Mesto na zemle
(Artour Aristakisian, 2001)
IMDb
Artur Aristakisyan, Artour Aristakisyan, Arthur Aristakisyan, Artur Aristakesyan, Artour Aristakesyan, Arthur Aristakesyan, A Place in the World
Guión: Artour Aristakisian, Irina Shubina
Música: Robert Wyatt, Vincenzo Bellini
Fotografía: Grigori Yablochnikov
(Artour Aristakisian, 2001)
IMDb
Artur Aristakisyan, Artour Aristakisyan, Arthur Aristakisyan, Artur Aristakesyan, Artour Aristakesyan, Arthur Aristakesyan, A Place in the World
Guión: Artour Aristakisian, Irina Shubina
Música: Robert Wyatt, Vincenzo Bellini
Fotografía: Grigori Yablochnikov
SinopsisChristina Stojanova escribió:There are many Aristakisians, actually a palimpsest of Aristakisians, co-existing historically and contemporaneously: one apparently is Aristakisian the anti-social anarchist, part of the down-and-outs whose life he was living and filming for a considerably period in his home-town of Kishinev. The result of this filming was Ladoni, a collection of ten short stories about the life and loves of beggars. At some point in time, Aristakisian the anarchist was apparently for a while Aristakisian the flower-child, peace and sex-loving member of a hippie commune in Moscow, which he went to in order to film his second feature, Mesto na zemlie (Place on Earth, Russia, 2001), a fiction film with non-professional actors, featuring the real members of Aristakisian's commune.
- Este Un lugar en el mundo (el mismo título que una película de Adolfo Aristarain) Es de una radicalidad absoluta, por fuera de toda convención y en las fronteras mismas del cine. Un refugio para vagabundos en un tugurio de Moscú, una secta con un líder delirante que proclama el amor de todos con todos, una mujer cuya pasión descontrolada emerge de la literatura rusa aparecen como la contracara de una ciudad hostil y desolada, de una sociedad que hace lo posible por ocultar la desesperación y la intensidad vital con las que el film se atreve. La película es una experiencia extrema para el espectador, un salto hacia un abismo en el que la extrañeza se toca con una intimidad secreta, con el reconocimiento de una zona de lo humano que la contemporaneidad no ha logrado suprimir del todo.
---Quintín. Catálogo del BAFICI. Traída por rrreeevvv.
- La premisa de A Place on Earth parece extraña. Sin embargo, resulta una excusa —magistralmente llevada a sus últimas consecuencias— para pensar el eterno fracaso de los utopismos. Un líder mesiánico funda una sociedad alternativa, basada en el principio del amor libre. Sus integrantes —jóvenes bellos y bien educados— deben enseñar el amor al prójimo teniendo sexo con los miembros menos favorecidos de la sociedad real (desde discapacitados hasta indigentes). La renuncia a la propiedad incluye la del propio cuerpo y en esa renuncia consistiría la felicidad terrena. El líder pierde la fe en su propio credo cuando es abandonado por su novia y, a partir de ahí, el film demuestra la premisa contraria a la original: que el amor es una de las formas del egoísmo.
---Silvia Schwarzböck. El Amante, nº 121. Traída por rrreeevvv.
Entrevista a Artistakisjan
- Spoiler: mostrar
- Después de ver Un lugar en el mundo (versión rusa) suponíamos que Artur Aristakisjan iba a resultar un personaje algo excéntrico. Nos quedamos cortos. Su discurso es el de un verdadero lunático, pero de los que vale la pena escuchar.
Contanos tu biografía ...
No tengo una biografía. Cuando tenía 20 era un niño, era un inútil. Nací en el sur de Moldavia, ex Unión Soviética, en una pequeña aldea judía, aunque mi padre era armenio. Un lugar cargado de inteligencia por un lado y de fealdad por otro. Para una persona creativa es una fuente de inspiración. De chico tenía una especie de sueño recurrente: yo era un artista y me paseaban en una jaula por el pueblo. Luego supe que a Ezra Pound lo paseaban en una jaula, pero no era en un Estado totalitario sino democrático. Así que mi sueño es tener la misma suerte que Pound. Mi biografía, en el fondo, son mis fantasías.
¿Cómo llegaste a hacer cine?
Durante siete años me pasé yendo a Moscú para ver si me admitían en la escuela de cine. Siempre me rechazaban. Los exámenes los tomaban directores famosos que en cuanto me veían la cara decían: "No, no, este no". En 1988, año en el que se cumplió un milenio de la cristiandad en Rusia, se abrió una especie de curso para 20 tipos raros como yo, gente que tenía dieciséis años y ya había estado en la cárcel, cosas semejantes, a cargo de un documenta lista, que veía algo en estos personajes que había en la clase. El profesor era más extraño aun. Filmaba las cosas que nadie quería filmar, como a unos peregrinos en el Polo Norte que se ponían una especie de alas. Ninguno de los otros llegó a hacer películas. Yo no tenía dinero, así que era el único al que le permitían dormir en la escuela. Durante cinco años viví así, vendiendo lo que tenía. Mis padres me ayudaron mucho, pero fue una historia muy curiosa. Aunque eran muy intelectuales, vivían en la pobreza más absoluta, sin agua, sin electricidad. Un día, mi madre se cansó y decidió que debían emigrar. Fue a la embajada alemana y les contó que toda su familia había sido exterminada por los nazis, que sabía que había un programa para emigrar a Alemania para las vÍCtimas y que la ayudaran. Le dijeron que verificar los datos llevaría tres años. Llegó a la casa desesperada. Entonces mi padre fue a la embajada alemana y les dijo que mi abuelo había muerto en Rumania, peleando para los nazis en la caballería. Lo recibieron con los brazos abiertos, le dijeron que era un héroe de guerra y que Hitler había creado en 1944 un fondo para los extranjeros que morían defendiendo al Reich y que aún estaba en vigencia. Preguntó cuánto tardarían en verificar los datos y le dijeron que dos días. Y efectivamente, en un par de meses emigraron y hoy viven en Nuremberg. Pero antes vendieron lo poco que tenían y me lo dieron para que siguiera estudiando.
¿Cuándo hiciste tu primer largo?
Para graduarme en 1994. Es un documental llamado Palms, que fue al festival de Berlín. La película hizo carrera, así que pedí que me aceptaran en el sindicato de directores y me rechazaron. Pero apelé y me admitieron. Y la película ganó el premio al mejor film ruso del año.
Siendo un tipo gracioso, ¿cómo hiciste una película tan trágica?
La manera en que una persona se comporta en compañía de otros es una ilusión. Nadie sabe cómo es realmente cuando está solo. La gente tiene la ilusión de que soy gracioso y amigable. Todo el tiempo nos engañamos y engañamos a los demás pretendiendo que somos distintos de lo que somos. En el cine hay algo que existe independientemente de la voluntad del director. Es un cuerpo transparente que tiene una vida propia. Mi película es el choque entre los cuerpos de los desposeídos y el director. El resultado me sorprende y no está en mi poder controlarlo. Palms fue un experimento sobre la manera en que los films nacen, a veces contra su voluntad. Cuando era chico me escapé de mi casa, y me encontré con viejos judíos a los que nadie quiere porque son viejos y locos. La patología judía me fascina. Uno de ellos era un fotógrafo que vivía en una especie de letrina, un cuarto muy oscuro. Había sido corresponsal en el frente durante la Segunda Guerra. Compraba latas de película y las abría de modo que se velaban. Yo no entendía lo que hacía. Finalmente me lo explicó: "Invito a gente diferente y les pido que miren la película y me digan cuán expuesta está. Las personas que tienen una gran sensibilidad impresionan la película, de algún modo se fusionaban con ella". Mi experiencia cinematográfica comenzó allí. Truffaut y Visconti, esa gente, tenían esa sensibilidad que impresionaba sus películas. Más que química, era alquimia. El verdadero lenguaje del cine apela al alma, deja una huella en el alma, tiene efectos secundarios que no podemos calcular. Es paradójico, pero el cine se debería hacer para los ciegos, que lo captaran sin verlo, por la energía que tiene.
Tu película tiene que ver con el cristianismo, incluso con el cristianismo primitivo.
No me gusta especular con eso. No soy un verdadero creyente. Pero creo que a Dios no le importa lo que tenemos en nuestra mente. o se puede decir que somos creyentes, decirIo es un autoengaño que ayuda a vivir a la gente común. Me interesa la fe. Me gustaría saber lo que es. Los libros y la Iglesia no reflejan el sentido de la revelación. La cultura y la fe son contradictorias. En mi película no hay una ideología ni una intención en ese sentido. Quería mostrar los instintos de los seres humanos, como se muestran en una pequeña sociedad. La hermandad, el amor no son conocimientos sino instintos que viven en el ser humano. Cuando nació, el cristianismo era un instinto, pero luego fue recubierto por capas de cultura. No tiene nada que ver con lo que hay ahora. La Iglesia es un asunto de cultura cristiana, no de fe cristiana. Creyentes verdaderos hay muy pocos y para serIo deben estar aislados del mundo moderno, probablemente en un manicomio.
¿La película podía haber pasado en otro lado o solo en Moscú?
En cualquier lado, es una fábula o un cuento de hadas. Al principio, pensé en llamarla María, pero aludía demasiado al cristianismo. El título que tiene ahora indica justamente eso, que puede ser en cualquier lugar.
¿Quiénes son los actores?
Salvo una actriz y el líder de la comunidad que es bailarín, los demás son verdaderos marginales. Hice correr la voz de que había un refugio para los homeless y vinieron. Allí rodamos la película, recreando lo que ocurría realmente, como las razzias policial es. A la actriz la incluí porque me la encontré de casualidad y me dijo que estaba casada. Le pregunté si se había casado por amor o por dinero y me respondió que por dinero. Tanta honestidad me hizo convocarIa.
¿Y quién es la que hace de María?
Una chica rusa muy infeliz. Es una víctima de la literatura rusa.
¿Cómo?
Muchas mujeres rusas leen demasiados libros, que las influencian más que la propia vida. (Aquí interviene Raisa, distribuidora del film y traductora de la entrevista). Por eso hay tantas mujeres rusas infelices, porque nunca encuentran algo semejante en la vida. A mí y a mis compañeras de la infancia nos ocurría eso. La literatura rusa es más grande que la vida.
¿Y qué hace María ahora?
Les lee libros de literatura rusa a los pobres y discapacitados. Es un alma pura.
Artur Artistakisian defends his Mesto na zemlie (A Place on Earth, 2001)
- Spoiler: mostrar
- It is difficult to imagine, for example, a browbeaten person who would get offened by my film or who would find it incomprehensible. According to the laws of commercial cinema, however, a film is usually made for viewers who could easily recognize and identify with its characters. And since in our film there are no characters that mainstream viewers could identify with, they feel cheated by what they see: the screen overtaken by people from the lower depths, by sick, dangerous people, all kinds of people and no-one like them. Therefore, the true reason for all the attacks against our film is the inability of mainstream viewers to handle their first encounter with cinema that ignores them.
According to their perceptual stereotype, they would rather die than accept a film that has no use of them. If a painting features rabbits, or natives from some exotic island, that is okay, for the exhibition venues belong to the mainstream establishment anyway. They would attend these exhibitions and gaze at the natives, and the fact that they are absent from the paintings would not bother them a bit. Nobody would find Gaugain at fault for not focusing on more knowable, white local girls as models for his visual narratives.
Cinema, on the other hand, is a completely different story—it is a window into the world of intimate desires, and should therefore always keep in focus the mainstream viewer and his social personae. In tune with this deep-seated prejudice, films should be like [Luis Buñuel's] The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. All films, without exception! Each and every blockbuster features knowable, successful people and apartments: that is, everything the viewers wish for, that reflects their innermost desires—cars, guns, sofas, safes. And there are no sofas, or safes or cars in my film, only filthy mattresses on the floor of a house marked for demolition, and filthy-looking, long-haired young people. And if they were identified as the refuse of society, that would be fine. But they are not what you would habitually call tramps, or fascists, or terrorists, or avowed drug addicts. They are kind of normal and, in spite of the filth, good-looking young people who live their life like everyone else.
In addition, they are underground people, people-apocrypha, and this is also annoying. The so-called civilized people, what do they say? You are hippie? We would not discuss your ideology then. You eat like the rest of us. Sleep the way we do. Make love the way we do. You probably sometimes pay for your food. So please, stop claiming you are different from us... This approach makes the so-called civilized people believe they have grasped some hidden reality and exposed the whole truth about the hippie. The hippie, they conclude, is simply someone who has failed where we have succeeded.
In spite of the perceptual prejudices, however, our film does meet the conventional expectations of the viewer unequivocally, by offering him a brief encounter with his most extravagant desires. These desires, however, are satisfied in a rough, primal mode and not in some exotic place like ancient India, but right here, within reach, behind the wall and, yes, by filthy hippies.
The mainstream viewer believes he could enter this world as easily as a stranger enters another country. He also believes that hippies are only pretending and do not take their way of life seriously. On the other hand, he is convinced he has full control of his life and could easily slide in and out of the hippie way of life, while the reverse —hippies ascending to his righteous way of life— is impossible.
The main reason for the general misunderstanding of our film by intellectual viewers is again some form of frustrated expectations. The so-called intellectual viewer goes to see a film in order to find arguments and solidify his already existing conviction that life is hard. He does not seek entertainment, nor aesthetic pleasure but a topic for discussion. For this type of viewer, any civic achievement acquires meaning only if it could be bragged about, and he is no less of a consumer than his brother, the mainstream viewer for he also expects to be indulged and entertained, albeit intellectually. He is ready to watch any nonsense if told it is the cutting edge of (post-) modern cinema.
He watches Stalker [directed by Andrei Tarkovsky] or Aleksandr Soukurov's films, for example, only to be able to show off his intelligent judgement. It represents a transitional, but very important phase, where his personal life intersects with that of cinema. This type of "salon" cinema perfectly meets his expectations, for it is no more than an interlude to the cocktail party to follow. The cocktail party stimulates his indulgence in futile discussions while allowing him to pay his demonstrative respect to the existing hierarchy, which is actually the purpose of the whole exercise.
During the 1960s, cinema still enjoyed the reputation of a miracle, and the viewer had no problem with interpreting films in terms of images as symbols. At that time, he was much closer to the universe of the symbolic and the fabulous than the contemporary viewer is. Nowadays, the viewer does not perceive cinema as miracle. For him, it is just another way of entertainment, excitement, titillation; therefore, he is not much of a viewer any more but rather a public client of sorts. He comes to the cinema to be titillated and entertained, if he is a mainstream viewer, and to indulge and excite his cerebral apparatus, if he belongs to the intellectual elite. In any case, his ability to perceive cinema as language of symbols or symbolic language, is disappearing progressively.
And the point is not that he lacks understanding. The worst attitude towards our film I have encountered amongst people who are very well aware of the film's meaning. Those who understand it, however, are no better than the ones who, after having seen it, get so deeply involved with its meaning as to fundamentally change their ways. Our film prevents people from covering up their reluctance to change their ways by resorting to intelligent interpretation of its meaning. It does not allow them to go on pretending they do not realize what is the change that is expected from them.
If a tramp knocks on the door, the master might choose not to open it. But if the butler has announced the tramp, it is impossible not to let him in. How does this relate to our film? It could be defined as an annunciation, perhaps... "That is your problem, and we do not want to know about it." Why do people say this so often? Because, if they permit themselves to hear it, that means they have already gotten involved with it...
"My attitude towards bums has not changed a bit after seeing this film," a famous filmmaker said once. What is the hidden meaning of this? His words are obscuring his arrogance. He wants to treat the tramps better. What if the tramps do not care about you treating them better? They know perfectly well that you would never treat them better anyway. They need money. That is all.
As for you, all you want is to picture yourself as the center of the world. As if everyone around is concerned with your attitudes. Who are you anyway? Have you ever thought of this? Maybe you suffer from an even worse emotional deficiency? They have always known, even before you were born that you would never be able to treat them better. In the best of all possible worlds, all they could expect of you is cold indifference. You despise them and they know it. You just want to spoil yourself by feeling sorry for them. Or maybe you need sympathy more than they do? In that case your situation is more hopeless than theirs. At least they have made a profession out of begging for their wants. They have clearly identified themselves as needy and down-and-out, while you are scared of your needs. And you are insulted by the very fact that they do not use the film as a means to address you and beg for your help, but as a way of ignoring you...
Most importantly, the film does not leave room to maneuver and avoid change. This is not a film that provokes discussions and intellectual excitement. And that is another important aspect, I believe. This is a film-exercise, a film-essay. It precludes the very possibility for indulgence in collective delusions after having seen it. Like after having seen The Last Temptation of Christ. A film is usually approached on its own terms—by inferring its claims. In the process, the viewers' opinion is ultimately formed in conjunction with their own claims. With our film, the viewers are disoriented since there are no cues or leads. They come to the screening for the intellectual thrill but find themselves at school instead. And there is nothing to be done but start ruminating. But they are unable to do so since they need a clearly defined system of intellectual co-ordinates in order to reason. A system the film refuses to offer.
It also precludes the possibility for neatly sweeping its contents under the intellectual rug. It is difficult to confuse its meaning by finding a middle ground. This is not a socially conscious film. There is no society. It is nonexistent. It is not a philosophical film either. There are no authorial points of view or ideas. It has to be admitted: this film is dangerous. Truly dangerous. As a matter of fact, it undermines the authority of the state. For it, too, is nonexistent.
People fear more the threat of dejection than its reality. The viewers, for example, are afraid that the film could unleash anarchy, putsch, and then destruction and famine. They fear it could unleash pogroms. And then they would be totally paralyzed and confused and unable to reason. For the time being they at least know they should avoid seeing it. And those who realize this should be counted as friends rather than enemies of the film. The most intelligent enemies of the film are not going to attack it openly, however. It is important, therefore, that one should not disclose in full the hidden weapons of the film so that they can't neutralize them. For the objective of our enemies is to change the film's idea through carefully orchestrated criticism. These enlightened enemies realize perfectly well the danger in showing a self-reliant commune. That means there is an alternative to the Mafia.
The prevailing opinion of a film as either modish or outdated plays a decisive role in its fate. Form does not matter, content does not matter wither – all that matters is whether its style is considered trendy or not. The hero of the British film Gulliver, for example, finds himself in a roughly similar situation as our main character. Gulliver, like Mesto na zemlie, features an eccentric personage, marginalized by society as insane, but the British film does so in the cheesy manner of the famous "Golden Butter" commercial. Viewers just love watching a deranged man who is otherwise well-groomed and wears fine-looking make-up. He suffers, but his suffering is accompanied by a background refrain of gorgeous landscapes and beautiful period costumes. And there is always something very chic happening, which is bound to attract (or distract) our attention... Like an ancient savage, the contemporary viewer just loves beautiful adornment, even if it is only cheap custom jewelry.
At the same time, the multitude remains insensitive to the aesthetic virtues of Mesto na zemlie. Very few would notice the magnificence of all those locks and curls of hair, flowing across the screen, but everyone would promptly register their shock at seeing these beautiful young people eating leftovers. Had we used special lighting effects and framed the same personages on a background of attractive props, everyone would have been happy to comment on our stylish shots and no one would have even noticed what they were eating. Our film also shows these young people lighting a fire on the floor, and sleeping huddled together like dogs. How could this be beautiful?
Actually, our film seeks to challenge not only its professional critics but also some staunch atavistic taboos, consistently nurtured by mainstream TV and deeply seated in the collective consciousness. Our film shows people that are astonishingly unique. Even the ominous members of OMON [Russian special forces], sent to destroy and disperse the hippie commune, are unique. They behave like hysterical poets and speak in metaphors, albeit sadistic.
Our film does call to action. What action exactly? Return to childhood?
Sight is the ability of a particular way of reading. Only viewers endowed with such sight would be able to see something in our cinema, comprehend something.
It is difficult to watch our film relying solely on the mechanism of one's conventional references and associations. Wouldn't it have been better if we were able to let go of our aggressive reactions and prejudices and watch the film like children watch TV, ignoring its illusionary nature and trying to push a finger through the screen in an attempt to stop a fleeting image.
The feeling of being trapped dominates our film emotionally. What else could it do? It could make the viewers feel vulnerable. The film itself is vulnerable and urges the viewers to abandon their protective armor.
Our film is often incorrectly identified with a court trial. It is believed that Mesto seeks to take an accusatory moral stand. Now I realize what must have triggered the vehement moral indignation of our respectful audiences. The film reveals our worst fears; it shows the scariest version of what might happen to us. Our film demonstrates a version of the proverbial Last Judgment in its ultimate, most harmless stage. On the Day of the Last Judgment, we will become like the people on the screen. The film (I realize only now) came to pass like a denunciation. A report for the Prosecutor's office, denunciation before the court of God, deposited with the Heavenly Chancellor's office.
A professional filmmaker has every reason to be outraged with the film. It is like a grand symphonic orchestra refusing to play a popular folk tune. When our civilized viewers hear the word "cock" coming from the screen, they realize they have been duped. You could imagine all those important and famous people sitting in the audience. They would look like idiots in their own eyes and in the eyes of those around them. Although, I hoped, the word "cock" might trigger for a split second a distant childhood image, and remind them of that long forgotten innocence, buried under their important adult personalities.
(Post-) modern, so-called surrealist films could flaunt any old nonsense but everyone agrees they belong to a sophisticated, and a very complex art trend. Such films encourage various interpretations and it takes exceptional courage and enviable aesthetic background to venture into their formal systems. On the other hand, we never negotiated Mesto as a surrealist film. On the contrary, primitivism and naturalism seem to dominate its aesthetics. It even looks somewhat amateurish. The personages are always framed against bare walls. But if a clown had appeared medias res and began throwing cakes at Malevich's Black Square, then everyone would say, well, yes, this explains everything.
And another important point—it seems that the film could not be separated from Christ. It is generally believed that it offers no solution outside Christ. It is easy to say that the shared body of the commune replicates the body of Christ. But the leader of the commune is asking his comrades not to be united in Christ, but to create a multi-headed and multi-bodied hydra. His attempts are interpreted as savagely perverse vulgarization of the mystery of Christ's body of the worst kind: monstrous and primal. If his attitude fails to scare the viewer away, it, like any propaganda effort, worse, like any arrogant provocation, would be dismissed.
His attitude is as vexing as a reversal in the traditional roles of the civilized, white master race and the natives from other lands and cultures. If the whites are scrutinizing the natives as representatives of an inferior, animalistic culture, this is considered normal. But if the situation is reversed and the whites are submitted to a similarly detailed scrutiny, it is considered exasperating. The subjects of all those graphically naturalistic scenes are not Eskimos or dark skinned Southerners but Caucasians—and this must be repulsive for our mainstream viewer. There are no naked natives, dancing and making marry, but nonetheless the film abounds with non-ideological references to the tribal, primal roots of the personages.
True, what we have here is a peculiar tribe, doomed to perish—it would be culturally slaughtered like a pack of rabid dogs. A dog, meek as a sheep, enters the frame and sits next to the ancient fireplace, surrounded by the wild tribe of modern Caucasian members of the self-proclaimed, anti-social body of Christ. These are young, healthy, beautiful people who like to indulge their primordial nature like animals—have sex and live amongst ruins, wreckage and slop—in this place, where, in their view, the knowledge of Christ's body is hidden.
And there is another meaning here. The film shows the affectionate touch, which is non-existent in society. Or rather, is absent from society. Society has lost it, and pretends it never knew it. It is impossible to imagine a member of this primal tribe who would become tense because of anything that touches their personality or body. The whole tribe is like one body. When one of the personages is moaning and losing his mind over a girl who is leaving the tribe and the commune (and later suffers over others who are also leaving) he is clearly aware that, in his understanding, the end of the body of Christ —of their common body— is drawing close. And along with them, the hope for a successful end of the experiment is also coming to an end. And he cuts a part of his body in a way of making his point since he is unable to explain this act of self-mutilation. Others would do so in his stead.
The tribal way of life does not allow for personal space. Even cats and dogs sleep together. Once I saw a stray dog and a cat sleeping huddled together, warming and cuddling each other with their furs and tongues. What primordial wisdom has helped them overcome their naturally existing (or culturally constructed) animosity and (yet another anthropomorphic projection?) incompatibility of their species? Contemporary society strictly observes the autonomy of personal space. Everyone lives for himself/herself. Everyone sleeps on one's own bed. There is a strict, albeit not that obvious, taboo against sleeping in the same bed. Even if people share one bed that is an exception to the rule. It is impossible, however, to imagine a tribe where people do not lie or sleep together. Like cats and dogs that lie on top of each other. Such is the tribal, primordial, pre-Christian, if you will, sacrilegious knowledge of the body if Christ.
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Mesto na zemle (Artour Aristakisian, 2001) DVDRip.avi 
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