吉姆·贾穆什访谈

"You have to listen to the film."
By Nina Rehfeld
November 4, 2002

"I've seen a lot of weird, strange things in my life"

It'd be tough to underestimate the impact Stranger Than Paradise had back in 1984 on a whole generation of future independent filmmakers. "You watch Stranger, you think, 'I could really make a movie,'" Kevin Smith has said. "First thing, the camera doesn't move. Jarmusch sets things up and things happen. If I'm going to make a movie, I'm going to do it just like this and add dialogue."

Stranger wasn't Jarmusch's first film, though. Back in 1979, prodded by Nicholas Ray and Amos Poe, Jarmusch, who'd studied literature with the likes of poets David Shapiro and Kenneth Koch, who'd been hanging out at the Mudd Club and singing in a band called the Del Byzanteens, began work on Permanent Vacation (1980), a film about a guy who, as he put it, "doesn't really have any ambitions or responsibilities." The film floated around the European art circuit for a while, catching the eye of Wim Wenders.

The following year, Jarmusch began working on a script he'd shoot on a single weekend in February 1982. He spent $8000 on that first 30-minute version of Stranger. It picked up a few awards in Europe, so Jarmusch was able to round up the budget for the feature-length version, a grand total of $100,000. And off he went to Cannes, where he won the Camera d'Or (Wenders won the Palme d'Or that year for Paris, Texas).

"Here was someone I knew, someone who went to the same school that I did, who now had a hit film," Spike Lee once told Moviemaker Magazine. "I worked in the equipment room as a TA and I had checked equipment out to him, and here was someone who had an international hit. To me, that was when it first became doable. I owe a great deal to Jim Jarmusch. He showed me and everyone at NYU that we could do this."

On its first release, Stranger pulled in $2.5 million from North America. A modest sum, really, but pretty amazing when measured, as the industry tends to do, by "cost to gross." And it went on to become a perennial art house hit around the world.

More impressive is that Jim Jarmusch has stuck to his guns. Hollywood came calling back in the 80s, naturally, but Jarmusch, a self-described "control freak," has remained stubbornly independent. Except for the opening sequence, Down by Law (1986), also shot in black and white, retains the static camera of Stranger. But the characters are livelier (it's still probably Roberto Benigni's best role) and Jarmusch himself has said it's his most entertaining film.

Mystery Train (1989) is Jarmusch's first film shot in color and his first experiment with time; Rashomon-like, to pull out the old clich�, the same story is told three times from three different points of view. Night on Earth (1991) is another formalistic experiment, dropping in on various taxi drivers on various spots of the globe in a single night.

In his 1996 review of Dead Man, Jonathan Rosenbaum called the film "as important as any new American movie I've seen in the 90s." Important enough to him to write a book about it, too. When 2000 rolled around, many critics included Dead Man on their best-of-the-decade lists. It was quite a departure for Jarmusch. A genre film, a Western; a period piece whose haunted pace is set by Neil Young's score. There was a certain sense natural progression, then, when Jarmusch's next film would be a portrait of Young and his band, Year of the Horse (1997).

Even Rosenbaum, clearly a fan, admitted that Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (1999) "may be a failure." He immediately added in his review, though: "But if it is, it's such an exciting, prescient, moving, and noble failure that I wouldn't care to swap it for even three or four modest successes."

Since Stranger, Jarmusch had been releasing films at a pretty steady clip: One every two years. But 2001 came and went without a new Jim Jarmusch film. We haven't seen a feature this year, either. Then, in Cannes, where Nina Rehfeld talked to him, Jarmusch showed up for the premiere of Ten Minutes Older, a compilation film in the tradition of, say, Lumiere and Company (1995). A batch of directors is given a rigid set of formal limitations and the producers cross their fingers in the hopes that they'll come up with something interesting, maybe even marketable.

For Lumiere, the idea was to give 40 directors 52 seconds each and a vintage late 19th century camera, the sort the Lumiere Brothers would have used. Some of the same directors on that project took up the challenge for Ten Minutes Older, too. In this case, 15 directors have been given exactly ten minutes each to do something on the theme of time. The first collection, The Trumpet, was the one shown at Cannes and features contributions from Aki Kaurismaki, Victor Er韈e, Werner Herzog, Wim Wenders, Spike Lee, Chen Kaige, and of course, Jim Jarmusch. The Cello includes works by Bernardo Bertolucci, Mike Figgis, Jiri Menzel, Istv醤 Szab�, Claire Denis, Volker Schl鰊dorff, Michael Radford and Jean-Luc Godard, who chose to make his entry a collection of ten one-minute films.

Quite a mixed bag, which the reviews have reflected right back. But praise for Jarmusch's short film is all but universal. His segment, Int. Trailer. Night, is a real-time look at an actress (played by Chlo� Sevigny) taking a break in her trailer on a film set.

Did you go back to your own experience for this?

Not personally. I never get a trailer. I would never have any time to spend waiting in one. But for friends of mine, actors and actresses, I'm certainly aware of their down time. Making a film is mostly waiting. Sitting around, waiting, waiting, waiting.

What was it like taking ten minutes and filling it with a film?

It was fun for me because I really like limitations. I like restrictions. I like the idea a lot of ten minutes being a kind of oblique strategy, of saying here, you must make a film not only ten minutes, but exactly ten minutes. Jay Rabinowitz, the editor, and I were very happy that it was ten minutes to the frame.

Tarkovsky said, "A film director is a sculpture of time." Do you agree?

Well, any movie is related obviously to time, the way music is. The two forms are very similar. You have a kind of flow, a rhythm -- the piece has its own time. So you're creating time when you make a film or a piece of music. Certainly any film is about time in some sense, and especially a narrative film, a story. So it's already kind of inherent in the form, you know? Can I smoke?

Of course.

Of course, it's France, you can smoke anywhere.

I thought you quit smoking in Blue in the Face.

The movies are just, you know: It's not true. Everything is made up.

Did you run into financial problems after Ghost Dog?

No, I'm very slow for one thing. A lot of things happened. It's not so interesting, but for six months, I had a thing called Bell's palsy. I don't know if you've ever heard of it, but it's a virus in a nerve and you lose complete muscle control of half your face. So you can't blink and your eyes are really effected. You can't read or drive or watch TV or really anything to do with light and vision. That doesn't mean I couldn't have written a script, but instead, I just sat around and it stayed with me for six months. So I lost six months about a year and a half ago. Also, it takes me a while, but I do have two projects going now, in the process of starting. That's new for me, too. I usually do one at a time. So I plan to catch up with my lost time.

Want to talk about them?

No, I'm superstitious about that.

Were you scared when you got this palsy?

Yeah, I was. Because you can't blink and I had to wear a patch on one eye, and while I was sleeping, the patch cut my cornea. I almost lost all sight in my left eye. Then I had to heal the eye, and the thing about this Bell's palsy is that some people have it for years and years, and in other people, it goes away in a month. And you just don't know. It's a very odd thing. But in a way, there's always a gift in these things, so I had time to think about a lot of things that were important and sort of prioritize my life. It was kinda good in a way.

Did you see the Woody Allen movie [Hollywood Ending, the Cannes opener about a director who goes blind]?

I did not, no. I used to have some very, very hardcore landlords years ago when I was first starting out, some Italian Americans. They once said to me, when I was a few months behind in the rent, they said [Italian accent]: "Hey, Jimmy, I wanna ask ya sumthin'. How many blind directors do you know of?"

You've got a reputation as being very rooted in everyday life. How does this whole circus thing here strike you?

Well, you know, I've seen a lot of weird, strange things in my life, so now, I'm just kind of more Zen'd out. It's just... interesting to me. Although, the last few times I was in Cannes, I vowed I would never come back.

Why?

Just so much pressure. Because I was here with films in competition and just did press all day long, all day long. And meetings, and press. I got a little psychotic. But here I am again, so... [publicity voice]: And I hope to be back.

In competition?

Well, if it's good for the film, yeah. Although I don't believe in competition. In any kind of human expression, it's absurd. That's for sports.

"I've learned a lot about Zen philosophy"

Were you surprised by the mix of ideas in Ten Minutes Older?

It was, because I had no idea. I saw the film for the first time yesterday. Friends were involved. Spike and Wim and Aki, so I knew a little bit about some things people were doing. But yeah, I thought it was really interesting because I didn't have any idea what it would be like. I love short films. I've been working on a series of them myself, supposedly, over the years. All called Coffee and Cigarettes. I plan to make more of those and I've written three other little scripts for short films, too. If I get time, I'd like to just do them.

Did you talk with some of the other directors about what you were doing or did you decide not to talk about it?

Well, it's funny. We talked about it, but none of us really said anything about what we were doing. Aki told me nothing. He told me a few things about a train station and that was it. So I had no real idea. And Wim told me sort of his idea, but it's very different than I imagined it somehow. And Spike was just like, "I'm busy, I'm busy, I'm doing it, I'm doing it." You know? "What are you going to do it about?" "Ten minutes, ten minutes." Spike's always so busy.

How long did you work on this ten minutes?

We shot it in a day and a half and edited it for a few weeks.

Do you remember the longest ten minutes of your life?

Could I have ten minutes to think about that?

The shortest?

One of the longest ten minutes was being driven to a doctor when my eye was cut open. I was literally biting on a piece of wood. You know the Native American thing, when they pull the bullet out of him or whatever? It was really excruciating. But you know, time, to me, is really an arbitrary thing. I think humans don't have a clue. Time is just some yard stick. Maybe, as Stephen Hawking and some theoretical physicists say, time doesn't even really exist. It's a part of space. So I think we have no clue about time. I don't think about time very much and I especially don't think about the past very much. I like to go forward. For example, for my feature films, whenever they're finished and out, I never see them again. I'm not interested in them. I hopefully learned something from them or met people that I care for or had great collaborations or whatever, but I'm not interested in seeing them again.

Do you sometimes think you're running out of time? That you won't get done what you want to get done?

Well, certainly, but I don't put that kind of pressure on myself. Maybe that's why I'm not very ambitious. I have so many priorities, but I'm not a real good planner. I don't plan ahead and I think the most beautiful things that have happened in my life are accidental or circumstance. So I try not to think about planning or time constraints on things.

What do you do when you're not working on films?

Music and reading and seeing friends, being with people I care about. Traveling. I really love to have time to read and listen to music. I read all kinds of things. I just finished a book last week, a new biography of Rimbaud. That was great. I read a book called The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollen. Which is a book about plant life and how plants use humans. Sort of an anti-human-centric book about plants. Really beautiful book. I just read a book about Sufism. I don't know, I read stuff all the time.

Is reading a form of escapism for you?

I just love the wacky ideas that humans have expressed to each other, whether it's films or music or painting or books or whatever. I've always loved books. I studied literature first. I love poets and poetry and all kinds of books, whether they're about science or history or fiction or whatever. Although I don't read so much history, really, because I don't believe history exists. It's always somebody's perception of something, molded for some other reason. I don't think there is such a thing as history, really.

What is Hollywood's perception of you now?

Hollywood? I have no idea. Where's that?

Have you been "approached" recently?

I used to be "approached" a lot when I was younger with all kinds of things that would always make me wonder if they'd ever seen a film I'd made. It was like, "Do you want to make 'Porky's 5'?" Ok, it wasn't that bad, but almost. I think they'd just look in a computer and see how many times your name has appeared in Variety and make a list. "Oh, he's number 14. Give him the script." I have no idea. I stay very far away from that world.

Why do you make films?

Because I love the form so much. It has everything in it. It has music and rhythm and acting and design and composition and sculpture, in the way you edit a film, and it has collaborations on many levels. I write alone, which is very solitary. Then I prepare the financing of the film, which is kind of like criminal activity, in a way. And then you shoot with a lot of people, which is so wonderful. And then you edit with just a very few people, really me and just one other person, and it's a very different thing.

I've learned a lot about Zen philosophy in a way from editing because you have to listen to the film and have it tell you what it wants to be. You can't just try to force it to be what you thought it might be. Especially the way I work. It's very organic. I've never had a storyboard. I have scripts, and we follow them, but we're also finding the film as we go, and it's sort of like taking a piece of marble out of a mountain. You need a lot of people to do that. And you're looking for a piece that looks like a dog. And then you find that piece and you bring it back and you look at it with the editor -- and the marble tells you it's really a bear. So you have to make it a bear and not a dog. Because if you make it a dog, it'll be a funny-looking, bear-like dog.

It's also very interesting -- this is a little esoteric, but -- if you're making a film and you have a rough version, an early version, and you make a big change in the film, it effects the film in a small way. And when you have a very closely edited film and you're getting to the end and you make a small change, it effects the film in a big way. Which is very enlightening in an odd way. I don't know how to explain it. I've learned a lot from editing.

You mentioned that finding financing was like criminal activity. But on Ten Minutes Older, there was a producer, so it must have been like a holiday for you.

Well, in some ways, yes, in other ways, no. Because I am a control freak and I own all my own negatives except for the film I made with Neil Young, which he financed and owns. So when that part is taken out of my hands, sometimes that's more difficult for me. Because I'm used to having say in who buys the film, how it's shown, how it's released, where it's seen. And in this case, I don't. It was a little hard for me in a way. I like to have some input into those things.

Neil Young is also a control freak, isn't he?

Yeah, he is. That's why we get along.

You didn't clash at all.

No, in fact, when I called him up and said, "Neil, of all these songs that we filmed, I have this list. Tell me which ones you'd like in the film." And he said, "No, man, that's your job. You choose." And it's his music, you know? So I had complete artistic freedom with Neil's film. But then, on the business side, they sold the film to whom they wanted, but they consulted me every time. It was not at all uncomfortable. It was very generous and respectful. I'm not sure why, but Neil really respected and trusted me. He kept saying, "Well, I wanted you to make the film, so why should I have anything to say about it? That's why I want you to do it." That really meant a lot to me.

A couple of years ago, you were hailed as a pioneer of American independent cinema. How do you look at people like PT Anderson today?

Well, I'm thinking of changing my name to JJ Anderson. Because you have Wes Anderson and Paul Thomas Anderson and there's another Anderson, too. And they're getting a lot of financing. So, what do you think? JJ Anderson? I'll dye my hair back black and dress differently and see if I can start a new career.

No, what's your take on young American cinema?

I like diversity and I like original visions, so whether I like their films completely or not, I'm all for all of these people that have a strong vision, whether it's Todd Solondz or Wes Anderson or Paul Thomas Anderson or Harmony Korine. There are many people who have an original voice, and I say, I love that. I may not love all their work, but I love that they're doing it their own way and that's where new life comes into any form. It's the people that imitate, that just try to use formulas that are not at all interesting to me.

Most of them don't stay independent.

That's true. But you know, some people, like the Coen Brothers, who are more my generation, make studio films but they still have control over them. Or Spike. So it's not a matter for me of where the money comes from or who releases the film or what the budget is -- I don't care. I care about the film. And if the film's original and it's their vision, then I'm really happy that it's made. Even if I don't like it.

Is it true that you give all your awards to your mom?

Yeah.

Really?

Yeah.

That's sweet.

I don't understand awards, really. But they help you in your profile which goes into the criminal side of getting money away from people so you can make your work. My only goal is to try to keep making films the way I want to. Whatever will help me do that, well, I'll accept that. Sometimes it's flattering and sometimes it seems just superficial. But if it helps you make a film, I'll take it.

What was the most complicated film you ever made?

The most difficult was Dead Man. We really didn't have enough money and we had a large crew and we had horses and period wardrobe and we had to shoot in places where you can't see a road or a telephone pole. And we shot in Arizona and Nevada and Oregon and California... It was very complicated. Very difficult, physically. And we didn't have enough time or money. That one was the hardest.

But the most difficult strategically was Night on Earth because we shot in five cities. We had different crews in each place. We had a very short time to work. And we were shooting all inside cars. Ask any filmmaker, "How do you like doing car work?" And they will just say, "Please, get away from me. Don't even talk about car work." It's difficult. Towing, moving, lighting. You can hardly see your actors. It's just very difficult.

Is it true that you borrowed film stock from Wim Wenders to make Stranger Than Paradise?

He gave me film stock that he had left over from The State of Things. For the first half hour version. And I had just enough film stock for the kind of film I had to shoot in very few takes. Even the design of the film, single set-ups for each scene, was part of a strategy, again because of a limitation on the amount of material I had. Yeah, he helped me a lot. And I'm also very proud to say that the black pieces in between were already exposed negative given to me by Jean Marie Straub and Daniele Huillet. So, wow, I was really graced with this material.

This year marks 20 years since Rainer Werner Fassbinder died. Has he been an influence?

Oh, certainly.

In what ways?

Well, again, originality. Fassbinder was amazing to me. I have little pieces of things that stay in my head. The framing of a shot in Katzelmacher, where the guy sits up in bed and leaves the frame. Or other tiny moments here and there. Themes in his films; I like how varied he was, too, and how much he worked. He left us so many gifts. I love Fassbinder.

As an avid reader, why haven't you made a film based on a book?

I think movies are often made from books that are not great books. I love all kinds of things. I'm not a hierarchical guy, so I will read crime fiction and so-called great literature, but I haven't ever read a book that I've thought about adapting. I've talked with people. Elmore Leonard asked me if I'd want to adapt anything of his, and I was so honored, but so far, nothing has really hit me so hard that I would do that.

A long time ago, I thought about trying to adapt Serenade by James M. Cain in a new way, but that was 15 years ago. There are many great books, though, and I think you could almost take a moment of a great book and make a whole film. I think short stories often make better feature films because you can expand them, whereas with a great book, you have to reduce and you lose a lot.

Do you have a dream project, something that you want to do someday if enough money comes together?

I do, yes. But again, I'm superstitious.

Discuss Jim Jarmusch's favorite films and guilty pleasures here.