Rastislav Boroš: “I think I’ve made an Indian film.”

Rasťo Boroš, film Kronika večných snílkov © IFF Art Film, Marek Eštočin

 

Your new film The Sluggard Clan is a loose adaptation of Ťapákovci. What about this source captivated you so much that you decided to adapt it for the screen?

My source text by Božena Slančíková Timrava completely enchanted me. For one simple reason—there is something in that book that I, for myself, have called “the soul of the Slovak nation.” It sounds a little lofty, but it’s very true. Quite simply, when I came across Ťapákovci again after many years, I told myself I had to film it. I literally couldn’t resist.

The film was also shaped by the fact that Ťapákovci is written in literary realism, meaning it’s a social drama. As a person and as an author, I’m wired quite differently. I’m more temperamental; I like multiple time planes and narrative layers in film. I enjoy genres such as magical realism. So I had to adapt the source material to my own sensibilities. I decided to treat the film as a loose adaptation and created an entirely new fictional world—a world of people lost in their own dreams. That’s why they are surrounded by a vibrant environment that defies the laws of physics, where the living naturally coexist with the spirits of their dead ancestors.

Since you mentioned the spirit of the nation: our national anthem also says that Slovakia slept for a long time and needs to wake up. Do you want to wake Slovaks up with this film? Do you think Slovaks will see themselves in it?

I hope they will. And I also hope they will love this film. When I was younger, I idealistically thought you could change the world with a film. It’s not that simple. We won’t change the whole country either, but I believe we need to talk about who we are—and we need to talk about it truthfully, even when it’s uncomfortable. That’s okay. Truth is incredibly important, because if we don’t deal with the truth, if we don’t think about ourselves, we’ll disappear.

The film is a bit critical, yet I hope you can feel that all the human shortcomings it touches on are balanced by great virtues such as love.

That’s exactly how we humans work. We try to achieve something, we chase our dreams, and almost invariably it ends disastrously. The only thing that truly matters is love—love in all its forms. Whether it’s romantic, maternal, or a sincere love for a meaningful idea. That’s what the film is about. What’s more, it’s told with irony, full of gags, and all the characters are both sad and funny. That’s how I wanted to touch the truth—who we are—and I wanted to do it with love for all of us.

How are the first Slovak viewers, who already saw the film in Košice at Art Film, responding to this truth?

The very first Slovak viewers only saw it yesterday, and it’s too early for me to evaluate it objectively. I have only subjective reactions from a variety of target groups—from professionals, filmmakers, intellectuals, all the way to people who have nothing to do with film, even people for whom film may be a completely useless thing. Still, I don’t dare assess it yet; it’s too soon. But I can say I’ve heard a lot of nice things.

Your film, however, has achieved great success abroad. It was awarded Best Independent European Film at a festival in Paris. How did foreign audiences react?

Before we opened the Košice festival with the film, it had toured various festivals abroad. Reactions there depended on the country. The film paradoxically appealed to people who have nothing to do with our country, which is why I think it’s universal in some way. I’ll tell you an interesting story: The Sluggard Clan had its world premiere in India, in the tropics. I had never been to India before. As I mentioned, the film is very colourful—almost a world unto itself. It’s a metaphor in which the living share life with ghosts. When we screened it in India, people watched it very attentively. During the discussion I learned they perceived it as a social drama. I didn’t understand why. Then one gentleman told me about his house and a mango tree growing in his garden. His deceased father is present in that tree, and the man talks to his father every day. I think I made an Indian film, but I don’t know why. (smiles)

Visually, too, it’s a very distinctive film. How did you search for a formal solution?

I think we made this film, in terms of cinematic language, completely differently from how films are made today. I admit I don’t like post-production tricks and tweaks because I don’t trust computers. I always feel when the technology is trying to fool me. I insisted that we create our effects directly in the mise-en-scène, as stage tricks. So, if someone was supposed to fall off a balcony, they simply had to fall and drop the full five metres.

We needed to bury Anežka Petrová in a grave, so we did it and gave her a walkie-talkie. We built a structure around her and made sure she could surface at the right moment. When Milan Ondrík had to chase animals out of a car, we actually herded those animals in and Milan played the scene with them. When Evička Bándor had to sit on top of a telegraph pole, she sat up there all day. She was, of course, secured. Everything was safe and prepared. But I think this isn’t how it’s done nowadays—certainly not in Slovak filmmaking.

What did this different approach mean for the crew behind the camera?

This seductive stylisation and a world understood as a metaphor completely freed our hands. We could explore modes of storytelling without limitation. Time is broken in the film; there’s humour, and there’s a protagonist who jumps into a well whenever he wants to be alone because that’s his hideout. Such freedom brought everything else with it. When the set designer, architect and props team came in, they were thrilled to realise this world. They enjoyed creating the idea I’d brought in, even if it was half-crazy or unrealistic. The same happened with the actors—they also loved fulfilling the whole vision, breathing life into characters whose lives look grotesque and off-kilter.

At the opening ceremony we heard that the actors received instructions from you to play in front of the camera. Was that your intention—to make the shoot a playful process?

I don’t believe in various methods of directing actors. I’m not the kind of director who comes in and commands or even demands sternly. For me, when it comes to directing actors, creating the right atmosphere is crucial. I’m not saying atmosphere is the only important thing, but it is fundamental for me. That’s why I told the actors at the very beginning: come in and don’t think at all about how much it costs; don’t burden yourselves with responsibility. I told them to forget everything and be like children who have come to play in the sandbox. That was the basis on which I built the directing of the actors.

When we compare your new film with the previous two, it’s stylistically quite different. Do you perceive your own authorial development?

Yes, I’m evolving as an author. Film is the most beautiful thing you can do here. But it has one drawback: when you make a film under professional conditions, one film eats up five years of your life. So you need fifteen years for three films. The hardest part is choosing one theme and then fighting for it, developing it and realising it for five years. When I made my first film fifteen years ago, I was a completely different Rasťo Boroš.

What can we expect from you and your work in the future?

It will again be something a little different, even though it will resemble the handwriting of The Sluggard Clan. I call it a surreal, black grotesque. The film I’m preparing currently has two aspects: on one hand it’s a loose adaptation of Chekhov’s The Seagull, and on the other it’s an adaptation of my own life in 2023. But I’ll say no more for now.


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