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Narration
by Geneviève Appleton:
I tried
to make this film.
It was going to be about what we as a group of filmmakers considered to
be heavenly and hellish in our lives.
But the film had a different idea. It wanted to make itself.
On one of my first days of shooting, I had planned to capture heavenly
scenes in my favourite park. But the moment I turned on my car engine,
the building across the street from me caught fire.
Suddenly my little field trip to paradise seemed quite trite next to the
danger and losses these people were experiencing.
I couldn't film. I tried to help them instead.
A few weeks later, when I did eventually get to the park, I was so excited
that I had managed to capture many of the idyllic images I desired, that
at the end of the shoot I dropped the camera. The tape carriage was jammed,
and for two weeks I couldn't even see my footage.
This was a huge blow to my filmmaker's ego, as I sheepishly phoned my
colleagues to tell them that they couldn't use the camera until it was
repaired.
And these were only two of countless horror stories I have to tell about
making this film. All of these problems felt to me like the voice of the
film itself, questioning and challenging my intentions.
The film and I engaged in a kind of battle of wills, where I tried to
capture what I wanted, and the film showed me a mirror instead...
Here is the couple I chose to represent my experience of romantic heaven.
This was the only shot I managed to get of them that fit my pre-conceived
notion of intimacy.
This couple had their own kind of intimacy, one mostly comprised of humour
and play.
The fact that this one so-called successful shot was taken through a window
makes me wonder if the film is trying to show me that my desire to represent
a memory of love is actually a form of exhibitionism, forcing you the
viewer into the position of voyeur.
Perhaps an even worse form of exhibitionism is this recreation of a childhood
trauma of mine.
My young single mother couldn't pay her bills, and was forced to place
me in the care of my grandparents for two years.
Although I didn't have any technical problems capturing this footage,
when watching it, it makes me wonder if by showing you these images I
am engaging in a form of forced group therapy.
Am I simply trying to elicit your sympathy so that I can feel better about
what happened to me?
The most hellish experience of my life so far was the death of my grandfather
in my arms at 4 am on Christmas morning, 1997.
I am truly embarrassed to admit this, but I had actually planned to recreate
that scene as well.
But this, the film would not allow. Every time I tried to represent it,
I became totally blocked and unmotivated.
I heard the voice of the film telling me that it was a narcissistic sin
to impose those terrible images on you. I am relieved that I gave up on
that idea.
When I stopped trying to control my film, and allowed it to unfold in
front of my camera-eye, the images I discovered filled me with peaceful
delight.
They teach me that life's beauty and horror are part of the same continuum,
and that to reduce it to black and white, good and evil, heaven and hell,
is simply a reflection of my need to fill the void at the centre of my
being.
I am alone, the umbilical cord was cut long ago, and my existence, as
well as that of the entire universe, will always remain a mystery to me.
Now that this film is completed, I am left with many questions:
Why am I a filmmaker? What right do I have to impose my vision on you?
Is communication possible between an artist and an audience, especially
given that we rarely meet each other.
What good am I doing for the world by making films?
I doubt I’ll ever know the answers to these questions, but I am grateful
to this film for making me ask them, and for opening my eyes to the layers,
ambiguities, and subtleties of my life.
c. 2001 Geneviève Appleton
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