ScreenFish

where faith and film are intertwined

art

Driven to Abstraction – Fraud of the Century

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The greatest art fraud of the twentieth century is examined in Driven to Abstraction, a documentary by Daria Price. Over a period of fifteen years, the Knoedler, the oldest and one of the most prestigious art gallery in New York, sold $80 million dollars worth of forgeries. Among the artists whose works were forged are a who’s who of modern American: Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Robert Motherwell, and many others.

As the story is told it seems very obvious to the viewer that a large fraud was taking place. Several previously unknown works by well known artists slowly trickled into this one gallery. There was, of course, a story about why this was happening, focusing on a mysterious Mr. X, Jr. His father might have been Mexican, or Filipino, but moved to Switzerland. Now Mr. X. Jr. was cashing in some of the art his father had collected. This may seem ridiculous on its face to viewers, but we also learn that anonymity is very common in the art world. One of the people in the film says that art is one of the largest unregulated markets in the world.

What was really going on, as we learn as the film unfolds and eventually a court case plays out, is that the works were all made by one Chinese artist living in New York, Pei-Shen Qian. A small-time art dealer, Giafira Rosales, would bring the pictures to the Knoedler where Ann Freedman, the gallery director would find buyers. Of course, provenance is an important aspect of selling art. An authentic art work should have a paper trail. Freedman would have carefully worded lists of people who had seen the art, implying but not saying that they verified its authenticity.

It is easy to look back at this and see the red flags that should have been obvious.  But we never learn why various people didn’t pay attention. This is a world of wealth and secrecy. It is only when the trial takes place that we see just how deep the fraud was. But the trial in many ways is inconclusive, because the parties settled before the end of the trial without those who knew what was happening telling what they knew and when. It raises questions of not just who was responsible, but also what constitutes responsibility in such situations.

The film also raises questions of what it means to be a villain or a victim. In this story, it could be that our first impressions may be distorted. Are people acting out of greed or hubris? Are they under the power of others and must keep doing what they have been even if they suspect wrongdoing? Are they so caught up in the world of money that they don’t want to see what should be obvious? Or do people tend to portray themselves as victims when they have acted badly? All those questions are possible by the time we get to the end of this story.

Walking on Water – Finding the Real in Art

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“Artist is not a profession. You don’t work from 9 to 5. To the artist, you are all the time artist. There is no moment you are not artist.”

The artist Christo is known worldwide for his very large scale temporary art projects. But after the death of his wife and collaborator Jeanne-Claude, he made nothing for over a decade. But beginning in 2014, he set about making a new piece, one that he and Jeanne-Claude had proposed beginning in 1970—a series of floating bridges connecting land and islands. Walking on Water is Andrew Paounov’s documentation of the 18 month process of the preparation, creation, and realization of his “Floating Piers”.

Those unfamiliar with Christo’s work would do well to search it out online to understand the grand scope of his installations. The vision comes from Christo (and Jeanne-Claude), but it takes a fairly large team to bring the work to fruition. And each work is unique. As he says in the film, they never do the same thing twice. The film shows some of the process of creating this work at various points in the process.

This particular work of art was made on Lake Iseo in northern Italy. Originally Christo and Jeanne-Claude wanted to do it in Argentina in 1970. In 1997, they proposed to do it in Tokyo. In both cases they could not get permission. So in a sense this is a piece of art that took nearly 50 years to create.

The film doesn’t create a compelling narrative that explains what is happening. Rather it gives small insights from time to time. We do see that there are problems that come up both before it is completed and after it opens to the public. Not everything goes as planned. What I found to be missing (other than a clear narrative) was an explanation of how the various pieces that were needed to make this project were created. In a sense this is a very complicated Lego-like creation, but how does one buy tons of thousands of the pieces needed? I know you can’t find them at Home Depot.

But the film does capture a bit of the experience that Christo is trying to create. Early in the film, he is speaking to some middle school art students in New York. He tells them, “I love real things. Real Things. Real things. Not virtual reality…. I want to have real one mile, two miles, real wind, real dry, real wet, real fear, real joy.” The experience of the reality of the world in the midst of his artificial creation is central to understanding Christo’s art in general and “Floating Piers” specifically. Real wind, real wet, real fear, and real joy all come into play as “Floating Piers” is constructed and when it is experienced by the public.

Part of what makes Christo’s art interesting is that he often uses artifice to point to the beauty of nature or some other work of art. So even though he loves real things, it is through the unreal that he helps us see the real things more clearly.

Photos courtesy of Kino Lorber

At Eternity’s Gate – Van Gogh’s Calling

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“God is nature, and nature is beauty.”

The life of Vincent Van Gogh with all its spiritual and psychological challenges is well known. In At Heaven’s Gate, from artist and filmmaker Julian Schnabel, we see scenes from his life—some based on his letters, some from legends, some (as Schnabel notes) “just plain invented”. It is not meant to be viewed as a straight biography. Rather it is an examination of what it means to be driven to produce art—especially art that is as personal and out of the ordinary as was Van Gogh’s.

The film covers many years of Van Gogh’s (Willem Dafoe) life, from his days in Paris, to Arles, and Saint-Rémy where he was hospitalized, and Auvers, where he died. Along the way we meet others in his circle: his brother Theo (Rupert Friend), Paul Gauguin (Oscar Issac), and some of the people immortalized in his paintings such as Joseph Roulin (Laurent Bateau) and Dr. Gachet (Mathieu Almaric).  But it is Van Gogh’s art and his making of the art that is more important than plot per se.

It is of import that Schnabel is himself a painter. His approach to the Van Gogh story includes a great deal of subjectivity. He tells the story as it has affected him. The scenes are often based in his reactions to Van Gogh’s works. And his concern for the need to make art is very evident in the way this story is told. Van Gogh often speaks in the film of how much he needs to paint. In one important scene while he is hospitalized, Van Gogh talks with a priest (Mads Mikkelsen) about his art and how he sees the world he paints. The priest thinks his work is ugly and offensive. But Van Gogh sees his vision and his talent as a gift from God. And asks the priest why God would give him a gift to show the ugliness of the world.

There is throughout the film a sense that for Van Gogh painting was in many ways a spiritual exercise. He has a deep connection to nature, immersing himself in the very soil of a field before starting to paint it. And in that connection to nature he feels a connection to God. He expands on this as he talks to the priest and brings in theological insight and scripture to expand on his ideas. (Van Gogh was the son of a pastor and at one time began to study for the ministry.) For Van Gogh in this film, painting is a calling to share his vision of God’s creation. For him that vision is about the beauty that God shares with us.

That conversation with the priest give me pause because there are times in the film that I react to Schnabel’s directing in much the same way the priest reacts to Van Gogh’s art. Some of the camera work and editing at times seem to work against watching the film. A case in point is the use of a lens for some shots that seems to be looking through bifocal glasses. It may be that he is trying to visualize the sense of madness going on in Van Gogh, but it was so off-putting for me that it made the film hard to watch and appreciate fully.

Photos courtesy of CBS Films

American Masters: Andrew Wyeth

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“He painted the soul, not just the image.”

The PBS series American Masters is airing an episode focusing on the painter Andrew Wyeth. Wyeth was one of the 20th century’s most famous magical-realist painters. He had both popular and critical success. But the popular success also led to a time of critical rejection as abstract expressionism came into vogue.

Andrew Wyeth. photo credit: Bruce Weber

The episode provides an overview of his life and work. His life revolved around two rural communities, one in Pennsylvania, the other in Maine. Here he painted the landscapes and people that he knew. This often included neighbors such as the Kuerners in Pennsylvania and the Olsons in Maine. (His most famous painting, “Christina’s World”, features Christina Olson on the ground in a field in front of a house.) He also had a long series of paintings of his secret muse, Helga.

Wyeth approached painting as a way to express his vision of the world around him. He said, “Painting to me is a matter of truth and maybe of memory.” As the film shows us many of his works and we hear the background to those works, it provides new ways for us to appreciate his art. For all the realism of his paintings, there is also interpretation and adjustment being made to create something that reflected the real world and the world that Wyeth wanted to show. His paintings often invite the viewer to imagine the story behind the scene we see. In doing so, he created pictures that allow us to connect with them on an emotional level as well as the esthetic.

At times Wyeth’s work evokes a consideration of mortality, even when looking at a scene filled with life. His art can serve as a kind of meditation on life and death, joy and sorrow, community and emptiness. The episode offers us a chance to see all of this in a brief hour.

Don’t Worry He Won’t Get Far On Foot: Hope, Healing and Higher Powers

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Directed by Gus Van Sant (Good Will Hunting, Elephant), Don’t Worry He Won’t Get Far On Foot tells the story of controversial cartoonist, John Callahan. After nearly dying in a car accident, the last thing Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix) intends to do is give up alcohol. Reinvigorated by his girlfriend and a charming sponsor, Donnie (Jonah Hill), Callahan reluctantly enters Alcoholics Anonymous and discovers that his passion for drawing. The budding artist soon finds himself with a new lease on life when his edgy and irreverent newspaper cartoons gain a national and devoted following.

In its best moments, Don’t Worry… provides Phoenix ample opportunity to showcase his incredible ability to disappear into a role. His portrait of Callahan balances both pride and brokenness in an engaging manner. However, it’s Jonah Hill who continues to surprise. As Callahan’s sponsor, Hill steals the film, depicting Donnie as a complex picture of truth and grace. Interestingly though, it’s director Van Sant’s decision to break the film’s narrative structure that creates the most conversation. By juxtaposing moments of death with moments of hope and personal breakthrough, Van Sant seems to want us to understand that each moment of our lives informs the next. In other words, by presenting the life of his subject to the viewer seemingly all at once, the film serves as a reminder that Callahan’s battles also mirror and enlighten his successes. (For instance, in one particular scene, Van Sant parallels Callahan’s tragic car accident with a moment when he falls from his wheelchair, reminding us that his past has created his present.) While jarring in some places, the technique proves effective for the majority of the film, offering context to Callahan’s journey in a unique manner.

Since much of the film chronicles Callahan’s journey with Alcoholics Anonymous, Don’t Worry…is imbued with intriguing conversations about reliance on a higher power. Callahan’s journey to sobriety takes him on a genuine wrestling match with God—although, to be fair, what God looks like here is entirely subjective and even unorthodox. (For example, Donnie’s vision of a higher power takes the form of psychotic doll Chucky, because “he’s unpredictable”.) For Callahan, his journey towards healing begins with his acknowledgement of his own weakness and his need for help from someone more powerful. In the strangest of realities, there is a healing that takes place when he understands his own human frailty and accepts the spiritual strength from Another. (As a pastor, I can relate to this truth on any number of levels.)

However, Callahan’s story is not merely one of healing through group therapy either. In fact, his journey also shows the power of finding your voice. Known for his political cartoons, Callahan found his true calling by speaking on behalf of a generation that was struggling to find itself. Though frequently controversial in his content, Callahan committed himself to expressing himself in ways that challenged the cultural norm. In doing so, his voice also gave him sense of hope and purpose that had eluded him throughout much of his life.

In the end, Don’t Worry He Won’t Get Far On Foot is a poignant character piece about one man’s fight for self-discovery. Anchored by Phoenix but buoyed by Hill, the film is often engaging in ways that are both challenge and entertain. Though not his best work, Van Sant can still create well-rounded characters that don’t shy away from their frailties but still highlight their hopefulness as well.

Five Seasons: The Gardens of Piet Oudolf

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“This is what you’d like to see in nature.”

Gardens bring us pleasure, even if we have to work to keep them beautiful. Gardens bring a bit of nature close to us, even if it is in an artificial setting. But Dutch landscape designer Piet Oudolf seeks to make gardens that reflect nature. Filmmaker Thomas Piper has brought us Five Seasons: The Gardens of Piet Oudolf, a visually enjoyable visit to some of the amazing gardens Oudolf has designed.

Piper is a documentarian who has specialized in films about contemporary art. And the gardens that Oudolf designs are truly works of art. Oudolf began with a nursery to grow perennial plants, but in time branched out into designing public gardens that often seem to be like a trip into nature. Oudolf’s gardens include The High Line in New York City, Lurie Garden in Chicago, as well as gardens in London, Paris, and the Netherlands.

The film takes us to some of the gardens he has designed and lets us look over his shoulder as he works on a design for a new garden. In the process we move through the year from winter to winter to see how the gardens change over time. We also come to understand that the beauty of a garden is not limited to the colorful times of blooming, but even when the plants become “skeletons” there is still a beauty to be found. The film also takes us with Oudolf as he travels to see the beauty of nature in various places: the Texas Hill Country during the bluebonnet season, a prairie restoration in Iowa, and a post-industrial forest in Pennsylvania. Here he finds inspiration for his work.

Piet Oudolf’s plans for the gardens at Hauser & Wirth Somerset.

Because the film views these landscapes as art, it is careful to let us see the beauty—not only in the plants themselves, but in the design that Oudolf creates on paper. It also allows us time to savor the visual world, and to reflect on the relationship between humankind and nature.

There is a certain poetic feel to the film that invites us to consider the way nature enhances our lives and also how we fit in to nature. This is especially true as the film moves into the second winter, because at that point it gives us time to reflect on death—death that exists in nature before newness comes, and the death that is inevitable in every life.

The gardens at Hummelo in the fall.

Photos courtesy Argot Pictures

Leaning into the Wind – The Art of Nature, Time, and Andy Goldsworthy

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Leaning into the Wind – Andy Goldsworthy is a reunion between the artist Andy Goldsworthy and film director Thomas Riedelsheimer, who also made the 2001 film about Goldsworthy and his art, Rivers and Tides – Andy Goldsworthy Working with Time. For those who have seen the earlier film, this will be both familiar and different, because of some of the changes in Goldsworthy’s approach to his art.

Goldsworthy focuses his art on nature and time. Many of his works are momentary. Others are more permanent (although even those are designed to change over time). The art work done here may cause some to consider just what makes art. Is it something that is seen by others, or is it still art if it is only a moment with just Goldsworthy and the camera present? And what of the things he does without the camera present? For example, one of his works is walking through a row of bushes, unseen, except for the movement of the bushes. That certainly fits with his connection with nature and the way we interact with nature.

Because time, decay, and change are key elements of Goldsworthy’s work, it is very interesting that he came across a large fallen tree near his home, which he views as something he will be creating art with for the rest of his life. As the tree decays that will affect things he has done with that tree. And then when others come and take some of the branches, others are also affecting his art.

One of the ways time is affecting his work on a larger level is that his daughter is now working with him to create art. We see them go to a college campus and painstakingly use leaves and flower petals to make a line going up a flight of stairs. Their interaction becomes an important piece of the work itself.

In Rivers and Tides we pick up a bit of the thinking that lies behind his creations. The current film includes some of that, but is a bit less verbal, relying on viewers to have some familiarity with his work and his philosophy of art. Watching the earlier film before viewing the current one would be helpful—especially if unfamiliar with his work.

Because I was so taken with Rivers and Tides I was looking forward to seeing this new film. I again enjoyed watching Goldsworthy’s process and the unique art that he creates—even if it only momentary. But I didn’t have the strong emotional reaction to Leaning into the Wind as I did to the first film. A large reason for that could well be that with the first film I was in awe of Goldsworthy’s vision of art in nature and the way he used time itself as one of the media of his art. He has gone into some new, interesting directions, but it just doesn’t seem as amazing this time through, because I had a good idea what to expect beforehand.

Photos courtesy of Magnolia Pictures

Maudie – Validation of a Life

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“The whole of life, already framed, right there.”

It’s hard to assign Maudie to any one genre. Certainly it qualifies as biography. But it is also a bit of art history. It’s an inspirational story of finding success and happiness against terrible odds. And at its heart it is a love story—but not the kind of love story that usually is made into movies.

This is the story of Canadian primitivist artist Maud Dowley Lewis (Sally Hawkins). Suffering from severe arthritis since childhood, she is cared for by her overprotective and judgmental aunt. When mercurial fish peddler Everett Lewis (Ethan Hawke) seeks to hire a woman to clean his house and cook his meals, Maud sees it as a chance to escape. Everett lives an almost hermit-like existence. He had learned to be self-reliant to a fault. He lives in a 10’x12’ house without water or electricity. When Maude moves in to such close quarters, it is hard for both of them to adjust. Everett is demanding and at times violent. He is taciturn, while Maud is opinionated and talkative.  Early on he treats her as a lower life form (even the chickens outrank her), but she soon finds an important place in his life.

As an outlet, Maud begins painting pictures of birds and flowers on the walls—and soon the door and the windows. She paints on scraps of wood and paper. A woman from New York wants to buy some pictures, and soon Maud has a roadside business. While this enhances their finances, in many ways it rubs Everett the wrong way. It is a constant struggle to balance these two very independent souls whose lives have become intertwined and who find a love that many may find a bit cold, but there is a passion there.

The film’s greatest strength is the pair of performances by the lead actors. Even when there is little dialogue, their screen presence carries us through the story and the moods that are such a part of the film.

The film often makes use of windows—looking in or out through windows, conversations through windows, windows that might be so dirty we can barely see. For Maud, her art was the window through which she viewed the world. Her paintings are vibrant and happy—far happier than we might expect from someone who suffered so much both physically and emotionally. It is through the window of her art that Maud found happiness and validation.

The concept of validation is a key. How frequently we use the word invalid for someone with a physical or emotional problem. And how close we may come to thinking of such a person as not valid because of their affliction. That is certainly how Maud’s family treated her. She was deemed unimportant and a burden. Early in her relationship with Everett, he thought her incapable of doing what needed to be done. Yet when others began to see beauty in the pictures that she created, it was obvious that she mattered. It was not just that she was earning money. It was that she did something that brought joy to herself and others.

Maudie reminds us of the intrinsic value each person has. To treat them otherwise means we could well miss the gifts they offer to us.

Photos courtesy of Sony Pictures Classics

 

Cézanne et Moi – 19th Century Artistic Bromance

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“I can’t remember why I love you so much.”

Two boys meet in a small town in France, they have different backgrounds, but become great friends. They dream of life in Paris. When they grow up they head off to seek fame and fortune. They become the post-impressionist painter Paul Cézanne and novelist/journalist Émile Zola. Cézanne et Moi is a fictionalized account of the lifelong—and often troubled—friendship of these two paragons of the arts in 19th Century France.

It should be noted that from an American perspective, Cézanne is far better known. Many Americans only know Zola because of his part in the Dreyfus Affair. Yet in their time, Zola was an important novelist whose fame far outshone that of his boyhood friend.

 

This film, though is not about their literary or artistic accomplishments, but about the friendship that goes back to their childhoods in Aix-en-Provence. Zola (Guillaume Canet) was an Italian immigrant whose father had died. He grows up without wealth or advantage. Cézanne (Guillaume Gallienau) is from a well-to-do family. Both disdain the bourgeois ethic of the day. As adults they set off to Paris. Their lives continue in parallel even though they are in different fields. Zola finds success and quickly takes on the middle class trappings. Cézanne, although his family has wealth, chooses to live the life of a struggling artist. He never really finds acceptance in the art world. Even the outcast Impressionists don’t accept him.

The two men at times cross paths and renew their friendship, but often Cézanne behaves boorishly, or Zola says something that upsets his friend. There is a certain bromance angle to the film. The two men have a genuine affection for each other, but they often seem to be at odds. The real break comes when Zola publishes a novel with a character that Cézanne believes is based on him. He finds it insulting. Later in the film, when there is a chance at reconciliation, Cézanne hears Zola telling others that his friend is a genius, but “a stillborn genius”.

 

A thread of irony runs throughout the story. By the end of their lives, Zola had gained the world that Cézanne‘s family had always had, while Cézanne lives as though he were impoverished. Zola was by far more successful in their lifetime, but today Cézanne is far better known. But the highest irony is that these two men wanted the friendship they had when they were younger, but could never seem to reconnect with it.

The film demonstrates how fragile friendship can be. It also shows the value of friendship and what is lost when those bonds are not maintained. These two men could have added a great deal to each other’s lives, but their failure to stay connected meant that each was diminished.

Photos courtesy of Magnolia Pictures

Conversation with Danièle Thompson, Cézanne et Moi Writer/Director

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I recently had the chance to talk by phone with Danièle Thompson, the writer/director of Cézanne et Moi, a film about the lifelong—but troubled—friendship between post-Impressionist painter Paul Cézanne and novelist /journalist Émile Zola.

Cézanne is a fairly familiar name to American audiences, Zola less so (and then mostly because of the Dreyfus Affair). What should we know to more fully appreciate the film?

Maybe what I found out years ago—the first thing that I was surprised that I didn’t know, because obviously, we are more knowledgeable about these two characters in France because they’re both huge figures of the 19th Century of our culture. What I found out was that these two people were friends—two little boys in a very far away little town in the South of France in the 19th Century in a religious school. There were no other schools then in France. It’s very surprising that these two little boys will become, each in their own trade, would become among the most famous French people in the world. So I was intrigued by the fact that they had met so young and I’d never heard of that relationship.

I’d never heard about the letters they wrote to each other, which have been published and which are absolutely amazing and incredibly touching and passionate. There’s a huge book of those letters, which really reflects a very very intense relationship. Then the fact that life actually separated them all the time, but they managed to save their friendship for such a long time before the breakup. I also was very intrigued that the breakup was because of a book, because of the way that Cézanne felt, as he said in the film he felt literally raped by his best friend.

Then also I was very surprised by what I discovered about Cézanne. As you pointed out, Zola is quite well known because of the Dreyfus Affair, also because of his literature which is quite extraordinary. From the writing you discover a lot of the personality of the writer. A painter is much more hidden behind his work. I knew very little about Cézanne, I discovered a character that is described by many people, and the fact that he was unhappy and difficult and did not know actually how to be someone who was friendly or who was playing the game of the Paris art world. All the Impressionist had a hard time, but he was not even liked his fellow artists. He was not liked, of course, by the establishment. He actually really left the Impressionist movement quite early to try to find something else.

And we now today know that he did. We know that the paintings of the last 15 years are totally amazing and have changed the vision of all the artist that followed. All this made me think there was story to tell not about painting or not about literature, but about that very very particular relationship, which contained all these elements of how free an artist can be, or how the competition can also separate people and destroy a friendship. There are many, many different things that I thought could be interesting for an audience who just knew on a very superficial level these two men., which was my case.

I find it a bit ironic perhaps that in their life time, Zola was the one who was successful and known, but as you said many of Cézanne’s was never really accepted in the art world of the time. Now (at least for Americans) that is reversed.

Yes, well this isn’t fair. That’s something terribly painful for me to imagine. The different paths that these two men who were so close when they were adolescents, the fact that what you just said really separated them then and now it’s separating them exactly in the opposite way. I think one of the things that literally makes me want to cry is that not only was Cézanne ignored by his contemporaries, but Zola his best friend never really realized what a genius he was. That sentence he says at the end which was quoted by Vollard, the art dealer, which Zola really said, “What a pity, he was a genius, but he was an aborted genius.” It’s something that apparently people told Cézanne that Zola had said, so I used it and decided to write the scene so Cézanne would actually hear it live. But he said that.

Also, he died four years before Cézanne and never saw the last paintings. And the last paintings were the most revolutionary and the most amazing. They’re not only the beginning of Cubism, the inspiration for Cubism, but even for Abstraction. Even if Zola had seen these paintings I don’t think he would have understood, because by the end of his life he had become much more conservative. He actually renounced the enthusiasm he had when he was in his twenties and defended the Impressionists. He was a very young and brilliant journalist and art critic. Then he wrote some things at the end of his life which were also were used for one of the last scenes when they’re together in the dark room when he became a photographer. He really denied everything he said about the Impressionists. He said he couldn’t stand them anymore and they were all doing the same thing and it looked like laundry on canvasses. I don’t think he would have understood the revolution that Cézanne was beginning. That breaks my heart.

It seems to me that the ideal of the middle class is part of what creates turmoil between Zola and Cézanne. Perhaps even from childhood. Cézanne was born into it but doesn’t seem to care; Zola achieved it through his work. Do you see that same kind of conflict about bourgeoisie values today?

The bourgeoisie values today are much more diluted. This was very much, at the time, it was a clear contrast. Today I guess the values are much more mixed. There is now an opening with everything that has changes so much since the 19th Century that the bourgeoisie is not sure of their taste anymore. They’re very open I think to the other cultures. Then people were really locked in their traditions. And also, the bourgeoisie was very pretentious, very sure of itself. It’s not true anymore I don’t think.

What also fascinated me in the lives of these two young men as children is that one of them was really very poor and was very very eager not to become rich—because that was not Zola’s aim in life. But at least he wanted very much to afford a nice house and a lot of food and some nice dresses for his wife and his mother. It was for him a goal. He actually in his way of life became a bourgeois, never in his work, but in his way of life he became a bourgeois.

The other one, who was brought up by this rich father and had a very comfortable life, slowly really became a bum. He had very little money because he did not dare tell his father that he was actually living with a woman and having a son, so his father gave him just a little bit of money to survive as a painter alone. This is all true of course, something that is very well known. It is true also, I’ve spoken to Pizarro’s great-grandchildren and there’s some testimony he’d literally not smell very good. He would smell of garlic. He would not eat, not wash. He was also always covered with paint spots. He became more and more locked into his obsession with painting, not caring about anything else and not being really interested in the rest of the world. Where Zola was a humanist and someone who actually risked his life for the Dreyfus Affair.

Actually the family thinks, and a lot of people think, that he was killed because of it. The way he died is a very very strange accident—having the fumes of a chimney that actually suffocated him at night. There’s been testimony around the 1940s, an old man confessed that he was paid to block the chimney. There was never an inquiry because there was such a huge cataclysm in France and it divided the country in two and there were people who had duels about it. And Zola had to leave and go to England thinking he could never come back because he was going to be put in jail because of the positions he took to defend Dreyfus when Dreyfus was on Devil’s Island.

I know it is a fictionalized story of the relationship, but how much was based on fact and how did you weave the facts to create the fictionalized story?

This was the main interest and the biggest challenge to really spend a lot of time on research so that I would feel totally comfortable as if I were writing a contemporary film—to be totally familiar with their entourage, with their family, with their way of life, with the letters they wrote to each other. Then decide that I would stop my research—you can drown in research. You can go on and on forever because one thing always leads to another, and you become like obsessed.

So, at one point I decided to stop, and I decided that I was going to be free to tell the story the way I figured out—a little bit like Zola did in his book that was so painful for Cézanne. The weekend they spend together, which is the frame of the film, is completely an invention. I don’t think it ever happened. But what they talk about during that dreadful last rendezvous is based very much on the things I read about both of them and about their relationship This is exactly where my work as a writer was fascinating for me—to really imagine what these two men would have said to each other if they had that meeting, which they probably never did.

What I also loved imagining is, for instance, when you have the scene where Zola goes up the stairs and listens to that dreadful scene between Cézanne and his wife. It isn’t a violent scene, but it is sort of everyday life scene between a couple. And what I loved is writing that dialogue—in a way a banal dialogue—a sort of desperate exchange, but a banal dialogue. Then when Zola reads the part of the book that he stole from that scene, it becomes beautiful, what he does with it. That’s not my dialogue, that’s Zola’s dialogue. The way he makes them talk is so much more beautiful than the way they really did talk. That was to me exactly the key to what I was trying to do.

Photos courtesy of Magnolia Pictures