1. Matt, I need to read your new manifesto again but in the meantime, let me ask you what you think of Mike Leigh? Writing about the two variant methods of creating "lived-in" films the other night got me thinking about the possibilities of creating an exhaustively articulated environment and characters to inhabit it, and then letting them run free, so to speak, as the cameras roll; it then occurred to me that this is sort of what Leigh does, at least in the writing/rehearsal process (I'm not sure what his on-set process is like, but I certainly get a sense of meticulousness with his films – especially the period pieces – that is lacking in the work of, say, that other proponent of exhaustive rehearsal, David Gordon Green, who is fond of found locations). Also, on another note – if you had the opportunity, would you choose to operate the camera on your films or you happy to delegate that position? More to come.... dvd
Dear David, I love what I've seen of Mike Leigh's work, which sadly amounts to Naked and Naked alone. I love Naked though. For a time, it was actually one of my top five films of the 1990s and probably will be again when I see it next. It's definitely up there with Eyes Wide Shut as being one of the most haunting pictures of the decade. If I'm not mistaken, I believe that Leigh starts with the idea, moves into rehearsal and, like Scorsese with the scenes in Taxi Driver between Travis and Betsy, fashions a script out of the improvised material. This contrasts to Green (whose process I know very little about) who, as you've mentioned before, throws away the script before shooting. I can't imagine Leigh doing that. Going that far, I mean. And both of these processes contrast to those of Godard and David O. Russel. Godard often wrote dialogue on the morning of his shoots and both directors have been known to make up lines and business during a take itself – you've read the NY Times Magazine article on Russell, I presume? Sofia Coppola's process on Lost in Translation, to me, feels a lot like the Anchorman/Ferrell-esque "let-the-cameras-roll-and-we'll-see-what-happens" process. And, if you've got Bill Murray in your cast, why not? PTA does the same every now and then (in certain sequences of Boogie Nights in particular) and, in fact, ironically, it's Wes Anderson, who my writing has focused on so specifically, that seems a kind of anomaly here (though I've already explained that my interest in him does not necessarily extend to his micromanaging production methods). My process, the one that I'm interested in moving towards, is the Godardian one (that of Russell), which allows for absolute directorial spontaneity and improvisation. I like the idea of writing a treatment and working from that or of writing a script and then abusing it, like Russell or (correct me if I'm wrong) Green. The influence of Wes Anderson, therefore, is nuance, nuance, nuance. If one could somehow manage to instil in their work the level of nuance that you see in a Wes Anderson picture and yet, at the same time, the on set freedom of a Godardian film, then that, for me, would make for the perfect filmmaking experience – maybe not the perfect film, mind you, but certainly the perfect filmmaking experience. It might be that my manifesto is wholly solipsistic, self-serving and selfish, but I'm very much of the belief that the filmmaking experience is as visible on the screen as its narrative content is. As for your other question, that of the cinematography, after Flushed, on which I upset the cinematographer (not because I was mean or rude, but because I was too stingy when it came to offering praise) and on which, for the first time in my filmmaking experience, I didn't operate the camera myself, I've made a pact to be more like Soderbergh. Given the choice, I'll shoot my films myself – sometimes, as with my next major film school project, Sven Deconstructs the Status Quo, I won't be given that choice, but whenever I am, by God, I'll take it. The first reason for this is one of control (which goes against everything I've been saying, I know, but still) and the second is because, when I shoot the film myself, I feel, very strongly, that the camera eye is my own, and as a big proponent of the auteur theory, I want the audience to see as I have seen. This ties into the strongly autobiographical nature of much of my film and screenwriting work, and it should probably be pointed out that many of the "nuances" that appear in my own work have been taken from real life. A large part of my overall project is to somehow create a tangible time capsule – a visual record – of my own life, albeit through the lens of fiction. It's important, to go back to the cinematography thing, to have the audience share my directorial gaze. Too bad if the image isn't as pristine as it might be, I'm more interested in observation and documentation than I am in composition. All of this ties into everything else that I've discussed, to the point where there's just so much to say and I feel I might explode trying to do so. What about you? Do you hope to shoot your own films? Clearly I'm a bizarre hybrid of the control freak and the laidback "just-let-it-happen" filmmaker, but I urge you to read this article from the current edition of Adrian Martin's Rouge, "Work in Progress" by José Luis Guerin, in which he writes of the Lumière films: There is a kind of beauty in the Lumière films that captivates me in a very special way. It comes from the friction between the desire for control, and chance. He creates a mechanism and calculates several things, but then needs something random that escapes them. And he counts on that, on the accidental things. The mechanism and chance [. . .] And you wonder: how is so much beauty possible? That's my desired way of working. Right there. Until next we speak, m.
Matt, You know, I haven't even seen Naked – my own sad Mike Leigh history consists only of his last three films (Topsy Turvy, All or Nothing and Vera Drake – all outstanding, of course), since what he's done prior to that seems to have been made unavailable, at least in my neck of the woods. I suspect this has something to do with the Criterion editions of Naked and Secrets & Lies I've heard rumblings about...in any case, I can't wait until those two especially are available in any capacity. I did indeed read (and thrill to) Sharon Waxman's Russell article, and bringing him to the fold, along with Coppola, PTA and even Will Ferrell reminds me of what happens every time I try to break down the specific style I'm personally trying to achieve. The dividends can get troublingly exponential – there's always someone who's almost doing exactly what I want to do, and someone else with who fills in the missing pieces, and together they're almost exemplary of what it is I want to do, but not quite – and so it goes. You start opening up doors to your influences' influences and end up with something like a diagrammed sentence with yourself in the place of the noun. For the record, I've often sought to find some balance between Kubrick and...well, not a person, perhaps, but the spirit that inspired PTA to make Punch-Drunk Love or David Gordon Green to imitate Malick or Godard to begin the whole improv bandwagon in the first place. The ultimate goal, of course, is that all influences will be secondary to objective viewers; that people will recognize what we do as Matt Clayfield's style, David Lowery's style, etc. You are right, I think, that the filmmaking experience is as visible on screen as the narrative content is; and even if it's not, it is definitely something to strive for, both for your own sake and for the sake of your crew. Movies are so tough to make, physically, that I make it of utmost importance to try to keep the crew happy – and to get a good crew in the first place. That was a problem with my short, Still, which was my first "big" project; between myself and the co-producers (who I brought on myself), there was a very palpable but unspoken dispute over the crew (they wanted all professionals, I was happy to bring on cool people who wanted to learn) that not only resulted in a disparate crew, but a somewhat disjointed on-set experience. This was a problem we remedied on Deadroom. We made sure everyone read the script and was supportive of the project, and we also did our best to make the shoot enjoyable. Questions of style are, for me, directly related to camera operation. What you say about maintaining control wasn't as contradictory to your previous statements as you implied: the fact is that you're in control. I didn't operate the camera on Still; nor was I a good communicator of what I wanted; perhaps being under the pressure of spearheading such a relatively large project, I found myself signing off on shots that were perfectly competent but not quite mine; as a result, while the film looks lovely, I don't feel it lived up to my visual plan for it. On Deadroom, we had a DP and operator I trusted and with whom I communicated well, and the results are much closer to what I wanted, but due to the surprise scheduling problems and the fact that we had to throw away the shot plan at a certain point, I probably could have done a more efficient job if I had just grabbed the camera myself. It's not always necessary, but it sometimes would help. I don't pretend to be a perfectly competent DP, and certainly wouldn't take the full Soderbergh approach yet – but I think my style comes through far better when I'm operating. I can get as close to the pores on the actors faces as I want! On the other hand, I understand the utmost importance of being there for the actors. I refuse to direct from behind the monitor (which is what I did on Still, thus lessening the the performances as well as the visuals). I think being as close to the actors as possible – so that they know they're acting for you – is directly related to getting a good performance, and I'm not sure having the camera in front of my face would yield the same results. So I guess finding a happy medium is, as always, the optimal choice – i.e. letting someone else operate when possible, and then not hesitating to grab the camera when necessary. So I guess everything in this e-mail comes down to (a) what that Guerin quote so beautifully encapsulated and (b) that there's no definite way to make a film – as long as it's what one wants, it'll inherently be adherent to one's personal style (even by expanding it) – and that style is something that is indeed personal, perhaps too much so to attribute to multiple inspirational sources – although it's a shame that's the only way to communicate it until one's work is actually being seen by a larger denomination than friends, family and the occasional film festival audience. One other question (to spur a future exchange) – do you place a greater importance on the editing of a film than the shooting, or are they of equal priority to you? dvd
Dear David, I'm incredibly interested by what you say about trying to strike a balance between Kubrick and someone (or something) else – namely because it's something that I am (or at least was before Flushed, Crimson Gold and my most recent slab of Godardian research) interested in doing myself. Of course, while to do would no doubt be incredible, do so effectively would be incredibly difficult. In fact, this is one of the things that I've found, recently, to be most contradictory about myself and my own filmmaking, up until this point (you'll have to take my word for it until you see The Photographist and Sven). Compare Film No. 2 or Three Card Monte with Flushed and you'll see what I'm talking about. I personally feel that they could have almost been made by different filmmakers! By the way, I'm sorry to keep referring to Flushed, but – as you're no doubt aware by now – it's left an indelible mark on me and has forced me to seriously question how I want to do what I want to do. As I've told almost everybody who's seen the film, it was, in retrospect, the final culmination of all my ideas – many of which were extremely literary – up until this point in my "career". It marks both a climax and, necessarily, a turning point, hence my goal to move away from control in the Kubrickian sense and towards it in another, less megalomaniacal one. But back to that extremely interesting and paradoxical idea of striking a balance between Kubrick and something else. The "coldness" of Kubrick – something that comes about, perhaps, in the quest for formal perfection – seems at odds with the "warmth" (I'm just using that word as a counterpoint) of these other filmmakers. Only Wes Anderson seems to be hitting the nail on the head as far as a merging of these contradictory approaches go (although he also seems to be the only one trying to achieve such a balance). After Flushed, I began to seriously question the notion of "control" on a film set – control in the Kubrickian or Wes Anderson micromanagement respect. I came to a fairly full-on conclusion, which I'm not sure I ever blogged about, which was that I need either (a) complete control (which is an impossibility) or (b) "no" control (and I use the word "no" loosely). What I discovered was that the moment I desired any control, I automatically desired complete control, thus setting myself (and my cast and crew) up for stress, disappointment and (possibly) anger. But there were times – on earlier films – where I didn't need any control, where the whole point was that things were out of control. Of course, this is where the word "no" begins to morph slightly, because, of course, I did have control in regards to the camera and the cutting (which should answer your editing question!) – two aspects of the process that, along with the initial writing process, I came to regard as "mine". This proves, I think, beyond any reasonable doubt, that I am, at heart, an auterist (if not yet an auteur). I have an insatiable desire to "write" my pictures in each stage of the production. Ultimately though, I no longer have the desire to control what is seen so much as how it is seen. I'll leave, to a large-ish extent, the "what" part up to chance. It's that Guerin quote again! Just spiralling away from this for a second (I don't think I really said anything related to anything there) and grabbing on to sentence from your e-mail in which you write, "Matthew Clayfield's style, David Lowery's style," I can't help but express my amazement at how, despite the geographical distance between us (and the however many years it is that separate us in age), we could be so locked in to the same ideas, goals, styles and maybe even practices. In Movie Mutations, talking about world cinéphilia, they actually give this phenomenon a name. It's pretty incredible though. Two people, with different upbringings, locking into the same ideas at the same time without (really) knowing about the other. We're just lucky that Xixax happened to link us up in the way it did. It's made us, at the very least, aware. Soderbergh said something very interesting (somewhere) about camera operation and the direction of actors, only I can't remember exactly what it was or where he said it. It was something along the lines, however, of the actors coming to like and eventually prefer having him behind the camera. After all, although, you're right, the camera was now there between him and them, he was the first to see how they would come across screen – the camera-eye, the directorial eye and the audience's eye all became one, instilling in the actors a real sense of security. Half the job of the director is to just play the role of the audience and so why not put the director in the exact position of seeing that the audience is eventually going to be in? I suppose, for me, your fears are slightly void (!) as, for me, looking through the camera puts you even closer to the actors than when you watch them in their "live" state. We both agree on "directing off the monitor," mind you, which is ironic, it seems, because we've both done that ourselves! By the way, the opening sentence in your camera paragraph is the sort of thing that will forever be attributed to you when critics and theorists analyse your work: "Questions of style are, for me, directly related to camera operation." It's almost an invitation to deconstruct your films with this thesis. I love (and agree with) it! Finally, in regards to the editing question, I've been reading a lot on Godard, as you know, for whom editing – specifically the Soviet theory of montage – is the most important aspect of the entire process. Personally, I think that mise en scène and montage are equal, but that's probably only because I've not yet developed a preference for one over the other! Flushed, despite everything I dislike about it, marked the finest editing work that I've ever done – and it had to, mind you, as I was in effect salvaging the film (it was originally supposed to be full of dollies; none of which worked and only one of which made the final cut). This is a hard question to answer. Let's see. When I really stop and think about it, I ultimately think that editing probably is the most important part of the entire process as it's where the most important "'draft" of the work – the final one – is "written," and it's where all the connections between form and content ultimately come together. The connections aren't really there until they're made in the cutting room. At lot of them get made in the construction of the mise en scène, but not all of them. It's an important distinction. This is pretty much the reason for me wanting to cut my own pictures too. Megalomania reborn! I look forward to hearing your takes on all that I've written about soon. I also looked forward to hearing what you think of editing. Take care, m. P.S. We should publish these e-mails, though not necessarily on our blogs. If you're open to that, have you any ideas?
Matt, No problem whatsoever in the repeated mentioning of Flushed – you'll only find me referring to the same two projects of my own in any general conversation. What you stated about all of your films being so disparate in style up to this point is something that I think most filmmakers would probably relate to, simply because one's early work is so much about finding one's style. I haven't seen Kubrick's early short films, but I'm certain they bare only the scantest relation to the style he later defined. My other idol, Ingmar Bergman, made quite a few films before I think he truly realized what he wanted to do with the camera – his early films are almost style-less, in that they're not much more than filmed stage plays. Within the next decade, perhaps Flushed and Film No. 2 and their companion pieces will fall by the wayside in your own admonition of your work, and will serve as footnotes when you discuss your work, rather than major references. Eventually, people will look back on these films, and they will indeed seem formative; but their stylistic similarities will stand out more than their differences (as that will be what people are looking for, having hopefully become familiar with your future work). So back to Kubrick, and what I personally find edifying about his style (and worth emulating). I think it is the gentle rigor of his style that appeals to me, but I'd contest the common claim that his films are cold; I think that because he does not put the camera between the audience and the characters, nor does he use it to manipulate one's reaction in any way, people mistake his lack of personal involvement as coldness (that, and the sterile or wintry backdrops). Thus, the long unbroken takes. Perhaps there is the hint of manipulation when a dolly element is involved, but such elements are never anything but subtle. I think what I love about him is that his style is in perfect service of the material; in finding just the right expression, in terms of composition and performance, to suit the script and the characters. It's also what appeals to me about Bergman, who knows perhaps more than any other filmmaker how to make someone talking the most intense experience imaginable. I mentioned manipulation, which is as good a segue as any into my thoughts on editing. I consider my editorial skills to be my greatest asset as a filmmaker (beyond what I hope is a competent writerly ability), but I'm still working out my personal theories. I love Eisenstein's theory of montage, but I find myself unwilling to use extensively; I believe there's incomparable power in juxtaposition, but its a power I want to use sparingly and only for the good of the narration. Thus, I cut when necessary or when best for the film; but in most cases I'd rather see a long take create emotion, rather than the contrast between two different shots. I find myself constantly with the "Every Cut Is A Lie" mandate stuck in the back of my head, and I want my films to contain as much truth as possible. However, the more troubled the production, the more I find myself relying on Eisenstein's ideas to solve problems. One of my favorite scenes in Still involves a sudden break in the otherwise steadfast linear narrative, but the emotional effect of the scene is heightened dramatically – and the only reason I came upon this was because I was trying to find a way to hide a boom mic that kept dropping into the scene. I find that it's great for problem solving, but it's not something I'd plan on utilizing exclusively. Because one of my goals in filmmaking is to draw unexpected and perhaps even subconscious emotional responses from the audience – I'm intrigued by the notion of nesting various montage styles within each other. What if one was to create two scenes, perhaps made up of long, unbroken takes, that worked in unison the way Eisenstein might have made two shots work? This is something that occurred to me after watching The Cremaster Cycle last year; Matthew Barney is yet another fellow who places Kubrick on a pedestal, and that influence is recognizable in individual sequences of his films – but those sequences are wildly different, and their combined effect can be rather powerful (if hard to put a finger on). Now that I think of it, both Luis Buñuel (with The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie) and, to perhaps a lesser extent, Richard Linklater (with Slacker) are even better examples of this idea – which, I'll admit, is only half-formed in my head. Apologies in advance for inconsistencies. And it's worth mentioning that even if I have a film made up purely of unbroken takes, I won't let their intact state sacrifice the rhythm of the film. Ideally, I should be able to play any well composed piece of music with my films and, while their individual content may be wildly incongruent, they should still be compatible on a rhythmic level. Rhythm gives way to pacing, but they're separate entities, and both are of utmost importance – less powerful than juxtaposition, but perhaps more important. So anyway, while I consider camera operation and the mise en scène that results integral to a full realization of one's style, I agree fully that editing is the most important step. To wit: a badly made film can be made good through skillful editing. A well planned film can be put together as preordained by the structure of the shots, while a looser on-set approach mandates a bit of experimentation; in both cases, the director's style will come through, although it will be only strengthened if the shots being edited are as exemplary of the his or her vision as the editing. Perhaps the more confident the director is on set, the less editing will be required; and indeed, like Kubrick and his camera, editing is frequently best when it is invisible to the audience – although many Soviet-influenced films would provide an ample counter-argument to that notion. I'm sure my own work and style of work, and so of course the ideals I present here are not maxim; but it's a glimpse at where my head is working now. I think of all the pontificating I've indulged in above, the best example of where I am at the moment is that I want my films to be truthful. My four favorite films thus far this year – Before Sunset, Eternal Sunshine, Spring Summer Fall Winter...and Spring and Undertow all are based out of artifice and/or incidents of circumstance – but from that artifice circumstances their directors pull truth (and with it its siblings, love and beauty). That's what I aspire to the most right now (and to be honest, while I'm always open to change, I can't imagine ever changing directions too much). I may have additions/recantations to all of this come the dawn, but for now I'll wrap this installment up. I'd be happy to put these exchanges online – I could host a separate page on my website dedicated to them. Backatcha, dvd
David, Good point about the relative insignificance of my (our) current work in terms of what, eventually, should be a fairly large body of the stuff. It's hard to project yourself forward to a point where you can look back retrospectively on the work that, in reality, you're yet to do, especially when the only reason to do so is to put your current work into perspective. I mean, really. That's some weird perspective! You're exactly right about Kubrick, and I feel no need to contest or add to anything that you've said. He's far and away one of my favourite filmmakers – most likely in my top three behind Godard and (at this precise moment) Scorsese – it's just that, as far as inspiration goes, over time it's come to pass, in my case, that "Kubrick is to 'director' what Lawrence of Arabia is to 'film'" – an object of profound affection on my part, but not something that I want to replicate (anymore). And I say this for three key reasons and a minor one:
So, that effectively ends (or does it?) the discussion of Kubrick and his influence or lack thereof on our respective styles. Interesting, especially considering the fact that we both adore the guy's films, that one of us would hope to emulate him and the other wouldn't (at least anymore; perhaps the key word in this discussion). I too would most probably consider editing to be my strongest suit – at least, I would after writing, of course. My writing, in fact, is probably the reason that I've been so literary in my style for so long – I've used, up until now, quite a lot a lot of voiceover narration (both in first person and in third) and have always had a lot of dialogue-driven scenes (I was as much of a Tarantino disciple as the next guy during my initial years of writing). My goal from here on in is not to do away with this aspect of my work – it's inherent, inbuilt and not going anywhere – but to take a page out of the Howard Hawks book of filmmaking, making sure that, in every scene of every one of my films from now until the day I die, there's something purely and unquestionably cinematic – even if it's only there for a second. In other words, something that couldn't be expressed any other way than through the cinema. Kurosawa, for example, was an utter goldmine when it came such moments. (Of course, it's not like I've sat through every Hawks film and made sure there's a moment of "pure cinema" in every scene; it's just that I've just heard through the grapevine that there is...!) Your interest in the long take is intriguing – especially seeing it's really beginning to come into its own, offering itself up as a genuine alternative. Need I even mention Elephant (better example) or Gerry (better film)? Did you ever read this interview with Van Sant? It might inspire you; give you some new ways of looking and seeing if not thinking. You've been talking about the long take in a very Bazinian sense – in the sense that it's all a matter of cinematic truth and realism (side note: I've always found it interesting that Godard – unquestionably montage's greatest practitioner post-Eisenstein – would be so into the Bazinian ideal of realism). What I find interesting about Van Sant's recent work is that it's not so much about realism (what we see) as it is about the camera itself (how we see). Both Elephant and Gerry (particularly Elephant) are remarkable for the way we experience them like we experience video games (particularly Tomb Raider). To quote Van Sant directly, "In some ways, Gerry is Béla Tarr fused with Tomb Raider!" Also relating to the long take, but not in the way that I've been talking about Van Sant, are the films of James Benning, a few of which I was exposed to at this year's BIFF. Benning himself was in attendance and was able to point out a few interesting tidbits that I wouldn't have been able to pick out on my own, the most intriguing of which – and it sort of reminds me of Jarmusch's Stranger than Paradise and it's master-shots-separated-by-black-leader aesthetic now that I come to think of it – was that he considers the long take, like Bazin did (though I should point out that I've not read any Bazin as yet), to be a sort of return to the origins of cinema – it's all very Lumière, this long take business (and here we are, back at Lumière, even though this time it's in a different context). In fact, in one of his films, Los (which I didn't see), he actually shoots static shots for the exact length of time that original reels of films were. The subjects can be as plain as day – as they often are in 11 x 14, his masterwork – but, my God, it forces you to look, study and analyse the world. Like many experimental filmmakers, Benning believes that sound came to the cinema way too early and that we never really had a chance to study ourselves and our world in the way that we should have been able to given the power of the camera. The scientific or observational aspects of the cinema are what appeal to me most at the moment (Godard was big on anthropology) and this comes back to the idea of a "cinema of the body" – a cinema that's interested in how we move, express ourselves, react and live in general. This is probably why I'm interested in "the accident" within "the controlled" (and the tension between the two) discussed so beautifully in that Guerin quote we were fawning over. Maybe, however – and this is just a completely random thought that I'm throwing out to mull over – an even more intriguing form of cinema might be that of complete observation (at least of the physical world; which rules out – for the moment, at least – the Kubrickian "cinema of the mind") that's not merely "human" in the vein of early Godard and Cassavetes, but a "cinema of the body and inanimate things;" a term that might well describe a film like Jacques Tati's remarkable Playtime, which is a scientific record of human bodies, manmade environments and the interaction of the two. I'm up to a ridiculous third page of this e-mail and have only gotten to your extremely interesting paragraphs about a pseudo-montage film made up of juxtaposed long take scenes. Now, that's an idea and a half. I really, really like it. The thing is not to let the form overwhelm the content, of course, which I think might have happened to some extent with Flushed. I'll let you take over now, as I've really gone on too much this time. Just so you know, my next reply might wind up being a few days away or so. I've come to the realisation that, although I love writing these e-mails (and to an even greater extent, receiving replies to them each morning), it's going to absolutely kill me if I write one of them everyday. Not only in terms of time management on, you know, my schoolwork, but also just in terms of the amount of thinking that my head has to do every time I sit down and write "Dear David"...! Cinematically yours, m.
Matt, Your four points are perfectly clear and quite correct. In concluding the Kubrick-hued discussion of influence, let me take my part and say that I would not ever attempt to beat a filmmaker at their own game; however, I am informed by those filmmakers whose work I respond to the most. And honestly, I don't know if I'll ever add anything to a certain style of cinema – but to cinema as a whole, I hope to add works with style and narrative that, while not one hundred percent original, are indeed one hundred percent mine, and in being mine are strong and bold enough to be remembered as something outstanding and perhaps even innovative (although all innovation these days is a misnomer, isn't it?). I think I will shy away from the word "emulate" in the future; for I'm oft inspired by filmmakers, and now and then have the distinct urge to rip someone off (did I say rip off? I meant pay homage). But emulation – that's too simple-minded. I loved that Van Sant article – thank you for the link – and in particular I appreciated the likening of filmmakers like himself (with Gerry and Elephant, at least) and Béla Tarr (who I'm wholly unfamiliar with) and their work, to James Joyce and what he did with the form of the novel. An astute comparison indeed. Joyce was always my ideal as to the possibilities of literature – at least, that is, until I discovered his contemporary across the aisle, Virginia Woolf. The comparison could work with either of them. Thinking about being in their company makes me feel cozy and comfortable (while simultaneously adventurous and bold) and content to let the Finchers and Phalaniuks wreak their own form of havoc outside the confines of what excites me – which is, at this exact moment, a tantalizing vision of what might happen if one were to combine the video-game style of Gerry and Elephant with the incision of Bergman – yes, it would be four hours long but it would be marvelous – but alas, that amalgamation takes us back to the beginning, doesn't it? Funny you should mention Tati, I was thinking of him in particular last night when I was trying to think of examples of early oppositions to Russian montage. In retrospect, my deviation into the process and style of editing was largely a deviation, and one I took far too literally. While questions of theory abound in legitimacy, I once again was reminded while watching Undertow last night that, unless one wants to be a strict theorist, a film itself will trump the rules. I'd rather be a filmmaker. To work in a Star Wars reference because I'm a dork like that – George Lucas, a natural born editor, kept a poster of Eisenstein over his desk in his early days (and it certainly influenced him in THX-1138, which you really must see), but he more or less fired himself as an editor on The Empire Strikes Back because he knew his style was ruining the film. I hope to remain more open and let the project inform my style, rather than my style inform it. And oh, I could probably go on to further topics, examples, deconstructions, etc. but I think we've both quite ably illustrated where we're coming from and where we're going, as far as style goes. I think you have a more concrete vision, while mine is still somewhat half-formed – or actually, ephemeral; while I've always had a concept of what I want to do in my head – and when I'm making a film, I know how close or far I've come to achieving what I truly want – this has been the first time I've ever actually tried to explain myself, so to speak, and I've found it quite beneficial. Having never been involved in film in any sort of academic capacity, this is an entirely new experience for me. Of course, no worries on the time constraints – feel free to reply whenever you have the opportunity, or not at all. And I'm glad to hear that I'm not the only one who has to step up to the plate, mentally, in writing my half of these exchanges! In conclusion, let me supplement that likening of cinema to literature in the way of Van Sant to Joyce, and the subsequent comparison to Woolf, by providing this passage, written by Michael Cunningham, concerning Woolf's motives as a writer: It was one of Woolf's contributions to insist, in her fiction, that the world is too huge and mysterious, too impenetrably itself, for fiction as fiction is so often written; that any writer's attempt to clear the field of its vines and creepers, to frighten off the hostile animals so as to set up a table for tea and begin to demonstrate a proper sense of right and wrong, is unlikely to come to a good or useful end. In her fiction Woolf bore witness to the world, saw and recorded some of its patterns, but did not attempt to enforce upon it any particular order or demand that it produce an order of its own. For this innovation she has often been accused of writing about nothing at all. I've just now read the essay in which this passage is culled; coming upon it was one of those exciting and sometimes frightening moments in which you unexpectedly see your own motives laid out before you – much in the same way that hearing someone relate a dream you've had and thought was your own is exciting and frightening. This is of course a perfect synopsis of why I love Virginia Woolf – and also a wonderful encapsulation of my own ideals as a filmmaker (slash writer). dvd
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