Anthology Film founder
When the Germans came to the
Mekas farmhouse in the Lithuanian village of
Semeniskiai in 1944, Jonas Mekas, as he puts it
today, “went out the window and into the potato
field.” The last thing he glimpsed behind him was
his father up against the wall, a German gun pressed
into his back.
“You do not forget an
experience like that. Knowing my father had that gun
in his back, and I, face down in the potato field,
all in bloom, white blossoms everywhere. I still
remember the intensity of every smell and every
color of that moment,” says the Jonas Mekas of 61
years later.
He was 21 at the time. Had he
any remote idea, back there, back then, of someday
shooting all of life – his life and various others —
through a movie camera?
“No. Absolutely no.” But if he
had had a movie camera, what next ensued that day
might have made a good short comedy in the vein of
Rene Clair.
“The Germans saw that my
father was just a farmer, so they let him go, but
they made him get his horse and wagon to take them
to the next village. When the Germans stopped and
went to look for food, my father unhitched the horse
– and rode away.”
As Jonas tells this story his
hands are moving, moving, this way, that way, like a
director framing a scene.
Which he denies.
“In reality,” the founder of
the Film-Makers’ Cooperative, the Filmmakers’
Cinematheque, and the Anthology Film Archives – in
short, one of the world’s most indispensable film
people — told Paris cineaste and art-museum chief
Jerome Sans four years ago, “all my film work is one
long film which is still continuing. I don’t really
make films. I only keep filming. I am a filmer and
not a film-maker. And I am not a film ‘director’
because I direct nothing. I just keep filming.”
A print of the shortest – the
two shortest of Mekas' films, actually, welded
together, “Mozart & Wien” and “Elvis,”
one-minute-plus each – was recently bought by an
Italian museum for $8,500, the first money of that
size Jonas has surely seen in all his 82 years.
“It is to help me survive,” he
says. “I was broke.” So broke that a year ago, after
30 years residence at Broadway and Broome Street in
SoHo, he sold that place and moved to Greenpoint,
Brooklyn – where, in fact, he is now quite happily
starting all over again. The 78-minute “Letters From
Greenpoint” is affirmation of the same.
I watched “Elvis” the other
day: A deliberately flickering herky-jerky
distillation of white-suited Elvis Presley in his
last-ever concert in Madison Square Garden in 1972,
it is wonderfully wedded on soundtrack, not to
“Hound Dog” or “Jailhouse Rock” or any such, but to
a molasses-smooth “Blue Danube” waltz.
The herky-jerk results from
the stop-start stop-start of the Mekas finger on the
camera that night in the Garden. The resultant
one-minute-plus represents “absolutely everything I
got” as Elvis sang and gyrated. “I thought it funny
– ironic – to put the ‘Blue Danube’ behind it, some
cheap version of the ‘Blue Danube.’ And then, when
the Vienna Film Festival of 2001 asked me for
something to open with, I remembered this thing
sitting there on the shelf and I thought, ah, maybe
that will do.”
Another short, the 4
1/2-minute “For Maya: Father and Daughter,” a video
populated by two cats, led one to inquire whether
the Maya for whom it was made was Maya Deren,
America’s first and greatest avant-garde filmmaker
and a woman both Jonas and I have been in love with
all the years since her death in 1961.
“The cats are my own cats,
Rumple, the father, and Shiva, the daughter, and
no,” says Jonas, “that’s not Maya Deren but Maya
Stendhal, a very special, very dedicated
gallerieste, like Julian Levy or Jolas in the old
days. There are not many like her.”
Maya Deren, in fact, would
require tigers, yes?
“That we cannot escape,” said
Jonas.
Jonas Mekas was born on
Christmas Eve, 1922. Not too many people know that
he is also one of Lithuania’s greatest poets. Nor
that he is a survivor of 10 months in a forced-labor
camp at Elmshorn, Germany, a suburb of Hamburg –
“actually a war prisoners’ camp, where I was in with
French and Italian POW’s.” That was followed by more
months in DP camps at Kassel and Weisbaden.
In Lithuania he had already
been a member of a little theater group, and in
Heidelberg he “bought, by chance, a book on the
theory of cinema” – he can’t remember the title –
“that got me very excited about the possibilities.”
Had he seen very many movies
by then?
“Only what the U.S. Army sent
the troops. And then, after the war, there was in
Germany, among all those ruined buildings, a
neo-realist movement something like what was
happening in Italy.”
You must have seen German
classics like “The Blue Angel” and all that?
“Oh no, no. The best I’d seen
were Huston’s ‘Treasure of the Sierra Madre’ and
Chaplin’s ‘The Good Rush.’ They excited me.” His
windmilling hands convey the excitement. “But then I
went to study at the University of Mainz, where
Guttenberg came from, and this was in the French
zone [of occupied Germany], so I could see Cocteau’s
‘Beauty and the Beast.’ Then it was emptiness until
I came to New York.”
That was in 1948, and by
accident.
“Already my brother Adolfas
[three years younger, today a professor of film at
Bard College] and I had written several scripts. Our
dream was to go to Israel to start a film industry –
here’s a new country that can use a film industry.”
But because Jonas and Adolfas Mekas were not and are
not Jewish, they were not in that year permitted
entry to Israel.
“Then we went to the consulate
of Egypt. We thought: If we can get into Egypt we
can walk to Israel. But again we were turned down.
Then we signed up on a ship to go from France to
Sydney, Australia, and in that time, while we were
waiting, someone signed papers for us to go to
Chicago. All right, we’ll go to Chicago. The UN put
us on an Army ship with 2,000 other refugees.
“I don’t consider myself an
immigrant,” Jonas Mekas says with emphasis (in an
English that has never in all these years fully or
even halfway emerged from its Lithuanian cocoon). I
was brought here and dropped here by the United
Nations.”
The first thing he did,
wandering around the city, was rent a Bolex movie
camera. A month later, having found some sort of
gainful employment, he bought that instrument.
“Bolex became the love of my life. It’s a very good,
very precise camera.”
He went everywhere with it, it
went everywhere with him, not least to the
demonstrations and civil strife of the 1950s and
’60s. I can remember being at a demonstration in
Washington Square or City Hall Park of refusal to
take shelter during one of those idiotic, insane
atom-bomb drills, and suddenly discovering Jonas
Mekas up in a tree, clinging to the tree with one
hand, his Bolex pointed down to shoot the crowd,
including me, in the other.
In 1954 he became
editor-in-chief of Film Culture, a highly
informative, highly readable journal of, well, film
culture, and in 1957 when, according to me, I called
this unknown editor/writer up with an invitation,
or, according to him, he called in to ask why The
Voice didn’t have a regular film column, I said:
“Why don’t you do it?” and that’s how his weekly
“Movie Journal” started in The Village Voice.
It was not a column of
reviews. It was a column of Mekas, brash,
intelligent, opinionated, and wholly against the
stream – any predominating stream. Some one or two
years later a hue and cry arose from a number of
readers against Jonas – and to his defense, in a
typically brilliant riposte, sprang none other than
Maya Deren.
In 1961 Jonas and Adolfas
created the full-length poetic-symbolic “Guns of the
Trees,” and in 1962, when the feds busted Judith
Malina and Julian Beck’s Living Theater, Jonas took
Bolex in hand to sneak past the gendarmes and shoot
a bootleg full-length Living Theater movie of
Kenneth Brown’s ferocious Marine Corps drama “The
Brig.”
But that was long ago, Jonas
will tell you – “and many people don’t know my work
of the past 20 years at all. Here, they don’t know.
But in Europe, they know. And that is why the
exhibit at the Maya Stendhal Gallery is important.
Now they can see what else I am doing.”
This, in fact, is a very big,
very busy year for Jonas Mekas. This month a
five-minute video, “Farewell to SoHo,” opened at the
Stockholm Museum of Modern Art. On April 1 an
exhibit of some of his papers and film prints opens
at the Colton Gallery in Austin, Texas.
“In June I’m representing
Lithuania at the Venice Biennale – of art, not film.
They couldn’t find any Lithuanians, so they came to
me. In September the Lyon Biennale will show my
work, and in late September a complete retrospective
of all my films opens in Rome.” He’s also in the
throes of creating a video “Opera Epileptic Buto,”
starring dancer Virginie Marchand and
90-something-year-old Buto performer Kaguo Ohno.
And with it all, there
continues his deep immersion every day in the
heartbeat activities of his Anthology Film Archives
– salvation, restoration, safe storage, and a vast
ongoing schedule of programming of every sort of
non-mainstream film – in the big old brown-brick
Anthology building, once a city jail, at Second
Avenue and 2nd Street. “I’ve just come from a
meeting there,” he says. “To raise money to build
another building on top of the building, to give us
a library and a restaurant.”
In 1987, after all those years
with a Bolex, Jonas bought himself a Sony video
camera – “a simple Hi-8 non-digital camera.” He
brings it forth, points it at his interviewer, hands
it over for inspection. Under the lens I see the
inscription: “990 X Digital Zoom.” What’s that mean,
Jonas?
“I don’t know and I don’t
care.”
The longest piece of work in
the Stendhal exhibit is a “Dedication to Fernand
Leger,” so phrased because Leger once wrote that he
dreamed of making a film that would cover an
unbroken 24 hours in the life of a family, any
family.
Jonas goes him one better. He
has spent years, video camera in hand, casually
recording the lives of himself and everyone around
him, including his family, his children, gorgeous
Oona, now 30, an actress on the West Coast, and
Sebastian, 22, “very deep in Chinese studies and the
local cinema scene at the University of Beijing.”
Someone once said that all the
books by Faulkner are one novel if you put them all
together. The same with my movies.”
I am a camera indeed.