Lars Iyer's Blog, page 5

How must we imagine your actual script to look like?

It���s a written book that is rather open and loose, a statement of intent that sometimes describes what we���re looking for, or a subtext. It can be very detailed in respect to dialogues. During the actual shoot, it is very important for me to put this script aside and only remember it. And then I tell the actors what I remember and together we then rehearse the dialogue. This then takes the form of trial and error, a process through which the characters make the lines of dialogue their own, and I find that works very well. I found it very inspiring to read an interview with Milo�� Forman in which he explains that for his film ��ern�� Petr (Black Peter, 1964) he gave the actors the script and then a week before shooting he demanded of them to return it. So they had a general notion of the story and the dialogue, but they were forced to work only with what they remembered ��� this process I found fascinating, so I stole it.

Valeska Grisebach, interviewed

I used to say that each film shoots itself. Film, like an animal or creature, chooses what it needs, what it wants, for living. And I am absolutely a person who believes in the fate of the film. If a film is huge, it wants to be huge. If it wants to be a chamber piece, then it will be a chamber piece. If a film needs this actor, this actor will be free. For instance, now I���m working on a new film, and I have an episode that I was hesitant about. I wasn���t sure if it was necessary or not, but I left it in and decided that we could just fix it in the edit if we couldn���t find the right actor for the scene. Then we found a guy who told us, ���Okay, I���m free. I���m happy to do it.��� And then he broke his leg! It was then that I understood that the film doesn���t want this episode. So I cut it out.

Kirill Serebrennikov, interviewed

My Weil readings:

Tues August 29th, Manchester: Blackwells, 6.30. Book here. 

Weds September 6th, London: Liberia, details to follow.

Thurs September 8th, Hastings: The Hastings Bookshop, details to follow.

Publishers Weekly review of My Weil. 

Iyer (Nietzsche and the Burbs) delves into the lives of a group of PhD students in this satirical outing. Johnny, the narrator, leads a misfit band of philosophers as they procrastinate writing their dissertations and ponder the concept of the apocalypse in Manchester, England. When a new student named Simone Weil joins their ranks, the group becomes infatuated with her, each for varying reasons. Ismail sees her as a symbol of purity in their tainted world, as she dedicates herself to helping the homeless in at-risk areas; Johnny falls in love with her. When Simone is stabbed and ends up in the hospital, their idealized view of her becomes etched in stone. Soon after, the city���s electric grid shuts down, and the group explores a mystical landfill called the Ees, where they consume potent psychedelic mushrooms. Either an apocalypse actually happens or it���s a hallucination���Iyer isn���t clear. Amid this chaos, Johnny finds himself in a house at the center of the Ees, accompanied by Simone, who no longer recalls her saintly persona. Iyer pokes fun at his characters and their pretentious references to music by Joy Division and films like Tarkovsky���s Stalker, though he takes seriously his theme of existential dread. Memorable characters make this a singular exploration of the human condition. (Aug.)

Out August 22nd.

A scathingly funny look at a group of quirky graduate students majoring in Disaster Studies who are forced to reconsider their cynicism when they confront a new student who, remarkably, has the same name as the 20th Century Catholic saint, Simone Weil . . .

My Weil follows a group of twenty-something PhD students of the new-fangled subject Disaster Studies at an inferior university in Manchester, England, the post-industrial city of so much great music and culture. They���re working class, by turns underconfident and grandiose (especially when they drink) and are reconciled to never finishing their dissertations or finding academic jobs.

My Simone Weil novel, now re-titled My Weil (pronounced, My Way), out late summer / early autumn this year.

From Bergman's Seventh Seal:

Everyone in F��rjestad spoke of evil omens and other horrors. They say two horses devoured each other last night. Graves opened wide, and corpses lay scattered about. Four suns hung in the sky yesterday afternoon.

I want to confess as honestly as I can, but my heart is empty. And the emptiness is a mirror turned toward my own face. I see myself in it, and it fills me with loathing and horror.

My indifference to my fellow men has cut me off from their company. I live now in a world of phantoms, a prisoner of my own dreams.

What are you waiting for?
I want to know.
You want a guarantee.
Call it what you will.

Must it be so cruelly inconceivable to know God through one's senses? Why must he hide in a fog of half-spoken promises and unseen miracles? How can we believe the believers when we don't believe ourselves? What will become of us who want to believe but cannot?

And what of those who neither will nor can believe?

Why can I not kill off this God within me? Why must he live on inside me in this painful, humiliating way when I want to tear him out of my heart? Why does he remain a mocking reality that I cannot shake off?

You hear me?
I hear you.
I want knowledge. Not faith or conjecture, but knowledge. I want God to reach out his hand, show his face, speak to me. But he is silent. I cry to him in the darkness, but sometimes it feels like no one is there.
Perhaps no one is there.
Then life is just senseless horror.

No man can live facing death knowing that everything is nothingness.
Most people give no thought to death or nothingness. One day they'll stand on the far edge of life, peering into the darkness.
Ah, that day. I understand what you mean.

We carve an idol out of our fear and call it God.

My whole life has been nothing but futile wandering and pursuits, a great deal of talk without meaning. It's all been in vain. I say that without bitterness or self-reproach, knowing that most men's lives are the same. But I want to use my reprieve for one meaningful act.

We spent ten years in the Holy Land letting snakes bite us, insects sting us, wild beasts maul us, heathens attack us, bad wine poison us, women infect us, lice eat us, and fever consume us ��� all for the glory of God.

God has sent his punishment down on us. You shall all perish from the black death. You there, gaping like cattle, and you sitting there in your glutted complacency, don't you know that this could be your final hour? Death stands at your back. I see the crown of his head gleaming in the sun. His scythe flashes above your heads. Which of you will he strike first?
You there, staring like a goat ��� will nightfall see your mouth twisted into its last unfinished gasp? You, woman... blooming with lust for life and pleasure ��� will you grow pale and wither before the dawn? You there... with your bulbous nose and idiotic grin ��� do you have another year to defile the earth with your refuse? Don't you obstinate fools know you're going to die? Today, tomorrow, the next day ��� you're all doomed. You hear me? Doomed!
Lord, have mercy on us in our humiliation. Turn thy face not away in loathing and contempt, but be merciful to us for the sake of thy son, Jesus Christ!

They speak of Judgment Day, and there's all the evil omens. They say a woman gave birth to a calf's head. People are crazed. They flee and take the plague with them. If all that's true, then we should enjoy life as long as we're still standing.
Many have died trying to purge themselves in fire, but better to die pure than live for hell, the priests say.

This is the end ��� that's what it is. No one dares say it aloud, but this is the end. People are crazed with fear.

Judgment Day becomes Judgment Night, when the angels descend and graves open. It will be terrible to see.

Faith is a heavy burden, you know? It's like loving someone out in the darkness who never comes, no matter how loud you call. How unreal that all seems now here with you and your husband. How insignificant all of a sudden. Now you don't look so solemn. I will remember this moment. The stillness, the dusk ... these wild strawberries, this bowl of milk ... your faces in the evening light. Mikael asleep, Jof with his lyre. I'll try to remember what we spoke of...
and I'll hold this memory in my hands like a bowl of fresh milk full to the brim. And it will be a sign for me ... and a source of great satisfaction.

Who's watching over that child? The angels? God? Satan? Or just emptiness?
Emptiness, sire.
That can't be!

Look in her eyes. Her poor brain's just made a discovery: emptiness in the moonlight.
No!
We stand helpless, arms hanging at our sides, for we see what she sees, and her terror is ours.
Poor child.
I can't stand it!

We know something's going to happen, but we don't know what. Judgment Day, perhaps.

From Bergman's Through a Glass Darkly:

l enter a large room. lt's bright and peaceful. People are moving back and forth. Some of them talk to me and l understand them. lt's so nice, and l feel safe. ln some of their faces there's a shining light. Everyone is waiting for him to come, but no one is anxious. They say that l can be there when it happens.

Sometimes l have this intense yearning. l long for that moment...  when the door will open ... and all the faces will turn to him.
Who is coming?
No one has said for certain. But l think it's God who will reveal himself to us. That it will be him coming into the room through that door.

A god steps down from the mountain. He walks through the dark forest. There are wild beasts everywhere in the silent darkness. lt must be real. l'm not dreaming. l'm telling the truth. Now l'm in one world, now in the other. l can't stop it.

You're empty but clever. Now you're trying to fill your void with Karin's extinction.

l'm powerless. l can only stand by and watch as she is transformed into a poor, tormented animal. Let me tell you something. When l was in Switzerland l decided to kill myself. l hired a car and found a cliff. l set out calmly. lt was afternoon. The valley was already in darkness. l was empty. No fear, no regrets, no expectations. l aimed the car at the cliff stepped on the gas ... and stalled, stopping dead.
The transmission went out, you see. The car slid on the gravel and came to a halt, front wheels over the edge. l crawled out of the car, trembling. l leaned against a rock across the road. l sat gasping for breath for hours.
Why are you telling me this?
To tell you l no longer have any pretence to keep up. The truth won't bring catastrophe. From the void within me something was born that l can't touch... Or name. A love. For Karin. And Minus. And you. One day l may tell you about it. l dare not do it now.

And then the room with the people waiting. Those good, bright-faced people waiting for the door to open ... for God to come to them. Then the voices start ... and l have to do as they say. l can't make sense of it all. ls it really just my illness? lt's so horrible to see your own confusion and understand it.

One draws a magic circle around oneself to keep everything out that doesn't fit one's secret games. Each time life breaks through the circle, the games become puny and ridiculous. So one draws a new circle and builds new defences.

l know it won't be long now. lt's a great comfort to know that. But our waiting has been a time of joy.

Dearest Martin, l'm sorry l was so mean just now. Couldn't you kneel down next to me and put your hands together? You look so funny and conspicuous sitting there. l know you don't believe ... but for my sake, Martin. My love. My love.

But the god that came out was a spider. He came towards me ... and l saw his face. It was a terrible, stony face. He crawled up and tried to force himself into me, but l defended myself. The whole time l saw his eyes. They were cold and calm. When he couldn't penetrate me, he continued up my chest ... up onto my face and on up the wall. l have seen God.

Reality burst open ... and l tumbled out. lt's like in a dream. Anything can happen. Anything.
l know. l can't live in this new world.
Yes, you can, but you must have something to hold on to.
l can only give you a hint of my own hope. lt's knowing that love exists for real in the human world.
A special kind of love, l suppose?
All kinds, Minus. The highest and the lowest, the most absurd and the most sublime.
All kinds of love.
The longing for love?
Longing and denial. Trust and distrust.
So love is the proof?
l don't know if love is proof of God's existence, or if love is God himself.
For you, love and God are the same.
That thought helps me in my emptiness and my dirty despair.
Tell me more, Papa.
Suddenly the emptiness turns into abundance and despair into life. lt's like a reprieve, Minus, from a death sentence.
Papa, if it is as you say, then Karin is surrounded by God, since we love her.
Yes.
Can that help her?
l believe so.

From Bergman's Autumn Sonata:

Erik drowned the day before his fourth birthday. But you know that. It was too much for Viktor. I grieved a lot, outwardly. Deep inside, I felt like he was still alive, that we were living close to each other.
All I have to do is concentrate, and he's there. Sometimes, as I'm falling asleep, I can feel him breathing on my face and touching me with his hand. He's living another life, but we can reach one another. There's no dividing line, no insurmountable wall.
I wonder what reality looks like where my little boy is living. I know it can't be described. It's a world of liberated feelings. Do you know what I mean?

To me, man is a tremendous creation, an inconceivable thought. In man, there is everything, from the highest to the lowest. Man is God's image, and in God there is everything. So human beings are created, but also the demons and the saints, the prophets and artists and iconoclasts. Everything exists side by side. It's like huge patterns changing all the time. Do you know what I mean?

In the same way, there must also be countless realities. Not only the reality we perceive with our dull senses, but a tumult of realities arching above each other inside and outside. It's just fear and priggishness to believe in limits. There are no limits.

I loved you, Mama.  As a matter of life and death. But I distrusted your words. They didn't match the expression in your eyes. You have a beautiful voice. When I was little, I could feel it all over my body. But I knew instinctively you didn't mean what you said.

We may as well have this out for once. Then we won't refer to it again.

You're shut up inside yourself and always put yourself first. You managed to injure me for life, just as you are injured. Everything that was sensitive and delicate, you attacked. Everything that was alive, you tried to smother.

You talk of my hatred. Your hatred was no less. Your hatred is no less. I was little and malleable and loving. You bound me because you wanted my love, just as you want everyone else's love.

Do you mind if I lie down on the floor? It's the only thing that helps.

I remember very little of my childhood. Sometimes, when I lie awake at night ... I wonder whether I've lived at all. Is it the same for everybody ... or do some people have a greater talent for living than others?

Leonardo drank too much and played all the Bach solo suites. He wasn't himself, heavy and gentle, as if he were enlarged. He played badly but beautifully.

I can't die now. I'm afraid to commit suicide ...  and one day maybe God will have a use for me. Then he'll set me free from my prison.

Are you stroking my cheek? Are you whispering in my ear? Are you with me now?

From Bergman's Winter Light:

We must trust God. We live our simple daily lives, and atrocities shatter the security of our world. It's so overwhelming, and God seems so very remote.

God's silence.

God's silence?

God's silence.

Jonas Persson and his wife were here, and I could only spout drivel. Yet I had the feeling that each word was decisive somehow.

God's silence. God won't speak.
God has never spoken because God doesn't exist. It's as simple as that.

You must learn to love.
And you can teach me that?
I can't. That's not in my power.

I have never believed in your faith. Mainly because I've never been tortured by religious tribulations. My non-Christian family was characterized by warmth, togetherness, and joy. God and Jesus existed only as vague notions. To me, your faith seems obscure and neurotic ... somehow cruelly overwrought with emotion, primitive. One thing in particular I've never been able to fathom:  your peculiar indifference to Jesus Christ. You were going to pray for my weeping hands, but the rash left you dumbstruck with repulsion, something you later denied.

God, why have you created me so eternally dissatisfied? So frightened, so bitter? Why must I realize how wretched I am? Why must I suffer so hellishly for my insignificance? If there is a purpose to my suffering, then tell me, so I can bear my pain without complaint. I'm strong. You made me so very strong in both body and soul. .. but you never give me a task worthy of my strength. Give my life meaning, and I'll be your obedient slave.

This autumn, I realized that my prayers had been answered. I prayed for clarity of mind, and I got it. I realized that I love you. I prayed for a task to apply my strength to, and I received one. That task is you. This is what the thoughts of a schoolmarm might run to.

I love you. And I live for you. Take me and use me. Beneath all my false pride and independent airs, I have only one wish: to be allowed to live for someone else.

I loved her. My life was over. I'm not afraid to die, and there was no reason for me to hang on. But I did. Not for my own sake, but to be of some use.

I had great dreams once. I was going to make my mark on the world. The sort of ideas you have when you're young. I knew nothing of evil or cruelty. When I was ordained, I was as innocent as a baby.

Picture my prayers to an echo-god who gave benign answers and reassuring blessings. Every time I confronted God with the realities I witnessed ... he turned into something ugly and revolting. A spider God, a monster. So I sought to shield Him from life, clutching my image of Him to myself in the dark.

Forgive me for talking in such a confused manner, but all this suddenly hit me. If there is no God ... would it really make any difference? Life would become understandable. What a relief. And thus death would be a snuffing out of life. Cruelty, loneliness, and fear ...  all these things would be straightforward and transparent. Suffering is incomprehensible, so it needs no explanation.

There is no creator. No sustainer of life.  No design. God ... why have you forsaken me?

I had this fleeting hope that everything wouldn't turn out to be illusions, dreams, and lies.