A Conversation with the Master: Béla Tarr's Legacy of Perfectionism
When I last met Béla Tarr at the Nexus conference in Amsterdam a few years ago, it was clear that our conversation would be our ultimate and most heartfelt one. The master filmmaker was still radiating his signature ferocity, rebellion, love, and hate, despite being weakened by illness.
I first met Béla in 2004, while he was preparing "The Man from London." I had applied to assist him on the film, eager to learn filmmaking techniques. He gave me my first real job: finding a young actor for one of the main parts. Over the months, I spent countless hours searching for the perfect fit, but ultimately, Béla decided against it. However, he instilled in me that every effort put into a film was valuable and should be integrated into the final product.
Béla's approach to filmmaking was rooted in his quest for perfection. He believed that the best way to learn about film-making was to find a master like him and be initiated into the mysteries of the art form, just as painters or artisans learned their craft over centuries. His films were characterized by meticulous attention to detail, a deep connection to humanity, and a profound love of physical film.
"The Man from London" was an enterprise of madness, with international actors, Hungarian half-amateurs, and complex logistics. Despite the numerous challenges, Béla's talent, resilience, and inspiring presence made it seem like the "centre of the world." The filming process was fraught with difficulties, including a structural discrepancy between available funds and the scope of the film. Béla had to navigate the fine line between compromise and artistic integrity.
One day, while researching for his next project, Béla stumbled upon transcripts of the Sonderkommandos from Auschwitz. It took me 10 years to find a form to tell their story in my first feature film, "Son of Saul." Béla's world was so powerful that it was difficult to leave behind, but I also took with me his rebellious attitude and questioning of cinematic conventions.
Béla's collaboration with cinematographer Robby Müller on the short film "Prologue" was another example of his perfectionism. He tasked me with finding 300 homeless people to be filmed while waiting in line for food, which became a powerful portrayal of Hungary entering the EU. Béla's willingness to ask for my opinion, despite being a renowned director, highlighted his respect for those around him.
Béla Tarr's legacy is one of unyielding dedication to artistic perfection and a deep understanding of humanity. His films continue to inspire and provoke audiences, even as they confront the harsh realities of life. As someone who had the privilege of learning from him, I am honored to carry on his tradition and keep the flame of cinematic excellence burning.
When I last met Béla Tarr at the Nexus conference in Amsterdam a few years ago, it was clear that our conversation would be our ultimate and most heartfelt one. The master filmmaker was still radiating his signature ferocity, rebellion, love, and hate, despite being weakened by illness.
I first met Béla in 2004, while he was preparing "The Man from London." I had applied to assist him on the film, eager to learn filmmaking techniques. He gave me my first real job: finding a young actor for one of the main parts. Over the months, I spent countless hours searching for the perfect fit, but ultimately, Béla decided against it. However, he instilled in me that every effort put into a film was valuable and should be integrated into the final product.
Béla's approach to filmmaking was rooted in his quest for perfection. He believed that the best way to learn about film-making was to find a master like him and be initiated into the mysteries of the art form, just as painters or artisans learned their craft over centuries. His films were characterized by meticulous attention to detail, a deep connection to humanity, and a profound love of physical film.
"The Man from London" was an enterprise of madness, with international actors, Hungarian half-amateurs, and complex logistics. Despite the numerous challenges, Béla's talent, resilience, and inspiring presence made it seem like the "centre of the world." The filming process was fraught with difficulties, including a structural discrepancy between available funds and the scope of the film. Béla had to navigate the fine line between compromise and artistic integrity.
One day, while researching for his next project, Béla stumbled upon transcripts of the Sonderkommandos from Auschwitz. It took me 10 years to find a form to tell their story in my first feature film, "Son of Saul." Béla's world was so powerful that it was difficult to leave behind, but I also took with me his rebellious attitude and questioning of cinematic conventions.
Béla's collaboration with cinematographer Robby Müller on the short film "Prologue" was another example of his perfectionism. He tasked me with finding 300 homeless people to be filmed while waiting in line for food, which became a powerful portrayal of Hungary entering the EU. Béla's willingness to ask for my opinion, despite being a renowned director, highlighted his respect for those around him.
Béla Tarr's legacy is one of unyielding dedication to artistic perfection and a deep understanding of humanity. His films continue to inspire and provoke audiences, even as they confront the harsh realities of life. As someone who had the privilege of learning from him, I am honored to carry on his tradition and keep the flame of cinematic excellence burning.