In 1933 Spanish poet and theater director Federico Garcia Lorca gave a lecture in Buenos Aires titled "Play and Theory of the Duende" in which he addressed the fiery spirit, the 'duende', behind what makes great performance stir the emotions: "The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, "The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.' Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation."
So okay, Kusturica has mostly come and gone by now. But for a while he really tapped into a valuable duende. I don't know how much of that translates overseas as anything more than feisty craziness, but for those of us here at least he stirred passions that go back in time. He communicated something of the very fabric of our world.
So yes, a living style. Spontaneous creation. Meaning an exaggerated depiction; but one rooted in a recognizable reality, in ancient culture. Reckless people, who consume their beings with spontaneous love or song; the Balkans, meant broadly as a peoples whose common life and toll under Ottoman rule brought them so close, wrote ourselves into this worldview long before Kusturica. Like Goran Bregovic collected old folk songs into new renditions for these films, Kusturica merely translated into cultural images. But oh so well.
Τhis is why Kusturica really spoke to common people here. He reminded them, yes with so much feisty craziness, about a struggle - not a thought - about a life they instinctively have known from blood; so hard that sometimes it makes the eyes well up with tears of joy. About a woe so deep it can only be expressed with dance or a burning cigarette to the arm. About something inexplicable that turns the soul upside down.
Two paths in life then as I see it, both valuable; we should strive to be either Zorbas or Buddhas. That is to say, to either grasp life till it hurts or dispassionately let go. It's about living life fully in the flow of it, and we either vigorously swim or we observe how it all flows away. Everything else is really half-assed stuff, merely trying to stay afloat. Kusturica made films about Zorbas.
All this is well. But if we have perhaps invested part of ourselves in cinema, the images behind, Kusturica, especially here, is a real joy to behold. There was Tarkovsky, who inspired him so much; his stare was austere like those lean Christs we find in Orthodox icons. With Kusturica, Tarkovsky's camera becomes magical song, embodying with ardor of life the joyous sadness of a world turned upside down - so much in the film is about things askew, a house suspended in the air, a man hanging himself from a bell, the image of an inverted Christ in the end.
So one masterful touch is the cinematic flow. The other is how the flow encompasses an entire life; we have a kid who grows up to see how everything in life breaks, a grownup - as this kid - who has already resigned himself to the fact and is broken himself beyond salvation, a young mother who gives birth and dies like the dead mother who is only hearsay now, a second Perhan who will grow up with only hearsay of that young mother but with a father who came back to him. Fascinating stuff, most importantly because the symbolism is not a full circle, neat, precise, but messy, rugged with life.
This is good stuff. It is just not-important enough - in the academic sense - to be really beautiful, and just incomplete enough to allow ourselves to pour into it.
So okay, Kusturica has mostly come and gone by now. But for a while he really tapped into a valuable duende. I don't know how much of that translates overseas as anything more than feisty craziness, but for those of us here at least he stirred passions that go back in time. He communicated something of the very fabric of our world.
So yes, a living style. Spontaneous creation. Meaning an exaggerated depiction; but one rooted in a recognizable reality, in ancient culture. Reckless people, who consume their beings with spontaneous love or song; the Balkans, meant broadly as a peoples whose common life and toll under Ottoman rule brought them so close, wrote ourselves into this worldview long before Kusturica. Like Goran Bregovic collected old folk songs into new renditions for these films, Kusturica merely translated into cultural images. But oh so well.
Τhis is why Kusturica really spoke to common people here. He reminded them, yes with so much feisty craziness, about a struggle - not a thought - about a life they instinctively have known from blood; so hard that sometimes it makes the eyes well up with tears of joy. About a woe so deep it can only be expressed with dance or a burning cigarette to the arm. About something inexplicable that turns the soul upside down.
Two paths in life then as I see it, both valuable; we should strive to be either Zorbas or Buddhas. That is to say, to either grasp life till it hurts or dispassionately let go. It's about living life fully in the flow of it, and we either vigorously swim or we observe how it all flows away. Everything else is really half-assed stuff, merely trying to stay afloat. Kusturica made films about Zorbas.
All this is well. But if we have perhaps invested part of ourselves in cinema, the images behind, Kusturica, especially here, is a real joy to behold. There was Tarkovsky, who inspired him so much; his stare was austere like those lean Christs we find in Orthodox icons. With Kusturica, Tarkovsky's camera becomes magical song, embodying with ardor of life the joyous sadness of a world turned upside down - so much in the film is about things askew, a house suspended in the air, a man hanging himself from a bell, the image of an inverted Christ in the end.
So one masterful touch is the cinematic flow. The other is how the flow encompasses an entire life; we have a kid who grows up to see how everything in life breaks, a grownup - as this kid - who has already resigned himself to the fact and is broken himself beyond salvation, a young mother who gives birth and dies like the dead mother who is only hearsay now, a second Perhan who will grow up with only hearsay of that young mother but with a father who came back to him. Fascinating stuff, most importantly because the symbolism is not a full circle, neat, precise, but messy, rugged with life.
This is good stuff. It is just not-important enough - in the academic sense - to be really beautiful, and just incomplete enough to allow ourselves to pour into it.