This week, the Asymptote blog is excited to share a special two-part engagement with Croatian filmmaker Rajko Grlić. Yesterday in Part I, we featured an interview between Grlić and Ellen Elias-Bursać, who, in addition to being an Asymptote contributing editor, is also the editor of the first English translation of Grlić’s memoirs. Today, in Part II, we bring you an exclusive excerpt from that memoir, from a section called “Festival Selector.”
Croatian filmmaker Rajko Grlić organizes the material of his memoir, Long Story Short, like a lexicon of filmmaking terminology. Under each heading and definition, he includes a story from his life: his filmmaking; his struggles against nationalism in Croatia during the war of the 1990s; and his years of teaching at NYU, UCLA, and Ohio University. Grlić was known as one of the leading Yugoslav filmmakers in 1980s Croatia, celebrated for such box-office successes as You Love Only Once (1981); In the Jaws of Life (1984), which was based on a Dubravka Ugrešić novel; and That Summer of White Roses (1989). He left Croatia in the 1990s during its war for independence and has since gone on to make several more notable films, including The Border Post (2006) and The Constitution (2016). He collected stories during his many years of making movies and moving through the world, aware that he’d never have the opportunity to make every story he had to tell into a film, but refusing to lose them to oblivion.
Grlić’s memoir was translated by Vesna Radovanović and edited by Asymptote contributing editor Ellen Elias-Bursać. Elias-Bursać spoke recently to Grlić about the life that led to Long Story Short, an interview that was published yesterday as Part I of this series. In the excerpt that follows, “Festival Selector,” Grlić tells of his decades-long friendship with Honorio Rancaño, the selector for movies shown at Mostra, a film festival that was held for many years in Valencia, Spain.
Festival Selector: the person who chooses the films, conceptualizes and shapes the festival creatively.
Cannes, 1981
In the hall of Palais des Festivals in Cannes, someone taps me on the shoulder and, before I have a chance to turn, starts talking about my movie You Love Only Once, in a jumble of Czech, Russian, and Spanish.
“Honorio Rancaño, selector for the Valencia Film Festival,” the man finally introduces himself, unshaven and chewing on a long, wet cigar.
Valencia, 1936–1939
Valencia is the capital of Republican Spain. This is also where the Republic met its end.
Valencia, 1981
In a coup attempt in February, the army brings the tanks out in the streets. A few months later, Valencia becomes the first town the socialists win in the elections. In early September, in Valencia, they organize their first “cultural event”—a film festival, known as Mostra.
Over the next ten years, I come to Valencia on a regular basis, sometimes more than once a year. It is an open and cheerful town of good-natured people. That is where I meet many interesting people of Spanish culture, many of whom later lead the country’s politics. All of them are full of amazing stories about the Franco years, but none of these nearly as exciting as Honorio’s.
And he never tells the story at one go. To me, or, apparently, to anyone else. Only occasionally does he throw in a detail or two, retell an image and quickly move on to the next subject. Here are some pieces of the puzzle.
Valencia, Paris, Ciudad de México, Athens (Greece), 1938–1947
Honorio’s father is an anarchist at the time, the Minister of Economy in the last Republican government. The Republic falls in 1939, and the family goes into exile. Honorio is less than a year old. First, they are in France and then, during World War II, in Mexico. After the war, they are banished to Greece and afterward are deported to Russia after the fall of the communist government, in 1947.
Valencia, 2011
I check this story with Honorio’s widow and daughter. But, since the two of them have also heard only fragments, they can’t tell facts from fiction.
They say the biggest problem for them was Honorio’s father’s extensive book collection. He packed the books up, took them into exile with him, and never parted from them. Hence the collection, i.e. the possibility for moving it, was often the decisive factor in the choice of their next destination.
Russia, 1947–1954
They are sent to the Russian Far East. As a model pioneer, Honorio becomes a member of the delegation of the Spanish Republic in exile. So once a year, on November 29th, Republic Day in Yugoslavia, he also flies to Belgrade. Straight from the airport, he is taken to Mount Avala to visit the tomb of the unknown soldier. They lay a wreath, have their photos taken, and then, without further ado, they are put on a plane and sent back to Russia. His only memories of Yugoslavia are the airport and the memorial center on the nearby hill.
Prague, 1954–1957
At the age of twenty-six he comes to Prague and enrolls to study literature at Charles University. A year later, he is transferred to FAMU, the film academy, and begins his studies in directing.
At the same time, over on the other side of the world, in Cuba, somewhere in Sierra Maestra, Fidel Castro is assembling an army to fight against Baptista. Honorio abandons his studies, goes to Cuba, and joins Castro’s soldiers.
Sierra Maestra, Havana, 1957–1965
He remains in Cuba for almost ten years. First as a soldier, then as a high state official in Havana. He marries, works for the Ministry of Culture, running the film department.
Valencia, 1985
At Vasco’s restaurant, Honorio laughs and smokes while telling us about the first script he read. It was sent to him by the Russians. It was modelled after the Eisenstein’s never-completed Viva Mexico. The script was full of horses and cactuses. And there were no horses or cactuses to be found anywhere in Cuba.
“So, what did you tell them?”
“Nothing. We made cactuses out of paper and brought in horses from Mexico!”
Havana, 1966
Che Guevara parts ways with Castro and goes off to Bolivia to start a revolution. He is accompanied by his ten friends. Among them, Honorio and his wife. At the Havana airport, they wait for a flight to Moscow. Once there, they will, via Prague, Vienna, and Rio, make their way to Bolivia.
At the airport, Honorio confesses to his wife that he has neither the strength nor the enthusiasm for new revolutions. He is homesick for the country of his birth, about which he knows nothing. He has decided to go to Spain. Somehow, he will cross the border, he will live there illegally. He begs her to join him. She understands what he is saying but, determined to keep her promise, she goes to Bolivia with Che.
Valencia, 1987
Honorio tells me this story while we are in a bookshop, flipping through a book about Cuba. He stops at the page with a photograph of Che Guevara’s dead body surrounded by the bodies of his comrades. They were caught and killed in an action led by the CIA eleven months after they arrived in Bolivia. For a long time he looks at the picture and then rests his finger on one of the bodies.
“There she is. I haven’t seen her since that day at the airport.”
Paris, Barcelona, 1966–1980
On his way to Spain, he stays for seven years in Paris. He studies, writes, works on film crews. In 1973, he crosses the border illegally and, in the mountains above Barcelona, organizes the distribution of guerrilla films. They use 16mm projectors to show “revolutionary documentaries” to villagers.
Valencia, 1981
Socialists invite him to lead the film festival in Valencia with Josep Pons Grau and Vincent Garces. Pepe, a young high-school professor, later to become the leader of the socialists in the European Parliament, becomes the director, and Honorio, the selector.
This is how actor Miki Manojlović and I come to Valencia for the first time. To present the film You Love Only Once. At the end of the Festival, we are on the stage of the now long since closed Cine Goya, Honorio stands next to us, while Ricardo Muñoz Suay, the writer and the producer of Buñuel’s Viridiana, hands the Best Actor award to Miki and the festival Grand Prix to me. Muñoz presents me as a Sephardic Jew. Honorio chuckles around the cigar in his mouth. I accept the award, saying I am sorry my people were banished from there five hundred years ago. Otherwise this would now be an award for Spain. Honorio winks at me.
Valencia, 1982
He decides to stay in Valencia. He marries, his daughter is born, he writes. For ten years he is the Mostra selector and the producer.
His father also returns to Spain. He has only one wish: to buy a Basque cap in his home village, in the mountains above Gijón. Honorio takes his father there. They find the shop his father had talked about so often and buy the cap he dreamed of for years. Several months later, his father dies.
Zagreb, 1983
Honorio visits Belgrade and Zagreb. He selects films for a retrospective of Yugoslav film. I take him to the Festival in Pula, I take him around Istria.
Honorio and I stand in the great display window of Cine Goya at 2 a.m., looking out over a thousand people who are waiting to enter the screening of my movie In the Jaws of Life.
San Sebastian, 1989
That Summer of White Roses is premiered in the official Festival selection. Honorio comes. We go out for dinner. As always, we first stop at a tapas bar. We drink red wine and have a few snacks. As usual, he eats very little and drinks a lot. I eat a lot and drink a lot.
Suddenly, gunfire echoes from the street.
Guests move away from the windows but don’t stop their conversations. The gunfire gets louder.
A young man, drenched in blood, staggers into the bar. One of the guests hurries him into the kitchen. Outside, the noise is louder, the running, shooting, shouting. Uniformed police officers come in. They scan the bar. The guests behave as if nothing is happening. The police officers leave.
We leave the place some ten minutes after the last gunshot. A few steps away, gunshots whizz right over our heads. We drop to the ground. Honorio gestures for me to follow him. We crawl toward the closest cover. Finally, I get a chance to see this old soldier in action. He is worried but is clearly enjoying the situation. It takes us more than half an hour to crawl our way out of the old town.
On the other side of the wide avenue, in front of the theater where the festival screenings take place, people are calmly watching the police officers, the armored vehicles, guessing where the gunshots are coming from. One of them is listening to a football match broadcast over a portable radio while watching the clashes in the street.
Honorio says this happens every year during the Festival. The Basque separatist organization ETA uses the presence of numerous journalists to organize street fights to attract their attention.
Enormous speakers are set up in front of the theater. Mozart’s Don Giovanni is thundering. Knowing what to expect, the Festival was prepared for the sound duel. And really—there, on the large square close to the old town, thanks to Mozart, the gunfire is virtually inaudible.
Valencia, 1989
Mostra celebrates its tenth edition. I leave the Tokyo Film Festival, probably the most expensive of the prestigious festivals at the time, three days before its end so I can reach Valencia in time for the celebration.
Pepe takes me to a bullfight. To the mayor’s box. The one where the signal is given whether or not to cut off the bull’s tail.
During the first fight, a girl enters the box and whispers that Honorio has asked me to come immediately back to the Festival. My wife has called from Zagreb. It must be urgent. They’ve called from Tokyo. That Summer of White Roses has won the Grand Prix. They are asking if I could come back.
Honorio is standing next to me. Knowing what the fuss is about, he is enjoying the commotion. In that moment, the door bursts open and almost everyone from the Festival comes in carrying bottles of champagne.
That evening, I speak with Bosnian/Serbian filmmaker Emir Kusturica for the last time. Goran Marković is also there. The conversation begins in Goran’s hotel room, and we kept talking while we walk through the empty streets of the old town almost until dawn. We talk about the imminent war. We do not see eye to eye.
Zagreb, 1991
Honorio calls from Valencia, he sounds worried. Vasco, the owner of the small Basque restaurant where we have celebrated many awards, where we have eaten a lot of angulas a la bilbaína and drunk plenty of vino tinto, is offering me an apartment. It’s not large but it’s in the center. Vasco doesn’t need it for the time being and we can stay in it until we get settled. Honorio has found me a job, too. I will teach film. And our citizenship can be easily arranged. The King has promised that all the descendants of those who were banished five hundred years ago from Spain will be granted passports. I thank him. I try to reassure him.
“It’s not so bad yet.”
“I know, but it will get bad!” Honorio is shouting.
Mostar, 1995
Honorio leads a Spanish TV crew which is making a movie about the war-torn city of Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina. He phones from Split. That is the last time we speak.
Valencia–Zagreb, 2001
After my surgery, I’m in the hospital. Honorio’s daughter calls to let me know her father has died. She asks me to come and hold a eulogy at his funeral. I can’t even get out of bed, let alone travel. I write a few of sentences. Pepe kindly agrees to read them.
“Honorio Rancaño died while working on My Father, a film script,” reports the Madrid daily El Pais in its obituary about Honorio.
San Sebastián, 2006
Border Post is premiered in the official Festival selection. I wander through the old town. No gunfire, no Honorio.
Valencia, 2011
I return to Valencia after more than twenty years. I am at Vasco’s with Pepe. We talk about Honorio, we connect the jigsaw-puzzle pieces of his life. Vasco laughs: “The apartment is still empty. You can still come and live a decent life here with us instead of dragging yourselves around those United States.”
Honorio’s widow and daughter come to the festival screening of my movie Just Between Us and bring a book of poetry that his friends have published posthumously. I ask them about Honorio’s father’s book collection. Did he bring it back with him to Spain? They don’t know.
The night before I return to the States, I stay at Yvone and Pepe’s place. They live in the hills above Valencia, surrounded by orange and lemon plantations. Everything is in bloom. The scent is fantastic.
Pepe gives me a copy of his and Honorio’s book about Yugoslav film. We have dinner with Ida and Yvone’s brother and listen to Morente. They talk about the disappearance of the Spain I had a chance to see some thirty years before. At the moment, Valencia is being run by the extreme right.
Athens, OH, 2011
Yvone lets me know that the city authorities have decided to shut down the Mostra. Students are protesting. They are asking me to write something. I write a few bitter sentences, I mention Honorio. Pepe reads it at the rally.
Valencia, 2012
I come upon a news item on the Internet:
“The streets of Valencia turned red with the blood of local students and with the shame of those who brutally provoked it. Peaceful demonstrations against education cuts in Valencia entered into their fourth day yesterday, but this Monday, things didn’t end peacefully. The chief of the local police, Antonio Moreno, saw to this by literally sending a bunch of heavily armed members of special forces to hunt the students down. The photos and footage show young people’s faces covered in blood, their heads smashed, and the police wielding batons left and right. Similar pictures of people racing through the streets have only been seen in Pamplona until now, except that this time young men and women were not being chased by raging bulls but by even more raging heavily armed special-force policemen. . .”
Photo credit: Nikola Predović
Rajko Grlić was born in 1947 in Zagreb, Croatia and graduated in film directing at FAMU in Prague, Czech Republic in 1971. As a director and scriptwriter, he has worked on eleven theatrical features. These films were shown in cinemas across five continents, and included in competition programs of leading world festivals, including Cannes. They have received numerous international awards. He has worked on five feature films as scriptwriter and on five as producer. He wrote, directed, and produced How to Make Your Movie: An Interactive Film School, which was proclaimed the Best World Multi-media in 1998. He is Ohio Eminent Scholar in Film at Ohio University, Athens Ohio, USA.
Ellen Elias-Bursac is a contributing editor to Asymptote. She translates fiction and non-fiction from the Bosnian, Croatian, and Serbian. She is president of the American Literary Translators Association.
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