JARMUSCH, INDEPENDENT FILMMAKER

Biography:

At school he was dyslexic, and they thought he was stupid because he jumbled his letters. But he turned out to be smart, a good regurgitator, and passed exams easily.
Jarmusch went to Columbia University in New York, where he did a degree in English and French literature. New York was alive, exhilarating, as far removed from Akron as possible. It was the mid-70s, American punk was about to flourish, and he mixed with a bunch of musicians and poets and actors and performance artists - Joey Ramone, Iggy Pop, John Lurie, Richard Hell. They went clubbing at places like CBGBs and Max's Kansas City, and talked up their ideas.
Jarmusch himself played synthesizer and oddly tuned guitars for the Del Byzantines, a band that opened for many British bands, including Echo and the Bunnymen and New Order. He also wrote, and continues to write, poetry.

Foreign influence:

When one lists the number of filmmakers that Jarmusch alludes to, it reads like a dictionary of the cinema. A quick survey: Jarmusch had all of Antonioni's movies screened before shooting Down by Law (with its Wim Wender-like images provided by cinematographer Robby Müller) because, he has said, Antonioni is so elegant in the way he can let the scene go past its normal length, or the shot even, and the whole weight of the scene changes, the essence'. (Other filmmakers mentioned in the interview include Ray, Kurosawa, Ozu, Godard, Rivette, Eustache, Vertov, Ruiz, Fellini, Lang, Sirk, Ulmer and Vigo.) Why does he use homages? At times it is indeed a wink to his audience, underlining his status as a global filmmaker. More fundamentally, Jarmusch sees something inherently American about this clash (as opposed to integration) of references: 'America's kind of a throwaway culture that's made of this mixture of different cultures. To make a film about America, it seems to me logical to have at least one perspective that's transplanted here from some other culture, because ours is a collection of transplanted influences.' This sense of what it means to be American spawns the educative function of Jarmusch's cinema; his is a kind of model for other Americans who want to make films not based on established Hollywood or television style.
Broken flowers is dedicated to French director Jean Eustach. Jean Eustache made a phenomenal film in the 1960's titled, "The Mother and The Whore". He had an influence on John Cassavetes and likewise both had an influence on Jim Jarmusch. In an interview, Jarmusch said he felt close to Eustache for his commitment to making films in a unique and independent fashion.


Music:

Movies are very musical…To me, music is the most pure form of art in that it communicates something immediately and it doesn't necessarily have to be restricted by your understanding of a language. And film is a lot like music in that a film has a rhythm like a piece of music. You start a film and that rhythm takes you through the story that's being told or the length of time the film lasts. The same way with a piece of music. They're closely related with rhythm: the cutting of the film, the way a camera moves, and the way a story is put together.


Jarmusch as independent filmmaker:

"I'm stubborn. I have to fight. The studios want to be your partner in the creative process. That's why I find most of my financing overseas. I don't let the Money give me notes on my scripts. I don't allow the Money on the set. I don't allow the Money in the editing room. These days, even the little independent studios, they act like Hollywood. Some kid is making a movie for $500,000, and they want the final cut. Seems like the squares are taking over everything."

Jarmusch is every bit as cool as his characters - shades, silver chain attached to his black pants, that thick white hair he's had for ever, and a deep, deep Lee Marvin voice. He looks a little anachronistic, is uncertain about whether to smoke and, despite the great voice fails to catch the waitress attention.

Jarmusch's most perceptive commentator Jonathan Rosenbaum presciently wrote in a 1992 review of Night on Earth:
Jarmusch is mainly honoured and rewarded to the extent that he turns out familiar goods (attitude as style, star as icon, road as the world) rather than assumes any risks. The paradoxical upshot is that our most photogenic representative of artistic independence and freedom is often rewarded for doing the same things over and over again. (178-fifty major filmmakers)
To me, 'independent' means staying independent from your work being dictated to, or formed by, some concept of a marketplace…. 'Independent' means being artistically free.

Peculiarities of Jarmusch’s films:

• He has great emphasis on music in his movies.
• His camera moves so slowly that senses look like stills.
• His movies often have no obvious beginning, no obvious end, and not much of the story in the middle.
• His characters seem so self-consciously cool that you want to slap them.
• His stories are absurd to the point of being unbelievable.
• What makes his stories funny and humane is that they are riddled with uncertainties.
• His characters tend to be losers, drifters, and strays. They’d never say as much, but these are people who don’t know home is.
• His films are existential road movies, whether the characters are driving (Night on Earth, Stranger than Paradise), riding horses (Dead Man) or running and swimming to freedom (Down by Law).
• Often casts musicians as actors in his films.
• His films often involve travelers as well as life after midnight.
• His films are about communication or crippled communication. People who love each other or grew to love each other can talk to each other.
• Dramatic moments are often offstaged in his films.
  
  Quotes:

• "I am interested in the non-dramatic moments in life. I'm not at all attracted to making films that are about drama. A few years back, I saw a biopic about a famous American abstract expressionist artist. And you know what? It really horrified me. All they did was reduce his life to the big dramatic moments you could pick out of any biography. If that's supposed to be a portrait of somebody, I just don't get it. It's so reductive. It just seems all wrong to me."
• "It's great that the audience have their own different takes on what they have just seen, and don't know all the answers. Often, I don't know all the answers either.
• "The beauty of life is in small details, not in big events."
• "Aw, man, is that the only adjective they know? It's like every time I make a goddamn movie, the word "quirky" is hauled out in the American reviews. Now I see it's being applied to Wes Anderson, too. All of a sudden, his films are quirky. And Sofia Coppola is quirky. It's just so goddamn lazy."
• "I know. It's all so . . . independent. I'm so sick of that word. I reach for my revolver when I hear the word 'quirky.' Or 'edgy.' Those words are now becoming labels that are slapped on products to sell them. Anyone who makes a film that is the film they want to make, and it is not defined by marketing analysis or a commercial enterprise, is independent. My movies are kind of made by hand. They're not polished -- they're sort of built in the garage. It's more like being an artisan in some way."
• "I consider myself a dilettante in a positive way, and I always have. That affects my sense of filmmaking."
• "I feel so lucky. During the late 70's in New York, anything seemed possible. You could make a movie or a record and work part time, and you could find an apartment for 160 bucks a month. And the conversations were about ideas. No one was talking about money. It was pretty amazing. But looking back is dangerous. I don't like nostalgia. But, still, damn, it was fun. I'm glad I was there."
• "I prefer to be subcultural rather than mass-cultural. I'm not interested in hitting the vein of the mainstream."
• "I'm happiest when I'm shooting the movie. Filming is like sex. Writing the script is like seduction, then shooting is like sex because you're doing the movie with other people. Editing is like being pregnant, and then you give birth and they take your baby away. After this process is done, I will watch the movie one more time with a paying audience that doesn't know I'm there, and then I will never see it again. I'm so sick of it."
• "I never talk to actors as a group. Only one at a time. I talk to them about being their characters. Never, ever, about the meaning of the scene. I don't want the actors overladen with research, so they grow stale."

Golden Rules of Jarmusch:

1. There are no rules. There are as many ways to make a film as there are potential filmmakers. It’s an open form. Anyway, I would personally never presume to tell anyone else what to do or how to do anything. To me that’s like telling someone else what their religious beliefs should be. Fuck that. That’s against my personal philosophy—more of a code than a set of “rules.” Therefore, disregard the “rules” you are presently reading, and instead consider them to be merely notes to myself. One should make one’s own “notes” because there is no one way to do anything. If anyone tells you there is only one way, their way, get as far away from them as possible, both physically and philosophically.
2. Don’t let the fuckers get ya. They can either help you, or not help you, but they can’t stop you. People who finance films, distribute films, promote films and exhibit films are not filmmakers. They are not interested in letting filmmakers define and dictate the way they do their business, so filmmakers should have no interest in allowing them to dictate the way a film is made. Carry a gun if necessary. Also, avoid sycophants at all costs. There are always people around who only want to be involved in filmmaking to get rich, get famous, or get laid. Generally, they know as much about filmmaking as George W. Bush knows about hand-to-hand combat.
3. The production is there to serve the film. The film is not there to serve the production. Unfortunately, in the world of filmmaking this is almost universally backwards. The film is not being made to serve the budget, the schedule, or the resumes of those involved. Filmmakers who don’t understand this should be hung from their ankles and asked why the sky appears to be upside down.
4. Filmmaking is a collaborative process. You get the chance to work with others whose minds and ideas may be stronger than your own. Make sure they remain focused on their own function and not someone else’s job, or you’ll have a big mess. But treat all collaborators as equals and with respect. A production assistant who is holding back traffic so the crew can get a shot is no less important than the actors in the scene, the director of photography, the production designer or the director. Hierarchy is for those whose egos are inflated or out of control, or for people in the military. Those with whom you choose to collaborate, if you make good choices, can elevate the quality and content of your film to a much higher plane than any one mind could imagine on its own. If you don’t want to work with other people, go paint a painting or write a book. (And if you want to be a fucking dictator, I guess these days you just have to go into politics...).
5. Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is nonexistent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery—celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: “It’s not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.”
   

War

By Luigi Pirandello

The passengers who had left Rome by the night express had had to stop until dawn at the small station of Fabriano in order to continue their journey by the small old-fashioned local joining the main line with Sulmona.
At dawn, in a stuffy and smoky second-class carriage in which five people had already spent the night, a bulky woman in deep mourning was hosted in—almost like a shapeless bundle. Behind her—puffing and moaning, followed her husband—a tiny man; thin and weakly, his face death-white, his eyes small and bright and looking shy and uneasy.
Having at last taken a seat he politely thanked the passengers who had helped his wife and who had made room for her; then he turned round to the woman trying to pull down the collar of her coat and politely inquired:
"Are you all right, dear?"
The wife, instead of answering, pulled up her collar again to her eyes, so as to hide her face.
"Nasty world," muttered the husband with a sad smile.
And he felt it his duty to explain to his traveling companions that the poor woman was to be pitied for the war was taking away from her her only son, a boy of twenty to whom both had devoted their entire life, even breaking up their home at Sulmona to follow him to Rome, where he had to go as a student, then allowing him to volunteer for war with an assurance, however, that at least six months he would not be sent to the front and now, all of a sudden, receiving a wire saying that he was due to leave in three days' time and asking them to go and see him off.
The woman under the big coat was twisting and wriggling, at times growling like a wild animal, feeling certain that all those explanations would not have aroused even a shadow of sympathy from those people who—most likely—were in the same plight as herself. One of them, who had been listening with particular attention, said:
"You should thank God that your son is only leaving now for the front. Mine has been sent there the first day of the war. He has already come back twice wounded and been sent back again to the front."
"What about me? I have two sons and three nephews at the front," said another passenger.
"Maybe, but in our case it is our only son," ventured the husband.
"What difference can it make? You may spoil your only son by excessive attentions, but you cannot love him more than you would all your other children if you had any. Parental love is not like bread that can be broken to pieces and split amongst the children in equal shares. A father gives all his love to each one of his children without discrimination, whether it be one or ten, and if I am suffering now for my two sons, I am not suffering half for each of them but double..."
"True...true..." sighed the embarrassed husband, "but suppose (of course we all hope it will never be your case) a father has two sons at the front and he loses one of them, there is still one left to console him...while..."
"Yes," answered the other, getting cross, "a son left to console him but also a son left for whom he must survive, while in the case of the father of an only son if the son dies the father can die too and put an end to his distress. Which of the two positions is worse? Don't you see how my case would be worse than yours?"
"Nonsense," interrupted another traveler, a fat, red-faced man with bloodshot eyes of the palest gray.
He was panting. From his bulging eyes seemed to spurt inner violence of an uncontrolled vitality which his weakened body could hardly contain.
"Nonsense, "he repeated, trying to cover his mouth with his hand so as to hide the two missing front teeth. "Nonsense. Do we give life to our own children for our own benefit?"
The other travelers stared at him in distress. The one who had had his son at the front since the first day of the war sighed: "You are right. Our children do not belong to us, they belong to the country..."
"Bosh," retorted the fat traveler. "Do we think of the country when we give life to our children? Our sons are born because...well, because they must be born and when they come to life they take our own life with them. This is the truth. We belong to them but they never belong to us. And when they reach twenty they are exactly what we were at their age. We too had a father and mother, but there were so many other things as well...girls, cigarettes, illusions, new ties...and the Country, of course, whose call we would have answered—when we were twenty—even if father and mother had said no. Now, at our age, the love of our Country is still great, of course, but stronger than it is the love of our children. Is there any one of us here who wouldn't gladly take his son's place at the front if he could?"
There was a silence all round, everybody nodding as to approve.
"Why then," continued the fat man, "should we consider the feelings of our children when they are twenty? Isn't it natural that at their age they should consider the love for their Country (I am speaking of decent boys, of course) even greater than the love for us? Isn't it natural that it should be so, as after all they must look upon us as upon old boys who cannot move any more and must sit at home? If Country is a natural necessity like bread of which each of us must eat in order not to die of hunger, somebody must go to defend it. And our sons go, when they are twenty, and they don't want tears, because if they die, they die inflamed and happy (I am speaking, of course, of decent boys). Now, if one dies young and happy, without having the ugly sides of life, the boredom of it, the pettiness, the bitterness of disillusion...what more can we ask for him? Everyone should stop crying; everyone should laugh, as I do...or at least thank God—as I do—because my son, before dying, sent me a message saying that he was dying satisfied at having ended his life in the best way he could have wished. That is why, as you see, I do not even wear mourning..."
He shook his light fawn coat as to show it; his livid lip over his missing teeth was trembling, his eyes were watery and motionless, and soon after he ended with a shrill laugh which might well have been a sob.
"Quite so...quite so..." agreed the others.
The woman who, bundled in a corner under her coat, had been sitting and listening had—for the last three months—tried to find in the words of her husband and her friends something to console her in her deep sorrow, something that might show her how a mother should resign herself to send her son not even to death but to a probable danger of life. Yet not a word had she found amongst the many that had been said...and her grief had been greater in seeing that nobody—as she thought—could share her feelings.
But now the words of the traveler amazed and almost stunned her. She suddenly realized that it wasn't the others who were wrong and could not understand her but herself who could not rise up to the same height of those fathers and mothers willing to resign themselves, without crying, not only to the departure of their sons but even to their death.
She lifted her head, she bent over from her corner trying to listen with great attention to the details which the fat man was giving to his companions about the way his son had fallen as a hero, for his King and his Country, happy and without regrets. It seemed to her that she had stumbled into a world she had never dreamt of, a world so far unknown to her, and she was so pleased to hear everyone joining in congratulating that brave father who could so stoically speak of his child's death.
Then suddenly, just as if she had heard nothing of what had been said and almost as if waking up from a dream, she turned to the old man, asking him:
"Then...is your son really dead?"
Everyone stared at her. The old man, too, turned to look at her, fixing his great, bulging, horribly watery light gray eyes, deep in her face. For some time he tried to answer, but words failed him. He looked and looked at her, almost as if only then—at that silly, incongruous question—he had suddenly realized at last that his son was really dead—gone for ever—for ever. His face contracted, became horribly distorted, then he snatched in haste a handkerchief from his pocket and, to the amazement of everyone, broke into harrowing, heart-breaking, uncontrollable sobs.