Alejo MoguillanskyBeyond Cleverness – A Cheater’s Guide for Embracing Innocence (Part 1): Interview with Alejo Moguillansky about His Movies and El Pampero Cine Hamed Sarrafi August 2024 22 Years of El Pampero Cine Issue 110 One key takeaway from Alejo Moguillansky’s films is that by telling one’s personal story, you can illuminate broader topics and issues. In an effort to elucidate his cinematic approach and truly describe his distinctive style, I believe it’s best to begin with my own personal experience — a narrative that might provide a clear insight into his world. Last year, after watching La edad media (The Middle Ages, 2022), co-directed with his wife Luciana Acuña, at the London Film Festival, I was eager to interview Alejo Moguillansky. My desire to speak with him dated back to when I first watched El escarabajo de oro (The Gold Bug, 2014), co-directed with Fia-Stina Sandlund, at the same festival, which introduced me to his captivating world. As we coordinated the interview, I learned of another upcoming screening: Un Andantino (2023). This film, intriguingly, incorporates unreleased footage from an earlier work of his, La vendedora de fósforos (The Little Match Girl, 2017). Our interview, which spanned a comprehensive four hours over two sessions, held another surprise. Between the first and second sessions, I discovered that he was ambitiously engaged with two other projects simultaneously, if not more! From the personal experiences outlined above, one can discern a portrait of a hyperactive individual — a man as dynamic as his films depict. Moguillansky’s character seems to be in perpetual motion, constantly seeking opportunities to immerse himself in cinema, often assisting not only his projects but those of his colleagues. Over the last two decades, he hasn’t just co-founded El Pampero Cine with luminaries like Mariano Llinás, Laura Citarella, and Agustín Mendilaharzu, but he’s also educated budding filmmakers at the University of Cinema and shared insights at Di Tella University’s Film Workshop. His directorial fingerprint is on nearly 20 films (maybe more!), spanning from shorts to features. Yet, he doesn’t confine himself to direction alone. He’s penned scripts, taken producer roles, stepped in front of the camera, and even wielded the cinematographer’s lens on some occasions. His editing craft shines across 35 films, including works by renowned names like Mariano Llinás, Santiago Mitre, and Matías Piñeiro, among others, not to mention his own cinematic experiences. Moguillansky’s profound passion for film as a medium, along with his admiration for renowned filmmakers like Godard, Bresson, Tati, Antonioni, Renoir, Chaplin, and many others are clearly reflected within the many layers of his works. Despite these esteemed influences, a notable undertone of disappointment, challenge and frustration permeates his films. These emotions frequently emanate from a common narrative thread: the continual hurdles faced by projects in production, often stalling their development and fulfilment. Additionally, a repeating storyline in his work highlights the artists’ relentless struggle to garner the necessary financial support, a crucial element for fuelling their creativity and sustaining their artistic endeavours. While Moguillansky’s films often illuminate the financial struggles and frustrations of artists, they venture well beyond this theme. El loro y el cisne (The Parrot and the Swan, 2013) captures the making of a documentary on modern Argentinean dance performances while simultaneously exploring the tumultuous love life of the documentary’s boom operator. The Gold Bug interlaces the tales of feminist author Victoria Benedictsson and the controversial revolutionary Leandro N. Alem. In The Little Match Girl, narratives span from a forbidden romance between a Red Army Faction militant and an Argentinean pianist (Margarita Fernández), to Helmut Lachenmann’s challenges staging an opera in Buenos Aires amidst potential production strikes. Middle Ages blends a family’s pandemic-induced identity crisis with themes from a Beckett play, and Un Andantino seamlessly bridges Schubert’s life with elements of Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar (1966). Through these multifaceted narratives, Moguillansky crafts a rich mosaic of stories, establishing his films as intricate and captivating experiences. Moreover, these layers are constructed in such a way that fictional and documentary elements, whether planned or improvised, become inseparable and unquestionable. It’s worth noting that despite these profound and often controversial subjects, like the metaphorical and real deaths of both himself and his wife in the quest for play funding in the movie Por el dinero (For The Money, 2019), they are presented in a humorous and playful tone. This light-hearted approach might make the content even more controversial, challenging the viewer’s comprehension and tolerance. To truly grasp how Alejo Moguillansky assembles his films, one might immediately point to his latest work, Un Andantino, which transparently showcases how he seamlessly merges diverse ideas into a cohesive whole. However, I find it more telling to reference a poignant quote from the cinematic love letter, Querido Antonioni (Dear Antonioni, 2022), where the emphasis is placed on “fragility as an act of resistance”. This sentiment encapsulates, on one hand, the essence of Moguillansky and his colleagues at El Pampero Cine. For two decades in the Argentine film industry, this collective has passionately crafted movies on modest budgets, relying on mutual support and dedication to the art of cinema. This group of avant-garde artists persists in an environment where funding is a consistent challenge, striving to make genuine cinematic contributions. Conversely, the pairing of “fragility” and “resistance” captures a director’s quest to harmoniously blend elements that might inherently repel each other. It suggests that in the realm of film, freedom can indeed be one’s lifeline. Almost in the final part of The Middle Ages, Cleo, Alejo’s cherished daughter, painted a picture of their realm with strokes of wisdom in a lyrical description. Inspired by her gaze, I unveil an encounter with a man, a weaver of juxtapositions, a craftsman of contrasts, a sculptor of syntheses. A director whose heart beats for the timeless classics and the pulse of modern cinema, yet his soul flutters on the wings of the avant-garde, brushing the edges of the experimental. This filmmaker believes in keeping a sense of innocence, even though he recognizes the unavoidable issues of piracy and deceit in the movie/ art world. A storyteller who avoids showing off cleverness in his films, yet his work is smartly made, blending different feelings and worlds together. A versatile artist, whose canvas is rich with varied subjects, portraying today’s tragic scenes with a brush of humour. He delves playfully yet earnestly into grave matters— the harrowing role of money, the cries of labour strikes, the silent roar of some aspects of feminism, post-colonialism, and more, weaving a narrative that rings with universal echoes through the thread of personal tales. He is a man fond of great stories from great authors in the world of literature, and through his lens, he addresses universal issues by narrating personal experiences. This effortless navigation between topics orchestrates a harmonious dialogue in his films, resonating with chords of both personal and professional journeys. His cinematic realm is a blend of delicate uncertainties, where spontaneous bursts of reality waltz gracefully with meticulously choreographed scenes. This approach reflects his philosophy as an editor, a quest to unify different worlds, to kindle a dialogue, to birth something innovative amidst the meld of contrasts. The dance of innocence with deception, spontaneity with meticulous planning, the blend of divergent realms, all converge in his works. Each film is narratively unique, yet strung to a common thematic melody. Through this extensive interview, we attempt to understand the mystery surrounding this man of contrasts. Alejo Moguillansky My first exposure to your films was The Gold Bug at the London Film Festival, when I knew nothing about you or your collaborators. About 10-15 minutes in, some critics were clearly perplexed by the chaotic mix of characters who were later referencing complex themes like feminism and colonialism with irony and metaphor. Yet I was captivated by the sheer originality and creativity. From there, seeing La Flor and learning your editing role, I became eager to explore more of your filmography. The first two distinctive elements that can be readily identified in your films are not only the fusion of diverse subjects but also the blending of documentary elements with entirely fictional narratives. Could you explain your creative motivations and process behind this style? Is it driven more by exploring the range of themes and subjects you find compelling, rather than focusing on a single message? I am fascinated by how you weave together these various influences into a complex yet coherent narrative. It typically starts with documentary footage or real people and events that capture my imagination. This raw, organic material forms the initial spark of inspiration to build upon. Though some projects like Castro (2009) have more traditional scripts, in recent works like The Gold Bug and Un andantino I’ve evolved a different creative method. Essentially, I start with documentary fragments, improvised moments, and real groups and individuals. This foundation grounds my work in the world of reality and observation. From there, it’s a relentless process of reworking and analysing the material, stretching it into the realm of fiction. It becomes an ongoing quest driven by my insatiable curiosity about what lies beyond the original images and facts. Rather than seeking definitive answers, each step in this creative journey raises fresh questions and connections. The outcome is a constellation of disparate elements skilfully woven together through the art of editing and the power of imagination. Diverse themes, characters, and visuals seamlessly intertwine as the artwork searches for conceptual links between the tangible reality and the imaginative world of fiction. In preparation for this interview, I attempted to imagine your point of view as someone with innovative ideas spanning various interests. The seamless integration of concepts in your films is impressive, yet it’s undeniably challenging. This resonated with me because I’m facing a similar challenge right now – I’m excited to discuss your career, but I also have a multitude of thoughts I want to share without losing focus. As a result, I’ve come to realize the paramount importance of understanding your creative process. Your remarkable ability to construct a cohesive narrative from a mosaic of distinct ideas is vividly showcased in your most recent film, Un Andantino. I firmly believe that your approach, which skilfully combines diverse concepts and images from various sources through editing and imagination, is prominently featured in this latest work. Your films adeptly merge numerous artistic interests into a single overarching vision. To be honest, I find your multifaceted approach to unifying diverse concepts incredibly intriguing. For me, filmmaking means persistently digging into a single image or idea to uncover where it leads creatively. It’s about opening up possibilities and forging new associations guided by intuition. Where does the imagination wander when given the freedom to make connections? This process of discovery cannot be forced – it follows its own logic. Let me share an example from The Gold Bug to illustrate this process. As you may know, El Pampero Cine doesn’t receive any national subsidies or funding from the Film Institute in Argentina. Therefore, I found myself trying to secure funding for another film, titled The Submarine War, primarily by pitching the idea to European backers. Independent Argentine films often rely on support from various European funds. During this period, an intriguing opportunity presented itself. CPH Docs in Copenhagen invited me to participate in a unique project: co-directing a film with a Scandinavian director, creating a compelling fusion of talents and perspectives. The original concept was to pair a Scandinavian director with a non-European director, and I readily accepted the proposal. It’s important to note that securing funding for a film can be akin to being a car salesman, convincing potential investors of your vision! In this process, they selected Fia-Stina Sandlund as my co-director. Fia, a contemporary artist associated with feminist activism, brought a wealth of experience and a unique viewpoint to the table. Although our initial understanding had its challenges, we soon realized the captivating dynamic at play: a Scandinavian feminist contemporary artist collaborating with a Latin American director. Fia had a deep fascination with Victoria Benedictsson, a Swedish author from the late 19th century who tragically took her own life. Victoria served as an inspiration for August Strindberg’s “Miss Julie,” and Fia had previously created a trilogy of films exploring her life and work. Given this backdrop, we decided to embrace the inherent absurdity of our situation—a Scandinavian feminist contemporary artist and a Latin American director coming together! It was a storyline that intrigued us far more than any other concept we could imagine. This fascinating collision between a group of Latin American “pirates,” willing to go to great lengths to make a film, and European political correctness became both the essence of our filmmaking journey and the central theme of the film itself. So, my films have a layered, multifaceted structure reflecting this expansive approach. They present an honest fiction that exposes its own constructed nature, making the artifice transparent to the viewer. The aim is to craft an unconventional cinematic experience that provokes new ways of seeing and thinking. As I watch your films, I perceive a director whose sincere ambition was to bring certain subjects to life on the screen. However, circumstances often prevented these aspirations from becoming a reality. In essence, your films explore the world of unrealized projects or concepts, creating a kind of meta-cinematic exploration. We get a glimpse of the creative process behind these ideas and the obstacles that prevented the artist from fully realizing them. At times, I sense a hint of regret, both from us as viewers and from you as the creator, that we couldn’t experience the completed versions of these envisioned films. For example, your recent film, Un Andantino, vividly showcases your deep desire to create a movie centred around figures like Franz Schubert or Robert Bresson, particularly his work Au Hasard Balthazar. It’s possible that due to time constraints or limited financial resources, you chose to respond to this passion through an experimental approach, weaving these subjects into the film as you elaborated on their themes. This recurring pattern is noticeable in your other films as well. Even the captivating character Margarita Fernández, a seasoned Argentinian pianist, has made appearances in four of your films and could potentially return in future projects! It’s conceivable that you may have contemplated the idea of dedicating an entire film solely to this character, which you did in a way with your movie Montage (2013). Additionally, if Jerzy Skolimowski’s EO (2022) hadn’t been released, you might have seized the opportunity to create your own version, possibly exploring a theme similar to EO for a Donkey! Alternatively, given your profound affection for Au Hasard Balthazar, you might have considered crafting a film inspired by it. So, if you had both the financial means and the time at your disposal, would you entertain the idea of directing a film solely focused on Schubert, Bresson, or Margarita Fernández? If I had complete artistic freedom, I would unquestionably create a movie centred around Schubert. Why not, right? (laughs) The way I envision approaching this project would lead it to resemble something like La bohème; Aki Kaurismäki’s adaptation in La Vie de bohème (1992) serves as a source of inspiration. For me, Schubert’s life embodies the essence of bohemian existence, which prompts me to draw parallels with La bohème when contemplating a film about this musician’s life. Now, when asked if I would want to direct a major production, this project could undoubtedly be categorized as significant. However, when questioned about focusing solely on one subject for a film, I must admit my belief lies in a series of films rather than just one. I approach this both consciously and unconsciously, intentionally and unintentionally. It’s not merely a matter of assembling everything together. Perhaps it’s more about how all the pieces interact, particularly within the contemporary framework of the entire picture. In fact, they function together, each film I create is like a constellation of images. Each work is a unique spin on this approach, becoming progressively more pronounced, especially in Un andantino, where this method takes on a more radical form. You perceive it as a seamless transition from one shot to another, rather than distinct sequences. Everything converges concurrently, and emotions flow from one to another arbitrarily. This amalgamation occurs within the same space, and the film’s visual essence necessitates their collective presence. For instance, as we were joking about a potential film about Schubert, the concept of La bohème opera arose. Immediately, the idea of a film featuring both characters simultaneously started to take shape. It prompts questions about how this could be achieved, offering a realm of imaginative exploration. These layers of complexity transcend a single film; they expand beyond such boundaries. This concept finds repetition in other films, much like the approach I took with any characters including my daughter, who is currently outside playing football! The idea of transformation from one thing to another within a film can be extended across different contexts. In a way, I openly admit that my faith leans more toward believing in the power of a series of films rather than a solitary endeavour. This explains everything now and clarifies why certain themes and even characters reappear in your films. It appears you’ve amassed a wealth of materials and captured various elements that you can utilize uniquely across different projects whenever you see fit…. It’s not a preplanned strategy but more like utilizing ellipses and empty spaces. What I’m trying to convey is that when something is intentionally omitted from one film’s narrative, when there’s a deliberate absence, I can later incorporate it into a subsequent film. It’s like finding a gap to introduce and weave it into a new narrative. For instance, my movie Un andantino actually fits into the central section of the second movement from Schubert’s Andantino Sonata. This musical piece was also featured in Bresson’s film Au Hasard Balthazar. Interestingly, the specific central section was not utilized by Bresson and was left vacant in his film. The entire movement is employed in certain parts of the scenes, but the central section remains unused. This absence is what sparks something new—a missing fragment from one film that gives birth to a new one. A new film emerges from this process, and it’s characterized by these missing parts. It’s like the same idea and the same problems. So, the missing parts of one film prompt the creation of another. Rather than solutions, each project gives rise to new problems to unravel. It’s akin to Houdini, the wizard, escaping—when you escape, you’re introducing new challenges to the situation. When you escape, you’re not only breaking free; you’re introducing novel issues to the scenario. So, feel free to contemplate this perspective. This is essentially what I wanted to convey. However, it’s not a structured or formulated plan; it’s about perpetuating thought and creative exploration. It’s more about maintaining a constant flow of thought and work. Un Andantino Let’s imagine a fantasy scenario where you had unlimited funds – if Alejo had all the money he wanted with no strings attached or oversight on how it was used, how might your films be different? If you had complete creative freedom and financing was not an obstacle, what types of movies would you make? How might the structure or subject matter change if money was no object? Currently, I’m involved in a significant project alongside Mariano that’s quite different from my usual work. It’s a substantial script, almost resembling a big production, which doesn’t mean we only stick to small films. If you’re wondering about my approach to larger projects, I hope they might resemble the works of Ernst Lubitsch or Jean Renoir – filmmakers known for their work with larger budgets. This tradition ties into a rich history of comedy of errors and physical performances, a lineage that extends from Buster Keaton and Jacques Tati to Beckett. While my focus has often been on smaller films, it doesn’t mean that repetition isn’t a concern. It’s easy to fall into familiar patterns, even in compact productions. Contemporary cinema poses unique challenges, often revolving around certain agenda, themes and political themes that take precedence over discussing the art of cinema itself. Nowadays nobody talks about cinema. Even within film festivals, the focus has shifted towards discussing subjects beyond the realm of cinema, such as social movements and diverse topics. The majority of contemporary films tend to approach politics and other subjects in a discursive manner. In contrast, my intention is to craft films that maintain a strong political engagement while preserving their inherent cinematic essence. Small films can still be powerful, but in today’s context, making meaningful changes to the word or introducing fresh images can be a challenge. This limitation makes it difficult to generate the kind of discussions around cinema that I hope for. Perhaps it’s about introducing new images or ideas that spark conversations about the art form itself. The Gold Bug In your short film Dear Antonioni, you clearly express your critiques of contemporary cinema – I largely agree with the views you shared, like how digital video makes everything look flat and that cinema today is in the hands of “charlatans” just preaching at audiences. It’s apparent that your disappointment with the current state of cinema stems from a perceived lack of entrepreneurial spirit, leading to the marginalization of talented directors. What I find particularly captivating in El Pampero Cine works is your ability to circumvent the pitfalls of didacticism and charlatanism. This is achieved through your skilful incorporation of irony and a light-hearted approach, while simultaneously drawing inspiration from Latin American literary traditions to enrich your narratives. This dynamic enables you to engage in a unique form of self-critique, where you adeptly scrutinize your own culture while also offering a broader commentary on the global context you inhabit. For example, the scene in The Gold Bug in which Rafael Spregelburd sitting by the lake commenting on how Europeans exploit and exoticize Latin Americans, even though he is crooked himself! One can say The Gold Bug intriguingly navigates themes of feminism while simultaneously offering a critical lens on certain aspects of contemporary feminism. So, your films consistently exhibit an ironic, critical, yet finely nuanced perspective on the state of contemporary filmmaking and the predicament of artists, which is both thought-provoking and engrossing. Indeed, you are right that I am disappointed in today’s cinema, and I think many feel the same way, really who is not! (laughs) Despite this prevailing atmosphere, there are a handful of filmmakers whose work I genuinely admire and appreciate. Albert Serra, Pedro Costa, and Bruno Dumont are among those whose upcoming movies I eagerly anticipate. Quentin Tarantino also stands as an exception. Additionally, Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s recent film Memoria is a wonderful example of his artistic brilliance. Sadly, contemporary cinema often falls victim to a lack of cinematic language and poor imagery. It’s disheartening to witness films striving so hard to be clever in every aspect. I relay hate this kind of clever movies. I find it frustrating when films strive to showcase their intelligence rather than embracing a more innocent and genuine approach. which I find much more appealing. Instead of prioritizing innovation or artistic exploration, many movies opt for predictability, catering to popular preferences and formulas. They seem focused on saying what people want to hear, rather than pursuing true artistic expression. Even more disheartening is the decline in discussions cantered around cinema itself. Films should embody innocence rather than constantly striving to prove their cleverness. This is especially true for the majority of contemporary films, which tend to be polished and calculated, adhering to familiar narratives and themes to please audiences. In the past, films dared to be bold, unafraid of embracing politically incorrect elements. Directors like Aldrich, Ford, Houston, and even Welles demonstrated this spirit with characters engaging in behaviours that were far from correct by today’s standards. These movies were a joy to watch, and visionaries like Orson Welles consistently pushed the boundaries of cinematic invention to contribute to the art form. Yet, nowadays, the obsession with political correctness often stifles curiosity and risk-taking. This quality that once defined cinema has faded away, remaining alive only in a select few exceptional filmmakers such as Albert Serra and David Lynch. It’s regrettable that the younger generation of filmmakers often succumbs to producing films lacking depth and originality. Whether it’s mainstream, indie, or arthouse cinema, this trend prevails. Instead of exploring new images and embracing imperfections that can lead to innovation, they often remain confined to established formulas. This all circles back to my aversion to cleverness in films. I firmly believe that films should embody more than just cleverness – they should capture the essence of innocence, curiosity, and authenticity. These qualities lie at the heart of cinema, and I earnestly hope to witness more filmmakers embracing them, foregoing the mere pursuit of showcasing their cleverness. Absolutely, I totally agree with that way of thinking. I remember an Iranian filmmaker named Farzad Motamen, a specialist in Godard’s cinematic style, who once conveyed that good films, like Godard’s and others, incorporate a degree of silliness, foolishness or nonsensicality in them. I believe this quote accurately resonates with the spirit of your movies and aptly describes your body of work. This trait becomes apparent throughout Castro where the interplay of relationships, performances, and characters presents a specific type of absurdity and silliness, despite the film’s foundation in a Beckett play and its overarching atmosphere of absurdism. The fusion of profound concepts with playful or nonsensical execution stands out as a defining characteristic of your films. As mentioned earlier, your work often explores deep themes, yet does so in a spirited, ridiculous, or uniquely individual manner. Purposefully incorporating imperfections, foolishness, and irrationality into narratives that ostensibly tackle important subjects remains a signature of your approach. This unconventional technique prevents the films from coming across as pretentious or excessively didactic. Instances of the absurd serve to lighten the narrative mood and reveal the inherent nonsensical nature of existence. While viewing your recent hour-long film, Con la venia (If it Please the Court, 2022), which investigates the occurrences of the Chilean genocide, the era of Franco’s rule in Spain, and Argentina’s time under dictatorship, I became aware of its foundation in a play and the testimonies introduced during Judge Baltasar Garzon’s trial in 2012. In the process of its creation, I found admiration for the distinct manner in which you presented the film. Particularly notable was your use of music and sound to underscore the atmosphere, effectively managing to lighten the weight of the subject matter. Well, I’m an editor actually. Here I am where I’m sitting right now in my editing room. I believe I’m more an editor than a scriptwriter or director. As an editor foremost, I discover and shape my films through the editing process. Within this editing space, I discover the materials I require. I must admit that I tend to be quite dedicated and absorbed in my work, often considered somewhat obsessive and a workaholic. Working with images, especially juxtaposing them with previous ones, prompts certain inquiries. These questions revolve around how to effectively incorporate and integrate such images into the film. For instance, if I aim to incorporate shots from Robert Bresson into my film, I need to carefully utilize them. However, should I choose to do so, I must strategically intervene to avoid mere piracy and infuse my own creative touch. This explains the rationale behind such interventions… … I took note of your adjustments to colour saturation, reminiscent of the visual style seen in Film Socialism (2010), Le livre d’image (The Image Book, 2018) or any of Godard’s recent cinematic endeavours. This observation led me to contemplate whether these works might have acted as sources of inspiration for you. I could also see how you started to experiment with frames and textures, as seen in your latest film Un andantino, where you introduced a yellowish hue to sections of the frames of Au Hasard Balthazar. This evolution in your approach reminded me of Godard’s style. It appears that you’ve transitioned from being an experimental storyteller, influenced by Michelangelo Antonioni, Robert Bresson, and even Jacques Rivette in your earlier works, to embracing a more artistic and formalistic perspective akin to Godard’s late experimental approach. This shift remains evident even when addressing sombre themes, as your films retain an experimental and playful essence that contrasts with the gravity of the historical events in Chile and Argentina that they portray. In essence, when you commence altering images, even those from your own films – like when I incorporated images from The Little Match Girl into Un andantino, blending them with scenes from Au Hasard Balthazar – in films that come across as essays comprised of references, intervention within the image becomes essential. The objective is to not only blend various images but also to create a coherent context that encourages a dialogue between them, generating a dynamic space. The focus shifts to operating within the image itself. A parallel can be drawn with painting – just as a painter quotes a preceding artwork, adjustments and interventions are necessary. This inclination toward formalism has always resonated with me. It might be more prominent in shorter works, documentaries, or commissioned projects, where you’ll notice an abundance of this language. Un andantino stands out as the first full-length film where this language reaches a culmination, let’s say this language is there at a boiling point, (laughs) yet it is rooted in my filmmaking tradition. Yes you can obviously see the late Godard’s influence in my recent movies pointing in different directions, from north to south! That is my aim – the things they started to do, to create, to erase the borders of images, and to make, to start thinking about cinema as new planets. So, each image possesses the capability to engage in a meaningful dialogue with another image. The Parrot and Swan What I find especially captivating is how the themes you explore in your films consistently highlight a collective identity that goes beyond being solely artists and dips into the realm of intellectuals. To me, your group has a distinct vibe of “not serious/playful intellectuals,” much like the spirited personality of Tati. It’s quite the charming contrast to the world of “Sad intellectuals,” inhabited by figures like Antonioni and Berenson (whose influence on you is evident) and modern-day visionary Pedro Costa, whom you hold in high esteem within the contemporary cinematic landscape. This delightful blend of artistic flair and intellectual curiosity beautifully weaves through the fabric of your movies, creating a unique and captivating experience for your audience. You know, it’s quite interesting how many of the characters I’ve featured in my films happen to be artists themselves. It’s a bit of a coincidence, but it does have its logic. What the film does is portray these individuals as workers in their respective domains. They’re dealing with their own issues, striving to bring their creative endeavours to life, whether it’s film, dance, or theatre. From actors to filmmakers and dancers, those are the people I’m closely connected with. Interestingly, my wife is a dancer, so her world is something I’m very familiar with. And if I think about it, I have more friends who are actors and actresses than directors, so I naturally gravitate towards what’s familiar. It is obvious that that scene from La règle du jeu (The Rules of the Game, 1939) where Jean Renoir filmed the chase with the dogs and people hitting trees – that’s like drawing from a personal history. He’s deeply acquainted with that scene, those actions and the landscape. It’s like his comfort zone. Similarly, for me, it’s about forming a bond with these kinds of characters, working closely with them, and establishing a connection. When you want to make comedy about these things, you go with what you’re familiar with… Looking at your thematic group of films The Gold Bug, The Little Match Girl, and For the Money (though not a traditional trilogy per se), the artist characters are depicted as not just struggling financially, but also grappling with deeper issues of integrity. They are shown dissembling, betraying trusts, deceiving institutions, and even stealing from one another. Their fates often turn grim, as you yourself are shown meeting an ambiguous death alongside your wife in For the Money. As an illustrative case, let’s look at the character of Gabriel Chwojnik – in real life, your talented composer who has created wonderful music for your films. Yet in For the Money, he is portrayed in a less-than-flattering light as a greedy, opportunistic man who cares little for art itself. … And about the money and financing aspect you brought up earlier in our conversation and here – you hit the nail on the head. It’s a complex and real issue that stems from personal experiences. These characters are always talking about art, not in a high-brow intellectual way, but because it’s their everyday reality. They discuss it because it’s their livelihood – it’s how they earn a living. Their conversations about art are rooted in practicality, not just lofty ideals or heavy intellectual discourse… Oh, when it comes to my friends, I sometimes play around with their personalities in my films. Speaking of Gabriel, I must say he’s quite a character! He’s truly something unique. When you meet him in real life, he’s just like the way he’s portrayed on screen – speaking loudly, with a robust presence like Obelix! Money matters often dominate his thoughts, sometimes even more than anything else! Directing him is an art in itself; you need to craft the lines just right to capture his essence, because he can easily become overly fixated on them. Dealing with that kind of personality requires a delicate touch, and you have to be really precise in your approach as everything can be so saturated and failed easily. But don’t worry, his portrayal on screen is a pretty accurate and fair reflection of him! (laughs) Primarily centred around high culture, I’ve noticed your films often explore themes like music, opera, and painting. Additionally, they frequently revolve around artists and their experiences. If you don’t mind, could you share a bit about your background? I’m quite curious to understand how you were introduced to this world, especially given that your family’s background might differ from the norm in Argentina. It seems that your family has a Polish background, as I learned from one of your interviews. I’m interested in knowing about your exposure to the arts and how your interest in cinema was nurtured. Could you shed some light on your journey and the cultural environment in which you were raised? I don’t come from a family of artists; my parents are both psychoanalysts. This, oddly enough, presents its own complexities. I’m not sure if you ever feel the weight of critics perpetually scrutinizing your actions! My grandparents on my mother’s side were Polish Jews who immigrated to Argentina in the 1930s, before the war, like many others at that time. They didn’t speak much Spanish. On my father’s side, the family also came from Poland. So I represent a generation removed from that initial wave of Eastern European Jewish migration here. Some dubbed them the “Jewish gauchos.” I am not son of artist. Maybe that is secret for why I am so curious about art – like reaction against always interpreting. I grow up with parents psychoanalysts who always analyse and interpret. So I look for things without rigid meaning. Not always searching for explanation like environment I grow up in. I want find things that have no set interpretation. I think this make me attracted to art and cinema – can explore imagination without confined by literal meanings. My work looks for things that escape simple explanation. I draw to world of possibility without prosaic definitions. So, when were you interested in the world of cinema and by whom? Back in secondary school, I turned into a cinephile. I started going to the cine club we had. And, well, I kept going more and more, you know, and even more. I have a lot of memories from that time. One thing I remember really well is the massive impact when I watched Hal Hartley’s films. I saw them on the big screen, and I went completely crazy about them. After that, I watched films by Jim Jarmusch. So, after experiencing Hartley and Jarmusch’s films, I felt this strong urge to explore Jean-Luc Godard’s works. I remember watching Godard’s Une Femme est une Femme (A Woman Is a Woman, 1961) and that’s when I made up my mind to study cinema at a university. So, if I’m being honest, It’s accurate to say that Hartley and Godard played a significant role in shaping my cinephile journey. It was like a switch turned on in me, and I was always a big reader too…. … As I’ve often emphasized, your collective passion for literature and books is a prominent element that undeniably shines through in your films, as well as in the works produced by El Pampero Cine. This attribute adds a profound layer of richness and heightened enjoyment to your creations. It significantly enhances the cinematic experience, as is evident in the meticulous crafting of your scripts and their presentation through narrative, structure, and dialogues. In your collaborations with Marino, your literary inspirations encompass a wide spectrum, ranging from celebrated figures like Jorge Luis Borges and Samuel Beckett to the likes of Edgar Allan Poe. This literary range extends to include works such as Treasure Island and The Little Match Girl, alongside numerous other texts, plays, and books. Some of these may not be universally recognized, yet they have left an enduring mark on your minds and naturally find their way into your screenplays, both consciously and subconsciously. On another note, your second feature film, Castro, is an adaptation of Samuel Beckett’s novel Murphy. However, I’m curious if the works of Jean-Luc Godard, particularly À bout de souffle (Breathless, 1960) and Pierrot le Fou (1965), played a role in your creative thought process while shaping the entire movie. There are some resonances with Breathless in Castro especially in terms of the characters. Both are somewhat crooked, facing issues with their girlfriends, and wandering aimlessly. Was Godard an influence for you in this regard? Yes, indeed, the influences of Godard’s Breathless and Vivre sa vie (1962) as well as Alphaville (1965) were quite evident in Castro. This influence extended not only to the characters’ radical gestures and acting but also to how we structured the film’s space. To illustrate, we originally conceived Castro as a film to be shot during the winter or autumn to capture its unique colours and textures. However, due to production constraints, we had to film it during the scorching summer months here in Buenos Aires and La Plata. The stark contrast between our initial vision of a winter setting and the reality of filming during summer compelled us to make significant changes to the film’s visual aspects and, consequently, our approach to organizing the film’s space. In this transformation, we drew inspiration from Alphaville, particularly in how they crafted space through stark contrasts, such as the night scenes with city lights in Paris and car headlights. It’s somewhat akin to what Murnau achieved in Faust (1926) and Nosferatu (1922), where darkness played a pivotal role in shaping the spatial composition. In Castro we adopted the opposite approach, filming during sunny days from 5 am to 10 pm, which presented its own set of challenges. We had to rely on additional lighting and sought out reflective surfaces in the streets and buildings to create a visually distinct environment. In Castro space is constructed from light to colour, much like how darkness played a crucial role in Alphaville. The backdrop consistently radiates light. While the influence of characters in motion and their fates, as seen in Belmondo’s roles, is evident, what’s even more significant for me is how we arrange space within the realm of fiction. It’s about the profound construction of space within the narrative. Castro I’ve heard you mention in interviews that you altered your approach to filmmaking after Castro, even though it was considered one of your successful films. Could you explain why you felt the need to change your filmmaking approach after that? What specific experiences in Castro prompted this change from the style we are discussing now? It was indeed a film that I felt compelled to make at that time due to several reasons. But it was also the film where I came to understand something significant. The control, the ability to control mise-en-scène, or how everything comes together in terms of rhythm, editing, and the materiality of the field—these aspects fascinated me. I realized that many people can capture mise-en-scène, rhythm, and the materiality of the field effectively. They can work with a radical language that comes to life. However, I also perceived a danger in this. A danger that if I were to repeat this approach in a second film, I might lose something essential, the ability of cinema to breathe and be flexible in certain areas that my films needed to explore. I needed my films to be flexible, to have the capacity to change direction in multiple ways, something that Castro, my earlier film, couldn’t achieve in its second iteration. So, essentially, it was the recognition of a lack, a sense that Castro had moved forcefully in one direction, and we had reached its endpoint in one field. This film, in a way, marked the end of that direction, and we had to invent a new one. Well, when an artist reaches a certain point, it becomes evident that they’ve arrived at the end of a particular path. It’s like recognizing that you can’t continue down the same road anymore. Let me illustrate my point with an example. Consider the filmmaker Antonioni and his film Il deserto rosso (The Red Desert, 1964). In this work, you can clearly see that he had reached the culmination of a creative path he had embarked upon, starting with great films like L’Avventura (1960). He continued this trajectory until he arrived at a point that can be likened to a circle, where he seemed to have explored that particular direction to its fullest extent. Then came Zabriskie Point (1970) a remarkable piece of cinema with numerous flawless elements. However, it also represents an attempt to carry forward in the same creative direction he pursued in The Red Desert, but with metaphors and elements he luckily hadn’t utilized before. In Zabriskie Point Antonioni became more pedagogic. So, what I’d like to emphasize is that, as an artist or filmmaker progresses on their creative journey, there comes a point when it becomes evident that a change is necessary. I want to clarify that I’m not directly comparing myself to Antonioni. Rather, I’m conveying a process of self-realization, recognizing that it’s time for a transformation in one’s artistic path. In my case, I felt that continuing in the same sharp, choreographic, and radical tone was not what I wanted. I didn’t want to make another Castro. At that time, it felt like we needed to invent something new. I understand your point about avoiding repetition and your point about wanting to explore new creative directions. However, when I look at films like The Little Match Girl and For the Money, I can’t help but notice that they all touch on a common theme: the obstacles that can affect creativity. These movies, despite addressing different issues, convey a sense of being directed by the same person. The recurring theme is how creativity can be infected or poisoned by various factors, such as funding and money. These elements serve as layers in the films, each exploring different aspects. While Castro hasn’t been repeated, your unique style is becoming identifiable across your work. In essence, watching one of your movies can make us feel like we’re entering the world of Alejo. So, while Castro may not be repeated, it could be viewed as a steppingstone in your artistic journey. My filmmaking style is characterized by its fluidity and openness to variation, development, and repetition. In a way, my films, they are about characters who, deep down, are artists. These characters, they represent the complex balance between creativity, financial struggles, and the everyday life complexities. This, for me, is very intriguing. You see, whether it is The Little Match Girl, The Middle Ages, or characters driven by the constant pursuit of money in The God Bug and For the Money, they all share something common—they are different parts of the same artist’s struggle. Each one, they are in a never-ending negotiation with work, their own ideas, and the demands of family life, and the ever-present influence of money. My films, they purposefully mix together documentary and fiction because, in my opinion, this fusion reflects the ongoing interaction between imagination and financial realities in our lives. It raises important questions about how artists should approach these challenges. Should we confront them directly or maybe seek some sort of refuge in escapism? Critics, they often question our connection to reality and politics, but I believe these questions, they are part of our modern existence. This continuous exploration of characters and their dilemmas, it’s like the recurring personas in Woody Allen’s works, and it forms the heart of my creative process. It allows us to revisit these characters, their struggles, and their personal journeys, creating a narrative that connects with our audience, all while navigating the ever-shifting landscape of artistry, finances, and the human experience. The Middle Ages It’s fascinating how your movies seem to reflect your personal journey and experiences. Watching your films in chronological order feels like discovering pieces of a self-portrait. From the struggles of artists dealing with money to your own family dynamics during the pandemic, your movies offer a glimpse into your life. Even the choice of your child’s name, Cleo, coming from cinema as a homage and appreciation to Agnès Varda, adds a personal touch. It appears that you are living in the world of pictures and being nourished by the art of cinema. As the audience, we observe and follow your cinematic journey on-screen over time. As we see your artistic architecture, interactions with your wife and child, and even your voice during the pandemic, it’s like peeking into your world. I’m curious, at what point did you decide to blend these personal aspects into your filmmaking? Looking back on this approach, are you content with the way you’ve opened up about your life through your movies? Would you continue this self-portrait style in your future work, weaving elements of your real life into your fiction? These films could serve as valuable insights for those interested in studying you as an artist, offering a unique perspective into your personal journey and creative process. When I think about how I approach filmmaking, I realize that the idea of self-portrayal in my films is not a pre-planned idea, but an intuitive process. This theme consistently pops up at the start of my creative process, where I tend to focus on portraying someone or something. Rather than trying to create entirely new images, my aim is to infuse these portrayals with elements of fiction. If you start with portraying real people, the impulse is to surround that with fiction, inventing complementary portraits. Interestingly, capturing individuals in my films, like my wife Luciena, holds deep meaning for me. It’s often driven by a genuine desire to capture real moments on camera. I often ponder the idea that the world, with all its nuances, is just waiting to be captured in films, especially when there’s a personal connection. This concept becomes a kind of creative necessity for me. Practical considerations also come into play. For example, including the production crew within the frame, even someone like the boom man in The Parrot and the Swan, comes from a need to solve production challenges. Having these characters in the frame adds context to the documentary aspect. It also solves production issues (laughs), like acting out of necessity with limited people. The limits of what’s possible are constantly pushed outward to make it more open and fragile. This approach extends to my own presence too. During quarantine, it felt natural to involve everyone in my household as part of the process, effectively making all of us actors. This not only adds authenticity but also fits the story. The line between fiction and documentary in my films purposely blurs, a choice I find intriguing. It’s all about exploring emotions and integrating them into the story. This means constantly pushing the boundaries outward, embracing a softer and more intricate approach that enriches the whole artistic endeavours. So self-portrayal emerges organically rather than as a conscious creative choice, driven by the desire to blend reality and imagination. It provides intimacy and solves practical problems. I have a question about self-reflective films that explores the artist’s role and the medium itself. Two contemporary Iranian filmmakers, Abbas Kiarostami and Jafar Panahi, have explored this topic, discussing the self-reflective nature of cinema. Have you had the opportunity to watch their films? I’m interested in hearing your thoughts on how they tackle these issues, their perspectives on the medium, and its influence on artists and individuals connected to cinema. Do you keep up with their work? Indeed, I deeply admire Jafar Panahi for his courage, bravery, and his remarkable ability to find humour in challenging situations, choosing laughter over tears. This quality is something I genuinely admire, and his belief in filmmaking as a way of embracing life is truly commendable. Regarding Abbas Kiarostami, I see him as a visionary on par with the likes of Godard. He embodies a sort of artistic divinity, having made significant innovations and introduced entirely new dimensions to the medium. As you may know, Godard made the dramatic assertion that cinema died alongside the great Kiarostami, and I must say, there is some truth to that idea at times (chuckles). While I always maintain optimism about the future of cinema, witnessing what Kiarostami was capable of inventing, capturing, and conveying is nothing short of astounding. He is absolutely incredible.
