Amor Omnia, Amor Omnia

The appeal lies in the text itself—in its content, in what is said and what remains unsaid within it. If Virgil’s*Eclogues* move me so deeply, it is because they contain emotions and sentiments that reveal something about myself—foremost among them, love and loss. As I reflected on the profound impact this reading had on me, I gradually felt a desire to bring the text to life—to give it a voice once more. Originally, the work was not intended for silent reading, but for public recitation or mime performance. As for how I came to the text, it was Carl Theodor Dreyer’s final film that led me there: in the seclusion of her home, cut off from the world, Gertrud utters the words she has chosen for her epitaph:*Amor Omnia*.

It is not without reason that Manoel de Oliveira wanted to make a film that was entirely black[1]. Blackness and the screen—and by extension, the surface—are fundamental cinematic materials, complemented by silence. His genius may have led him to perceive a saturation of signs even at that stage. As for*Amor Omnia*, that is what the text demanded. The reading is acousmatic; yet the voice is never truly “off-screen,” for it remains here—rather than elsewhere—alongside that series of black images. The Pythagoreans, whose practice gave rise to the term “acousmatic,” held that harmony is the unity of opposites*as* opposites. I like to think that their curtain was not merely an educational or technical device, but the very point of that unity. The screen is there. The auditorium itself is plunged into darkness—the very darkness that has reached us. The film contains both black images and non-black ones. I believe the balance between them is just right.

As for the film’s overall structure, I adopted the original composition of Virgil’s text, which outlines a distinctly symmetrical form, placing the fifth*Bucolic* at the center and the tenth somewhat apart. The sequences featuring non-black imagery correspond to this structure. All these elements were captured using a camera and microphone—Raphaël Rueb on visuals and Raphaël Zucconi on sound, my wonderful collaborators. In the interim, there were ideas and inspirations—things born of reflection within four walls—of which I retain only a vague memory. We began with no preconceived images or sounds, but perhaps—and only perhaps—with visions. Vision is a curious thing. Heraclitus says: “If one does not expect the unexpected, one will not find it, for it is hard to find.”

It articulates our dilemma. This sentence comes from the fragmentary notes of Fernando Pessoa. This young man also says: “It is a pity that we are so far apart.”

It is the film—or the desire for the film—that guided and called forth this choice, and indeed all the choices. It is what discovered the textures and the form. Olivier Cheval has written that this final shot puts us back on the path to reconciliation. I agree with him.

My definition of composition is this: the right note in the right place on the right instrument.

It is a matter of personal taste, and therefore my choice. It is a material available today, just like any other. Let us not forget that there are still artisans and technicians working seriously with this relatively old medium.

The film owes a great deal to Solène Gaillot—a brilliant Latinist and, above all, a wonderful person—who proposed a new scansion of Virgil’s*Bucolics* and established the pronunciation for the project. She also appears in the film—seen and heard, clad in black against a dark background. All those who performed the recitation trained with her. I was already acquainted with Mana Haraguchi, François Bonenfant, Riccardo Giacconi, and Clément Vieille, for whom I also have great regard. Above all else, our collaboration was a story of friendship.

To me, Paul Valéry’s verse translation is a form of unsatisfied music. It leaves us to gauge the span of centuries at our own pace. The text remains unfinished until it is read or heard. Strictly speaking, it is not truly a translation—as the author himself suggests in his*Variations sur les Bucoliques*. Yet, what is translation? This French version of Virgil’s*Bucolics* is also a work by Paul Valéry. It was the first French translation I read—after purchasing the original 1956 Gallimard edition some years ago, perhaps in Brussels—and it has remained my preferred version.

Marcus Aurelius and Yasujiro Ozu. Then, Morton Feldman. There are also two screenings of films that are unforgettable to me. The first was*La Vallée close* by Jean-Claude Rousseau, in Kyoto. The other took place in Paris, at the Cinémathèque Française:*Umiliati* by Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet.

[1] In an interview given in 2000 upon the release of*Blanche-Neige* (*Branca de Neve*), João César Monteiro states that his film can be viewed as a tribute to Manoel de Oliveira. He says that the latter “wanted to make a black film and can still do so, because mine is merely gray. The path remains wide open.” [Editor’s Note]