Bartosz Staszczyszyn: How did you find yourself on the set of an Indian super-production?
Paweł Dyllus: Maciej Pieprzyca’s Life Feels Good turned out to be my pass. The director of Mirzya Rakesh Omprakash Mehra had seen it and decided to contact me with an offer for me to shoot his new film. During our first Skype talk we didn’t discuss Mirzya at all, but about how we perceive cinema and the world. And about Life Feels Good. It was a great conversation, we decided to co-operate afterwards.
This film has opened many doors for me. Not just in India. In 2013, after a festival in Montreal, where Maciek’s film premiered, I was received a proposal to make a film in Armenia. From November 2013 until May 2014, with some breaks, I worked in Armenia, mainly in Yerevan.
What film was that?
It’s called Bari Luys, which means “good light” in Armenian. It’s a story about the Nagorno-Karabakh War as seen from the eyes of a nine-year-old boy.
The story takes place in the nineties and is set in Yerevan, a city that didn’t experience any warfare, but the war had an effect. For two years the whole country was without electricity. It was turned on for an hour, sometimes two hours per day. The streets were dark, buses overcrowded. Winters were severe. The most important tenant of each house was a small stove. Chimney pipes were sticking out of every window, and people cut trees from local parks and squares to keep the stoves alight. After the war there were barely any trees left in Yerevan.
Was it difficult to reconstruct that reality in front of the camera?
No. There are still parts of Armenia that appear as if time has stopped. So creating sets was simpler. When we filmed in the open air and we needed cars from the era – old Wołgas and Kamaz trucks – we just hailed those cars on the street, paid the drivers, and they took part in the film.
What is contemporary Armenia like?
Strong. The war experience made even young people responsible. They know very well that peace is a value. They’re very strong but at the same time they have a lot of warmth inside themselves. When they recount how during the war several families would sit in one flat around a stove, because there wasn’t enough fuel for everyone, something touches your heartstrings.
What kind of films are being made there now?
There aren’t too many of them filmed in Armenia. The Armenfilm studio was a power once, but during the war everything turned into dust. The film industry is slowly reviving. Nowadays only the Russians are filming here. Especially because the Armenian government, as opposed to the majority of society, is very pro-Russian.
During work on Bari Luys I fell in love with Armenia and I partly treat it like my second home.
Your first home, however, you’re not there too often…
That’s true. In the past two years I’ve spent maybe four months in Poland. In a few days I’m leaving for India again, and at the beginning of June we’re going to the Himalayas to film the last shots for Mirzya.
What’s the biggest challenge when working in Bollywood?
Work on the set doesn’t cause too many problems itself. I’m more happy with than scared by the challenges that arose during work on Mirzya.
What was the most difficult was adjusting to living in Mumbai. When I got there for the first time, I couldn’t look at the Indian contrasts – next to beautiful buildings are huts inhabited by families with seven children, no toilet, no drinking water. Initially, I found it difficult to get myself together. Filmmakers don’t talk about it too much, but when you’re working abroad, loneliness is a worry. You land at the other end of the world, you’re completely alone and you know you’re about to spend the next half a year there. It takes a while for one to adjust to new conditions.
How does work in India and Poland differ?
The average film budget in Poland is about 1.5-2 million dollars. In India, big productions cost a dozen or so millions. The audience is different as well. Rakesh Mehra’s previous films Bhaag Milkha Bhaag and Rang de Basanti attracted tens of millions of viewers to the cinemas. Such a turnout translates into the scale of the project. Each day there are about 250 people working on the set of Mirzya. There are 90 shooting days.
How many of them did you have for Life Feels Good? Thirty?
Thirty-four.
In India there are 25 lighting producers working with me. In Poland, there are 5, sometimes 4 of them on the set. I took some of my Polish co-workers to India with me: Przemek Niczyporuk, who is a cinematographer, Adam Mendry, who’s a steadycam operator, and Radosław Kokot, who was my focus puller in a few previous films. I wouldn’t agree to work without them, because I need trusted and proven people. Especially when I make a large and complex film.
What is co-operating with Indian film-stars like?
I know that the Bollywood stars can be problematic – there are some that reserve the right to work no later than 2 pm in their contracts, and they happen to be hours late for the set. The producer must add another 20-30 shooting days in that case. But in Mirzya the actors are truly professional and they completely subordinate their lives to their work.
Artur Żurawski, who’s been working in India for a few years now, said that there’s a caste system on the set. Have you experienced that?
Not directly. Of course, when the crew consists of 250 people not everyone is treated equal. But I never agree with mistreatment and my co-workers know that well.
The director of Mirzya Rakesh Mehra is known as a rebel. Is he really one?
He does everything to diverge from Bollywood’s classic style. In Mirzya there is no simultaneous singing, there is no dancing, so there are none of the must-haves of Indian films. This is of course still subjected to change. Rakesh wants to make his own cinema. His path towards filmmaking is atypical, as he started as a director of commercials – he has made over 200 of them, and one day he decided to make films.
Almost like Ridley Scott. He was also stuck in the advertisement world for years and had to prove that he could also do cinema.
Leaving the advertisement ghetto for cinema wasn’t simple for Rakesh. But he’s successful in cinema. He was nominated for a BAFTA in 2007 for his Rang de Basanti. Today he’s a recognisable persona in India, and on the street, fans take pictures with him.
How do the Indians react to films?
Vigorously. People throw popcorn, make comments out loud, talk on their phones. During each film – regardless whether it’s Indian or American – a five-minute popcorn break is a must. Bollywood scenarios are even constructed in a way that allow taking a break. The more ambitious Bollywood films are made in two versions: about three-hour-long one destined for the local market and a festival one shortened to two hours.
The ritual of cinema in India is completely different from in Europe. In some cinemas, when the film has already started, waiters walk across the seats and take orders. I watched Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman in India recently. There were no waiters but in the middle of the film, during one of the impressive, few-minutes-long shots, someone ordered a popcorn break.
You work as predominantly a cinematographer, but you also make your own documentaries. Why?
It’s an area where I’m completely free. Everyday I work with directors, we work out a mutual vision. In a documentary I can decide everything myself. It gives me a feeling of artistic freedom. To me it’s a type of rest, like a valve.
It’s interesting that Polish cinematographers are so attracted to directing…
I believe that the first one who decided to make his own documentaries was Jacek Bławut.
But there are many director-cinematographers in feature films as well: Krzysztof Krauze, Jan Jakub Kolski…
Wojtek Smarzowski…
Wojciech Staroń, Marcin Koszałka…
I often hear the opinion that Polish cinematographers think of their work in a more complex way, by seeing shots as a part of the whole. Besides thinking about how to shoot a particular scene, they also think how the work of the camera can introduce a new meaning to the film. Maybe this type of independence is a key to understand the phenomenon of Polish cinematography.