BS: Hi Philip. When I saw What these ashes wanted (which I was almost
afraid to see: would it make me cry over our loss of Marian; might I feel
you had exploited Marian's death for a film?), I felt it was your most successful
film—most complete, most fulfilled in its methods and purpose. I mean that
form and content were synthesized. (Of course, to be reminded of Marian's
liveliness and bravery in life as well as facing death brought sadness.) The
film had a looseness, an openness (reduced use of the first-person voice-over,
passages of silence, different types of footage and shooting styles, a relaxed
episodic structure) that gave Marian, yourself and
the audience respectful space. The film breathes, it's organic-it moves forward,
yes, but there are detours, meanderings in its progression. You have
always done beautiful camerawork, but I could connect to this shooting and
how it figured in the totality of the film more than in any other (Opening
Series and Chimera have shooting
I also love and seem to mark a change in approach).
After the film I came home thinking how all your films carry forth
certain inter-related themes: autobiography (film as constructed memory) which
has been constantly examined since your first film On the Pond; the ethics
of filming, most clearly stated as problematic in Somewhere Between Jalostotitlan and Encarnacion; and death. The fear
I had had of exploitation, a question of ethics, was addressed in the film's
dialogue:
PICTURE: SILHOUETTE OF MARIAN ON HOSPITAL CURTAIN
MARIAN: ...if you could have a ritual for death what
would it be...and would it be private or shared.
PHIL: ...I think it would be shared.
CAMERA TILTS TO MARIAN'S EYES...THEN TO THE
LIGHT
Opening Series dealt with authorial control,
an ethical problem for you, by handing over the sequential ordering of its
parts to the audience and to chance. I remember you saying, “Why should I
have total control?” (One might also think of new music's compositional principles
of indeterminacy and chance.) The choice of order
of the rolls gave an element of random chance and loosened the strength of
narrative line.
PH: It was also to create a space
where the audience, myself and the work could come together and manifest something.
Each screening would be different not just because of the order of the work,
but the order would reflect its audience. For example, I had shot some footage
in
BS: In Ashes you make editing choices and yet retain an openness. Space.
This new openness is not only a strategy, but a place from which to make a
journey, a film. (Is there a difference for you? Is living filming and vice
versa? )
PH: I approach every film differently, so I'm not
sure the next one will have the same kind of openness, though I think this
is something that I have been developing since the early 90's in films like
Opening Series (1992-95), Chimera (1996), Kokoro is for Heart (1999), and most recently What these ashes wanted (2001). I suppose there is not the same need
to say things so overtly as in ?O,Zoo!
(The Making of a Fiction Film) (1986), or in some of the collaborations
I made in the 90's where it seemed the process of collaboration and its outcome
was more important than developing my own voice in the way I did in the `
looser films mentioned above. The 90's for me was a time to try different
ways of working but the most common element was collaboration, whether it
be an aleatory collaboration with the audience who helped to place Opening Series in an order, or my ‘directorial’
collaborations with Wayne Salazar in Destroying Angel (1998), Sami van Ingen in Sweep (1995) or Gerry Shikatani in Kokoro is for Heart.
BS: The story (made up? I had assumed) of film kept
in the freezer, unprocessed in? O, Zoo!
is told again, in What these ashes wanted,
but this version and this time, it's true—right? In Somewhere
Between Jalostotitlan and Encarnacion (1984), you questioned your right
to film the death of a Mexican youth—at least text over a black screen told
us this seemingly true story.
On the road dead lies a Mexican youth
I put the camera down…
(excerpt of text from Somewhere Between)
In "...Ashes..." you say that just before
Marian died you two slipped out of the hospital at night down to the lake's
edge, and here's the photo of the lake you took.
I took a picture, you skipped a stone
(excerpt of text from “What these ashes wanted”)
But
just prior to this we see a similar scene from a TV soap opera! Ethics, authority
of the filmmaker, veracity, credulity, autobiography... So much of your filmmaking
and teaching favors personal story-telling and yet you question both the ethics
of film and the possibility of truth. Where does Ashes stand in relation to these terms
and in relation to your previous films—and where do you think you place the
viewer?
PH: The fallen elephant story
in ?O,Zoo!, in which I film a dying
elephant and then feel badly about filming it, exploiting the elephant for
this sensationalistic act, and subsequently I put the film in the freezer—is
a metaphor for what actually happened in my youth as the family photographer,
when I filmed my grandfather in the casket at the request of my uncle. Subsequently,
in horror at what I had done, I put the film in the freezer. I think when
I wrote the story for ?O,Zoo! in
1986 I didn’t realise that unconsciously I was expressing this repressed
traumatic experience. I found it quite curious that I had written a fiction
that had its source in a true story, which had happened, but that I didn’t
know I was creating a stand-in for this difficult experience. The unconscious
was pulling at my shirtsleeve, saying look here, remember this.
In
Ashes, the Baywatch scene at the beginning of Part 3 mirrors the personal story
of Marian and I leaving the hospital the night she found out she had cancer.
The TV soap represents the way, through mass media, our culture presents grieving.
Ashes offers another method. Some
of Marian’s last writings, which I cherish, came after our final walk on the
beach. She wrote in a way that told me that this was not just for her, but
the writing should be passed on. In her grief, she had found out something
that night and was offering it up. I was the one who could release it to the
world through film.
TEXT ON SCREEN (black text supered over window):
The
night we had our last walk
she
wrote these words:
TEXT ON SCREEN (white on black):
We
come together separate
cry
and look wide eyed bewildered...
I
want to be near the water
We
bundle up and leave the hospital for the beach
Beautiful clear crisp blue-skied night
we
mourn together
laughing at intervals
clinging madly to some sense of life
The
open sky water makes me feel
part of something immeasurable
larger than me
and
it is consoling
STILL PHOTOS OF MARIAN'S ROOM
(excerpt of text from What
these ashes wanted)
So
in a way, my films blend fiction with real life experience, and the fiction
is usually grounded in lived experience. My sense is that once these expressions
are mediated through the filmmaking, they are fictions anyway. I feel fine
with this as long as what is made up is somehow a reflection of, or is based
on, or comes out of a lived experience-which usually happens naturally. I
try to let the experience of filming or photographing or recording audio,
happen out of an authentic process of trying to find something out, or communicating
something to someone. The residue of this process finds its way into my films.
I
think Somewhere Between and ?O,Zoo! are dealing with ethics, but the
starting points were traumatic moments that occurred while filming. I feel
my calling is a filmer of life. A death occurs in front of me so I have to
do something about the experience. During the filming of Somewhere
Between I remember sitting on the bus with the camera on my lap, feeling
the whole horrible experience. I chose not to film, perhaps more as a gut
reaction, but when I returned to Toronto the aura of the boy’s death laid
over me like a blanket. I wanted to
still make a film about this sacred moment, which I had witnessed, without
the so-called crucial image.
reaching out,
the white sheet is pulled over the dead boy's body
the children wept…
the little girl
with big eyes,
waits by her dead brother
big trucks spit black smoke
clouds hung
the boy’s spirit left through its blue
(excerpts of text from Somewhere
Between)
BS: So, in a way, all your films
exist to have the audience at some moment wonder: what is truth? What is fiction?
What is film? Is this truth? All of
those things are floating around. As audience we go in and out of being sucked
into the film the way mainstream films tend to operate on us, and then we're
conscious that this is a construct, that there are certain clues within it
that make us say, Wait a minute... and give space to interact with the film.
Reality is the interaction between us and this thing you've put out
called a film.
PH: You asked me earlier if I
brought the camera to the hospital to film Marian. The answer to this question
expresses something of how I work, of my process. Marian was in the hospital.
It was the fall of 1996, ‘the days of protest,’ and she was mad as hell at
the Harris government and all the cuts that were occurring to the social programs.
This also effected her directly ‘on the floor’ in the hospital she was in.
She was trying to write a story about all this and she was taking pictures
of herself in the hospital.
After
Marian’s death, I developed the roll she had taken in the hospital, and found
this picture of her, in silhouette. She took it of herself in silhouette against
the hospital curtain. She also filmed the same curtain from the same angle,
and left herself out. Blank. The picture made me shudder. Most often, the
powerful personal images, which I use in my films, have had other purposes.
Sometimes
I do find it necessary to ask family or friends if I can use a particularly
‘personal’ recording. In an earlier work, passing
through/torn formations (1988), there is a sequence about my estranged
uncle (he is homeless) and his daughter (my niece), who had not seen each
other for sixteen years. I met him in his pool hall hangout and told him his
daughter wanted to see him. He said he’d flip if he saw her so instead he
gave her a present. I followed him into the drugstore and he found this mirror
that was in two parts, that folded into itself—a ‘corner mirror’ he called
it. He felt it showed you the ‘real’ reflection of yourself, ‘the real you.’
It technically does this since it is constructed as two separate parts, the
image of yourself, though severed, reflects into itself, thereby rendering
your portrait normal, like a photograph. Your face isn’t reversed in the way
a normal mirror reverses your features. In exchange for the corner mirror
Leesa wanted to send her father a recording, so I taped her message to him.
It was my idea to also tape her looking into the ‘corner mirror,’ describing
her own facial features. I found him again, and we listened to it in my car.
He was deeply moved. A few years later when I was finishing the film I asked
Leesa if I could use her voice from the recording and the film we shot of
her looking into the corner mirror, and she agreed. As for my uncle, we spent
some evenings looking at different cuts of the film, while he played music
to it. I used his music in the film. I had thought the film could be a vehicle
for me to get to know my uncle again, who used to take me fishing and teach
me accordion when I was young. I guess it did somewhat, but it was a bit romantic
on my part. Anyway, I find that this kind of material works well for me as
it kind of rings true. It is the residue of lived experience. When I start
imagining something that I should film, and then I carry it out, it often
seems contrived and it’s often not as exciting as working with what comes
along.
BS: When I used to be the photographer
for a friend's wedding or anything like that, it kept me at a remove, this
in-between space of the camera, between the event and me.
PH: It is the event. Everyone
is using images, looking at pictures and video. It’s not once removed, and
it is as authentic a moment as any other. The question is how to position
it within your experience.
BS: It’s how you interact.
PH: It’s how our culture interacts.
BS: Your first film On the Pond (1978) starts out with you
and your family looking at family slides, and on the soundtrack we hear your
family commenting and reacting.
PH: Yes, to me this is a continuation
of an oral tradition I learned from Babji, my grandma. She would talk to us
about our dreams at the breakfast table. The difference is I use a tape recorder
and transport conversations through my films.
BS: I want to go back
to the term "autobiography". You've made a home movie, a road-movie,
a making-of-the-movie movie. I guess your films are autobiographical in that they
represent the truth of how it is for you, subconsciously, psychically, spiritually,
as well as materially. Do you feel the term autobiography is applicable to
you?
PH: I don’t use it much because
autobiography assumes that it's just about yourself. My films are about people
and places around me, though strained through my perception. When a writer
uses material from their life in a novel, we do not call the book an autobiography.
I suppose we might say there are autobiographical elements in the work, but
that is common with most art. It is only that the photographic or electronic
image is a good stand-in for the real, so we cannot get around the fact that
people depicted in a `documentary’ are actually and fully ‘on the screen!’
But we know it’s still an expression or reflection of the person, of the originating
moment. Films are constructions, and in my work I construct characters out
of the residue of real life experiences.
BS: As Godard says: Film is truth
at 24 frames per second, all film is fiction. Do you think the focus on death
in your work is because of your personal experiences with your grandmother
and Marian?
PH: Everyone experiences a death
close at hand but not all filmmakers deal with death so directly, or so often.
Maybe it was this initial experience filming my Grandfather in the casket.
You know we spend our lives working through this mess.... whether it be a
difficult birthing or a difficult family relationship. I've said before that
childhood is so traumatic, most of us sleep through it... maybe the next part
of that statement is that we spend the rest of our time consciously or unconsciously
shedding this inevitable pain. I'm glad I have filmmaking because it seems
to be a good place to put all this stuff. Maybe I was marked by that experience
and I have to keep pushing the rock up the hill—my karma?
BS: Do you think it has something
to do with your Catholic upbringing (we saw you at your first Holy Communion
in both On the Pond and Kitchener/Berlin)?
PH: What I think my Catholic
upbringing taught me was that bread can turn into body and wine can turn into
blood. The material and the invisible (spiritual?) are interchangeable, certainly
one isn’t more important than the other. My films, like many experimental
films, take on a form that honors what we can't see with our eyes. I work
with the photographic image, this art that can represent real material objects/beings
most precisely, but eventually my intent is to shed light on the things we
can’t see.
BS: ...or your German ancestry?
The reason I mention the German ancestry is because a couple of times, in
passing, you've made a comment to me about your name Hoffman, and that the
name Hoffman is German... and I thought, perhaps, you were saying it to me
because of my Jewish background.
PH: Right.
BS: And that was a link between
us to that history.
PH: Yeah.
BS: And what to do with that?
The burden of that history.
PH: Yeah. Yeah.
BS: So, the reason I mention
it here is because, certainly recent past German ancestry calls up the Holocaust,
and the Nazi period. I don’t know if that's on your mind at all, as a burden.
PH: Well, it's in passing through. It’s easier to deal with
on my mom's side, which is Polish—the occupation her family experienced in
their homeland by the Germans. There
are two stories in passing through,
but it’s not dealt with directly, only as a part of the family’s shared history.
I also have some old 1/2 “tapes of my German grandma looking at photos from
her past and talking, so they may be a vehicle to deal more deeply with this
subject.
BS: Films to come?
PH: Maybe.
BS: Are the encounters with death
the catalyst for making the films? I recall Bruce Elder pointing out (in a
class he was teaching) how Michelangelo Antonioni's protagonists are separated
from others and the flow of daily life by an encounter with death which gives
them a different awareness.
PH: When the death of a loved
one occurs you do go into a different space, and I did film some moments within
that space after Marian passed away. However, I am not only in a movie, I’m
also looking at my own experience from the outside as I construct the film.
Certainly as time passed, my own state changed. As I make my films I'm dealing
with people directly, my filmmaking is social, I'm sharing it with the world.
I'm making this work and I'm showing an installation of it. This makes more
sense to me than the funeral parlor, the casket, and going into a room with
all the flowers and everyone afraid to say anything. In Finland and Sydney,
I’m not separated from the culture. I’m embracing it, trying to find a ritual
to deal with death which makes sense to me, and I hope others.
BS: I remember at Marian's memorial
service. I was really enriched, and felt I had gained so much from it. But
my initial reaction when you showed a film during the memorial was, I was
taken aback. I thought, he's showing a film at her memorial! But by the end
of the whole service, with everyone contributing in their own way, I felt
that I had been enriched, and educated, and moved.
Ph: Well, I felt it was the only
thing I could give because I couldn't talk. It was just a poem about her first
coming to the farm, and a kiss.
BS: With Opening Series and Chimera
and now Ashes your shooting has
changed. The camera is much less stable, more fluid and animated with shorter
takes. Where did this come from? Do these signal filmic and/or philosophical
developments?
PH: I started shooting in short
bursts in Chimera (and in some sequences
of Ashes) around the time the wall
was coming down in Eastern Europe, and the Internet was going up everywhere.
My drive to fragment came from a perception that something was breaking down...well
so was my reliance on the photographic image as document, as opposed to expression.
I think in Ashes I maintain a better
balance between these two aspects which I hold a high regard for. When free
association becomes the mode of perception, which is the only sensible tool
when so much is up in the air, making a mosaic film is more apt to navigate
this space we live in, as opposed to the page-turning form of linear narrative.
You've also been working in this way, evoking a kind of present-ness…
BS: With presence. When I started
shooting in short bursts and single frame it was to achieve a simultaneity
of place and time I think of as reality, a relatedness, which I had approached
in earlier films by superimposition. Now I was trying 'editing' closer and
closer bits. It also came from a view of myself/filmmaker as observer rather
than master or in control.
PH: There have been some great
developments in this kind of work, like Brakhage. Trying to develop a spiritual
space for living/filming in the now. I love his film Black Ice and the Arabic Series,
and in your work I love the present-ness in Like a Dream that Vanishes. As a viewer we’re
not thinking about what has happened, or what might happen. We’re right in
the moment.
BS: Part of my thinking about
that was if you get past the identification of what the image is, or what
the narrative information of that image is, then you can get closer to a sense
of being.
PH: And the flow of time.
BS: Yes, yes. That it keeps going,
and you can't stop it and hold it, and study it.
PH: “Time goes...” as Aunt Katie
says in one story in Ashes. In Like a Dream that Vanishes you break it
up with observations of the philosopher, John Davis, who you filmed. I think
it really works, because you weave these rushing images throughout, and then
we’re back listening to him talk about the `mess’ of experience…and of course
we realise it’s a mess because it can’t be controlled…because living in the
present is the roller coaster you can’t control.
BS: This way of shooting and
making allows the complexity and wonder in. I’ve been thinking of the structure
of Ashes, which is more episodic
than earlier works. Sequences sometimes have a loose connection, (besides
being different shooting styles), but aren't firmly attached to the preceding
one. The connection isn't justified with causality, although they seem to
belong. Some were little detours and gave a bit of relief from the story of
Marian's passing. Like the Egyptian interlude. The sequences stood on their
own, and yet they seemed to fit together into a whole. I felt there was a
whole-ness to it, despite the fact the sequences could be quite independent.
I'm wondering how you determined the structure, how you selected what to put
in, and how you ordered it?
PH: It was a long and organic
process that started in 1989. I was shooting single frames—zooming on each
exposure to create a splayed image. There were a number of projects that came
out of this way of shooting: Opening
Series, Chimera, and some installation
works. When you are shooting without a plan, just collecting images from your
life, there tends to be an organic connection between life and work.
BS: There is a unity in all your
work, because you're you.
PH: Rather than because it's
a project you are working on. As the 90's moved along, I started working on
Destroying Angel with Wayne Salazar, which
Marian assisted through her talks (and recordings) with Wayne. Suddenly in
the middle of it Marian tragically died. After a time, Wayne, who had a strong
connection to Marian, asked me if we could use some of Marian’s story in our
film, which I agreed to. At the same time, I had been asked to construct an
installation in Finland. When Marian passed away, I felt I couldn’t really
make the trip, but my friends there called me up and suggested I come; they’d
take care of me. Since I was spending so much time going through all of the
images we had together over our life, why not create something out of it?
It seemed to be a positive space for me, so my friends in Helsinki helped
me make a kind of offering to her, a six screen circular work, in which many
of the ideas for What these ashes wanted developed. My process
of finding the structure for Ashes
came out of these projects which I was immersed in after Marian’s death. It
just seemed to be the way I wanted to spend this grieving time. At the beginning
of Ashes, there is a recording from
my answering machine from Mike Hoolboom, who gracefully relays to me a story
about the repairing of a precious piece of pottery, and I thought that I was
trying to do the same thing with the film, with my life. To show something
of beauty from a life that had been shattered through her death.
HOME MOVIE (SLOWED DOWN) OF A WOMAN (MARIAN) WALKING
PAST COLUMNS IN FRONT OF EGYPTIAN MONUMENT
SOUND (TELEPHONE ANSWERING
MACHINE):
MIKE: Hi Phil, I found this in a book and thought
you might like to hear it, hear goes.
When I call up pictures
of friends, lost, a terrible ache comes over me, so much so that it has to
go away on its own, there isn't much by way of remedy that I can do. I remember
a letter of Henry James where he said that in times of great grief it was
important to ‘go through the motions of life'; and then eventually they would
become real again.... I've been trying to write myself a poem about those
ancient Japanese ceramic cups, rustic in appearance, the property at some
point of a holy monk, one of the few possessions he allowed himself. In a
later century someone dropped and broke the cup, but it was too precious simply
to throw away. So it was repaired not with glue but with a seam of gold solder.
And I think our poems are often like that gold solder, repairing the break
in what can never be restored perfectly. The gold repair adds a kind of beauty
to the cup, making visible part of its history....
(Taken from a portion
of a letter from the poet Alfred Corn, Feb 19, 1994 from the novel Heaven's Coast by Mark Doty.)
OK I guess that’s it.
See you later.
At
times I think this could come off as crude, using filmmaking as a process
for grieving but felt it was a way of honoring her. I went to Spain to try
to find the rock opening, which is seen at the start of the film, with her
text superimposed, where she realizes her illness. I found this text paper
clipped behind a still image of this hole, which seemed to be a cave in Guadelest,
Spain. I journeyed there with her friend Belinda and we had great trouble
finding it. I felt they must have removed it somehow, until I looked down
on the ground and saw this tiny opening, exactly the same shape as the photograph
she took. We had a laugh imagining her down on her stomach trying to take
this picture.
The
film’s structure came after Marian’s death when I was spending this time remembering
her, and bringing this film work around to friends and strangers.
BS: There was one sequence in
the film, where you're in the back seat of the car taping Marian while she
works as a nurse visiting people's homes. I thought it was a very interesting
scene for its mixture of realities. Marian's a nurse, she's going into people's
homes, and yet this is being filmed, so is this staged for the film? No, this
is real, and we're seeing it being filmed. This scene sets up the whole question
of veracity, what is real and where is the real located?
PH: Yes, that’s the synch scene
where I sit in the car with this huge 3/4 inch camera, circa 1983, filming
her reactions to what she has just seen on a particular home visit. She was
giving up nursing so she asked me to videotape her on her last day on the
job.
BS: At one point, as I recall, Marian chastises
you, or gets mad at you, because you're not answering her question.
PH: Mike Cartmell remarked that
what is strong about the film is that it honors not always only her
good side. You know, she was a pretty tough cookie. And it doesn’t show her
necessarily in the best light, which of course, is the best light, because
it was part of her. I’m in, probably, my late-twenties, and I’m saying. Yea
it’s hard, the camera’s heavy. And she says, that’s not what I mean, it’s
hard emotionally. It’s hard for me to be filmed, and she chastises me, and
in a funny way, makes fun of me.
BS: And leaving this in gets
more at this question of, where is the real in a situation? She's saying that
you answered in a superficial way. It's an awkward situation because the camera
is heavy, but she was trying to get at something below the surface. I think
it’s very typical not only of your process of filming, but of Marian's whole
project of digging beneath the surface. How do we come to knowledge? What
forms our sense of what's real and true? This
episode functioned on a lot of levels. I'm wondering how you see this scene
functioning in the film.
PH: Well, it introduces her ‘in
the flesh,’ because it’s sync sound. One of the ways that I want to represent
her is as a physical being, closer to, let’s say, a realist representation
of her.
BS: So it’s Marian. But it is
also any of us, in a sense. I mean, the film is about you and Marian, and
what happened, but what if I don't know Marian?
PH: If you didn’t know Marian,
now you actually see her in the flesh. So it’s serving this purpose in the
film… you are introduced to the loved one who has been lost. This is why I
like to blend various forms, for example, synch sound with a more impressionistic
sequence. These are different aspects of how we perceive.
But
I think the purpose of this scene coming at the beginning of the film is so
that there is ground to stand on for the rest of the film. We are introduced
to this person in this way, twice. She comes back again, `in the flesh,’ in
synch-sound talking in front of the palm trees, and again she is questioning,
but mostly I like that scene because we can see her mind working…she is constantly
discovering something for the camera, which brings her to life for a brief
moment.
BS: And it would seem that the
process of making a film is the questioning part of the experience for you.
PH: Yeah that’s right.
BS: We've talked about Chimera in terms of it having been a film
in three parts, and used in an installation, and now parts of it finding its
way into Ashes. I just wondered
how you saw that footage functioning in this film.
PH: Well, the single frame zoom
footage is carried forward into Ashes,
because it carries the three deaths that occurred when I was filming that
way. In the early 90’s, three times death came in front of me. This occurred
in 1991, 1993, and 1994. I found it strange that this kept happening, and
that it was always connected to my filming. I brought these stories and this
shooting forward into Ashes, because
they seem to serve as a kind of premonition of death, and though one cannot
really be ‘prepared’ for the death of a loved one. It seemed to make me aware
that something was coming. I am troubled by these thoughts because two people
died, and one nearly, which is horrific and sad. I still do not have an explanation
for this so it sits in the film unresolved, like so many things in our lives…
BS: The style of that shooting,
for me, points to the ephemerally of life. Each second is over, it's not something
we can hold in our hand. Whereas a still photograph gives you the illusion
of having something, but really you have something out of time, and so very
death-like, whereas this is alive, this is present, and yet you can't have
it.
PH: Now you see it, now you don't.
It is like that.
BS: There's also image-to-image
speed, because it’s not a single image that you zoom into and out of.
PH: Past, present and future
exist at the same time, which is maybe what death is, or what happens after
death. There is no form, no linear time.
BS: I also want to talk about
the slow motion sequences.
PH: The first part of the film
is book-ended by a shot of Marian running in slow motion, first in colour,
then in black and white. As if she keeps fading, but is also eternally returning.
These are representations of the dream space one is in when one has psychic
trauma. She did keep coming back in dreams, or in waking life, or absurdly
through the ladybug form. Just like a photograph which actually reminds me
that she is gone. It is often said that photos, films or sound recordings
help us to understand the past. Well, I think they also help us get through
the present. Diving into this kind of footage after Marian’s passing seemed
a good place for me to be.
BS: Between teaching at Sheridan
College and now York University and at the Film Farm workshop, are you creating
a movement within experimental film with a manifesto or credo that you espouse?
PH: I try to create a place where
people can meet and be together. If it’s a movement, it’s a movement of sympathy
towards each other, or a place to be, where people are working together instead
of tearing each other apart.
BS: Competing.
PH: Competing, or spending so
much money to make a film. A place where making something is the most important
thing. So I wouldn’t say that is a manifesto, but it is a place where I feel
right. The farm workshop is set up so that people need to be there for the
whole time, so it’s a retreat. They need to come without a script, and part
of the idea is that there is a film inside and no matter where they are, it
can be coaxed out. In the time they spend at the workshop they can make a
start on that, or finish it, wherever they end up at the end of their stay.
Participants learn certain processes, working with a Bolex, with light, with
hand processing and tinting and toning. They don’t have to worry about getting
it exactly right, sometimes the accidents help them find their route. It’s
a bit like cooking, tasting what you’ve done, adding a few more spices here
and there.
BS: I thought we could call this
interview “Man with a Movie Camera” and use the photo of your silhouetted
torso with swinging arm suspended by a Bolex-holding hand. I think you’ve
had an image of you-with-camera in every film you’ve made. Is this honesty
(this film is made by someone, it’s not objective truth) or autobiography
(and that someone is me)? Is your life lived through making a film of it?
PH: Isn’t it something like a
signature? Though this moves against the idea of giving up authorial control.
But I think there is something important for me about being able to see where
I’ve been through my films, and my life, and the people who have taught me
things.