Bernardo
Bertolucci in conversation with Andrea Sabbadini - May 1997


Bernardo
Bertolucci's films include: La Commare Secca (The Grim Reaper),
Prima della rivoluzione (Before the Revolution), Sosia (Partner),
Strategia del ragno (The Spider's Strategum), Il conformista (The
Conformist), L'ultimo tango à Parigi (Last Tango in Paris), 1900,
La Luna, Tragedia di un uomo ridicolo (Tragedy of a Ridiculous
Man), L'ultimo imperatore (The Last Emperor), The Sheltering Sky,
Little Buddha and Ballo di sola (Stealing Beauty).
The following is an edited extract from a public conversation
between the film director, Bernardo Bertolucci and Andrea
Sabbadini, a member of the British Psychoanalytical Society, at
the Großen Festsaal der Universität in Vienna. This
conversation, entitled 'Psychoanalysis: the eleventh muse', was
organised by the Sigmund Freud Museum and took place on the
anniversary of Freud's birth, 6th May 1997. A video tape of the
complete conversation (which was in English) can be obtained from
the Sigmund Freud-Gesellschaft, Bergasse 19, A-1090 Wein, Austria.
The
cost of the video is 490 Austrian Schillings (£24.) and can be
paid for
by bankers draft or credit card. For further information telephone
(+43) 1 319-15-960.

An Additional Lens
Bernardo
Bertolucci
The sixties
were extremely important for cinema, for myself and all my friends
who started to make movies in the sixties. Our movies were an
investigation about the nature of cinema. We were making movies
that we were proud to know that the audiences weren't going to
see. At the end of the sixties I started to think that there was
something wrong. I thought my movies were like monologues because
nobody went, just critics or friends or relatives, and I started
to think I have to break this kind of curse. I wanted to have
feedback from the people who see my movies. So my desire was to
pass from monologue to dialogue. That is exactly the moment when I
found myself starting my psychoanalysis, in 1969.
I started just at the moment when I was preparing Spider's
Stratagem, which is a movie about a son who is investigating about
his father figure - it comes from a Borges short story. The
elaboration of the story was parallel with the beginning of my
psychoanalysis. In the next seven years I made the Spider's
Stratagem, The Conformist, Last Tango in Paris and then 1900. I
found in this way that I naturally passed from the monologue to a
dialogue with an audience. My movies which in the sixties had been
closed became popular, sometimes even too popular.
Andrea Sabbadini
Psychoanalysis
is not quite a dialogue is it? It's a funny paradoxical situation
which could really be described as a monologue in the presence of
someone else, rather than a dialogue.
BB
A monologue with two voices.
AS
A monologue with two voices - it's an interesting form of
monologue. It's an interesting form of relationship, it's rather
unique in fact. But I was wondering if you were not using the fact
that by then you were in analysis, to use your films as your
analysis. You were elaborating, you were digesting, you were
changing through making your movies, in a way in which perhaps you
had not done before.
BB
During my sessions of analysis I was talking more about my
dreams about the films, my fantasies about the films which weren't
yet done than about myself. That meant that in these seven years
there was a fantastic feedback from the analysis and personally I
became a much more open and available person: like my movies -
very closed like an urchin, and then I started to open myself, as
my movies were opening.
AS
It sounds like a dream that one, a familiar one, 'seven
years'.
BB
Since I started psychoanalysis I found that I had in my
camera an additional lens, which was - it's not Kodak, it's not
Zeiss, it's Freud. It is a lens which really takes you very close
to dreams. For me movies, even before knowing Freud, have always
been the closest thing you can imagine to a dream. First of all,
the movie theatre in this amniotic darkness for me has always been
like a womb, so we are all dreamers, but dreamers in the womb. We
are there in the darkness. And it's very rare having a collective
dream all together. We're dreaming with open eyes the same dream -
which is the movie - which we receive in different ways. If you
ask at the exit of the theatre what the story was, you will have
many different stories. I always felt that the time in a movie is
not the time of realism, it is not the 'real' time of the watch,
but it is the same time that you have in dreams. We all know that
in dreams time does not exist.
That, for example, you have present, past, future, happening at
the same time. And characters are not what they seem, or look:
they are other, they represent other people.
That gives me freedom. To give you an example, in Last Tango in
Paris at the beginning of the movie we see this middle-aged
American old fart. He's desperate because he's ageing and
desperate because his wife committed suicide. Then the meeting
with the girl, Maria, and everything happens - the most
irresistible thing for a middle-aged man, which is to feel
attractive to a young woman, which is difficult to resist. You
don't know how much time has passed, then he opens the door in the
hotel where he lives and you see the dead body of his wife, but
you thought his wife died a long time ago. In fact, only one or
two days have passed. So to play with that I think it is very
interesting. Too many times it is a pity that film directors
merely illustrate a screen play when they make a movie: they don't
really ride the freedom that cinema gives them.
AS
Your father is a very well known Italian poet, and I
wondered if your films are a way both for you to stay close to
your father, to express in a poetic way something about your
internal world, and the other main figures in your life. But also
a way of differentiating yourself from them, taking a distance
from them, rebelling against them, or perhaps even attempting to
destroy them, only to then build them up again inside yourself.
BB
Yes, what is very strange is that in many of my movies
there is the murder of the father or the attempted murder of the
father. No analyst - and I am at the third one after twenty-two
years of an honourable career as a patient - was able to explain
why:
because my father is the most wonderful father. He is not only a
poet, he's a great poet. He is 86 - he's very old. What keeps him
alive? Publishing and publishing: his books are the only thing
where he can recognise he still has an identity now that his bones
are shrinking. I learn everything from him. When I was eight or
nine there was a poem that I read of my father's called The
Rose. It is dedicated to my mother. It says 'You are like the
rose in the bottom of the garden. The last bees of the
summer have visited the rose...'. After reading the poem I would
run out of the house, run to the bottom of the garden and there
was the rose. So I made no difference between the rose of
the poem and the rose of the reality. He never taught me about
poetry in an academic or didactic way, it was natural. My father
has always written about the microcosmos, the very little
landscape around our house. I could see that the material of the
poems was coming from just outside our house. So there was a kind
of natural living in the poetry in our daily life. And yet, with
this wonderful father and mother I had to kill them all the time
in all my movies. It is something this Oedipal thing, and I don't
think it's coincidence that Freud chose Sophocles' Oedipus Rex
instead of Hamlet because there is the perfect triangle. But my
father always tells me a simple thing, 'this way you can kill me
without going to jail'. It's still a movement inside me which
still feeds my movies.
Copyright
© 1999 Andrea
SABBADINI

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