objects but the objectification of life.
You seem very interested in the long take. There are a number of static shots in your films, like the final image of La Pianiste. I'm also thinking of shots like that of the blank bathroom wall just before Walter rushes in for Erika, the many shots of Erika's face, the long take of the bloody living room in Funny Games, or the numerous still lifes in Der siebente Kontinent.
Perhaps I can connect this to the issue of television. Television accelerates our habits of seeing. Look, for example, at advertising in that medium. The faster something is shown, the less able you are to perceive it as an object occupying a space in physical reality, and the more it becomes something seductive. And the less real the image seems to be, the quicker you buy the commodity it seems to depict.
Of course, this type of aesthetic has gained the upper hand in commercial cinema. Television accelerates experience, but one needs time to understand what one sees, which the current media disallows. Not just understand on an intellectual level, but emotionally. The cinema can offer very little that is new; everything that is said has been said a thousand times, but cinema still has the capacity, I think, to let us experience the world anew.
The long take is an aesthetic means to accomplish this by its particular emphasis. This has long been understood. Code Unknown consists very much of static sequences, with each shot from only one perspective, precisely because I don't want to patronize or manipulate the viewer, or at least to the smallest degree possible. Of course, film is always manipulation, but if each scene is only one shot, then, I think, there is at least less of a sense of time being manipulated when one tries to stay close to a "real time" framework. The reduction of montage to a minimum also tends to shift responsibility back to the viewer in that more contemplation is required, in my view.
Beyond this, my approach is very intuitive, without anything very programmatic. The final image of La Pianiste is simply a reassertion of the conservatory, the classical symmetry of that beautiful building in the darkness. The viewer is asked to reconsider it.
Would you speak to your conception of the family as it is portrayed La Pianiste?
I wanted first of all to describe the bourgeois setting, and to establish the family as the germinating cell for all conflicts. I always want to describe the world that I know, and for me the family is the locus of the miniature war, the first site of all warfare. The larger political-economic site is what one usually associates with warfare, but the everyday site of war in the family is as murderous in its own way, whether between parents and children or wife and husband.
If you start exploring the concept of family in Western society you can't avoid realizing that the family is the origin of all conflicts. I wanted to describe this in as detailed a way as I can, leaving to the viewer to draw conclusions. The cinema has tended to offer closure on such topics and to send people home rather comforted and pacified. My objective is to unsettle the viewer and to take away any consolation or self-satisfaction.
Porno and erotica play a role in La Pianiste that caused much controversy in America. There is an ongoing debate about whether or not porno has a liberating function.
I would like to be recognized for making in La Pianiste an obscenity, but not a pornographic film. In my definition, anything that could be termed obscene departs from the bourgeois norm. Whether concerned with sexuality or violence or another taboo issue, anything that breaks with the norm is obscene. Insofar as truth is always obscene, I hope that all of my films have at least an element of obscenity.
By contrast, pornography is the opposite, in that it makes into a commodity that which is obscene, makes the unusual consumable, which is the truly scandalous aspect of porno rather than the traditional arguments posed by institutions of society. It isn't the sexual aspect but the commercial aspect of porno that makes it repulsive. I think that any contemporary art practice is pornographic if it attempts to bandage the wound, so to speak, which is to say our social and psychological wound. Pornography, it seems to me, is no different from war films or propaganda films in that it tries to make the visceral, horrific, or transgressive elements of life consumable. Propaganda is far more pornographic than a home video of two people fucking.
I notice that the porno shop Erika visits is in a shopping mall, which is a little unusual to an American viewer.
That was shot on location, the original setting. That is the way porno is sold in Vienna. Maybe we are a tiny less puritanical than the Americans [laughs].
Just before she goes to the mall and the porno shop we see Erika practicing Schubert's Piano Trio in E Flat with her colleagues. The music stays on the soundtrack right up to the moment that she puts coins in the video booth to start the porno video, at which point the music stops, as if Schubert finally can't compete with this image.
I have no problem with that interpretation at all, but again, I don't want to impose my own views beyond what I have already committed to film.
One of your concerns seems to be, at least as expressed in Code Unknown, that all communication, the linguistic code, has failed. The scene of the deaf children drumming toward the end of the film seems to emphasize this failure.
Of course, the film is about such failure, but the scene of the children drumming is concerned with communication with the body, so the deaf children have hope after all, although the drumming takes on a different function at the conclusion when it provides a specific background. Yes, the failure of communication is on all levels: interpersonal, familial, sociological, political. The film also questions whether the image transmits meaning. Everyone assumes it does. The film also questions the purpose of communication, and also what is being avoided and prevented in communication processes. The film tries to present these questions in a broad spectrum.
The world your films describe seems catastrophic. There is the family suicide of Der siebente Kontinent, the violence of Funny Games, the image of the media in Benny's Video, the collapse of meaning in Code Unknown, the tragedy of La Pianiste.
I'm trying as best I can to describe a situation as I see it without bullshitting or disingenuousness, but by so doing I subscribe to the notion that communication is still possible, otherwise I wouldn't be doing this. I cannot make comedies about these subjects, so it is true the films are bleak. On the subject of violence, there are an increasing number of modalities with which one can present violence, so much so that we need to reconceptualize the whole concept of violence and its origins.
The new technologies, of both media representation and the political world, allow greater damage with ever-increasing speed. The media contribute to a confused consciousness through this illusion that we know all things at all times, and always with this great sense of immediacy. We live in this environment where we think we know more things faster, when in fact we know nothing at all. This propels us into terrible internal conflicts, which then creates angst, which in turn causes aggression, and this creates violence. This is a vicious cycle.
There seems to be some confusion about the title of your last film, which is actually La Pianiste although marketed in America as The Piano Teacher.
I was adapting the title of Jelinek's book, which in the original is Die Klavierspielerin, or The Piano Player, which is a deliberately awkward title and an uncommon term in German. This is to point to Erika's degraded situation. Pianisitin is the German word for the female pianist, so the title of the novel in German is a put-down suggesting Erika's crisis. The English translation of the novel is The Piano Teacher, which isn't correct at all, and is of course a little nonsensical and even more devaluing of the protagonist. I left the German title of the book not quite as it is, to give her more dignity, which is simply my approach to the material.
La Pianiste is the most popular and recognized of your films thus far. Do you feel that it best represents your sensibility and development as a film-maker?
I wouldn't say this, since the idea isn't mine but based on a novel, whereas my other films come from my own ideas. I recognize myself a bit more in those films rather than in works based on other texts. Of course, I chose the topic of La Pianiste because I was very much drawn to it, and what I could bring to this work. But in some ways it is a bit distant from me. For example, I couldn't have written a novel on the subject of female sexuality. The topic of the novel interested me, but my choice of other source material for a film will probably continue to be the exception.
I notice that your recent films are in French, although the setting remains Austrian.
This is to accommodate the producers and actors. My principal source of support has come from France, and my casts have been largely French. Isabelle Huppert, Juliette Binoche, Benoit Magimel, Annie Girardot... they are wonderful. Austria's film industry is a bit more limited in resources. The French production industry has been very helpful to me, and I am very comfortable with the language.
Could you speak a bit about your new projects?
I am making Hidden, which is about the French occupation of Algeria on a broad level, but more personally a story of guilt and the denial of guilt. The main character is a Frenchman, with another character an Arab, but it would be incorrect to see it strictly as a story of the past but rather a political story that deals with personal guilt. So it might be seen as more philosophical than political. The second film I'm preparing is Le Temp du loup (The Time of the Wolf, 2003) [which has now released]. This is about how people treat each other when electricity no longer comes out of the outlet and water no longer comes out of the faucet. I'm a bit concerned that after the events of September 11th this film will be read very specifically, but it takes place in neither America nor Europe, and focuses on very primal anxieties.
Could I ask you for your views on the current international situation, the war on Iraq, the "war on terrorism" and the like?
I think that at least 80 per cent of the people of Europe, and perhaps the United States, did not want war. The war is horrible. War is always the dumbest way of solving problems, as history clearly shows. My impression is that the American government made up its mind a long time ago, so I'm rather pessimistic about the outcome. The war is insanity. The US government doesn't see it this way, because it represents powerful interests. But the people don't want it. Some may be nervous merely because of the economic consequences, and some seem to follow blindly, but my impression is that the people are very much against war.
Christopher Sharrett
. Then the Nazis came, and the intellectuals — a great number of whom were Jewish — were either murdered or managed to escape to America and elsewhere. There were no intellectuals anymore — most of them were dead. Those who escaped to America were able to continue the storytelling approach to film — really a 19th-century tradition — with a clear conscience, since it hadn’t been tainted by fascism. But in the German-speaking world, and in most of the rest of Europe, that type of straightforward storytelling, which the Nazis had made such good use of, came to be viewed with distrust. The danger hidden in storytelling became clear — how easy it was to manipulate the crowd. As a result, film, and especially literature, began to examine itself. Storytelling, with all the tricks and ruses it requires, became gradually suspect. This was not the case in Hollywood.” At this point, Haneke asked politely whether I was following him, and I told him that I was. “I’m glad,” he said, apparently with genuine relief. “For Americans, this can sometimes be hard to accept.” (from NYTimes)-----------------------------8<----------------------------------
Your work seems an ongoing critique of current western civilization.
I think you can take that interpretation, but as I'm sure you know it is difficult for an author to give an interpretation of his or her own work. I don't mind that view at all, but I have no interest in self-interpretation. It is the purpose of my films to pose certain questions, and it would be counter-productive if I were to answer all these questions myself.
I'm interested in your sense of the modern landscape, in particular your images of architecture and technology. In a film like Der siebente Kontinent the cityscape comes across as both alluring and deadly, somewhat in the manner of Antonioni.
I think that this landscape operates in both of the modalities you mention. It isn't my interest to denounce technology, but to describe a situation in a highly industrialized society, so in that sense my films are very much concerned with a predicament specific to this society, European society, rather than, say, the Third World. My films are aimed, therefore, more to an audience that is part of the conditions of Western society. I can only deal with the world that I know, to be a little more precise. As for Antonioni, I very much admire his films, no question.
There seems to be some degree of competition in your films between classical culture and popular culture. I'm thinking in particular of the opening of Funny Games, where the music of Mascagni, Handel and Mozart suddenly changes to John Zorn's thrash-punk music.
This question has been asked a great deal. I think there is a certain amount of misunderstanding here, at least in regard to Funny Games. That film is in part a parody of the thriller genre, and my use of John Zorn was also intended as parodical. Zorn isn't a heavy metal artist. I have nothing against popular music and wouldn't think of playing popular against classical forms. I'm very skeptical of the false conflict that already exists between so-called "serious" music and music categorized strictly as entertainment.
These are totally absurd distinctions, especially if one insists that an artist such as John Zorn must be seen as either classical or experimental or pop, since his work cuts across all categories. I see in John Zorn a kind of über-heavy metal, an extreme and ironic accentuation of that form just as the film is an extreme inflection of the thriller. I think Zorn's style tends to alienate the listener in a sense that heightens awareness, which was effective to the points I wanted to address.
In that film it seems the first "funny game" is the guessing game that the bourgeois couple plays with their CD player, guessing the classical compositions. Is there some association here of the bourgeoisie possessing classical culture?
That wasn't my first concern. Of course, there is a certain irony here in the way that the bourgeoisie has insinuated itself in cultural history. But I didn't intend for the Zorn music to be seen solely as the music of the killers, so to speak, with the classical music strictly as the theme of the bourgeoisie. This is too simplistic. But, of course, with the guessing game at the beginning of the film there is an irony in the way their music suggests their deliberate isolation from the exterior world, and in the end they are trapped in a sense by their bourgeois notions and accoutrements, not just by the killers alone.
The two yuppie psychopaths seem to be intellectuals, especially in their chatter when they dispose of the wife. They are rather unusual serial killers, at least when we look at the genre.
I think this may be true only of one of them, not Dickie, the fat, slow one. They really don't have names—they are called Peter and Paul, Beavis and Butthead. In a way they aren't characters at all. They come out of the media. The tall one, who is the main "plotter" so to speak, might be seen as an intellectual with a deviousness that could be associated with this type of destructive fascist intellect. I have no problem with that interpretation. The fat one is the opposite; there is nothing there on the order of intellect.
Funny Games seems to be a contribution to the self-reflexive films about media and violence along the lines of Natural Born Killers (1994) or C'est arrivé près de chez vous (Man Bites Dog, 1992).
My goal there was a kind of counter-program to Natural Born Killers. In my view, Oliver Stone's film, and I use it only as example, is the attempt to use a fascist aesthetic to achieve an anti-fascist goal, and this doesn't work. What is accomplished is something the opposite, since what is produced is something like a cult film where the montage style complements the violence represented and presents it largely in a positive light. It might be argued that Natural Born Killers makes the violent image alluring while allowing no space for the viewer. I feel this would be very difficult to argue about Funny Games. Benny's Video and Funny Games are different kinds of obscenity, in the sense that I intended a slap in the face and a provocation.
If we can return to music, it seems in La Pianiste that classical music, while embodying the best sensibility of Erika, is also implicated in her pathology.
Yes, you can see the music functioning in that way, but you need first to understand that in that film we are seeing a very Austrian situation. Vienna is the capital of classical music and is, therefore, the center of something very extraordinary. The music is very beautiful, but like the surroundings can become an instrument of repression, because this culture takes on a social function that ensures repression, especially as classical music becomes an object for consumption. Of course, you must recognize that these issues are not just subjects of the film's screenplay, but are concerns of the Elfriede Jelinek novel, wherein the female has a chance, a small one, to emancipate herself only as an artist. This doesn't work out, of course, since her artistry turns against her in a sense.
Schubert's Winterreisse seems central to La Pianiste. Some have argued that there is a connection between Erika and Schubert's traveler in that song cycle. This goes back to the broader question as to whether music represents the healthy side of Erika's psyche or simply assists her repression.
Of course, the 17th song holds a central place in the film, and could be viewed as the motto of Erika and the film itself. The whole cycle establishes the idea of following a path not taken by others, which gives an ironic effect to the film, I think. It is difficult to say if there is a correlation between the neurosis of Erika Kohut and what could be called the psychogram of a great composer like Schubert. But of course there is a great sense of mourning in Schubert that is very much part of the milieu of the film. Someone with the tremendous problems borne by Erika may well project them onto an artist of Schubert's very complex sensibility. I can't give a further interpretation.
Great music transcends suffering beyond specific causes. Die Winterreisse transcends misery even in the detailed description of misery. All important artworks, especially those concerned with the darker side of experience, despite whatever despair conveyed, transcend the discomfort of the content in the realization of their form.
Walter Klemmer seems to be the hero of the film, but then becomes a monster.
You need to speak to Jelinek [laughs]. All kidding aside, this character is actually portrayed much more negatively in the novel than in the film. The novel is written in a very cynical mode. The novel turns him from a rather childish idiot into a fascist asshole. The film tries to make him more interesting and attractive. In the film, the "love affair," which is not so central to the novel, is more implicated in the mother-daughter relationship. Walter only triggers the catastrophe. In the book, Walter is a rather secondary character that I thought needed development to the point that he could be a more plausible locus of the catastrophe.
One comes away feeling that sexual relationships are impossible under the assumptions of the current society.
We are all damaged, but not every relationship is played out in the extreme scenario of Erika and Walter. Not everyone is as neurotic as Erika. It's a common truth that we are not a society of happy people, and this is a reality I describe, but I would not say that sexual health is impossible.
Images of television recur numerous times in your films. Could you address your uses of TV, and your understanding of media in the current world?
Obviously, in Benny's Video and Funny Games I attempt to explore the phenomenon of television. My concern for the topic isn't quite so much in Der siebente Kontinent, Code Unknown, and La Pianiste, although the place of television in society influences these films as well. I am most concerned with television as the key symbol primarily of the media representation of violence, and more generally of a greater crisis, which I see as our collective loss of reality and social disorientation. Alienation is a very complex problem, but television is certainly implicated in it.
We don't, of course, anymore perceive reality, but instead the representation of reality in television. Our experiential horizon is very limited. What we know of the world is little more than the mediated world, the image. We have no reality, but a derivative of reality, which is extremely dangerous, most certainly from a political standpoint but in a larger sense to our ability to have a palpable sense of the truth of everyday experience.
In Der siebente Kontinent there is a privileged use of both TV and pop music in the moment just before the murder/suicide. The family watches a rock video of "The Power of Love" on their TV as they sit in the demolished apartment. There is a sense both of the song as a genuine plea as well as the inadequacy of pop culture.
There I asked the producer to supply me with certain types of songs. The issue of copyright was a problem, of course. I chose a song, actually a series of songs which appealed to me, not so much because of the text, but because of a certain sentiment. As you suggest, the moment generates a certain ironic counterpoint to the story.
There is another very interesting piece of music in Der siebente Kontinent, where you use the Alban Berg violin concerto, suddenly interrupted, as the young girl watches a ship go by while her father sells the family car in the junk yard. She seems to possess a vision of utopia that her family can't realize.
You can certainly interpret it that way, or simply as the girl spotting a boat, a very banal moment. Of course, the Berg piece is not accidental. There is also a citation of the Bach chorale which could be a motto of the entire film.
In the same film, the series of shots showing the couples' destruction of the apartment recalled to me somewhat the end of Antonioni's Zabriskie Point (1970). The shots of the destruction of the household goods are beautiful, but there is real anguish and horror as well. The color scheme, here and elsewhere in the film, is extraordinary.
I'm a little surprised that you found beauty in this sequence. You could look at the phenomenon of the destruction of one's own environment in terms of a German notion, which in translation is "destroy what destroys you." It can be seen as a liberation.
But the way it is represented is rather the opposite. They carry out the destruction with the same constricted narrowness with which they lived their lives, with the same meticulousness as life was lived, so I see this as the opposite of the vision of total destruction in Zabriskie Point. The sequence is portrayed as work. I have tried to portray it as something unbearable. As the wife says, "my hands really hurt from all that arbeit," so all this hard work of destruction merely precedes the self-destruction.
As for the color, I have always tried for cool, neutral colors. I couldn't say that I tried for a rigid color schematic in Der siebente Kontinent. In this film, however, my aesthetic centered mainly on the close-up, the emphasis on enlarged faces and objects. From an aesthetic standpoint, much of the film could be said to resemble television advertising. I have many reservations about television, but saw a use for its style here. Of course, if Der siebente Kontinent had been made for television it would have failed totally in my view. But in the cinematic setting, a close-up of shoes or a doorknob takes on a far different sense than a similar shot in TV, where that style is the norm. This was a very conscious choice, since I wanted to convey not just images of objects but the objectification of life.
You seem very interested in the long take. There are a number of static shots in your films, like the final image of La Pianiste. I'm also thinking of shots like that of the blank bathroom wall just before Walter rushes in for Erika, the many shots of Erika's face, the long take of the bloody living room in Funny Games, or the numerous still lifes in Der siebente Kontinent.
Perhaps I can connect this to the issue of television. Television accelerates our habits of seeing. Look, for example, at advertising in that medium. The faster something is shown, the less able you are to perceive it as an object occupying a space in physical reality, and the more it becomes something seductive. And the less real the image seems to be, the quicker you buy the commodity it seems to depict.
Of course, this type of aesthetic has gained the upper hand in commercial cinema. Television accelerates experience, but one needs time to understand what one sees, which the current media disallows. Not just understand on an intellectual level, but emotionally. The cinema can offer very little that is new; everything that is said has been said a thousand times, but cinema still has the capacity, I think, to let us experience the world anew.
The long take is an aesthetic means to accomplish this by its particular emphasis. This has long been understood. Code Unknown consists very much of static sequences, with each shot from only one perspective, precisely because I don't want to patronize or manipulate the viewer, or at least to the smallest degree possible. Of course, film is always manipulation, but if each scene is only one shot, then, I think, there is at least less of a sense of time being manipulated when one tries to stay close to a "real time" framework. The reduction of montage to a minimum also tends to shift responsibility back to the viewer in that more contemplation is required, in my view.
Beyond this, my approach is very intuitive, without anything very programmatic. The final image of La Pianiste is simply a reassertion of the conservatory, the classical symmetry of that beautiful building in the darkness. The viewer is asked to reconsider it.
Would you speak to your conception of the family as it is portrayed La Pianiste?
I wanted first of all to describe the bourgeois setting, and to establish the family as the germinating cell for all conflicts. I always want to describe the world that I know, and for me the family is the locus of the miniature war, the first site of all warfare. The larger political-economic site is what one usually associates with warfare, but the everyday site of war in the family is as murderous in its own way, whether between parents and children or wife and husband.
If you start exploring the concept of family in Western society you can't avoid realizing that the family is the origin of all conflicts. I wanted to describe this in as detailed a way as I can, leaving to the viewer to draw conclusions. The cinema has tended to offer closure on such topics and to send people home rather comforted and pacified. My objective is to unsettle the viewer and to take away any consolation or self-satisfaction.
Porno and erotica play a role in La Pianiste that caused much controversy in America. There is an ongoing debate about whether or not porno has a liberating function.
I would like to be recognized for making in La Pianiste an obscenity, but not a pornographic film. In my definition, anything that could be termed obscene departs from the bourgeois norm. Whether concerned with sexuality or violence or another taboo issue, anything that breaks with the norm is obscene. Insofar as truth is always obscene, I hope that all of my films have at least an element of obscenity.
By contrast, pornography is the opposite, in that it makes into a commodity that which is obscene, makes the unusual consumable, which is the truly scandalous aspect of porno rather than the traditional arguments posed by institutions of society. It isn't the sexual aspect but the commercial aspect of porno that makes it repulsive. I think that any contemporary art practice is pornographic if it attempts to bandage the wound, so to speak, which is to say our social and psychological wound. Pornography, it seems to me, is no different from war films or propaganda films in that it tries to make the visceral, horrific, or transgressive elements of life consumable. Propaganda is far more pornographic than a home video of two people fucking.
I notice that the porno shop Erika visits is in a shopping mall, which is a little unusual to an American viewer.
That was shot on location, the original setting. That is the way porno is sold in Vienna. Maybe we are a tiny less puritanical than the Americans [laughs].
Just before she goes to the mall and the porno shop we see Erika practicing Schubert's Piano Trio in E Flat with her colleagues. The music stays on the soundtrack right up to the moment that she puts coins in the video booth to start the porno video, at which point the music stops, as if Schubert finally can't compete with this image.
I have no problem with that interpretation at all, but again, I don't want to impose my own views beyond what I have already committed to film.
One of your concerns seems to be, at least as expressed in Code Unknown, that all communication, the linguistic code, has failed. The scene of the deaf children drumming toward the end of the film seems to emphasize this failure.
Of course, the film is about such failure, but the scene of the children drumming is concerned with communication with the body, so the deaf children have hope after all, although the drumming takes on a different function at the conclusion when it provides a specific background. Yes, the failure of communication is on all levels: interpersonal, familial, sociological, political. The film also questions whether the image transmits meaning. Everyone assumes it does. The film also questions the purpose of communication, and also what is being avoided and prevented in communication processes. The film tries to present these questions in a broad spectrum.
The world your films describe seems catastrophic. There is the family suicide of Der siebente Kontinent, the violence of Funny Games, the image of the media in Benny's Video, the collapse of meaning in Code Unknown, the tragedy of La Pianiste.
I'm trying as best I can to describe a situation as I see it without bullshitting or disingenuousness, but by so doing I subscribe to the notion that communication is still possible, otherwise I wouldn't be doing this. I cannot make comedies about these subjects, so it is true the films are bleak. On the subject of violence, there are an increasing number of modalities with which one can present violence, so much so that we need to reconceptualize the whole concept of violence and its origins.
The new technologies, of both media representation and the political world, allow greater damage with ever-increasing speed. The media contribute to a confused consciousness through this illusion that we know all things at all times, and always with this great sense of immediacy. We live in this environment where we think we know more things faster, when in fact we know nothing at all. This propels us into terrible internal conflicts, which then creates angst, which in turn causes aggression, and this creates violence. This is a vicious cycle.
There seems to be some confusion about the title of your last film, which is actually La Pianiste although marketed in America as The Piano Teacher.
I was adapting the title of Jelinek's book, which in the original is Die Klavierspielerin, or The Piano Player, which is a deliberately awkward title and an uncommon term in German. This is to point to Erika's degraded situation. Pianisitin is the German word for the female pianist, so the title of the novel in German is a put-down suggesting Erika's crisis. The English translation of the novel is The Piano Teacher, which isn't correct at all, and is of course a little nonsensical and even more devaluing of the protagonist. I left the German title of the book not quite as it is, to give her more dignity, which is simply my approach to the material.
La Pianiste is the most popular and recognized of your films thus far. Do you feel that it best represents your sensibility and development as a film-maker?
I wouldn't say this, since the idea isn't mine but based on a novel, whereas my other films come from my own ideas. I recognize myself a bit more in those films rather than in works based on other texts. Of course, I chose the topic of La Pianiste because I was very much drawn to it, and what I could bring to this work. But in some ways it is a bit distant from me. For example, I couldn't have written a novel on the subject of female sexuality. The topic of the novel interested me, but my choice of other source material for a film will probably continue to be the exception.
I notice that your recent films are in French, although the setting remains Austrian.
This is to accommodate the producers and actors. My principal source of support has come from France, and my casts have been largely French. Isabelle Huppert, Juliette Binoche, Benoit Magimel, Annie Girardot... they are wonderful. Austria's film industry is a bit more limited in resources. The French production industry has been very helpful to me, and I am very comfortable with the language.
Could you speak a bit about your new projects?
I am making Hidden, which is about the French occupation of Algeria on a broad level, but more personally a story of guilt and the denial of guilt. The main character is a Frenchman, with another character an Arab, but it would be incorrect to see it strictly as a story of the past but rather a political story that deals with personal guilt. So it might be seen as more philosophical than political. The second film I'm preparing is Le Temp du loup (The Time of the Wolf, 2003) [which has now released]. This is about how people treat each other when electricity no longer comes out of the outlet and water no longer comes out of the faucet. I'm a bit concerned that after the events of September 11th this film will be read very specifically, but it takes place in neither America nor Europe, and focuses on very primal anxieties.
Could I ask you for your views on the current international situation, the war on Iraq, the "war on terrorism" and the like?
I think that at least 80 per cent of the people of Europe, and perhaps the United States, did not want war. The war is horrible. War is always the dumbest way of solving problems, as history clearly shows. My impression is that the American government made up its mind a long time ago, so I'm rather pessimistic about the outcome. The war is insanity. The US government doesn't see it this way, because it represents powerful interests. But the people don't want it. Some may be nervous merely because of the economic consequences, and some seem to follow blindly, but my impression is that the people are very much against war.
Christopher Sharrett
masura a timpului
Vad in jurul meu destine destul de tragice, cred ca societatea noastra, mai mult decit alte tipuri de societate, emana acea otrava care se numeste frustrare. Frustrarea poate aduce oamenii in pragul disperarii si chiar al sinuciderii, al sinuciderii care nu e neaparat un act implinit: intreaga galaxie a lui Sisif, a disperarii, care trece prin angoasa si depresie. Cred ca in anii care vor veni vor predomina maladiile psihicului, pentru ca traim intr-o societate care nu e deloc adaptata la ceea ce sintem. Ni se spune ca aceasta societate e facuta pentru noi si de fapt ea e creata pentru oameni complet fantasmatici, care nu exista – oameni care ar avea capacitatea de a se comporta perfect in lumea muncii si intr-un context social si care ar fi, in acelasi timp, indivizi purtatori de dimensiuni suplimentare, de creativitate, in vreme ce viata pe care o duc este impotriva acestei impliniri personale. E vorba, in cele din urma, de un ideal de viata imposibil de realizat, pentru ca este mult prea contradictoriu. Nu putem fi, in acelasi timp, in conformitate cu ceea ce ne cere societatea si realizati in plan personal. Fericirea ne este data astazi ca o datorie suplimentara. Ni se adauga in fiecare moment, an dupa an, noi datorii sociale, care creeaza angoasa. Caracteristica principala a epocii noastre este angoasa. Sursa: Interviul cu Régis Jauffret, realizat de Adina DINITOIU pentru Observator cultural
Régis Jauffret: scriitor francez, nascut pe 5 iunie 1955, la Marseille.
interviuri cu parazitii, video-anotate
Din Cotidianul
In „Mesaj pentru Europa“ va referiti la tigani si la gay.
Cheloo: Am mai fost plecati, am simtit ce inseamna sa fii roman in Europa si asta se datoreaza strict tiganilor care au plecat pentru o imbogatire rapida, jafuri, furturi, violuri, prostitutie. Sintem asociati ca popor cu o minoritate favorizata in Romania. Sintem in secolul restrictiilor, este un trend de vreo 50 de ani incoace, hai sa-i iubim pe cei care stau printre noi si nu vor sa se integreze. Minoritatile trebuie respectate, trebuie sa le respectam cultura, dar nu sa calcam in picioare drepturile majoritatii in favoarea lor. Vrei sa traiesti in Romania, adapteaza-te! Nu vrei, du-te, frate, de unde ai venit. In cazul de fata, probabil ca in India.
In „Concentrati in metropole“ vorbiti despre noile media. Cit de importante sint pentru voi computerul si Internetul?
Ombladon: Freaka este bolnav. Noi folosim computerul strict pentru muzica.
Cheloo: Nu sintem dependenti de Internet, nu ne place directia in care se indreapta lucrurile. E pacat ca pustii din ziua de azi prefera sa stea sa o frece pe Internet, sa poarte discutii pe forumuri, pe mess, in loc sa traiasca, de fapt. Sa aiba niste ocupatii irelevante, dar reale.
Ii mai taxati si pe cei care intra pe forumuri sa va injure.
Cheloo: Ii taxam intr-un singur vers, revenim la aceeasi chestie, noi muncim foarte mult, dormim putin, alergam, ne stresam, pentru noi chiar e un efort intelectual sa facem versurile astea, nu vin asa usor cum se crede.
Ombladon: Nu acceptam criticile unor copii de 15 ani care n-au facut nimic. Frate, in momentul in care o sa ajungi la nivelul meu si o sa faci piese la fel de bune, pe care lumea sa le perceapa asa, atunci da-ne in cap.
In „Drogurile schimba tot“ sinteti mai vehementi ca niciodata in ce priveste drogurile grele.
Cheloo: Ne-am ferit sa facem campanii antidrog, pentru ca in Romania exista un singur drog de care trebuie sa te feresti cu adevarat si acela e heroina. Nu am facut, pentru ca, pur si simplu, nu am simtit. In momentul in care am zis ca e important sa facem chestia asta, am facut-o asa cum am crezut noi. E o piesa la obiect si poate n-ar putea fi difuzata pentru ca este extraordinar de explicita si de dura, iar oameni rau intentionati ar putea spune ca trebuie interzisa pentru ca instiga la consumul de droguri.
Aveti prieteni cu probleme legate de drogurile grele?
Cheloo: Am trait printre ei. Stim foarte bine ca de heroina scapa foarte putini. De aceea „Drogurile schimba tot“ se refera la heroina. Punct.
Ati fost tentati s-o incercati?
Cheloo: Nu am fost tentati s-o incercam. Noi sintem sfinti.
Freakadadisk: Am ajuns la 30 de ani, cu 90 de kile.
Cheloo: Deci inseamna ca nu consumam heroina. Asta nu inseamna ca nu stim toate aspectele. Avem prieteni care au murit. I-am carat in spate...
Injurati politicienii in „Slalom printre cretini“. Aveti amici printre politicieni?
Cheloo: In particular, stim destui, in general, pe cei tineri, dar asta nu inseamna ca-i sustinem politic sau ca sintem de acord cu ei.
Ne-au spus ei: „Stim ca sintem de cacat, dar ne merge bine“.
Ombladon: Momentan, cei tineri n-au puterea sa faca nimic.
Cheloo: In partide sint multi care ar putea face lucruri bune, dar sint cu piciorul in git si legati de vechii politicieni care detin controlul real. Ramin acolo in speranta ca mai tirziu vor reusi sa conduca partidul respectiv, sa faca ceva bun, daca intre timp nu se pervertesc, la rindul lor.
Nu dati doi lei pe tricolor, dar l-ati pus pe coperta.
Cheloo: L-am asociat cu „Slalom printre cretini“, vorbim despre Romania. Asta nu inseamna ca toti romanii sint cretini, ci marea lor majoritate. Si sint asa, pentru ca romanii nu mai au nimic, nu prea mai au cultura, de ani buni se promoveaza prostia la cel mai inalt nivel, ce vezi pe televizor te ingrozeste.
Cum s-a petrecut colaborarea cu Margineanu?
Ombladon: Noi facusem tot textul, negativul, Margineanu e un om vesel. Pur si simplu, l-am trezit din somn: „Vino la studio ca avem o piesa, ia-l si pe ala cu vioara si hai sa ne distram un pic!“. Ne stiam. In general, am colaborat cu prieteni, cunostinte.
Credeti ca are vreo sansa vreuna dintre piesele astea sa nu fie cenzurata?
Cheloo: Vrei un raspuns inteligent? Deja ne doare-n p...! Ne-am obisnuit atit de mult cu ideea de a fi cenzurati, incit nu ne mai preocupa acest subiect.
Din Evenimentul zilei
EVZ: Ati lansat un nou album, „Slalom printre cretini”, considerat mult mai dur decat ceea ce ati facut pana acum. In piesa „Mesaj pentru Europa” atacati tiganii si homosexualii si exista pareri ca ati trecut de la un mesaj anarhist la unul xenofob si rasist.
Cheloo: De ce nu avem voie sa spunem ceea ce credem? De ce trebuie sa protejam atat ideea de minoritate? De ce, daca spui o chestie care te deranjeaza, esti catalogat ca rasist? Noi nu avem o problema cu culoarea pielii. La noi totul se reduce la cultura si atitudine. Rasismul este o chestie noua, a fost inventat acum 50 de ani. Iar acum, cine deschide gura si spune ceva ce n-ar trebui spus e catalogat drept rasist si xenofob.
E o regula mondiala in momentul de fata. De ce n-am voie sa spun ceva despre tigani, fara sa fiu catalogat ca rasist? Ne referim strict la ce se intampla in Europa, unde romanii sunt priviti ca tigani. Ne deranjeaza. Asta ma transforma in rasist si xenofob?
Nu am voie sa spun ce ma deranjeaza? Ma deranjeaza si ca romanii care vorbesc trei limbi straine primesc oferte sa care tomberoane la Amsterdam. Am intrat in genunchi in Europa si-acum tre’ sa le sugem p*** ca sa fim frati cu ei. Insa vor sa integreze tiganii.
Am ajuns la 30 de ani si ne respectam. Suntem sinceri. Ar trebui ca eu sa ma cobor la nivelul lor, sa traiesc in cort si sa ma duc sa fur in Europa, ca sa nu fiu considerat rasist? Pot sa pun problema si la modul asta. Si nu mi-e rusine, sunt mandru chiar, este piesa mea preferata de pe album.
Freakadadisk: Nici nu aparuse conflictul asta cu Italia, piesa e compusa acum un an.
Mergeti mai departe... Aveti un vers in care spuneti „sa facem homosexualii pachet si sa-i trimitem la Barcelona”.
Cheloo: Este o gluma. Daca as putea sa-i trimit pe toti la Barcelona, i-as trimite si n-ar mai fi o gluma. Eu nu vreau sa-mi cresc copiii printre barbati care se saruta in fata lor. Este dreptul meu sa spun asta.
Ombladon: Noi avem o problema cu homosexualii care ies pe strada si spun in gura mare ce fac. Ce fac la ei acasa e treaba lor.
Credeti ca mesajul vostru va schimba ceva?
Ombladon: Nu stim asta. Noi am tras doar niste semnale de alarma.
Cheloo: Trei oameni care canta nu pot schimba o natiune. Insa un procent poate sa asculte, sa inteleaga si poate cativa isi vor schimba atitudinea. Mesajul nostru este absolut pozitiv, numai ca e imbracat intr-o forma violenta. Care devine din ce in ce mai violenta de la an la an. Oamenii se schimba, gandesc altfel. Nu mai suntem ca la 15 ani, cand
ne-am apucat de muzica.
Aveti o alta tema constanta: femeile. Toate sunt curve si proaste? Unele femei se simt deranjate de versurile voastre.
Ombladon: Si pana sa facem noi piesele nu se simteau? Inseamna ca aveau o problema.
Cheloo: Ne distreaza subiectul. E o parere. Insa exista si exceptii.
Cum o sa ajungeti la public? Cu mici exceptii, radiourile nu va difuzeaza.
Cheloo: Ne-am obisnuit si cu asta.
Orice artist isi doreste sa fie difuzat. V-ati resemnat?
Cheloo: Acum cinci ani am fi spus: da, uite ce misto e, suntem pe radio, insa acum ne-a trecut. Nu mai suntem copii. Singurul lucru care ne intereseaza acum e sa ne pastram linia, sa nu facem lucruri comerciale, sa fim respectati pentru muzica pe care o facem.
Ombladon: Sa nu-i dezamagim pe cei care ne asculta de multi ani. Nu ne intereseaza cei care au descoperit Parazitii acum sase luni.
Cine sunt ascultatorii vostri?
Cheloo: Sunt doua categorii: cei care spun „Hi, hi, hi, mama ce injura aia acolo” si sunt cei care inteleg ceea ce vrem noi sa „balbaim” pe albume si se regasesc in muzica noastra.
Ombladon: Primii nu ne intereseaza, insa nu le putem interzice sa asculte Parazitii.
Sunteti de 14 ani pe piata. Multe trupe de hip-hop n-au rezistat.
Cheloo: Noi avem puterea sa spunem ce gandim, chiar daca gandim prost. Nu avem pretentia ca suntem genii, suntem trei oameni normali.
Veti face videoclip la „Mesaj pentru Europa”. Banuiesc ca iar vor fi probleme cu CNA.
Cheloo: De ce banuiesti atata? Hai sa vedem ce se intampla. De fapt, nici nu ne intereseaza ce se intampla.
Mai aveti ceva cu membrii CNA?
Ombladon: Noi n-am avut niciodata nimic cu ei. Ei au avut cu noi, iar noi am contraatacat.
Aveti cateva colaborari pe album.
Cheloo: Avem cateva featuringuri cu unii dintre membrii Wu Tang Killa Beez. Chiar ne-am dorit asta, ii ascultam de la 15 ani. Mai avem o piesa cu Mircea Badea, pentru ca suntem fanii lui, si mai avem una cu Margineanu, „Moartea intreaba de tine”, la care, de asemenea, vom face videoclip.
CONTROVERSE
Cheloo: „Nu suntem rasisti”
Totodata spuneti ca toleranta e la moda. Cine stabileste limitele?
Cheloo: aia care ne fac pe noi xenofobi si rasisti. Nu suntem prosti. E foarte simplu: de ce trebuie sa vad doi travestiti
care se saruta ostentativ pe strada? Iar asta chiar se intampla. Eu, ca majoritate sexuala, nu sunt obligat sa accept asta. Din punctul meu de vedere sunt atacat. Drepturile mele ca majoritate nu mai sunt respectate in momentul in care mi se impune sa respect dorintele unei minoritati sexuale sau de orice alt fel. Avem prieteni negri, i-am tinut la noi in casa. Nu suntem rasisti.
Atunci, versurile acestea sunt o metafora socanta prin care sa atrageti atentia?
Cheloo: Nu e o metafora. Asta am gandit, asta am spus. Nu ne-am straduit sa facem „Mesaj pentru Europa”, asta gandim. Daca sunteti socati, dati cu pietre-n Parazitii, frate. Nu mai ascultati muzica, spargeti
CD-urile. O sa vindem cu 30.000 de copii mai putin. N-are nicio importantta, noi am spus ce-am crezut.
Ombladon: Asta am facut intotdeauna.
In „Mesaj pentru Europa“ va referiti la tigani si la gay.
Cheloo: Am mai fost plecati, am simtit ce inseamna sa fii roman in Europa si asta se datoreaza strict tiganilor care au plecat pentru o imbogatire rapida, jafuri, furturi, violuri, prostitutie. Sintem asociati ca popor cu o minoritate favorizata in Romania. Sintem in secolul restrictiilor, este un trend de vreo 50 de ani incoace, hai sa-i iubim pe cei care stau printre noi si nu vor sa se integreze. Minoritatile trebuie respectate, trebuie sa le respectam cultura, dar nu sa calcam in picioare drepturile majoritatii in favoarea lor. Vrei sa traiesti in Romania, adapteaza-te! Nu vrei, du-te, frate, de unde ai venit. In cazul de fata, probabil ca in India.
In „Concentrati in metropole“ vorbiti despre noile media. Cit de importante sint pentru voi computerul si Internetul?
Ombladon: Freaka este bolnav. Noi folosim computerul strict pentru muzica.
Cheloo: Nu sintem dependenti de Internet, nu ne place directia in care se indreapta lucrurile. E pacat ca pustii din ziua de azi prefera sa stea sa o frece pe Internet, sa poarte discutii pe forumuri, pe mess, in loc sa traiasca, de fapt. Sa aiba niste ocupatii irelevante, dar reale.
Ii mai taxati si pe cei care intra pe forumuri sa va injure.
Cheloo: Ii taxam intr-un singur vers, revenim la aceeasi chestie, noi muncim foarte mult, dormim putin, alergam, ne stresam, pentru noi chiar e un efort intelectual sa facem versurile astea, nu vin asa usor cum se crede.
Ombladon: Nu acceptam criticile unor copii de 15 ani care n-au facut nimic. Frate, in momentul in care o sa ajungi la nivelul meu si o sa faci piese la fel de bune, pe care lumea sa le perceapa asa, atunci da-ne in cap.
In „Drogurile schimba tot“ sinteti mai vehementi ca niciodata in ce priveste drogurile grele.
Cheloo: Ne-am ferit sa facem campanii antidrog, pentru ca in Romania exista un singur drog de care trebuie sa te feresti cu adevarat si acela e heroina. Nu am facut, pentru ca, pur si simplu, nu am simtit. In momentul in care am zis ca e important sa facem chestia asta, am facut-o asa cum am crezut noi. E o piesa la obiect si poate n-ar putea fi difuzata pentru ca este extraordinar de explicita si de dura, iar oameni rau intentionati ar putea spune ca trebuie interzisa pentru ca instiga la consumul de droguri.
Aveti prieteni cu probleme legate de drogurile grele?
Cheloo: Am trait printre ei. Stim foarte bine ca de heroina scapa foarte putini. De aceea „Drogurile schimba tot“ se refera la heroina. Punct.
Ati fost tentati s-o incercati?
Cheloo: Nu am fost tentati s-o incercam. Noi sintem sfinti.
Freakadadisk: Am ajuns la 30 de ani, cu 90 de kile.
Cheloo: Deci inseamna ca nu consumam heroina. Asta nu inseamna ca nu stim toate aspectele. Avem prieteni care au murit. I-am carat in spate...
Injurati politicienii in „Slalom printre cretini“. Aveti amici printre politicieni?
Cheloo: In particular, stim destui, in general, pe cei tineri, dar asta nu inseamna ca-i sustinem politic sau ca sintem de acord cu ei.
Ne-au spus ei: „Stim ca sintem de cacat, dar ne merge bine“.
Ombladon: Momentan, cei tineri n-au puterea sa faca nimic.
Cheloo: In partide sint multi care ar putea face lucruri bune, dar sint cu piciorul in git si legati de vechii politicieni care detin controlul real. Ramin acolo in speranta ca mai tirziu vor reusi sa conduca partidul respectiv, sa faca ceva bun, daca intre timp nu se pervertesc, la rindul lor.
Nu dati doi lei pe tricolor, dar l-ati pus pe coperta.
Cheloo: L-am asociat cu „Slalom printre cretini“, vorbim despre Romania. Asta nu inseamna ca toti romanii sint cretini, ci marea lor majoritate. Si sint asa, pentru ca romanii nu mai au nimic, nu prea mai au cultura, de ani buni se promoveaza prostia la cel mai inalt nivel, ce vezi pe televizor te ingrozeste.
Cum s-a petrecut colaborarea cu Margineanu?
Ombladon: Noi facusem tot textul, negativul, Margineanu e un om vesel. Pur si simplu, l-am trezit din somn: „Vino la studio ca avem o piesa, ia-l si pe ala cu vioara si hai sa ne distram un pic!“. Ne stiam. In general, am colaborat cu prieteni, cunostinte.
Credeti ca are vreo sansa vreuna dintre piesele astea sa nu fie cenzurata?
Cheloo: Vrei un raspuns inteligent? Deja ne doare-n p...! Ne-am obisnuit atit de mult cu ideea de a fi cenzurati, incit nu ne mai preocupa acest subiect.
Din Evenimentul zilei
EVZ: Ati lansat un nou album, „Slalom printre cretini”, considerat mult mai dur decat ceea ce ati facut pana acum. In piesa „Mesaj pentru Europa” atacati tiganii si homosexualii si exista pareri ca ati trecut de la un mesaj anarhist la unul xenofob si rasist.
Cheloo: De ce nu avem voie sa spunem ceea ce credem? De ce trebuie sa protejam atat ideea de minoritate? De ce, daca spui o chestie care te deranjeaza, esti catalogat ca rasist? Noi nu avem o problema cu culoarea pielii. La noi totul se reduce la cultura si atitudine. Rasismul este o chestie noua, a fost inventat acum 50 de ani. Iar acum, cine deschide gura si spune ceva ce n-ar trebui spus e catalogat drept rasist si xenofob.
E o regula mondiala in momentul de fata. De ce n-am voie sa spun ceva despre tigani, fara sa fiu catalogat ca rasist? Ne referim strict la ce se intampla in Europa, unde romanii sunt priviti ca tigani. Ne deranjeaza. Asta ma transforma in rasist si xenofob?
Nu am voie sa spun ce ma deranjeaza? Ma deranjeaza si ca romanii care vorbesc trei limbi straine primesc oferte sa care tomberoane la Amsterdam. Am intrat in genunchi in Europa si-acum tre’ sa le sugem p*** ca sa fim frati cu ei. Insa vor sa integreze tiganii.
Am ajuns la 30 de ani si ne respectam. Suntem sinceri. Ar trebui ca eu sa ma cobor la nivelul lor, sa traiesc in cort si sa ma duc sa fur in Europa, ca sa nu fiu considerat rasist? Pot sa pun problema si la modul asta. Si nu mi-e rusine, sunt mandru chiar, este piesa mea preferata de pe album.
Freakadadisk: Nici nu aparuse conflictul asta cu Italia, piesa e compusa acum un an.
Mergeti mai departe... Aveti un vers in care spuneti „sa facem homosexualii pachet si sa-i trimitem la Barcelona”.
Cheloo: Este o gluma. Daca as putea sa-i trimit pe toti la Barcelona, i-as trimite si n-ar mai fi o gluma. Eu nu vreau sa-mi cresc copiii printre barbati care se saruta in fata lor. Este dreptul meu sa spun asta.
Ombladon: Noi avem o problema cu homosexualii care ies pe strada si spun in gura mare ce fac. Ce fac la ei acasa e treaba lor.
Credeti ca mesajul vostru va schimba ceva?
Ombladon: Nu stim asta. Noi am tras doar niste semnale de alarma.
Cheloo: Trei oameni care canta nu pot schimba o natiune. Insa un procent poate sa asculte, sa inteleaga si poate cativa isi vor schimba atitudinea. Mesajul nostru este absolut pozitiv, numai ca e imbracat intr-o forma violenta. Care devine din ce in ce mai violenta de la an la an. Oamenii se schimba, gandesc altfel. Nu mai suntem ca la 15 ani, cand
ne-am apucat de muzica.
Aveti o alta tema constanta: femeile. Toate sunt curve si proaste? Unele femei se simt deranjate de versurile voastre.
Ombladon: Si pana sa facem noi piesele nu se simteau? Inseamna ca aveau o problema.
Cheloo: Ne distreaza subiectul. E o parere. Insa exista si exceptii.
Cum o sa ajungeti la public? Cu mici exceptii, radiourile nu va difuzeaza.
Cheloo: Ne-am obisnuit si cu asta.
Orice artist isi doreste sa fie difuzat. V-ati resemnat?
Cheloo: Acum cinci ani am fi spus: da, uite ce misto e, suntem pe radio, insa acum ne-a trecut. Nu mai suntem copii. Singurul lucru care ne intereseaza acum e sa ne pastram linia, sa nu facem lucruri comerciale, sa fim respectati pentru muzica pe care o facem.
Ombladon: Sa nu-i dezamagim pe cei care ne asculta de multi ani. Nu ne intereseaza cei care au descoperit Parazitii acum sase luni.
Cine sunt ascultatorii vostri?
Cheloo: Sunt doua categorii: cei care spun „Hi, hi, hi, mama ce injura aia acolo” si sunt cei care inteleg ceea ce vrem noi sa „balbaim” pe albume si se regasesc in muzica noastra.
Ombladon: Primii nu ne intereseaza, insa nu le putem interzice sa asculte Parazitii.
Sunteti de 14 ani pe piata. Multe trupe de hip-hop n-au rezistat.
Cheloo: Noi avem puterea sa spunem ce gandim, chiar daca gandim prost. Nu avem pretentia ca suntem genii, suntem trei oameni normali.
Veti face videoclip la „Mesaj pentru Europa”. Banuiesc ca iar vor fi probleme cu CNA.
Cheloo: De ce banuiesti atata? Hai sa vedem ce se intampla. De fapt, nici nu ne intereseaza ce se intampla.
Mai aveti ceva cu membrii CNA?
Ombladon: Noi n-am avut niciodata nimic cu ei. Ei au avut cu noi, iar noi am contraatacat.
Aveti cateva colaborari pe album.
Cheloo: Avem cateva featuringuri cu unii dintre membrii Wu Tang Killa Beez. Chiar ne-am dorit asta, ii ascultam de la 15 ani. Mai avem o piesa cu Mircea Badea, pentru ca suntem fanii lui, si mai avem una cu Margineanu, „Moartea intreaba de tine”, la care, de asemenea, vom face videoclip.
CONTROVERSE
Cheloo: „Nu suntem rasisti”
Totodata spuneti ca toleranta e la moda. Cine stabileste limitele?
Cheloo: aia care ne fac pe noi xenofobi si rasisti. Nu suntem prosti. E foarte simplu: de ce trebuie sa vad doi travestiti
care se saruta ostentativ pe strada? Iar asta chiar se intampla. Eu, ca majoritate sexuala, nu sunt obligat sa accept asta. Din punctul meu de vedere sunt atacat. Drepturile mele ca majoritate nu mai sunt respectate in momentul in care mi se impune sa respect dorintele unei minoritati sexuale sau de orice alt fel. Avem prieteni negri, i-am tinut la noi in casa. Nu suntem rasisti.
Atunci, versurile acestea sunt o metafora socanta prin care sa atrageti atentia?
Cheloo: Nu e o metafora. Asta am gandit, asta am spus. Nu ne-am straduit sa facem „Mesaj pentru Europa”, asta gandim. Daca sunteti socati, dati cu pietre-n Parazitii, frate. Nu mai ascultati muzica, spargeti
CD-urile. O sa vindem cu 30.000 de copii mai putin. N-are nicio importantta, noi am spus ce-am crezut.
Ombladon: Asta am facut intotdeauna.
copiii decembristi ai filmului romanesc
All eyes on the December children
Romania is emerging from the chaotic aftermath of communism to shake up the world of film. By Jan Schulz-Ojala
Revolutions in the cinema seldom need the masses. Four or five names usually suffice; they come together when the benevolent film god focusses on a particular place at a particular time and in a blinking of an eye the screen world is a new one. In the late fifties of the last century a few prominent French film critics decided to try out things behind the camera and bada bing, the Nouvelle Vague was born. In the mid-nineties a few boisterous Danes wrote a seemingly ascetic manifesto and suddenly all other films looked like they were under a thick layer of dust compared with the Dogma productions. For a decade now the clear, stringent language of a handful of German directors has challenged the ubiquitous noise cinema and by now they are happy to be counted as part of the prestigious "Berlin School", a name they didn't coin for themselves.
Sometimes it is a central aesthetic concept which unites these small groups of extreme individualists; sometimes it's the weight of historical circumstance. The handful of Romanian directors who are now causing a stir in international auteur cinema, belong to a generation of 30 and 40-somethings who grew up under Ceaucescu but were not broken by him. The decline of the Romanian film industry – in the year 2000 not a single film was made there – was something they all witnessed while still in school. But in the last few years they have cranked up the country's film funding apparatus again and attracted the world's attention by winning international prizes.
In particular the ever innovative Cannes festival paved the way for the success of Catalin Mitulescu, Cristi Puiu, Corneliu Porumboiu and Cristian Mungiu. And this year an uninterrupted stream of short and debut film prizes followed the first Golden Palm ever awarded to a Romanian director. Cristian Mungiu accepted it with the beatified words that you "need neither a big budget nor big stars to tell a story the world wants to hear."
These new filmmakers call themselves – in reference to the fall of Ceaucescu in December 1989 – "December children." And unlike old masters such as Lucian Pintilie, who has lived in exile in France for so long that Romania might as well be Absurdistan to him, or Radu Mihaileanu ("Train of Life") another emigrant to France, they make realistic cinema albeit with a satirical twist – testaments to a lively confrontation with the past that double as imposing critiques of the present.
In "12:08 East of Bucharest" (2006) Corneliu Porumboiu has three provincial souls deliberate on a bizarre talkshow over "whether the revolution ever took place outside Bucharest"; in "The Death of Mister Lazarescu" (2005) Cristi Puiu traces the final odyssey of an old man through the hospitals of the capital; and in Cristian Nemescu's "California Dreamin'" (2007) set during the Kosovo war, village inhabitants pull out all the hospitality stops for a company of US soldiers stranded in their railway station, right the way through to the bitter, blood-spattered end.
Cristian Mungiu gives a wide berth - perhaps this is what sealed his success at Cannes - to all export-friendly items such as humour and fantasy with which Eastern Europeans have traditionally flavoured their former circumstances to make them internationally palatable. "4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days" is a chronological description of a day and a long evening, almost in real time, using long, scene-length shots. It is the story of the lead-up to, execution and aftermath of a secret abortion in a small town in Romania in 1987. The only touch of irony comes in the titles at the end which announces that the film is the first of a trilogy of "Stories from Golden Age" in which Mungiu will describe everyday life under Ceaucescu.
The dictator ushered in the golden age of the breeding machine in the early days of his rule in 1966 with "Decree 770", a law so hated that it was abolished immediately after his fall. In order to mass produce communist offspring, women under 40 with less than four children faced stiff prison sentences for having abortions. The birth rate soared initially - indeed Mungiu who was born in 1968 is one of the "decreed" - but soon the number of terminations started rising dramatically. As a result, thousands of women are estimated to have died in the course of the years.
Mungiu's film never bangs a drum about this; his film functions for the viewer without any background knowledge. With absolute historical precision, and at the same time extreme aesthetic reduction, he shows the gauchely nervous Gabita (Laura Vasiliu) and her vigilant room mate Otilia (Anamaria Marinca) preparing for the abortion in a hotel room; the "angel maker" (Vlad Ivanov) they pay to carry it out taking financial and sexual advantage of their plight; and the two young women attempting to deal with the layers of physical and psychological trauma once it's all over.
Packing their things together in their student accommodation, searching for a hotel room where the women at the reception are the horribly perfect embodiment of socialist non-service, the first cool words with the abortionist in the car, the negotiations with him which start off quietly and quickly escalate into a fracas, and later Otilia's final duty of friendship where she hastily dispenses with the foetus in the night. All this is dealt with in a few pithy scenes where the hand-held camera is permitted a minimal tremor at most, however long it concentrates on one thing. But there is a tremor, right from the start.
Only once does the camera (Oleg Mutu) give way to what one might call the lust for spectacle. It shows us for a matter of seconds only, the dead foetus, wrapped in blood-stained towels. But it would be quite wrong to cast "4 months...." as an anti-abortion film. Mungiu's film never judges; it soberly recounts the total contamination of everyday life through the abuse of power, while cleverly avoiding anything directly political. It is a fact that the ban on abortion delivered hundreds of thousands of women into the hands of such mini-dictators of the moment. The criminality of the system was recognisable even its most distorted manifestations.
The nightmare is over, the big one and the little one. Today Romania's abortion laws are among the most liberal in the world. After all the confusion that followed the end of communism, the country may have no more than 35 cinemas – but such things are irrelevant when its young directors are so capable of helping themselves. As the founder of Mobra Films, Cristian Mungiu is his own producer. And now his moving, brilliantly acted film, in which every one of its 113 minutes is gripping, is currently touring the cinemaless cities of his home country in a caravan rigged up with a projector. And little by little his ticket sales are nearing the million mark.
Romania is emerging from the chaotic aftermath of communism to shake up the world of film. By Jan Schulz-Ojala
Revolutions in the cinema seldom need the masses. Four or five names usually suffice; they come together when the benevolent film god focusses on a particular place at a particular time and in a blinking of an eye the screen world is a new one. In the late fifties of the last century a few prominent French film critics decided to try out things behind the camera and bada bing, the Nouvelle Vague was born. In the mid-nineties a few boisterous Danes wrote a seemingly ascetic manifesto and suddenly all other films looked like they were under a thick layer of dust compared with the Dogma productions. For a decade now the clear, stringent language of a handful of German directors has challenged the ubiquitous noise cinema and by now they are happy to be counted as part of the prestigious "Berlin School", a name they didn't coin for themselves.
Sometimes it is a central aesthetic concept which unites these small groups of extreme individualists; sometimes it's the weight of historical circumstance. The handful of Romanian directors who are now causing a stir in international auteur cinema, belong to a generation of 30 and 40-somethings who grew up under Ceaucescu but were not broken by him. The decline of the Romanian film industry – in the year 2000 not a single film was made there – was something they all witnessed while still in school. But in the last few years they have cranked up the country's film funding apparatus again and attracted the world's attention by winning international prizes.
In particular the ever innovative Cannes festival paved the way for the success of Catalin Mitulescu, Cristi Puiu, Corneliu Porumboiu and Cristian Mungiu. And this year an uninterrupted stream of short and debut film prizes followed the first Golden Palm ever awarded to a Romanian director. Cristian Mungiu accepted it with the beatified words that you "need neither a big budget nor big stars to tell a story the world wants to hear."
These new filmmakers call themselves – in reference to the fall of Ceaucescu in December 1989 – "December children." And unlike old masters such as Lucian Pintilie, who has lived in exile in France for so long that Romania might as well be Absurdistan to him, or Radu Mihaileanu ("Train of Life") another emigrant to France, they make realistic cinema albeit with a satirical twist – testaments to a lively confrontation with the past that double as imposing critiques of the present.
In "12:08 East of Bucharest" (2006) Corneliu Porumboiu has three provincial souls deliberate on a bizarre talkshow over "whether the revolution ever took place outside Bucharest"; in "The Death of Mister Lazarescu" (2005) Cristi Puiu traces the final odyssey of an old man through the hospitals of the capital; and in Cristian Nemescu's "California Dreamin'" (2007) set during the Kosovo war, village inhabitants pull out all the hospitality stops for a company of US soldiers stranded in their railway station, right the way through to the bitter, blood-spattered end.
Cristian Mungiu gives a wide berth - perhaps this is what sealed his success at Cannes - to all export-friendly items such as humour and fantasy with which Eastern Europeans have traditionally flavoured their former circumstances to make them internationally palatable. "4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days" is a chronological description of a day and a long evening, almost in real time, using long, scene-length shots. It is the story of the lead-up to, execution and aftermath of a secret abortion in a small town in Romania in 1987. The only touch of irony comes in the titles at the end which announces that the film is the first of a trilogy of "Stories from Golden Age" in which Mungiu will describe everyday life under Ceaucescu.
The dictator ushered in the golden age of the breeding machine in the early days of his rule in 1966 with "Decree 770", a law so hated that it was abolished immediately after his fall. In order to mass produce communist offspring, women under 40 with less than four children faced stiff prison sentences for having abortions. The birth rate soared initially - indeed Mungiu who was born in 1968 is one of the "decreed" - but soon the number of terminations started rising dramatically. As a result, thousands of women are estimated to have died in the course of the years.
Mungiu's film never bangs a drum about this; his film functions for the viewer without any background knowledge. With absolute historical precision, and at the same time extreme aesthetic reduction, he shows the gauchely nervous Gabita (Laura Vasiliu) and her vigilant room mate Otilia (Anamaria Marinca) preparing for the abortion in a hotel room; the "angel maker" (Vlad Ivanov) they pay to carry it out taking financial and sexual advantage of their plight; and the two young women attempting to deal with the layers of physical and psychological trauma once it's all over.
Packing their things together in their student accommodation, searching for a hotel room where the women at the reception are the horribly perfect embodiment of socialist non-service, the first cool words with the abortionist in the car, the negotiations with him which start off quietly and quickly escalate into a fracas, and later Otilia's final duty of friendship where she hastily dispenses with the foetus in the night. All this is dealt with in a few pithy scenes where the hand-held camera is permitted a minimal tremor at most, however long it concentrates on one thing. But there is a tremor, right from the start.
Only once does the camera (Oleg Mutu) give way to what one might call the lust for spectacle. It shows us for a matter of seconds only, the dead foetus, wrapped in blood-stained towels. But it would be quite wrong to cast "4 months...." as an anti-abortion film. Mungiu's film never judges; it soberly recounts the total contamination of everyday life through the abuse of power, while cleverly avoiding anything directly political. It is a fact that the ban on abortion delivered hundreds of thousands of women into the hands of such mini-dictators of the moment. The criminality of the system was recognisable even its most distorted manifestations.
The nightmare is over, the big one and the little one. Today Romania's abortion laws are among the most liberal in the world. After all the confusion that followed the end of communism, the country may have no more than 35 cinemas – but such things are irrelevant when its young directors are so capable of helping themselves. As the founder of Mobra Films, Cristian Mungiu is his own producer. And now his moving, brilliantly acted film, in which every one of its 113 minutes is gripping, is currently touring the cinemaless cities of his home country in a caravan rigged up with a projector. And little by little his ticket sales are nearing the million mark.
interviu comentat
Eugen Istodor il intreaba pe Mircea Horia Simionescu, in Cotidianul, editia din 27 Noiembrie 2007:
Prima criza mistica.
Hai, ma, eu mi-am pierdut relatiile astea ecleziastice de pe la 10 ani. Atunci am facut o criza mistica extraordinara. La 10 ani imi murea tata si ma rugam pe coji de nuca, pe pietre tari sa-L salveze. Dumnealui, bineinteles nu de asta se ocupa, de salvarea capitanului Stelian Simionescu. De atunci nu ma mai intereseaza rugaciunea, postul... dom’le, nu poate juca vaduva lui Olareanu canasta ca e-n post. Lasa-ma, dom’le! Eu la mormintul parintilor mei nu cred ca am fost mai mult de trei ori in viata. Nu e acolo nimeni, sa stiti, e pe aici, pe undeva. Ha, haha, stiti cit pot fabula, nu, fabulez cu credinta. La Pietrosita, la tara, aia cred ca eu am trecut la adventisti.
Sinteti al dracului?
Nu. Ma simt mai „confortabil“ in iritare fiindca sub infatisarea unui tip intelegator sint un nemultumit, un aventurier in felul meu. Acum traiesc vremea asta in care simt ca nu am adversar, adversar bine conturat, nu? Pe vremea lui Ceausescu, era clar, bagam aluzii, faceam gesturi de indaratnicie, stiam regulile jocului. Acum nu am cu cine lupta, nu am cu cine sa ma infrunt in idei. Uite, d'aia se duc tinerii la Parazitii ca aia au cu cine sa se lupte!
Cum a fost copilaria?
Fericita. Traiam intr-o casa plina de jucarii, plina de bucate, o casa construita de mama, ca tata era cartofor.
Conteaza jucariile, bucatele?
Oho, stiti cum? Atit de tare incit nu ne interesa scoala. Si mama, dupa moartea tatalui, ne spunea, mie si fratelui meu... „Ba, copii, unde va grabiti, e sapte dimineata, ploua afara, e zloata, da-o dracului de scoala“ si noi o ascultam, bine, era razboi, nu aveam incaltari si haine si, decit sa racim, mai bine stateam acasa si ne cinta mama la pian, scriam poezii pentru Marioara, pentru Didona, fecioarele de pe strada mea, si citeam de rupeam ce voiam. Dar ce a fost... am avut o pubertate si o adolescenta foarte tulburate, eu la 17 ani am avut un copil. Fata mi-a murit in primavara asta.
Cum ati intrat la „Scanteia“?
Simplu, eram in facultate si o profesoara mi-a zis ca nu se leaga lucrurile si mi-a gasit post la „Scanteia“, la Sectia de Scrisori. Nu citisem in viata mea „Scanteia“. Mi s-a spus sa nu-mi pese de „Scanteia“, de Partid si asa si era, transformasem jocul din curtea mea in joaca, faceam literatura. Scriam la concurenta cu ceilalti prieteni ai mei literatura, mii de pagini, penibile, penibile de groaza. Nu ma interesa „Scanteia“, scriam dadaisme. Ele, cele scrise de dumnealui or fi citind asa cu suguranta pentru gloata proletara, dar sa fi fost totul asa de nevinovat ca DADA? Nu ne pasa, dar era o nepasare si de frica, incepusera saltarile la Securitate, dintre unchii mei. Frica, frica, nici acum nu m-a parasit frica. La „Scanteia“ citeam scrisorile adresate de oamenii muncii organului, niste turnatorii ordinare. Puneam mina pe ite. Si, ce faceam, pe unde cunosteam ii avertizam pe oameni... „Vezi, ai grija! ai pe cineva in preajma“. Si in tara vorbeam cu prietenii mei sa-i anunte pe ceilalti sa fie prudenti. Abia astept sa citesc istoria celor 50 de ani comunisti (SI) din perspectiva asta umanizata...
Ati ajuns in CC, apoi.
Da, da, eram mina dreapta a lui Dumitru Popescu-Dumnezeu. Ehei Moshule, erai bine.
Ce faceati acolo?
Tocam hirtie. Cica hirtii secrete, draci, nu stiu ce mare sedinta la Caminul Cultural. Niste prostii. Veneam cu zece minute inainte de a veni Ceausescu la birou. Pina intr-o zi, in care m-am dus acasa, m-am barbierit, mi-am pus haine bune, mi-am luat scuterul si m-am bagat sub rotile unui camion. Ma saturasem. Voiam sa ma sinucid. Asta-i material de film gen Tanacu. Umanitatea si infatzisarile ei... Un an jumatate - doi am stat prin spitale. Am suferit trupeste groaznic, dar a doua zi, cum m-am trezit, am cerut sa mi se aduca cartile si jurnalele mele. Bun, i-am bagat in ma-sa cu Ceausescu lor cu tot, bun, probabil era o chestie instinctuala, de retragere, ca strutul. Desi nu ne spune cand s-a intamplat acest episod, am banuiala ca a fost candva in anii '80. Pentru mai tinerii cititori, anii '80 erau asa de strambi ca nici nu-i de mirare ca de atunci o tzinem intr-una in cercuri.
La Opera?
Am avut un amor, si am avut inca un amor, si inca unul.
Cu balerine sau cu soprane?
Si, si. Niste fete dulci. Nu am fost fustangiu. Nu, nu! Aveam un prieten cu carnetel... vreo 500 de fete! Bun, la ce foloseste? In aceeasi femeie poate fi o fantezista si o proasta neagra, incit pun la indoiala dihotomia dintre bine si rau, nu, nu, sint impletite.
Femeia sau cartea, care te ajuta sa traiesti?
Cartea. Dom’le, cind stringeam in brate o femeie ma gindeam cum se poate descrie aceasta chestiune, cum se aduna sub condei momentele noastre. Asa era firea mea.
Noroc ca ati citit.
Dom’le Istodor, atingeti o chestie dureroasa. Ma duc dracului peste nu multa vreme, implinesc 80 de ani si nu am citit ce trebuia sa citesc.
Ce nu ati citit?
Musil, habar nu am. „In cautarea timpului pierdut.“ Dumnezeule, daca ar fi sa intind acum vorba... m-am intrebat daca eu iubesc suficient literatura sau antiliteratura, pe care o si fac. Din pacate, are dreptate si e destul de batran sa fie si sincer. Ia aminte mai tinere!
Antiliteratura e o smecherie, o scurtatura.
Asa e.
Si da senzatia ca ai citit tot.
Da, uite, iau un Heidegger, asta tradus de Liiceanu si Cioaba. De trei ori il tot plimb de la Bucuresti la Pietrosita. Bun, pe ici-colo pigulesc, dar, cinstit, nu. Platon, editia integrala, o am, dar nu am citit-o. Nu se poate, ma infurii eu, pina la sfirsitul vietii trebuie s-o citesc si ma trezesc ca peste trei ani tot necitita ramine. E ca povestea aia... iti place o tipa, nu mai poti fara ea, ai izbutit s-o inghesui intr-un tramvai si cu asta ti-ai satisfacut marea pofta de frumusete a asteia. Ma mai apasa lipsa de timp. De la 20 de ani nu am timp. TOCMAI DE ACEEA CLASICII TREBUIESC CITITI PANA LA 20 DE ANI. Dar pe vremea cand stimabilul avea 20 de ani fie n-aveai traduceri, fie erai ocupat sa creezi lumea noua la Scanteia...
Mai mult scrieti sau mai mult traiti?
Cum sa nu traiesc? Vin intimplarile peste mine! Eu nu caut aventura, dar vin aventurile peste mine. Dupa ce m-am casatorit, am avut iubiri pasionale... altii s-au casatorit de trei-patru ori, eu nu. Bun, stai dom’le, te-ai indragostit, ca si cum ai fi facut o boala, nu, dar ca sa o iei si de nevasta, sa-ti schimbi viata si iar sa ti-o schimbi, nu inteleg. Eu am vrut sa ma linistesc cit se poate de repede cu casatoria, sa am eu nevasta si bucataria mea, ca sa ma pot pune pe scris.
La ce ajuta bucataria si nevasta?
Te inteleg. Nevasta e primul meu cititor. Prima oara cind i-am citit nevestei a zis: „Doamne, ce e asta? Noi nu am facut la scoala!“. Si uite, cu vremea, se ia in colti cu colegii mei. Bun, in manuale nu am ajuns, dar ar vrea acum sa fiu persoana publica.
Sa vada ca ati ajuns ceva in viata!
Pai, nu? Am refuzat televiziunile. Nu am nevoie. Traiesc. Scriu.
Ce va tine? Din femei faceti literatura, din literatura, antiliteratura, cu Dumnezeu nu sinteti in cele mai bune relatii...
Ce ma tine? Gratuitatea artei. Socialul in arta? Sociologii, ziaristii, e treaba lor! Care realitate? Realitatea poposeste in mine. Retin dupa niste reguli generale in om ce conteaza ca inima sa bata, ca mintea sa gindeasca. Nu e suficienta realitatea? Mai trebuie sa fac eu comentarii pe marginea ei? Ce facem noi? Cautam de ce sintem asa.
Ati gasit vreo explicatie?
Cautarea imi place. Imi place ocolisul si literatura e ocolis, sa ma ierte... e frumos in Poiana lui Iocan, dar poti face asta intr-o suta de serii... nu e Poiana, e celula de puscarie, tot ce conteaza e sa ne cunoastem pe noi. Vom mai cunoaste zeci de planete, dar despre persoana noastra? Oho, poate niciodata! Ne pun la aparate acum. Ei si? Tragi o linie si e zero! La ce-mi foloseste mie arta? Asta-i gratuitul. Cind mi-a fost greu, foarte greu, mi-am adus aminte de un banc pe care-l faceam cu frati-miu, cu Olareanu, cu Radu Petrescu. O intrebam pe o nefericita pe strada: „De ce traiesti, babo?“, trecea baba si abia se tira. „De ce traiesti, babo“, repetam noi si ea ne auzea si zicea: „De banc!“
Prima criza mistica.
Hai, ma, eu mi-am pierdut relatiile astea ecleziastice de pe la 10 ani. Atunci am facut o criza mistica extraordinara. La 10 ani imi murea tata si ma rugam pe coji de nuca, pe pietre tari sa-L salveze. Dumnealui, bineinteles nu de asta se ocupa, de salvarea capitanului Stelian Simionescu. De atunci nu ma mai intereseaza rugaciunea, postul... dom’le, nu poate juca vaduva lui Olareanu canasta ca e-n post. Lasa-ma, dom’le! Eu la mormintul parintilor mei nu cred ca am fost mai mult de trei ori in viata. Nu e acolo nimeni, sa stiti, e pe aici, pe undeva. Ha, haha, stiti cit pot fabula, nu, fabulez cu credinta. La Pietrosita, la tara, aia cred ca eu am trecut la adventisti.
Sinteti al dracului?
Nu. Ma simt mai „confortabil“ in iritare fiindca sub infatisarea unui tip intelegator sint un nemultumit, un aventurier in felul meu. Acum traiesc vremea asta in care simt ca nu am adversar, adversar bine conturat, nu? Pe vremea lui Ceausescu, era clar, bagam aluzii, faceam gesturi de indaratnicie, stiam regulile jocului. Acum nu am cu cine lupta, nu am cu cine sa ma infrunt in idei. Uite, d'aia se duc tinerii la Parazitii ca aia au cu cine sa se lupte!
Cum a fost copilaria?
Fericita. Traiam intr-o casa plina de jucarii, plina de bucate, o casa construita de mama, ca tata era cartofor.
Conteaza jucariile, bucatele?
Oho, stiti cum? Atit de tare incit nu ne interesa scoala. Si mama, dupa moartea tatalui, ne spunea, mie si fratelui meu... „Ba, copii, unde va grabiti, e sapte dimineata, ploua afara, e zloata, da-o dracului de scoala“ si noi o ascultam, bine, era razboi, nu aveam incaltari si haine si, decit sa racim, mai bine stateam acasa si ne cinta mama la pian, scriam poezii pentru Marioara, pentru Didona, fecioarele de pe strada mea, si citeam de rupeam ce voiam. Dar ce a fost... am avut o pubertate si o adolescenta foarte tulburate, eu la 17 ani am avut un copil. Fata mi-a murit in primavara asta.
Cum ati intrat la „Scanteia“?
Simplu, eram in facultate si o profesoara mi-a zis ca nu se leaga lucrurile si mi-a gasit post la „Scanteia“, la Sectia de Scrisori. Nu citisem in viata mea „Scanteia“. Mi s-a spus sa nu-mi pese de „Scanteia“, de Partid si asa si era, transformasem jocul din curtea mea in joaca, faceam literatura. Scriam la concurenta cu ceilalti prieteni ai mei literatura, mii de pagini, penibile, penibile de groaza. Nu ma interesa „Scanteia“, scriam dadaisme. Ele, cele scrise de dumnealui or fi citind asa cu suguranta pentru gloata proletara, dar sa fi fost totul asa de nevinovat ca DADA? Nu ne pasa, dar era o nepasare si de frica, incepusera saltarile la Securitate, dintre unchii mei. Frica, frica, nici acum nu m-a parasit frica. La „Scanteia“ citeam scrisorile adresate de oamenii muncii organului, niste turnatorii ordinare. Puneam mina pe ite. Si, ce faceam, pe unde cunosteam ii avertizam pe oameni... „Vezi, ai grija! ai pe cineva in preajma“. Si in tara vorbeam cu prietenii mei sa-i anunte pe ceilalti sa fie prudenti. Abia astept sa citesc istoria celor 50 de ani comunisti (SI) din perspectiva asta umanizata...
Ati ajuns in CC, apoi.
Da, da, eram mina dreapta a lui Dumitru Popescu-Dumnezeu. Ehei Moshule, erai bine.
Ce faceati acolo?
Tocam hirtie. Cica hirtii secrete, draci, nu stiu ce mare sedinta la Caminul Cultural. Niste prostii. Veneam cu zece minute inainte de a veni Ceausescu la birou. Pina intr-o zi, in care m-am dus acasa, m-am barbierit, mi-am pus haine bune, mi-am luat scuterul si m-am bagat sub rotile unui camion. Ma saturasem. Voiam sa ma sinucid. Asta-i material de film gen Tanacu. Umanitatea si infatzisarile ei... Un an jumatate - doi am stat prin spitale. Am suferit trupeste groaznic, dar a doua zi, cum m-am trezit, am cerut sa mi se aduca cartile si jurnalele mele. Bun, i-am bagat in ma-sa cu Ceausescu lor cu tot, bun, probabil era o chestie instinctuala, de retragere, ca strutul. Desi nu ne spune cand s-a intamplat acest episod, am banuiala ca a fost candva in anii '80. Pentru mai tinerii cititori, anii '80 erau asa de strambi ca nici nu-i de mirare ca de atunci o tzinem intr-una in cercuri.
La Opera?
Am avut un amor, si am avut inca un amor, si inca unul.
Cu balerine sau cu soprane?
Si, si. Niste fete dulci. Nu am fost fustangiu. Nu, nu! Aveam un prieten cu carnetel... vreo 500 de fete! Bun, la ce foloseste? In aceeasi femeie poate fi o fantezista si o proasta neagra, incit pun la indoiala dihotomia dintre bine si rau, nu, nu, sint impletite.
Femeia sau cartea, care te ajuta sa traiesti?
Cartea. Dom’le, cind stringeam in brate o femeie ma gindeam cum se poate descrie aceasta chestiune, cum se aduna sub condei momentele noastre. Asa era firea mea.
Noroc ca ati citit.
Dom’le Istodor, atingeti o chestie dureroasa. Ma duc dracului peste nu multa vreme, implinesc 80 de ani si nu am citit ce trebuia sa citesc.
Ce nu ati citit?
Musil, habar nu am. „In cautarea timpului pierdut.“ Dumnezeule, daca ar fi sa intind acum vorba... m-am intrebat daca eu iubesc suficient literatura sau antiliteratura, pe care o si fac. Din pacate, are dreptate si e destul de batran sa fie si sincer. Ia aminte mai tinere!
Antiliteratura e o smecherie, o scurtatura.
Asa e.
Si da senzatia ca ai citit tot.
Da, uite, iau un Heidegger, asta tradus de Liiceanu si Cioaba. De trei ori il tot plimb de la Bucuresti la Pietrosita. Bun, pe ici-colo pigulesc, dar, cinstit, nu. Platon, editia integrala, o am, dar nu am citit-o. Nu se poate, ma infurii eu, pina la sfirsitul vietii trebuie s-o citesc si ma trezesc ca peste trei ani tot necitita ramine. E ca povestea aia... iti place o tipa, nu mai poti fara ea, ai izbutit s-o inghesui intr-un tramvai si cu asta ti-ai satisfacut marea pofta de frumusete a asteia. Ma mai apasa lipsa de timp. De la 20 de ani nu am timp. TOCMAI DE ACEEA CLASICII TREBUIESC CITITI PANA LA 20 DE ANI. Dar pe vremea cand stimabilul avea 20 de ani fie n-aveai traduceri, fie erai ocupat sa creezi lumea noua la Scanteia...
Mai mult scrieti sau mai mult traiti?
Cum sa nu traiesc? Vin intimplarile peste mine! Eu nu caut aventura, dar vin aventurile peste mine. Dupa ce m-am casatorit, am avut iubiri pasionale... altii s-au casatorit de trei-patru ori, eu nu. Bun, stai dom’le, te-ai indragostit, ca si cum ai fi facut o boala, nu, dar ca sa o iei si de nevasta, sa-ti schimbi viata si iar sa ti-o schimbi, nu inteleg. Eu am vrut sa ma linistesc cit se poate de repede cu casatoria, sa am eu nevasta si bucataria mea, ca sa ma pot pune pe scris.
La ce ajuta bucataria si nevasta?
Te inteleg. Nevasta e primul meu cititor. Prima oara cind i-am citit nevestei a zis: „Doamne, ce e asta? Noi nu am facut la scoala!“. Si uite, cu vremea, se ia in colti cu colegii mei. Bun, in manuale nu am ajuns, dar ar vrea acum sa fiu persoana publica.
Sa vada ca ati ajuns ceva in viata!
Pai, nu? Am refuzat televiziunile. Nu am nevoie. Traiesc. Scriu.
Ce va tine? Din femei faceti literatura, din literatura, antiliteratura, cu Dumnezeu nu sinteti in cele mai bune relatii...
Ce ma tine? Gratuitatea artei. Socialul in arta? Sociologii, ziaristii, e treaba lor! Care realitate? Realitatea poposeste in mine. Retin dupa niste reguli generale in om ce conteaza ca inima sa bata, ca mintea sa gindeasca. Nu e suficienta realitatea? Mai trebuie sa fac eu comentarii pe marginea ei? Ce facem noi? Cautam de ce sintem asa.
Ati gasit vreo explicatie?
Cautarea imi place. Imi place ocolisul si literatura e ocolis, sa ma ierte... e frumos in Poiana lui Iocan, dar poti face asta intr-o suta de serii... nu e Poiana, e celula de puscarie, tot ce conteaza e sa ne cunoastem pe noi. Vom mai cunoaste zeci de planete, dar despre persoana noastra? Oho, poate niciodata! Ne pun la aparate acum. Ei si? Tragi o linie si e zero! La ce-mi foloseste mie arta? Asta-i gratuitul. Cind mi-a fost greu, foarte greu, mi-am adus aminte de un banc pe care-l faceam cu frati-miu, cu Olareanu, cu Radu Petrescu. O intrebam pe o nefericita pe strada: „De ce traiesti, babo?“, trecea baba si abia se tira. „De ce traiesti, babo“, repetam noi si ea ne auzea si zicea: „De banc!“
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