"Hadewijch" Script

cine

INTERVIEWS

6 / I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW

DENIS COTE SPLITS THE HOUSE IN CURLING

BY JASON ANDERSON

10 / THE ANTISOCIAL NETWORK

DANIEL COCKBURN'S YOU ARE HERE

BYADAMNAYMAN

18 / ALONG FOR THE RIDE

CATCHING UP WITH THOM ANDERSEN

BY VERA BRUNNER-SUNG

21 / THE POLITIQUE OF LUC MOULLET

BYTEDFENDT

34 / YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE

SCALING MENAHEM GOLAN'S HEIGHTS

BY CHRISTOPH HUBER

FEATURES

14 / UNCHAINED MELODIES

THE AGONY AND ECSTASY OF PHIL SPECTOR

AND IT FELT LIKE A KISS

BY THOM ANDERSEN

21 / ROBERT BRESSON

THINK, YOU FOOL

BY LUC MOULLET

26/CASTGLANCES

THOMAS COMERFORD'S

THE INDIAN BOUNDARY LINE

AND THE CONTEMPORARY LANDSCAPE FILM

BYTOMMCCORMACK

29 / INHUMAN

AN EXCERPT FROM THE SCRIPT OF

BRUNO DUMONT'S HADEWIJCH

SELECTED, TRANSLATED AND EDITED

BY LIVIA BLOOM AND AURELIE GODET

SPOTLIGHT: FALL FESTIVAL PREVIEW

40 / KELLY REICHARDT

MEEK'S CUTOFF

BY SCOTT FOUNDAS

' HONG SANG-SOO

OKI'S MOVIE

BY ANDREW TRACY

44 / PATRICK KEILLER

ROBINSON IN RUINS

BY MICHAEL SICINSKI

49 / TEN MORALLY INDEFENSIBLE ANSWERS

FROM BRUCE LABRUCE ON L.A. ZOMBIE

BY OLIVIER PERE

S3 / VERENA PARAVEL AND |.P, SNIADECKI

FOREIGN PARTS

BY ROBERT KOEHLER

' CHILLY GONZALES AND ADAM TRAYNOR

IVORY TOWER

BY QUINTIN

COLUMNS

EDITOR'S NOTE

58 / FILM/ART

OLIVER HUSAIN

BY ANDREA PICARD

63 / FESTIVALSPETER VON BAGH'S SODANKYLA FOREVER

BY OLAF MOLLER

65 / BOOKS AROUND

BY OLAF MOLLER

67 / GLOBAL DISCOVERIES ON DVD

BY JONATHAN ROSENBAUM

CURRENCY

EDITOR AND PUBLISHERMark Peranson

ART DIRECTION AND DESIGNVanesa Mazza

MANAGING EDITORAndrew Tracy

CONTRIBUT1MG EDITORSTom CharitySteve GravestockChristoph HuberDennis LimJessica Winter

WEB DESIGNAdrian Kinloch

COPY EDITINGJack Vermee

Cinema Scope (ISSN 1488-7002) (GST 866048978110001) ispublished quarterly by Cinema Scope Publishing.Issue 44. Vol. 12, No. 3. Fall 2010.©2010. All rights reserved.No parts of this publication may be reproduced in any formwithout permission. All articles remain property of theirauthors. Submissions are eagerly encouraged. Distributed inCanada through Disticor Direct, Magazines Canada, in the USthrough Disticor, and worldwide through Annas International.Cinema Scope is found on-line at www.cinema-scope.com. Foradvertising information, call Mark Peranson at (416) 889-5430 oremail [email protected]. Subscriptions are available for$20/4 issues, personal, and $40/4 issues, institutional (plus gst).American subscribers please pay in American funds. Overseassubscriptions are available at $40 us / 4 issues. Subscriptions bycredit card are also available online at www.cinema-scope.com.For back issues, subscriptions, or letters to the editor, [email protected] or write Cinema Scope Publishing,465 Lytton Blvd. Toronto, ON, M5N 1S5 Canada. Printed byIronstone Media, Pickering, ON. PUBLICATIONS MAIL AGREEMENT NO.

4 0 0 4 8 6 4 7 . RETURN UNDELIVERABLE CANADIAN ADDRESSES TO:

CINEMA SCOPE PUBLISHING, 4 6 5 LYTTON BLVD., TORONTO, ON M5N IS5

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Artswhich last year invested $19.1 million in writing and publishingthroughout Canada.

Canada Councilfor the Arts

Conseil des Artsdu Canada

We also acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council.

The Ontario Arts Council is an agency of the Government ofOntario.

73 / 1 WISH I KNEW

BYTONYRAYNS

76 /CARLOS

BY ANNA THORNGATE

78 / THE EXPENDABLES

BY CHRISTOPH HUBER

PHOTO CREDITS

Festival del Film Locarno: 2b, 10,13, 34, 36, 37, 49, 50, 56;Filmswelike: 73, 74; IFC Films: 29, 30, 31, 32, 33; Lions Gate: 78,79; Luc Moullet: 21, 23, 251 Mongrel Media: ad, 6, 8, 76, 77; NewYork Film Festival: 40, 41: Oliver Husain: 58, 60, 6r; Peter vonBagh: 63, 65; Thom Andersen: 2a, 18, 20; Thomas Comerford: 26,27; Vancouver International Film Festival: 14, 42, 43, 44; VerenaParavel: 2c, 53, 54,55.

INHUMANAn excerpt from the script of Bruno Dumont's Hadewijch

Selected, translated, and edited by Livia Bloom and Aurelie Godet

TAKE CARE, YOU WHO WISH

TO DEAL WITH NAMES

FOR LOVE. BEHIND THEIR SWEETNESS

AND WRATH, NOTHING ENDURES.

NOTHING BUT WOUNDS AND KISSES.

(Hadewijch of Antwerp, Love Has Seven Names)

Bruno Dumont's latest film, Hadewijch (2009), began life under a different title: In its script incarnation, it was namedInhuman. (In the original French, the word was written in its feminine form, L'inhumaine). Dumont is known for stark,opaque cinematic portraits of life in northern France, where he grew up, in films like La vie de Jesus (1997), L'humanite(1999), Flandres (2006) and the forthcoming film L'empire.

Less known to American cinephiles, however, is Dumont's remarkable writing style. The French press Dis Voir haspublished several of his scripts as slim novellas; they are written in prose form, and offer a valuable corollary to his visualwork. This excerpt, here made public for the first time, offers a unique peak into the director's creative approach.

Hadewijch begins with a vivid portrayal of convent life, where the unusual behaviour of the novice Celine stands out.With her mournful blue eyes and pale, serious face, the non-professional actress Julie Sokolowski gives an impressive per-formance as a fanatical would-be nun who attempts to follow in the footsteps of the 13th-century mystic and poetess whosereligious name she shares.

Dumont, who has a background in philosophy and considers himself non-croyant (a non-believer), nonetheless rendersin poignant detail his character's obsessive faith. With nuance, grace, and a mysticism all its own, the film explores thepower of religion to transcend the specifics of faith and routines of the quotidian, as well as its capacity to reach dangerousand even violent extremes.

Sister Hadewijch was lost in prayer. She was cloaked, and knelt directly on the cold stone of her cell, lit by the dawn. Herfeet, her joined hands, and her bent face peeked out from the folds of her first robe. Her internal recitation was reflectedin her face, in the pale skin that halted and tensed along with the fractures and seizures of her text. Her eyes werefocused on the intricate cracks in the molding of the wall under a window, outside of which lay silence. Adding to thesum of her prayer was the pain of her prostration on the hard floor. It helped her reach the depths, and the trembling ofher weak members surged and augmented her Love.

Entranced, she crossed herself, dividing her gesture purposefully and holding each touch for the Father, the Son, andthe Holy Spirit.

Then she swayed, began to relax onto the floor, and caught herself with her hands. As she stood up, she moanedinvoluntarily, suddenly aware of sensations in her body that she had denied during her long prayer. Curved, then stand-ing, she barely took a moment to regain the feeling in her numb legs before she swiftly seized the edges of her secondrobe from her bed. Clothed, ordinary, the novice added her scapular to her hood and left.

Other sisters lined up with her in the hallway, gliding, uniform and mute, their feet falling in sharp footsteps underthe faint rustle of the waves of their robes.

The nuns flowed toward the cantina; they took their seats while two of them served the day's first shared meal. Infront of the Mother and the prioress, remote on the stage, they were ten in simple assembly. First they gathered them-selves, then fed on milk and bread, enveloped by a reading.

Sister Hadewijch abstained. Hands in her lap, she listened to the words, fed by the fervour of the invocations, filledwith the divine. During a long pause, she felt the heavy gaze of a sister upon her, and raised her head. She gazed back.

Each smiled at the other half of her soul, blushing at this breach, at the awkward acknowledgment of their materialappearances. Within their order, reason was silenced, yet their unease was real. Suddenly they were intruders, helpless.The two sisters folded into themselves. They again abandoned their corporeal carapaces; their scarcely breathing facesoffering the barest possibility of entry into the enclosure where they were locked in contemplation. Difficult face. Thenthe repetitive litany took over again, and the two sisters were penetrated by simple Faith. Sister Hadewijch, eyes closed,regained her heart's desire with the mere evocation of the Strength of Christ. She swayed to the rhythm, drunk with joyat the Resurrection of the Dead. She gave herself over to the feeling of loving and being loved with clarity most clear.

A signal announced the end of the meal and the nuns filed out. The Mother and the Prioress crossed the room firstand positioned themselves at the doorway, watching over the company as they placed bowls and silverware back onto theserving table.

At the threshold, one by one, the Mother Superior received the bows of her Daughters; she returned them with a lov-ing smile, goodness in her eyes, and the soft inclination of her head. To her surprise, Sister Hadewijch found herselfraised from her genuflection by the tender hands of her Mother, who pulled her from the line and toward her side. As

the last of the group left the room, Sister Hadewijch was led away by her elder. She followed in the Mother's footsteps, keep-ing one arm tight against her side, shielded by the folds of her robe. The Sister abandoned herself to her Mother, allowingthe kindness and splendour of her attention to mask her slight internal stirrings of discomfort. After several more strides,a veined hand appeared on her forearm, which pleased her so that she leaned in a little, her forehead on the maternal shoul-der, before the two proceed in mute unison.

"Sister Hadewijch. You can speak, my Daughter.""Mother?""You are no longer eating."Taken aback, the little Sister remained silent."Can one work and pray on an empty stomach?""Abstinence, my Mother, obeys the Rule.""But not martyrdom. A frugal meal suffices for our life, but one must also respect one's body or it will make you pay.

God would be scared of how thin you have become.""But Mother...""Here." The Mother gave her some toast. "Go eat this in the garden. Please get some fresh air and some sunshine, too.""Very well, Mother.""And don't tighten your belt any further."Obedient, Sister Hadewijch bowed as her Superior smiled and watched her walk down the corridor. She loosened her

belt around her.The novice strolled down an old path through a sleepy garden in the cold winter of Flanders. She was fascinated by the

fog refracted by the morning rays and the dew, retained by the twisted branches of the willow and elm trees that coveredthe plain; struck by the ethereal vision of dark, fragmented branches of apple trees, their twigs black against a uniformbackground of the grey sky. Her heart drew Truth from the physical image of the orchard, captivated by the metaphor ofmaterial things. In her slow progress through the transitory world, the Sister found clarity. The warmth of her breath cutinto the residual cold. She stopped and stared harshly and unblinking at the orange sun that appeared in front of herbeyond the compound wall. Before these rays she held a firm face, riveted by her Faith and adorned in a Light that ema-nated from and reflected the morning.

Sitting on a bench, she gave her bread in crumbs to a flurry of sparrows that appeared before her. Sister Hadewijchexulted in this appearance of sharing. The chirping of the ravenous birds assuaged her own hunger, filling her flesh withthe Grace present throughout the order of things.

33

Having done this, she stood up again, and let the song of the sated birds accompany her return.On the steps, the Mother had witnessed the little sister's act. Circumspect, she withdrew as her Daughter came into

view. Sister Hadewijch saw her walk away, and became acutely aware of her disobedience. Guilt transformed her face.Frozen, ashamed, the nun hesitated. Then, pensively, she made her way through the garden.

Sister Hadewijch was in tears before her Mother. Both stood in the office, in the middle of a conversation. TheMother Superior was severe:

"Reality awaits you outside. In here, one cloisters oneself from life, but still, you need to have lived. Doubtless, you aretoo young. This is not a punishment."

"But my life is here, my Mother. Here.""No. Your life is in life. You confuse what is inside with what is outside.""For the love of God, my Mother," the young Sister wept. Her head started to hurt."Leave God out of it. Let God be an Other. Cease to conflate yourself with Him. Love of God is not what you believe.

Your voluntary pain is not His pain.""I don't understand...I don't understand.""Reality will teach you. Only reality instructs us in God's existence and leads us to the Order and its rules. Not the

other way around. You're running on empty here, endangering your spirit as well as your soul. God is not here, do youunderstand?"

"But...""You could contort yourself still more and it wouldn't change a thing. Do you see God as a spectator for your little

piece of theatre? What play are you performing for Him? You are but...a parody. Hear me now, my Daughter. God hasleft you because of how you love Him: You are like an actress who likes acting too much. How mediocre you are! If oneloves God too much, He disappears. And do you know why? Because God does not exist. Do you understand?"

Stunned, Sister Hadewijch gave up."God does not exist—not in those mannerisms of yours. Go outside, my Daughter. Life will correct this confusion of

yours. There you will learn to distinguish what is inside from what is outside. It is from this distinction that Truth willappear. If this Truth is God then yes, have Faith. You will be welcome here. Let me hold you, my daughter, and love you."

The young Sister was crushed. She let the Mother hold her.In the infinite sadness that was hers, she left the office. The Mother stayed for a moment. The words she had spoken

echoed in the receding footsteps of her Daughter.

Her headache had taken over. Slumped on the cafe table, she leaned her young face in her hands. Her eyes looked emptyof thought. She reached again for her glass of beer, and then returned to the same position, now leaning her head to theother side, this time directing her gaze away from the windows and towards the wall on the far side of the room. Strongsummer light.starkly defined her shadow. Exhausted, she could have fallen asleep where she sat. She rubbed one eye theway a child would, then clasped her throbbing head in her hands. She paid. The solitary guy who watched her leave loweredhis face as she passed by him.

Against the glow, she put on her sunglasses; they formed a band hiding part of her face. She was poised at the beginningof a bridge on He Saint Louis, her back to the dark splendour of Notre Dame behind her, remote on He de la Cite. Her bagwas slung across her chest. Bare feet in sandals, short skirt grazing her white legs, brown tank top, thin hair tied back, sheturned toward the Cathedral at the clamour of tourists around her. Then she turned back, rigid under her pale complexion.

The siren of a police van assaulted the air. The disturbance re-animated her saintly face, which tensed and tuned intoGrace. At this deafening sign, she crossed the Seine, slouching into herself and invoking His reign from the surface of thecapital city to the depths that surged all around her.

Expressionless, her shoulders hunched, the petite young woman walked along the sidewalks of the seventh arrondisse-ment on a quiet Boulevard Saint Michel. Her silhouette was sharply defined against the shadow of luxurious apartmentbuildings. The hot rumble of sunrays reached the slopes of their walls. She quickly dialed a door code, pushed the dooropen wide, and disappeared.

In the elevator, she endured time against the grate, eyes lost in the parade of passing floors; then searching for the keysin the bottom of her bag.

The apartment was grand; ancient, adorned with drapes that dimmed the light at the openings and hacked it into chi-aroscuro stripes. The soft light balanced the tones of objects with the empty space all around them, from painted canvases,figurative and abstract, to precious furnishings and decorative objects of all styles, from avant-garde to classical. It was awarm belly of diffuse colours, a profusion of scarlet tints, deep blacks, milky whites, large fine grays, and obscure blues onthe relief moldings that testified to the habits and vanities of its occupants.

"Mama...? Papa...?"Her voice circled the square feet of the space and returned to her.