Interview with ANTÓNIO CAMPOS by MANUEL COSTA E SILVA and ANTÓNIO LOJA NEVES

There is a moment of change in your journey that is worth mentioning. Your first films [in the 1950s] were fiction films, although of a different kind, because they portrayed the daily lives of the people involved. Suddenly, you moved on to making raw, innovative, direct and live documentaries. What were the circumstances behind that decision?

VILARINHO DAS FURNAS, the first of these documentaries you refer to, resulted from a coincidence. I went to see [filmmaker] Paulo Rocha in Lisbon, and he said, “Listen, I have something for you, a project close to your style”. I asked him what it was. “It’s a place called Vilarinho das Furnas or Vilarinho das Fragas. I am not sure. It’s somewhere near Braga. Get in a car and go see what it’s like.” The next day, I set off, accompanied by Quiné, a theatre man from Leiria. How did we get there? From then on, it was a matter of luck. We left in the morning and had a hard time finding the place! We asked people: “Do you know which way it is?” Always the same answer: “No, I don’t…”. We kept walking blindly, and eventually, someone showed us the way. Then there were successes and failures, agreements and disagreements until we finished the film. When one of the villagers, high up in the mountains, told me about everyday life in the village, the local assembly taking place on Wednesdays… it hit me like thunder! And I said to myself: “I’m staying”. But I had no money. One day, Pathé Baby, who sold me the film stock, sent me a postcard saying: “António Campos, this is to tell you that films aren’t just made with art, they’re also made with money. You already owe us 40 contos”. Oh boy! Forty contos? Where am I going to get that sum?! But I had to finish the film, I didn’t want to leave. It took six months for the money to arrive, and I became increasingly desperate.

Where did the money come from?

From the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation. They gave me 120 contos. The rest was mine. Food, travel, petrol, film reels, I paid for it all. The money from the Foundation was used for the sound design. I edited the film in Leiria with a Steenbeck I bought in instalments. I went to Paulo Rocha because I didn’t know anyone else, and he said he knew a man who could do the sound, Alexandre Gonçalves. I called him, he was shooting at the old Monumental Theatre. I went there and explained the project. I’ve never liked to ask for anything..and never did. In my life, I only asked for money to make films, nothing else. That’s why I must have looked a bit on edge. There are people of faith who ask for a penny for their saint. I do the same but for the cinema. Gonçalves told me, “You cannot afford my fee”. I couldn’t believe it, but what could I do!. And he went on: “But I’ll do it for you.” And he did. He didn’t take a penny. We have a great friendship today.

How long did it take to make VILARINHO THE FURNAS?

I spent a year in the village and then the editing time.

And what was it like to move on from your short films, working with actors, to a project where you have to form relationships, build trust and remain almost invisible amid the population?

It was quite an issue. The Cávado Hydroelectric Company (HICA), which owns the dam, was in open war with the population because they wanted to pay less for the land. Most people didn’t like my presence because they said I was a spy. Maybe they had a reason to think like that — I had nowhere to go for the first three days. I stayed at HICA’s inn and did it all in the open. I then had to win them over.

You end up staying in Vilarinho for a year. With a paid holiday!

I was still working at a school in Leiria; the headmaster was José Manuel Malheiro do Vale. Although we had opposing political and religious views, we had long conversations with the utmost courtesy and goodwill. He had a reputation for being rigid and inflexible. But he understood the situation. His slogan was: “Campos will have his day”. I invited him to the film’s premiere; he was a co-author; without him, I wouldn’t have made the film. He could have told me it was all very lovely, but I had to be “there” from nine to five. And there would have been no film.

It’s rare, such an attitude.

It doesn’t exist anymore!

You don’t do that to just any employee.

It’s true. For a long time, I kept it a secret, at least a certain modesty, out of respect for his attitude. I only came to the school once in a while. My cousin, who also worked there, would warn me: “Look, come along; there are some papers to sign, so it looks like you were working”. I’d come, sign my things and come back to Vilarinho the next day. He was an extraordinary man. You don’t find people doing something like that anymore. I was privileged. And we weren’t even birds of a feather; we didn’t have the same ideas. But he was a very humane man, and he helped me.

You find yourself in Vilarinho facing an exceptional community with all the rules of a classic agro-pastoral society, and you have to mingle with such a closed group.

Hermetically sealed. Approaching them was always tricky. There were two brothers, extraordinary men – I remember one of them well, he was an emigrant in America – who helped me a lot. I explained my difficulties and lack of interest in making money by filming their lives. They were fed up with some journalists who had been there and felt they had only made fun of their people. Then, the priest got involved because Church values had to be upheld, and there was a huge meeting.

As I understand it, the priest’s relationship with the people wasn’t that good.

Worse than mine. The priest arranged that meeting, and when he saw me crouching under some coats, loading the film spools, he came up to me and told me not to film, warning that the men might not behave the same way in front of the camera and might not say everything they thought. I did as the priest told me. It was true: at some point, they lost their minds and insulted the priest. It must have been anger that had built up over the years because it was explosive. As for my relationship with the people, it was tough to build, but I never reacted to any provocation. I always greeted everyone, and I was the same as always. I was more careful not to make any mistake because they would grab me by the collar and send me away, and I wouldn’t be allowed there again. Later, they wanted to see the film, and I went there to show it to them.

What was their reaction when they watched it?

It was extraordinary. They didn’t talk about the film. They liked it and were all over HICA. The screening took place in the company canteen. But before that, as soon as I’d finished the film, I went to Vilarinho and got about five or six of the most reluctant ones, plus the American, to come to the Cineclube do Porto to watch it to confirm that I portrayed their lives honestly. The room was packed. The film started, there was a long silence, and someone started talking. I said I could answer but that they were from that place and knew more about Vilarinho than anyone else. The American and the others stood up, but the former emigrant spoke calmly about Vilarinho and my work there. Ultimately, he said: “We are all here to thank Mr Campos for his film about our village”. I’m still emotional after all these years. It was an excellent award, better than any festival.

You then return to Leiria. But you’re not the kind of man to hole yourself up in your office and stop thinking about cinema.

Yes, I went on to make FALAMOS DE RIO DE ONOR. I knew about Jorge Dias’ book and wanted to make the film so there would be a record of a society like this before it disappeared. I found very little intact. I had many technical and logistical problems. The cod that was supposed to be eaten at six o’clock in the evening was eaten at two in the morning, so I had to rely on these people’s patience. I worked entirely alone.

Working alone, how did you deal with the moments when people were moving around a lot, as in the film?

That was hard work, for example, in the case of the procession. I had another camera that belonged to the Foundation and that I used when I really shouldn’t, but that I would never damage, not least because I was responsible for it and had to account for it. So, I found out which route the procession was taking and strategically placed the two cameras where I wanted them. When the procession started to move, I would press the button and let them work (I had 120 metres spools), and then, after the procession had passed, I would go and get one of them to film the moving shots. That’s how it was. Talking to me about cinema is like talking about anti-cinema. In a way, I’ve never made a film in my life. These are adventures that no one participates in because everyone has their name to defend, their studies, and their paths. Situations are different, and I didn’t need the money because I had my salary, so while it lasted, I could spend it without risking much. And when the shooting went severely, I threw it away. Others can’t or don’t want to do that. They prefer to rehearse masterpieces… I want to do them too, but I make these films instead, and I’ve never wanted to depend on anyone.

Despite this lack of commitment, your films are significant and successful.

I’m more interested in expressing my will, desires, and feelings through cinema. And if it’s through cinema, it’s only because I’m doing it through a film camera; it could be through a photography camera, a typewriter or a computer if it were today. I can’t consider myself equal to Portuguese filmmakers.

When you talk about anti-cinema, are you referring to the production system or a peculiar gaze?

The gaze is mine. What’s mine I can give away, and I give it out through my work. I was referring to the whole army of people making a film. I like to do this work at a different pace, with a certain discretion. That’s why I wish I had that Manoel de Oliveira van that people talk about so much so I could go around the country. Even today, with competition from television, I wouldn’t do the same thing. It wouldn’t have anything to do with it. So that’s my situation. I’ve always said that I’m a pariah of the social aspects of filmmaking. Cinema is an instrument to show what I want, and it’s the instrument I use best.

(…)

The traditions and primitive gestures of everyday life are disappearing and in an untimely way.

Everything is happening very aggressively. I’m talking about our roots and like to see them preserved. The wheel of progress changes things, and that’s healthy. The only thing I don’t think is right is the violence used to force this modernity without giving it time.

(…)

And have you been doing anything in the field of documentary?

Nothing at the moment. I’ve been ill, which has been a distraction. Being in hospital for four months slows you down. Nothing is in the pipeline. But nothing is forgotten: everything is present. Everything exciting and unusual deserves my curiosity as a filmmaker.

Are you aware that many of your films are essential for better understanding these people in their anthropological aspects?

I’ve made some good portraits of my people. They stem from how I construct the films, giving value to things others certainly don’t because they are too ordinary or hidden.

What message would you like to leave to documentary filmmakers?

They should work for the good of society, they ought to never give up when problems arise, which they inevitably do, and they can carry on their work, if possible, with better working conditions than I had. Take advantage of today’s less stringent conditions.

Leiria, 18 April 1997.