Sound in our cinematographic cause is anything but a trifle: it extends the frame of the visible on the screen and often, very often indeed, it interweaves itself into the material of the film as an important thread of counterpoint. The wind howls, dogs bark, a train flies, car engines roar, horses neigh, and… one can hear a fox-trot, an old waltz, a wind ensemble, an eastern melody. It is an absolute necessity for me that the music should be as natural as any noise, that it would be at once clear to anybody where this sound comes from and what it all means.
The same photographs are hung on the walls in each of our homes, Nico Zourabichvili's and mine: Nico's great-grandfather and my grandfather were inseparable friends. There is certainly some hidden meaning within this. Perhaps it is the reason why we understood each other immediately. Nico does not despise my cinematographic occupation, he writes with ease and, above all, according to my wishes, a music which is not at all simple, although it is called simply "waltz", "saraband" or "funeral march" - all this having little in common with the challenges he solves when he composes his own music which, then, is quite serious.
Sing I cannot, but once I have whistled a meaningless musical phrase over the telephone, I just have to wait. He scribbles something for himself, and the following day, I discover with relief that the scene which cried out for that particular music, begins to live its own life and that it will live for ever. How lucky I am! What would I do without Nico, this I cannot conceive.
Otar Iosseliani, film-maker.
(Translation of the text written in Russian for the compendium of music for films, published in Russia by Art Business Center)
With
Otar Iosseliani, during the shooting of Jardins
en automne, in 2005. (Photo CZ)