![]() ![]() He’s trapped in this apartment and in this German light, and now he has to be responsible.Īïnouz: It is the first film that I framed so much. Konrad goes around the world, then rides a motorcycle around Brazil, and ends up in this little Berlin apartment, which is like a prison after all that. It’s a blank screen at the end. It was important that they just drift away from the movie.įilmmaker: The way you frame everything - what a good architect you are! Everything’s framed, framed, framed. I hate endings I think it’s good that everybody can imagine something. As the person who has been sculpting them for so long, I enjoy letting them go. It begins coming out of nowhere, and ends going who knows where.Īïnouz: With each movie, I make more and more the decision to let the characters go. And three chapters highlight the fact that the story is about a triangle.įilmmaker: The film has an elliptical structure. My other films are contained in a particular time and place, and I’ve never dealt well with time jumps. ![]() In the fall, we finished our interview over brunch barely in time for A ïnouz to rush to the airport to head back to Europe to resume work on a documentary about Madrid’s Prado Museum.įilmmaker: Futuro Beach is a triptych, three chapters with time passing in between, each with a different heading.Īïnouz: I always thought of this as an epic film, with a literary element. A broken duet turns into a troubled trinity of displaced affection and geography, and an energetic triptych becomes a triple character study. The heavily carnal relationship becomes a tight, loving partnership, but one with a host of problems. In the final third, we revisit them 10 years on, when the attractive, slightly androgynous late-teen Aytron (now Jesuita Barbosa) arrives in Berlin unexpectedly. ![]() In the second section, Donato visits a more settled version of his first gay screw in Berlin, the latter’s landlocked home city. ![]() While Konrad remains in Brazil to take care of his buddy’s affairs, he and Donato’s little brother, Ayrton, forge a bond somewhere between that of older and younger sibling and mentor-protégé. The bestial moment blossoms into an unremarkable friendship/affair. The drowning of a visiting German motorcyclist at the eponymous beach is the catalyst for a hard fuck between his freewheeling but inexpressive mate, Konrad (Clemens Schick), fresh from the battle lines of Afghanistan, and Donato (Wagner Moura), the repressed, suffocating soldier/lifeguard able to rescue him but not his companion. The first third is set in A ïnouz’s birthplace, the coastal town of Fortaleza the remainder, in Berlin, his adopted home. You see it in his films and hear it in an elevated discourse rooted in semiology and psychoanalysis.įuturo Beach is a triptych. He will be the first to claim that he has a gay sensibility. The end product is precise, engineered, its structure as apparent as that of a Bauhaus building. A ïnouz becomes heavily didactic when speaking about the importance of his characters’ sexuality, however it manifests itself. I’m not being glib or pretentious claiming that his films are incredibly architectonic. He originally studied architecture, as did I. He may travel back and forth to his country of origin, but the foreign as base is de rigueur. Whether stigma or honorific, outsider status allow him to view his own society as if it were in a fishbowl. At the same time, he is constructively diplomatic, a reasonably flexible negotiator in his frequent writing (and even directing) collaborations.Īn openly gay Brazilian of Algerian Berber descent from a provincial town, A ïnouz thrives in the part of the marginal, having lived for seven years in New York - where he began his career working for Todd Haynes - and for the past decade, residing in Germany. He obsessively carries through a vision, and is one of the few intellectuals in the film industry who thoroughly enjoys the interview process of dissecting his art and justifying his decisions. This man, however, is granted a dispensation for cockiness. The soft arrogance with which he delivers it, however, defines him more than would a summary bio or a litany of his filmography’s titles ( Love for Sale, Madame Sata, The Silver Cliff). Italics mine: the polite, affable filmmaker would never himself put his speech in itals. Maybe it was excessive, but I don’t care.” “That’s the song that actually started Futuro Beach for me. I’ve just noted the few jabs he’s taken for ending his vibrant new film with the arguably overused Bowie anthem. “How could I do the movie without that song?” Brazilian director Karim A ïnouz asks rhetorically. Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim I, I wish you could swim I, I wish you could swim Clemens Schick, Futuro Beach, Karim Ainouz, Wagner Moura ![]()
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