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Who is martin scorsese dating

Who represent, in terms of perhaps a somewhat different or updated menu of challenges, compared with what you were after back then? The silence of God; your voice is in the silence, which also is in the Old Testament, I believe. RRC: Loneliness and solitude in this film are very intense. And there were periods in the ’70s where I was terrified of being alone. RRC: Things like that make the film seem very carefully composed, and there’s a meditative feeling that comes out of it. I had designed editing sequences, all edited beforehand. And then he lands on the beach, and it’s heaven, and it’s paradise. I’d bring it up to him, and say, “Here’s the angle.” RRC: Where were you shooting? That can be hard for us to understand, how that public declarative aspect is so important a part of the faith. Maybe that’s another aspect of Ferreira’s provocation. RRC: Or Harvey Keitel’s outrage, in , when his girlfriend uses devotional candles for romantic mood lighteners. ” Or the scene at the beginning of that same movie, with your mother making what appears to be a calzone, and serving it with an almost sacramental somberness. And how important has Catholicism in particular been to you as a movie maker? Issues of responsibility, where you try, you fail, and then you try to deal with that. We just started rolling the cameras, Michael Chapman, my cameraman, and I. ” [laughs] RRC: That’s a beautiful ending—you have a way of offering some sort of reconciliation and hope that’s also humorous, and it’s not over-determined. He’s looking himself in the mirror, and he says, “It was you.” RRC: It was great! MS: “It was you, Charlie.” He’s talking to himself. A small quibble: Paul Moore, a wonderful, troubled, saintly man, was the Episcopal Bishop of New York, not the Archbishop.

Rodrigues’s dilemma raises the question: to save your life, and the lives of others, can you renounce your faith while remaining a Christian in your heart?

MARTIN SCORSESE: Well, in August of 1988, we had a screening of , here in New York—a screening of the unfinished film, for religious groups that were complaining about it, or concerned about it, or angry about it. One gentleman came to the dinner wanting to talk to us, he said, because he believed that the film was “Christologically correct.” Christologically—I was not aware of that word! RRC: The Episcopal Archbishop of New York at that time. Kurosawa had met me once; he liked the way I spoke, fast, and he imagined Van Gogh speaking that way. In fact I finished reading the book on the bullet train from Tokyo to Kyoto. The beauty and the gift of our existence, the gift of our lives, is the temptation. RRC: What do you make, thirty years later, of the big flap over this film? The budget went down to $6 million—from $19 million to $6 million. But people were out there saying, “They’re blaspheming, they have no respect for the Christian religion, and they have no respect for you.” It was rumor.

We screened the film, and that evening, a bunch of us got together at a hotel nearby: Tom Pollock, the head of Universal, and Casey Silver, I think Sean Daniels, myself, the producer, my editor Thelma Schoonmaker, and her husband Michael Powell, and a friend of mine, Fr. And I immediately felt that this was the road to take, in terms of a more profound understanding of faith. I wasn’t sure then, but I knew we should try to option the book, and see if I could ever come around to figuring a way to make it. I got the rights to the book —the Cecchi Goris got it for me, Vittorio and his father, Mario. And Mario happened to be an authority on that period. When I met him, he talked about this, said he couldn’t wait to see the film. You met Jacques Chirac, the president of France, and he talked about this book? RRC: With all that in the background, is there nervousness now about a film as intensely religious as , though, I think there may have been a kind of reflex action against the picture through rumor. RRC: How did that strike you, to be accused of having no respect for the Christian religion? The press conference at the Venice Film Festival was quite an extraordinary experience. People were yelling, demonstrations were going on, pro and against. Why wasn’t I born before, when there was no persecution? RRC: This idea also affects the priests, Rodrigues and Garrpe.

And the best one, of course, was Pasolini’s , and I had a dream that I could maybe make a film someday. RRC: Kichijiro is an important figure in Silence, and you write in your introduction to the novel that “Endo understood that in order for Christianity to live, it needs not just the figure of Christ, but the figure of Judas as well.” Discuss what you tried to do with Kichijiro in this film. He’s a shell of a person, even though he’s done the right thing. There were many films at that time with this Red-Scare theme, and particularly frightening was the idea of the Communists taking your soul. It’s a matter of not accepting the certitude of scientific thinking, or even philosophical thinking.

And immediately I thought of making a film of the Gospel, but set on the Lower East Side, in the tenements, in modern dress. I think, you know, in a sense Ferreira didn’t hear Jesus. RRC: Let’s talk about the act of apostatizing, which is so central to the drama of your film. When Rodrigues hears the confession of Kichijiro again, near the end, he tells him, “I’m a fallen priest. That’s why we like to read a book, or listen to music, or see a really interesting film, where you feel a catharsis: it is play-acting, in a way, for us. MS: The phrase that comes to mind is the quote from Jesus about “whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me; whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me.” And Kichijiro is the least, in a sense. And Kichijiro teaches Rodrigues—he’s the teacher for Rodrigues, ultimately, the vehicle for compassion, and for the understanding of weakness. Almost like Protestants and Catholics in the Thirty Years War. Yes, there are many problems with organized religions.

What if we do a film, and Jesus is here, on 8 It is a different planet now. The scene where Franco Citti goes to visit his son, who’s about five years old, because he needs money. His wife is taken away by her family, to protect her, and they’re living in these shacks. Give your father a hug.” And he steals the crucifix [laughs]. I had to let it happen through, for example, the behavior of the inquisitor and the behavior of the interpreter. But if you’re stuck there, like Rodrigues, you’re caught, you don’t know who’s coming into that jail cell or that hut of twigs. I did get bogged down at first in trying to write this script, and trying to explain a different world and different time, but I realized I had to let it play out. How to find the pacing that is appropriate for that world, without losing an audience? For example, the two priests are waiting in the hut, and they’re having a problem with lice. It’s really the stillness of everything around them, and the life that that stillness contains, too. The life of the animals, the life of the insects, the subconscious harmony of the world. That’s why it was very important to shoot the atrocities and the horrors occurring around Rodrigues only from his point of view. The samurai attacks one of the Christians, and he can’t do anything about it. In any event, we got all of this first through the visualizing of the picture on the page, in a hotel. I also had to be very aware of having enough in the frame to tell the story, to explain to the viewer the narrative action of that moment. It opens up, and there’s this landscape, and the sea behind him. So when we got to the tops of these mountains, very often I had some shots planned. And if he gave in, that’s a problem, for all the aegises of Catholic Europe. Is that something you were consciously thinking of? And if you fall—if you commit what the Japanese called korobu—you have to learn to forgive yourself. The implication in Endo’s epilogue is that Rodrigues consistently had to sign oaths of apostasy and renunciation because he may have continued administering to Christians within the prison compound. But the mindset you’re summoning is one in which it’s not that simple, because to publicly renounce something carries enormous weight. Anyway, at the end, the pastor comes out with his robes, and he approaches the altar. I think there’s a certain attitude in towards the ones who seriously apostatize. You said once, “I’m not a theologian.” Your early films have a rich backdrop of religious imagery, and a kind of cultural Catholicism. Well, there’s no doubt that the subject matter I’ve been attracted to has been material that always somehow relates to those things I found important growing up in the ’50s, on the Lower East Side, in a very tough place. RRC: I read somewhere about the two of you sometimes doing nineteen takes of a scene. I was mortified, when attending Mass there on a Sunday, to hear a visiting priest with a thick German accent use his homily to denounce the film as the attempt of "those who run Hollywood" to do the church harm -- and then to explicitly reference the Judaism of some studio exceutives as a factor in that effort.

But that was the city, and that’s what I grew up with. There’s a pool of dirty water, and the little boy is sitting there by the water. The boy is on the right of the frame, and Citti’s on the left. He says, “Hey, I’m your father.” And the truth of it was so overwhelming and so powerful, because he looks at the boy, who’s about four years old, playing in the dirt, and the boy has a little crucifix on, a gold crucifix. So that is the truth, and that’s what I kind of know, in a way. And it comes down to the examination of what is God, who is God? RRC: It’s not something I’d normally associate with a Martin Scorsese film. I was terrified of being alone for such a long time, because of my asthma. To show the hut, I just shot the thatched roof with the rain hitting it. The only thing to do is to hold it, and let it sink in a bit, the way it had to sink into them. As you say, why does God allow evil things to happen, and we can’t do anything about it? It was down to basics, down to the basics of how you tell a story. I tried to work out the thought, and I thought about it with my cinematographer, Rodrigo Prieto. This is what’s implied by the scene where we see him signing, which means he never gave— RRC: I thought that was just a gratuitous humiliation of him. The early Christians saw apostasy as a grave sin, even possibly as the “speaking against the Holy Spirit” that Jesus in Matthew says can’t be forgiven. How do we set up some ideal over there, where people have lived a different way? There’s the scene where Ferreira tells Rodrigues that the Japanese can’t conceive of anything that transcends the human. He says, “That’s the son.” He’s implying an unintentional mockery of Christianity. A cross, for instance, glimpsed on a rooftop— MS: Yeah, that’s a shot of my old neighborhood. Or the way in , on the other hand, concerns of faith are explicit. So how, over the many decades of your filmmaking, do you see your films reflecting issues of faith and religion? Issues of right and wrong, and how that shifts under certain circumstances. And then later Jake is able to look at himself in the mirror. RRC: That great ending, when he’s in the dressing room— MS: “I am the boss! And those are the stories I’ve really been attracted to. As if that film was ever a product of anything other than Scorese's own magnifient obsession, his own awful rowing toward God!

This could be ego speaking, but at that time I knew—how should I put it? I felt I could argue it reasonably, with reasonable people, as long as they were open to serious discussion. But, not to be egotistical, I did feel strongly connected to that material, and to that way of thinking about it—and to changing the image of the Jesus that I had grown up watching. RRC: There’s an insistence in Endo’s novel on how Kichijiro—or anyone who gives up his faith—becomes doglike and servile. Rodrigues is afraid of groveling contemptibly like a dog for his life.