When you ask yourself

It's quite an interesting endeavour to live with one's self, learning to know which of your whims are acceptable or not, for you, and not for the sake of others. Interesting to question your choices and either you are what you do, or rather not, you're keeping your true self aside, waiting for an opportunity to let it out.

Last week I've seen "Tetro" by Francis Ford Coppola, beautiful visually but heavy, redundant and symbolistic on the story side, mixing love and power, Greek tragedy and Freudian theories. It is a powerful film indeed, very intense, but that's due in great part to its splendidly achieved gloomy ambiance, in a black and white run down Buenos Aires. Alden Ehrenreich is too much Leonardo di Caprio and Vincent Gallo bears a ressemblance to Joaquin Phoenix, lacking his force though, he seemed quite cold and unresponsive to me during the whole film. Maribel Verdu and Klaus Maria Brandauer were too much for them, while Carmen Maura played a cliché. To my great joy and surprise, I saw two Romanian names on the crew list: Cinematography by Mihai Malaimare Jr. and Production Manager Adriana Rotaru.

And I felt an urge to look for "Youth without Youth", the film Coppola made in Romania, with Tim Roth, Alexandra Maria Lara and Bruno Ganz, seconded by great Romanian artists, some of them (Mircea Albulescu for instance) playing silent parts. As the story of Mircea Eliade itself is very intricated, it is really hard to come up with something better. The film follows the original plot with just a few changes, sporting good performances, especially on the side of Tim Roth (as usual, I would say) and again, hauntingly beautiful images, using light and shadow in many interesting ways. Mircea Eliade uses love stories a lot in his writings, but they are mostly just a base for the development of his esoteric theories of existence. His characters seem to be rather prototypes than real people, made to comply with his demonstrations.

Strangely enough, both films deal with the difficulties of writing, "Tetro" with creative and "Youth without Youth" with scientific. Both Tetro's family drama and Dominic's study on the origins of language go unachieved, and the two films deal in a certain way with the scope of life. What do we live for and how much are we defined by either our actions or our actual creations. Is life worthy and meaningful if we leave a lasting work behind says "Youth without Youth", or shall we rather count its importance by the events we went through? In "Tetro" the creative act is actually seen as cathartic, liberating and unifying, as the two male characters are finally brought together, after fighting about it. This was what I was left with, to me the dominating father didn't seem that important, as much as Tetro's refuse to face his past and subsequently himself.

I was left pondering on this issues and the way they relate to my life, but I guess this is part of who I am, constanly questioning myself.

MARCH 19, 2006 - FATHER FIGURE

1060 days ago

So, the visiting Romanian director has been told about who's daughter I am, and he knew my father personally, having an "interesting relationship" with him. I avoided the subject as I didn't want to get into details. I prefer to be known and judged by who I am here and now.

I saw many good films in the festival, but I noticed I got deeply touched by the ones telling the life story of famous men who neglected their families: tango musician Astor Piazzolla, superb Chilean poet Pablo Neruda and Ingmar Bergman, one of my favourite film directors. I cried in the dark of the cinema, as I was thinking again about my father, the impossibility to go back, to try again.

Ingmar Bergman even said remorse is not viable, as it is a way for yourself to feel pain, by no means comparable to the one your kids had to feel.

So I take another deep breath and try to put my demons to a rest.

I also have to live with a pressure of having to do something about my life, giving it a sense. For me, not for my father, but as part of me is from him... I'm 31, not too late, yet, but time is running.

Back to Ingmar Bergman...he made so many films, and still, he prefers theatre, but movies being spread all over the world, this is the label he has to bear.

On the Färö island, alone in his nice Swedish country house he waits to close accounts with time, fighting with memories, fears, age. He said many things I feel myself, like the demons will torment you in the inside, if you're out, you're free. I think nature has this healing power. He also said only musicians, profets, saints tell us about the outer world. I'd say any gifted artist does. And it takes skills to create art, but also skills to feel it right. I would have liked to have a chat with him... foolish me.

SEPT 11, 05 - AND THE SUN STILL RISES

1249 days ago

One year today since I became a landed immigrant, setting foot on Canadian soil. It's so weird, isn't it? I hoped the time would stop so I can catch my breath, get used to the idea of my father's departure...sometimes I surprise myself thinking about calling or writing to him, then I remember he won't be there to answer.

So...about my trip to Romania: got there for a cheaper price thanks to Swiss Airlines, rather to the general manager here, who used to work in Romania and lost his father too. Cried a lot...I found out on Monday 5pm, got on the plane Tuesday 5pm, arrived in Bucharest on Wednesday around noon. Got home from work Tuesday at 2:30, went out at 3:30 - it never happened before. I don't have too many black clothes, I hate black...so I travelled light.

My mother and her brother were waiting for me at the airport - such a sunny day, I dropped my suitcase, saw my sister and went to the cemetery - bought 10 beautiful purple dalias and a candle on the way. Met my aunt and my father's widow, my cousin...I was never too close to my father's family, it's rather a polite relationship...in a white chapel, in the heat, he was resting...all covered in make up, his full lips so much thiner, so quiet...didn't look like him at all. Lots of flowers, unknown people coming and going. There was a Requiem in the evening, at a small French church - there were many people I know: my grandma's sister, her son, friends...my best friend - Liza, came to stand by me, she knew my father too since we were 16, I was next to her when her father died.

Confusion, couldn't accept it and face it...the funeral next day (in a catholic cemetery, as he was baptised as Greek-Catholic - pretty common in Transylvania, where many Romanians converted to Catholicism under the Austro-Hungarians) was on TV, the Romanian priest here in Montreal saw me on TV via satellite, at the cemetery - what a small ridiculous world, isn't it?

My younger brother (different mother) was there too: a handsome 18 years old in a black shirt and pants - we felt closer than ever. And TV stars, prominent people of the Romanian cultural life, the team that used to work with him at the TV cooking (culinary anthropology ?) show, simple people too, that only saw my father on TV. Eventually I convinced my mother to come also - for me if not for him, she divorced 29 years ago. She was the first. His 2nd wife could not come, as she lives in Switzerland, but her mother came. His 3rd wife came with flowers, lit a candle and we had a little chat. She's an actress of good reputation by now, with a bit of European fame. My dear Liza was there again. The customary post-funeral feast took place in a nice restaurant, by a lake, I sit down with my brother and I realized only him and his latest wife - Ileana, really loved my father the way he was, so unacceptable to many of us. They didn't expect anything from him, and were happy any time he was around.

I decided to sleep at his place that night, with Ileana and my father's sister - Anca. We talked about him, remembered things and I took his books and started reading in a loud voice. I realized I am so similar to him, in so many ways, from other people's stories. I also found out he was very glad any time he was getting an e-mail from me, he would call up his wife and read it to her. There are so many questions left un-answered and so many words unspoken. Between us there was love and there was silence, bridges we never crossed, and that's what makes me most sad.

The day after I went to the sea side, with Liza, stayed there until Sunday evening - about 48 hours. Had delicious fish, with polenta and garlic sauce, swam in my dear Black Sea (no matter how turqoise the Caribbean is, I still love the Black Sea). We were 3 women, but another friend of mine was already there, with her husband, baby and dog. Saturday I turned 31, we had a nice dinner on the shore, my twin friends came over too - a nice warm bunch of people, I felt loved and protected. I went for a walk by myself before that, with my diary...thought about many things, wanted to cover the 5 km until the next village, but rain stopped me.

The sea was as good as always, soothing me, talking to me in her 1000 whispers and moans, giving me waves and foam to wash up my troubled soul.

Met another friend there on Sunday...life is still good to me.

Back to Bucharest - legal problems, legal issues, too much pressure, too soon, left a power of attorney, waiting for the lawyers to sort it out.

I suddenly grew up, got responsibilities...to be continued.