In the prologue of the film, a series of old faded photos depict a mother and a daughter hugging each other. I don’t know whether they show a meeting or separation, just as I am not clear about whether our lives are a meeting or separation either.
This film is about my mother. I had to make it, as nobody else could relate the story of this forgotten woman, one of the first female filmmakers in the Soviet Union, who, like millions of other women, was arrested during the time of the Great Purge. Her films also disappeared, seemingly forever. What the system inflicted upon these clearly innocent women is an expression of absolute evil: they were arrested as the family members of “enemies of the people” without either trial or indictment – an unprecedented act of lawlessness in the history of international justice.
But at that moment, when bidding farewell at the train station, the mother was leaving to shoot a film. The child was saying goodbye to her mother and weeping. And that’s where the question emerges – was the reason for the mother’s departure worth the child’s tears? For me, this film is an attempt to answer that question.
The artworks – or beauty, in other words – created by a human being endure forever. This is the foundation for my optimism.
As I started working, I encountered the main issue – how to portray those days in images. All I had from my mother was several photos of her on film sets. Due to the intimate nature of the film, I wanted to avoid the traditional path of using archival materials.
This is how the film finally took shape. There were the old photos that survived the confiscation, including an emblematic photo of my mother – an exceptionally attractive woman in Uzbek clothing. Then there were the collages created by Simon Machabeli depicting past days as well as an image of “the blue room” – the brief, joyful world of childhood, restored by blue shreds of memories. There were also the episodes from my previous films, where I speak about my mother directly or indirectly. By adding a commentary from the perspective of today, I tried to give them the power of a real document. As if my comprehension of reality were reality itself. The making-of my last feature OKROS DZAPI (Golden Thread) was also filmed in a creative way by cinematographer Jean-Louis Padis in order to be included in the film, which is also about film history – the history of women filmmakers as represented by three generations. My mother, me and my daughter.
The emotional side of the narration needed to be amplified by the music. Rezo Kiknadze’s saxophone introduces the sound of the contemporary era with a disturbing, ominous intonation, which is contrasted with “Frère Jacques”, a song from my childhood. This clear, bright tune is frequently drowned out by the threatening sounds, but still wins out at the end.
And finally, there are Nutsa Gogoberidze’s resurrected films and their international recognition. It was my mother’s return to life, and the child’s tears dried up as a result. Because dictatorships collapse. The artworks – or beauty, in other words – created by a human being endure forever. This is the foundation for my optimism. “Living to tell the tale”, says Gabriel García Márquez. I feel the same way. I lived in order to tell the tale. Because my life is a reflection of the great historical cataclysms that are still imprinted as wounds upon our country. And it’s characteristic of wounds that they sometimes open and even bleed…
Lana Gogoberidze
