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Film: Eccentricities Of A Blonde-haired Girl
Year of production: 2009
UK Release date: 13th June 2011
Distributor: New Wave
Certificate: U
Running time: 64 mins
Director: Manoel de Oliveira
Starring: Ricardo Trepa, Catarina Wallenstein, Diogo Doria, Julia Buisel, Leonor Silveira
Genre: Drama/Romance
Format: DVD
Country of Production: Portugal/Spain/France
Language: Portuguese
Review by: Rob Markham
What would happen if you were to combine a story by one of Portugal’s greatest realist writers, Ęca de Queiroz, with the directing talents of Manoel de Oliveira, one of Portugal’s most celebrated filmmakers, and at 102 years of age, supposedly the oldest active director in the world? In answer to that question is Eccentricities Of A Blonde-haired Girl, an almost short story-like film that reminds us of the importance of the director and technique in storytelling.
On a train from Lisbon to the Algarve, Macário strikes up a conversation with a stranger, desperate to be rid of the story that plagues him.
He describes the moment he fell in love with a stranger while looking out of his office window. Across the street, he sees a beautiful girl with a Chinese fan. The two meet each other’s gaze and Macário falls hopelessly in love with her.
When his uncle refuses to give permission for him to marry the girl, Luísa, Macário embarks on a journey to earn enough money to marry the girl, and his life is thrown into turmoil. He faces unemployment, poverty and humiliation to be with the woman he loves. But is the woman he loves all she appears to be?
Eccentricities Of A Blonde-haired Girl is strange in the fact that nothing really happens. The drama unfolds so slowly and with little ceremony - just as you would expect from an everyman relating a story to a stranger - that it’s difficult to tell whether something monumental has happened to the characters. With a running time of little over an hour, this is hardly noticeable, and throughout we are able to watch a master director utilising the camera to create a slow but emotive film.
De Oliveira’s shots linger on a scene before the characters enter and remain static when they have left, showing the world does not revolve around these two ‘lovers’, and that they are merely characters in a story. His camera barely moves and the static shots create an awkward feel that perfectly mirrors the awkwardness felt by Macário. From the painfully repetitive opening shot of a ticket inspector on a train to the repeated shots of Lisbon in various states of weather and time of day, de Oliveira is unafraid to use the camera to remind us that we are watching characters in real situations, but that they are just characters - and this is just a film.
This has its draw backs. As a piece of cinema, it is not the most exciting thing you are likely to watch, and it will not play with the senses to create atmosphere or tension. Instead, it unfolds leisurely, and rather than building to a climax, the ending just happens. Perhaps this is apt, as it is not a story filled with fireworks and dangerous romance. It is simply a story told reflectively by someone who comes across as a bit of a loser, all things considered.
In terms of character, Macário never really convinces as a romantic; however, this does feel intentional. In actual fact, he comes off as rather creepy, at times. His staring at Luisa through the window, hiding behind a document, or descending the stairs to simply watch her in the shop for which he is an accountant, does not remind us of the typical moves of a Lothario. Rightly so, as Macário is not a romantic hero, he is weak and desperate, unafraid to cry and appear slightly pathetic, and with a lost expression for nearly the entire film.
Luísa, on the other hand, with her fan and her smile, is almost an archetypal femme fatale. She would not be out of place in a film noir, dragging some poor PI into a shady world of manipulation and confidence tricks, such are the unexplored depths of her character. She is the vessel into which Macário pours all his hopes and dreams of the ideal woman, without ever bothering to get to know her. It is one of the least romantic set-ups you’re likely to see. And that’s the point.
The performances all seem highly stylised and work well with the style of filmmaking. Ricardo Trêpa as Macário is suitably innocent and weak for the most part, learning too late, and with some justified anger, that you cannot rush into love blindly. Catarina Wallenstein is equally good as Luisa, her teasing expression and her look of innocence in the face of the facts is convincing and ambiguous. She leaves us feeling a little like Macário: angry, confused, but still with affection.
The short running time means the leisurely pace can be forgiven, and there will be little chance of boredom, but the character’s actions, limited locations, and a very noticeable lack of editing do not make for the most interesting visual experience. But what do you expect from a director at 102 years of age? Aesthetic dynamism is not the goal here. What we’re left with is a short story (it is an adaptation of one after all) that transports us into a theatrical world where love is instantaneous and never quite what it seems. The result is not outstanding, but it will leave you feeling like you’ve witnessed a true filmmaker doing what he does best.
It’s refreshing to see something that doesn’t strive for themes and motifs beyond its reach and instead focuses on simply telling a story. There is little to sink one’s teeth into, but that isn’t the point of the film. With some superbly emotive visual techniques, it is a nice film to watch, but it won’t blow your hair back, or knock your socks off, or do anything other than charm you. RM
Interview by António Preto, provided courtesy New Wave/Porter Frith.
Born in Porto in 1908, Manoel de Oliveira is the oldest active director in the history of cinema.
Beginning his career as a racing driver and athlete, Manoel made his first silent film Douro, Faina Fluvial in 1931. After a film flop in 1942, he became a port vintner. Returning to film in 1972, he has made a large number of films featuring Marcello Mastroianni, Catherine Deneuve and Michel Piccoli, amongst others, which have made him one of cinema’s most unique and astonishingly youthful proponents.
His latest film, released 6th August 2010, Eccentricities Of A Blonde‐Haired Girl sees the character Macário spend an entire train journey to the Algarve talking to a woman he does not know about the trials and tribulations of his love life…
At a certain point in, Eccentricities Of A Blonde‐Haired Girl, someone says “all the evil in the world comes from the fact we care about one another”...
That’s a quote from Fernando Pessoa. Well, we could think about that. But thinking about that or about anything else doesn’t necessarily mean that it would be right or good thinking, because the whole world, all of being is a mystery. That’s to say, a mystery that man really knows nothing about.
It’s a question of having faith or not. Faith is essential. Everything relates to everything else. I mean, I’m not philosophising or thinking about all that when I’m making a film. But the fact that I have thought about it, does come through. I think there’s a mysterious side to this film that comes across above all through the curtains and the fan, which shows itself, in that sense, in the unfathomable secrets of life.
The film is based on a short story of Eça de Queiroz and, more specifically, to the short story Eccentricities of a Blonde‐Haired Girl…
When I was filming Magic Mirror by Agustina Bessa‐Luís, there was a party with several extras in it who’d been invited by friends. At the end of filming, I was saying goodbye and a young man of twenty something, maybe thirty, said: “You’ve never done anything by Eça de Queiroz... I only mention it because I’m distantly related to Eça de Queiroz and I think it’s a pity you haven’t”. I told him I’d thought about it and that maybe one day I would adapt something of his. So, this film is the result of such a simple act ‐ a question asked by one of Eça’s descendants.
Eça de Queiroz was the Portuguese consul in Paris. He lived there for a long time and got to know about Zola’s realism during the time he was there. Well, he learned about that realism and then he introduced it to Portugal.
Eccentricities Of A Blonde‐Haired Girl is my first film based on the work of a realist writer. It was a very interesting experience. I changed the découpage a lot because that came before the répérage, which meant I then had to adapt the film with regard to the répérage. In any case, the real work of a director is to let things evolve, which either works and things turn out well, or doesn’t and things go badly.
Were you aiming for realism in this film?
I do in all my films. But I’m having a bit of a hard time because my idea of the realism of cinema is that cinema can’t film the past without going back to that time; you can’t film thought; just as you can’t film dreams. And now I find myself with Eccentricities Of A Blonde‐Haired Girl where I’m filming the past…
But the story has been brought into the present...
Yes, it’s been brought into the present. But still, the protagonist is telling someone else what happened, and what we see is what he relates – which is what happened, it’s not the present.
The way the actors are introduced in Eccentricities Of A Blonde‐Haired Girl – Luis Miguel Cintra, for example, is introduced as Luís Miguel Cintra, when he recites a poem by Pessoa – and even the places – like at the Eça de Queiroz Circle, when the employee shows us around the building as if it’s a guided tour ‐ there’s a quest for truth there…
For realism, I mean, the present. That exists there. I went to the Circle once; I wasn’t a member, so, of course, they wouldn’t let me in. I had to wait for someone to come and show me round because I couldn’t be in there alone. I recreated that situation in the film, with Macário. And then I wonder if that won’t restrict the artistic potential and limit freedom of the imagination, it’s a problem. But I feel more secure when I do something concrete. Anything concrete, maybe because of my background in documentary.
There’s another interesting thing about this film, the fact it has no music…
No music at all. Films always have music to accompany them and fill them out. There’s no music in Eccentricities Of A Blonde‐Haired Girl except when one of the characters plays the harp. And there it can’t be avoided. But there’s no background music. There’s no music to entertain, or to help sustain the image. It’s clean. The film, as you saw, is very restrained.
Apart from that, there’s the sound of bells punctuating the film…
It’s the peal of a bell that chimes the hours of a clock with no hands. I loved seeing the clock without hands that tells the time with chimes. Ten o’clock was the time the blonde girl would appear at the window. And, in the end, the bells chime as much in reproach as in any other sense… I don’t know.
And the inclusion of two excerpts from poems by Alberto Caeiro, why is that? How did you get to Fernando Pessoa?
There’s a soiree at the house of a notary, who was an intellectual and well‐known man of letters. At the soiree, a special recital from that period is played on the harpsichord, and that wouldn’t have made sense, given that I’d brought it into the present. That’s what made me bring in Pessoa, the fact that I’d updated it. I got one of Pessoa’s books and by chance opened it at that place. I thought it was perfect; it seemed as if it was meant to be.
How do you see this, your latest film, in relation to the rest of your films?
There’s one extremely important thing that can’t help but be there and that is memory. Our memory is fundamental. History is memory, the past is memory. When you come down to it, everything is memory. If we were to lose our memory we wouldn’t know who we were, why we are here or what we are here for. We know we are, but we don’t know what we are for. I have a great respect for history. All of my films are, in a way, historical. Douro, Faina Fluvial is an historical film. So historical that if we went looking for what we see in that film, we wouldn’t find anything. It’s completely gone. Nevertheless, that film today is extremely valuable because it shows what is no longer there to be seen.
The ending of the film is abrupt?
Actually, I even softened it a little because in the novel it ends very harshly, in a very cruel way against the girl. And, of course, we think, “It’s an illness…she’s the victim of an illness and should get treatment. But perhaps in those days they didn’t know about kleptomania yet.” Because in the end she says, “Don’t hit me here, don’t hurt me” and he says, “Go away, you’re a thief, a thief and I’m calling the police.” I softened the scene a little because I felt it seemed too cruel, considering the girl is suffering from an illness… she’s also a victim. But I couldn’t portray her as such in the film because that’s not how it is in the novel. She isn’t seen as a victim: she’s seen as a criminal, as a thief.
In the adaptation, you introduce a fundamental difference: the fact that the story is told not to a man but to a woman, on a train. Why did you make that change? Why is the story told to a woman and why on a train?
The train is a pretext for telling the story. In Eça’s book, the story starts when the protagonist is old and goes to Vila Real. In the film, the story is told straight after the events have taken place.
Well, I remembered that his uncle sent him to the Algarve for a few days to help him get over things. I thought it would be nicer if he spoke to a woman and for one other very specific reason; that there wouldn’t be any male commentary, between men, about women. This ploy pre‐empts that possibility.
This is the first time that Catarina Wallenstein, the female lead in Eccentricities Of A Blonde‐Haired Girl, takes part in a Manoel de Oliveira film, unlike, for example, Leonor Silveira, who plays the woman Macário who tells the story to on the train…
I thought it would be interesting if the girl was different. I mean, if she wasn’t an actress I’d used before. The fact it’s the first time she appears makes the character more authentic. In other words, it’s not whoever playing so and so, she’s really her. And besides, she hasn’t had that much exposure in cinema. It turned out well. That kind of thing doesn’t depend on us, it depends on circumstances. Ortega y Gasset said an extraordinary thing: “man is his circumstance.” That remark is scary, in a way, because when you say “Man is his circumstance,” one might imagine that certain circumstances of birth, upbringing, or events in life could make a man become a murderer. Circumstance is something we are entirely dependent on. And the fact that it’s these actors in this film is the result of circumstance.
Catarina Wallenstein’s circumstance is that of a performer, which is different. It’s fiction not reality. I mean, the film is real, but the result of the actors’ work is fiction. And while the window is real, and the street outside is real, the actors aren’t… but the windows are.
There’s an interesting point about the windows. George Orwell, the writer who wrote about the future, called the lost epoch the age of the windows. Our world is all windows. Nowadays, there are whole facades made completely of glass, but then very often there are walls without any windows at all. But it wasn’t like that in Orwell’s time. Doors and windows are very significant. In War And Peace, for example, when the officer is wounded and on the verge of death, he says something marvellous: “Death is a door.” So, the doors and windows are very important. Windows are what we see through and doors are what we come in and out of. These are things that we find hard to grasp, but they take on a meaning that is distinctly their own.
On the train it’s said: “What you don’t tell your wife, what you don’t tell your friend, you tell a stranger.” When you make a film is it like telling a story to a stranger like Eça says?
Telling a story is a very complicated thing. I believe that everything comes from the word and by the word I also mean, image. Words were used when someone important died. At the funeral that person’s deeds would be extolled, and from there those same deeds would be enacted, which led to theatre. Then came the Mystery plays, which were generally religious propaganda performed outside churches. Man likes to relate what happened, it’s a way of preserving memory. And it’s instinctive. Some men have an innate ability to relate things, to paint, to draw, to show... I firmly believe in intuition and that all men have it. That impulse to relate what happened must be something genetic; designed to preserve history. I tell a story to A, A tells B, B tells C and so it goes from generation to generation. That’s why there are such very old stories. Sometimes, we might think something is Portuguese, whereas in reality it’s come from China, but that origin was lost along the way. In the end, telling a story is preserving the memory of what happened. And so man has a talent for that.
And cinema is a powerful tool for fixing memories…
Yes, a Mexican director once told me that governments should support cinema... But support shouldn’t be given as a favour, but as an obligation because cinema mirrors life. And I really don’t see anything else that does. Of course, painting does, too, but in a different way. Everything comes down to memory, and without memory there’s no thought, there’s nothing at all, there’s no life. Everything is based on memory and all of this is just a way to file memories. But that impulse might be useless. I mean, you might paint a picture and that painting might never be seen. AP
