The Illuminations of Nathaniel Dorsky, Program Two introductions and post-screening discussion with Lina Verchery, Zoe Kelly-Nacht, Nathaniel Dorsky and Charles Hallisey.

Transcript

For more interviews and talks, visit the Harvard Film Archive Visiting Artists Collection page.

Screening of the shorts program The Illuminations of Nathaniel Dorsky, Program Two, with introduction by Lina Verchery and Zoe Kelly-Nacht, individual film introductions by Nathaniel Dorsky, and a post-screening keynote by Nathaniel Dorsky and Charles Hallisey. Saturday March 30, 2013.

John Quackenbush  0:00

March 30, 2013. Harvard Film Archive co-hosted the Humanities Graduate Studies Conference, “Imaging the Ineffable.” Three films by Nathaniel Dorsky were screened, followed by a keynote discussion with Nathaniel Dorsky and Harvard Senior Lecturer on Buddhist Literature, Charles Hallisey. Take note: Mr. Dorsky introduced each of the films, so there'll be short breaks between the introductions.

Lina Verchery  00:27 

We're co-organizers of this conference, “Imaging the Ineffable: Representation and Reality in Religion and Film.” So we'd like to welcome you all to our keynote event. This is the conference program. It's available outside. We just like to note that in this afternoon’s three films, there’s been a change in the film order, so we will fill you in. Okay.

Zoe Kelly-Nacht  00:47

So we will be screening Threnody, Alaya, and Compline, in that order. And after the screening, we'll be introducing our keynote speakers, Charles Hallisey and Nathaniel Dorsky, and we hope you'll stay for an enriching conversation. Thank you.

Lina Verchery  1:04

I think Nathaniel Dorsky will come and introduce his first film.

[APPLAUSE]

Nathaniel Dorsky  1:14 

Thank you. It’s extraordinary that you gave up this day for what Frank O'Hara called “the darker pleasures.” I appreciate it. So, we're going to show three films—for those of you who were late—as we did last night, I'll speak a little bit between each film, a little bit to give the films a break from one another and give the projectionist a chance to thread up the next film.

The first film we're going to see is called Threnody, which if you don't know what that word means, it's sort of an elegy, but not really an elegy, there’s a different atmosphere. A threnody, I think, more in the Greek tradition, was when someone passed on, someone gave an oration, you know, about the person, a threnody. And you know, I think Emerson has a poem called “Threnody”. What happened in my case was that I was going to make two films, sister films, called Two Devotional Songs. And I made the first one, a film called The Visitation, which we're not showing. And then it was time to make the second film. I had actually gotten a grant to make the two. It is sort of an amusing story. I always think there's nothing you can do about getting a grant or not. So I always think I'll never spend more than– This isn't good advice but...

[LAUGHTER]

...this is, I say I'll never spend more than 25 minutes on a grant application.

[LAUGHTER]

Because, you’re gonna either get it, or you're not gonna get it. And no matter how, what... someone on the panel is going to know of you, or there's going to be some luck, that, you know, something, or the work itself, you know? So, at the time, I didn't have a computer and you had to fill it out with a laptop, or whatever it's called. And so, I went over to a friend's house, who was young and could do all this. And so he said, “Oh, now it says, 'What is your project?'” You know, oh! And I found that in life, that when you wing it, when you make something up, it's the truth. You know, you know? And so I said, “Oh, let's see, I want to make two devotional songs. One is about the something, and the other will be..., you know.”  And I got the grant, right? [LAUGHS] And that was iunder 25 minutes on the application. So, at any rate, I went to make the second devotional song, and a filmmaker Stan Brakhage—who you may or may not know of—who’s kind of a supreme figure in American avant-garde film, someone who I knew personally since I was 20, when I first met him. Although I saw him speak and present when I was 19. And he was about 10 years older than myself. But also, extreme genius. So he was more than 10 years older than, in terms of his experience. So that, the point is that during my entire life, he set the bar in a sense of, of how good things should be. And then he had bladder cancer, and he died. I had visited him a month before, and so I went to make the second devotional film, and I picked up my camera, and suddenly it was a world where Stan Brakhage was no longer alive, and he had been kind of a reference point for me. And so I said, the only thing I can do is make the second devotional song would be a film for, you know, a threnody, a film for him. And the feeling I wanted to get in it was, some kind of sense of like a Greek myth. I wanted some sense that you're leaving the earth. And you look back once over your shoulder, and you just see [HITS SOMETHING], here I go again! You just see all of life, as almost like on the surface, something reflected on the surface of water. You know, just like your last glance. So that was kind of the feeling for the film. And there are things in it that are vaguely specific to him, and, but a lot of things aren't. Stylistically, it's quite different than his work. So we'll look at that, and then we'll go on.

 

Nathaniel Dorsky  6:18 

…..and it’s called Alaya. Alaya, which is a Sanskrit word, which on a literal level means “accumulation.” Basically, it's just a title for a film.

[LAUGHTER]

Like the name of your dog. It's a film, actually, that was initially inspired by a Tibetan Buddhist lama, teacher, who I was studying with in the 1970s. And he had made a suggestion for a particular kind of film. And I took the suggestion and went my own way with it. And it's a film that, in a sense is, on a certain level, a one-subject film. It's made maybe 20 years before the films you're seeing on either side of it. And the one subject is sand, though it's also wind, air, and the film emulsion. I was sort of charmed with the idea of sand, in a sense, being like film emulsion, and how the film emulsion would relate to sand, as a subject, since they're kind of sisters. So there's a kind of sisterly relationship, where sometimes the sand is the dominant one, takes over, and sometimes the emulsion is more dominant. And since, I was trying to play with perception, like to what degree the world is external, internal, and drift back and forth between that threshold. I guess we'll just see it and it has a surprise ending. [LAUGHS]

[LAUGHTER]

And we'll go on.

 

Nathaniel Dorsky  8:33

Okay. I don't know how many people are here today who weren't here last night. I actually can't see anyone anyhow.

[LAUGHTER]

But I did a slight explanation about the kind of language I was working with, with film. And it came from reading some poetry in my early 20s. And I began to wonder if you could make a film that was solely of its own place. In other words, it wasn't describing anything other than itself, you didn’t arrive at some fantasy or solidified dream, but that the film itself continued to open up, for the audience, an awake state. And these films are very much for you, in a sense. In other words, if you try to get all your gratification from the film, you find something missing. And that missing thing is you. They really are for you, in a sense. And a chance to be with yourself, in front of a screen. So in a sense they're about aloneness and sharing aloneness, not loneliness, but aloneness. So the last film is called Compline, or “compleen,” if you're French. And in terms of the historic prayer, what’s called the canonical hours of the—I guess you would call European Christian Church—there were eight times during the 24-hour cycle of the day when there was a prayer session. And the most well-known one is Vespers, which is one which takes place right as evening is coming. In a way, they're protective, in different ways. Because when the sun goes down at the end of the day as we go into twilight, it's a time when, you know, that it can bring up certain fears. I don't mean that in a silly way, but, you know, the day could be warm and comforting, and then suddenly, the day is gone. So there's Vespers, you know, to address that moment in the day. The last of the twelve canonical hours is called “Compline,” which is, I think, after midnight sometime, and it's a night devotion. So in a way this film, I looked at it, and I said, "well, it's kind of a night devotion, so call it Compline." I believe, it’s the last film I was able to make in Kodachrome. The first film we saw tonight was in Kodachrome. Alaya was shot with Ektachrome stocks because Kodachrome didn't have any grain, and it didn't, somehow, relate well to sand. But the, so this is a Compline. And I guess we'll leave it at that, and then we'll have plenty of time for discussion, I hope, afterwards.

 

Zoe Kelly-Nacht  12:01 

Hi. For those of you who weren't here last night, I'd like to reintroduce Nathaniel Dorsky, the filmmaker this evening and also our keynote speaker. Nathaniel is an experimental filmmaker and film editor, who is also the author of Devotional Cinema, the text that was, in many ways, the seed for this conference. Nathaniel writes, in this text, of the ways that cinema as a unique form can bring us closer to the ineffable. He writes that he has spent his life thinking about religion and cinema, not where religion is necessarily the subject of a film, but where film itself is the experience of religion. Thank you.

Lina Verchery  12:49 

So, in addition to welcoming Nathaniel Dorsky, we'd also like to welcome Professor Charles Hallisey, who is Yehan Numata Lecturer on Buddhist Literatures at Harvard Divinity School. Like Nathaniel Dorsky, Dr. Hallisey’s work has also been inspirational for both Zoe and me, who have been his students and continue to be his students. And especially, he's inspiring in the ways that he brings us to challenge and be challenged by Buddhist ideas, ethics and aesthetics. So please join us in welcoming Nathaniel Dorsky and Charles Hallisey.

[INAUDIBLE]

Lina Verchery  13:49  

[IN BACKGROUND] We were going to go on without you. [LAUGHTER] But we thought we’d better not.

Nathaniel Dorsky  13:52

[INAUDIBLE] long introduction.

[INAUDIBLE]

Charles Hallisey  14:13 

Can I just speak into this? You'll recognize right away that I have some laryngitis. But I actually think my voice will get better as we go on. And if it doesn't get better, then Nathaniel can do all the talking.

Nathaniel Dorsky  14:27

We’ll do lip-synch.

Charles Hallisey  14:28

That’s right.

Nathaniel Dorsky  14:29

He’ll move his lips, and I’ll talk.

Charles Hallisey  14:34

And let me just also begin by saying to Nathaniel that I'm not going to ask any questions to you, even though I was just introduced as a Professor of Buddhist Studies, I'm not going to ask you any questions about Buddhism. But feel free to talk about Buddhism whenever you like. Alright?

Nathaniel Dorsky  14:51

Sure. Or to what degree you'd be interested in asking questions in that area.

Charles Hallisey 15:00 

But where I want to start, actually, is very literally, with the beginning. With the beginning of your films and with the titles. And so I just want to note, one thing that is very striking to me, about your films, is that they have titles but nothing else. No credits, not even your name, nothing at the end about the year, or so on. Can you just say, why is that?

Nathaniel Dorsky  15:28 

Well, I think what it is, is that when there's a lot of artwork which was done out of an offering, and, you know, out of devotional offering. You know, you can think of stained glass in a cathedral, or wonderful altar paintings, and so forth, by Fra Angelico, and so forth. There’s actually a small section of one in the Fogg, now the Sackler. But I noticed that a lot of devotional art, you didn't put your name on it. You actually offered it. And so at a certain point, actually beginning with the film Alaya, it seemed inappropriate to me to put my name on it. There are a lot of filmmakers, especially in the experimental realm, where they whip up the film to a frenzy and then it goes black and their name comes on: “A film by,” or “Directed,” “Photographed,” “Edited,” “Produced by,” you know. Or “Filmed by.” And it seems like the whole film is nothing but a setup for presenting their own name.

[LAUGHTER]

And it's quite common and I find quite terrible! [LAUGHS] So, at a certain point, I just wanted to make these films as offerings, rather than as a film by me, you know, promote my name. I still got to go to Harvard. [LAUGHS] Yeah, yeah.

[LAUGHTER]

Charles Hallisey  16:59 

Can I just ask, on behalf of the people who give you grants. What do they think about not having their names on your films?

Nathaniel Dorsky 17:04 

Oh, I know! You know, I've never gotten in trouble yet. You know, ‘cause there’ve been like Rockefellers, and Guggenheims, and things. And the NEA, I think was, some of them tell you, they even give you a logo they want you to put on your film. But I said, "look, if anyone objects... " I've never had a problem. But I think I would say, "Look, I don't put my own name on it," you know, so forth.

Charles Hallisey  17:27 

Now, last night when you were talking about the films that were shown last night, you said that naming a film is always very difficult for you.

Nathaniel Dorsky  17:33

Yeah.

Charles Hallisey  17:34

Even though today, you said it’s just like naming a dog. But...

Nathaniel Dorsky  17:37

Well, it’s not…

Charles Hallisey  17:38

...maybe naming his dogs is not so easy.

Nathaniel Dorsky  17:40

Not so easy, no. [LAUGHS]

Charles Hallisey  17:42

And it seems always that the name comes after. It's an answer to a question that you have, what is this film about?

Nathaniel Dorsky  17:49

Yeah.

Charles Hallisey  17:51

But what I have another question about is that, whether the title, once you find it, whether the title becomes a constituent part of the film, as the film itself exists. That it's part of the film, not about it. So it's not an answer to the question, what is the film about? But it's actually, becomes part of the film. One of the things I was just noticing in all of the films that were shown to us today, is that when the title came on, it was the one moment when the projectionist could focus the film for us. So it's, in a certain sense, the last moment, the world that we came in, that's existing in the film. After that, the projectionist could never focus the film again. So is this intentional, or is it…

Nathaniel Dorsky  18:40

Yes, that's actually very much part of it. I don't know if in the future, after I pass on, and maybe there's some kind of 4K transfers and people, you know, the technology gets good enough that the electronic representation of these would be something that would be gratifying. Certainly more than what I can see today. I was even thinking that maybe they wouldn't have a title. You know, you'd have a menu kind of thing. You’d just know what it was. It's very strange when you're making a silent, visual film and then there’s just going to be this one word on the screen. You know, if you're a writer, I know it's hard to title a book. It's not easy. But still, you're in the same realm. You're in the same medium as the writing, you know. But because the film is more painterly in this sense, that the title comes up first. But an odd thing happens. I think it's like anything. Once you name it, the title sort of becomes, takes on, actually integrates with the film, and in a certain way, marries the film, gets itself married to the film and enhances the film. The only thing you have to do is make sure you don't have a title which you feel hurts the film. Can I just say, I have a friend. He made a whole film. And he decided to call it Words of Mercury, which comes from the next to last line in Love's Labour's Lost. “The songs of Apollo are harsh,” no, no, “The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.” It refers to someone coming in, telling someone that their father had died, at the end. So he called the film Words of Mercury. Why? It had no title and we had seen the play three times that summer, sort of fell in love with it a little. And so he called it Words of Mercury. So then a critic, a very bright critic, sees it, and then writes a long, two-page article in Artforum, all about the subject of Words of Mercury. So, he had named it as an afterthought. Then the title became the whole thing. I mean, have you ever met a friend who you couldn't quite remember their—not a friend, but someone, and you couldn't remember their name, right? And then, it's because their name wasn't the right name? And then you say, “What is your middle name?” And you know, instead of Peter, it was like Eric, or something? And you say, “Oh, that’s right, because you're Eric!” You know. [LAUGHS] But there's something happens, you know, that way.

Charles Hallisey  21:21 

Well, I just want to add to that, in terms of, I had seen Threnody before. But then your introduction to the meaning of the word “threnody” today, of something out a Greek story, a Greek myth, of some figure or god, who’s leaving the world, then looking back over their shoulders, and saying, oh, this is the perception that someone who is leaving is going to have, became part of the film for me, became part of my consciousness, in which I was aware, that when I had just seen it a few days ago, I didn't have that same consciousness. So there's a way in which the title is really being kind of constitutive of the film, in a certain way, even though it came up as part of a question, afterwards.

Nathaniel Dorsky  22:05 

No, all my friends know that it's... that they can't... They hate when I have to think up a title, because I keep asking them about titles, and you know, it takes a long, it takes a long time.

Charles Hallisey  22:20 

Let me ask you about the title Alaya, which you said was just like a dog's name.

Nathaniel Dorsey  22:25

Right. [CHUCKLES].

Charles Hallisey  22:27 

But it's a pretty fancy dog!

[LAUGHTER]

Nathaniel Dorsky  22:28

Yeah, yeah.

Charles Hallisey  22:31 

So is it just, oh, it sounded nice.

Nathaniel Dorsky  22:33

Yeah, yeah. Well, actually, part of it is, I have to find them pleasant to say, and Alaya, I love an “ah” word because it opens up with a seed syllable, Sanskrit for “ah.” You know, “Alaya,” so it’s “ah-laya”. You know, it's just like “Allah.” You know, I mean that kind of opening, kind of syllable. And it does actually mean “accumulation.” Like “himalaya” is ice accumulation, Himalaya.

But in Buddhism, depending on what level of Buddhism it's at, there's a variety of definitions. “Alaya” is your very essence that you can’t touch. If you thought of yourself as a film projector, and all of your life is going through the gate from one reel to the other, the “alaya” would be the projector bulb. So, you know, so what is that thing? Let's say you're all sitting here now, and you can, let's say, go back to make believe you're in second grade, or you're walking to school in second grade. Okay, that person who walked to school in second grade is the same person who's sitting here now, right? But a lot of film has gone through the gate, you know. But still there's this “ah,” there's something behind the whole thing, which can't be touched. And in certain traditional Buddhist teachings, it's saying that your karma, that the alaya is actually affected, not in terms of specific things but in terms of rebirth. The alaya takes on certain characters by the way you've dealt with your own life, and so forth, and that actually influences your rebirth.

Charles Hallisey  24:34 

Maybe just to share with you, from my own senses of the word alaya, that can probably go along with everything you said, is that in the word, “himalaya,” alaya there for me is not just an accumulation of snow, it's the home of snow.

Nathaniel Dorsky  24:49 

Ah-hah.

Charles Hallisey  24:50 

And so, the alaya is our home.

Nathaniel Dorsky  24:54

Ah-hah.

Charles Hallisey  24:55

And so, when you get to the foundation consciousness, this consciousness that's underneath all the other consciousnesses that we have, there’s another resonance to it. That that’s also our home. And just like home, in the way that home is not like a house, there’s something that's reflexive about it, that we're aware of it. This is my home. And so part of what's happening, I think, when you're watching the movie, is you're aware of, I'm watching something, but it's my consciousness that's here.

Nathaniel Dorsky  25:26

Yes.

Charles Hallisey  25:27

That is becoming, you know what I’m saying, visible to myself.

Nathaniel Dorsky  25:32 

Thank you. That's wonderful.

Charles Hallisey  25:35 

The film Alaya, though, raises for me, just a very, kind of all-pervasive question. Not about what the films are about. You probably get that question a lot: "what is this film about?"

Nathaniel Dorsky  25:48

Uh…[LAUGHS]

Charles Hallisey  25:49

Not too, not too often? But I really want to ask, what are the films? You know? So, so, in some sense, what kinds of things are they? And between last night, today, other interviews and the book Devotional Cinema, you’ve said a number of different things. So, let me just go, we can go one by one through the list, you may be, react, at the end of my list, you may have other things that you want to say. One thing you said last night about the movie Return. You said it was a dark movie. And it had to do with tonality of the film. Then you added to it, there was something about the film stock. But when you said it was a dark film, you said, it’s like an evening raga. And today, when you were talking about Alaya, you made the interesting comment about how the sand in the movie is connected to the graininess of the film stock. And elsewhere, in an interview with Scott Macdonald, you commented about two graces, two natural entities touching each other, and that some moments in Alaya, it’s about 60% of the graininess of the film stock, and only 40% of the actual sand. And so there's something about the film, as a thing, that is touching something out there in the world. And bringing it out, like the raga does, in Indian music, that it brings out the essence of the moment that's happening. Is that one, am I hearing that right?

Nathaniel Dorsky  27:36

Yes, yes, thank you, this is wonderful. It’s a relief to hear someone else talk about me, because I'm so tired of myself.

[LAUGHTER]

Also, I know everything about myself that I would say, already. This is a great joy.

[LAUGHTER]

Charles Hallisey  27:49 

The universe gave me laryngitis to try to make me shut up and get you to talk. So I'm not doing such a good job about this. So that's one thing, that the film is related to the world somehow. It's a thing that somehow is displaying something in the world.

Nathaniel Dorsky  28:08 

Yeah, well, one thing is that, in terms of the subject matter of this conference, is that, you know, film is an extremely powerful medium. You know, you put people in a dark room, you point them in this direction, you turn out all other, you know, sensory things. So in a way, the filmmaker has tremendous power over an audience, and it's about 80% of the time completely abused, that power. You know how you feel when you come out of a movie, normally. I think you'll feel a little bit abused, especially your ears these days. But so, it's interesting that there’s this medium which is an expensive medium and therefore became a commercial medium, basically, because you know, from its very beginnings, there was always a poetic tradition, but on the whole, its expense demanded that it have a large cash return for itself. So, it became a more of a mass media and with the bottom line being economic success. Very, very important. And therefore, they want to make sure that they bang it, you know, that you get it, that they stick it to you, you know? So, the idea that this very powerful medium and this kind of sublime, devotional medium, there’s a whole potential for being used in a way that has nothing to do with that, in a way that is helpful to people, you know, in terms of a healing, or of contemplation.

Charles Hallisey  29:55 

Because you referred, just now, to our ears being abused. Why do the movies have to be silent?

Nathaniel Dorsky  30:02 

You know, that came, actually, out of the tradition, or the kind of filmic lineage, that I was part of, which is the American avant-garde, or which then came out of, I guess, the French and Spanish avant-garde, in a way. I mean, from back to the 1920s and 30s, and then through Maya Deren in the 40s. And, you know, then the whole development in the 50s and 60s. Having a silent film was not unusual. So I came from a lineage where making silent film was not that uncommon or that strange. And when I was a young person, you know, 19, 20, 21, and first seeing experimental film, I would see films, like, by Stan Brakhage, majority of his films are silent. And at first, I didn't care, I felt uncomfortable. Something was missing, like a table with three legs, or something. And then, I suddenly got to like it. Because you realized you had to give yourself more to it. And because you gave yourself more to it, you're going to get yourself more back, you have to enter more into it. And the group of friends that I had at that time that were all learning to make films together. And there was really very few film schools at that point. And we took the silent filmmakers very seriously, in a sense, because we thought that they were trying to find a language, they were trying to find a nature of montage, that actually would be intrinsic to film, and be expressive of the human psyche. You know, where there are sound films I like very, very much but we always found that the sound, usually, was more like a safety net to the silence. And you know, I work commercially, to make a living, I work as a film editor. So I work on sound films all the time. I like working with sound. I don't know, I think I've gone so far down this road, that I don't know if I could suddenly make a sound film, you know? But maybe I should. You know?

Charles Hallisey  32:25 

Can I just ask you about a verb that was in the statement you made about Alaya, and how the graininess of the film touches the graininess of the sand.

Nathaniel Dorsky  32:37

Mmm-hmm.

Charles Hallisey  32:38

Last night, you were talking about the difference between sound and silent films, in which you said, “Films with sound can make us feel, but silent films make us touch.” Could you just explain what you mean? The silent film makes us touch.

Nathaniel Dorsky  32:56

Yeah.

Charles Hallisey

And whether that touch is related to the touch between the graininess of the film and the graininess of the sand?

Nathaniel Dorsky  33:03 

Yeah, I think there's that touch but it's also you being touched. So I feel that when the cutting works, and we cut from one shot to another, that you're actually hit, you’re hit physically, you know, that something opens up. And what my perception is, usually, when you have sound, sound, according to many traditions, when you die, and I've actually witnessed it with a friend's death, sound is the last sense to go. And one would think ah, that sight would be the most basic sense. But, but sound, at the moment of death, is supposed to be the last sense. So sound is really, a real grounding thing, a very orientation. And I've just noticed that once you add sound to an image, your psyche really rests on that sound and the image is, you know resting on top of the sound. You know, today, because films are very insecure, they're like restaurants that open and have to be successful and have some kind of wild theme to them, or, you know, something odd about them, or something. Each film made today has extremely excessive sound. Because they're nervous. You know, they have to make that money back. You better really knock ’em dead. But I just noticed that once you introduce just a tone, of let’s say, wind, you know, anything. If you just introduce even just the ambience, right? Your whole psyche would shift into your ear, and you'd be resting on your ear, and seeing. And when you do that, it leads, to me, toward theater. So theatrical film, with dialogue and character, it’s, of course, extremely appropriate to have sound. But I think there's something about just, the silence, which when you go to that one sense and you begin to communicate to people through that one sense, is that you can touch things that are more intimate, where, to me, the sound and image is slightly more social. You know? It's the difference between being with one other friend and maybe two other friends. Right? With two other friends, it's a social scene, right? With one other friend, there could be kind of intimacy, you know? So I think the sound would be like a third friend in a situation. Not that I don't love sound films, and so forth.

Charles Hallisey  35:56 

Now another way that the films are existing, is something you referred to in between the films, when you said when you were in your 20s, you were reading poetry, I think objectivist poetry, or something like that. Where the film is relating only to itself, not to something outside of itself. Which seems a little bit different than saying, oh, the graininess of this film is touching the graininess of the sand that exists, really, out there. So that seems to me another way that the films are existing in the world, in which they're just, kind of, one shot is connecting to another shot. And each one is related only to what is in the film itself, and nothing outside.

Nathaniel Dorsky  36:41 

Yeah, and the thing is, if it were only a material thing, where the film was only relating to itself, it would have no human value, you know? So the thing is, it has to relate to itself, but be deeply allegorical or metaphorical, for things that are human, in human value.

What I mean by that, when a shot, like in Alaya, you might see the screen’s quite bright, and then all of a sudden you go dark, right? My feeling is that when the screen all of a sudden goes very dark charcoal, that all of a sudden, you've been up here in your psyche, you know, being very entertained, your eyes being sandpapered, and all that [LAUGHS]. And then suddenly, you drop back, and Oh! There's my broken heart, or whatever, there's my sadness underneath this, so in a way, the film has to be of itself, but at the same time very, of the nature of being human.

Charles Hallisey  37:46 

So your answer just leads to the other way that you've been describing the films, in which you describe them as states of mind, that each of the films is a state of mind. I was struck last night when you would comment on a film, watching it again, when you made it, and you would kind of remember the state of mind you were in when you were making it. Just now, you were saying, when, say, I'm watching a movie, what I'm encountering is my broken heart. So is the state of mind, a property of the film, a property of your mind? Or is it a property of all of our minds, as we're watching?

Nathaniel Dorsky  38:26

It's a very basic Buddhist question. Right? With 2000 years of–

Charles Hallisey  38:30 

I’m asking the questions here.

[LAUGHTER]

Nathaniel Dorsky  38:32

Yeah, okay [LAUGHS]. Well, one way to answer it, one way to begin to answer that, is what I found is, to be a filmmaker, you have to have a certain kind of courage. I don't know if it's even courage. I don't know what it is. You have to believe that if something works for you, it works for other people. There are a lot of filmmakers who don't have that. I work as a film editor. I know a lot of filmmakers, they'll screen their films to hundreds of people, hand out cards. You know, I often work as a consulting editor. So I have to come in and help them straighten out a film. And I go, "This shot isn't working, you have to take that out." And you know, they say, "But in Minneapolis, people laughed at that film."

[LAUGHTER]

"...laughed at that shot." I’m going, all right. You know. All right, so, what, do we have to keep it in because in Minneapolis, six months ago, some people laughed?

[LAUGHTER]

I mean, I don't know, to be a filmmaker, I don't think you can be that kind of person. I mean, like, filmmaking isn't democracy. I mean, you'd be reduced to being a horrible President, like every President, I guess. Because you’re trying to please everybody, you know? And lie on top of it, you know?

[LAUGHTER]

You know, I mean, I think any of us, if we were elected President, would probably end up like any other president, you know? But...now I forget, I went off.

Charles Hallisey  40:08 

It's about whose state of mind is, the films are states of mind, but whose states of mind?

Nathaniel Dorsky  40:13 

So what I found is that, if it works for me and I might have my own even little story going on about what the film is, then I've noticed that if it works for me, then it works for other people in terms of their own story, you know? And that in the part, little parts of my films sometimes, I never got it quite right and I feel it's not quite working. And I can sometimes feel in the audience that those little moments, it’s a time when people might shift in their chairs. And for them it's not right either.

Charles Hallisey  40:48

And do you change the film?

Nathaniel Dorsky  40:49

What?

Charles Hallisey  40:49 

Do you change the film? Like showing it in Minneapolis?

[LAUGHTER]

Nathaniel Dorsky  40:55 

[LAUGHING] Right, right. No, usually it's already done and you just better go on, because you try to finish a particular film. I mean, it could go on and on, because you change. But it's a very interesting question, where is the film? You're saying, is the film the filmmaker? The film viewer? Or the film? Right? And I think for really great films, the way they work is that the filmmaker takes a kind of step into space. It’s some kind of step of pure courage. But I think it has to be very much a gesture of generosity. You know, there are a lot of filmmakers who will show you, will take a step of courage but it's really to aggrandize themselves, you know, to make you impressed that they're smart, or they're odd, or they're difficult. It's some kind of game they're playing with you. But the great filmmakers take a selfless step forward. It's like being a great host. You have people come over, you take their coat, you sit them down. You know, it's being very generous. I think generosity is like one of the key things.

Charles Hallisey  42:23 

Another way that you're talking about the films and what they are, is expressed in the phrase  “devotional cinema.” I just want to read one sentence from the book, recommend the book to all of you who don’t know it. I'm going to read the sentence, for people who haven't read the book, but also, as I say, my own experience is that having read the book before having seen the films, the book is far more lovely, beautiful, and compelling, and it makes so much sense when you're able to visualize what you're talking about, in connection to having seen the films. So let me just read one sentence, and then ask a question about it: “The opening, or the interruption, that allows us to experience what is hidden, and to accept with our hearts our given situation. When film does this, when it subverts our absorption in the temporal and reveals the depths of our own reality, it opens us to a fuller sense of ourselves, and our world. It is alive as a devotional form.” That statement, from myself, is very, very beautiful. It really speaks to a lot of my own experience of watching your movies. The question is something of, why is it a devotional form, and not a contemplative form?

Nathaniel Dorsky  43:53 

I think in terms of the way, well, in short, I think devotion also includes heart, where I think contemplation could be seen as something mental, where devotion is heart and mind. And I know that in terms of, let's say, Buddhist teachings, for instance, that they’re very hard to translate into, let's say, English, very often, because the English words, you actually have to hear an hour talk about why that English word, what you're actually trying to mean. Like, for instance, a big, difficult one is “emptiness.” You know, big booby trap. Like, well, you hear this word “emptiness,” and it's not quite the right word. Right? Because in a sense, actually, in Buddhism, emptiness is fullness, at the same time. But I found that “devotional,” you know, is also heart. You know? And, I was actually at the museum in Chicago, the Art Institute of Chicago, and they had some Italian Renaissance paintings and they said, you know, devotional painting. And I think that's when it clicked in, oh, I’ll call the film, "devotional cinema." Also, because it's kind of odd, you know? And maybe a little bit interesting.

Charles Hallisey  45:22 

Now, since you brought up emptiness, let me ask you a question, not about emptiness, but about the cuts in the movie, and the significance of cuts. Not just shots, but the cuts in between. And then also, maybe if you could connect what you're doing with cuts, to what you call “intermittence.” And the idea about how intermittence is part of who we are, and where you’re kind of making us aware of intermittence, both by shots and by cuts.

Nathaniel Dorsky  45:55 

Well, I think what it is, is that I just sort of observe that, obviously, if you think of the last 20 years of your life, or 15 years of your life, was that a solid thing? You know, was that a solid hum, stream, from one thing to the other? Or was it an accumulation of broken things? You know? And so, I think it has to do with that it seems to me that being alive is a progression of broken things. You know, we're here now, having this experience, and then that will be broken. You know, and things keep getting broken. And there's something about, with film, expressing the brokenness but at the same time, that brokenness isn't a complete break. it's a brokenness which reveals the alaya or the back, let's say the background, or your heart presence, your tenderness, that stays present through all the brokenness. But isn't there a famous—I don't know if it's Hindu or Buddhist—story, about when you first look at your mind, they’re talking about a plate, you think the plate is cracked. You think your plate is broken, when you first look at it, you know how we all feel about ourselves sometimes? Oh, God, I'm a broken plate, you know? And then you slowly watch yourself more carefully, and then you realize, oh, the plate isn't broken, it's just cracked, right? And then they say, eventually, as you just keep working with yourself, at a certain point, you realize that no, it's just a hair lying on the plate, and you can just blow it off. You know? So I think that cinema, because  it’s a progression of images through montage, is a deep metaphor for how we are.

Charles Hallisey  48:10 

Let me ask you one last question, and then we'll open it up for other people to ask questions. I just want to ask you about the centrality, the presence, of human hands in your films. And, you know, they're very, very striking, in the way that the camera kind of lingers on them. And so, what's happening with these hands there?

Nathaniel Dorsky  48:35 

Well, there's an interesting problem. I mean, it's something I've been working through on various films. It's a question of, how do you make a film human, or deeply human? And one way is in the sense of theatrical film, which is to make a film about humans. And then there's the possibility, which I would call like, a prose form, in a sense, or there could be a poetic form, but it's about humans, or the humans give the humanity to it. And then there might be the other instinct, which might be more poetic, which is to see if you can make a film which had the qualities itself of being human. So then I decided to go in that direction, because thousands and thousands of people– I think there are 4000 feature films made a year now. You know, so there are 4000 movies being made a year that use people for the humans, so I’ll do something else. So, if you can make a film which is poetically human, but then how do you introduce humans into that, into that area? And it’s been a tricky area for me. And some films you actually see people and their faces, you know? And, then the film itself sometimes compromises, it’s like halfway between being a poem and an observation, a document, more of a documentary. And there are films where– There's a film I didn't show, I was going to show last night, which went more toward that sense of including a lot of people in the film. And for me, I guess it's been a way of trying to introduce human gesture, but without distracting you with the specific neuroses of a particular person, which in this case, would be distracting. I guess, it's interesting! I just thought of this for the first time. Do you know, in the history of—at least of the Western devotional art—if you see the way the Madonna and Child is depicted, let's say in 1100. You know, it was a very great period in European psyche, I guess, where the people are coming back from the Crusades, there's an integration of Asian... and this is the time Chartres was built or other, you know, and so forth. But if you see the initial idea of the Madonna and the Child, it was straightforward. There was no sentiment. It was a straightforward presentation of the mother and the child, just straight. Which is, in a way very much like the Egyptian sense, in a certain way, Egypt’s sense of how to present something as pure form. Right? And that the pure form would do it. And then what happened in the European Christian tradition, by 1300, right? All of a sudden, they decided to humanize everyone. You know how people are, we always get tired, okay, how are we going to get people involved? So they began to humanize the Madonna and Child, which is also very tender, but it has a certain kind of relative, I don't know, like relative quality. Where let's say, the 11 and 1200s, it more had to do with principle, meaning, for instance, the feminine principle was presenting the manifestation. You know? So this is Holy Saturday right? So okay, I’m not off-topic then. So, then the Madonna as feminine principle, which is very, very important for Christianity, around 11 and 1200, much more important than the sun, actually, and that the feminine principle presented the manifestation. So there it really isn't about, necessarily, specific Mary, and the specific child, but it's more about the principle of the psyche. In the same way that in yourself, before you manifest, when you're in a clear state of mind, before you've manifest, there's a feminine aspect in yourself, which is space and mystery, which then allows for the presentation to come forth. You know, just how the way I'm speaking now. And you know that when someone is speaking from that point of view, where there's the—I’ll just use keep using those terms—where there's the feminine presenting manifestation, then people speak very clearly, and the energy isn't strange, you know? But then if you get people just lost in the manifestation, then all of a sudden you got worn out and tired. You know. So, I forgot what the question was! [LAUGHS]

[LAUGHTER]

Charles Hallisey  53:56 

The question was, what’s the deal with the hands?

[LAUGHTER]

Nathaniel Dorsky  53:58

Yeah. So, oh, well, I've managed not to answer that. Right? So... [LAUGHS] I think the hands was a way– You know, what I've noticed, and someone was mentioning last night to me, how they could always tell there was a human presence. It wasn't an animal presence, it would be a human presence. It's because you can feel, you know how when you see someone walking down the street, their walk is a complete indication of their state of mind. Right? First of all, you can tell if someone's dangerous or not. That's the first thing. But then you can tell to what degree they're just like being led by their head, or to what degree they're not of themselves, you know, and so forth. So, I think that the human gesture can indicate a lot about the psyche. And sometimes if you include an actual face, it can be distracting because it's too specific. But in the film August and After, which we saw last night, there was a reason to show very specific people, because it was about their death. But I could use those images because there was something so genuine about that moment that I didn't find those people distracting outside the atmosphere of the film.

Charles Hallisey  55:20 

Maybe at this point, we can just turn it over to the people in the audience to ask questions. We have time for about 10 minutes of questions. And then someone is taking microphones around. Someone down here in the…

Nathaniel Dorsky  55:46 

It’s too short.

Audience  55:46 

Hi. Thanks a lot, Mr. Dorsky, for presenting these really rare and special and beautiful films. One thing I was really curious about, though, is that I feel, in watching the films that were presented last night and watching Compline, and Threnody, that in some ways, to me at least, something that's really... these films all have this same kind of rhythm, I guess. And I hesitate to say, subject matter, but in a sense, there were moments where I almost felt like I was watching the same film again, you know, which I really loved. But in Alaya, I was really surprised because in one sense it felt like there was an intense amount of almost scientific focus on the relationship between the microscopic and the macroscopic. Yet I still felt a similar presence in some of the kind of rhythmic juxtapositions. And I guess that, to frame that more as a question, I'm curious as to how you see the relationship to kind of like the mode of imaging, or whether you could say that it is more scientific, in a way? If that makes any sense?

Nathaniel Dorsky  57:11 

Yes. Well, one way to talk about it, is that at a certain point, you know, I was in my early 20s. And the idea of what we called “polyvalence,” or this kind of open montage, you know, it was a montage which wasn’t representing something, taking you away, but was actually present, right? I had to begin in a very simple way. So in a way, I began with a one-subject film, you know? And I made, after Alaya, it was a while. It took me, I think, another five years before I could introduce into the same kind of syntax, a variety of subject matters. It's sort of like, if you're a juggler and you have torches, and then you light the torch, then you light, now, okay, now I'm going to light the torches, you know? And I think it has to do with that, because once you light the torches, in a way, it's easier, in a way it's harder. “Light the torches” means once you introduce a variety of subject matter because once you introduce the variety of subject matter, then there's the potential of meaning or meaninglessness. You know, both of which are dangerous for this kind of filmmaking, because this is kind of razor's edge filmmaking. It's not meaningless, and it’s not meaning. It's meaningful, you know? And so, in a way, well, I think what you're witnessing is like a beginning. I mean, that film, Alaya was shot a lot in the 70s and then edited by around 1980. I don't know what the date on the film is. But so, I think what you're seeing is a beginning. You know, like a simple beginning, and so forth.

Audience  59:14 

So just to, I guess, extend the aspect of the question that I'm interested in, so, because the dates aren't on the program, that's really interesting to hear that that's a much earlier film. But in those later films, do you feel that there's a similar microscopic/macroscopic thing going on?

Nathaniel Dorsky  59:34

I think, well, I think a lot of the themes of my filmmaking are, you know. But you know, think of it. How can you, when you walk into a museum, how do you suddenly you say, "oh, there’s a Cézanne," right? Right? Or there's a Picasso, or, you know, there’s... In the end, we're all who we are, somehow, you know? No matter what we want to do about it, and so why is a Cézanne look like a Cézanne, you know? Or, why does a certain composer, you hear it in 10 seconds, and you know who that composer is? I mean, we all are who we are. And I don't know if I need to go further than that. But you know, we're all recognizable, in a way. We have certain aspects which are who we are.

Charles Hallisey  01:00:30

Another question. [UNKNOWN]

Nathaniel Dorsky  01:00:38

Yeah, right. [LAUGHS]

Audience  1:00:39 

That was a wonderful back-and-forth, by the way, like the discussion after the film. So that was a very elegant conversation.

Nathaniel Dorsky  1:00:48 

You mean, what we're doing right now?

Audience  1:00:49 

What you did afterwards, and right now! [LAUGHS]

Nathaniel Dorsky  1:00:52 

After what, tomorrow? No, what?

Audience  1:00:55 

I mean the discussion that happened right after the three films, between you two. And you touched upon this a little bit but I was wondering if you could just talk a little bit more about the facets of Buddhism that you wanted your films to elicit?

Nathaniel Dorsky  1:01:16 

Sure. I'll try to do it briefly to not bore the pagans. [LAUGHS]

[LAUGHTER]

Charles Hallisey  1:01:25 

Don't worry about them!

Nathaniel Dorsky  1:01:26 

Okay, don’t worry, [LAUGHS], yeah, right.

[LAUGHTER]

No, this is Easter, which is very pagan, you know, ...what is it? Ah, Buddhism, okay.

[LAUGHTER]

We had a very late dinner last night. Here's one simple thing. If, for instance, if you have what I would consider a great meditation teacher. And meditation is something which can be taught improperly, and can cause you a lot of unhappiness and not really be helpful. You have to find a very good teacher. And I think that, at least from my experience, that a good teacher will tell you  that thoughts are a natural occurrence of mind, just like a fountain. In other words, you have all this energy, and one of the aspects of minds are these thoughts, which continually happen. And I think a great meditation teacher will say, you don't try to stop those thoughts, you know. But you understand that those thoughts are a natural part of your energy. But what the discipline of the meditation is once you have a thought, is not to then solidify it to the point where you build a second thought on that thought. And then the third thought. And then you sort of drift off, you know, into this fabrication of your own. Right? In a sense, you lose the purity of the present energy, because you've gone off like that. So, let’s say, in Buddhist meditation, they might suggest that you are very kind to yourself, maybe more kind to yourself than you've ever been. Which means accepting, you know, the thoughts, as they come forward, but not necessarily to build on those thoughts. That doesn't mean you can't be intelligent and have an idea. But there's something else about–Have you ever noticed... I notice how I go to sleep in a movie, you know, how I fall asleep in a movie. I'm watching the movie, and then I have a thought and another. I start to have my own thoughts, like two or three thoughts, and then I disappear. So in a way, I think the filmmaking has a little bit to do with cutting the moment of where you would start to solidify away from the present moment? So that's one aspect. You know? I guess there's many other things which are very basic teachings, having to do with impermanence, and you know, that nothing really stays... nothing is actually solid, and things can continually change and fall apart, come together and fall apart.

Charles Hallisey  1:04:33 

What I would add, having read Devotional Cinema, is where you talk about a “narrative of now-ness” in the movies. That emphasis on not a narrative of events, but a narrative of “now-ness” sounded very Buddhist to me.

Nathaniel Dorsky  1:04:50 

Yes. I usually would never mention Buddhism to an audience, because it's off-putting, you know what I mean? And in a way, like any word, all of a sudden something called Buddhism then gets in between you and your direct experience. I mean, Buddhism at its best, is something to awaken who you actually are. You know, it's not a thing in itself, you know? And, you know, I mean, we make up all these religions, you know? They're all our stories. And it's very interesting about being a human being. It's very scary to be a human being. It takes a lot of work sometimes. It's fun too, but it's also a scary thing, to suddenly be a person, a skeleton walking around looking at things. You have a heart, gets broken. You know, it's a scary thing. And you know, there's a– I don’t know, I don’t want to, I don’t know. Excuse me, I’m so... I don’t exactly know what I was going to say. I confess.

Charles Hallisey  1:06:07 

Let me say then, because I was just referring to a narrative of now-ness but I’m also looking at a clock on the wall, to realize, oh, that the time is going away, that maybe at this point we should stop. I do want to tell Nathaniel that I knew I was building on too many thoughts. Then when I realized, I thought that Alaya was a James Bond movie, at a certain point. Then I realized, oh, I had built too many thoughts into the things.

[LAUGHTER]

Nathaniel Dorsky  01:06:32

Right.

Charles Hallisey  01:06:33

So with that, will you join me please in thanking Nathaniel Dorsky, both for joining us and for the films.

[APPLAUSE]

Lina Verchery  01:06:45 

And also, of course, thank Charles Hallisey and Nathaniel Dorsky for this discussion. Thank you.

[APPLAUSE]

Nathaniel Dorsky  01:06:58

Thank you for doing this.

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