Virginia R. Moreno Virginia R. Moreno is a prize-winning poet and playwright. As founding Director of the Film Center, on its 24th Anniversary in the year 2000, she was invited as Guest Representative of the chosen 23 best film training Centers in the world by the Creative Planet Executives for its Beneficiary Presentation Cannes 2000 Film Festival. Raymond Red was her scholar-protégé. What are the young Films dreaming of? The poet Jean Cocteau once asked of France. Here, in our islands they now are dreaming of us, their next Makers. Advance! Be recognized, who will make real, make day incandescent, out of the elusive powers of nightlife. Film makers are our freshly-born poets. Clutching family bank-paid tickets, Sheila Red and I in trying to catch up on ANINO DIRECTOR Raymond Red and his Actor Ronnie Lazaro in the Cannes 2000 Film Festival by flying Lufthansa and Air France instead of the old comforts of the defunct Philippine Airlines, erased — without our wanting to — any last sign of concern or identity of the ANINO Film Team as Official Philippine entry to this Queen of International Film Festivals. ANINO, therefore, was exclusively an Official French Selection as an Independent Artist’s Entry to the Cannes 2000 International Film Festival. Among the sensitive and civilized worlds of CINEMA, what distinction! What honor for Raymond Red as an independent filmmaker beholden to no one, country-free. With his ANINO FILM PARTY who worked, now I know, also, for free! Out of my memories of poetry, drama, book art, costume and cinema Festivals from Brussels to Brazil, Paris to Berlin, the Artist who carries his works to the other world of the Arts enters as a self-exile from his country. His real visa now is his Art, the true Consul is the accepting Jury of the Arts. All else is forgotten. Left behind in Manila are the hound dogs, the bomb scare and the crises of the nation as our quartet of Raymond, Sheila, Ronnie and I stepped down from our shuttle cars of Cote d’Azur resort hotels in the Stop Stations at the Croisette, laughing as blithesome children. Festivals are games, don’t you know? And we walked. Everybody walks here-Catherine Deneuve now, Liv Ullmann then - to the last blocks before the steps of the new Festival Palace. Our fifth man, was Roger Garcia, walking with us. 5 Musketeers! One for all and all for one, he had lodged the Anino trio in his own hotel suite. As a Portuguese-Chinese subject, once Hong Kong Festival Executive, he is now self-exiled (?) in California, detached from his country of origin. Like us,exiled from our country of origin, if only for 2 weeks with our Schengen, All-Europe visas. World class citizens! I proclaimed them with bravado. The Palace security door guards, I wanted to point out but kept the impression to myself, looked less like gendarmes but more like playful Louis Lumiere Cinema Theater ushers. And when barring the thousands swarming below the Palace steps, they always begged in mock "Excuse us, Citoyens! Are you Gerard Depardieu? He already entered with a name plate signed VATEL? (The film character that G.D. played in the Festival’s Opening Film) You are not VATEL? Out! Come back in Monsieur Charlie Chaplin’s hat pants shoes. All these, with Gallic humor, in the manner of Marcel Marceau’s impersonations. French style. Then, why should this Le Monde headline in 1973 flash before me, on our ascending now the Festival steps:                       Franco is dead.        Franco est mort.                       Picasso lives.           Picasso vive. Is it only in France that the Artist can crowd out the death of a Head of State? Spain lost to France, Picasso the exile, as a minotaur Artist of Guernica that stalked the head of Spain for years. Now it is the fabulous director Pedro Almodovar who crowns Spain anew with his wickedly comic films. We were waved in with a flourish by these Palace guards-cum-cinema ushers-playing comedians. Cinema Paradiso! We felt special as we passed, thousands entering and thousands exiting, through Pavillions of Exhibitions, counters of Rent-a-Call phone, telefax stations, Jury holy of holy officers, Louis Lumiere Theater, Pavillion of Les Ambassadeurs where diplomats and Ministers of Culture register. And a free popcorn stand beside mint candy glass jars for everyone. Only later in the day, on reading the French Festival daily, did I learn we Asians seemed special: Chinese, Koreans, Vietnamese, Japanese, Philippine films isang katutak are up for competition for the first time and in the Millenium Cannes Festival. I saw a thinner, older Nagisa Oshima of the 1980’s Realm of the Senses, since I last hosted him in Manila being interviewed on his new film SAMURAI and my normally stout heart was about to sink for Raymond’s Anino. That’s only for a minute second. Upbeat again, when we found ourselves serendipitously ensconced in the lounge chairs in the heart of the Riviera. An open-air Atrium shaded by giant white umbrellas, with living sentinels of palm trees where ( to Sheila Red and me) the 30,000 people in Cannes must have streamed in and out, up and down the stairways to the Business Market floor, Behind us the Show Biz Data banks and everyone of this toting bag-and palm-held cell phone queuing crowd praying(?) before enshrined computer alcoves. Across us, the Bar Café‘ with the jazzed-up rhythms of clinking wine glasses and Coca, spitz-fizz machines, mint-fresh francs cluttering on the cashier’s plate. Strangely enough (to newcomers)conversation here was sedately only above whispers. No loud-mouthed wheelers and dealers. But mistake you not, this summer milk khaki and Blanik-sandal crowds are carrying on modulated million-dollar deals while kissing each other twice, both cheeks, French mode. Luxuriating now in the Cote d’Azur sunlight, all things forgiven, Sheila, I say, we must float like Claude Monet’s waterlilies in his painted or real pond, whatever, Feel sybaritic! Monet’s Giverny Garden is preserved by the French Heritage Officer in the Ministry of Culture. I want to take you and Raymond there, win, or not, after the Festival. Merci, André Malraux. Merci, Jack Lang. You gifted us all the care of these French living treasures. You are the titans. And those who came after you, as Ministers of Culture. We were destined to arrive in Cannes, I said at last to Sheila, while carefully sharing between us our first salad sandwich: (Raymond was out to get our accreditation picture necklaces.) Nothing and no one could have stopped us, I pressed on. We prayed so hard, Sheila explained in her naif, sweet way. Yes, prayers first. (But I offered now my theory of origins.) Did I hear from you that Raymond as a boy was allowed to shoot his way with his Father’s camera? Ingmar Bergman the Swedish film genius as a boy was given a toy nickelodeon instead of a gun. Akira Kurosawa the Japanese National Treasure in Cinema was trained early during the day by his father in martial arts from his samurai clan. At night he was brought to the movies for pleasure. Such balance and such wisdom from fathers. Everything that will happen to Raymond here was programmed as far back as the free handling of his father’s camera. How did all of them began? As we leafed through stacks of poster art, cards, leaflets, brochures and streamers around us.                       Film Yorkshire!                       Film Africain. Every artist is a prism. But every now and then the entire spectrum of a century crystallizes as in one human being alone…Mattotti; maintains the mystery by exploring relentlessly, new territories, multiplying his art: Press, posters, fashion, children’s literature, comic books animation, painting are his daily sphere…Both timeless and modern, suave and raw, conceptual and alchemical, seraphic and venusian—his palette abolishes tensions and contradictions. The very fabric of dreams. L’Humanite‘ de L’MATTOTTI, Auteur d’Affiche de Cannes 2000. The humanity, translated, of the poster Artist Lorenzo MATTOTTI of Cannes 2000. All that homage to the poster artist of Cannes 2000, Lorenzo MATTOTTI! And we have yet to see the films, the matrix of all film Festivals. I didn’t have to stir where we sat like smiling odalisques in the Riviera lounge. People passed, all smiles too. And stopped to give us their calling cards, leaflets, brochures, and theater passes to screenings. Once only I stood up to catch the sari tail of Aruna, NETPAC Festival Director. We embraced, offered her ANINO, and stoically exchanged notes on the death of Ismael Bernal on whom she doted upon in Manila. The 5-day wake in the Film Center where the flowers and elegies and presence of Manila’s film “stardom” rivaled the Funeral Parlor Quiogue. We laughed through our kept tears, she asked about Jorge Arago’s book on Ismael? The poor rich in Manila cannot afford to fund the book. Silence. See you. Remember ANINO! Suddenly, before Sheila and me, stood an all-blonde boy and girl camera-toting crew. Boy and Girl: Zen Tropa, All-Europe Television, Ma’am. May we interview you? VRM: Sure, but you must also do Director Red. His actor. His wife here Sheila. ZT: O.K. Tell us about Red. (They brought out my lounge chair in the Claude Monet sunlight, Sheila running after me with a comb to tamp my flying hair down) VRM to SR: Did you hear that? True cineaste, Asking for the film: The camera was on. VRM: I’m off Kids, to the rich I’m sure Creative Planet Party now. I promise to bring you to a true-blue French lunch. Or after-cinema dinners. I can still afford them on my Moreno Foundation bank. No Macdonald burgers, please. You need hot French onion soup for feeling like prizewinners. ZT: Your last words, MA’AM. VRM: I pray Raymond Red and Lars Von Trier win! (They did, the Grand Prix.) Sheila was now facing Raymond. And Raymond fussing where he can pounce on Ronnie L to face this ZenTropa, All-Europe boy and girl television team in the first hour of our first day in the Cannes 2000 Film Festival. The Creative Planet Party in the Pavilion of Exhibitions was a plate-ful of surprises. No hotdogs. No finger pizzas. No beers/ Wine in true glasses, not plastic cups. I forgot this is Cannes in France. Famous for Périgord delicacies. My instincts were right. Our flight prophetic. Go to Cannes! What’s there to hope for in Manila if Raymond stayed at home. Bitter and made inutile? No way. What if he did not dare to hock his family and future to the bank? Did not make this film? What if Raymond and Sheila did not believe with me that the Palace doors of Cannes can open up more precious doors beyond? How can anyone forestall or make poor with fear this Artist by the cost of an airfare? The price of a Cannes hotel? Or the rent of a one-night tuxedo. The black shoes. The bow tie. How small, so very small, the littlest, are the fears of the really poor in their lives against the imagination sans frontiers of daring artists. In the celebrated French film Babette’s Feast, Babette was a chef of aristocrats who ran as a refugee from the French Revolution to a remote Danish island inhabited by strict Puritans. Having won a lottery prize (like Dr. Jose Rizal in exile in Dapitan) Babette composed an elegant gourmet meal of rare meats, fowls, sweet breads and ices. The Puritans, on being served this cuisine of aristocrats, exclaimed over Babette’s extravagance:You spent all your richesse for this meal. You will be poor again! Babette in the most famous line of this prize film replied: No! Artists cannot be made poor. Their riches, now I paraphrase, are in themselves, original, sustainable and everlasting. It was still brilliant Riviera sunlight when I came out, like one who had received grace at Mass, following the tuxedoed and shining long gown-crowd to the Croisette. From a high perch, the ceremony unfolded before us: all the world’s film and television elbowing each other to watch. Discreetly on the Croisette, Bjork, singer and comedian, appeared last night, under the lights of the sidewalks of the Palais des Festivals and bowed in remarkable reverence. Dressed in turn-of-the-century rose dress and ribbons with Catherine Deneuve, the site presenter of Dancer in the Dark of the Danish director Lars Von Trier. On my way to the helicopter pad the Saturday of ANINO’s screening, I stopped the chauffeur and blew a kiss for the Film Party nervously inside the Cinema Theater. As I mounted the helicopter with the other prize films for Paris and for Denmark, I thanked the French Festival management for graciously flying me out to Nice, among the 30,000 flying out. Cloud-borne, I looked back, From above the Palace Festival roof waved a “Dancer in the Light” streamer. For whom? The young films that are dreaming of - the still rare, the still rich - freshly - born Poets who are their filmmakers. - o - TOP 22 June 2000 CODE RED | DATABASE | ARCHIVES AND LIBRARY | HOME © Film Center of the University of the Philippines