Why shoot your 8th feature in France, specifically in Morlaix, and in French?
I have always wanted to shoot in France, in French. Additionally, my education was in French, which brings me closer to French culture, and for film makers from all countries, there are two mythical places: Hollywood and France. In a promotion trip for one of my previous films, I had a brief stay in Morlaix. I immediately felt a deep and concrete desire to make a film there, though I do not have any biographic relation to the city.
Were the characteristic landscapes and the architecture of the city, especially the viaduct, decisive in the making of the film?
Absolutely. All the architecture of the city and the surrounding geography were part of the immediate epiphany I felt when I arrived. And, of course, the viaduct. I understood, from the first moment, that the film had to have a tragic breath, with a romantic suicide from this massive viaduct. From these initial intuitions, I had to elaborate the material: find the story, the characters, the themes and sub-themes, but the geography of the city and its viaduct had to be at the centre of the film.
Morlaix is divided in two parts, two distinct temporalities, with two important sequences in a cinema. Why such a particular structure in the script?
During this initial promotion trip I was talking about, I presented my film Petra at the Morlaix cinema. Just like the viaduct, this cinema would have a central role in the film, as it is part of this encounter with the city and its inhabitants. The construction of the film was made from several elements, several scattered pieces: the viaduct, the cinema within cinema, the romanticism of teenage love… All of this formed the pieces of a puzzle coming into existence little by little. I knew these elements had to be part of the film, but I did not exactly know how, and it did not worry me.
The film comprises professional actors (Aminthe Audiard, Samuel Kircher, Mélanie Thierry, Alex Brendemühl) and amateurs. Why this choice?
The blend of professional and amateur actors produces curious synergies that can create good things. The spontaneity brought by the amateurs can be passed on to the professionals, and the efficiency of the professionals can benefit the amateurs. Under certain game conditions, this blend can become a mutual improvement relationship. But if it isn’t done well, it can be catastrophic. As Bresson said: “The fake is inconvertible, the real is inimitable”. Only certain techniques allow for the fake of the professional to become real, and prevent the real of the amateur to not be corrupted into something fake.
How did you work with them? Did you collaborate for the writing of certain scenes?
Not really the writing in the strict sense of the term, but concerning the material that is said, expressed in the scenes. The actors used their own ideas, their own words, without going through a writing workshop. It wasn’t about asking them to write, then recite a script they had written. Rather a mixed technique of improvisation within a pre-existing and delimited dramaturgy. So they are not co-writers, so to speak, but what comes out of their mouths does not correspond to a text written by others either. The film’s writers—Delphine, Samuel, Fanny and I—created the story and the situations. The actors made the dialogues, but for me, this is not writing.
Morlaix subtly goes from 35mm to 16mm, from black and white to colour, depending on the sequences. What is the importance of these variations in the editing?
In most films, especially commercial movies, all the formal decisions are subject to the narration. I do not negate the importance of the story, but I don’t think it has to have so much power in order to be told efficiently, nor that this submission is beneficial to the cinematographic experience. In Morlaix, by detaching the narrative moment—when the characters watch a movie—from the change of format between black and white 35 mm to colour 16 mm—in a scene without any particular dramatic intensity—the viewer perceives the freedom of the filmmaker in relation to the story. It should be a source of pleasure. I think one of the great artistic joys arrives when a work manages both being efficient in its intention and delivering a strong sense of freedom. As viewers, connecting with the freedom of the author moves us. It unites us, raises us together.
The shots of the photos appear as portraits of the characters or the actors and also give a different intensity to the sequences. What do you think of this?
When I had the idea to insert photos in the edit, I had my doubts. I was not sure that it would bring something relevant. Javier Ruiz Gómez, the director of photography, encouraged me; as for him, all of a director’s ideas come from a valid place, and you have to at least give them the benefit of the doubt. So we had to create them, to them be able to take them out if they did not work. We did it, and I realised they did in fact bring a specific temporality. It was like the present of the film started a strange dialogue with a simple past. It felt very cinematographic, as as Tarkovski said, cinema is the art of time.
Could we consider the film as a portrait of a country town, its youth, and a meditation on free will, love, time and cinema?
I think every viewer can interpret it in their own way. This applies to every film, but it is particularly true for Morlaix. The freedom of its form implies a quite extraordinary freedom of interpretation. I have already made several films and participated in many debates about them. But with Morlaix, I lived a very singular situation. In Spain, the release followed about twenty screenings in universities and museums. I had never gotten such different interpretations for one film. Is it a meditation on freedom, love and cinematographic time? Maybe. I see which elements of the film would lead to this conclusion, but it is not the only one.
Morlaix is theoretical, adventurous, generous and very poignant at once. How did you reach this balance?
The film was made in very particular artistic conditions. These conditions and a specific way of putting certain techniques in movement gave its current form to the film. Rather than thinking too much and anticipating the result, I gave in, with the technical crew and the actors, to a true artistic adventure. An adventure without certitudes. Not even the one to have a film at the end. An adventure guided by the inspiration of the Muses, of the Holy Spirit or anything we want. This film went through me. I did not execute it. There was no plan, other than letting ourselves be guided by our inspiration.
Could you talk to us about the original score by Leonor Rosales March?
In the same way I found stylistic solutions through successive epiphanies, I suddenly felt we needed one single song for the whole film. This song would be heard in different way and with different registers. At some point, it is diegetic techno music; extradiegetic instrumental at another; and also emotional end music during the credits. Then, I though that this music could come from Leonor, my eldest daughter, who was going through a moment of musical inspiration. Moreover, Leonor was close to the characters in age. I asked her to compose and interpret a few songs, and I kept, from her small production, the one with the most expressive and emotive richness.
Interview by Olivier Pierre
