Interview with Apichatpong Weerasethakul

Consisting of an exhibition, a performance and a retrospective, this focus dedicated to the open-ended and vibrant work of the Thai filmmaker testifies to his ability to flourish in multiple contexts.

 

The work of Apichatpong Weerasethakul has been influenced just as much by his studies in the field of contemporary architecture as it has been by Thai cinema and popular culture. In addition, the avant-garde films that he discovered at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago enabled him to acquire an acute awareness of cinema as an art of space. The winner of several prestigious awards at the Cannes Film Festival, including a Palme d'Or in 2010, his eight feature films to date have made him one of the major figures in contemporary cinema. However, this is only part of his work. He has made numerous short films, installations and two performance pieces, unfurling a multitude of immersive and sensory forms across museum halls and theatre stages.

The contrasts between light and dark that he plays upon are not only a constantly renewed homage to the shifting nature of cinema and its link with sleep and dreams. They are also specific forms of engagement with beliefs and local history. As such, they are the manifestations of a political sensitivity which smolders away, relentlessly so, beneath the always peaceful surface of his images.

 

 

Cinema is your principal medium, but you have explored many other practices and exhibition forms. You also take an active interest in the latest technologies such as virtual reality and artificial intelligence. How do these tools complement each other in your work?

I like to observe movements, of light, people, and thoughts… Movement of the technological kind is equally fascinating. For me, virtual reality and artificial intelligence make possible fascinating discussions on the subjects of creation, reality, ourselves, and what makes us human beings. These technologies are still in their early stages, and that is what is so exciting. We are still in a position to be able to see all the confusion, resistance and need for control they generate. But whatever the case might be, I think that I continue to work in the same, very personal way as before. What has changed is that a part of this work is now expressed using these new tools.

 

A Conversation with the Sun (VR) is a performance composed of two parts, in which the experience of space changes half-way through, as in some of your feature films. Could you talk to us about about how this structure reveals itself?

At the beginning, I wanted to take viewers into two places within the same physical space. But performing this show introduced the idea that there is, in addition to a physical change, the understanding or awareness of our memory, in this case the immediate past of the movement of other spectators in the room, as well as that of sound. As the performance progresses, you become aware that there are several levels of reality, and that they are therefore subjective and illusory. I think this is similar to what happens when you meditate.

 

Your first performance piece, Fever Room (presented in France in 2016 as part of the Festival d'Automne, at the Théâtre Nanterre Amandiers), required a complex choreography of intangible elements such as smoke, air and temperature. Could you tell us about the technical challenges that this new show brings with it, and the process of bringing your ideas and rough drafts to life?

Translating my ideas into virtual reality has not been easy. I realized that I always thought in a cinematic way, especially in terms of framing. I kept on drawing storyboards for Katsuya Taniguchi, the virtual reality creator. But I eventually gave up, and just let him interpret different parts of these drawings and experiment with them. We belong to the same generation and share the same references. For example, we both have a passion for the work of Mœbius, the French comic book author. We gradually reduced the quantity of different elements in the project in order to focus on specific details, shadows, textures and time.

 

What excited you most about the virtual reality medium?

At first, I believed that virtual reality would be an extension of the evolution of cinema. After all, the history of cinema evolves more and more in the direction of realism, bringing us closer to the way our eyes and ears perceive the world. Cinematic history went from silent to talking, and from black and white to colour etc, much like our dreams. But after working on this virtual reality project, I discovered that it was about much more than a cinematic evolution. It is a combination of theatre, cinema and everything in between. This is something crucial in our understanding of how we set about defining reality. Virtual reality is, for me, a medium with immense potential for thought and reflection.

 

Can you tell us about your collaboration with Ryūichi Sakamoto?

This was our second collaboration, following on from async, which was exhibited at the Atelier Brancusi in 2017. I grew up listening to Sakamoto's music, which meant that the sound composition process flowed much more easily than the image-based one. I listened to his music when I was at architecture school and then at art school. It is the soundtrack of my life. I share his sensitivity to varying degrees. I sent him some video footage during the editing process, as well as storyboards and images from the work of Eadweard Muybridge. In particular, I insisted on the idea of limitlessness, on the joy of entering into a state of emptiness. He made two trial attempts, and we created a very beautiful piece of work.

 

What are your feelings about the idea of exhibiting in the Atelier Brancusi? Is there something appealing to you about taking over a place that is soon to be closed? In what way will the exhibition reshape this space?

To be honest, I turned the initial offer down. I think the sunlight activates the space and emphasizes its shape, much like the way Brancusi's sculptures extend toward the sun. For my part, I work in darkness, and I did not want to disrespect this space and its history. But after thinking it over for a long time, I came up with the idea that this exhibition could present a nighttime version in which cinema served as a light sculpture which in turn reflected the architecture. A glimpse of dreams. The videos I have chosen talk about a bridge, a spaceship, water, the moon and sleep.

 

The exhibition presents around ten works and video diaries. What is the organizational principle behind your decision to choose and connect these particular pieces?

At this moment in time, the number of screenings has not yet been decided upon. It might change. However, with the exception of Solarium (2024), all of these works can be considered personal diaries. There is something free about them, they can float around. In making them, I did not follow a clearly defined structure. It was more about turning, or making them, similar to the process of sculpture itself. This quality is what connects most of the pieces. As for Solarium, it is a tribute to an old horror film from my childhood, and to the first experimental films. A ghost is trapped in its own solarium of artificial light, echoing the nature of the space in which these videos will be hosted. It is a recreation of the horror film The Hollow-Eyed Ghost (1981), directed by Komanchun, in which a doctor murders a man in order to give his blind girlfriend the former's eyes. The man's spirit haunts the neighborhood as he sets about searching for his stolen eyes, before finally being destroyed by the rising sun. A video depicts a few passages of the ghost's different actions that have stayed fresh in my memory. On the other side of the screen is another video showing movements of light. The lighting of both films modulates the visible and the invisible. Rather like a filmmaker, the ghost is always searching for a device with which to experience light. The title alludes to the ghost's inability to escape this dreamlike state, trapped forever in a solarium of his own making, and longing to feel the warm light of dawn.

 

Your work Fiction (2018) shows the writing of a dream in a notebook. You have been keeping diaries of your dreams for a long time, and you will be sharing some of these stories in the garden of the Atelier Brancusi. What is the importance of this discipline in your work?

As someone who is easily distracted and forgetful, I write down a lot of things. A dream is like a film that cannot be replayed. The only thing I can do is to write them down, as if I were remembering a cinematic experience of some sort. I think one of the reasons why I make fewer films today is because I like to dream so much. It is as though these dreams were enough for me.

 

In addition to preparing your ninth feature film, which you will be shooting outside Thailand once again, in Sri Lanka, after shooting Memoria (2021) in Colombia, you are also undertaking the project of restoring all of your films. Have time and distance prompted you to cast a retrospective gaze on your evolution as a filmmaker? How do you see these last decades? Do you have an idea of what the next decades will have in store for you?

Today, I believe that what inspires me to make a film is meeting new people and discovering new places. Cinema is not a product, but rather a family which grows. I rarely project myself into the future, and what I would like to accomplish. What counts for me is always the process behind it. It is rare for me to look back and analyze what I have done. But this restoration project will allows me to take a break. I recently watched Tropical Malady (2004) and it made me cry. I was no longer the person who made it.