Interview with Zeki Demirkubuz: “Neither the development of technology nor modernity can solve the problems of humanity in the absence of shame and confession.”

During an interview you once said you did not like cinema. Does the reasoning behind that comment reflect an attitude of not taking this business too seriously and placing life—what is actually experienced— front and center?

No, it is too simple. That comment was definitely not made about the meaning of cinema. I like cinema; in fact, beyond that, I see it as something miraculous. This is because abstract concepts that would pass unnoticed by most people in daily life attract my attention. This can be a story, a picture, a human face or a feeling… I get obsessed with it and I keep thinking about it; I turn it into a story, connect it to a theme, I write a script about it, then I find money for that script, I find the actors, shoot the film, and finally present it to an audience. This effort brings out something bigger, loftier than the feeling of reality. For the transient realities of daily life keep shifting and yet, when captured on film, they gain longevity, if not permanence. Something this abstract is transformed into something that is this real. Or from a more spiritual point of view, I take various quirks and compulsions that people deem worthless or embarrassing and make them into movies to present to the public. This is why I like cinema so much and consider it to be miraculous. This intense experience I have on the streets, on the road, when I’m writing at night or when I’m by myself,  is my deepest bond with cinema.

The problems start when I set out to transform onto film these intense emotions/obsessions/observations. In my opinion, cinema is not a collective endeavor but something that is accomplished with other people. I find this necessary process burdensome. I am a stubborn person who works to get what he wants to the end. And one does not share the same feelings with others all the time. For some, cinema is a springboard—a tool to create their own legend. I am in a position to understand this, but it spoils that enchanting solitude I’ve been talking about. And then there’s the final phase that troubles me—the phase when the film is consumed from an ideological or financial perspective. Since I cannot create a world of my own beyond all of these issues, I have to be a part of this one. I, too, have to make the audience watch my films by advertising and selling tickets. It is the distance I feel to all of this that makes me say, “I might stop making films.” Sometimes this urge becomes so strong that I end up questioning the very essence of the whole process. At that moment I feel the need to say  that directorship or cinema are not identities I feel burdened with. I do what I do because I believe in the things that I’ve said since the beginning of this interview. If the present conditions become ethically unbearable for me, then I would quit. My comments on this issue were conditional. For now, I still have the strength to continue in the way that I want to; I am not making films in spite of myself, and I don’t experience big ethical dilemmas when I make films. If the time comes when I no longer possess the strength to meet these criteria I’ve set for my filmmaking, I would stop.

Destiny, unlike Fate, comes across as a film which does not seek answers, but is dedicated to the story, to the reality of the character.

In fact, Fate is such a film as well, but its final scene leaves people somewhat confused. Beyond the dominance of the words in that scene, there’s nothing there that was done with the purpose of being didactic or giving certain answers. The dialogue in that scene does not lead anywhere; one cannot even find a main point in such a conversation. But the scene became prominent with the way the words were communicated, and the feelings that they evoked. I also wanted to test the intellectual audience a little bit with that scene. If one does not pay attention, one may get the impression that a lesson is being taught, and that everything was being explained. You may call it a trap. It is true that the words are said there with a certain logic and reflect a certain attitude; there is such a thing as taking sides in life. The prosecutor in particular is a devoted Muslim, a good, traditional man. But especially what Musa says does not go anywhere and his words are nothing more than an attack that aims to invalidate every ideology, that is, all the answers. However, Destiny has the quality of being totally dedicated to the story, of being true to the story. In fact, that is the reason why I gave the title of Fate to one, and Destiny to the other. Fate is in fact a more modern, more intellectual concept than destiny. References to “the fate of humanity” had always caught my attention, especially in Dostoyevsky’s novels. Destiny, on the other hand, is more oriental; it carries within itself an association with the situation that the story talks about, and finds a meaning within a context. We say “This is my destiny,” but refer to “the fate of humanity.”   

One tends to search for overarching reasons, but sometimes the reason can simply be a single act. When discussing the final scene of The Waiting Room many people say: “A woman came by, and the director somehow ended up sleeping with her. It’s that simple.” But many others also perceive and try to explain the scene as reflecting a happy mood following a one-night stand.
 
I wouldn’t know. Among all the films that I have made, Fate is certainly the one I like most because it has given me the excitement of presenting a problem, and of almost catching “that feeling of life.”  Yet The Waiting Room is the film in which I’ve been able to strip away life’s clichés the most, presenting only the plainest, simplest, driest and most straightforward aspects of life.  In The Waiting Room, I tried to explore the reasons behind the themes that I had addressed before through other people, other stories—how liberating could telling lies be, and how the strongest faith and sense of morality can reveal an arrogance from deep within. It may surprise you to find out that my source of inspiration for The Waiting Room was the Bible. I used to read the Bible a lot because of Dostoyevsky. In the scene of his death, Jesus says, about the soldier stabbing him, “Father, forgive him; for he does not know what he is doing.” Taking it from the religious point of view, you might be tempted to consider this as virtue or the noble side of humanity. However, being the skeptic that I am, I asked myself: here you have Jesus, spat on, humiliated, tortured and eventually killed; and it was the soldiers who murdered him. Despite all of this, how could Jesus, in this pitiable state, turn this situation around and pity the soldiers? As for the answer, beyond all that Jesus stood for, I also see great arrogance and a “holier than thou” attitude. I came to realize that a lot of other people and I acted the same in similar situations. The source of inspiration for the long dialogue scene between the director and the young woman’s boyfriend is the Crucifixion scene. In that scene, the boyfriend praises the director for his ethical stance and his work. The director responds by saying it all arises from his arrogance and self-centeredness, and that in reality, he does not believe in anything. He says his filmmaking and his virtuous stance do not come from his faith in virtue but rather from his arrogance. I thought this dialogue gave me the opportunity to put forward an important issue. The film also carries the weight of the feeling of arbitrariness or going with the flow. These are the things I believe in most in life. Of course people have a will, a lot of passion, a purpose, et cetera, but there also is the flow of life, which is some sort of a destiny and it matters. 

To transfer all these ideas onto film is more exciting for me than to have shot Destiny. Destiny is based on a great story, to which no one can be indifferent, whereas Fate and The Waiting Room are based on the abstract, the vague and the uncertain. When I look at it from a moral point of view, it I find worthy of respect that a director takes all these risks that are inherent in making such films. Those films may not be as good or powerful as the others, but I find them worthier of my respect.

In Confession and The Third Page, too, you told tales of obsessive love and jealousy ending in suicide. However, Destiny seems to be in a different place. Most film critics agree that when compared with the other films you have made, Destiny and Innocence represent a more passionate and dramatic side. What differentiates Confession and Destiny from each other?
 
I think not only those but all of my films are quite similar to each other, even Block-C, the film that I stand most distant from and I criticize most harshly. There is nothing incomprehensible about this; they all come from the same person. Block-C, too, is the story of a woman who searches for a belief—for love—through sex. And that film ends with a scene in a psychiatric ward where the woman faces the man she loves; she has accepted certain things at that point. That scene is quite similar to the final scene in Destiny. All of my films, including Fate and The Waiting Room, are thematically similar to each other. The characters in Fate and The Waiting Room are unbelievers in contrast with the characters in the other films, but they are also people who suffer because of their need to believe, and their search for something to believe in. However, I do understand the reasons why people evaluate my films the way you have described and I don’t have any objections to that. At the end of the day, those opinions stem from other people who have different personalities and come from different experiences. But the fact that I understand such statements does not mean that I accept them. Looking at it from this perspective, I can say that Innocence and Destiny are perceived as such because they address the concept of an ideal more directly and in a more positive manner, and because they are closer to the traditions, values and ideals of our society. It is always easier to side with something positive. I have no personal expectations. However, if I had any expectations, I would have wanted Fate, Confession and The Waiting Room to be found worthy of more respect because they choose the more difficult path of questioning these issues, of searching, and of telling a story by placing evil in the center. But just the opposite happened, and as I’ve said, this is understandable. And then there’s this: the people of the modern world do not base their objections on what they’ve lost; they do not agonize over them. Instead, they carry within themselves a more rational sense of life. In spite of that, as individuals, there are a lot of things that they miss and long for in their souls. Love and passion are on top of that list. They feel the lack of such intense passion —in any form and at any cost. That, too, makes Innocence and Destiny more liked. In fact, one of the reasons why I paid extra attention to create a feeling of distance in my later films was my impression that the attention Innocence receivedwas something to be questioned. I wanted to question Innocence’s popularity. Because of their stories, it is much easier to like and to feel close to Innocence and Destiny. Otherwise, in these films, and especially in Destiny, I have of course tried to maintain the distance that goes hand in hand with storytelling. In spite of all that, those films were more popular and better liked because of the story, and because the audience could feel empathy towards the characters, whereas Confession is a film that attempts to talk about the search for belief through betrayal—a film that talks about the most inferior sides of a human being and presents its subject matter by selecting two anti-heroes. Anti-heroes are always risky because the audience, who is prepared to identify with a hero, cannot easily establish a connection with an anti-hero. Thus, the audience cannot develop an emotional connection with an anti-hero, but only a mental one.
 
Destiny mostly follows Bekir’s world, but it sometimes leaves his world for other things. You leave Bekir’s point of view especially in the scenes focusing on Uğur’s family and the hostility between Cevat and Zagor. Did you intend to limit the story to Bekir’s point of view as much as possible? How did you make the decision on where to depart from Bekir’s world?

I’d like to make a genuine confession since you made a point about this: I’ve done this for the first time. I have obsessions as much as the criteria that I set about filmmaking. I don’t make films with a divine attitude. I am a filmmaker who makes his films not with the liberties, but rather with obligations that I have or create for my own self.  And this is one of those obligations. In the other films, I wouldn’t leave the character whose point of view I use to follow the story, and move onto a scene or a story line that doesn’t have any connection to him. And it would be very veiled if I do that. This is what I have done in six films. After a certain point though, I came to realize that this approach which had caused a lot of pain on my part, did not make much of a difference to the audience, and more importantly, to the people with whom I share similar criteria. That led me to question this obsession of mine. I’d given up on writing a lot of nice scenes because of this obsession, and nobody cared. So, I decided to leave that obsession behind with Destiny, and said that my previous approach might have been wrong. After Confession I decided that the issue was more related to form and style than to ethics or a criterion. This style is as open to abuse as to becoming an obsession. Every individual who has a sense of ethics on language is bound to face that problem. It’s difficult to find a middle ground and to say “this is right.” Looking at the films of Bresson and Ozu, I realize that they don’t lead to a divine pride with an “I see everything, I know everything, and I can do whatever I want” attitude when the camera leaves the character. On the contrary, it helps them tell the story more effectively. On the other hand, we also observe that sometimes the technique is overdone through parallel editing and by pushing it into the audience’s eyes. I think it’s all a matter of balance…

Although this question has become a cliché, we, too, would like to ask you: Did you worry about being accused of misogyny once again because of the way you portrayed Uğur and her mother in Destiny?

That’s the way it is, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I cannot do anything to be liked and to be approved of, and that applies not only to cinema, but to any other area as well. I consider myself to be a rational and intelligent man, but I’m not very good at using these character traits in issues that concern the outside world. I never take into consideration how a film, even a scene could be perceived when I write. Those accusations were made, and I’m aware of them. But they don’t cause me any pain. It’s normal that the perception may be as such, and I don’t even complain. It’s also important who the accuser is. I may even enjoy the accusation of misogyny if it comes from someone who lowers the existence of a human being to a thought such as feminism. The only thing I can do for a person, who explains our whole existence from the point of view of feminism, Islam, or Marxism instead of choosing to doubt or question, would be to understand him/her. But I wouldn’t be affected by such criticism. Such is life. And we should not forget that Jesus was spat on, humiliated and killed on a cross. For months, Prophet Mohammad, stalked like a wolf, had to live in caves. Therefore, the reward of what we find valuable can never be to be understood or approved. And the reward comes with a price. That’s why I have never complained about paying the price, and I don’t think I ever will.

Most of this kind of criticism was made after The Waiting Room. One may say that you sometimes make an extraordinary effort to show the bad side of human beings, and The Waiting Room was the film which reflected that effort. What’s the reason?

Because it’s not possible to create a conscience otherwise. You may suggest a lot of things about evil, lying and crimes against humanity, but you will not be effective in this age of abundant information. For example, you may say “it is bad to kill another human being,” but it will not affect anyone. However, if you start by saying “I’m a bad person” (even if you’re not) to make an impression, then you may be able to create a conscience for others. The fact that you are not any different, your confession, makes it more believable and more valuable. I do that in my films, in my relationships, and even during interviews. It doesn’t matter if I have the bad attributes or not; I like being accountable for them. That is the only way to establish real ties based on trust. This is the reason why the character in The Waiting Room is a film director, and there is a reason why he lies. It is so easy to say “lying is bad” that anyone can do it. On the other hand, everyone lies every day. If you start your conversation about lying by saying “I am a liar,” you may be able to create a conscience. I see Ahmet as a very honest person. He is an unbeliever, but he passionately wants to believe. His search for a conscience is the driving force behind his abuse of women and other people. He claims he’s committed adultery but he has not. Why would a reasonable person behave this way? His behavior may be a sign for his search for security. It is very normal that The Waiting Room would be met as it was in an area full of ideological clichés. The driving force behind The Waiting Room was not to make a run-of-the-mill film.  I thought of my own mortality, of my efforts to make films and tell stories, and reached the conclusion that I had to write an essay or a novel to be successful in that attempt. When I came up with The Waiting Room, I thought I had found a way to transfer an essay, or a Nietzsche-esque philosophical text onto film. That’s why the excitement I felt while making The Waiting Room was more intense compared to the other films. I knew that it wouldn’t do well at the box office, a lot of people would hate it, and it might cause problems in my personal life, but I still did it by spending a lot of money.  I don’t think anyone can make a film like The Waiting Room in this day and age when cinema is so engaged with ideologies. That’s why I didn’t search for financial support, and made the film with my own money. We’ll see if another film like The Waiting Room will be made during our lifetime. If it happens, I’ll declare the maker of that film a kindred spirit.

The Waiting Room focused on the masculine, and invited people to face the dark side of masculinity. This may have made the film a difficult one since explaining the meaning of such a confrontation is not an easy task.

Yes, that’s true. But, it’s also a good thing. I don’t believe that these issues can be understood anyway. Even if they were grasped, it wouldn’t do much good. Imagine a world where everyone is good, honest and law-abiding. I’m not even sure if I’d want to live in such a colorless and dull world. When I think of the problems of humanity, of a better life, the place I arrive at is not an ideology or a system. I think two high level positions must be created: shame and confession. I believe that a better life could be built only on these two positions. Neither the development of technology nor modernity can solve the problems of humanity in the absence of shame and confession, which are the greatest inventions of humankind―the most sublime levels that humanity can ever reach. Even under ideal circumstances, no socialist or social project executed in the name of creating a better world can even approach the power of shame and confession.

Given that as a principle you stick to the script while shooting a film, on what levels did you want Destiny’s script to be connected to Innocence? What kind of a connection did you want your actors to establish?

I don’t direct actors with any thoughts about the meaning of the filmin mind. I know that a lot of directors spend a lot of time with their actors, but those are usually futile attempts as far as the set is concerned. It may even cause an unnecessary engagement. My approach on the set is very concrete. I don’t expect my actors to know anything about the story or the subject matter of the film. I’m content if they do what I tell them to do, because actors are not responsible for creating the meaning of a film. The director is in deep trouble if he gets involved in that area. I spend five to ten years thinking about certain issues, and write a script; it is impossible for an actor to read that script a couple of months before the shooting and be in control of every detail. An actor is usually interested in what a film will contribute to his/her personality. It would be a very stupid and fruitless effort to lay the meaning of a film on the shoulders of an actor. Scenes that display similarities to Innocence in acting were under my control. When I became sure that Ufuk and Vildan had the power to do whatever I wanted them to do, and they wouldn’t cross the wires, I deliberately created some similarities in some scenes. A director should keep the meaning of a film to himself and regard the film at the set as a very simple and technical thing. If one plans certain things well while writing the script, the meaning comes through when the editing is done and the film is finished. It is most rewarding for me to see that the film’s meaning comes back when it opens to the audience after the technical—and nauseating—shooting process, where one loses connection with the meanings that set him/her out to shoot the film. When and if a director and actors can leave these identities aside and free themselves of their various engagements, they can do incredible things. Anything can be produced if you’re not afraid of uncertainty, and if uncertainty doesn’t make you  feel confused.  

When you talk about your cinema, you make a point of talking about morality. This idea of morality seems to build a wall between you and the audience, and place you in a somewhat untouchable and unreachable place. This point has been made frequently about your relationship with the people and actors who work on the set, and with the press. In a recent interview with Ömür Gedik in Hürriyet you complained that everyone was very serious and people had lost their sense of fun. Don’t you think you, too, contribute to the seriousness, which you find boring, with your stand?

That’s different. I do put the idea of morality on the agenda, but I don’t preach morality. I just declare my own morality, but I don’t hold anyone responsible for my morality other than myself. I engage myself with morality, and I stubbornly continue to do this—even though I don’t enjoy it very much because I think it’s necessary to create a feeling of credibility and trust. But life’s got more to it. I may be perceived as such, but I’m also a person who goes to soccer matches by himself to scream, laugh and curse with adolescents. I can be fun and have enough comedic sense to make a comedy film. These two should not be confused with each other. I share the joy of life with people of all ages as long as they believe in their thoughts, and are not dumb. This is reflected in my films also. What I cannot tolerate is the tendency to limit everything to codes or data, or to create images out of everything. Otherwise, it really bores me to be taken this seriously.

Your emphasis on intuition can be seen as an intellectual effort, but you seem to have a stand against intellectualism. It makes you look like an intellectual who tries not to be an intellectual…

I don’t know. All I know is that I’m a good thinker. I take a simple matter and carry it with me for days, months and sometimes put it in front of the people on film. I’ve been like that since I was a kid. I used to lose sleep over and think about a small matter the whole night and live it again and again. If the matter had hurt my pride, I would keep feeling shame. This is different than coding thought as an abstract matter. What I object to in the definition of intellectualism is the transformation of thinking into something abstract and professional. I am a typical street urchin in the worst meaning of the word. And there is no such thing that street urchins cannot think, too. That’s why I find intellectuals and the leftists in that category very distant from myself in terms of language, in terms of style, in lifestyles, and the way they maintain their relationships. I do better with radical leftists, but find the intellectual leftists very boring and keep my distance from them. Intellectualism is a lifestyle; it’s a cultural thing that defines where you’ll eat, what you’ll read, and how you’ll behave. I don’t belong to that culture, but am not against it, either. I just criticize it. I don’t respect any type of knowledge that lacks a sense of life, and does not carry within itself an interpretation. In that sense, I don’t feel close at all to the people who carry intellectualism as an identity. Even a vagrant man on the street evokes more of my interest.

Nadir Operli and Firat Yucel. Altyazi. October 2006.

Excerpt.

Translated from Turkish by Nur Emirgil and Kaan Nazli.