Alejo MoguillanskyBeyond Cleverness – A Cheater’s Guide for Embracing Innocence: An Interview with Alejo Moguillansky (Part 2) Hamed Sarrafi November 2024 Interviews Issue 111 Alejo Moguillansky is the kind of filmmaker who doesn’t just think outside the box – he tears it apart, reimagines it, and then dances around whatever remains. There’s something fearless about his approach to cinema that invites us not just to watch a story, but to truly feel it in all its raw, messy, and vibrant glory. When you sit down for a Moguillansky film, you’re signing up for anything but a predictable ride. Instead, you’re diving into something alive – something playful, full of humour, vulnerability, and a complete disregard for the expected. In this second part of our conversation with Alejo, we immerse ourselves in his creative world. The first part of this interview appeared in the previous issue of Senses of Cinema as part of a special dossier celebrating the 22nd anniversary of the El Pampero Cine collective – his collaborations, motivations, and the philosophy behind his work. At the core of Alejo’s art is a concept that might sound surprising: “fragility as an act of resistance.” It’s a theme that pulses through his projects, especially in his film Dear Antonioni. For Alejo, fragility isn’t weakness. It’s a choice to embrace imperfections, uncertainty, and vulnerability as forms of strength. In a world obsessed with certainty and flawless perfection, Alejo finds power in the unexpected – in letting his films breathe, stumble, and find their own life. Alejo sees fragility as creative fuel – a refusal to squeeze an idea into a rigid shape and instead allow it to grow naturally. He likens his editing process to crafting music: “Every edit is like a musical note”. For Alejo, rhythm is the heart of filmmaking. He doesn’t edit to follow a rigid plan, but rather to create a flow that’s unpredictable and alive. That’s why his films have an organic pulse – each cut, each moment is part of a constantly evolving conversation. This idea of fragility runs throughout El Pampero Cine, the collective he works with. They embrace a DIY, almost punk-rock ethos, thriving outside the boundaries of traditional systems. It’s not about industry norms or big budgets. It’s about doing the most with what they have and letting creativity be fuelled by limitations. Their spirit is playful yet deeply intentional, creating the kind of magic that can only emerge when you’re willing to take risks and embrace uncertainty. Moguillansky with Mariano Llinás in Clorindo Testa Alejo’s creative partnership with Mariano Llinás began in their university days. They met at a student film festival, and their connection was immediate. Starting with simple recap videos for the festival, their collaboration grew into larger, more ambitious projects, culminating in La Flor – a more than 13-hour epic that took nearly 8 years to complete. The process was as unconventional as the film itself, and that’s exactly what Alejo loved about it. They allowed each segment of the film to find its own rhythm, whether that meant a long, meticulous editing phase or a burst of creativity in just a few weeks. Time plays a significant role in Alejo’s work. Films like Trenque Lauquen (Laura Citarella, 2022), which span several years of production, are inevitably shaped by the changing moods, experiences, and perspectives that come with time. For Alejo, this isn’t something to resist – it’s the essence of filmmaking as a journey of discovery. Editing becomes more like alchemy, transforming raw footage into something that feels alive and authentic. Alejo believes deeply in curiosity and sincerity. He approaches each project with openness and an eagerness to explore. It’s not about trying to be clever or outsmart the audience; it’s about honesty, about finding the core of the story and telling it with heart. In La edad media (The Middle Ages, 2022), Alejo brought his daughter Cleo into the narrative, allowing her fresh perspective to shape the film. There’s something incredibly human about this – letting go of control and following the story wherever it leads. The mundane challenges of pandemic life become something poignant, funny, and beautifully unpredictable. El Pampero Cine is more than a production company; it’s a collective of friends constantly pushing each other to rethink what cinema can be. They make films with whatever resources they can scrape together, turning constraints into creative opportunities. Sometimes a budget meant for a TV documentary turns into a feature film that makes it to Cannes. They don’t see limitations as obstacles – they see them as fuel for invention. It’s this inventive spirit, this embracing of the fragile and the messy, that defines everything they do. Cleo in The Middle Ages Music is also essential to Alejo’s storytelling. He talks about composers like Schubert, Beethoven, and Tom Waits as if they were characters in his films – integral to the storytelling, not just background accompaniment. His collaboration with composer Gabriel Chwojnik is dynamic and intense, pushing both of them to discover what feels right for each film. For Alejo, music isn’t merely a soundtrack; it’s the heartbeat that drives the emotional journey of the film. Whether it’s the playful energy of Rossini in Por el dinero (For The Money, 2019) or the raw edge of Tom Waits during the pandemic, music is woven into the fabric of his storytelling. Alejo Moguillansky isn’t interested in fitting neatly into any category. He doesn’t create films to chase awards or satisfy market demands. Instead, his work is about resistance – resisting the easy, resisting conformity, and finding beauty in what’s imperfect and fragile. He chooses sincerity over pretence, spontaneity over rigid control. In doing so, Alejo and El Pampero Cine remind us that the true power of cinema isn’t in its polish, but in its ability to capture something real – something alive and breathing, that makes us feel, even if just for a fleeting moment. – H.S. Could you provide insight into your collaboration with Mariano Llinás and how your working relationship evolved? I’m curious about how you two first connected and realised you had a creative chemistry. Also, with La Flor being such a massive, ambitious and unconventional project – almost over 13 hours of film developed over 8 years – how did you approach the editing process? When it comes to my relationship with Mariano, it’s quite an interesting tale. We actually crossed paths during our time at university. Mariano is a bit older than me, born in ’75, so we weren’t in the same classes. We connected at the School Film Festival; an event held in our area. At that point, I was working as an editor to support my studies, handling scholarship-funded editing work during the day and evening. Our paths converged when Mariano was assigned to create news pieces for the festival screenings, and that’s where our partnership began. It seems we were brought together to collaborate on making recap videos shown between screenings at a student film festival. We collaborated well and were later asked to work on the same project for a different festival. The spark was student film festivals held on campus. We hit it off right away on that first project. The recaps were a big success, so the next year the festival organisers invited us back to do it again. Our working relationship matured over time. We got along famously, although we did have the occasional disagreement – the kind that partners experience, you know. It’s just part of the dynamic. We developed a deep understanding of each other’s creative processes, allowing us to provide feedback on each other’s work as though it was our own. Sure, we occasionally have fights, but in a constructive way. In fact, we often found ourselves editing together, even on commissioned projects that kept us busy. Our collaboration extended to La Flor, which was a monumental film project. For this colossal endeavour, we joined forces with another editor, and it was quite a process. With films like La Flor, Historias extraordinarias (Extraordinary Stories, Mariano Llinás, 2008), or even Trenque Lauquen, the production often takes 5, 6, or even 8 years. I’m curious how this extended timeline affects you as an editor. When a project stretches out for that long, I imagine the changing years can impact your mood, perception, and creative vision. How does this influence your work as an editor when you’re involved in something that takes, say, 6 to 8 years to complete? Indeed, the influence of mood and time on the editing process is a complex matter. However, it’s important to consider that the production timelines can vary significantly for the movies you mentioned. Take La Flor for example, spanning a decade in shooting, yet the editing process didn’t extend that long. In fact, it didn’t even take a year. The editing journey for La Flor was unique for each of its parts. The first part’s editing process was somewhat longer, while the second was lengthy but not quite as prolonged as the first. Now, when it comes to the third part, working alongside Mariano, that was a swift two-week endeavour. That said, the third part was arguably the lengthiest of them all, as far as I recall. For the case of Trenque Lauquen, the editing phase was longer. It may have felt more prolonged during certain phases, and I must note that I had a partner, Miguel de Zuviría, who handled the longer sessions. However, I remained actively involved throughout the process. I offered my perspective and opinions, guided changes in direction, and played a crucial role in reshaping the editing. The shooting of Trenque Lauquen was like shooting the movie not twice but two times. Essentially, it felt like we were filming the same film twice – after the initial editing, a new phase began, almost like a fresh shoot of the entire film occurred. So, during production phase, the editing process played an instrumental role in shaping and refining this new shoot. It was as if we were reimagining the entire movie, and the editing played a crucial role in this transformative procedure. Now, speaking of my own films, I’ve been fortunate not to work on such extraordinarily lengthy features! Instead, my films are characterised by a certain anxiety…. Lisandro Rodriguez & Cleo Moguillansky …and as I previously mentioned, you appear to be the most energetically active among them! Everything seems to move quickly. Some of your movies are less than 2 hours in length, and even some are only 60 to 70 minutes… In my films, you can sense a continuity, but it’s not something you can put a number on. It’s like a series of interconnected stories, a family of characters and themes that persist throughout. I can say at what moment they start and at what moments they finish. You have the same family, the same atmosphere, even though the characters may change. For instance, the character of Margarita Fernandez, or myself or my daughter and… remains constant. It’s a family of films, a constellation of themes and emotions. As an editor, I keep working, re-editing, and repurposing materials from one film to another. The energy in this process is endless, and it extends beyond any single film or director. It’s like a series of films that watch over each other, creating a larger cinematic universe. Your movies tend to have a dynamic pace, often faster than your colleagues’. I’ve noticed a unique quality, like a signature in your editing style. There are aspects I’ve observed, such as unexpected cuts and surprising shifts in music. I’ve also picked up on parallels between your editing and Mariano/Laura’s films, especially regarding surprising edits and music choices. I’m curious how much your own editing style comes through when working on their films, versus just executing their creative direction. Would it be accurate to say that you edit your films for your own taste, as well as for directors like Mariano and Laura? Do you infuse your own ideas into the editing, or do you primarily follow the directors’ visions? Is this a result of your personal editing philosophy applied to their films, or do you adhere closely to their creative guidance? The element of unpredictability is something I constantly seek. It’s an essential aspect for me. I aim to avoid predictability at all costs. In editing, I’m always working against my instinct to maintain the film’s unpredictability. This approach has a lot to do with my musical way of thinking about films and its development. More than following the script or arguments, I follow the film’s rhythm, its music. It’s about the film doing what you don’t expect. Even if some consider my films aggressive, it’s essential not to create a predictable system. The goal is to escape the idea of a system, to believe in the film as a living, breathing entity, constantly changing. It’s worth noting that some critics have suggested that I’ve adopted a similar approach to Hugo Santiago, an Argentine director, in my filmmaking. I had the opportunity to edit his latest work, Le ciel du centaure (The Sky of the Centaur, 2015), which provided me with valuable insights into how directors operate, particularly in terms of avoiding predictability and treating the film as a living, dynamic entity. To me, every edit in a film is akin to a musical note, and I actively engage with the film’s structure and form to imbue it with vitality. The primary objective is to shun predictability and ensure that the film consistently offers unexpected elements. This principle isn’t limited to plot twists alone but extends to the very process of editing itself. I often find myself working against my instincts, introducing interventions in the film’s materiality to make it come alive. I recognise that directors have varying styles – some are more conservative, while others embrace new ideas and unconventional editing choices. Every director has a different tolerance for rule breaking. So, I modulate my editing philosophy accordingly while still believing that calculated unconventional choices can create captivating cinema. Editing is a delicate balance. Radical, unpredictable cuts could potentially disrupt a film’s structure, mood, and internal logic. The footage works as a cohesive system. My aggressive editing philosophy actively pushes against that systematic approach. In my own films, I’m comfortable making bold, disruptive edits that break conventions. I can take those risks in my work because I’m not beholden to any vision but my own. But it is not possible to follow this concept and be aggressive to others most of the time! So, if I understand correctly, you’re saying that you’re more radical in your approach to unpredictability when it comes to editing your own films compared to others. While you bring your ideas and collaborate with directors, you tend to be more radical in shaping the editing process for your own films, creating new structures and challenging predictability. Yes, that’s right. Sometimes, even in films where I’m not credited as the editor, I still find ways to intervene in the editing process. It can involve inventing new structures, introducing sharp cuts, changing the tempo, and creating contrasts in rhythm between sequences. I like to capture moments in the middle of actions or narrative processes, which might appear as violent interventions in the film’s materiality. My own films often play with the materiality of the footage, making these interventions more visible. In contrast, in films like Mariano’s or Laura’s, these interventions might be more subtle and invisible in terms of materiality. You’ve mentioned that you see editing and filmmaking as being similar to music, and it’s interesting that your musical choices cover a wide range of genres, from well-known classics to original compositions. Could you please elaborate on your approach to selecting and incorporating music into your films, including your collaboration with composers? Well, my approach to incorporating music into my films is deeply intertwined with the essence of each project. I’m often guided by elements already present within the film’s thematic landscape. For instance, in The Little Match Girl, Helmut Lachenmann’s music was an inherent part of the film, just as Schubert was an essential presence due to the character of Margarita Fernández being a pianist. Furthermore, in Un Andantino, Cleo’s connection to Schubert’s music stemmed from her viewing Au Hasard Balthazar in Margarita’s house, where this music played a pivotal role. Remarkably, some of the musical elements were already in place even before the film’s production began, intricately woven into the plot. What’s intriguing is that my decision-making process can be further influenced by unexpected encounters, such as attending a concert featuring the lead actor a month before shooting. These experiences solidify the importance of certain musical motifs. My obsession with Tom Waits in The Middle Ages comes from my deep interest in his works; during the pandemic I was drinking wine and listening repeatedly to Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen! Alejo Moguillansky In For the Money, our decision to embrace Rossini’s music was driven by our desire to capture the Italian essence at the heart of the film. This project marked the most Italian film I’ve made in terms of its spirit and surface. It’s a contrast to The Little Match Girl, which delves deep into its German essence/movies. The choice of Rossini was sparked by discussions with my collaborator, Mariano, who brought up Rossini as a fitting choice. Our collaboration is characterised by a close working relationship, where we value each other’s input. Mariano is always the first person to watch my films after the initial editing, and his opinions and recommendations hold immense weight. Likewise, I’m the first person to engage with his work once his editing is complete. When Mariano suggested Rossini for For the Money, we shared a moment of laughter as we recognised how perfectly it aligned with the film’s mood and atmosphere. It’s a testament to the strength of our collaboration and how it enhances the creative process, ensuring that every element, including the music, harmonises with the film’s essence. Our selections aren’t arbitrary; they align with the film’s needs. In my films, music isn’t merely a backdrop with big orchestral, but functions as a character, shaping the narrative and emotional landscape. So, in my filmmaking philosophy, music and not only music but the composers like Shubert and even Beethoven are the characters, and it is an important aspect of my movie. To illustrate this point, during the premiere of The Little Match Girl, Maria Fernández, was asked about her feelings seeing her name in the credits alongside Schubert, Mozart, and Beethoven. Her response beautifully encapsulated our approach: “They are good characters!” Working with Gabriel Chwojnik, our composer, has always been a very direct and precise process. I go to his house, and we begin working on each song or theme, or any musical intervention needed for the film. We work closely together, and Gabriel arranges and develops the music as required. This might involve orchestrations or other significant work. Our collaboration is built on years of working together, so we have a clear understanding of our respective roles. I provide specific directions about what I want and what I don’t want. We’re both aware of the genre and style required for the film. Sometimes we decide to take the music in a different direction, perhaps making it lighter, faster, clumsy, or more dramatic, depending on the film’s needs. As you’ve seen in For the Money the working dynamic is intense. Gabriel is some kind of character! And of course, a very good composer, and everything becomes very immersive during our sessions. It’s almost like a performance where I’m directing and he’s creating, and the energy is quite high. I communicate with him in a manner characterised by yelling, anger, and tension, a way that I don’t use with anyone else! Perhaps these sessions have been so intense and draining that you’d rather take a break and personally select the music for your upcoming films! [laughs] Maybe! But this doesn’t mean I always prefer to choose my own music. It really depends on the project and what it demands. Sometimes, the situation calls for reinterpreting existing music with a new perspective. This often happens with classical composers, and we bring a fresh viewpoint to their work. In a somewhat humorous fashion, it’s interesting to note that towards the conclusion of The Little Match Girl, after all the build-up and discussions around various themes, such as how a street strike might impact artistic production or how the composer ardently tries to convey their ideas to the orchestra, there’s a rather unexpected suggestion. It’s almost as if it’s saying, “Let’s sit back and enjoy some Ennio Morricone!” The beauty of Morricone’s music lies in its universal appeal and ability to soothe the moment, making it thoroughly enjoyable. Personally, I must admit that I struggle to fully grasp Helmut Lachenmann’s music in The Little Match Girl. Furthermore, when watching the movie Montage, which features experimental music and a cacophony of sounds, the more I listen, the less enjoyment I derive. While I appreciate the desire to explore musical boundaries, in the end, I consistently find solace in the melodies of Ennio Morricone. I wonder, does your perspective on music align with this? Is the essence of The Little Match Girl essentially an invitation to embrace Morricone? How do you generally perceive music as a whole? About Morricone you may be right, but I don’t really know! However, I should say I always attempt to bridge the gap between popular music and avant-garde music. My goal is to create unexpected connections and relationships between high and low culture. For instance, some artists, such as Morricone recognise themselves in their work, while others like Lachenmann don’t. However, the lines between self-recognition and anonymity can blur. Take Beckett, for instance, who strived not to recognise himself in his work. In the end, you still find Beckett in his writings. So, in this dichotomy of striving for authenticity, there’s an inevitability. The more you try not to be yourself, the closer you get to your true self. I see this as a dualistic world, one that is both narrow and intellectual, but also sophisticated. I often view this world as a realm of comedians and experimental work, akin to comedy. This notion is exemplified in music, such as Lachenmann’s, which feels like playing a violin with one’s teeth like the way Chapline plied with musical instruments, or reminiscent of John Cage’s experimental performances on television, where the audience was left wondering, “What is he doing?” I find value in these limits, as they help me explore what lies beneath popular art, which is inherently poetic, fragile, and tiny, much like the characters in a clown show. More precisely, it echoes the characters of La Bohème. In my work, I strive to uncover these connections. For instance, in Un andantino, you can see a connection between Schubert and the dark music of the ’80s, like Joy Division and The Cure. I aim to imagine what these contemporary bands would have been like if they had existed in the 19th century, and perhaps they would resemble Schubert. Speaking of Chaplin, in one of your interviews, you described a unique approach to directing your films, drawing comparisons to the method employed by the Chaplin company. You mentioned the practice of repeating scenes or acts multiple times until the essence of a scene is captured, a sentiment echoed by Laura Citarella in our discussion of your filmmaking style. Laura emphasised that, when I asked about improvisation in your movies in her interview, one should not assume that everything is spontaneous; she stated that a series of acts in your movies are completely staged and planned. However, when I watch your films, I’m struck by the multitude of unexpected moments. For example, in your For the Money interview in Cannes film festival, you mentioned starting each day without a fixed plan and allowing the shoot to shape the narrative. Similarly, in The Middle Ages, you emphasised a ‘shoot first, then shape’ approach. Can you provide further insights into your directorial process? What percentage of your films is improvisation, and how much is deliberate direction? This intriguing balance between repetition and spontaneity, like mixing high and low culture, seems to be your distinctive method for capturing the essence and soul of your cinematic vision. Could you elaborate on your approach to directing? I don’t know if I agree with this idea that everything is planned in my films. It depends on each film and even within each sequence of each film. Yes, it’s true that I exercise a lot of control over the mise-en-scène, composition and framing of the shots, as well as the movements and choreography of the characters. But it’s also true that I make my planning flexible enough to allow for unexpected developments. The film can take a different direction unexpectedly, and I can adapt to it while maintaining control of the situation. I’m very precise in framing and choreography, but this precision results from improvisation during the shooting. Improvisation, in my view, means coming to the set with more than one idea and working around it, allowing room for changes with each step and shot. It’s about creating new points of view and exploring different directions within the same idea. Each shot becomes a piece of the puzzle, and this is what I consider improvisation. There’s no pre-planned functionality; each shot’s role in the whole film is unknown, and that’s what I find interesting. It’s about going beyond surface-level storytelling and embracing the narrative responsibility that each scene may hold, even if it wasn’t initially scripted. So, I don’t subscribe to the idea that everything is meticulously planned in my films. In fact, almost nothing is. So generally speaking, it appears to me that your filmmaking style is a skilful fusion of two distinct approaches, as previously mentioned, effectively combining elements of high and low culture. Additionally, you blend documentary and fiction in a way that blurs the lines between them, leaving viewers unsure whether what they’re witnessing is genuine or scripted. Your movies are replete with scenes that prompt questions about whether the actions are planned or spontaneous. Take, for example, the football game in The Gold Bug, where your crew plays with such enthusiasm, or the moment in For the Money when characters suddenly strike poses in front of the camera, leaving us to wonder if it’s part of the narrative or an impromptu decision. There’s this constant interplay between playfulness and mystery, and you bring humour into situations that could easily feel bleak, like economic struggles or pandemics. It feels like your directing style is an intricate mix of improvisation and careful planning. Would you say this combination of different elements is a core part of your approach, creating the unique experiences we see in your work? Yes, I don’t know what to answer, but yes, indeed, these sequences have a unique quality. This kind of sequence you mentioned, especially in genetics and music, it’s a compelling subject. They possess a certain freedom, unlike other sequences in various fields. These sequences make one wonder if the world exists solely to be captured on film. As a filmmaker, I often think this world is continuously created for filmmakers to capture. I’ve seen this in the work of others, like Mattie’s rugby jump in For the Money. I trust their ability to do it gracefully, and when they look at the lens and the camera, it’s enchanting. I use various techniques to make these gestures look photogenic. They are like painting without needing a narrative explanation. It’s about capturing moments that mirror the world and the act of painting, rather than following traditional narrative structures. These moments often revolve around larger themes in the narrative, serving as the film’s sensory core and allowing for a documentary-style portrayal of the world. The idea of portrayal becomes a witnessed experience. It’s about a community of artists existing within the world, a point worth highlighting. The blend of documentary and fiction isn’t as critical as capturing these specific moments. So, why distinguish between documentary and fiction? It’s a meaningless division. It’s all about finding a balance between elaboration and documentary, and when you reach these moments, it’s a fusion of styles. I’m contemplating the essence of this technique. The term ” Calligraphy” comes to mind. Some shots are meticulously framed, while others are less so in terms of framing, editing, and sensitivity. They create a dynamic interplay. It’s about finding the right balance between the two. Cleo Moguillansky In The Middle Ages, you chose to depict the absurdity of pandemic life for two artists, yourself and your wife, from the perspective of your daughter. What led you to decide on using your daughter’s point of view for the story? Considering all the actions shown, from your wife handling materials and budget to your directing role and even your daughter humorously selling household items, how did you settle on telling the tale through your daughter’s eyes? Isn’t it interesting how the perspective of children often aligns closely with the essence of modern cinema? A prime example is Germania anno zero (Germany Year Zero, 1948) by Roberto Rossellini, narrated primarily through the lens of a young boy’s viewpoint. It’s very ‘now,’ the idea of portraying things with the innocence every filmmaker should have. Let’s always defend the concept of innocence; if we lose it, you cannot be a filmmaker. If you are clever, you cannot be a filmmaker. So, you must take a step into innocence while simultaneously acknowledging it is also a kind of outsider’s perspective. The perspective of an outsider trying to make sense of a world they cannot fully understand is a recurring theme in my movies. This theme can be observed not only in The Middle Ages, but also in films like For the Money, where we see a Frenchman in the movie encountering the world of artists who are entirely enigmatic to him. A similar situation unfolds in The Gold Bug, where foreign producers found themselves as strangers among the Argentine crew; those characters from the 19th century often struggle with the challenge of comprehending the complexities of the present. Essentially, it’s about creating a viewpoint that allows you to distance yourself from what you’re portraying – a sort of ‘stranger’s point of view,’ if you will. Imagine someone from Mars watching your film and saying, ‘It’s not necessarily good, what you are doing.’ It’s not necessarily… … Given your view against directors highlighting their cleverness, Cleo’s character in The Middle Ages is portrayed as both innocent and exceptionally clever. In fact, she could be regarded as one of the most astute characters in your films! This is evident in her actions, such as purchasing Becket’s book, her determination to learn the art of business, and her poignant and thoughtful poetic voiceovers, which beautifully describe the situations she encounters throughout the movie… She’s clever, yes, perhaps even too clever at times! But beyond that, the movie is not just through her perspective; it also incorporates the viewpoint of the dog, which, aside from some occasional barking situations, remains largely silent. It’s as if, I would say, the ultimate perspective is that of the dog. She, Cleo, along with her parents, ventures out from the house, yet the house still stands, and one might wonder, ‘What remains?’ Just as the world and war persist after the death of Jack Nicholson in Profession: reporter/ The Passenger (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1975), his passing doesn’t extinguish the world. In other words, the dog remains. This is quite intriguing; the dog becomes the final witness, the ultimate point of view. The final scene in The Passenger is thought-provoking conclusion, and this perspective, silent throughout, is what I consider to be the concluding viewpoint for me. Exploring experiences from an outsider’s perspective, your film La noche submarina (Submarine Night, 2020) stands out as a unique documentary grounded solely in reality without any fictional elements, making it quite different from your other works. Could you share what led you to create this documentary about a submarine? Specifically, what originally inspired you to pursue this project, and what was the background story that sparked your interest? Well. It all began during the production of my debut movie, La prisionera (2005) co-directed with Fermín Villanueva, in a city known for its popularity among tourists. We were situated at the city’s port, close to the military base where submarines were housed. Submarines had always held a special fascination for me; they felt like vessels from another world, brimming with fiction, adventure, and mystery. What truly intrigued me was the fact that these submarines were constructed using the same metal as the German cameras designed to withstand the immense pressure of the ocean’s depths! It was a revelation that left me in awe. Submarine Night My journey into this project started during my university years. Over the course of a couple of years spent in that city, we found ourselves repeatedly visiting the submarines, and I developed an almost obsessive fascination with them. I dove deep into the world of submarines, absorbing everything I could find, and honestly, I became a bit of a ‘nerd’ about it. Eventually, I managed to connect with people involved with submarines, and they gave me an informal invitation – something that would be almost impossible to get today. That invitation led to an incredible three-month journey, something that felt straight out of Don Quixote, but beneath the waves. It was a profoundly poetic experience, and during that time, we captured the footage inside the submarine. I held onto this footage for years, and there were plenty of discussions and disagreements between me, the co-directors (Fermín Villanueva and Diego H. Flores), and the director of photography about how to use it. After those initial encounters with the submarines, our filmmaking team actually disbanded for a while. I’m the kind of person who holds onto once-in-a-lifetime adventures, etching them permanently into my memory. It wasn’t until I spent time discussing these experiences passionately with my wife that I felt encouraged to revisit and create something meaningful from this material. In recent years, I reconnected with my cinematographer, and we began the process of working with the footage we had captured. Then came the submarine accident. This unfortunate incident dramatically transformed the context and significance of the materials we possessed. Suddenly, the footage I held became a matter of national interest, possibly even dangerous, given the tragic national implications of the accident. The situation grew complex. The resulting film weaves together this unique blend of elements, and it stands as a testament to this extraordinary journey… …But nothing was really shown in your movie and piecewise and dynamism it is much more static and opposite to every movie I have seen from you. Fortunately, yes! that’s true. This film, in essence, is what we might call an “Adagio” film; it belongs to the realm of slow cinema. Its rhythm and style are intentionally different from my previous works. In this film, each shot is sacred to me because of the profound subject matter it encapsulates and the emotions it carries, given my personal experiences. The submarine accident was a national tragedy, and when the film was initially released, it encapsulated that complexity. I uploaded it online for just four days, during which 100,000 people viewed it, which was remarkable for such a film. I was approached by victims’ relatives and many others, and received diverse reactions and emotions, along with numerous inquiries about how I shot scenes inside the submarine. Then I made the decision not to release it online again but to showcase it solely during in-person screenings, as a mark of respect for a subject larger than the film itself. The film also became entangled in political debates against the government. To my surprise, it slipped out of my control given the complicated situation…additionally the political climate in Argentina added to my confusion, as my personal background put me in an uncomfortable position. What I can affirm is that this film has been an incredible journey. The submarine project, the accident, and the resulting film hold a special place in my heart. The matter of the accident still remains unsettled legally in Argentina’s judicial system and has been leveraged against the former president. I consciously and intentionally crafted the film to prevent the footage from being exploited for political debates, disputes, and partisan conflicts. My goal was for the film to resonate more with Greek poetry, evoking Homer’s Odyssey, rather than engaging with contemporary political controversies and contentious matters. After 22 years of your company producing movies, you haven’t been in the forefront of competition at major film festivals like Cannes, Locarno, or Berlin. You’re in a different section, but not in the main competition. How do you perceive this? Do you have any regrets about not being in the first line of competition, or is it not important to you at all? Why do you think your company hasn’t been there so far? I don’t know. I have no answer for your question, but I know festivals always come late! Still, the main question I have is, how do you finance your movies? I still don’t understand how you manage to make your movies without any money. How do you find the funds to produce your films, not just you, but everybody in your company? Or do you bring in money from elsewhere? I’m still unclear about the financial aspect of making your next movies! The truth is, we do work. People often assume otherwise; that we’re somehow sitting on an oil field or vast countryside properties! Some folks tend to speak negatively of us, like haters, perhaps because we’re quite expressive, talk too much, playful, and fond of making jokes. However, the reality is that we’re hardworking individuals, crafting films that exist outside the mainstream, entirely independent, but the perception is that we’re millionaires akin to Elon Musk! The secret is that our films sometimes don’t have a budget. Now, concerning The Middle Ages, its budget was no different from the budget of our own house. The Little Match Girl shared the same financial constraints as shooting a documentary about opera in Buenos Aires. When it comes to For the Money it’s an interesting story regarding the budget. Initially, we received a budget to produce a television documentary about a theatre company’s journey to Colombia. This budget was intended for television, essentially aligning with what you’d allocate for a typical 26-minute TV episode. However, the twist in the tale is quite intriguing. This project, originally meant for television, underwent a transformation, and emerged as a feature film that ultimately found its place at the Cannes Film Festival. So, essentially, we are, in a way, deceivers, we are cheaters. Every filmmaker is a cheater. When you receive a commission and you don’t betray that commission, you must question the kind of person you are. Commissions are meant to be betrayed; if you don’t betray them, then find yourself a job! A Hunting Day Your films undeniably convey a deep engagement with social and political issues. Your group’s intellectual resonance, spanning a wide range of subjects from historical figures to political discourse, is readily apparent. The current political landscape in Argentina, characterised by the rise of right-wing forces and economic challenges, raises concerns for me as an Iranian grappling with my own nation’s struggles. I’ve noticed that your movies often depict artist characters wrestling with the formidable task of securing funding for their projects. Considering your films’ profound exploration of politics and economics, as well as the adversities portrayed, I’m keen to understand how the current Argentine scenario, its political atmosphere, influences your artistic perspective. Given the inherent link between politics and art funding that your works highlight, I’m intrigued to hear your insights and predictions for El Pampero Cine within the context of contemporary Argentina. Could you share how you envision the future of independent filmmaking against this backdrop? What do you foresee in terms of the economic and political stance of your group within the realm of Argentine independent cinema? I don’t know. I’m really uncertain about that. The situation is complex. El Pampero has historically operated as a production house without relying on public funding or industrial support, setting us apart from more bureaucratic filmmaking models. Our approach aligns more closely with a direct relationship, akin to writers and painters with their crafts. However, the current Argentine landscape is intricate. A new third party, displaying traits reminiscent of fascism, has emerged, emphasising anti-system ideals and aiming to dismantle public departments, including cultural institutions. This neoliberal shift poses challenges as we’ve always worked to resist bureaucratic accumulation within the film industry, echoing sentiments seen in figures like Donald Trump in USA or Jair Messias Bolsonaro in Brazil. This party’s speeches are characterised by their strong economic, social, and political stances. Their objective revolves around dismantling any form of public departments or ministries, aiming to eliminate institutions such as the National TV channel and disrupting established systems. Our company’s struggle has often been against the industry’s industrialist approach and in favour of nurturing smaller productions. This political climate could indeed impact our situation economically and politically, especially if there’s a diminishment of support for cultural endeavours. It’s uncertain, but I’m wary of the implications, especially in a country without a Ministry of Culture. The truth is that I don’t want to live in a country without a Ministry of Culture and to answer your questions I should say yes, this condition could certainly lead to changes and challenges for El Pampero’s future. A Hunting Day So, I’m curious about your short film Un día de caza (A Hunting Day, 2019) and whether it was created as a response to the socio-political climate in Argentina during that period, considering its production around 2018, about four years ago. This aspect has left me quite intrigued. The perplexing actions of the characters, their aimless shooting and marching across the landscape, and their resemblance to Donald Trump presented a challenge for me to grasp. However, I had a sense that there might be an underlying political commentary. The film’s unique, unsettling style stands apart from your other works. I must admit that initially, it was the sole film I could instantly connect with due to the unconventional behaviour of the characters and their acting. I also discerned certain cinematic references, perhaps from Tati and others. The film initiated with a seemingly foolish premise, but as it progressed, the characters exchanging weapons and eventually ending their own lives, a noticeable shift occurred from a foolish atmosphere to a melancholic, sombre mood within the landscape. Could you shed light on the intentions and inspirations behind this enigmatic film? Was it a way of addressing political matters through an unconventional and symbolic narrative? Certainly, perhaps the film does possess some meta qualities, and we cannot deny our awareness of that aspect. Simultaneously, I can state that the film’s linguistic exploration is detached from the immediate political choices surrounding it, although there might be a slight connection. The notion of these characters, resembling American or English hunters arriving in Patagonia, Argentina to indulge in hunting, originated from an idea I encountered during a flight to Argentina. During the flight, I overheard a group of three or four English men, not necessarily right-wing individuals, passionately discussing hunting. Later, I observed them collecting their hunting gear in the baggage claim area, which deeply inspired me. This portrayal forms the basis for these grassland characters. Additionally, the other characters, particularly the blond ones, reflect an upper-middle-class status – a distinctive condition in my country. Yes, there are indeed individuals resembling these white-trash personas in Argentina. The blonde characters, as well as the others, originate from theatre plays. They existed prior to the film’s creation, and the intention was to capture these pre-existing characters in a cinematic narrative. They were already alive on stage, within the theatre plays, before being brought into the realm of filmmaking. This background contributes to the presence of pre-existing references within the film. Indeed, the concept of “fragility as an act of resistance” in your movie, Dear Antonioni, carries profound implications that warrant further exploration. At its core, this concept proposes that despite outward appearances of weakness, vulnerability possesses the potential to serve as a potent tool for resistance. This notion resonates strongly within your group, El Pampero Cine, as you embrace your own vulnerabilities as a source of strength. This concept operates as a guiding principle, akin to a manifesto for your collective. You purposefully deviate from conforming to traditional industry norms, making a conscious choice to eschew government funding and often bypass the conventional festival circuit. This deliberate stance underscores your commitment to asserting your independence and upholding our artistic integrity, even in the face of challenges. Your fragility takes on a dual role – it serves as both our armour and compass, allowing us to navigate the film industry with authenticity and unwavering resilience. Certainly, the notion of “fragility as an act of resistance” in Dear Antonioni resonates deeply with my personal approach to filmmaking. It’s closely tied to our collective at El Pampero and the way we work collaboratively. Our structure is non-hierarchical, and the concept of authority within the group is fluid. This aligns with my belief that resistance doesn’t necessarily mean denial, but rather a process of questioning, disobeying, and challenging norms. When it comes to cinematic language, I believe in exploring questions rather than offering clear answers. I often erase the intended meaning behind scenes, sequences, and shots, creating an atmosphere of inquiry instead of certainty. This approach leads to fragile images – ones that aren’t always easily understood. But there’s a special strength in that fragility, because truly memorable art often comes from what can’t be completely grasped. This concept draws from historical examples, such as Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa” and Caravaggio’s paintings, where the enigmatic nature of the images leaves a lasting impact. You recall a Caravaggio painting because it encapsulates an aspect: the enigmatic quality of its lighting. This lighting is a fusion of naturalism, realism, and theatricality. It prompts contemplation about the essence of the image before you, provoking the question of its nature. The image lingers because we don’t fully comprehend this paradoxical visual effect. Its inscrutable power makes it memorable. It’s the same principle behind Hitchcock’s advice to remember visual elements rather than the plot. He suggests that it’s the elements like the blonde hair, the waves, or specific features that are remembered, while the full story may fade. This perspective pushes filmmakers to anticipate what viewers will remember and leaves room for exploration, ultimately shifting the focus from powerful storytelling to powerful visual experiences. A Hunting Day Your films in El Pampero Cine deviate from the mainstream, even within the independent sphere. Each of you possesses a distinctive approach to filmmaking. While Laura describes herself as the most serious, you, on the other hand, appear to be more hyperactive in terms of film output. I see you as the most prolific and fast-paced of the El Pampero group, constantly generating new films and ideas This is evident in the contrasting timeframes of Mariano’s and Laura’s projects compared to your quicker turnover. I’m keen to understand your current standing in your home country concerning audience and critic interactions. For the last two decayed history, how have Argentine audiences reacted to your unconventional films? Have you built up a loyal following who appreciate your unique voice? Or are you still struggling to find an audience within Argentina’s mainstream film culture and critics? Are general viewers and reviewers receptive to your work in your home country, or do you feel it is still often misunderstood and overlooked there, even as you gain more international fans? We have been so far very lucky. We consider ourselves fortunate to receive the recognition you mentioned. When we premiere a film, people actually attend, a rarity among many filmmakers. This recognition speaks to our uniqueness. However, we also face the ongoing challenge of drawing audiences to theatres for films that are deeply personal and non-industrial. Personally, I believe that experimental filmmaking can hold a place within popular language, a sentiment shared by classic cinema where creating new images, structures, and languages was the norm. Today, this spirit of experimentation is harder to find in the contemporary scene. Yet, I persist in the idea that such experimentation can lead to popular films. This is the space where we strive to continually innovate. El Pampero keeps innovating – regenerating the idea that bold, boundary-pushing films can find a wide audience if the right approach is taken. Despite our success, we want to keep expanding conceptual and unconventional cinema’s appeal. I’m glad to hear you have gained recognition and appreciation within Argentina’s independent film scene and from critics over your 20-year history. It’s positive that critics are generally welcoming and appreciative of your unconventional films rather than being overly harsh. Given your current position, I’m interested to know if you’re cultivating a next generation within your cooperative creative framework or keeping the inner circle small. Do you actively bring in and mentor younger/new filmmakers to work with El Pampero? Or is it still primarily the core 4 members plus your troupe of regular actors and actresses making the films? Are you open to blending in new talents and students to pass on your unique approach? Or do you prefer to keep El Pampero Cine closed to just your established group and process? El Pampero is primarily comprised of the four of us, and it might seem that our focus is internal. However, there are numerous young individuals in our surroundings who are interested and active in filmmaking. While our organisational structure may seem chaotic, we’re genuinely supportive of newcomers and are readily available to assist them in any way we can. We’re open to helping those who resonate with our innovative filmmaking approach. Nevertheless, I must admit that our organisation is not precisely the most structured at the moment. We’re willing to extend our guidance and collaboration, treating their projects as our own, but it’s worth noting that we are a small group. Our intent remains to provide support and engage with those who share our passion for film. We will enthusiastically help other filmmakers make their films, but can’t make everyone’s films their own. Imagine me asking you to cook my meal when you’re already making your own delicious dishes. It’s like trying to juggle two recipes at once, and we might just end up ordering some takeout in the end!
