Mania: As I was checking my flight seat numbers from London to Venice, my eyes fell upon a tall, muscular man with bright, curly hair and fair skin. I felt like I had seen him somewhere before. After hesitating for a moment, I passed by him, unsure if I was mistaken, and settled into my seat. Before the flight from Iran to London, I was worried about being banned from leaving the country. Even after passing through the airport gate, I couldn’t believe that I was about to fly to Venice to screening my film at the festival. With the same fear, anxiety, and exhaustion from the stress and turmoil of leaving Iran, I pondered what to do upon returning. With these conflicting thoughts, I drifted off to sleep in my seat, only to wake up as the plane began its descent.  As I exited, I saw the same man with the same characteristics standing in the aisle, engaged in conversation with someone nearby in a thick British accent. Our eyes met again briefly, and I quickly averted my gaze. The excitement of my film “Twenty Fingers,” my first feature film, rushed through my mind like a whirlwind. What was it about the struggle, energy, excitement and commotion, and historic female outcry captured by the digital camera, without permission from the Iranian regime, with a group of six, that had now led me to these waters in Venice, where my film was to be shown for the first time on the wild, separating and connecting screen of ourselves, life, and death. while my memories tread between the screen and the audience. We arrived! As I waited for the festival host group to transfer us to the hotel, I found myself next to the same man again! It seemed he was also a guest at the Venice film festival! We were separated, and I got into a larger car while he was taken away in a smaller, more exclusive car. Both cars had the Venice festival emblem on them. My gaze lingered, surely, he was a filmmaker. When I arrived at the hotel and the opening ceremony began, I realized it was indeed filmmaker “Mike Figgis,” the one whose love was spinning in ” Leaving Las Vegas” while in Iran. “Ali Filmi,” with his motorbike and film reel in his suitcase, brought us a film every week. His first words were always: “Hello, Leaving Las Vegas, Mike Figgs, starring Nicholas Cage, now in even better quality.” Every week, he would put a better quality film in the suitcase, delivering films door-to-door on his motorbike in Tehran, and I remember vividly, your name was written in Persian on the VHS tape in blue and Nicholas’s name in red. Five stars were drawn beside your name with a red pen, indicating it was among the best and highest quality films. I recognized you from inside Ali Filmi’s suitcase in Iran. From Ali Filmi’s suitcase in Iran to a boat that brought us closer to the hotel on the Venice sea, it was a history of suppression, resilience, and female resistance that was indescribable.

On the boat ride towards the hotel, there was a silence between us, staring into the horizon, with no conversation, no greetings, no goodbyes exchanged! My mind was restless and anxious on the boat, pondering my return home, knowing that the film, uncensored and unauthorized, created as a young female filmmaker with no backing or support, put me in great danger. It was not a time of hashtags or social media. It was 2004, with countless arrests and executions happening silently and covertly, with numerous voices silenced under oppression and tyranny. I spent many days in Venice in these fears and anxieties, until my name was called out in a hall. I stood up calmly, my steps heavy, and once again, I saw “Mike Figgs” on stage holding an award. My hands were trembling as I approached, unsure how to thank you in front of the cameras. I reached out and took the award, and now I didn’t know how to express my gratitude to you. I wanted to come close, embrace you, and plant a kiss on your cheek, as you had liked my film. But suddenly, the innocent eyes of my son appeared before me. He was in Iran and only twelve years old, and I knew I had to return to Iran. Involuntarily, I withdrew my hand and took a step back. It was shameful for me to experience a moment of receiving an award for a film that stood for courage, taboo-breaking, feminism, and the breaking of cinematic structures. And now, unable to shake hands and kiss the cheek of a filmmaker who had rented me his film dozens of times with better qualities through “Ali Filmi,” and now he had chosen my film, “Twenty Fingers.” I couldn’t bring myself, as a woman, to shake his hand and kiss his cheek. The contradiction in that moment was poignant, and the doubt it created in me was a space where I had to deeply understand suppression, living with your feminine body in a patriarchal, oppressive, and controlling society. I was brave in my film, yet in that moment of doubt, I couldn’t even shake your hand to thank you for awarding my film. Tears welled up in my eyes as I placed the award in the suitcase, realizing that I wouldn’t be able to return to Iran for about two months, and I would be on a journey. Now tell me, why did you like “Twenty Fingers”? What did you see in the film that made you decide it was the best film? How does it feel to know that during those years, you were popular in Ali Filmi’s suitcase in Tehran, and your film was rented door-to-door on VHS by “Ali Filmi,”? 

Mike: Hi Mania – I’m struggling with Google and its tentacles-but that has become a part of all of lives now. I never anticipated that the Digital Revolution would become this “world Domination’ event. I’m thrilled to learn that I was a popular ‘Suitcase Director’ though. I remember the festival well, and how we tentatively met there as well as our subsequent meetings. I was always a huge fan of the I CHING and the concept of chance as a vital element in our existence.  The festival was … well it was a festival and on arrival one sinks into the atmosphere of strange behavior. eating late, having many conversations and putting on some kind of show. Being a jury member is different from being a contestant (for that is what it is – it’s a bunch of horse races). But what both states have in common for me is the feeling of unreality, quite the opposite of the feeling of actually making a film. Your description of your own feelings was poignant. I always try to take a camera with me and still imbued with the enthusiasm of digital freedoms I decided almost immediately that I would use the time to make a film, a film about the experience of being stuck in a festival. I guess this was some kind of armor, a sense that I was ‘doing something’. Actually the film is quite funny.

When I watch films I usually get confused about many things. Why the film was made, how the film was made, how the plots are all minor variations of the same number of limited themes…that kind of stuff. It helps if the actors are good looking but that alone cannot sustain interest. I see the struggle and  I’m sympathetic, filmmaking is very difficult. Then I saw your film! The first minutes of any film are interesting, even a bad film will usually have an ok beginning but to my receptors it is already possible to see the future, However with TWENTY FINGERS I was very quickly alert and focussed. Something about the energy and the intent had my complete attention. And of course this was in some ways familiar technical territory. I had been playing with these cameras for a while and knew how powerful they were (in the right hands). FESTEN had blown me away but that was more about the story rather than the tech. I always said that FESTEn could have been shot on any format. But this was different, the camera work was in a different class and totally in the service/marriage of the narrative. This was a rare example of the ‘new’ cinema. Finally we were beginning to see examples of the contemporary art that is pure cinema. Not an experimental film – a pure film. I remained focussed throughout, never once losing my focus and thinking of other things. As Jung so beautifully put it – there is no need to SUSPEND YOUR DISBELIEF, in a great ‘story’ you enter what he calls PARTICIPATION MYSTIQUE.

The digital section of the Venice Festival was clearly not given the focus of the ‘MAIN EVENT’ so i was relatively free to mingle with the press photographers and be outside the red carpet and do my little film. On prize day I was told that my services would not be required on National live TV so I decided to drink. Somewhat drunk I set off for the ceremony where I was informed of a change of plan, now I was to present the prize on live TV. Mania, I was drunk!!! But happily so and decided what a great shot that would be if i filmed myself and all of the celeb’s as I went on stage. I have never been invited back – but I am so happy that I got to give you the prize for your remarkable film and the beginning of our relationship. NEXT QUESTION???? 

Mania: The story of the digital camera at the Venice Festival was so thrilling. At fourteen, I was a painter, condemned to visualization due to dyslexia issues. My mind transcended numbers and mathematics, delving into the understanding of images, colors, forms, and spaces. Then, on my twenty-first birthday, my second husband gifted me a small digital camera. It was like a magical box. Every day, I would buy a roll of small-sized film from the local supermarket, load it into the camera, and capture life at home. I remember the first time I placed the camera on some baskets and pots in the kitchen, pressed the record button, and started crying while washing dishes, pondering why I was born a human instead of a seabird. After finishing the dishes, I pressed the camera’s film button and rewound, watching myself in the tiny screen. It was incredibly thrilling, and I continued this playful exploration with the camera and my two children, one from my husband and the other myself, every day. I was constantly filming and watching scenes of my real life. I discovered a strange phenomenon: when you see real life through the camera, you start thinking of real life as if it were a continuous film, perhaps a real film! However, my first serious cinematic endeavor began with an invitation from Mahvash Sheikholeslami, a highly experienced documentary filmmaker, who, upon learning that I had a digital camera, asked me to explore locations in southern Iran. We embarked on a journey to Qeshm, a city with a remarkably strange and sun-drenched nature, to initiate my experimental cinematic work.  However, since I understood framing and composition from my background in painting, every frame I set up to explore a location excited her more and more, instilling confidence in me along with her encouragement to create a film right there with the same camera. We entered the restricted customs area with the same small camera, where women and children were required to receive identification cards for entry and work. The gates were closed, and they wouldn’t allow us to enter the vast courtyard of the area. Eventually, we found a ladder next to a wall and placed it beside a small room with a ceiling and a wall. Both of us climbed the ladder and we went to the rooftop and  started filming the courtyard and the people below. It was noon, and the sun was hot. I could feel droplets of sweat under my clothes and headscarf, slowly soaking my body. Mahvash exclaimed with excitement, “Film that woman, that woman in red!” while I zoomed in with a button and framed the shot, recording. We were engrossed in filming with our little camera when we noticed several uniformed men approaching us from the direction behind the house where we were. To prevent them from reaching us from above, we quickly pulled up a ladder and severed all contact with the ground. They shouted, “What are you doing up there? Come down now!” Despite the increasing number of police officers, we continued filming, eventually paying little attention. We saw a police car approaching the building, and we sensed the situation was becoming serious. We hurriedly brought down the ladder from the rooftop to the ground and descended the stairs. Mahvash placed the camera in her bag, and at the end the police took her away. Interestingly, despite their efforts, the police couldn’t uncover anything from that small filming camera, nor could they remove the film from the camera. Eventually, Mahvash, with those films along with my filming, made a documentary called “Green Card.” This was my first experience of experimental cinema. In a way, I started cinema with lawlessness and breaking the rules of control and governing and with resistance and struggle. In a way, it was a sneaky camera that was supposed to reveal the truths that were hidden behind the closed doors of the power systems. It was as if it was supposed to give a voice to what was meant to remain silent. The image of two women in the restricted area, raising the ladder with a digital camera, and then some men pulling it down, but ultimately those two women, with resistance and courage, accomplishing what they intended to do, shaped my entire filmmaking journey. I owe cinema to the trust of a woman documentary filmmaker who trusted and taught me to fight and resist. 

How was your first experience with cinema? How did you decide to make a film? Or perhaps I should ask, how did you realize you were a filmmaker and had to bring your stories to the big screen? Because you were  educated at Kenton Comprehensive School (the musicians Ian Carr and John Walters were among your teachers there). You studied music at Trent Park College, then part of the Institute of Education, University of London. What happens when you start to write a script and direct a film? 

Mike: The first film I can recall was THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE. My English grandmother had a tv and I saw it there. I watched it again a few years ago and it was still a compelling piece of cinema. But my ambition from 12 onwards was to be a jazz musician or a cartoonist. Encouraged by my dad and the teachers you mention, I studied music in London. London at that time (late 60’s) was alive with innovation. I joined an avent garde music group, which led me directly to experimental performance art (THE PEOPLE BAND and the PEOPLE SHOW). This was an intense period of 10 years during which time I absorbed everything. Godard, Bergman, Bunuel, Coltrane, Kantor, Miles. I decided to study film  but was rejected by the National Film School because of my experimental performance background. This was a good thing. I formed my own company and began making films designed to be part of live performance. Same actors on stage and in the film, blurring reality and perception, exploring dream state etc. It all seemed very plausible to me. I began on Super 8 but then 16mm appealed to me and I bought an ancient Arri ST and went to NY to shoot whatever took my fancy, incorporating it into a performance called ANIMALS OF THE CITY. I was intrigued by cameras, how they worked, how they felt in the hand, I still am. I would study photographs (Brassai, Bresson, Man Ray) and try to figure out how the lighting was achieved. What particularly thrilled me though was the realization that cinema was the ultimate art form, the combination of all the aesthetics of sound, music, photography and literature. And that the possibilities were infinite.

I quickly became confident with the camera and my dear friend Ritsaert Ten Cate asked me to film an experimental theatre piece at his Mickery Theatre in Amsterdam. Rembrandt, Hitler or Me was a performance that took place simultaneously in three different spaces, the audience came on three consecutive nights and saw different perspectives. A great show. My confidence gave me wings – at my request he rented a film crane that would give me access to all three spaces. He loaned me the money to buy an Aaton Super 16mm camera and a set of prime lenses. I arrived in Amsterdam with one assistant. I’d never used the camera before and when I set it up with the primes I got a shock. All the lenses I’d bought (35mm,50mm, 80mm) were twice the focal length than I’d thought – this because 16mm is half the size of 35mm. Not wanting to admit my stupidity I carried on and for the next 10 days, perched on my crane in a dimly lit space I pulled focus and prayed that it would be alright. Also the thing about shooting on film is that until you see the result (in this case 5 days later) you live in fear of the lab report. I’m happy to tell you that it was all ok, my eyes were good. I will show you the film, it’s rather interesting.

Mania: Dear Mike,it’s been quite an unusual experience. I didn’t know your response was waiting for me here, and I had imagined I would receive a notification via email. I had been feeling quite disheartened lately, and ironically, today I was watching a series and realized how significant the role of letters and postmen is in cinema. Letters sometimes change the story of a film. In recent days, I’ve been anxiously checking my email inbox and mailbox to see if I have a letter from you. Today, I went to check the Google Doc and realized that on February 28th, the same day I responded to you, I spent a week waiting anxiously for the postman to ring the computer. It was such a strange feeling when I saw your response standing there firmly, and I read the words as if they were carried by the wind. Now, I’m responding swiftly.  Contemporary humans, despite the significant advancements and technological changes, still have a need for dialogue, conversation, and the sharing of memories and experiences with each other. It’s as if, by writing your past, you bring a vivid film of your life and history to life for me. Images rush past my eyes like scenes from a movie, and I bear witness to your narrative. However, after making the film “Twenty Fingers,” I found myself at the pinnacle of travels and the success and the I had breast cancer. At that time, I was busy writing a screenplay in which we discover that a man, who we later realize is a woman, commits suicide in a train compartment, and the entire film unfolds on a train. As I was writing the suicide moment by moment, I realized that a death was living within me, and I was supposed to bid farewell to life at the peak of my youth and filmmaking career, succumbing to stage four cancer. The making of that film was halted, and I decided to bring life and death in front of the camera, documenting the chemotherapy journey and portraying roles with professional actors in front of the camera, determined to see it through to the end. It was challenging to make films freely without permits and under the conditions of urban controls. On the day we were filming the cable car scene with a group of six quietly above the trees and the city under our feet, after a significant achievement between me and Behnaz, the actress opposite me, whom we were pleased with her performance, we reached the end point. We heard the sound of personal walkie-talkies and police, and I was sure we were about to be arrested. My cinematographer quickly took the small Mini DV film out of the camera and handed it to me, and I hid the film in my pants . We were directed into a room, women in one room and men in another. When the woman tried to search me, I told her I had cancer and we were visiting cancer patients for location scouting and we hadn’t filmed anything. The indifferent policewoman put on gloves to search me, but suddenly I unbuttoned my shirt and revealed my scarred chest. She screamed and said, “Button up, may God heal you,” and didn’t search my body. She rang the men’s room and said, “He’s telling the truth; he has cancer. Let them go,” and they prayed for my recovery and health, and we left. I put the film on the table at home and said, “We won,” and the filming scene that everyone was satisfied with and didn’t give up. After this incident, I had to go to Milan, Italy, for my fifth chemotherapy session, and my appearance had changed drastically. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I had lost my hair on my head and face, and my body was so swollen that I could hardly recognize myself.  With excruciating pain after three days of chemotherapy, I was sitting despondently at the airport on my way back to Tehran, thinking, “What’s the point? We’re all going to die anyway. Why bother making a film? What good is art in the face of this suffering and death?” Why aren’t these awards helping me now, and why isn’t there any solace to give a little hopeful spark and be a lifeline? In short, with self-reproach and contempt for myself and my path and life, suddenly you appeared in front of me at the airport! At first, I couldn’t believe it, and I thought it was just a slight resemblance, but I became sure from your voice that it was you. After 4 years I met you again!I came towards you and said, “Mike Figgis.” The striking point was that in those days, even my close friends didn’t recognize me, but you recognized me without hesitation! I quickly gathered myself and said, “I have cancer and I’m undergoing chemotherapy.” I asked, “How did you recognize me?” and you replied, “From your voice!” You hugged me and didn’t show any surprise, just gave me your email address and left. Mike, in that moment, you were the answer to the moments before, somehow coming to tell me that I’ll survive. I don’t know why seeing you gave me a message that life is strange and I will survive. Mike, how much do you believe in the energy, universe, and hidden secrets in the path and creation of art and cinema? I don’t believe all control is in our hands; sometimes directing is allowing life to direct you. How valuable do you consider coincidence, Mike? I don’t want to talk superstitiously, but I believe there are secrets we don’t know, and even art is not a discoverer of secrets but rather a questioner of secrets. By the way, we should watch that film together THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE.  Ah, other important question,  Martin scorsese said that he is making films for his musics that why he is a filmmaker. You start your art career as a musician. What do you think about the connection between your films and music? 

Mike: I love the idea of this format but as ever the technology doesn’t make it as easy as it should be. I have just laid down the last music cue on the Doc’. It’s been a tough three weeks dominated by software glitches as well as the usual challenges of working with people, power moves and egos (my own for sure). I’m sorry you were waiting. I will tell the software to inform you in future.

My life has been dominated by two things in particular…MUSIC and COINCIDENCE. At a very early age I became aware of Jung and his idea of chance and it seemed to make sense to me. It still does. Recently the realization that everything fits together has re-inspired my love of cinema. I have an archive of recorded imagery. Not just visual narrative, but moments.And sound and music. I have begun editing these elements into new and strange sequences. What fascinates me is that they quickly recognize each other and a new kind of narrative begins to emerge and quickly the brain participates and becomes connected. What seemed to be unconnected, disparate elements have a new energy. Combining something recorded 40 years ago sits happily with an I-phone moment. It’s a little overwhelming to realize that a completely new form/landscape exists that is not confined by the (sometimes beautiful) straightjacket of narrative plot. Two films by Godard tipped me into this half realized notion. His Histoire(s) du Cinema and more recently I managed to get a BluRay of HAIL MARY.  Editing the doc’ became a necessity after watching two editors reduce my footage to a dull sequence of Proto logical politeness forced me to take a deep breath and begin at the beginning. But it interrupted my new journey. 

A strange thing is that for the past period I have had a diminishing interest in the public – not a great ambition for a filmmaker, but in the past I have found myself often talked out of any radical moves.

It makes me happy to hear that our meetings helped you. The co-incidences were extreme in one sense but at the same time they seemed perfectly normal to me.

In the 90’s I met a man called Ken Whelan in NY. He was a hipster philosopher who’d been in prison and then became an activist to improve prisons in the US. We had great talks and I recorded one of them. Many years later I was briefly back in NY and I went into a cafe one morning and he came to my mind. And there he was at the counter. I said hello and without a pause he continued the conversation, showing no surprise at all.

Dreams are probably the key to many of the questions. Not the dreams themselves, often they are a bit superficial, but the fact of dream-state is something we need to always be connected to. I would say that all meditations and trances and artistic energy are some kind of attempt to connect with oneself. Music is of course the most instant journey. The hard part is not allowing one’s knowledge to be the dominant voice. But at the same time I don’t believe in limiting technique – it’s finding the balance that is the trick. I just finished another biography of Bergman – his favorite TV show was DALLAS! I sort of understand – a good K-drama is somehow more satisfying to me than 99% of mainstream cinema. Because they are all basically love stories. The plots are formulaic, the lighting is horribly bright..but some of the actresses have a special something that makes me want to watch them. Them, not the plot. My favorite quote from him (not a pleasant man by all accounts) is this..

CINEMA IS THE ONGOING EXPLORATION OF THE HUMAN FACE. 

Mania: Dear Mike, it’s half past midnight, and I’m still struggling through the hardships of COVID illness I’ve contracted. But reading your response several times tonight, amid the illness that fuels my depression, has been life-affirming and energizing. Your nuanced perspective is enjoyable to read. But let me tell you, my relationship with music is paralyzing in its melancholy and laden with trauma and prohibition. I was five years old when the revolution happened, and our home resonated with the sound of the gramophone from morning till night, as my father adored listening to the voices of Iranian female singers, including Marzieh and Delkash. After the revolution, Khomeini ordered that music was forbidden, and so were women’s voices. I remember we were on the road in northern Iran when my father played a cassette tape with Marzieh’s voice in the car, and we were enjoying it when suddenly a checkpoint stopped us, and the officer demanded the cassette. “What are you listening to?” he asked, and my father replied, “Marzieh!” The man who had stopped us shattered the cassette tape in front of my eyes. My relationship with music became intertwined with fear, anxiety, and distance. In a way, music turned into a forbidden part of my existence. Listening to music became a form of resistance for me. Therefore, to resist and continue the struggle, we always listened to music at home. I later became acquainted with classical music at the home of my painting master, named Patgar, which was part of our life, but this significant gap and trauma in my relationship with music remained. I never used music in my films because for years I had to listen to the sounds of society and urban life—people’s voices, the sound of wind, traffic noise, the call to prayer from the mosque, city sounds, car horns, traffic, and the cawing of crows on the roof of our house. I strengthened my ears with environmental sounds, and recently, I’ve been listening to Bach and Beethoven, but it might sound cliché, yet without Bach, my life doesn’t pass, like brushing my teeth has become part of my soul and body hygiene. Like a bath for the soul, this music remains and heals the soul. But still, I’m absent from music when I see the image; I immerse myself in the sounds of the environment. In a way, I like to close the frame and create the perspective of imagination and dream with sound. Yesterday, I framed the shot on a tulip flower with my camera and captured the sounds of birds, wind, and the buzzing of flies, placing them over the image, and created a perspective of a meadow on the tulip flower in a way painting with sound. By the way, these days, I was heavily engaged in watching films about sound. I watched “The Zone of Interest,” and it did exactly what I define as the integrity of music in film. He orchestrated music of malice and violence over the layout of life. It’s a masterpiece of a film. Although I was deeply disappointed after watching the film “Poor Things.” Have you seen the film, « The zone of Interest» and what is your opinion?

Mike:  get well soon, I hope the worst is over. I delivered the Coppola film last week and I’m enjoying the freedom to think about other things.Like films and music. Let’s begin with that. I have yet to watch Zone of Interest, to be honest his work has not particularly inspired me in the past but at the same time I admired him. He seemed to be trying a bit too hard to be ‘art’. However it raised interesting questions about how difficult it is to make artful films, something perhaps to do with control and the amount of time it takes which can rob all the joy of spontaneity from the process. However the reactions to his brave speech have made me want to watch his new film and I will no doubt be more open to it than I was before. Right now there is a horror show going on and for now we will discuss other things. I will however send you something I read in the GUARDIAN which has really alarmed me. The place that I will occupy in all future wars. I went to a cast and crew screening of POOR THINGS and found it to be very shallow and full of artifacts. The production designer SHONA HEATH is a friend of mine, she is brilliant in the high fashion world and I can see why the director wanted her for his film. I think this is another example of filmmakers wanting to be artists and knowing enough tricks from the back catalog of surrealism etc to craft narrative in this way. For me the biggest problem was the acting which of course takes us to the directing. It felt like one huge insider joke. I have this problem with the other Lanthimos films that I have seen. Clearly all of the actresses adore him and the theater rituals he likes and are willing to go the extra mile. The only film that has moved me is ANATOMY OF A FALL. Have you seen it? The Noland film could have (and should have) been shot on an Iphone. An excessively long talkie with possibly the most awkward sex scene of all time. Having just finished reading the Working Life of Godard I began re-exploring his later films and rewatched HAIL MARY which seemed to be a masterpiece to my eyes. So much so that I was inspired to go to my studio to begin re-editing various pieces of my own archive into new forms.

BACH – well yes. Without him and the late Beethoven quartets the world would be a radically different place. I can play some Bach on the guitar, I struggle with sight reading but it brings me such deep satisfaction and has been a lifetime journey. The interesting thing about Bach is that his 48 preludes and fugues radically changed the landscape of music because keys and tuning were standardized (this involved a degree of compromise because in truth F sharp is NOT THE SAME NOTE as G flat) However it opened the door to Western music, allowing the full exploration of keys and modulations etc. However, before Bach the music that was being composed was full of eccentric nuance and crazy tonalities and improvisation tonal possibilities. Not unlike the history of cinema, the advent of the ‘talkies’ etc.

~My batteries are about to die – I will recharge….

Interesting what you are saying – music as a form of resistance. During WW2 under nazi occupied Europe there were underground jazz bands. The 3rd Reich detested anything in a minor key and in 3 ⁄ 4 waltz time. Hitler worshiped Wagner. One day I realized that the melody of the Jewish song ‘My Yiddisher Momma’ was the same as Wagner’s theme for the RIDE OF THE VALKYRIES’. In Hollywood movies there was always the same fear of the minor chord – too sad, too mournful.

Music is always the last thing I put onto a film during the edit because I know that a line is being crossed and music is such a seduction that it’s hard to pull back from that position. Rarely I have a theme in place early on. During Leaving Las Vegas filming I played a theme to Nicolas Cage and Elisabeth Shue to let them know how I saw the story. But I agree with you about sound. What drew me to cinema was the mix of natural sound and underscore, the sound of breathing (of life) and of movement. How different are the sounds made by men and women? I just finished a rather dull biography of Bergman which makes no note of his use of sound – the same is true of Fellini. I could talk about that for hours.

Mania – I’m really enjoying our dialogues.

PS – Pauline Kael’s book on CITIZEN KANE is very good. She’s so intelligent and creates such a good context to revisit the film with fresh eyes

Mania: I must apologize for the long delay between our conversations. Your last response was so profoundly inspiring that I needed time to reflect before replying, and gradually, time created a distance. I found my thoughts scattered over various issues, unable to gather them for a meaningful conversation with you. But something very striking happened yesterday. Jeff Price, the New York-based filmmaker and artist, and I went to the Tate Museum to see Anthony McCall’s works. The lights in the dark space invited us into an experience where beams of light transformed into beautiful forms. Standing in front of a large mirror, I saw my full reflection for the first time in ages and was reminded of Merleau-Ponty, who said that seeing the eye of another allows you to see your own eye. In that moment, I felt a desire to respond to you, and the lost energy under the imaginative lights and spaces that Anthony had created began to stir my mind to write. Perhaps it was also Jeff’s warm, bright, kind, and humble presence that inspired me. There was a warmth that invited connection and conversation.

You mentioned the film “Poor Things,” and I am so glad to hear your critique. I found it to be an absolute disaster! An excessive insistence on elements that were completely unnecessary! Honestly, after his first and second films, he lost credibility for me. I no longer connect with his work; it feels like a fake show of force. There is no honesty in his art. On the other hand, “Anatomy of a Fall” is a masterpiece, a beautiful dark melody. It smells of truth. It’s the color of life—simple, fluid, and engaging without any slogans or insistence. The performances are brilliant, and the screenplay is extraordinary.

Lately, I’ve been reading Arabic and Persian articles to understand what is happening in the South and the world, to see what thinkers and intellectuals in the Global South are pondering and writing. My mind is scattered, and we are witnessing an unforgivable crime before our eyes, which is why the heartfelt speech at the Oscars was so valuable. He spoke of a truth that contradicted the Oscars’ usual needs, and it was very brave. But you know, I am contemplating our entrapment in this dreadful context. This absolute impotence—what can art and cinema do? What are they even for? What change or achievement have they brought to humanity?

Yesterday, Assange was released, and the constant stream of news makes it hard to concentrate on reading books. Beethoven remains my daily companion; without him, the days would be even darker and more hopeless. Last week, a shocking and cinematic event happened in our building. An ambulance arrived, went upstairs, and rang the bell without any response. They started breaking the door down. I rushed to the scene, and they said a woman at this address had called for help and now must be unconscious, unable to open the door. They broke the door, went inside, and I anxiously waited, expecting them to carry out a dead body from the hallway. It seemed our neighbor had certainly died, given that she didn’t come to the door despite all the noise. After a few minutes, they came out and said no one was inside! They closed the door and left.

The next day, the neighbor called me, saying I had to sign a complaint as a witness because the ambulance broke her door. She explained that she had felt unwell, called the ambulance, but when they said they wouldn’t come, she took a taxi to the hospital. At that moment, I thought, what a brilliant film this would make. If only there had been a camera to record everything—it was like a short surreal film. I was counting the seconds, expecting to see a dead or unconscious body in the hallway, and no one was inside. Yet, the ambulance and fire brigade broke down the door completely, and when they went inside, the neighbor’s cat was trembling under the bed! I shared this story to emphasize how poorly “Poor Things” was made. We don’t need such elaborate fantasies that stifle the human imagination. Fantasies that are pointless and neither satisfy the mind nor offer hope for the future.

You truly must see Anthony’s works at the Tate; cinema is precisely what he captures with light and darkness, inviting us to the deepest depths in the simplest way. But our friend’s film, which fortunately neither of us liked, in the most complex and fanciful ways, invites you to the shallowest emotions! What a futile effort… We must visit the Tate together and see the exhibition. By the way, it’s almost three in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to write to you. 

Dear Mike, also I saw on social media that you went to Venice, the city where we met, and then to the Cannes Film Festival. Let me know how that was. 

Mania – good to hear your voice again and I am happy to continue the dialogue forever. Yes, I was attending both cultural events, one supposedly of Art, the other supposedly of cinema. Venice was interesting for me because I went reluctantly, mainly to hang out with my partner, Rosey, but then with curiosity to see what is quickening the pulses of the art world. Cannes was a mix of the practical and business. Both events have a lot in common, mainly finance and fashion. I was there to shoot a coda to the Coppola docu’ I did last year, but as I was there I took various meetings to try and raise finance for two projects. One is overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the wealth in attendance. The rich flock to every possible gathering shadowed by the packs of stylists representing the trillion dollar fashion world. I could go on at length but I will sum it up like this. My passion project has a budget of $2 million. It’s set in South Korea and is half docu and half drama. It’s very good (hence my passion for it). It has been rejected by every so called hipster ‘Indie’ company, and the rejection email goes like this……”we love mike/his work is brilliant/this is a fascinating subject/but for us the budget is too small and the subject too niche”.

THE BUDGET IT TOO SMALL!!!!!!!! What the fuck is going on?

I will continue to try.

In Venice the emphasis was strongly cinematic and clearly the budgets were high. Everything was 8k and highly technical but entirely lacking in story. I think an example of the kind of art that emerges at the end of a period of decadence. But with the aim of showing the high cost of its creation. What I find amusing about all the genres is this…I was talking to a friend about modern dance, abstract dance, the kind of dance that often emphasizes the perfect bodies of the dancers. I was saying that some years ago whilst watching such a piece of work I realized that dance, like all art forms, has only a limited number of ‘moves’. 1. Run around the stage in a clockwise direction 2. Run around the stage in an ante-clockwise direction. 3. Jump up and down. 4. Lie down or stand up. 5. Wave the arms around (fast or slow) – plus a few more variations. Without some kind of humanistic narrative at work we are left observing the execution of the gestures. I think cinema and art in general have the same challenges. 

Having had a major boost in enthusiasm by rewatching Godard’s Hail Mary I now spend more time alone in my studio re-working all the things I have shot and recorded over the last half century. What I was reminded of watching his work was the truth that narrative doesn’t have to be linear or conventional, it just needs to make sense in your guts. One of the archives that I am looking at is of the Emerson Quartet rehearsing and talking about Beethoven’s Grosse Fuge, surely one of the aesthetic pinnacles of Western culture? Of course Godard has already incorporated Beethoven (and the Grosse Fugue) into several films already.

I loved your story about the neighbor.

Have you ever met Jonas Mekas? We became friends in the last 10 years of his life. A lovely guy. A breath of fresh air.Regarding Lanthimos etc… .he works for a lot of the critics because he is ’whacky’ and this equates as ‘experimental’ and ‘edgy’.

Happy to visit the Tate with you to see Anthoney’s work. Finally regarding your dark thoughts on whether Art is any longer worthwhile or effective…..I think we are going through a period where it seems that way for sure, but it is vital that we keep going despite it. You plant seeds and at some point they can blossom again. Younger generations have visionaries and they need to be encouraged.

much love xx mike

Mania: Dear Mike, You know, I’m writing to you from the plane. I don’t know why, but I remembered the movie “Love in Las Vegas.” That character, Nicolas Cage it’s as if a part of him exists in all of us—a terrifying force that tends towards self-destruction, wanting to ruin the game of life. It’s a kind of gradual suicide where you know some actions are harmful, but you push yourself to the brink of destruction, to the end, wanting to end it all, yourself and everything else. Maybe it’s a sort of love for death, going to the edge of collapse, feeling your emotions and self shattering, and then suddenly pausing, saying, “No, I want to go on; I want to return to life.” You wake up from your stupor and wonder what it was—a terrifying feeling of emptiness. Today, I strongly felt connected to the character in your film. You want to leave, to destroy everything within yourself and around you. This disruption of the order of your existence, the order of things around you, what you were told is good, has an unbelievably intoxicating pleasure, but you know it’s dangerous.

I’ve had a profound love for loss throughout many years of my life, even losing myself. Although my psychoanalyst believes that staying and not losing anymore is healthy for me, considering how much I’ve lost. In my battles against patriarchy, society, and the system, I once found myself utterly alone in London, having lost everything, just like your film’s character Nicolas drunk, wandering the streets without a home, passport, money, or a bank account 11 years ago. I’ll never forget those moments of emptiness from everything. I was utterly empty, ready to go in any way. I reached the final point and then rose again, stepping back into life from the drunkenness and shadow of death. You know, everything had changed, and for the tenth time, I watched your film again. I was that hopeless yet hopeful character who didn’t even have the courage for a momentary suicide but wanted to go slowly. Now, here I am on the plane. to flight to Geneva for a panel talk to talk about “ Artistic Freedom Initiative” and invite you to hear from Afghan, Iranian and Russian artists about the challenges faced by women professionals in arts and culture who use their creative voices to confront systemic oppression and advocate for gender equality. The dialogue will underscore the urgent need for international solidarity, immediate action and the recognition of the role that artists play as human rights defenders”. This morning, I had a strange sense of triumph that a dream I’ve been nurturing is about to come true. But there are things within me that constantly want to destroy this moment of achievement. And again, I missed your film Nicolas. That character seems like you, doesn’t it? I thought, surely, Mike drew from his experiences to create him. 

Mike, I stepped off the plane and read your response. The intertwining of the cinematic world with the grand currents of the economy, and the fact that cinema stands as the most extravagant of contemporary arts, has a long history. This orphaned money typically wields control over every form of thought, and your endeavor to thrive in low-budget cinema is truly commendable. 

As I disembarked, I reflected on the many years I spent queuing interminably at airports due to my Iranian passport. Now, even with a British passport, I still find myself in long lines, no longer part of Europe. This relentless control is unending. 

Yet, your insight on the relationship between dance and cinema stirred deep contemplation within me! How can one dismantle the structure of dance and the body? How can we tear through the visual conventions of the cinema screen?

I wonder if you are acquainted with Jérôme Bel, the French theater director. He has made significant efforts to dismantle the traditional structures of theater and dance. He brought children and individuals with Down syndrome to the stage, along with very overweight men and women, to dance freely—not in the traditionally recognized aesthetic form. His approach was nearly revolutionary regarding the human body.

As for my journey, I have just arrived on the bus, and a gracious lady guided me on how to reach the hotel. I am now pondering what to say tomorrow in my speech about the artists who are constrained and controlled in Iran, Afghanistan, and Russia. How can I express that, to stay alive and survive under any dominant system, we must create and breathe, even though we have often endured countless sacrifices and losses? The relationship between politics, the body, art, and cinema is intricate and profoundly complex.

Let me take a moment to watch the city, and I will continue later. I love the bus because you can sit comfortably and observe the people and the city. Sometimes, it’s like eavesdropping on life: you laugh at a couple’s quarrel or feel elated by the kiss of two lovers. It feels as though life, confined within a tin can, moves through the city with people, indifferent to everything, focused only on the journey and passing by. If one person gets off, another gets on…and this endless cycle continues.

Mike, I arrived at the hotel where two Iranian friends awaited me: an 88-year-old architect who studied in Geneva and is quite renowned, and a woman who is a curator and an art lover. We sat down to drink wine, but the conversation revolved around Palestine, this relentless pain with no end. Eventually, we talked about cinema and why Iranian cinema has declined. I believe the problem lies with the programs and festivals that have a Western outlook, repeating the same names without any creativity or exploration. They lack the courage to take risks for a fresh perspective. An unusual sense of aging and rust has settled over the festivals, scraping away at the soul rather than energizing it.

Mike, I am now in my room, which is quite strange, with red and white dominating everywhere. I wish you good night and feel a thrill for tomorrow’s walk along the river to the meeting. Attending these sessions is quite painful—empty, ineffective words—but the only joy is meeting new people and talking with female filmmakers from Afghanistan and Russia, which is exciting. Otherwise, the human rights discourse often commits the most inhumane acts through utter inaction. No, I don’t have feelings like Nicolas in your film, Good night. 

Mike: Dear Mania – I think in many ways we must be kindred spirits. As filmmakers we also identify each other through our films. Right now I am at a film festival in war-torn Ukraine, on a panel judging the National films. Of course the dominant theme is the war. I am the only man on the jury of five. We all got along socially but today was the day of choosing two films (from fiction and documentary). Immediately five personalities revealed themselves and after two and a half hours of arguing things were quite tense. In fact it ended badly with a rather unpleasant incident.  This reminder that each individual can form such diametrically diverse opinions about a film never ceases to amaze me. I once interviewed a famous rock guitarist. Peter Green (Fleetwood Mac) had taken a lot of LSD in the past and his answers never seemed to fit my questions. However in the edit it all made sense. One of the things he said was “When you listen to a song, what strikes you first? Is it the tune, or is it the words?” This is quite profound and I realize that when some people see a film they judge it by what is said in the film rather than by its cinematic poetry – and that is what was at stake this afternoon.

I’m channeling some sadness and grief because my beloved younger sister died last week after a particularly cruel double illness. I was just reading all of our text messages to each other and they are so full of love and this allows me to find my grief. Grief is such an odd state don’t you think. 

I am approaching an interesting age now where it’s a bit of a minefield and contemporaries are dropping like flies.

In Kiev I visited a ‘museum’ of military machines and was shocked by the size of a missile and the general crafting of these objects that kill and maim. It struck me that they must be seriously expensive to make and often (in the case of a missile) have a short life. Somebody must be constantly getting rich. The drone has arrived in warfare so things will get cheaper. Interesting that drone ech has so influenced filmmaking as well as war. How fucking stupid it is. The killing culture, I mean. I want to do research into the true cost of the objects of war, I suspect the truth will be gob-smacking.

I’ve found a writer that is very interesting. Ian Buruma is Dutch but works in NY and he writes in detail about WW2 and the aftermath. He writes about collaborating with the enemy and revenge and how often this is meted out on women rather than the men. This period fascinates me too as it is my parents generation and as a child I was fed endless stories about the war. As I grew older I began to see the damage that it had inflicted on that generation. How few truly honest films have been made about war?

It feels good to be talking to you. Goodnight

Mania: Dear Mike, Here I am, in the stillness of a cold London night, lying in bed as the soft rhythm of my son’s breaths breaks the silence. My gaze has fallen upon your sister’s photos on your Instagram—the sister you’ve lost. My heart aches for you. Please accept my deepest condolences. I know the bond you shared must have been woven with love, memories, and unspoken understandings, leaving behind an irreplaceable void.

Loss is a peculiar weight. Last year, my husband Douglas lost his younger brother to cancer. The ache of his absence lingers—a shadow that moves with us. The yearning for someone who no longer walks this earth is a bittersweet sorrow: part grief for their vanishing and part for the stolen moments that could have been. It’s as if a thread has snapped, leaving behind an emptiness, a hollow space where the echoes of their laughter used to reside. Tonight, as I thought about you, I began to write—without knowing why. It felt as though something was calling me to reach out, to connect. I visited your page, hoping to see where in the world you might be, and instead, I found your grief laid bare through the photos of your sister.

One image stayed with me: the two of you sitting side by side, both dressed in shades of blue, mugs in hand, eyes meeting the camera with a quiet familiarity. Another was a striking black-and-white portrait—your sister’s face, framed by glasses, her expression warm yet profound, as if she carried the world’s tenderness in her gaze. And then, there was the photo of a child—a bright, lively girl whose spirit seemed to shine through. I imagined her as your sister’s reflection, a timeless essence, and I felt that your sister still watches over you, her love eternal and unwavering.

Grief, I have learned, is not linear; it doesn’t simply fade. Instead, it reshapes itself into something we carry, something that deepens us, breaks us open to the raw beauty of life and love. Siblings, I believe, are not always bound by blood. They are those with whom we share our essence, our stories, and our truths. And in this, we can find siblings in ways beyond biology, through love that transcends the body.

I know this pain must feel all-encompassing. It is a heavy, sacred process to mourn—to walk the fragile path between remembering and letting go. Please don’t feel any pressure to reply. Take the time your heart needs to grieve, to honor her memory, to sit with the ache and let it teach you whatever it must.

May her soul find peace in realms unseen, and may her love remain your constant companion, filling the spaces where words fall silent.

Mania – thank you for your words. They more or less express my own thoughts about grief. As time passes the grief changes from the wounded heart to the coming to terms of the loss of a person in your daily existence. For example I am here in Korea and if something unusual or funny happens I would always write to Jude to share the humour of it (or to just have a self indulgent moan) and she would always reply with humour (we come from a culture where people don’t approve of too much molly coddling). But in another sense her absence is a constant reminder of who she was (and continues to be) in my life. By the way, that is my brother in the picture, as we grow older we have come to resemble each other more and more.

I have been travelling a lot, possibly too much. Right now I crave home comforts and the familiarity of my studio but I pushed myself to get out for a while and experience some new cultures. I visited Ukraine which was a deeply moving experience. The people were extraordinary and I was profoundly moved by their solidarity. It made me realize how cynical much of my own environment is. I visited Albania and was befriended by the Prime Minister (an Artist) and am trying to help them organize their newly awakened cinema culture. Now I am about to visit Japan for the first time. This partly is motivated by the reality of the world of cinema and how it is being eradicated by certain capitalistic situations. I have decided to teach more, to share knowledge, to create a more stable (more modest) environment for myself. I can no longer expect or depend on the idea of filmmaking as something that is financially viable. This is all a bit nerve wracking but the writing on the wall is fairly clear. Which is not to say that cinema is dead….but it does need to be reimagined.

Nikon just made me an ambassador – I filmed the Coppola documentary on their latest mirrorless Z series camera and was happy with the results. It has always puzzled me that, given the choice, why would you choose to use one of those very large, crew reliant expensive cameras? Of course I know the answer but it involves a slightly more complex delve into the politics of Capitalistic filmmaking tendencies and the economic structure of the film BUSINESS!!!!!