Alessandra Magnaghi and Ortensia Visconti’s Fidelity is a portrait of a complicated Cuban society, allegedly destined to disappear with its leader. In this interview they talk to Kamila Kuc about the nature of their collaboration and about exploring and filming the island.

Kamila Kuc: How did your collaboration on Fidelity start?

Alessandra Magnaghi: Ortensia and I were already good friends before we decided to work together. For two and half years we’ve been shooting, editing and creating Fidelity. It has been a terrific experience: fun, some difficult moments but it was always unexpected.
Ortensia Visconti: Working with Alessandra was great. Not only because I had fun doing it, but it was also an opportunity to discover and improve our knowlege of the subject through our discussions and a real life experience.

KK: What will happen to all the subjects you interviewed? I mean people who expressed their disappointment with Castro’s politics…

AM&OV: We were worried too. We  always asked everyone we interviewed about the risks they could be taking, but they told us that generally it’s not as dangerous to speak as it once was. They always  spoke to us knowing the risks involved.

KK: Conversely, do you think that the ones who praised Castro were honest with you, or were they just afraid to tell the truth?

OV: I can’t say if they were honest or lying: this is something that the viewers should guess themselves after seeing the documentary. The only sure thing is that the camera doesn’t lie.
AM: I think they were honest. Possibly because they grew up in a propaganda system, but they didn’t lie. Cuba is a place full of contradictions: many Cubans criticize the system, but only few of them hate Castro.

KK: Many characters in the film admire and idolize Castro. I find this strong devotion to the dictator somehow disturbing and it seems like those who are well off, like the actress Maria Antonia, are more in favour of his politics. Who do you think would make an ideal new leader?

OV: Obama would be perfect.
AM: I don’t know, under Fidel no political class was able to develop, and this is a problem. At present I appreciate Raul Castro. Of course he is not the future, but can be a good transition.

KK: Current situation in Cuba makes me think of the Stalinist Russia, where after Stalin’s death many Russians said that they were better off under the dictatorship, because of good healthcare system, education, etc. The Cubans in Fidelity give similar reasons….

AM: It’s true, healthcare and education are typical steps in a dictatorship. Fidel is a Big Father that feed people and tell them how to think. The only problem with health is the lack of money, while education provides the basis of a constant brainwashing. A lot of Cubans are tired of that.
OV: Many people in Cuba say that the country isn’t communist, but Fidelist. Fidel, before to become a dictator, was a revolutionnary and a national hero. Health and education for poor people didn’t exist in Cuba. The country was called the “brothel of the USA”. I think that some older people are still greatfull for those things, and nostalgic of their youth.

KK: How did you manage to film out there? Did you get a permission?

AM: We were not allowed to film, of course. In that period the Government didn’t issue any journalistic visa.
OV: We didn’t have any permission. We just were really carefull and tried to look like tourists.

KK: ‘Dear Comandante, I would like to have an ounce of your power, so I could send someone to come and get you. To imprison you so you would have the chance to rot in a hole and reflect on your bullshit…’ Ortensia, this is an opening line of your Open Letter to Fidel Castro (2007), in which you compare Castro to a jealous husband. Can you tell us more about the letter?

OV: In the Open letter to Fidel Castro the voice is one of a Cuban woman (it is a fiction), not mine. I don’t want to give my opinion if I can give the opinion of a Cuban. Alessandra and I employed the same tactic for the documentary. We wanted the spectator to form his/her own opinion through watching the film, without ever imposing ours. Their opinion is based on their life experience, mine only on my personality.
AM: I don’t like dictatorships, so I don’t like Castro’s politics. Above all I think that he failed to build a good economic system. But I think he was right when he nationalized the industries, for example. Cuba belonged to the United States, and I don’t like that kind of “democracy”.

KK: What is the situation with documenary filmmaking in Italy at the moment? How easy/difficult it is to get funding?

AM&OV: There isn’t a great market of Italian documentaries. You see them mostly at festivals, so it’s not easy to get funding. We did produce it ourselves. I hope  the next one will be easier.

KK: What would you say is the aim of documentary filmmaking? Do you think that your documentary will somehow contribute to a socio-political revolution/change in Cuba?

AM: No, I think that only Cubans can change Cuba – and they don’t need a documentary to do it. A documentary can be a witness, and if it’s good it can even inspire people. But you need people to act.
OV: I think the aim is the same as journalism. To inform. But I also think that they had enough Revolutions in Cuba. I wish them a peaceful transition.

To read a review of the film, click here.

In his latest film, Stone Pastures, Donagh Coleman depicts day-to-day life of a family in the high Himalayas. In this interview he tells us more about the villagers and discusses the difficulties surrounding the making of the film by Kamila Kuc

Kamila Kuc: Stone Pastures is a beautiful depiction of everyday life of a nomadic family in the high Himalayan plateau of Ladakh. The conditions of living are very difficult and every day is a struggle for survival. How long were you there for and how did you adapt to these circumstances?

Donagh Coleman: I stayed in Chanthang over several trips between 2003 and 2007. I would usually base myself in Leh (Ladakh’s capital), and then go stay with the nomads for about 10 –14 days at a time. It is really tough staying in those altitudes – the plateau where the nomads live is at an altitude of around 4,5 km, and in winter, temperatures can go down to – 40 C. In those conditions, you just constantly feel a bit apathetic, little headachy etc… you really have to motivate yourself to get out of your warm sleeping bag! When we got into actual production, we had a cook and a few helpers, which helped us to concentrate on the actual filming as opposed to just surviving. Still, it was tough.

KK: How did you establish your relationship with the subjects? I assume you had to use an interpreter…How did this affect your every day communication and relationship with them?

DC: Before actual production started in 2007, I had visited Ladakh many times since 2003, so I managed to pick up a few words of the language. It was surprising how much could be communicated with a few words and gestures! Of course I also had an interpreter / local guide. This man, Mr. Tsewang Dorjee, was invaluable for the project. Being from this nomadic village he knew the place and people inside out and could often anticipate what was about to happen, how people might respond to given situations etc… Tsewang often worked as an assistant director, setting up many of the shots and scenes. So I talked through him, and he also gave us summarised translations of what was being discussed. Because I spent so much time with the nomads, we got to know each other quite well. Also, they are comfortable with silence… As such, we built up quite a close relationship despite obvious communication difficulties.

KK: There is something truly concerning about the fact that these people produce pashmina, an expensive and highly desired product in the West, yet they struggle so much to satisfy basic needs. When you were out there, did you feel that there was something you could do to improve their everyday struggle?

DC: The nomads have been producing pashmina for generations, and have lived in a somewhat symbiotic relationship with the dealers, who make their living buying and selling the fine wool. Actually the dealer we see in the film was well regarded by the villagers. He would often give advance payments on the wool in the winter, before the pashmina was even taken. His father, father’s father and so on all did business with these nomads, and so they have a close relationship going back generations. The families know each other well. Of course the dealer has the upper hand here; he is not in the business for charity. However, in the context of making a profit, he tries to be fair with the nomads. Also, it should be noted that many these nomads are not so poor: after all, they own hundreds of goats, sheep and yak. Though they may not have so much money, they are largely self-sufficient. Their main problem is having to endure such tough physical conditions. They are at the mercy of the elements – a hard winter can wipe out their flock. In a way, you could say that nature is much tougher on them than the businessmen…We tried to give any help we could – transporting their things to and from little store houses where they keep their belongings (they don’t carry everything with them all the time), giving lifts to Leh, where they go quite often for different kinds of supplies. Also, we gave medicines, as well as providing the family and village with solar panels and batteries for electricity. My family is now sponsoring Kunsang, the youngest kid in the film.

KK: The nomads do not have certainty that once a year, when the dealer comes, he will pay them enough money to live for the next year and pay for kids’ education…

DC: Yes, the price of pashmina fluctuates up and down… However, this ancient system, where the nomads depend on the dealers is now out of date. Since working on the film, the nomadic villages have set up a pashmina co-operative with the local Ladakhi government, who now buys most of the precious wool for a set price. The nomads still sell some of the wool (usually the best quality stuff) to the dealers, from whom they can sometimes get higher prices then from the co-op. So the nomads are a bit more secure in the knowledge that they will get an ok price for the wool at the end of the year. Again, their main concerns have to do with the natural elements. As said, a hard winter can wipe out their animals; not enough grass in the summer can also have devastating effects etc.

KK: Despite tough conditions the family represented in the film was determined to get their children educated so at least they can have a better life. Do many children there get education and leave the village in a search for a new life, or do they mostly stay and follow their parents’ way of living?

DC: Most of the kids are sent to school to be educated. Only a few remain behind. Usually these are kids who are incapable of going to school (e.g. handicapped kids). Over the 4 years that I visited, the village really went through quite a drastic change, with more and more kids disappearing into school. Now the village consists of adults and elderly people. It’s kind of sad… You can really see a transformation during the school holidays, when the kids come back home.

KK: There are a number of humorous and touching scenes with a twelve-year old boy, Padma, who often runs away from school. Did you ever get to the bottom of why he really does it?

DC: Many reasons, I suppose… Unlike his little brother, Padma was attending an Indian government school. In such remote areas, the quality of government school teaching and teachers often leaves much to be desired. Kunsang, on the other hand, was going to a private school, which, despite shabby appearances, is one of the best in Ladakh. I think Padma resented going to such a crappy school, and kind of gave up on it. Also, he started school at a later age than Kunsang, and it was probably more difficult for him to get into that kind of “intellectual” frame of mind. He was already so used to roaming the mountains, shepherding etc. And like all the kids, he missed home.

KK: These nomads live away from civilisation as we know it. There is an enormous beauty and a certain romantic notion to it. What being in Himalayas taught you about your life standards and conditions? Did it make you appreciate it more?

DC: Certainly. Although the nature and space of the high plateau is absolutely breathtaking, it is such a tough place to live, especially if your body has not evolved for such an environment. Although I really treasured my time in Chanthang, it was such a joy to return back to my guesthouse in Leh, with it’s green garden, flowing stream… and oxygen. Life in the west, by comparison, seemed even more luxurious. Yet in someway I don’t think I appreciated this as much as returning back to the simple Leh guesthouse… In fact the level of comfort and abundance back home seemed at times obscene.

KK: In the age of experimentation in the field of film and photography, Stone Pastures is refreshing in that it is actually a very traditional form of documentary. One can think of Robert J. Flaherty’s Nanook of the North. Was this always your intention?

DC: Actually I initially had in mind something quite different: parallel stories between the everyday concerns and struggles of the nomads and a western lady (using a pashmina shawl). I never had the intention of making a social-political statement, pointing at the disparity between standards of living, third world vs. the developed west, but rather to find similar, intersecting and contrasting patterns between these different worlds… My starting points were actually more aesthetic and philosophical than one would guess from the finished film (for instance, I was exploring abstract juxtapositions of shawl textures and nomadic tents). However, in the end the material itself suggested a simple, spacious story, reflecting the place and people. It was unnecessary to contrive or fabricate anything else. The place and people were powerful – and metaphorical – enough in themselves. Also, I took this as a bit of an exercise in building a traditional, character-driven story. Not easy! Actually Stone Pastures is very different to my previous work, or films that I have been drawn to in the past.

KK: How was the film funded?

DC: This was an international co-production: Finland (The Finnish national broadcaster YLE, Finnish Film Foundation, Finland’s centre for audiovisual culture AVEK, Finnish Foreign Ministry); Ireland (The Irish Film Board); Great Britain (The Channel 4 British Documentary Film Foundation); France & Germany (ARTE). The film was produced by Illume Ltd (Helsinki), Wildfire Films (Dublin) and Orchid pictures (London). The producers and myself really worked hard to get the money for this – it took many years.

KK: You are a citizen of three countries: US, Finland and Ireland and now you and your wife live in Beijing. So you are a little of a nomad yourself…

DC: Actually we are staying in Helsinki at the moment with my wife, having moved from Beijing at the end of last year. But yes, I could somewhat identify with a nomadic way of life. As a child, we moved between Finland, Ireland and America (following my father’s work). And as an adult I’ve continued to move between these countries, as well as China and India, following different “work pastures”. As such, I’ve managed to avoid any gainful employment so far…

KK: You also make radio documentaries. How do you find the process of working for these two such different mediums?

DC: In terms of basic workflow, I don’t find the two so different. I tend to use sound material from a doc production to make a radio doc, and vice versa. I like working with sound; it is very intimate and emotional. Actually I come from more of a sound background myself. One of the elements I am most happy about in Stone Pastures is the sound. You know it was sound designed by Douglas Murray, whose work includes The English Patient, Harry Potter, Contact etc…and mixed by 2-time Oscar-winner Tom Johnson (Titanic, Terminator, There will be Blood, Tim Burton films etc.).

In some way I even prefer making radio docs, as these offer more creative freedom and room for experimentation with structure etc. Also, it is easy to manage everything oneself with radio docs, giving you more control. And of course you don’t have the enormous battle for funding, which saps most of your energy in trying to make a documentary film! (And you don’t have to deal with that much pressure from producers, as there isn’t so much money invested.) Of course I still hope to continue working in the visual medium, and am already working on a new doc project, which I cant wait to get off the ground.

Day 2

Sitting in the breakfast room I watch birds bouncing on the rocks. Birds of the Indus valley, and I don’t know what any of them are called.

The restoration of the judges again dominates the comment and editorial pages of the morning papers. A genuine hope exists that a separation between the State and the judiciary has been established, and that the days of the judges rubbing-stamping military, or other ‘regimes’, whether by clear decree (the ‘doctrine of necessity’), or by silent approval, is over. As on previous visits I am struck by the lucidity of much of the editorial writing. The directness of its political analysis, in particular the recognition of US policy initiatives in Pakistan. The avoidance of the hysterical or the Olympian.

Peter, Eram Zehra (British High Commission) and I meet in the lobby. We head out into the rich, summer-spiced air. A security guard in a dark blue uniform and black beret steps forward and leads us to the waiting car. There are many different coloured uniforms on display in Karachi. The designation of each, the affiliation, whether to the military or a private security service is not always obvious. This morning there are at least three distinct uniformed groups on the forecourt.

We clamber into the 4×4, the rear-windows screened with black gauze. The security guard sits up front beside the driver. Though the streets are busy we move steadily through the lanes, twisting among the motorbikes (women riding nonchalantly cross-legged and side saddle on the back), and the riotously decorative buses. Inside the car it is cool and calm, 100% normal except for the presence of the gun.

So what abut this security business? Sitting there, naturally, a thought crosses ones mind: And if something were to happen would he fire back, ‘defend’ us? The idea seems absurd. In that case what is the function of the guard? Is it merely a necessary gesture? Is his presence a genuine index of risk? Perhaps it has something to do with insurance?

Before leaving there was much talk about the security situation. The hotel was changed on the advice of the security services. Beyond that I don’t ask or really want to know.

We lose our way. Some phone calls later we drive slowly up a narrow, kerb-less street and stop beside a metal gateway. A door opens in the gate. We climb down. On the other side of the street is a house under construction. The scaffolding is made entirely of slightly distorted, bare wooden poles. On a piece of bare ground nearby is a tented enclave. I ask Eram what it is. She says the builders have set the camp up and live there while they complete the job. Two small boys with close-shaven scalps walk past carrying sacks on their backs. I wonder how old they are. I read, recently, that according to the latest United Nations Population Fund that in Pakistan 60% of children under five are stunted.

We cross a cool, vine-canopied terrace. ‘It’s great to see you here’ Moiz says. Handshakes all around. The group is suddenly shy. I introduce the broad outline for the next five days. I tell them about the plans we have made with the BHC to bring some of them to London for the LIDF (four of them, one from each group). Peter and I are concerned about how those who are not coming to London are going to feel. Until now they have all worked well and harmoniously together, without hint of competition. It’s true that in each group a driving force has arisen, a leader, but it is still an invidious choice. We discuss ways that we can make the rest of them somehow present in London and decide to try and shoot a video diary.

The morning is spent listening to each group present an update on their project. While we have been away they have been shooting material. Some of the groups have shot far more than we anticipated. We try and get a better idea of what their material comprises. They tell us about their problems on the shoot, their successes, and their insights. Although we have been in regular contact with them from London this is the first time we get a clear idea of where things are at.

(To recap. The subject matter of each film has been chosen by the students. The ideas arose out of our first workshop when we spent five days talking with the students about Karachi, of politics, of the things that bothered them, of their frustrations, of their aspirations. We watched films, we played games, and we taught some theory and history of documentary, we went out and ate some wonderful food.)

The rest of the day is spent in a room full of fans and computers and shades drawn to keep out the sun. At first the fans are welcome. When the first power cut of the day occurs we realise how noisy they are.

Then begins the logging and the capturing of material – it is tedious work. By teatime everyone is once again talkative, relaxed, and asking questions. They then stick at the dull task until 6pm when our car returns and we must leave. Some of them arrange with the production house to stay on into the evening.

On the drive back to the hotel we wonder if we will manage to complete these four films before we leave. It seems a tall order. Looking out of the car window I think if I made a film here I would make it about all these empty, unfinished buildings.

Back at the hotel: fresh cakes on the coffee table. I haven’t changed my wristwatch since arriving, in the hope of working on two time zones. Now on London time I watch the afternoon tick away over Primrose Hill.

To read Day 1, click here.

To read day 3, click here.

“May all beings be happy and create the causes of happiness,” sings a young boy from the Himalayas. This constitutes the key message of Donagh Coleman’s lyrical Stone Pastures – a story of one’s family’s struggle to make ends meet and ensure a better life for their children with good education. The theme seems familiar but the setting and cultural context of this film is not.

The place these nomads live in is so remote: apparently located somewhere in the Himalayas, in the disputed area around Kashmir, it does not even seem to appear on any map. Yet despite the setting and these people’s hard lives, the feeling throughout the film is one of utmost harmony.

“We have to remain as nomads because we are illiterate,” states the father, Sonam, as he herds pashmina goats across the desolate landscape. So the hope that their sons will be educated is also a hope for them to give away the nomad life and live in the city. It begs the question: how could a person who comes from generations of nomads suddenly decide to stay fixed? Surely, this infers a shift in culture.

The pashmina wool painstakingly combed from the backs of the family’s herd of goats is their primary source of income. A good harvest means the children can go to school; a bad one means they cannot. And even with the chance to go to school, Padma, the eldest son of Sonam and Phuntsok, is something of a rebellious teenager, running away from school time and time again. He is torn between the familiarity of the nomadic lifestyle and the intrigue of city living.

One remarkable aspect of the film is the family’s lack of frustration or anger at their difficult situation. The delicacy with which they display their emotions instills a feeling of such respect for them, and perhaps shame for the way we, in Western culture, are so quick to indulge in selfish and overly externalised emotional performances.

On the surface, these people’s lives seem so simple, the day-to-day existence almost instinctive, caring for the animals, which give them milk, meat and wool. Yet the softly-spoken and articulate mother, Phuntsok, speaking in earnest about her hopes for her children, quickly clarifies that this is far from a simple or average family. These people are not incapable of learning, ‘bettering’ themselves, as we might put it; they are sensitive, aware and ambitious, in the same way the most educated university professor would be. The sweet compassion Sonam has for his wife, his awareness of her needs and feelings, without her ever having to utter a word, is so finely portrayed. Similarly, the calm and even manner of Phuntsok, not repressed or forced, somehow evolved in her communication, is simply stunning.

The clarity with which Coleman captures the interactions between these people, no bells or whistles or effects needed, giving them the opportunity to just be themselves and let the audience see the elegance of their everyday life is breathtaking.

The spectacular scenery is cleverly woven into the background, depicting this stunning landscape, normally the sort of thing us Western city-dwellers would gasp at, as the simple back garden of a family. There is a strong sense of familiarity, and we realise how comfortable this wild landscape is for the nomads.

Clear communication, a simple yet often hard-to-grasp concept in modern Western culture, is the key to these people’s continued survival and harmonious existence. People address each other with a reverence, not in the least bit contrived or pretentious, but genuinely showing respect and a willingness to help. “Just listen carefully to the villagers,” is the kindly advice of the outgoing village chief, when questioned by the new one. “Then you will do well.” It is as simple as that – listen and communicate well. Despite these people’s lack of education and their seemingly simple existence, we, in the modern world could learn much from the fundamental principles by which these nomads live their lives.

With a subtle yet powerful, magical soundtrack, performed by the film’s central characters, Stone Pastures is an extraordinary insight into a quickly disappearing yet strangely harmonious, almost utopian way of life, not to be missed by anyone interested in people.

Katharina Chase
London-based Australian writer, linguist and social historian

To read our interview with director Donagh Coleman, click here.

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Karosta is a small town in western Latvia, effectively a suburb of the city of Liepaja, and it’s clear from the opening shots of Peter King’s film that it’s unlikely to top a quality-of-life index. Most of its buildings are crumbling concrete boxes, originally assembled cheaply and quickly, and now boarded up and covered in graffiti (their dilapidation emphasised by the faintly admonishing presence of St Nicholas’ Orthodox Naval Cathedral in the distance). Fresh bloodstains can be seen on a bench, rubbish flaps in long-abandoned rooms through which icy winds howl, and the seafront is far from picturesque, being studded with decaying naval bunkers. Meanwhile, the residents of Liepaja express their fear of the place: its reputation as a good place to dump bodies without getting caught speaks volumes in itself.

The trouble with Karosta is that it was a physically and sociologically artificial creation in the first place, originally commissioned by Tsar Alexander III in 1890 as a strategically important naval base for Russia’s Baltic fleet. But when Latvia declared independence in 1994, after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Russians abruptly withdrew, dropping the population by 25,000 almost overnight. Unsurprisingly, this devastated the local economy, and those who remained saw their living conditions plummet. Cultural life evaporated, and squatters swarmed into the former naval apartments, impoverished families crammed into small rooms and sharing kitchens and toilets. Latvians were encouraged to move there, but they generally didn’t take up the offer, so convinced were they that the Russians would return and steal everything. Crime and alcoholism ran rampant, and rumour had it that taxi drivers and even ambulances would refuse to drive to Karosta. A close-up of graffiti on the side of one of the buildings is helpfully translated as “horror place”.

But, as long-term Karosta resident Vladimirs Gekovs explains, the reality didn’t always fit the popular image. He loved growing up with so many people, and was able to alternate this with solitary strolls on the beach, a location that gives him space to think and commune with nature (occasionally interrupted by the unwelcome discovery of what turned out to be human bones, presumably executed German POWs during WWII).

Gekovs is the person that the K@2 artists’ centre is aimed at: its Swedish founder Carl Biosmark leased derelict buildings at a peppercorn rent from a grateful Liepaja City Council and set about transforming them into hostels, exhibition centres and student facilities. Footage from Karosta’s LabiChampi festival shows artists taking advantage of the normally hideous buildings’ white fronts by transforming them via projected images of blocks, lines and grids into far more ornate architectural fantasies. The K@2 project was such a textbook example of art-driven urban regeneration that when the Russian-built Eastern Bridge linking Karosta with the mainland was damaged by a tanker and rendered temporarily unusable, the locals immediately assumed that it was deliberate sabotage by those worried that Karosta might divert funds from elsewhere.

King tells Karosta’s story through evocative shots of its buildings and people, accompanied by Richard Canavan’s slow-paced score. These are interspersed with extended interviews with residents and interested parties: in addition to Biosmark and Gekovs (the most engaging speaker, and a perfect ambassador) there’s veteran photographer Vasilis Borjajevs, Liepaja deputy major Gunars Ansins and tour guide Antra Sidla, each offering perspectives on how to deal with the aftermath of sudden historical upheavals when they happen on their collective doorstep.  But it’s the random, often colourfully-expressed vox-pop chats with locals that emphasise that without their help (which means overcoming their prejudices), regeneration projects like Karosta are doomed to failure from the start.

Michael Brooke
Curator (Screenonline) at the BFI National Archive and a regular contributor to Sight & Sound

To read our interview with director Peter King, click here.

Join the conversation and let us know what you think about the film