This fire that must always be in the shot

(...) It takes a lot of patience, sweat, blood, tears and fatigue to begin to represent something that is close to life. Look at Bresson, for example. He shows our world, and at the same time it appears strange, this world. It's odd how people move in Bresson's films. They walk strangely, their gestures are very fast or very slow. That's the work. It's our world, and at the same time it's very abstract. Cinema is not exactly life. It works with the ingredients of life and you organise, construct these ingredients in a manner different from life. We're going to see them in a different light. It's not life, but at the same time, it's made using the elements of life, which is something very mysterious and sometimes quite beautiful. A director would have to live in tension all the time, but it's complicated because we can't. Films should be tight, but directors are only human. We can't be tense all the time, because we would have to be listening to everything, seeing everything, all the time. To begin to see what's happening, to condense it, we must see everything. As Cézanne says, we must see the fire that's hidden in a person or in a landscape. We must strive for what Jean-Marie Straub describes: if there's no fire in the shot, if there's nothing burning in your shot, then it's worthless. Somewhere in the shot, something must be on fire. This fire that must always be in the shot, it's the love letter in the bank. Very few people are going to see this love letter in the bank, and still fewer are going to write a love letter in a bank. So, to finish with the metaphor, I would say that my work as a director, your work as students, future directors – it's in this bank, here. Your work is to continue trying to write love letters, and not cheques. Sometimes people don't notice your work, of course. Well, we resist and we keep going to the bank to write love letters.

Pedro Costa,
ctrl+c / ctrl+v

Vida menor

A fuga do real,
ainda mais longe a fuga do feérico,
mais longe de tudo, a fuga de si mesmo,
a fuga da fuga, o exílio
sem água e palavra, a perda
voluntária de amor e memória,
o eco
já não correspondendo ao apelo, e este fundindo-se,
a mão tornando-se enorme e desaparecendo
desfigurada, todos os gestos afinal impossíveis,
senão inúteis,
a desnecessidade do canto, a limpeza
da cor, nem braço a mover-se nem unha crescendo.
Não a morte, contudo.
Mas a vida: captada em sua forma irredutível,
já sem ornato ou comentário melódico,
vida a que aspiramos como paz no cansaço
(não a morte),
vida mínima, essencial; um início; um sono;
menos que terra, sem calor; sem ciência nem ironia;
o que se possa desejar de menos cruel: vida
em que o ar, não respirado, mas me envolva;
nenhum gasto de tecidos; ausência deles;
confusão entre manhã e tarde, já sem dor,
porque o tempo não mais se divide em seções, o tempo
elidido, domado.
Não o morto nem o eterno ou o divino,
apenas o vivo, o pequenino, calado, indiferente
e solitário vivo.
Isso eu procuro.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade