Bay Guardian Archives

This weekend brings a major event: the rare return of Bruce Baillie — whose visions of San Francisco are just as brilliant and uncanny, if not as famous, as Alfred Hitchcock’s — to a movie screen in the city. Contemporary filmmaker Apichatpong Weerasethakul, the director making the most revelatory commercial features today, cites Baillie as his favorite experimental filmmaker. Though Baillie primarily made short films, the philosophical rivers of beauty that run between their works are deep. The moment seemed more than right for a conversation between Baillie and filmmaker Michelle Silva, who helps run Canyon Cinema, one of the two organizations (along with SF Cinematheque) that Baillie founded. They got on the phone and let the tape roll. SFBG We’re recording. BRUCE BAILLIE How do they say that in the industry? SFBG “For quality assurance, we’re recording this conversation.” BB Well, for the recorder’s sake, I might be mumbling a little, because I’m still eating my second bowl of cereal. It’s the famous Dr. Bish’s elixir, which all filmmakers require. SFBG You’ve built a monumental body of cinema now housed in our Library of Congress. You’ve also founded two distinguished organizations, the avant-garde film distributor Canyon Cinema and the experimental film and video exhibitor San Francisco Cinematheque, which both began in your own backyard over 40 years ago. At the beginning, did you have any forethought about the significance of your work and the movement you would initiate? BB To give a generic response, probably not. People don’t operate that way generally. Adolf Hitler probably had a pretty grand idea at the beginning, but it was ill founded. Theater was always one of the bases. I was very taken by Balinese theater and Noh theater. Also [Jean] Cocteau’s admonishments that all theater must arise from local familiarity. We had all those ingredients there, almost like baking bread, and it did arise very nicely and warmly and simply. We had a theater in the woods with the neighbors coming over and putting up park benches. There was a big old willow tree by our house and conveniently, a hill behind that held the big surplus screen nicely. I always say to myself, “What is theater made of?” and it really is any collage collection of sticks and stones. It can be highly technical or it can be like the charred bones and the fire out in the desert of Mongolia. If it’s done with that kind of ancient mind-set, that kind of respect and adulation of the content — and also the Irish tradition of the manner of presentation — then you’re all right. It could be under the apple tree that I’m looking at now while we speak. I’m not too worried about all the modern stuff, aside from the problem of the way semiconscious people identify with the mere technology of it and become two-dimensional. Then you don’t have theater, you have President Bush at Harvard taking business administration. SFBG When I watch your films, such as Here I Am, the tightly framed faces reveal unconventional beauty. Could you talk about the people who do appear in your films? BB I will try … I’m going to have to wash the Bishery off my teeth. The only trouble with the Bish formula at breakfast is that it not only gives you thick ankles eventually if you keep eating it, but it’s also hard on the dentures or teeth. We don’t like to admit it on the labels. We have a big business shipping this stuff out of the house in a dehydrated form to all the filmmakers in the world. Especially in Asia, it’s very popular. We sent a batch to South Korea for a festival. I just got their booklet back, from a Dr. Kim. I didn’t realize she was such an esteemed colleague of the doctor here. Apparently the huge batch of dehydrated Bishery was rejected by most of the younger people there, who prefer their own diet, so they sent it up to North Korea. I don’t know what’s going to come of that. I might be able to save us from the bombs and everything they’re trying to throw over here. Anyway, avante, as my old friend would say — on to the question. There’s all kinds of references in our literature, especially, I suppose, in the holy works like the Gita and the writings of the Buddha, which run across the idea of direct perception. Just seeing. Or in the Bible, the Old Testament. Or the Tibetan teachings for the acolytes who were becoming monks and priests — they used to sit up above the road, maybe one at a time, and observe the faces coming up from the world below. For some reason, when most people take a camera in hand and click on a face, all they get is a two-dimensional representation. I don’t see why I’d wanna be satisfied by that. When you photograph, you photograph what is, not what is merely apparent or not. That’s the assignment, really, and it’s not completed and shouldn’t be exceptional. SFBG The spiritualism in your films, like Mass of the Dakota Sioux, Tung, and On Sundays, seems to be combined with a little bit of disdain for modern civilization. There’s that mixture. BB Well, there’s what Jesus called hatred of the world — which is something one might be able to teach his or herself along the way, to give up all the appearances and become one with the continuity of life flow itself. That’s a whole process. Some people, like myself, are born with a disdain, yes, for the world in that other sense. For example, my totem animal is a wolf, and I’ve never liked my neighbors. That’s a horrible thing, but I was born with that in my portfolio and I work with that every day. Some people really are very fond of going to the supermarket and the malls and are able to behave themselves when they’re buying a pair of shoes. Actually, whether they believe in it all or not doesn’t seem to come into any question, and overall it’s quite wonderful that they’re able to be not only very kind but loving with all of these comings and goings. To me, going to the aerodrome to pick up the Alaska Air number 387 is the most frightening kind of experience that anyone could have devised in purgatory. In my own case, since you’re asking me, this person, not someone else, about the images they project, the images are contaminated with not only a great universal love but at the same moment a great hatred for the goings on of worldly affairs and events and shapes and forms. So as I get into nature I find it less contaminated by man’s touch, but it’s also frightening in its own way, of course, with all the monsters at the edge of the world that are ready to devour you when you’re out on your sailboat in the Atlantic. And the tigers in the night and the ragings of the great beasties. SFBG In your work there will sometimes be a shot where the subject is the mist or the fog. Those two aspects cut together create a tension that has an emotional effect. How would you say your palette developed and matured over time? BB I lived my life with the camera and I deliberately took on nothing else. No family, which is the main thing one gives up to live that kind of life, and I lived en route, always on the move. Living in my car, just seeing and trying my best to get it through that little eyepiece, that little Bolex viewfinder — the first version, which was half the size of the later version. I can’t see through it anymore, it’s so small. There’s no reason at all to settle for anything less than a grand attempt at bringing back from the unknown what is there. The what is of this. Part of it can kind of humorously involve a practice that I used to throw out when I was teaching, that is, to learn to become invisible. I would line all my students up and say, “OK, everybody close their eyes,” and then I would run around the corner [laughs] and disappear. We’d go into it a little further, where I’d say, “What I really meant was we have to learn not to use the camera, just the way a policeman has to learn not to use his or her pistola.” It’s a weapon, a medium, that exists between self and other. One must become selfless, invisible, in order to relate to the other or vice versa. “When you meet the tiger on the trail, you become one with him instantly by your training so that there’s no fear.” Rather than ignorantly involving one’s self in confrontational relationships, one intelligently unifies the selfhood between the two appearances and it becomes one reality. That’s how you work with a Bolex. (Intro by Johnny Ray Huston; interview by Michelle Silva)