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Jun 25, 2007

Tribeca x 4: Alvaro Covacevich


Durante el 6º Festival de Cine de Tribeca tuve el placer y honor de entrevistar a algunos de los cineastas, actores, productores y ejecutivos del festival. A continuación, un extracto de la entrevista con Alvaro Covacevich, director y escritor de Morir Un Poco (To Die A Little).

During the 6th Tribeca Film Festival I had the pleasure and honor of interviewing some of the filmmakers, actors, producers and festival executives. Next there is an excerpt from the interview with Alvaro Covacevich, director and writer of Morir Un Poco (To Die A Little).

Pablo Goldbarg:
¿Considerás a tu película como un desaparecido más de la dictadura?

Alvaro Covacevich: Yo tuve, desgraciadamente, dos desaparecidos. Un hijo mío, que apareció después, y esta película, junto con otro material mío, que desapareció por mucho tiempo, porque los militares destruyeron no solo películas, también libros. Es clásica la escena, que ya parece como inventada, de los nazis quemando libros, y yo tengo filmado en una de mis películas a los militares quemando libros en Santiago, los libros marxistas… pero eso existe y eso es verdad. Tenían orden de hacer desaparecer todo lo que tenga que ver con la cultura. Hay una anécdota de cuando fue allanada mi casa, por la cual fui bastante maltratado y perseguido. Es por el teniente que condujo la patrulla que allanó mi casa. Yo siempre he tenido gran afición por el arte, para mi el arte ha sido un soporte muy grande dentro del cine, como lo fue para Visconti, como lo fue para muchos personajes del cine que se han apoyado mucho en la parte estética del arte, para de ahí empezar su idea. Entonces yo siempre he tenido grandes colecciones de libros, y he tenido una gran colección de arte cubista, que me interesa bastante. Entonces una de las razones por las cuales fui maltratado y detenido, que se aclaró después, fue que el oficial dijo que yo era pro Cubano… porque tenía mucho arte Cubista (risas). Finalmente parece que alguien del otro lado preguntó si era que hablaban de Fidel. “No, aquí hay muchos libros de unos nombres raros de cosas” (risas). Eso te da una idea de la ignorancia, agresiva además, porque por eso te podían matar. Si no hubiera habido respuesta del otro lado, a lo mejor decían “Bueno, fusílenlo, este es un pro Cubano, tiene su casa llena de panfletos y documentos pro Cubanos…”, y en realidad eran los mejores libros de arte cubista que yo había reunido en veinte años.

P.G.: ¿Cambia la forma de hacer cine después de esta desaparición?

A.C.: Y
o creo que yo nunca quise estar como quien dice “encajonado” en una línea de cine. Incluso me rebelé bastante sobre eso. La película que yo hago inmediatamente después de Morir Un Poco (1967) es una pelicula que no tiene nada que ver con este tema. Retomo una historia que sucedió en Holanda, de una serie de jóvenes de la época del hippismo, intentan reunirse y tartar de vivir en comunidades, y lo primero que hacen es pintar sus bicicletas blancas, para que donde las dejen, cualquiera las pueda usar. Y con ese principio se empieza un movimiento, y ocurrió realmente, y yo desarrollé esa idea en Chile, tomando un poco y apoyándome en esta especie de movimiento del hippismo y estas sociedades comunitarias. Y hago la película sobre ese tema, nada más que yo continúo las bicicletas blancas con autos blancos, con monumentos blancos, con casas blancas, y entonces ahi interviene el Congreso, la política, la policía y destruye el movimiento que es la anarquia total. Entonces sí caigo en el tema político, pero en otro esquema. Esa película se llama New Love, o La Revolución de las Flores (1968). Es una sátira a este movimiento y lo que significó, porque en el fondo todos estos muchachos que empiezan protestando contra el establishment y contra la producción masiva de bienes de consumo. Ellos hacen sus propias cosas con las manos, sus collarcitos, sus cosas, pero tienen tanto éxito que finalmente empiezan a vender millones y tienen que tomar contadores, auditores, gerentes, supervisores, y terminan en lo mismo que están discutiendo.

P.G.: ¿Cuándo es tu exilio, y cómo se vive siendo artista en ese exilio?

A.C.: Bueno, yo creo que es muy difícil. En primer lugar porque no es lo mismo que tu decidas venir a estudiar a Nueva York o a trabajar, que estemos los dos como estamos ahora, a que venga una patrulla y te detenga. Yo estuve doce meses proscripto en la Embajada de México que nos acogió. No podíamos salir, estábamos aislados de la familia. Y de la noche a la mañana tu amaneces, como me pasó a mi, despiertas y hay una “polleta” colgando del techo de un hotelito muy digno, pero refugiado en un país que era muy extraño para mi.Debo recordarte que el castigo mas grande que ha existido—lo toma Shakespeare y sus diversas obras, también los Griegos--y se infligía a un hombre no era matarlo: era exiliarlo. Porque es muy difícil estar fuera de tu país y no poder volver. No es una decisión tuya: me voy a vivir a Argentina, o me voy a vivir a Francia y vuelvo cuando quiera. Pero esto de que te toman como una pieza de algo y te depositan en algún lugar donde tu no te puedes mover de ahí realmente a tu patria… eso es muy triste. Porque la gente dice “qué es la patria?”. Porque todos somos revolucionarios… en New Love hay una escena donde se queman los pasaportes, se queman los papeles, toda identidad, nacionalidad, propiedad de un país, como una protesta, y realmente uno sí que pertenece a los países. A ti no se te va a quitar nunca la manera de hablar de Argentino jamás ni a mi la de Chileno, y eso se va a arrastrar a tus nietos, que van a hablar de ti como ese personaje que oyeron distinto al resto que oyeron en su vida. Hay una frase maravillosa que dice “La patria es el pais de la infancia”; lo dice Gabriela Mistral. Es cierto, y es lo que más me acuerdo. Y mi exilio duró dieciocho años sin poder volver a mi país, y finalmente me quedé viviendo en México hasta ahora… son treinta años, entre exilio obligado y exilio aceptado por mi mismo. Es difícil porque es un enfoque en el cual tu no perteneces nunca a ese país. Yo tengo nietos Mexicanos, y sin embargo yo siento que yo sigo siendo extranjero… en America Latina. Yo creo que ese fenomeno no existe aquí en Nueva York. No se entiende ese concepto, pero sí en algunas generaciones, tus abuelos por ejemplo si vinieron para acá todavía lo deben sentir.

P.G.: La película reaparece en el 2006…

A.C.: La película desapareció entera. Se destruyó todo el material, junto con otro material mío, junto con otras películas. Habían unos documentales bien interesantes que yo había hecho en el Amazonas con cientificos de Naciones Unidas y antropólogos, para detectar una comunidad que nunca había tenido contacto con el ser civilizado. Mucho material se rompió, se perdió, gran colección de arte se la robaron en
Chile… y bueno, Morir Un Poco desaparece, y yo la empecé a rastrear por años. Ofrecí un premio incluso en Chile, porque esta película tuvo un éxito impresionante. ¿Por qué ese exito? A lo mejor fue un espejo. Y hoy día es el mismo espejo, manchado, borrado, pero el mismo. Hay ciertas imágenes desvanecidas pero eso es parte del valor de la película en si misma. Como no va a haber una caseta (sala) donde se dió la película, en un pueblecito donde haya quedado una copia abandonada. No, los militares arrasaron todo. Había que destruir esta película. Era una forma de mostrar algo que ellos deberían estar obligados a hacer y que no lo iban a hacer nunca por el pueblo, eso era evidente. Y no sólo este material: libros, pinturas, todo lo que representara cualquier cosa de este tipo. Y mandé un hijo a buscarla a Alemania, y de repente apareció una voz de alguien… y apareció el tambor de esta versión que ustedes han visto, que es el único material que existe. Yo he estado recuperando otras cosas, pedazos que estoy tratando de juntar y restaurar. Es un trabajo lento y pesado, fotograma por fotograma, pero se puede hacer.


Nota Relacionada (related note):
To Live A Lot

Jun 18, 2007

Tribeca x 4: João Moreira Salles


During the 6th Tribeca Film Festival I had the pleasure and honor of interviewing some of the filmmakers, actors, producers and festival executives. Next there is an excerpt from the interview with João Moreira Salles, director, writer and producer of Santiago.

Durante el 6º Festival de Cine de Tribeca tuve el placer y honor de entrevistar a algunos de los cineastas, actores, productores y ejecutivos del festival. A continuación, un extracto de la entrevista con João Moreira Salles, director, escritor y productor de Santiago.

Pablo Goldbarg: When you start the film we see emptiness: a house, furniture, walls. I wonder what did you feel when you came back to your house revisiting the past?

João Moreira Salles: When I made the film in 1992/93, the house was empty. The house was abandoned in a sense. My mother had left the house, and the house was left to the cockroaches. And when I filmed the house there was this idea… when I say it, it sound pretentious, and it’s not literally on the film, but for me the house represents to certain idea of, not Brazil, specifically Rio de Janeiro, a city that at some point was very cosmopolitan. A lot of things were happening in Rio, cinema nuovo, bossanova, the best writers, those who re invented the Brazilian literature, they were not from Rio, but they had move to Mina Gerais and they were writing in Rio, the best poetry was being written in Rio. So, Rio was in a sense a city that had ambition, and the ambition was to be part of the world. In a political, economical and social way--the Paris Hilton social way--I think that the house represented that too. The fact that it was a house where Presidents from another countries would pass by and stay, people from the economic world outside of Brazil, the Rockefellers, etc. they would go and stay there. In a sense the house was also part of this idea of Brazil and Rio that had the ambition to be part of the world. Now, in ’92 this whole idea had completely disappeared. Rio was a city in decay, the house had lost its sense, my family was disintegrated, my father and mother had separated and divorced, my mother was already dead when I filmed, so the whole idea of the house and everything that happened in the house was an idea of the past, and that past was a glorious past in a sense. So, for me the empty house, and the way the house was left to its own chance and bad luck was also the idea that I had about my own family and my own city. A couple of years later I made “News From a Private World”, so you see in such a way there’s a connection.

P.G.: There is an amazing discovery about Santiago’s 30,000 pages of writing, and such richness inside. You probably remember when living there that Santiago was special (about the books, the dancing…). When did you know that you would do a film about him?

J.M.S.: Of course in 1992 when I decided to make a film about him it was a very traditional film, a film about someone else. The same way you make a film about a pianist, or a scientist. You make a film about another person, and you’re not in the film. Why Santiago? Because he was very interesting, he was part of my upbringing and childhood, and also he represented this idea of something that was out of place at that time. The same way that the house didn’t make any sense in 1992, Santiago didn’t make any sense either. The ideas that he had, and his idea of the world didn’t make any sense in 1992. Rio became a very violent city; Brazil had impeached the President; the inflation, and the whole idea about a very quaint noble aristocratic, even enclosed place where you can live without taking notice of Brazil... I mean you can live in that house and think that you were living in the first world, but that whole idea came down in the ‘90s, which is good. I’m not saying it’s bad. So, Santiago was also that person who represented something that is out of place. The film is about things that are out of place. But in that time I didn’t pay attention to the 30,000 pages. At that time I just wanted him to fill up the empty house with his stories. And his life, the things that he did with his own spear time was not a fair amount interest for me. And I didn’t film the papers. The only thing that you see in the film, that has been recently shot, three years ago, is in fact the papers. So, in ’92 it was a certain kind of film about Santiago, about the whole idea of the city that was going down the drains. In 2004, the film became a film about my relationship with him, and with the idea of time, and memory and loss. Which is something that for me it’s always there. This is something that I think a lot about. Of course, his papers are an expression of that. So, therefore I paid attention to the papers much, much later.

P.G.: Talking about the relationship with him, I imagine that a lot of people ask you during Q&A about you giving him specific orders during the film. Of course, as a director you must give them to the subject in terms of reaching your goals, but I wonder how did you deal with that knowing that he wasn’t the butler anymore, and you had a different relationship during the shooting?

J.M.S.: I really don’t think that at the time of the shooting the relationship had change that much. Although he wasn’t the butler anymore, I treated him as such, and I didn’t notice it at that time. I thought the relationship was very fair, but it was a very unfair relationship. Someone has the power and someone not. But one thing that I said about that is that he’s not only the object of the film. He is also the subject of the film. He has his own ideas, he has the power to be angry with me, to stop the shooting, to say cut. So, in a sense he reacts. I think this tension between someone who orders and someone who accepts some of the orders and do not accept others makes the complexity of the film. The film is made out of this tension of me trying to direct him, and he accepting and not accepting at the same time. At the time that I shot in ’92 I didn’t have any conscious about the way I was treating him. Not at all.

P.G.: How did you decide the cinematography? The narrator explains the need to search for a perfect frame. There are a few beautiful shots like the movement of hands. How did you choose a visual concept for this kind of poetry in a way?

J.M.S.: This is one of the problems of the film: it’s too beautiful. A large part of the way I related to Santiago was not due to class or power. It was due to aesthetics. It had to be beautiful. This is what I thought filming was at that time. You have to frame perfectly, you have to light perfectly, and you have to control the environment you have. For me now documentary is just the opposite. It’s not that you won’t frame well, but you will frame the way that you’re able to frame, because documentary is urgency for me now. If you don’t have lights you don’t need them, you just go and shoot. I would never do a take two, even less a take three. So, at that time, cinematography and the beauty of the shot was as important, if not more important than what was actually said by Santiago. And that’s why everything is so, so particularly chosen and perfect. The camera is always on a tripod and it doesn’t move. You always have a door between the camera and Santiago, or a curtain, or an element. His kitchen is a kind of dressed up in a sense. It’s documentary almost as fiction, with a kind of intervention that you have in fiction. And at that time that was very important for me, and also very important for the cinematographer, Walter Carvalho who then went on to make the first film my brother made. He shot Central Station also, but before that he was filming black and white, in fact Carvalho convinced my brother Walter to do it in black and white because of Santiago. The film is called “Foreign Land”. It’s a beautiful film. I actually think it’s my brother’s best film. It was shot with the same camera, with the same stock footage, so for me and for him those aspects of the film--photography, framing—were very, very important. Even more important than what Santiago was trying to say, and this is one of the things that I criticize in the film today.

P.G.: Thank you very much, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Santiago explains when the newsman asks if they are shooting a movie, that actually it’s not a movie and you are embalming him. It captures most of the things the film is about: Santiago is a character, you are capturing many moments in time, and if technology allows it, it’s eternal. So, thank you for that.

J.M.S.: Thank you very much.


Nota relacionada (related note):
Finale Allegro Imbalsamato

Jun 11, 2007

Tribeca x 4: Pablo Trapero y Martina Gusmán


Durante el 6º Festival de Cine de Tribeca tuve el placer y honor de entrevistar a algunos de los cineastas, actores, productores y ejecutivos del festival. A continuación, un extracto de la entrevista con Pablo Trapero, director, escritor y productor de Nacido y Criado (Born and Bred), y Martina Gusmán, actriz y productora ejecutiva de la misma película.

During the 6th Tribeca Film Festival I had the pleasure and honor of interviewing some of the filmmakers, actors, producers and festival executives. Next there is an excerpt from the interview with Pablo Trapero, director, writer and producer of Nacido y Criado (Born and Bred), and Martina Gusmán, actress and executive producer in the same film.

Pablo Goldbarg: Todas tus películas tienen diferentes estilos. ¿Sos consciente que en esta última estás “renacido y recriado”?

Pablo Trapero: (risas) La verdad que no. Se puede diferenciar un poco de las anteriores porque es deliberadamente más dramática quizás. Si tuvieramos que encontrarla en el “DVD Club” estaría en el género de drama, y eso puede ser que la diferencie un poco de las demás, pero no. Yo con cada película me involucré más o menos igual, y por suerte la recepción que tuvieron las películas me hace pensar más que nada en la que viene que hacia atrás. Entiendo lo que decís porque me lo han preguntado muchas veces, pero no fue un ejercicio formal. Eso quiero decirte: no se trata de “voy a hacer esto para diferenciar de tal cosa…” Siempre trato de ser muy solidario con la historia que quiero hacer, y cada historia va necesitando una forma de ser contada. Eso me parece que puede ser el origen de este cambio que notás.

P.G.: Algunas escenas se convierten en una marca muy personal: el coche de carrera de Mundo Grúa (1999), los tiros en la comisaría de El Bonaerense (2002), el maravilloso cortejo fúnebre con los tractores en tu película actual… Me pregunto si las tenés pensadas desde el guión, o al llegar al lugar de filmación se renueva el proceso creativo.

P.T.: No, la mayor parte de eso está en el guión. Lo que pasa es que en el set se termina de formar. El cortejo era más o menos como lo viste. A diferencia que en el guión se hablaba de otro tractor. Los tiros en El Bonaerense también. Después, en el medio del proceso estaba esta señora “super size me” con la ametralladora. En la escena se toma forma, pero estas ideas están desde el principio. Es este límite de lo absurdo y lo cotidiano. Trabajo muy consciente de eso. Los momentos de absurdo que tiene la vida de todos los días, y que uno lo vive con naturalidad, pero cuando alguien lo mira de afuera cambia. Absurdo o extrañamiento, o fantasia, o el nombre que le quieras poner. Pero justamente esta idea de que el día a día en realidad es como una aventura y no el “daily”, lo cotidiano, sino que todo el tiempo existen estas sorpresas. Esto es buscado en casi todas mis películas.

P.G.: Martina, ¿Cómo fue desde lo personal hacer un papel que es corto pero muy profundo, y que está relacionado con la tragedia?

Martina Gusmán: Como nosotros trabajamos juntos hace seis años, y como además somos marido y mujer con Pablo, es decir compartimos la vida juntos, yo estuve desde el inicio del guión y la idea de la película, incluso él escribió el personaje de Mili para que lo haga yo. Entonces todo lo que fue la investigación de los procesos de duelo, y lo que le pasa a la gente en situaciones similares, yo lo viví desde un comienzo. Trabajamos muchísimo con Guillermo Pfening (actor) y Pablo, y fue muy paulatino. Fuimos creando el personaje juntos.

P.G.: ¿Cuál es la diferencia entre Pablo director y Pablo productor, y cuáles son sus próximos proyectos?

M.G. : Que Pablo director siempre quiere más (risas), y que por suerte tiene un Pablo productor que puede también ser consciente de las cosas que puede o no hacer. Por lo tanto eso es muy bueno para él como director porque tiene una capacidad increíble de adaptarse a las diferentes situaciones o cambios. Por ejemplo, en Nacido y Criado, fuimos ahí porque era un lugar alucinante lleno de nieve, y la nieve se empezó a ir de una forma terrible. Cualquier otro director tal vez se hubiese paralizado, y sin embargo Pablo se adaptó, buscó nuevas locaciones para ir siguiendo la nieve, o armó nieve con sal. Tiene mucha facilidad para adaptarse, y mentalidad de productor. Esa combinación, para hacer cine en Argentina, es muy buena. De la productora ahora estamos haciendo una película, y de Pablo, su próxima película, que en principio se llama Desencuentro pero que todavía no está definido el nombre. Vamos a filmar en Septiembre/Octubre de este año, y vamos a trabajar juntos desde producción, y en la actuación. El 21 de Mayo arrancamos con el rodaje de la próxima película de Albertina Carri, directora de Geminis, que se llama La Rabia. Y después La Matiné, un documental uruguayo.

P.G.: Es un placer conocerlos, y gracias por hacer que el cine Argentino se conozca en el resto del mundo.

P.T.: Muchas gracias... muy amable.

M.G.: Muchas gracias a vos.


Nota relacionada (related note):
Renacer

Jun 4, 2007

Tribeca x 4: Salvatore Stabile


During the 6th Tribeca Film Festival I had the pleasure and honor of interviewing some of the participating filmmakers, actors, producers and festival executives. What follows is an excerpt from the interview with Salvatore Stabile, writer and director of “Where God Left His Shoes”.

Durante el 6º Festival de Cine de Tribeca tuve el placer y honor de entrevistar a algunos de los cineastas, actores, productores y ejecutivos del festival. A continuación, un extracto de la entrevista con Salvatore Stabile, escritor y director de “Where God Left His Shoes”.


Pablo Goldbarg: When did the homelessness theme trigger in you the need to make a movie?

Salvatore Stabile: Well, first, the creation of the movie… I really wanted to make a movie about a family, first. I never intended to take the cause of the homeless. I was always intending to make a movie about this family. About a family who is struggling to survive in the darkest time of their lives, and they come to realize that in the end, as long as they have each other, they will be OK. That’s what I started with in the script stage. The whole thing about homelessness, which is the theme of the film… when we started shooting the movie, we started to receive donations for clothing, then people started sending toys, furniture, and then food, and then gift cards, because we’d asked people and we told people that we’re going to help some homeless people out. And what happened was that we ended up getting a warehouse full of all of that stuff. And at the end of the shoot the most rewarding thing for me was that the day after we finished shooting, myself and four other crew members of mine got into this truck, we loaded the trucks up all the stuff and we started to go around New York City and pulling up to homeless shelters and just giving it away. And it was the best experience of the film for me. That was the most rewarding. Shooting a movie is wonderful, and working with John was wonderful, we had a great crew, we had a great cast, but there was nothing more rewarding than seeing these people, the thankfulness in their eyes when you hand over all these jackets, and food and clothing, and then from there we decided to continue to charity, and we’re going to continue to do it this year hopefully, and also we’re donating… I’m donating part of my back end for sure, my producer, all back ends towards homeless, so we figured it, you know, we are trying to make some type of difference, and hopefully that helps.

P.G.: It’s very interesting to see that Latinos are struggling in your film, and Italians are trying to help. I wonder, in a city like New York, how important is what the immigrants are doing. Beyond family values, what is the role of other cultures in this city and in the U.S.?

S.S.: I never wanted to make a movie about race. Being Italian I thought that I couldn’t come at all on Latino culture because I’m not Latino. We started with the fact that it’s just a movie about a family. So many Italians are portrayed in movies as gangsters and bad guys. I never intended it to be a comment on race or culture, you know, that we have an Italian-American that is trying to help them, because there is another Italian-American who didn’t want to help them. Essentially from the beginning I tried to find the best actors for the roles around John. You know, the film has made a statement without me intending to make a statement, and I think that could be taken as something that is beautiful. Hopefully people take different things from it.

P.G.: It’s a truly independent film. I know that you were working with the “Made in NY” incentive. Can you please tell me how it was working with all kinds of support, not only from the city but from churches, other organizations and locations? How was the “indy” experience?

S.S. People think New York is a difficult place because the traffic and people. I made two films and I worked on various television shows that were shot around the city, and I have friends who are independent filmmakers. Every time I shoot New York it’s the most welcoming experience, from the Mayor’s Office to locations. Everybody tries to make it possible for you to achieve your vision. And it’s very, very easy to shoot here. It allows independent films to flourish. I mean, everywhere you point your camera you have a beautiful shot. So, the city itself lends a beauty that you can find nowhere else. You cannot replicate New York anywhere else in the world. And the Mayor’s Office… we had, I think, fifty locations on a 25-day shoot. I had the best location manager who was working with all the offices. We never had a problem. There wasn’t one problem whether blocking off the street, cars, there was nothing I’d seen from the director/producer stand point that was a problem from the city. The other thing: we had so much support from the Trinity church who helped us. We made donations to their church, and they also helped with the homeless. When you connect to the right people in the city, there are so many people who want to help, and when they’re given the opportunity to help, that’s where the city shows how generous it really is. You really need to pin people down. “Hey look, I need your help, this is our cause”, and I think people are overwhelmed and happy to do it. But if you don’t approach them in a very direct way, you know, they just go on with their day and they forget. The support we had from Trinity church, the Mayor’s Office, the MTA… Albertine Anderson who runs the Film Division for the MTA was so accommodating to us. We had two children on the subway, so we needed special security. I hear stories of so many filmmakers “stealing” shots on subways, but we didn’t want to do that and put the kids in jeopardy. So, we made sure everything was done properly, and without her office we wouldn’t haven been able to do it. As you know, the train is the most important part of the film. I mean, the subway scenes in the beginning and the end, through out the middle. To me, growing up in New York city, the train is a home, 'cause you travel on it so much, it’s almost like your living room for two or three hours a day, so it was very important to me to film it correctly, to have full access to the train, and they provided that, and I’m very grateful.

P.G.: Your first feature (Gravesend, 1997) was ten years ago. You wanted to have some kind of maturity to make your second feature, and we see it. How was dealing with the expectations and patience, and how did you know that you were ready?

S.S.: I knew, after I made my first film, I heard enough filmmakers saying “the first one is important in a sense of getting recognition, and people will see what kind of talent you have, but your second film, if you mess that one up, you know, that’s the one that could really, really hurt you”. When I finished my first film I was nineteen, twenty years old. I didn’t necessarily know what I was doing. You know, I had some instinct. Everything was made with instinct. When the film came out, I received a lot of praise and a lot of negativity, and I handled both really well. I talked to my producer and I said: “you know, it’s very important to me to get an education. I made a film that showed some promise, but I really, really needed to learn my craft”. And I spent five to six years just writing for TV shows, and staying behind people who were very talented. And the reason I chose television is because you’re always in production, you’re always behind a camera, shooting thirteen or twenty-two episodes a season, and I’ve always been privileged to work with some of the best people on TV. I worked on shows like Rescue Me or The Sopranos or numerous other shows. When I wrote the script I was looking for something that I believed in. I didn’t want just to make a movie. I had several opportunities over the years to make many films on Hollywood or horror films, but I always wanted my second one to be very personal. Something that no matter what anybody says I’m sure this film will be praised, and will be criticized but at the end of the day that doesn’t matter to me, because I made a movie that is about something that I believed in. It’s so special, and it’s such an important cause behind it… no matter what anybody says about it, it could never be a failure. So, the wait for ten years was a great thing for two reasons: one, my craft. Two, I chose the right piece of material to do and really to continue my career. So I’m very fortunate.

P.G.: Thank you very much for your time and your movie. I can tell you that the shoes were on your set. I'm sure.

S.S.: Thank you, I feel very blessed. Everything has been amazing, from the production, to Tribeca, to everyone involved, to all the charity. I'm truly blessed.


Salvatore Stabile's picture property of Vulcan Productions © 2007

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