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.And he is a filmmaker entirely occupied by his art.Cinema is an art of the sensible.Not simply of the visible.Because all his films, since 1989, are in black and white, and because silence plays an ever-greater role in them, it has been said that he wanted to bring cinema back to its silent origins.But silent cinema was not an art of silence.Its model was the language of signs.Silence only has tangible power in the sound film, thanks to the possibility it offers of dismissing the language of signs, of making faces speak not through expressions signifying sentiments, but through the time taken to turn around their secret.From the beginning, Béla Tarr’s image is intimately tied to sound: the hubbub, in the first films, at the heart of which the characters’ complaints are raised, the words to silly songs set bodies in motion, and emotions are disposed upon faces; later on, the cold indifference of miserable bistros, where an accordionist drives bodies mad, before the muted sounds of the accordion quietly accompany their ravaged dreams; the noise of the rain and the wind, which carry words and dreams away, chuck them in the puddles where the dogs shake themselves off, or send them wheeling through the streets with the leaves and detritus.Cinema is the art of the time of images and sounds, an art developing the movements that set bodies in relation to one another in a space.It is not an art without words.But it is not the art of the word that recounts and describes.It is an art that shows bodies, bodies expressing themselves among other bodies through the act of speaking, and through the way in which the word has an effect upon them.There are two great arts of the word.There is literature, which describes that which we cannot see: the appearance of the things it imagines and the feelings felt by fictional characters.And there is rhetoric, which urges action either by arousing motivation for it, or by sketching its outcome in advance.Each makes use of the other in its own way.Rhetoric borrows the necessary colors from literature to make promises more sensible and actions more convincing.Literature, for its part, gladly crafts stories from the gap [l’écart] separating the promise of words and the reality against which actions collide.It is in this gap that militant fiction finds its dominant model.The denunciation of fallacious promises is presented in such fiction as encouragement to work for a different future.This critique can become complicit by confirming, in its own manner, the official scenario of the future to be constructed.But, conversely, when it renders this reality – denied by rhetorical fiction – autonomous, before our very eyes, it opens a distance with respect to all the scenarios of ends to be attained, and all the means of implementing such scenarios.This, then, is how angry, young filmmakers mature: not by losing their illusions, but by untethering the reality to which they wish to remain faithful from the expectations and sequences that bind the logic of fiction to the temporal schemes of the rhetorics of power.The essence of realism – contrary to the program of edification known by the name of socialist realism – is the distance taken with regard to stories, to their temporal schemes and their sequences of causes and effects.Realism opposes situations that endure to stories that link together and pass from one to the next.This can begin with the slight gap that opposes the reality lived by individuals to the time of planners and bureaucrats.Thus, the narrow margin in which an angry, young artist could work at the end of the 1970s in the country of five-year plans was defined: showing that which did not circulate sufficiently between the perspective of the planners and the lived experience of individuals; that which did not move quickly enough in the realization of promises; that which testified, in the attitude of bureaucrats, to an insufficient attention to the sufferings and expectations of those who depended upon them.Such is the space that authoritarian regimes concede to artists in the time of “the thaw.” But, in order to exploit the breach offered, it is already necessary to loosen the constraint that binds the arguments of stories to the exposition of “problems,” the existence and domain of which are defined by the power of the planners.It is necessary to take more time than is required for the illustration of the “problem of housing the young” in the common room, where “problems” are translated into insinuations, accusations, complaints, or provocations – in the carnivals, bars, or dance-halls, where the promises of songs are belied by vacant eyes or by the idle hands that nervously finger a glass.It is necessary to call upon actors who are not actors, but people to whom this story might have happened, even if this was not in fact the case – men and women who are called upon, not to perform these situations, but to live them, and therefore to incarnate expectations, lassitudes, disenchantments in which it is their own experience, the experience of any socialist individuals whatever, that is expressed, and who do so, not in the conventional expressive codes, but in the connection between words times, spaces, refrains, gestures, objects.It is this interweaving that constitutes the reality of a situation, the reality of the lived time of individuals.At first, it is made into the section of a diptych (reality against promise), but soon it will be considered for itself; these connections will always continue to mobilize cinema, and their exploration will require the ever more driven exploitation of its resources, of its capacity to give each word the space of its resonance, to give each sensation the time of its development.Stories demand that we retain, from each situation, the elements capable of being inserted into a schema of causes and effects.But realism, for its part, requires us to go ever deeper into the interior of the situation itself, to expand, ever farther back, the chain of sensations, perceptions, and emotions which make human animals into beings to whom stories happen, beings who make promises, believe in promises, or cease to believe in them.As such, it is no longer with the official deployment of time that situations are confronted, but with their own immanent limit: there, where lived time is connected with pure repetition, there, where human speech and gestures tend toward those of animals.These two immanent limits effectively mark the period that begins, in 1987, with Damnation and culminates, in 2011, with The Turin Horse, which Béla Tarr openly presents as his final film.But it is not necessary to understand by this that he is a filmmaker of the end of time that follows the catastrophe of Sovietism.The time after is not the morose, uniform time of those who no longer believe in anything.It is the time of pure, material events, against which belief will be measured for as long as life will sustain it.* * *1.It is important to note that the French word “histoire” can be translated either as “history,” or as “story,” depending on context.Because the tension between “situations” and “stories” is one of the threads that runs from the beginning to the end of this work, “story” has been chosen in almost every case.It should not be overlooked, however, that in many instances both meanings ought to be heard equally: the story told in an “official history” is a story nonetheless [TN].2.The French word “écart” – which is so central in Rancière’s writings on film, and which punctuates his discussion of the progression of Tarr’s oeuvre – has been translated as “gap” in almost every instance.Cf [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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