In the Beginning Was the Word: Interview with Mariano Llinás (Part 1)

Interviewing Mariano Llinás, one of the most creative minds in today’s cinematic landscape, has been both a significant and challenging endeavour that I have pursued over the past six years. My quest to interview him mirrored one of his labyrinthic narratives—akin to unconventional detective stories of La Flor and Extraordinary Stories. In this real-life narrative, I assumed the role of an amateur detective, embarking on a mission to understand an artist I’ve greatly admired. This long, intricate process was filled with mysteries, mutual appreciation, strangeness, obstacles, patience, and invaluable help from others. Much like some of the films and stories Llinás has shared so far, the adventure concluded with an open ending—akin to my anticipation for his next phase of films.

When I first discovered La Flor at the London Film Festival, the 14-hour movie was shown across three sessions. Having previously seen and enjoyed El escarabajo de oro (The Gold Bug, 2014) directed by Alejo Moguillansky (with Fia-Stina Sandlund), and unaware of the collective at its helm, it was Llinás’s epic that formally opened the door to the world of El Pampero Cine and to the filmmaker’s singular vision. Its narrative complexity, enriched by a tapestry of voiceovers, and its odyssey with four talented actresses across the Pampas and the globe, navigating dense thematic material, was truly astounding. This long-awaited treasure, with its multitude of genres and layers of storytelling, deeply resonated with my cinematic passions and marked the beginning of my appreciation for Llinás’s cinema—prompting me to speak with its creator without delay.

After the final screening and a Q&A, I managed to speak with Elisa Carricajo, one of the four actresses from Piel de Lava who collaborated with Llinás throughout the film’s decade-long making. As the only representative from the film presented there, she was invaluable in providing details which led me to make contact with El Pampero Cine and, eventually, to Llinás himself. 

In preparation for our discussion, I explored another of Llinás’s epic works, Extraordinary Stories. This thorough examination helped me appreciate that La Flor was not just a singular marvel but part of a broader, deeply rooted creative vision—akin to an ancient tree or a vast castle with a sturdy foundation. Extraordinary Stories and La Flor can be seen as cinematic siblings, each characterised by remarkable creative audacity, methodically unfolded with detailed character development and progressively delve into complex narratives that echo the storytelling prowess of Scheherazade from One Thousand and One Nights or the works of Jorge Luis Borges, captivating the audience in a labyrinth of intricately woven plots.

Arranging an interview with Llinás during 2018-2019 had proven to be as much of a maze as his films. Our schedules never aligned, in the fashion of Steven Spielberg’s Catch Me If You Can. Despite numerous attempts and 36 exchanged emails, our plans to meet in person always fell through due to coincidental travel misalignments. Since my unsuccessful attempt to reach the filmmaker, reading any detailed interview with him, such as his conversation with Jordan Cronk for Cinema Scope magazine,¹ has evoked a spectrum of emotions in me—from regret to envy. 

After the announcement of this dossier, I saw another chance to speak with Llinás, knowing that without his insights, the collection would never be complete. Despite his busy schedule, I remained determined, although there was often a profound sense of desperation that an interview might never occur. Thankfully, it was Agustín Mendilaharzu who reached out on my behalf, attempting to facilitate the interview.

The process of meeting one’s idol can be a stressful one, at times reminiscent of Episode Four of La Flor, where a fictional alter-ego of Llinás, played by Walter Jakob, grapples with self-doubt while making a mirroring film, questioning whether his ambition to his cinematic vision might end up frustrating himself and the cast and crew, including the four actresses he respects and loves. Similarly, my persistent pursuit raised concerns that I might inadvertently alienate the filmmaker, potentially jeopardising not only the interview but also a cherished friendship. Throughout my pursuit of the conversation with Mariano, I was plagued by the same doubt and frustration, constantly questioning the appropriateness of my actions and the potential repercussions of my decisions. An uncertainty loomed over the endeavour, turning the simple act of securing and conducting an interview into a nerve-wracking venture.

Finally, due to his continuously demanding schedule, filled with projects and travel from France to Cuba, Llinás proposed a different approach for our interview. I would send my questions, and he would reply via voice recordings that could be transcribed later. Additionally, we planned to hold a session via video where we could discuss further, diving deeper based on his initial responses. This method brought its own set of challenges, punctuated by prolonged periods of waiting and silence. Would my persistence inadvertently jeopardise the entire interview? 

Although Extraordinary Stories and La Flor are the most epic works of Llinás and El Pampero, his oeuvre now extends beyond these monoliths, although they can be, unfortunately, much harder to access in cinemas or via home video, due to lack of international distribution. Despite this, Llinás and El Pampero seem to be at their most prolific ever, with both minor and major works in various stages of production. Films such as Lejano Interior (2020), Concierto para la batalla de El Tala (2021), Corsini interpreta a Blomberg & Maciel (2021), Clorindo Testa (2022), and the recent Kunst der Farbe (2024), which premiered at this year’s FIDMarseille, continue to explore existential themes, new approaches to accompany different art forms, and an always humorous self-questioning that ranges from personal introspection to historical inquiry, offering viewers deeper insights into the filmmaking process and personal perspectives. 

Nonetheless, as this interview was conducted primarily through voicemails, it touched mostly on his two epics, but also the origin of El Pampero Cine, its collaborative ethos in relation to Argentine film history, Llinás’s key influences, and travelling and humour as foundations of the filmmaker’s philosophy. However, with these elemental facts in mind, I am hoping that in a future second part of this interview, we can discuss more about these more recent films and gain further insights into this ever-evolving oeuvre.

La Flor

Can you share the story behind the formation of El Pampero Cine? What was the pivotal moment or primary motivation for establishing it? 

Regarding El Pampero Cine, we talked about it in detail in an interview with Cahiers du Cinéma, but I’m happy to discuss it here as well. We started during the “New Argentine Cinema” period, which gained prominence around the 2001 economic crisis. This crisis wasn’t the direct cause, but it marked a turning point. In the ’90s, Argentina underwent political and economic changes, leaving us feeling unsettled yet inspired. We wanted independence because relying solely on state support was no longer viable.

In the ’90s, Argentina had a government similar to the current one, and it lasted for the entire decade. For some of us, this situation was quite disturbing but also inspiring. We wanted to make films independently because we felt the state, which traditionally supported Argentine cinema, was looking elsewhere.

The new Argentine cinema sought new paths for production with minimal or no state involvement. This movement lasted about six years and gave birth to many talented filmmakers. El Pampero Cine emerged from this environment, and we truly believed in independence. We saw independence not as a phase but as the core of our approach.

Unlike others who saw independence as a stepping stone to something bigger, we saw it as fundamental. This is what sets El Pampero apart—we never stopped seeking new ways to remain independent. We believe that independence is what makes our films unique and a bit rebellious.

In terms of our process, we adopted the “weekend filmmaker” mentality. This doesn’t mean we only shoot on weekends, but we embraced the resourcefulness and flexibility of amateur filmmaking. We abandoned the traditional schedule of shooting within a set number of weeks dictated by the budget. Instead, we agreed to shoot as many days as needed. Owning our cameras meant we weren’t bound by rental schedules, giving us the freedom to shoot as long as we wanted.

This approach required a minimal and flexible crew. Maintaining a large crew indefinitely would be impractical, so our team had to adapt to different needs. We also avoided rigid role divisions within the crew. While we had designated roles like cameraman or sound technician, everyone, including the actors, could perform various tasks.

Overall, our filmmaking process prioritizes flexibility, resourcefulness, and creative autonomy. These strategies have evolved over time and are crucial to our work.

Upon examining Argentine cinema, what shortcomings or opportunities did you notice that El Pampero Cine could seize or enhance?

Since the era of the studios in the early 1940s, Argentina has always identified its cinema as “Cinema Nacional,” which, in my opinion, carries a certain bureaucratic connotation. This notion suggests that cinema is a part of the nation and should adhere to the nation’s ideals, serving as a component of the national or symbolic system. This aspect has been a consistent characteristic of our cinema from the outset. El Pampero, on the other hand, has sought to distance itself from this association with national ideals. While we do engage with topics relevant to Argentina and our homeland, we approach them from a different perspective. We do not align ourselves with national narratives or agendas. This divergence allows us a greater degree of freedom and independence, enabling us to explore various paths and perspectives.

Let’s talk about the origin of your interest in cinema. What initially sparked your passion for filmmaking?

Well, at the beginning, my primary interest was to travel and be a voyager. That was my main passion in life—to constantly move, to be in one place one day and somewhere else the next. Now that I’ve achieved that lifestyle, I’ve reconsidered it somewhat, as it can be quite challenging. However, that was my initial goal.

Coming from a family of artists—my father was a poet, and my sister an actress—I always knew I would be involved in some form of creative work. It was almost predetermined, similar to how some people are destined for careers in business, law, or the military. Initially, I considered becoming an anthropologist, but I missed the application deadline for the anthropology program. Cinema remained an open option, so I pursued it.

Although I was interested in cinema, my passion was not initially for the technical aspects of filmmaking. As a child, I was more drawn to literature. I started watching many films and became a cinephile around the age of 17, influenced by certain readings and magazines like El Amante from Argentina, which had a significant impact on me. This cinephile education deepened my interest in films and how they were made.

That’s when I first considered becoming a film director, inspired by the great directors of Hollywood’s Golden Age. I aspired to be like them, although I always knew that Hollywood wasn’t the right place for someone like me. I realized I needed to find my own path in cinema… But even then, I knew I needed a broader canvas to develop myself because I was a bit disobedient and a neat, orderly industry wouldn’t suit me…

Louis Feuillade

Which director do you consider having had the greatest impact on you, inspiring and encouraging you to become a filmmaker?

… Besides the influence of the old Hollywood directors, another significant influence came from the French New Wave cinema of the ’60s, as is common for many people of my generation. Initially, it was more Truffaut than Godard, and later it shifted more towards Godard.

The French New Wave’s free-spirited style of filmmaking—shooting in the streets with minimal crew, resembling amateur work but with a deep focus on form and cinematic language—greatly influenced me. This approach highlighted that films should be written with a formal scheme, emphasizing the importance of plans, shots, takes, movement, and, most crucially, the frame. An absolute awareness of the shape and form of cinema became a guiding principle for me.

If we talk from a more spiritual perspective, I have always felt profoundly influenced by comedians, particularly those from France. I’m referring to directors who made comedies, but very specific kinds of comedies, like Jean Renoir and Jean Vigo, whom I consider very sensitive and touching filmmakers. Their delicate approach to film comedy has always been something I worshipped from the beginning.

Additionally, Fellini has been an immense influence on me, particularly the Italian filmmakers. Fellini, in particular, was probably the filmmaker I have admired the most throughout my life. Even at 12 years old, I was fascinated by Fellini’s films, and I still cherish them as I did the first time. He was my first love in filmmaking, and although it’s beyond my capacity to match his genius, I still regard him as the greatest.

Then there were the Jewish Viennese filmmakers who came to Hollywood in the 1930s, especially Ernst Lubitsch. Lubitsch’s ability to weave complex themes, often dealing with evil, into his comedies, greatly influenced me. This aspect, which Lotte Eisner called “the demonic screen,” introduced a layer of depth to my understanding of comedy. I see myself as a comedy maker, disguising my films in various genres, but at their core, they are always comedies. Realizing that I was meant to make comedies was a significant relief and revelation for me.

So, in summary, my primary influences include Fellini, the directors of Old Hollywood, the French New Wave, Renoir, Vigo, Lubitsch, and finally, the masters of silent films like Louis Feuillade, with his series Les Vampires, Judex, and Fantômas. These fantasy pictures have had a transformative impact on me. I see myself as a very distant star in that tradition, striving to emulate the inventiveness of these pioneering filmmakers.

When you say you are always influenced by comedians, I must confess that your engagement with cinema resonates deeply with me. My own journey began with countless hours spent watching silent comedies from Harold Lloyd and Charlie Chaplin, and later continued with extensive reading about films in Iranian magazines.

In El Pampero, it seems that a shared sense of humour and playfulness not only brought the group together but also influenced your creative visions. Could you elaborate on your connection with comedy in cinema? Specifically, could you explain why you often choose to explore and depict your themes through a comedic lens? What draws you to integrate humour into your narratives?

Well, that question I can answer easily. I was raised with the belief that humour is of the utmost importance. My father instilled in us the idea that everything should be seen through the lens of humour, and that a lack of humour was the true definition of evil. He was quite stern about it, treating humour as the most significant value one could possess.

In some families, excelling in sports, bravery, or academic achievement might be considered the highest virtues. For us, it was humour—to have humour, to possess the quality of humour, was akin to having a special force, much like the Force among the Jedi. My father’s emphasis on humour was deeply ingrained in me, and it remains difficult to shake off. Despite it being an imperative, I am grateful for that education. I genuinely believe that humour is what saves us, what preserves our souls.

I see the absence of humour as the true face of evil. Wherever I encounter evil—whether in a situation, a landscape, or a person’s expression—I can identify its root in the lack of humour. Therefore, humour remains the highest virtue in my heart.

La Flor, Episode 4

When you mention your love for being a voyager, it becomes very evident in your movies. It’s as if you make films to travel everywhere, reflecting your desire to be a voyager. This resonates through the recurring theme of ‘journey’ in your films. Many of your characters embark on literal or metaphorical journeys, whether they are physically traversing new territories or traveling through time with their imaginations, as seen in “The Story of X” in Extraordinary Stories or episode 4 in La Flor. Could you elaborate on the significance of these journeys in your narratives? Additionally, your films often start in one direction and diverge significantly by the end. Could you discuss the role this structural discrepancy plays in your storytelling approach?

So, at the beginning, I had a deep desire to travel, a sort of wanderlust that took hold of me from a young age, around 15 or 17. My main purpose in life was to explore the world, and now that has become my reality. That wish came true, but like many fulfilled dreams, it comes with its own set of challenges.

Achieving your dreams isn’t always as simple as it seems. When a wish comes true, it brings about many complications. Not having your wishes fulfilled can be a significant problem, but having them come true also presents difficulties. For me, one such challenge is that I can no longer conceive of making a film without incorporating travel. I’m not talking about the cinematic technique of a traveling shot, but the necessity of leaving my home and shooting in various locations.

This need to travel for filmmaking means I have to devise new narrative schemes and strategies to incorporate these journeys into the plot. It’s not an easy task because it involves weaving the experience of travel into the fabric of the narrative itself. This is one of the complex aspects of shooting and traveling, but it’s integral to my approach to filmmaking….

(At this moment, while driving his family to a film set, Llinás started to argue with his son about some personal issues.)

…See, Hamed, this is exactly what I’m talking about. This is one of the unforeseen complexities you face when you incorporate your personal interests, like voyaging, into filmmaking…

Memorabilia from Tintin books in Lejano interior

La Flor

Your interest in voyaging in your movies is evident and can be recognized with another iconic figure: Tintin! In your movie Tres fábulas de Villa Ocampo, (codirected with Alejo Moguillansky, 2011) you clearly show that a person’s library and choice of books reveal a lot about them. Similarly, watching Lejano interior provides insights into your reading preferences and inspirations. Seeing the iconic moon rocket from Destination Moon and the book Land of Black Gold clearly shows how important Tintin is to you. It’s evident that you adore him, as you pay homage to him through your framing of Extraordinary Stories.…

It’s not really about homage; it’s more about stealing or borrowing (he laughs)…

Professor Calculus character from Tintin books and La Flor

Inca Rascar Capac character from Tintin books and La Flor

Looking at your films retrospectively, it’s clear to see the presence of Tintin, especially in the first episode of La Flor, from Professor Calculus’s pendulum to a mummy resembling the Inca Rascar Capac from The Seven Crystal Balls. When discussing the influence of Tintin’s world in El Pampero’s movies, particularly the recurring theme of a person on a journey seeking a mystery, Agustin mentioned that it’s more than just thematic; it also extends to the form of your movies…

Okay, let’s talk about Tintin. The thing is, of course, I’ve been extremely fond of Tintin throughout my youth. This is interesting because I often meet people who say they loved Tintin when they were young, but not many have kept that interest alive as they grew up. In my case, that interest grew with me, and when I became a storyteller and filmmaker, I carried that influence with me.

This way of telling stories, especially the way of framing images, has remained a strong influence. When I started making films, I was constantly thinking about how I could turn this enormous interest in this kind of image—the “ligne claire” or “clear line” style in French—into cinematic images. What thrilled me most about Hergé’s drawings was the extreme synthesis in the composition. I always tried to keep my compositions neat, clear, and sharp, just like Hergé’s. This meant creating compositions with few elements to maintain clarity.

I would say that Hergé influenced me more in terms of form than storytelling. Even though I borrowed some storytelling ideas and gadgets from Tintin, what influenced me most was the design of the images. It was about how each object within the frame played a significant role in the overall composition, and how the general scene was shaped by the presence of particular objects. The very design of objects and their importance was crucial.

I consider Hergé one of the greatest image makers of the 20th century, perhaps alongside Hitchcock. These two image makers are extremely keen and close to one another in terms of their approach to visual storytelling. Jean-Luc Godard’s thoughts on objects in his Histoire(s) du cinéma also resonate with this idea of telling a story with a certain synthesis and focus on important objects.

To summarize, Hergé influenced me most in the way of creating images, setting colours with plain hues, and avoiding overly realistic or washed-out images. This approach was particularly evident in my first three films—especially Balnearios and Extraordinar Stories, which has the most significant debt to Hergé, and also in La Flor. The way I create lines within the frame and place objects inside it is something I learned from his work.

Let’s come back to your library and the books on your shelves. A friend mentioned that the stories and histories behind those books would be fascinating to explore. One doesn’t need just to watch Lejano interior to see how profoundly you live with and in literature. Watching both Extraordinary Stories and La Flor demonstrates how integral literature is to your work.

I know that everyone at El Pampero is deeply passionate about literature, which I believe is a key factor that brings you all together. Do you think that being familiar with literature, particularly Latin American literature, is crucial for understanding El Pampero’s films, both in terms of their themes and structure?

Returning to my previous question, I should ask more precisely about the relationship between the tradition of Argentine literature, specifically Jorge Luis Borges, and El Pampero’s work. What role does the tradition of the fantastic play in your films? Although I suspect that your vast knowledge of world literature influences your cinema and approach to narrative, even if unconsciously, could you elaborate on this relationship?

Well, the word “passionate,” deeply passionate for literature, might not be entirely precise. It’s important to be clear about this. For example, I wouldn’t say that all of us at El Pampero are equally passionate about books. Being passionate about books isn’t the same as being passionate about literature. This distinction needs a bit of elaboration.

For instance, I’m the one most engaged with literature because of my background—my father was a writer, so I grew up immersed in a world of books. It wasn’t just about being surrounded by books; it was about being engaged with them. Alejo and Agustín also grew up in families that valued reading, but their literary backgrounds were different from mine. Agustín and I have been close since we were 18, yet our literary backgrounds were quite different. He had a solid grounding in grammar and reading, but his depth of engagement with literature was different. He was more knowledgeable in other areas, like music.

On the other hand, Laura didn’t come from a family with a strong literary tradition. Her relationship with books developed more significantly after joining El Pampero. My background, shaped by my father’s surrealist poetry, gave me a unique perspective. I grew up with names like Rimbaud and Verlaine as familiar as children’s classics like Mark Twain. Discovering Borges, given my surrealist background, was quite an unconventional experience because Borges was famously anti-surrealist.

I merged these different influences and made them work together. For instance, Lejano interior is named after a small book by Henri Michaux, a figure much more aligned with my tradition than Borges. Despite Borges being a cornerstone of Argentine tradition, my personal literary influences are broader.

Around 15 or 16, I delved deeply into Borges. Knowing Borges is akin to knowing a vast swath of world literature from a particular perspective. Borges’ references to Persian tales and other global literatures provided a comprehensive view of literature. My literary faith, if you will, is shaped by this broad and inclusive perspective on literature, a view that my colleagues at El Pampero also share to varying extents.

Alejo, for instance, connects deeply with Samuel Beckett, a figure from my own literary education. This shared appreciation brought us closer. While we all value literature, our approaches and backgrounds differ. My work is a blend of the surrealist tradition and Borges’ influence.

When you speak of Latin American literature and mention Borges, it’s important to note that the “fantastic” tradition of the Rio de la Plata region, including Buenos Aires and Montevideo, is somewhat distinct from the broader South American tradition like magic realism. Borges’ tradition is unique, often embracing influences from outside Latin America to create a unique, fantastic perspective.

At El Pampero, we see ourselves as part of this fantastic tradition. We follow the path set by Borges, Bioy Casares, Silvina Ocampo, and Hugo Santiago, our mentor. Hugo Santiago blended the Borges tradition with his own influences, much like we strive to do.

As Americans, we are the result of many cultural and literary blending, and this rich mixture influences our films profoundly.

When I mentioned Latin American literature, I must confess that your storytelling and narration reminded me of many authors. For example, the lyrical and poetic tones of your writing, the use of words, and the descriptions in a very joyful way reminded me of The Old Gringo and A Change of Skin by Carlos Fuentes, as well as The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa…

I haven’t read them….

La Flor, Episode 3

I deeply enjoyed all your narration in Episode 3 of La Flor. The way you brought all those characters to life, especially the part where you described Professor Dreyfuss’s mind at night and the backstories of all four spies, was captivating…

Everyone loves that episode, especially the sky scene…

The mixture of your words and the background music made that episode more poetic and lyrical, contrasting with the thriller atmosphere of a spy story. After watching Extraordinary Stories and La Flor, one might think you love just telling your stories, your fictions accompanied by some pictures. It feels as if the words become as important, if not more important, than the images in front of us. Could you talk about this dynamic for you? The narrative versus pictures? What comes to your mind first: the image or the words?

It’s a difficult question to answer because it’s easier for me with words. For example, today, after a week in Cuba, which was not relaxing at all, I started writing for my next big project in my mind, the one that would continue the path of La Flor, particularly the sky scene that you mentioned. Sometimes the words come first, and sometimes they come later, but they are always an excuse to make images, to craft shots.

Images are not about what comes first or what comes later, but about what is most important. And what is most important are the shots—the perpetual challenge is how to make the shots come alive.

Apart from your infatuation with voyaging and literature, I’m curious about your broader approach to cinema. What drives you to make movies, and what are you aiming to express or achieve when you begin a film project? What are your core motivations and goals in filmmaking?

Well, it’s quite a question, really. I don’t want to sound grandiloquent, but if I have to think of some kind of motivation for my work, I would say there’s a certain patriotic aspect to it. You might ask, patriotic to whom or to what? I would say it’s patriotic to cinema itself. I truly care about cinema as though it were a country.

In Spanish, we have a word often used by fascists—patria, which translates to something like “fatherland” in English. It’s usually a distasteful word because it implies a military sentiment, to die for something. But in this case, I think the word can be used in a heartfelt way. My patria, my country, my fatherland, is cinema. For that country, I would fight and do whatever it takes to keep it alive and thriving.

I am deeply invested in keeping cinema awake, alive, and expanding. I’m very grateful for the legacy of cinema’s past, and I’m a bit worried about its current state and how it seems to be shrinking every day. Since I’m part of it, I want to keep it as strong as it can be. It might sound a bit grandiloquent, but it’s true. I love making films; it’s my life. I’ve given my life to the screen very joyfully.

If my films can give back to cinema some of what cinema has given to me, that would be a fair trade.

Mariano Llinás and Agustín Mendilaharzu behind the scenes of Episode 1 of La Flor

Mariano Llinás and Laura Parades behind the scenes of Episode 1 of La Flor

Although it seems that cinema holds a sacred place for you, you have mentioned in some of your previous interviews that you generally do not watch new releases. Is this still the case? If so, why don’t you watch new movies? However, if you do watch some movies, what are your favourite films from the last 10 years and in the history of cinema? We’re interested in learning about your taste.

To be honest, I do watch some recent films, especially since becoming a father. I watch superhero movies and films like King Kong and Godzilla with my son. I enjoy them a lot and even get some ideas from them (He Laughs). I also watch some Hollywood movies, such as Tarantino’s films.

However, what I don’t do is search for the new in recent films. I don’t try to stay up to date with the latest releases because my focus is on creating new cinema myself. Seeing what others have done might interfere with that task. If someone is doing something very different from me, or something very similar, it can be troubling. I prefer not to look for inspiration in my colleagues’ work.

Of course, there are times when I need to reference other films, especially since I work with other people’s pictures too. There are filmmakers I admire, like Albert Serra or the early works of Miguel Gomes. However, I’ve stopped watching Gomes’ recent films—not because I don’t like them, but because it doesn’t feel necessary for me. I also admire Apichatpong Weerasethakul and other current masters, but I’m not devoted to seeking out new filmmakers immediately.

With Hollywood films, the situation is different. They are so far removed from my own experience that I can watch them like anyone else, without feeling that they interfere with my work. Like Francis Ford Coppola said, “their business is their business.” I have enough challenges with my own projects and don’t need extra ones.

When you mention the name of Hugo Santiago, it seems he is another figure that brings El Pampero together, as you all adore him. You’ve written a screenplay for him and dedicated the third episode of La Flor to him, and Alejo has also made two documentaries about him…

So you want to talk about Hugo Santiago? It’s not easy for me because he became something of a father figure to me, even when my own father was still alive. I wouldn’t say he was exactly like a father, but he was very close to it. With Hugo, I recovered some of the things I had lost with my father due to his old age and the challenges we faced together.

Hugo Santiago was the first person I came to admire personally after my father. I found myself looking up to him, thinking, “I want to be like him.” I hadn’t felt that way since I was 14. Initially, I was struck by his film Invasion, although at first I didn’t get its style because I was more influenced by Borges than Robert Bresson. But when I watched it again in my early 20s, it struck me deeply, and I became devoted to it. I started advocating for the film, trying to make it recognized as one of the most important films in Argentine cinema history.

My first step was to get Invasión (Invasion, 1969) on DVD. I had connections at MALBA, the famous museum in Buenos Aires, and I worked hard to make this happen. When it came time to create the extras for the DVD, I suggested that Alejo handle it, as it felt like too much for me. This led to Alejo and Hugo becoming friends.

Hugo and I became friends when he saw Extraordinary Stories. He sent me a very warm and insightful letter, showing incredible interest in the work of younger people despite being in his ’70s. We talked frequently; he would call me from Paris every day and leave multiple messages if I wasn’t there.

He asked me to help him with the third part of his Achillea trilogy, following Invasion and Les trottoirs de Saturne (The Sidewalks of Saturn, 1986). I devoted myself to this project, but unfortunately, I couldn’t make it happen. The world wasn’t ready to accept another major film from Hugo Santiago, which was a deep disappointment for me.

During this time, I suggested we make a smaller film to reintroduce him to younger audiences and the film festival circuit. Initially, he thought it was a ridiculous idea, but eventually, he agreed. We co-wrote El Cielo del Centauro (The Sky of the Centaur, 2015) together, with Hugo doing most of the writing while I helped with the plot. Working with him was like collaborating with Borges; it was an experience of intense admiration and learning.

Thanks to the efforts of our friend and producer, Agustina Llambi-Campbell, the film was made. I think it’s a beautiful film, but it didn’t get the recognition it deserved. Sadly, Hugo passed away, and his ashes now rest in the office of El Pampero Cine, under the big map of Invasion.

This is a deeply emotional topic for me. Hugo Santiago was one of the most important figures in my life, alongside my father, my friends at El Pampero, and, of course, my wife and son.

Hugo Santiago

The Sky of the Centaur

Could you tell me how Hugo Santiago’s style of filmmaking caught your eye and impacted your own approach to filmmaking personally?

Well, if you watch Hugo’s films, you’ll see that our styles are quite different. He was extremely meticulous and skilful with the camera, which I am not. For example, Alejo is much more adept at camera work and has a real talent for it, which I lack. I have different strengths; I consider myself a good storyteller, capable of controlling and developing my narrative skills, but I’m not a stylist with the camera. I’m more like someone who progresses in a perhaps clumsy, but sometimes effective, way. I’ve never been a stylist and I never will be. The sophistication of Hugo’s mise-en-scène is beyond me.

However, what I truly took from him wasn’t his shooting style, which I could never imitate, but rather a kind of permanent anxiety or commitment to the fantastic. Hugo was deeply devoted to the fantastic style, particularly the fantastic tradition of the Rio de la Plata, as I mentioned before. His approach wasn’t just thematic but also formal. His films always included some fantastic aspect, not only in the subject matter but also in the way the story was shot.

The idea of always maintaining a fantastic element in every shot is something I took to heart. This commitment to always include a touch of the fantastic, to approach every scene with a sense of the extraordinary, is Hugo’s legacy to me. It’s not about imitating his formal style, which I’m incapable of, but about adopting his commitment to the fantastical in my own way.

How do you perceive long films in the history of cinema, from the works of Abel Gance to Béla Tarr and others? Can you share your personal experiences of watching lengthy films, whether in a theatre or in the comfort of your own home? For instance, I have watched the 24-hour film The Clock by Christian Marclay in the cinema, not once but twice!

Well, it’s quite a question and perhaps an unpleasant one to answer. The truth is that I am not particularly into long films. For example, I have never seen any film by Béla Tarr in my life. I’ve watched Abel Gance’s films, but not without considerable effort. I’m not someone who is especially fond of long films or long books because I am extremely anxious. It’s not a pleasant characteristic to have.

You might wonder, how can someone anxious make a 14-hour film or work on a massive project for almost 10 years? That’s a good question, and I don’t have a straightforward answer. The process of making La Flor allowed me to keep shooting without thinking about the ending or the film’s shape. It was like constantly creating, so I didn’t have to deal with the finality of finishing a project.

However, I never thought of La Flor as a 14-hour film while making it. I knew it would be long, but I always preferred shorter works. My ideas and stories just didn’t fit into shorter formats. It’s not a conceptual decision; it’s simply the result of my work.

To be honest, I don’t particularly like the fact that my most significant work is something that’s nearly impossible for most of the audience to watch in its entirety. I kind of detest that aspect of it. I’m not saying I dislike La Flor, but its length, which is so noticeable to everyone else, is not something I cherish. I don’t rejoice in making long films; I endure it.

For example, the project I’m about to begin once I finish my current work is a biography of Borges. I’m afraid it will turn out to be another long film, and I don’t relish that prospect. I think I can handle it, but I don’t celebrate the length. In other ways, I don’t think I would have watched La Flor if it wasn’t made by myself. I would likely avoid such lengthy films because of my anxiety.

I totally understand the level of difficulty and the heavy tasks you all experienced while making La Flor. It was clearly evident in Episode 4 how challenging and frustrating the project could be. Despite that, it was a great achievement and incredibly rewarding for someone like me to watch… We saw La Flor at the London Film Festival over three days. When you conceptualized the screening of La Flor, did you initially intend for it to be shown in one day or spread out over multiple days? How did the Argentine audience react to the film’s length during the screening, especially considering its duration over three days?

So, to answer this question, which is much more practical, I should say La Flor was always intended to be seen in three parts. It was never meant to be viewed in one long marathon session. I don’t believe in that approach. For me, La Flor isn’t an endurance test or a trance-like experience. It’s not like the 24-hour film you mentioned.

The intention was for it to be watched with full attention and enjoyment. After four hours, it’s difficult for anyone to continue appreciating or paying attention to a film. Therefore, it should be divided into parts.

When the French decided to show it in four parts and the Austrians followed suit, I thought they were absolutely right. This way, viewers can deeply engage with and savour each segment without feeling overwhelmed.

You’ve mentioned before how you incorporate your thoughts and thirst for voyaging into some of your movies. I’m curious about the process of making La Flor, especially considering all the locations, from Russia to the United Kingdom. Did you initially have stories in mind and then travelled to these countries, or did you visit these places first and then develop ideas based on the locations? For example, the segment set in Russia—the idea of being on a train—at what point did that come to you?

Well, the point with the locations is that it doesn’t always have the same answer. For example, the idea of setting a segment in Russia came about when I decided to depict the Cold War as a landscape. I understood that this would require some significant operations, which would include extensive travels and big journeys. It’s similar to what I’m experiencing with the Borges project I’m preparing now. The film needs to bear the imprint of many travels and journeys, a result of the picture being made.

From the very start, when I decided to make a substantial chapter about the Cold War, I knew it would require some real voyages to places like Macau or Berlin. There’s a thrilling rapport between the true and the fake in filmmaking. For the fake to become true, I needed those authentic images from my journeys. It’s about balancing different registers. If I reconstructed everything, it would feel insincere, like a western, if you know what I mean. The picture needed the adventure imprinted on it to bring authenticity to other aspects…

La Flor, Episode 2

La Flor, Episode 3

La Flor, Episode 3

Speaking about the issue of blending the fake and the true from different perspectives, I noticed in La Flor that when people speak English, their accents and style of speaking aren’t very natural—they’re more English than actual English! Similarly, the Chinese clothes and characters, as well as the Palestinian character, come across as very clichéd, almost deliberately fake and handmade. Yet, the power of the words and narration completely captures my heart, making me overlook these artificial or clichéd elements. Was this deliberate, or was it a result of budget constraints?

Oh, I think it’s some kind of a joke about the Tintin thing. I like that. The stories are, in a way, an opportunity to set up a kind of fiction that I enjoy. I know they are not realistic; it’s like they are imagined by a child, which is, in a way, the truth.

They don’t aim to be realistic. There’s this element, like an Egyptian character with a red hat (in La Flor, Episode 2) — everything is imagined in a whimsical, childlike manner. The shape of things is more important than realism. For instance, as often happens in my films, the characters wear the same clothes all the time. In Extraordinary Stories, one character wears the same shirt throughout, even when he’s locked in a hotel room. It’s a way of constructing characters that isn’t realistic but serves a narrative purpose, emphasizing the fiction and the playful nature of the storytelling.

The news of you working on a movie based on the biography of Jorge Luis Borges is fantastic. It’s a dream come true! I’ve always hoped you would undertake this project. It’s akin to my wish for David Lynch to create a biography of Franz Kafka, which regrettably has not happened yet… When I first watched La Flor, my initial thought was that you wanted to keep these wonderful actresses on screen for as long as possible. However, as the film progressed, it became clear that the narrative might also be about capturing the essence of nature…

Regarding the actresses, I didn’t just think of them as performers. My work would have been extremely lonely without some form of partnership, a marriage of sorts, with another significant element. In this case, that feminine counterpart was the actresses. They were essential to carrying the load and sharing the journey with me. It was a more spiritual partnership.

I appreciate your dedication to understanding our process and what we’re trying to achieve, but I wonder if discussing this in depth might be a bit premature. We’re still in the midst of our work, and there’s much yet to be finished…

I understand what you’re saying. It seems like you wanted to capture the essence of the actresses on film, being close to them and giving enough time to create an atmosphere that reveals their soul. It feels like La Flor balances out Extraordinary Stories, where the main characters were primarily male, ordinary me. Was La Flor a way to balance this by emphasizing the female presence?

Not exactly in the way you’re suggesting. It wasn’t about balancing the presence of men and women in front of the camera, but more about achieving a general equilibrium in the filmmaking process. While Extraordinary Stories does introduce more female characters in its second half, the real focus isn’t on the subject matter of the films but on how they are made.

It’s about the partnership, my friend. It’s about sharing the creative journey. The essence of La Flor lies in the collaboration with these remarkable actresses. It’s about forming a partnership and sharing the process of creating the film together. The actresses were not just participants but integral to the storytelling, contributing their own perspectives and energy to the project. This shared journey is what truly defines the balance and essence of the film.

La Flor, Episode 4

Mariano Llinás, Elisa Carricajo, Valeria Correa & Juan Barberini behind the scenes of La Flor, Episode 3

By watching your films, it’s evident that, apart from writing, acting plays a crucial role in your movies. You employ different styles or methods for your actors. In Extraordinary Stories, there’s a sense of freedom and an almost imperceptible improvisation. You allow them to inhabit various roles, characters, and times, capturing an unrestrained, authentic essence. However, in some episodes of La Flor, particularly in episodes 2 and 3, the acting and performance are much more pronounced and evident. Could you tell us about working with these actors and actresses? How much do you direct them, and what are your specific demands? It’s fascinating how two different styles of acting coexist in your films—some parts feel like the actors are living their daily lives, while in others, they are clearly performing.

Well, it’s true. It’s not that there are two distinct styles, but rather a developing style. Initially, I was completely ignorant about performing. When I decided to delve into fiction, I started exploring theatre, which was flourishing in Buenos Aires in the first decade of this century. I felt completely ignorant and wanted to understand the art of performance. So, Extraordinary Stories and La Flor reflect my journey in understanding how to work with actors.

In Extraordinary Stories, I would dive into the performers’ capacities and free will. There are indeed elements of improvisation, but also a strong direction in the cinematic style of performance. This film was my attempt to learn how to direct in a way that aligned with my expectations.

When I moved to La Flor, shortly after Extraordinary Stories, I realized I had an extraordinarily precise set of partners who could respond accurately to any direction. This allowed me to push further in directing performances. For instance, the long monologue of Pilar in Episode 2, as well as parts of Episode 1, represent the pinnacle of my relationship with precise direction. Episode 3 still carries some of that aim but reflects a sense of having achieved mastery in my way of directing.

Now, I’m not as interested in achieving magnificent performances. I feel I’ve accomplished that goal. My focus has shifted away from the intensity of directing performances to other aspects of filmmaking.

Just out of curiosity, were there any parts of Extraordinary Stories that were shortened or omitted? For instance, Walter’s boss has a daughter, played by Elisa Carricajo, but we only see her briefly for a few seconds. For those who have seen La Flor and adore her performances, it might be surprising to see her role so limited in Extraordinary Stories. Was there originally a story between these characters that you decided not to develop further? Was the original screenplay longer than the final version?

No, if you read the script, which is published in both English and Spanish, you’ll see that the film is quite close to it. We didn’t cut much. There are just two scenes that were removed from the final cut and were not even edited initially. During the pandemic, for a project on a platform called Cabin, I re-edited these scenes. One is a final meeting between two charters, the two rivals who place a bet in the third story. The other might be the Chilean character escaping from jail, but I believe it was primarily the scene between the two rivals.

Regarding Elisa Carricajo’s short role, the part wasn’t originally written for her. It was written for another actress who declined to participate. At that time, I had just met the four actresses from Piel de Lava, and I was beginning to form a connection with them, which eventually led to La Flor. Our relationship was very recent and we didn’t know each other well. When one of the actresses declined, I saw it as an opportunity to work with Elisa for the first time. However, since the part wasn’t initially written for her, it’s relatively short.

I know this might seem like a trivial question, but I’ve noticed that many of El Pampero’s films conclude with the dedication “Y al Gauchito Gil.” Upon researching, I found that Gauchito Gil is a significant folkloric figure in Argentina. Could you share more about the importance of this figure and why he is consistently honoured in your films?

The answer would vary depending on one’s perspective, whether they are deeply religious, secular, or somewhere in between. Gauchito Gil holds a special place in South American folklore, particularly in Argentina. While Buenos Aires is a modern, cosmopolitan city where people might not differ significantly from those in other major cities worldwide, other parts of Latin America retain a strong connection to their traditional beliefs.

My mother hails from Misiones, a region in the northern part of Argentina, near Brazil and Paraguay. This area is highly syncretic, blending various religious practices with indigenous beliefs. This background has significantly influenced my worldview, and I am quite superstitious myself.

Gauchito Gil is a legendary figure akin to Robin Hood—a bandit who supposedly robbed from the rich to give to the poor. More than that, he is considered a miraculous figure by many. Within El Pampero, some of us, including myself, Laura, and others, are devoted to him. We have often sought his help, and in most cases, our wishes have been fulfilled. It’s somewhat akin to the genie from One Thousand and One Nights—a figure of immense power who grants favours.

Gauchito Gil is often depicted as a rustic, cowboy-like figure with a red cross behind him, symbolizing a mix of superstition, pagan beliefs, and Christian traditions. This syncretism is a vital part of our cultural identity and personal beliefs. By dedicating our films to him, we express our gratitude and acknowledge his perceived influence and protection over our creative endeavours. This dedication is more than a ritual; it reflects our deep belief in his power and the cultural heritage that shapes our work.

Let’s shift to politics—a field where you have consistently shown profound insight and critical analysis through your films, including El estudiante (The Student, Santiago Mitre, 2011), Los colonos (The Settlers, Felipe Gálvez Haberle, 2023), Argentina, 1985 (Santiago Mitre, 2022), Azor (Andreas Fontana, 2021),  La Cordillera (The Summit, Santiago Mitre, 2017) and El escarabajo de oro, and The Gold Bug, among others. 

Given your meticulous observation of political events and their nuanced representation in your work, how do you see the future of culture and art evolving in the country in light of Argentina’s current unstable political and economic situation, coupled with anticipated policy shifts? Based on your observations, what factors do you believe have led to Argentina’s current state? How might this new socio-political environment affect El Pampero Cine? Given El Pampero Cine’s—and your own—sharp sensitivity to political dynamics, do you anticipate that your future artistic projects, including films and screenplays, will reflect and respond to these recent changes?

Indeed, after enduring many years under a somewhat irrational government, we now find ourselves governed by an entirely irrational administration. This shift is deepening our plunge into irrationality. Our current president, in a sense, is pushing everything to the brink, leading us toward an abyss. For someone like me, who has chosen to observe political matters from a somewhat detached, healthy distance, this situation is particularly appalling—a distasteful spectacle.

The future of this wildly erratic government remains uncertain. Predictions about its tenure vary greatly, with some suggesting its imminent collapse and others believing it will persist. This uncertainty is underscored by its inherent instability and propensity for surprises, unparalleled, I dare say, anywhere in the world.

It’s important to note that I am not a Peronist, which holds significant meaning in Argentina. Nor am I an anti-Peronist—a stance that, in itself, often aligns closely with Peronist perspectives. Instead, I strive to thoughtfully engage with the complex history and contradictions of my country.

The recent end of the Kirchnerist era, the latest manifestation of Peronism, does not particularly distress me. Many in the film industry may mourn this transition due to a longstanding, albeit tacit, alliance between Peronists and filmmakers—an alliance we at El Pampero Cine have always rejected. We are neither Peronists nor will we align with the radical anti-Peronist sentiment that seems to be gaining traction with the rise of figures like Mr. Milei.

What will happen next is anyone’s guess. However, at El Pampero Cine, we’ve intentionally designed our lives and work processes to be less dependent on Argentina’s unpredictable political and economic landscape. While we can’t completely ignore the political and economic issues, we’ve strived to shield ourselves from the ‘extreme storm’ of Argentina’s political scene. This includes adopting a stance of minimizing our engagement with the ‘avatars’—a term borrowed to denote the changing faces—of the political situation. We acknowledge these ‘avatars’ of politics but choose not to be swayed by their tumultuous changes.

Endnotes