SPOTLIGHT: FALL FESTIVAL PREVIEW
EDITOR AND PUBLISHER
Mark Peranson 6 / I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW
40 / KELLY REICHARDT
DENIS COTE SPLITS THE HOUSE IN CURLING BY JASON ANDERSON
MEEK'S CUTOFF BY SCOTT FOUNDAS ' HONG SANG-SOO
10 / THE ANTISOCIAL NETWORK DANIEL COCKBURN'S YOU ARE HERE BYADAMNAYMAN
OKI'S MOVIE BY ANDREW TRACY
18 / ALONG FOR THE RIDE CATCHING UP WITH THOM ANDERSEN BY VERA BRUNNER-SUNG
44 / PATRICK KEILLER ROBINSON IN RUINS BY MICHAEL SICINSKI
21 / THE POLITIQUE OF LUC MOULLET BYTEDFENDT
49 / TEN MORALLY INDEFENSIBLE ANSWERS FROM BRUCE LABRUCE ON L.A. ZOMBIE BY OLIVIER PERE
34 / YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE SCALING MENAHEM GOLAN'S HEIGHTS BY CHRISTOPH HUBER
S3 / VERENA PARAVEL AND |.P, SNIADECKI FOREIGN PARTS BY ROBERT KOEHLER
FEATURES ' CHILLY GONZALES AND ADAM TRAYNOR 14 / UNCHAINED MELODIES THE AGONY AND ECSTASY OF PHIL SPECTOR AND IT FELT LIKE A KISS BY THOM ANDERSEN 21 / ROBERT BRESSON THINK, YOU FOOL BY LUC MOULLET 26/CASTGLANCES THOMAS COMERFORD'S THE INDIAN BOUNDARY LINE AND THE CONTEMPORARY LANDSCAPE FILM BYTOMMCCORMACK
IVORY TOWER BY QUINTIN COLUMNS EDITOR'S NOTE 58 / FILM/ART OLIVER HUSAIN BY ANDREA PICARD 63 / FESTIVALS PETER VON BAGH'S SODANKYLA FOREVER
ART DIRECTION AND DESIGN Vanesa Mazza MANAGING EDITOR Andrew Tracy CONTRIBUT1MG EDITORS Tom Charity Steve Gravestock Christoph Huber Dennis Lim Jessica Winter WEB DESIGN Adrian Kinloch COPY EDITING Jack Vermee Cinema Scope (ISSN 1488-7002) (GST 866048978110001) is published quarterly by Cinema Scope Publishing. Issue 44. Vol. 12, No. 3. Fall 2010.©2010. All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission. All articles remain property of their authors. Submissions are eagerly encouraged. Distributed in Canada through Disticor Direct, Magazines Canada, in the US through Disticor, and worldwide through Annas International. Cinema Scope is found on-line at www.cinema-scope.com. For advertising information, call Mark Peranson at (416) 889-5430 or email email@example.com. Subscriptions are available for $20/4 issues, personal, and $40/4 issues, institutional (plus gst). American subscribers please pay in American funds. Overseas subscriptions are available at $40 us / 4 issues. Subscriptions by credit card are also available online at www.cinema-scope.com. For back issues, subscriptions, or letters to the editor, email firstname.lastname@example.org or write Cinema Scope Publishing, 465 Lytton Blvd. Toronto, ON, M5N 1S5 Canada. Printed by Ironstone Media, Pickering, ON. PUBLICATIONS MAIL AGREEMENT NO. 4 0 0 4 8 6 4 7 . RETURN UNDELIVERABLE CANADIAN ADDRESSES TO: CINEMA SCOPE PUBLISHING, 4 6 5 LYTTON BLVD., TORONTO, ON M5N IS5
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $19.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
BY OLAF MOLLER
Canada Council for the Arts
29 / INHUMAN AN EXCERPT FROM THE SCRIPT OF BRUNO DUMONT'S HADEWIJCH SELECTED, TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY LIVIA BLOOM AND AURELIE GODET
65 / BOOKS AROUND BY OLAF MOLLER
Conseil des Arts du Canada
We also acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council.
67 / GLOBAL DISCOVERIES ON DVD BY JONATHAN ROSENBAUM CURRENCY 73 / 1 WISH I KNEW BYTONYRAYNS 76 /CARLOS BY ANNA THORNGATE 78 / THE EXPENDABLES BY CHRISTOPH HUBER
The Ontario Arts Council is an agency of the Government of Ontario. PHOTO CREDITS Festival del Film Locarno: 2b, 10,13, 34, 36, 37, 49, 50, 56; Filmswelike: 73, 74; IFC Films: 29, 30, 31, 32, 33; Lions Gate: 78, 79; Luc Moullet: 21, 23, 251 Mongrel Media: ad, 6, 8, 76, 77; New York Film Festival: 40, 41: Oliver Husain: 58, 60, 6r; Peter von Bagh: 63, 65; Thom Andersen: 2a, 18, 20; Thomas Comerford: 26, 27; Vancouver International Film Festival: 14, 42, 43, 44; Verena Paravel: 2c, 53, 54,55.
INHUMAN An excerpt from the script of Bruno Dumont's Hadewijch Selected, translated, and edited by Livia Bloom and Aurelie Godet
TAKE CARE, YOU WHO WISH TO DEAL WITH NAMES FOR LOVE. BEHIND THEIR SWEETNESS AND WRATH, NOTHING ENDURES. NOTHING BUT WOUNDS AND KISSES.
(Hadewijch of Antwerp, Love Has Seven Names)
Bruno Dumont's latest film, Hadewijch (2009), began life under a different title: In its script incarnation, it was named Inhuman. (In the original French, the word was written in its feminine form, L'inhumaine). Dumont is known for stark, opaque cinematic portraits of life in northern France, where he grew up, in films like La vie de Jesus (1997), L'humanite (1999), Flandres (2006) and the forthcoming film L'empire. Less known to American cinephiles, however, is Dumont's remarkable writing style. The French press Dis Voir has published several of his scripts as slim novellas; they are written in prose form, and offer a valuable corollary to his visual work. This excerpt, here made public for the first time, offers a unique peak into the director's creative approach. Hadewijch begins with a vivid portrayal of convent life, where the unusual behaviour of the novice Celine stands out. With her mournful blue eyes and pale, serious face, the non-professional actress Julie Sokolowski gives an impressive performance as a fanatical would-be nun who attempts to follow in the footsteps of the 13th-century mystic and poetess whose religious name she shares. Dumont, who has a background in philosophy and considers himself non-croyant (a non-believer), nonetheless renders in poignant detail his character's obsessive faith. With nuance, grace, and a mysticism all its own, the film explores the power of religion to transcend the specifics of faith and routines of the quotidian, as well as its capacity to reach dangerous and even violent extremes.
Sister Hadewijch was lost in prayer. She was cloaked, and knelt directly on the cold stone of her cell, lit by the dawn. Her feet, her joined hands, and her bent face peeked out from the folds of her first robe. Her internal recitation was reflected in her face, in the pale skin that halted and tensed along with the fractures and seizures of her text. Her eyes were focused on the intricate cracks in the molding of the wall under a window, outside of which lay silence. Adding to the sum of her prayer was the pain of her prostration on the hardfloor.It helped her reach the depths, and the trembling of her weak members surged and augmented her Love. Entranced, she crossed herself, dividing her gesture purposefully and holding each touch for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Then she swayed, began to relax onto the floor, and caught herself with her hands. As she stood up, she moaned involuntarily, suddenly aware of sensations in her body that she had denied during her long prayer. Curved, then standing, she barely took a moment to regain the feeling in her numb legs before she swiftly seized the edges of her second robe from her bed. Clothed, ordinary, the novice added her scapular to her hood and left. Other sisters lined up with her in the hallway, gliding, uniform and mute, their feet falling in sharp footsteps under the faint rustle of the waves of their robes. The nuns flowed toward the cantina; they took their seats while two of them served the day's first shared meal. In front of the Mother and the prioress, remote on the stage, they were ten in simple assembly. First they gathered themselves, then fed on milk and bread, enveloped by a reading. Sister Hadewijch abstained. Hands in her lap, she listened to the words, fed by the fervour of the invocations, filled with the divine. During a long pause, she felt the heavy gaze of a sister upon her, and raised her head. She gazed back.
the last of the group left the room, Sister Hadewijch was led away by her elder. She followed in the Mother's footsteps, keeping one arm tight against her side, shielded by the folds of her robe. The Sister abandoned herself to her Mother, allowing the kindness and splendour of her attention to mask her slight internal stirrings of discomfort. After several more strides, a veined hand appeared on her forearm, which pleased her so that she leaned in a little, her forehead on the maternal shoulder, before the two proceed in mute unison. "Sister Hadewijch. You can speak, my Daughter." "Mother?" "You are no longer eating." Taken aback, the little Sister remained silent. "Can one work and pray on an empty stomach?" "Abstinence, my Mother, obeys the Rule." "But not martyrdom. A frugal meal suffices for our life, but one must also respect one's body or it will make you pay. God would be scared of how thin you have become." "But Mother..." "Here." The Mother gave her some toast. "Go eat this in the garden. Please get some fresh air and some sunshine, too." "Very well, Mother." "And don't tighten your belt any further." Obedient, Sister Hadewijch bowed as her Superior smiled and watched her walk down the corridor. She loosened her belt around her. The novice strolled down an old path through a sleepy garden in the cold winter of Flanders. She was fascinated by the fog refracted by the morning rays and the dew, retained by the twisted branches of the willow and elm trees that covered the plain; struck by the ethereal vision of dark, fragmented branches of apple trees, their twigs black against a uniform background of the grey sky. Her heart drew Truth from the physical image of the orchard, captivated by the metaphor of material things. In her slow progress through the transitory world, the Sister found clarity. The warmth of her breath cut into the residual cold. She stopped and stared harshly and unblinking at the orange sun that appeared in front of her beyond the compound wall. Before these rays she held a firm face, riveted by her Faith and adorned in a Light that emanated from and reflected the morning. Sitting on a bench, she gave her bread in crumbs to a flurry of sparrows that appeared before her. Sister Hadewijch exulted in this appearance of sharing. The chirping of the ravenous birds assuaged her own hunger, filling her flesh with the Grace present throughout the order of things.
Each smiled at the other half of her soul, blushing at this breach, at the awkward acknowledgment of their material appearances. Within their order, reason was silenced, yet their unease was real. Suddenly they were intruders, helpless. The two sisters folded into themselves. They again abandoned their corporeal carapaces; their scarcely breathing faces offering the barest possibility of entry into the enclosure where they were locked in contemplation. Difficult face. Then the repetitive litany took over again, and the two sisters were penetrated by simple Faith. Sister Hadewijch, eyes closed, regained her heart's desire with the mere evocation of the Strength of Christ. She swayed to the rhythm, drunk with joy at the Resurrection of the Dead. She gave herself over to the feeling of loving and being loved with clarity most clear. A signal announced the end of the meal and the nuns filed out. The Mother and the Prioress crossed the room first and positioned themselves at the doorway, watching over the company as they placed bowls and silverware back onto the serving table. At the threshold, one by one, the Mother Superior received the bows of her Daughters; she returned them with a loving smile, goodness in her eyes, and the soft inclination of her head. To her surprise, Sister Hadewijch found herself raised from her genuflection by the tender hands of her Mother, who pulled her from the line and toward her side. As
Having done this, she stood up again, and let the song of the sated birds accompany her return. On the steps, the Mother had witnessed the little sister's act. Circumspect, she withdrew as her Daughter came into view. Sister Hadewijch saw her walk away, and became acutely aware of her disobedience. Guilt transformed her face. Frozen, ashamed, the nun hesitated. Then, pensively, she made her way through the garden.
Sister Hadewijch was in tears before her Mother. Both stood in the office, in the middle of a conversation. The Mother Superior was severe: "Reality awaits you outside. In here, one cloisters oneself from life, but still, you need to have lived. Doubtless, you are too young. This is not a punishment." "But my life is here, my Mother. Here." "No. Your life is in life. You confuse what is inside with what is outside." "For the love of God, my Mother," the young Sister wept. Her head started to hurt. "Leave God out of it. Let God be an Other. Cease to conflate yourself with Him. Love of God is not what you believe. Your voluntary pain is not His pain." "I don't understand...I don't understand." "Reality will teach you. Only reality instructs us in God's existence and leads us to the Order and its rules. Not the other way around. You're running on empty here, endangering your spirit as well as your soul. God is not here, do you understand?"
"But..." "You could contort yourself still more and it wouldn't change a thing. Do you see God as a spectator for your little piece of theatre? What play are you performing for Him? You are but...a parody. Hear me now, my Daughter. God has left you because of how you love Him: You are like an actress who likes acting too much. How mediocre you are! If one loves God too much, He disappears. And do you know why? Because God does not exist. Do you understand?" Stunned, Sister Hadewijch gave up. "God does not exist窶馬ot in those mannerisms of yours. Go outside, my Daughter. Life will correct this confusion of yours. There you will learn to distinguish what is inside from what is outside. It is from this distinction that Truth will appear. If this Truth is God then yes, have Faith. You will be welcome here. Let me hold you, my daughter, and love you." The young Sister was crushed. She let the Mother hold her. In the infinite sadness that was hers, she left the office. The Mother stayed for a moment. The words she had spoken echoed in the receding footsteps of her Daughter.
Her headache had taken over. Slumped on the cafe table, she leaned her young face in her hands. Her eyes looked empty of thought. She reached again for her glass of beer, and then returned to the same position, now leaning her head to the other side, this time directing her gaze away from the windows and towards the wall on the far side of the room. Strong summer light.starkly defined her shadow. Exhausted, she could have fallen asleep where she sat. She rubbed one eye the way a child would, then clasped her throbbing head in her hands. She paid. The solitary guy who watched her leave lowered his face as she passed by him. Against the glow, she put on her sunglasses; they formed a band hiding part of her face. She was poised at the beginning of a bridge on He Saint Louis, her back to the dark splendour of Notre Dame behind her, remote on He de la Cite. Her bag was slung across her chest. Bare feet in sandals, short skirt grazing her white legs, brown tank top, thin hair tied back, she turned toward the Cathedral at the clamour of tourists around her. Then she turned back, rigid under her pale complexion. The siren of a police van assaulted the air. The disturbance re-animated her saintly face, which tensed and tuned into Grace. At this deafening sign, she crossed the Seine, slouching into herself and invoking His reign from the surface of the capital city to the depths that surged all around her. Expressionless, her shoulders hunched, the petite young woman walked along the sidewalks of the seventh arrondissement on a quiet Boulevard Saint Michel. Her silhouette was sharply defined against the shadow of luxurious apartment buildings. The hot rumble of sunrays reached the slopes of their walls. She quickly dialed a door code, pushed the door open wide, and disappeared. In the elevator, she endured time against the grate, eyes lost in the parade of passingfloors;then searching for the keys in the bottom of her bag.
The apartment was grand; ancient, adorned with drapes that dimmed the light at the openings and hacked it into chiaroscuro stripes. The soft light balanced the tones of objects with the empty space all around them, from painted canvases, figurative and abstract, to precious furnishings and decorative objects of all styles, from avant-garde to classical. It was a warm belly of diffuse colours, a profusion of scarlet tints, deep blacks, milky whites, large fine grays, and obscure blues on the relief moldings that testified to the habits and vanities of its occupants. "Mama...? Papa...?" Her voice circled the square feet of the space and returned to her.