You built a family fiction in a house in Caracas. How did your project come about?
The project originally started because I wanted to make a documentary about my father’s bookstore, so I started bringing my camera to Caracas and filming him. But in the process, I kept imagining fictionalized scenes and daydreaming of other places across the city where I wanted to shoot. As time passed, I started getting further and further away from the desire of making a documentary. I also realized that I wanted to include myself in the story, but I didn’t know how. I had a big eureka moment when I realized that my sister, Ena, was actually the missing piece—that I could live vicariously through her in the film. That’s how the story became about Ena’s trip back to Caracas, confronting her idea of home and memory loss.
How did you involve members of your own family in the writing of the film?
Once I realized that the film was about these three family members, I asked my dad and grandmother if they would like to participate and their answer was immediately yes, no questions or doubts. I wrote a rough script and storyline, but the process of shooting was very loose and spontaneous. For most of the production, the crew was just me and my childhood friend, José Ostos (Producer and DP), so it really felt like spending time with family. Ena was very involved in the creative process of the film; we would come up with a lot of the scenes together. The hard work became mostly about trying to create the circumstances for these scenes to occur naturally. Even though my father and grandmother were very engaged and participative, they didn’t always fully understand what we were doing or how it was going to become a film.
Can you tell us about these books and your relationship with literature?
My father opened a used bookstore when I was 14, and that’s where my sisters and I would spend most of our afternoons and weekends. We were constantly rummaging through the shelves and overhearing visitors talk about books. I think this gave me a sense of never-ending discovery and curiosity, and it helped that our father always made us feel like we could read anything. He is so passionate about books as artifacts; he can grab a book and know roughly in what year it was printed, the type of paper that was used, and its publisher. I think he taught us to respect books as both works of art and time capsules.
The music conveys a dreamlike, childhood atmosphere. How have you thought about its place?
I think the harp is such a magical and mystical instrument. It really transports me to a dreamlike state. The soundtrack is a collection of classical pieces that I selected in a very effortless way; they just kind of came to me. I love that you mention that the music creates a childlike atmosphere, because I feel like my gaze is very childlike. I see the film as my fantasy of Caracas, so it has an innocence that the music really accentuates.
Several comments allude to the socio-economic context in Venezuela. Why this choice of off-screen treatment?
All of my life, my idea of Venezuela has been hijacked by politics. It’s been very hard for me to have a sense of where I’m from without it being painted and tainted by the government. The socio-political crisis in Venezuela is so intense that it is frequently at the forefront of our filmmaking as a country. I purposefully wanted to stray away from that and instead allude to the situation in subtle, un-dramatic ways. I wanted to create a connection with my home that was more intimate and timeless. Ultimately this is a film that happens in Venezuela, but it’s not about Venezuela.
Can you comment this beautiful title Lost chapters?
I think a lot of people that leave their country have a fragmented sense of identity. I moved away when I was 19 and always carried with me an unresolved nostalgia, a sense that there was a parallel imaginary life happening without me in Caracas. For years I felt as if chapters had been ripped off from the book of my life. In the film, Ena’s grandmother can’t remember her children. We see photographs of loved ones and we learn of a son living in another country, but she still can’t fully remember. For her, it’s also as if certain chapters from her memory have been ripped off.
Interviewed by Claire Lasolle
