Tommaso Santambrogio: "Relating to history, justice and memory is fundamental for cinema"
By ANTONIO ENRIQUE GONZÁLEZ ROJAS - November 25th 2023
RIALTA
Taxibol (2023) is a tropical concert of silence and fury that reconciles almost antagonistic ways of constructing films. Its story makes eras collide and dilutes temporal barriers in the filmic melting pot of memory, revenge, and even psychological terror.
Shot in Cuba by Italian filmmaker Tommaso Santambrogio, with the participation of Filipino director Lav Diaz, this film will be screened as part of the official selection of the IV INSTAR Festival on Friday, December 8 at the Maison de lʹAmerique Latine in Paris, and on December 8 and Sunday, December 10 at the Laboratorio Arte Alameda in Mexico City.
With Taxibol, Santambrogio approaches the intimate abysses of evil, the infinite damage of totalitarianism that eats away at lives and nations. He peered close enough, without the abyss looking at him, to get a transcendent snapshot that serves as a reference for the meticulous cinematic landscape he has composed with shadows, screams, whispers, and, above all, silence. In Rialta News, we talked about his motives and motivations, processes, dilemmas, obstructions, and darkness.
Taxibol puts two very different cinematic forms into dialogue in an organic way. Why structure the narrative and the mise-en-scène from such a provocative and daring contrast?
It was a very conscious decision. I was interested in creating a diptych that somehow gave me the possibility of reflecting on cinematic language and at the same time creating an original narrative. In the first part, there is a documentary dialogue between Lav Díaz and Gustavo Fleita. I met both characters and I was interested in their universes, their worlds, their sensibilities, their identities. And, through the awareness of what each of them was, I found a sort of canovaccio,[1] which I then proposed to them. Through this, a completely improvised dialogue was structured.
Lav Díaz's interpretation of himself was very much due to his own ability to move between documentary and fiction, being himself but at the same time inventing himself. So he worked a lot with the language of cinema when it came to conceiving his words and arguments, introducing the motivation of his character's presence in Cuba: the search for that former general of the Ferdinando Marcos dictatorship in the Philippines, which was at the same time the way to conceive an open documentary.
This motivation gave me the opportunity to shoot a second part of Taxibol, and at the same time work with elements of genre cinema, because the character of Lav Diaz wants to find the ex-general to kill him and eat his brains. I liked that a lot because it is a reflection on the language of cinema, and it changes through dialogue, through confrontation. This first "documentary" was filmed in the classic style of fiction film dialogue, that is, with shot and counter shot, and with classic and fast editing, very much in the style of conventional fiction cinema.
Once I structured the first part of the film, I thought of approaching the second part as observational documentary filmmaking, although it was really a completely fictional script and structure. So there is a reflection on cinematic language. Many people told me that it was not clear in this second part if Lav actually encountered the general, if Mario Limonta's character was really the general. Other people told me that the first part seemed very well written, and at the same time, it managed to propose to the public a debate on what is cinematic language, what is reality, and what is fiction. I was very interested in that. I took a chance with that structure, with that form, because I also wanted to create a diptych between Cuba and the Philippines, between good and evil, and express it on a cinematographic scale.
Aside from acting, did Filipino filmmaker Lav Diaz have any other role in the development, shooting, and post-production of Taxibol ?
Lav was not involved in the shooting and post-production of Taxibol, nor in the development of the second part, because his position is that everyone has to be free and express himself: to achieve everything from his style and ability. He did watch the film once it was finished; but before finalizing the audio post-production and color correction.
We shared some ideas and positions, and it was very interesting. But what I am very grateful to Lav is that he gave me his presence, his essence as a director and as a human being, with sincerity, transparency, and trust in the first part; thus offering me the possibility of thinking and structuring a second part, which, always respecting his position, is completely different from what is generally his own cinema, his filmic identity.
The film involves professional and non-professional actors, Cuban and foreign, and from several generations. How did you deal with the singularities of each one, to blend them into the filmic entity that is Taxibol?
The participation of the actors was very interesting as a process. In the first part, because I treated it as if it were an autonomous film. When I shot it I never thought of a second part. I was very interested in the connection that is created between the characters. I spent a lot of time talking with Lav, and Gustavo. It was very interesting to see the possibility of that connection, because they were two very singular universes, with very specific positions and sensibilities, and it was interesting to establish relationships of classic cinema in the style of Casablanca, as if the characters were countries.
Gustavo is a Cuban character, but he is also Cuba, and Lav is a bit like the Philippines. That other dialogue interested me, and the second part is like a concession. In this one, what interested me was finding actors who worked a lot with their voices, who were very recognized for their voices, like Mario Limonta, Armando Pérez, or Mayra Mazorra. Mayra is also from television and cinema, but she works from her training in theater. She uses her voice more than her body. Armando is a singer of the Opera de la Calle. And Limonta is also recognized for his work in radio, as one of the main voices in Cuba. That helped me when I decided to work with this cast because it was like working again in a documentary way; that is, by inducing them to face acting in a very different way from what they were used to, putting them in an uncomfortable position within the film, a very interesting spontaneity was generated. I think it was a very important decision, and it was very interesting what we achieved by working with the movement of the bodies, the silence, the space, and their dialogues with this space.
What expressive value, what dramatic and philosophical connotation do you grant to silence in Taxibol and, in general, in audiovisuals?
I think that silence is noise. It is a sound in cinema and it always has a value, in its stillness, in its tranquility. And it was essential in the second part of Taxibol. In the first part, there is great value in the words, the dialogue, and the language. In the second part, the value is in the repetition. A reference was the music of William Basinski, especially his series of records The Disintegration Loops. It is a music that disintegrates, the sounds disintegrate little by little and that perception, that sensation is created through repetition.
I liked the idea of working with the sounds as if it were something repetitive, in a loop, and at the same time something that gives a sense of claustrophobia within such a large space; plus I used camera movements that allow you to follow the characters throughout the space. I liked to create that dynamic. I think sound is 50 percent of the language of cinema. And it is very important to think about it, to relate to silence, and to work with its possibilities.
Cultural, anthropological, and material challenges when filming in Cuba?
There were many challenges, and many complications on many levels, to film in Cuba; especially when we shot Taxibol during the pandemic. It was a very complicated time, as in many other countries. In Cuba there was also inflation, there were a lot of blackouts, as well as a curfew.
At the anthropological and cultural level, everything is also very complicated, if you want to do a good job, which implies relating to history, people, relating to culture, being careful, and taking care of yourself. You have to listen to the other, and not put yourself in an authoritarian position, as if I know everything... and I am the Divinity. It's more like talking and becoming something like a megaphone that amplifies and expands what is already there. I tried to be sensitive, fair, and as honest and transparent as possible.
Can Taxibol be considered a film portrait of the impunity of dictators?
It is rather a film portrait of the impunity of evil. It is a portrait that reflects on how in countries, especially in the south of the world, evil enjoys great impunity. Justice is not served, and in many cases, there are violent acts that are completely forgotten, that are neither judged nor punished. Just think of how much has happened, not only in Cuba and the Philippines but also in Italy and many other nations.
I was really interested in dealing with evil in an intimate, personal way, through a figure like Juan Mijares Cruz (Limonta). And I think that relating to history, justice, and memory is fundamental for cinema.
[1] Canovaccio (Italian): Lists of actions and scenes on which the actors of the Italian commedia dell'arte improvised. Game to create stories.
You can read the original note here