Tag Archives: Glauber Rocha

Visible Evidence (Buenos Aires, 2017). Presentation of the Panel “The Cinematic Representations of the Brazilian Military Dictatorship”

The panel “The Cinematic Representations of the Brazilian Military Dictatorship” was presented by Patrícia Machado, Thaís Blank, Naara Fontinele (CAMIRA France) and Raquel Schefer (CAMIRA France) at Visible Evidence 2017, the international conference on documentary film and media, in the city of Buenos Aires, Argentina.

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Abstract of the panel: The panel aims to establish more complex genealogies and enriched histories of the cinematic representations of the Brazilian Military Dictatorship (1964-1985). If the history of Brazilian cinema has been predominantly constructed until recently with a strong focus on canonical cinema, this panel seeks to propose a different historical and theoretical framework to analyze this cinematography. Through the examination of non-canonical cinematic objects crossing generic (political cinema, home movies, avant-garde and experimental cinema), formal (newsreels, re-enactment, documentary), and material (16 mm in opposition to 35 mm) instituted categories, the three papers aim to generate critical perspectives in relation to existing accounts of the cinematic representations of this historical period in Brazil, contributing as well to the history of cinema produced under dictatorial regimes in Latin America. The filmic representation of political conflicts on history is understood in its most expansive dimension, enabling and embodying any form of image or sound – from essay film to observational documentary, from newsreels to domestic films – produced in and through all kinds of filmmaking practices. The moving image documenting the marriage of a couple of militants is object of investigation in Patrícia Machado and Thaís Blank’s communication “Entre o político e o íntimo: o cinema doméstico sob a ditadura militar brasileira”. In Naara Fontinele’s paper, the same “repressive imaginary” resurges under the critical and dialectical structure of “You too can become a nice ham” (Sergio Muniz, 1971-1973), an experimental essay film made clandestinely that advocated against the Death Squad operating in São Paulo. To cloture the discussion, Raquel Schefer proposes an analysis of Glauber Rocha’s “Maranhão 66” (1966) and “Passeata dos Cem Mil” (co-directed with Affonso Beato, 1968), two overlooked and contested filmic initiatives from the most distinguished Brazilian filmmaker.

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Image 1: Marriage of the militant couple Inês Étienne Romeu and Jarbas Silva Marques – Super 8 film frame.

Image 2: You too can become a nice ham (Sergio Muniz, 1971-73).

Image 3: Maranhão 66 (Glauber Rocha, 1966).

Correspondence N.1: On the Epistemology of Arrival, Lav Diaz, Argentina x Brazil

 GlauberRochaBlackGodWhiteDevilBlack God, White Devil (Glauber Rocha / Brazil / 1964)

July 24, 2017

Dearest Raju and Fernando,

Greetings from the Land of Engkantos!

How are things there in Argentina and in Brazil?

Before I begin and before any proper inauguration, I would like to enact an incision: that this letter be subdivided into several reflection points.

Knowing Brazil/Argentina through Cinema

I only know Brazil and Argentina through cinema and pictures. My favourite Argentinian film is the landmark film of Getino and Fernando E. Solanas titled The Hour of the Furnaces (1968). If you haven’t seen this film, I suggest you go see it. It is one of the films that had a vision to change the world through cinema. Its main paradigmatic practice is to constitute a revolution through image, and perhaps a revolution from the image of cinema, for The Hour of the Furnaces also combats the bourgeoisie’s mode of production by deploying the guerrilla approach to filmmaking. In the same way, the film also shatters the dominant cinematic image of its time in an ontological sense via deterritorialization i.e. all signs point towards a deterritorialization of the image through dialectical practice of editing.


The Hour of the Furnaces (Getino & Solanas / Argentina / 1968)

Lisandro Alonso is also an unforgettable figure in Argentinian cinema. He and Lav Diaz have similar approaches to duration, although Alonso has a more ambiguous and sparser style in narrative. I like La Libertad (2001) for its straightforward depiction of a day in a life of a proletarian woodcutter. There is a simplicity to it that blurs the boundary of documentary and narrative film. The camera provokes an elaborate and impenetrable silence as means of disclosure, of worlding, of existing. Jauja (2014) is also a beautiful film by the same director, but I don’t know much about its Argentinian roots. I remember watching it with eyes wide open, anticipating its idiosyncrasies and anachronisms. I can’t seem to make sense of its incongruities. Maybe the beauty of the film lies in its incongruities, pauses and ellipses. There is a scene where Gunnar Dinesen (played by Viggo Mortensen) sleeps on rock starring at the heavens. There is ‘infinity’ to that image that I want to re-experience again. I remember thinking that that scene has something to do with love, with longing, or an infinity of longing perhaps.


Jauja (Lisandro Alonso / Argentina / 2014)

I have also seen a recent Argentinian film titled Taekwondo (2016) by Argentinian born filmmakers Marco Berger and Martin Farina, a film that explores male bisexuality. It might be one of the very few films I have seen in my waking life that cinematically explores bisexuality, and I liked it.

From what I have seen, Taekwondo is labyrinth of bodies. The male body in the film transforms into a generalized spectre, a site of struggle of sexuality. What I liked about the film is that it withdraws from the penetrative approach of contemporary gay films by exhuming the liminal power of the body to question the politics of visibility of LGBTQ cinema. In withdrawing from penetrative paradigm of gay identity politics, the film reconstructs a ‘minotaurian dilemma’ of bodies and orientations. In the end, Theseus, in parallel to the character of German (played by Gabriel Epstein), will slay the minotaur, in parallel to the character of Fer (played by Lucas Papa), at the center of labyrinth with a kiss.


Taekwondo (Marco Berger & Martin Farina / Argentina / 2016)

As with Brazilian Cinema, I can only think of two unforgettable cinephilic experiences. The first one was watching Walter Hugo Khouri’s Noite Vazia (Men and Women, Brazil, 1964) which had a profound lingering effect on me. I can’t think straight for days. The other one was watching Glauber Rocha’s A Idade da Terra (The Age of the Earth, 1980). The Age of the Earth violated my vision of the world. It is pure deterritorialization of cinematic image. These two films were transformative experiences that troubled my senses to its very end. Rocha’s other films Entranced Earth (1967), Black God, White Devil (1964) and Antonio Das Mortes (1969) were also memorable. Rocha’s idiosyncratic and militant approach to filmmaking is somewhat unique yet formally similar to how some contemporary Filipino filmmakers would approach editing, mise-en-scene and narrative. Khavn dela Cruz is one Filipino filmmaker I can think of that channels the same energy as Rocha’s caustic style. Yet, they diverge in terms of stylistic restraints. I can talk more about this topic, but it will be too much for this letter.

 note-vazia-1965-01-1-gi0FfBTop: Noite Vazia (Walter Hugo Khouri / Brazil / 1964) | Bottom: The Age of the Earth (Glauber Rocha / 1980)

I wonder if Rocha, Khouri, Getino and Solanas’ approaches to film style remain influential in the contemporary cinema of Argentina and Brazil. What’s happening now in your respective locales in terms of moving image production?

The period of the 1960s in Latin American cinema was revolutionary. Third cinema emerged during this period as collective effort to decolonize Latin American culture and resist the cultural imperialism of the United States. How’s the Third Cinema project in your respective regions now? Is the tradition of militant filmmaking, as inaugurated by Getino and Solanas, still practiced among militant filmmakers?

In return, I would like also to know if you have an idea of the Philippines, Philippine cinema, or militant cinema of the Philippines. What’s the recent Filipino film you’ve watched? Also, a question to Raju, if you come from India, what circumstances led you to reside in Brazil? How long have you resided in Brazil? Has transferring to another country affected your subjectivity as an Indian-born cinephile/film critic?

Correspondence: An Epistemology of Arrival


The geographical and cultural distance between Philippines and Argentina or Brazil poses a challenge especially on the subject of knowing the other. I guess cinema provides a translational advantage, a bridge that allows for distances to appear closer, yet some areas in your culture still remain untranslatable. There are still images left to be interpreted, contextualized, and re-imagined. Transcultural dialogue is more important now than ever. With neoliberalism and US cultural imperialism dominating distribution networks of cinema around the globe through Hollywood, we must not let a day pass without rallying for what is at stake in this dialogical space of cinema. The disappearing cultural specific heritage, proletarian subjectivity and collective memory are now threatened to be erased by instantaneity and synchronicity as operated via a globalized capital disseminated at an infinite speed. Correspondence, as I see it, is a radical refusal of instantaneity and synchronicity. It reintroduces again the concept of delay, or knowing in delay, through a form of a letter.

In correspondence, the question of ‘knowing’ and ‘arriving’ collapses into a duality; as if, for a moment, to ‘know’ what is there from a distant is also to ‘arrive’ there prematurely. Is knowing also a form of colonization? Correspondence, as I understand it, is a means to ‘arrive’ as well as to ‘know’ a place outside of oneself. To correspond is to arrive in a place outside only to know that one is always already too late. In correspondence, we are always late. Time has passed: for in arriving, or for a letter to arrive, some of us have already departed. We cannot be in same place at the same time, yet technologies such as instant messaging allow us to appear as though we are synchronic: in two places at once. Correspondence, on the other hand, recognizes the limit of the distance between two points, two locales, two worlds, two cultures, two temporalities. It is governed by the law of the Two, which, for Alain Badiou, constitute the dialectical alternative of One. Correspondence restores the difference and the untranslatability of one culture from another.

To enter into the activity of correspondence, which, for now, will be through a ‘letter,’ is to come to terms with the vulnerability of exposure, of arriving at a place exposed, or arriving towards an exposure of the self. It has occurred to me that writing a letter would not be as easy as I thought it would be. Since the letter is a form of public correspondence, there is a risk of exposure. There is a risk of exposing too much of myself, too much of my world. Can a letter be a means of overexposure? Cinema, on the other hand, has its own of means of exposing the world. Cinema can also be a letter of exposure (or overexposure) in its own way. To expose through exposition, on the other hand, for a letter is also an exposition of oneself, is also, in itself, a movement, a positioning, a posturing, a step ahead. To ex-pose — as a movement from one pose to another — is an ex-position — a displacement, a change in position. Indeed, correspondence is both an exposure and an exposition, jointly and separately, one and the same.

There is a life out here in the Philippines that is worth a book or a poem or a film, but a letter of correspondence would not suffice to expose even the surface matter of phenomena and reality I see through my eyes. Hence, the term encounter offers a heuristic path towards knowing the other without risking exposure and colonization. Thus, in correspondence, we only write encounters.

Lav Diaz’s Cinematic Duration as Object of Study

I would like to share to you a little background of my writing and research life. I am twenty-eight years old. I live in Manila for more than ten years now. For now, I am not affiliated in any film journal or publication, but occassionally I do published some of my articles in magazines and film journals. The latest would be an article on Hegel and Lav Diaz in NANG Magazine Issue 2. I am also actively engaged in a film organization Cinema and Moving Image Research Assembly (CAMIRA). I am in-charge of organizing activities of the film organization in the Philippines.

As for my studies, I am currently finishing my MA Media Studies (Film) degree at the University of the Philippines Film Institute with key interest on film philosophy. I am now in my thesis stage with Lav Diaz’s cinematic duration as my main object of study.

I have been doing research on Diaz’s cinema since I started my MA degree in 2014. My interest in Diaz’s cinema does not come entirely from an appreciative perspective, but rather from a critical one. Diaz’s cinema has amassed a wide range of critical debates on various subjects of his cinema with film reception as one of the main areas of contestation. My thesis will focus on the problematic issue of Diaz’s long durations.

 maxresdefaultDeath in the Land of Encantos (Lav Diaz, Philippines, 2007)

With running time up to eleven hours long, and, on average, clocking at six to eight hours, his films no longer belong to the general criteria of entertainment cinema. In Diaz’s cinema, I consider cinematic duration as site of constraint generative of a new ontology, epistemology, ethico-politics and aesthetics of cinema.

Diaz’s eurocentric audience also poses a problematic politics of reception. One of my cinephile friends from Italy, Renato Loriga, expressed his distaste on European cinephilia’s instant positive appraisal on Diaz’s cinema after winning three successive major awards from the top European film festivals of Locarno, Berlin and Venice in the span of three years. Renato told me that the Italian critics, especially those who have ignored some of his early long-form works in the 2000s, were suddenly appreciative of his cinema because of the awards he won. Diaz was almost suddenly under the radar of critics, scholars, producers, distributors and the media, earning him a title as one of the world’s most renowned filmmakers.

While legitimizing his position as one of the forminable Asian auteurs that penetrated the European cinephile culture, the limited turnout of Filipino audience in most of his screenings in the Philippines proved contradictory. Diaz’s high cultural capital and idiosyncratic approach to filmmaking opened debates, critical appraisal and critiques in his home country. During the onset of his popularity, Diaz’s long duration was dismissed as anti-people and anti-audience for its demand for long endurance and extreme durative work from its audience. Diaz’s duration can be seen as a totalitarian conditioning of opticity. This and other problematiques would constitute the core problems of my thesis.

A Sneak Peak on my Archival Research on Lav Diaz

Day 1: Ground Zero (July 9, 2017)

IMG_6717One of my book finds in Lav Diaz’s library- Kubler’s The Shape of Time. I wonder if he ever read this.

My archival research on Lav Diaz will not be possible without the big help of Hazel Orencio who first sent me a message inviting me for a Lav Diaz-related event in Singapore this coming August 2017. This prompted me to ask if she has some of Diaz’s primary documents to back-up my historical research on him. Two Sundays ago, we agreed to meet in Diaz’s apartment in Marikina, Metro Manila where Diaz is residing. He’s on a three-week break in the Philippines before heading back to the United States. Marikina is a suburban city adjacent to Quezon City where I live, just two jeepney rides away from my place.

Since my study is historiographic in nature I asked Lav Diaz if he could provide all the primary documents in my checklist. These include scripts, production notes, behind the scenes photographs and videos, rushes, cinematographic devices, lighting equipment, sound equipment, old photographs from childhood, school records, birth records, etc. So we initially level off in terms of conducting my research. We also run through my checklist to identify the documents’ location. Diaz is not fond of storing photographs. He said I should ask his regular film crew like Larry Manda, his cinematographer and collaborator since 1998, and Cesar Hernando, production designer of Batang West Side (2001), to locate some the production/behind the scenes photos of his films. Diaz also suggested to visit the archive of the comics publisher Altas Publishing to check on some of his works. Diaz mentioned that he did two graphic novels. One of which is titled Prinsipe Maru. He also suggested to check the archive of PTV4, a local government-owned TV channel, for his works in television during the late 1980s (post-EDSA People Power). If one of you is aware of Diaz’s history, the earliest version of Heremias (2006) was an educational video he did for the TV Program called Balintataw, which can be found in PTV4.

His personal archive in Marikina contains mostly old scripts, old but highly important miniDVs containing the raw files of his mid-2000s works. All digitized raw files of his post-Good Harvest works are there. His digital cameras are also there. His editing station is also there. Hazel told me that Diaz only edits his films in one area – his editing room, a small room with a Mac computer and a small single bed. Ever since they transferred in Marikina, he never edited outside the confines of this editing room. This must be a very special place.

 IMG_6518Diaz’s Panasonic DVX-100 camera he used in the mid-2000s.

Also, I was surprised to find that all his filmmaking equipment and all his awards fit into one bookshelf, no more and no less, although I haven’t seen the Golden Lion, the Silver Bear and Golden Leopard.  This includes his cameras, lighting equipment, sound equipment, tripods, and lenses. Diaz was also not fond of displaying his trophies in glitzy cabinets and display tables. Instead, he places his trophies alongside his equipment without any distinguishing space for both types of materials. One is mixed with the other. Some of the trophies even have missing pieces.This only shows that Diaz is not really much after the awards.


MiniDV tapes of Heremias 

Diaz is currently using a Sony A7s camera for his two upcoming films. This full-frame camera provided Diaz’s the necessary sensitivity to both light and darkness. He used this to shoot his previous film  Ang Babaeng Humayo. This is quite different from how Diaz organizes his shoots with his Panasonic DVX100, which he used to film the latter half of Evolution of a Filipino Family (2005) until Butterflies Have No Memories (2009). Panasonic DVX100 uses miniDVs while Sony A7s uses memory card. Although both are digital in terms of coding, they vary differently in terms data management principles and storage.


Diaz as the current archivist of his cinema

Diaz does not use sophisticated sound devices except for a simple boom microphone in some of his films. Most of his sounds are live sounds using his cameras’ respective microphone. He also rarely does sound editing or sound design. He also does not use sophisticated lighting equipment, just a few LED lights he used for the night scenes in A Lullaby to the Sorrowful Mystery (2016). Other than that, all his light comes from natural sources.

This is ground zero of my Lav Diaz research. I wish to share more of my findings in the next letters. I wonder, have any of you seen a Lav Diaz film? What is your experience like? What do you think are the similarities and differences of Lav Diaz and Lisandro Alonso in terms of their approaches to slow cinema? Do you consider Lav Diaz’s cinema as slow cinema?

I am quite excited to hear from you two.

Yours truly,

Adrian Mendizabal
Manila, Philippines
July 24, 2017

IBAFF. Presente, Pasado y Futuro


Si no hay diálogo y educación en cine, los festivales no tienen sentido, subrayaba Jesús de la Peña, director del Festival Internacional de Cine de Murcia, en su presentación de la sexta edición del IBAFF. En el encuentro “Diálogos: Cánones, Imposturas y Derivas Autorales”, acto celebrado durante el festival, y en el que participaron críticos, programadores y realizadores, Hans Hurch, director de la Viennale, afirmaba que un festival de cine que sólo se concentra en el cine actual no es interesante. En este sentido, el IBAFF apuesta abiertamente no sólo por el ahora, por el cine más contemporáneo, sino también por otras películas que forman parte de la historia del cine. Pues, en palabras del crítico Carlos Losilla, se trata de saber qué quiere decir el cine en el sentido de lo que aporta respecto a su propio pasado y también qué significa el cine en cuanto a qué aporta a la contemporaneidad[1].

Con una programación que combina el cine más inédito – ha habido varios estrenos internacionales; Alexfilm, de Pablo Chavarría, por ejemplo, en la Sección Oficial Largometraje – un cine contemporáneo estrenado en otras ciudades españolas – Cavalo Dinheiro, de Pedro Costa, por ejemplo, en la Sección Oficial Largometraje – con el cine más consolidado, el IBAFF, pues, demuestra su voluntad por construir, cuidar y volver a contar la historia (o relato) del cine. Porque, efectivamente, los festivales deben ser un espacio para exhibir y descubrir lo que se está haciendo ahora, pero caeríamos en un error si no ponemos a dialogar el presente con el pasado, y dejamos que también este último se reinvente y reinterprete.

Uno de los grandes aciertos del IBAFF es la mezcla, con sentido y coherencia, de películas realizadas a lo largo de distintos años, no siendo esclavos de una exclusividad que, en muchas ocasiones, cierra puertas y va en contra del propio festival. Y no hablo sólo de las secciones oficiales, que incorporan algunos largometrajes y cortometrajes ya premiados anteriormente en otros festivales españoles, como El Rostro, de Gustavo Fontán; Crónica de un comité, de Carolina Adriazola y José Luis Sepúlveda o La Pasión de Judas, de David Pantaleón. Sino también del conjunto de secciones paralelas, que refuerzan precisamente la idea de dialéctica. Concretamente, destacamos este año la sección Foco: Vanguardias del Caribe, así como Ciclo: Premio FIPRESCI.

Desde Leviathan (2012), la película de Lucien Castaing-Taylor y Véréna Paravel, hasta Tierra En Trance (1967), de Glauber Rocha, en el Ciclo: Premio FIPRESCI; desde Pareces Una Carreta De Esas Que No La Paran Ni Los Bueyes (2014), de Nelson Carlo de los Santos, hasta Memorias del Subdesarrollo (1968), de Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, en Foco: Vanguardias del Caribe, el festival ha apostado por seguir esa misma línea de diálogo y encuentro entre el pasado, el presente y el futuro.

Memorias del Subdesarrollo, por ejemplo, se proyectó como película premiada por FIPRESCI. Paralelamente, y también basada en una novela de Edmundo Desnoes, Foco: Vanguardias del Caribe programó Memorias del Desarrollo, (2010) del director cubano Miguel Coyula. La historia de Sergio, el intelectual que abandona Cuba en busca de una nueva vida, resultó ser una de las películas más potentes de la sección. Política, sueños, fantasías…. Plasmada en una vorágine de imágenes y collages, la película es una lección de montaje, un pastiche que acompaña al personaje en su camino hacia la soledad y la angustia.

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(top) Memorias del Subdesarrollo (1968); (bottom) Memorias del Desarrollo, (2010)

 La sexta edición del Festival Internacional de Cine de Murcia ha incidido así, también, en la importancia del papel de la crítica cinematográfica. Además de añadir el Premio Cinema And Moving Image Research Assembly (CAMIRA), este año el Premio Honorífico ha sido otorgado a Klaus Eder, el Secretario General de FIPRESCI. Presente en el espacio de “Diálogos: Cánones, Imposturas y Derivas Autorales”, Klaus recordó, precisamente, la importancia de la figura del crítico, aquellos quienes, junto con las filmotecas, son los únicos que conocen o, por lo menos, deberían conocer, la historia del cine. Sylvie Pierre, crítica cinematográfica y editora de Trafic, la revista fundada por Serge Daney, añadía: el mayor deber del crítico es estar atento a la dialéctica entre el creador y el pueblo al que se dirige.

Efectivamente, no podemos eludir la importancia del receptor. Muchas películas no encuentran su público y, en ocasiones, nos preguntamos, en palabras del propio Carlos Losilla ¿está el propio cine acabando consigo mismo, por la invisibilidad de los circuitos alternativos[2]? Es decir, ¿hablamos de distribución y difusión, o de una radicalización de un cine que no conecta con la gente? Sylvie afirmaba en los Diálogos que el cine debe ser hecho para ser visto. Jean Luc Godard, decía, contaba la anécdota de que el público no le interesaba. Venía de una experiencia con su película Bande à part (1964). Se estaba proyectando en una sala y sólo había doce espectadores. En vez de preocuparse por este hecho, Godard quiso conocerles uno por uno para saber por qué habían ido a ver su película. Una experiencia hermosa pero bastante fascista, subrayaba Sylvie. Esteve Riambau, director de la Filmoteca de Catalunya, citaba un ejemplo reciente de un artista visual a quien la Fimoteca ha programado en varias ocasiones. En una de ellas, el año pasado, el artista le comentó: a mi no me importa que en las salas solo haya tres espectadores.

Como sostiene Julio C. Moran, desde el punto de vista ontológico, la obra artística no es nada sin el intérprete-re­ceptor, no sólo en el sentido de que lo necesita para ser, sino fundamentalmente en que lo necesita para consistir en algo[3]. Sí importa que las películas se vean. Sí importa que haya gente en las salas. La cuestión es, ¿para quién? ¿quién las ve? ¿Propician algunos festivales una actitud endogámica? O, como cuestionaba Mariana Barassi, del equipo del Festival Márgenes, ¿vamos a acabar convirtiendo esto en una conversación que quedará entre nosotros, entre los programadores de este cine, críticos, etc.? Esteve Riambau profundizó en la cuestión:

Los festivales, instituciones, cinematecas, plataformas, etc. ¿están hechas para los autores, o los autores están hechos para las instituciones? ¿Para quién estamos programando? ¿Para quién estamos creando? ¿Cuál es el destinatario final? Es terrible que una película se haga solamente para el programador de un festival. La pregunta es, ¿hay vida después del festival? ¿Tiene alguna importancia el público en relación al objeto de la creación? ¿O simplemente nos contentamos con movernos dentro de este círculo tan cerrado? A mi el público sí que me importa. Me importa muchísimo. Como responsable de una institución pública, mi responsabilidad incluye que haya un retorno al ciudadano y que, ya que ha habido una apuesta cultural pública por una institución que programa cine, y en este sentido incluyo también a muchos de los festivales que participan de dinero público, yo creo que el público merece como mínimo un respeto. Si no es el objeto esencial de destino, que debería serlo, por lo menos necesita un respeto y se le debería incorporar como la primera cuña que provocara, en términos una fisura dentro de esta hermosa burbuja endogámica que corremos el riesgo de construir entre todos. ¿Y cómo hacemos para salir y romper esta burbuja?

Hans Hurch, director de la Viennale, recogió las palabras de Sylvie sobre la creación de la política de los autores para ahondar, también, en los conceptos de público y autoría. Por primera vez, señalaba, cuando Sylvie explicó la teoría de la política de los autores entendí algo. Entendí que no es una teoría sino un virus, y este virus afectó al cine. Todos nuestros problemas empezaron con esta teoría. Si sois cineastas sois víctimas de esta teoría. Godard dijo, “soy hermano de Charles Chaplin”, pero es ridículo. Hasta ahora creía en esta teoría, y Sylvie lo estaba explicando increíblemente, con tanta lógica, y yo pensé… aquí es donde se empezó a segregar el cine, a construir paredes. Un cine artificial que cree seguir estando conectado con la gente. Y creo que es una idea extraña, hay grandes cineastas que no son autores, gente como Rocha, no estaba interesado en esto… Jean Marie Straub, odiaría que le llamaran autor… Una vez, Straub dijo que sueña con el público… Creo que ésta es la forma en la que el cineasta debería enfrentarse. Buscar su público, no ignorarlo. Debería soñar con el público.

03Fotograma de Tierra en trance (1967), Glauber Rocha, dentro del Ciclo: Premio FIPRESCI

Un festival que propicia la discusión demuestra ser un festival consecuente y comprometido con la realidad cinematográfica. En este sentido, el IBAFF logra involucrarse cada vez más en Murcia, no sólo en sus pantallas, sino también en su gente, como público y como trabajadores. El día que proyectaban en la Filmoteca From what is before (2014), la película de cinco horas y media de Lav Díaz, una señora, en la puerta, me preguntó si la película estaba bien. Me dijo que la recomendaba el periódico de Murcia, y que entraría a ver hoy dos horas y media y, en la siguiente sesión (unos días después), el resto, porque no podía quedarse a verla entera.  Esa es la responsabilidad de la que hablaba Esteve Riambau en los Diálogos. El público debe ser el objeto esencial de destino.

Todas estas cuestiones, reflexiones, críticas, nacen de las películas. De ese laboratoire, en palabras de Hans Hurch, que son los festivales, espacios no sólo para ver, sino también para volver a ver y reflexionar. El IBAFF combina con valentía en su sexta edición cine, diálogo y educación.

 Clara Martínez Malagelada


[1] Carlos Losilla, presentación de “La Furia Umana”, Casa de la paraula, Barcelona, 2014

[2] http://www.elnortedecastilla.es/v/20110817/cultura/historia-cine-esta-acabando-20110817.html

[3] La transformación del receptor y la ontología de la obra artística, Julio C. Moran