A film by
OPORTO OF MY CHILDHOOD "To my children"
Producer
Director and voice off
To recall moments from a distant past is to travel out of time
Only each person's memory can do this. It is what I shall try to do.
This is nothing more than the ghost of the house where I was born.
A fatal ruin, a final vision, with nothing surprising for anyone...
But to one for whom it was the cradle in which he grew up,
where he became aware of himself and of the world,
a painful longing remains in his soul.
Oh, how many years ago Did I depart in tears
From my cosy Caring home
Twenty, Thirty? Do I not even know when
My old nanny You who are watching me
Sing me songs So I may remember
I have been around the world I have been around life
I only found cheating Deception, sorrow
Oh! How disillusioned Is the innocent soul
My old nanny With your doleful voice
Sing me songs To set me to sleep
In front of the proud house there rose three leafy lindens,
the protectors of a beautiful garden, the Eden of my boyhood.
My heart is broken With bitterness
See what deep pain lies In my misty gaze
Oh, had I never left My narrow nest
My old nanny Sing me songs
To lull me to sleep
From high up at the windows one enjoyed a vast view of the city.
God once gave me in The down of the nest
Precious stones from stars Gems of moonlight
See, I have been robbed of Everything along the way
My old nanny I am a wretched poor man
Sing me songs To make me cry
Like once before In the beloved lap
I am dying, dying Let me rest!
Oh, how your little boy Has changed
My old nanny How he has changed
Sing him songs to sleep To dream
Sing me songs, softly So, so softly
Sad, so sad Like the sea at night
Sing me songs to see If I can manage
To make my soul sleep Be at peace, at rest
When soon Death Comes to take it from me
Once, a long time ago, there was only one birth there, mine,
there was only one death there, that of my father.
The years have passed and the times have changed.
Everything has been taken, everything has been forgotten.
It only remains alive in my sad memory.
"Eu sou toureiro, toureador Bandarilheiro, farpeador..."
My parents had a season ticket to the opera,
and had another box at the Sˆh da Bandeira Theatre.
I remember this scene from the operetta Miss Diabo,
by the distinguished Oporto authors Arnaldo Leite and Carvalho Barbosa,
just as I saw it from box number 16.
Hands up!
- Hands up! - And the step backwards...
I fell in like a duck!
Hands up!
Okay Madame! You'd better point that away,
it might be loaded
and I don't want to march off to the angels...
Would you like one, Madame?
Don't worry, Madame, this won't kill anyone from a distance.
This is a real good smoke!
Put that thing away and let me suck this beauty in peace.
That tool wasn't made for lady's fingers...
Put that down!
Will you put it down or not?
Who lives here?
My father, the servants and me.
And the dog that almost ruined my trousers...
What now? Are you going to call the police?
No, I'm not.
In fact I thank you for coming. I have finally seen a...
A thief? You can say it. I don't stand on ceremony...
But, what's this? Bravo, we have music!
- Do you play? - I scratch a little. It's obligatory.
I was born in the Moorish Quarter.
Criminal hands Sad rejected hands
Capricious Desolate
Hands of hunger And bitterness
Criminal hands Sad rejected hands
Capricious Desolate
Hands of hunger And bitterness
Hands of Fado singers
Who never sought A sweet kiss from you
Hands to whom I give All my impure life
Chilly hands Poor, frightened hands
Foreboding, aching hands Now weary of suffering
Hands of wretchedness
That sob out a Fado song On the guitar...
Hands that freeze And that Death will forget
I remember the Hanging Tree,
which at the time existed in the Cordoaria Gardens.
And I used to ask whether thieves were also hanged there.
I never got an answer.
I was afraid. And in the dark night, seized by fear,
I found security in hearing the horse guard go by.
I don't know whether it was to chase away my fear of thieves
or through a desire to travel through the deserted streets at night,
I asked if we could take the long way home.
My mother indulged me in my whim,
and told the chauffeur to do so.
The chauffeur's name was...
Lamas. The chauffeur was called Lamas.
Lamas, that's it! His name was Lamas!
This is the street were my long-gone house used to exist.
It is named the 9th of July, because, on the 9th of July 1832,
King Dom Pedro IV's troops came along this street,
having disembarked on Mindelo Beach on the previous day.
This is King Dom Pedro IV, the Liberator,
who left his heart to Oporto,
the City that was the birthplace of the Liberty of the Nation.
Almeida Garrett, a poet and a liberal from Oporto,
disembarked with King Don Pedro's troops. And he sang like this.
"When I dreamt, it was like this That I saw it in my dream
"It was like this that the fleeting
"Image that I could never reach Would flee from me
"Now that I am awake, Now that I see it stare...
"What for? When it was vague, An idea, a thought,
"An uncertain shine of star In an immense firmament,
"Achimera, a vain dream I dreamt, but I lived
"I knew not what pleasure was But pain, I felt it not..."
With my head pressed against the glass of one of those windows,
looking at the city, I sometimes thought of the beggars
who asked for alms outside Sunday Mass,
and I saw myself with my hand outstretched like them,
next to my mother.
And I saw myself as naturally as I had seen the actors in the theatre.
I also heard of someone
who had fallen into disgrace and wretchedness. And I thought...
What if a similar misfortune befalls us?
I added a thousand other possible misfortunes,
which clouded my mind like breath on the glass.
And then I thought that I could perhaps
work as an apprentice stonemason.
It was a tradition passed down from father to son.
I liked to watch them work.
But could I do it? I still remember the song they hummed,
when they were dragging a large stone
and they moved it with long iron poles,
two men on each side, as if rowing rhythmically.
Stone... oh! Stone... hey!
The profession of these honest stonemasons,
as humble as it is noble.
In those days all the houses were built of stone.
A beautiful tradition that is now lost,
as can be seen in the old houses and palaces,
and in what remains of the old wall around the city.
As sweet-toothed as I was, when they used to take me
to the confectioner's shops in the afternoon,
I used to hide, hoping to be left behind,
and to be able to enjoy all those pastries.
The Confeitaria Oliveira a cake-shop was my favourite
and was considered to be the most chic.
But I wasn't attracted by the luxury...
- It was the pastries! - It was the pastries.
There were the "babˆhs" and others.
But the puff pastries with egg-paste filling,
the ones they called "cocˆus" those were really good.
Those pastries are delicious!
But the cake-shop disappeared, and the cakes went with it.
This is it today.
I'm just remembering a curious episode I witnessed.
At that time the tradition was
to have two exhibitions at the Crystal Palace,
the Motor Show and the Flower Show.
Because of their similarity and being stopped at rest,
this is certainly the poets Fernando Pessoa, on the left, and Josˆm Rˆmgio.
Another tradition was the after-dinner stroll,
a back and forth along the Avenida das Tilias,
where it was chic for the society ladies
to show off their dresses in the latest fashions.
There were some houses opposite the Crystal Palace gardens.
In one of them, which belonged to my uncle Casimiro,
I stayed along with brother, his godson,
living with my cousins while my parents travelled abroad.
- My cousins were... - Antˆunio and his sisters...
Virgˆqnia,
Alice,
Amˆmlia,
Maria,
Guilhermina,
and Helena.
Of the three youngest ones,
the ones closest to my age,
the most romantic was Guilhermina,
and we were sweethearts.
At night I used to go upstairs to meet her,
careful not to wake anyone.
These were our very green years and,
with the innocence of children, we would exchange a pure kiss...
Careful!
And immediately run off in fright to our respective bedrooms,
carrying with us the delight of that sweet and innocent adventure.
Time passed. Guilhermina disappeared forever,
with tuberculosis, like her brother. The houses are now different,
only the memory of the brief encounter has remained.
And in this old Crystal Palace
they continued to have a Motor Show every autumn.
We were in 1922,
the date of the Lisbon-Rio Atlantic crossing
for the first time in the history of aviation,
with the sextant of Gago Coutinho and Sacadura Cabral flying this plane.
Somewhat later on
a branch of the Confeitaria Oliveira opened here
in the Rua 31 de Janeiro,
the date commemorating the Oporto Movement,
the first attempt to set up a republic in Portugal.
The shop window was protected by a thick yellow metal rail,
against which certain bohemians used to lean in the afternoon...
bohemians who were... raffinˆms. - Raffinˆms... and a little pedantic!
Raffinˆm... was Joel, with his monocle.
And Diogo, who always came along in uniform
and acting like a lady-killer.
The youngest one, Chico, had a certain blasˆm air.
- Blasˆm... Very blasˆm... - We nicknamed him "Fantasias".
Fantasias thought it was of no interest
to carry on living after the age of forty.
I think it is really inelegant for a man to let himself grow old.
Longevity was shorter in those days,
and forty was a ripe old age.
That's what you say, but you don't know why you say it.
- Oh, yeah? I say what I feel. - But you don't know what you feel.
And you do?
- I think there is a reason. - You think so? Well explain it.
It's simple. Men like women, don't they?
And women like men, don't they?
I think we've understood that!
Before there used to be the androgen,
which included the masculine and the feminine.
They were happy!
So? What do you mean by that?
That when they were together they didn't have to look for each other.
How dull...
You think it's dull? That's the way it was.
And from this union the masculine came out on one side
and the feminine on the other.
That's where the expression 'soul mate' comes from.
Yes, I like the soul mate bit.
Well, what Fantasias wants is to bring the two parts together...
That's what we all want!
Exactly.
And so, what Fantasias is afraid of is that when he reaches forty
he will lose strength.
Lose his power of attraction over women.
But has anyone ever heard you say you would kill yourself at forty?
I don't have to... I'll never get there...
Prettier and prettier!
It was extravagances like this that attracted the younger boys like me.
They would tell tales of scandals...
Shocking things that aroused our imagination.
Today's youth is rather different
and the metal rail on which those bohemians used to lean
no longer exists.
Today, it is this.
I fell into the bohemian lifestyle early.
I started frequenting nightclubs here, at the Palace,
the largest and most popular one.
From the Palace we went on to the Clube do Porto,
which was smaller and more refined.
Here there was the Primavera, which was more popular,
and which always acted as a last resort to find an available lady.
Have a seat.
Girl, come here. Have a seat.
- Get your paws off... rascal! - Don't be coy, sit down here...
Will you let go or do you want trouble?
Hello, sharp guy! The lady whore has an owner!
- To each its own, my friend! - Now you're talking!
- There goes the merchandise. - It's a little difficult today.
Be careful. This is full of pimps today.
So I see, so I see... It's a little difficult today.
Tell her to sit down here.
Sit down here with us...
I'm promised to another guy.
I've got to go...
Shame... A great shame!
Some other night... When I come. And you come too. Cutie...
Don't pay any attention to these lads.
They just want free rides.
They're nice.
Nice? But they won't give you anything!
It doesn't matter. They're nice.
What about me?
You? My darling! You give me great comfort.
- Cod. - Squid.
Women pay no attention to us.
We have to become philosophers.
Women, always women.
An American woman scandalizes feminist society
because she preaches a return to the home
and to the minute details of correct upbringing.
How to behave at table and to say thank you.
Jesus never washed his hands before eating,
which surely did not go unnoticed by the highborn disciples.
It wouldn't be Peter, the fisherman,
who would notice his Master's lack of etiquette.
The fact is that nowadays women move in a difficult terrain,
having to opt for children or a career.
They eat badly, do their hair to appear on television,
and hardly look in the mirror in order to look at their watches.
It is extraordinary how a watch outdoes a pearl necklace.
In a few years women will have to choose
between the kindergarten teacher, the technician in a company,
workshop or laboratory, and the geisha.
A geisha also needs a university degree.
She knows about music and books, she reads Espinosa,
consults the dictionary, personally knows Valentino
and has an apartment in Ille de France
with a view over the Bois de Bologne.
She does not go on cruises to the Caribbean or to Tahiti,
she bets on the horses and, above all,
she stopped playing golf since it became a way
for the bourgeois to keep their names and feet clean.
The geisha may be sixty years old and be magnificent.
She has many admirers and very few lovers.
Men are proud of her, confide their secrets in her,
and do not expect her to undress or to cut up the meat on their plates.
The geisha is a misdemeanour of democracy,
but without misdemeanours there is no culture, so there you have it.
Other times I used to come here with Adolfo Casais Monteiro,
who I met before he had published his poems, 'Confusao', in 1929,
and his companion Rodrigues de Freitas,
the author of the short story 'Meninos Milionˆhrios',
which would later inspire me for my film 'Aniki-Bobˆu'.
This is where the Cafˆm Central used to exist,
where I used to meet with Casais and Freitas, university students,
and with others, some of whom were students of fine arts,
like Boaventura Porfirio,
Camarinha, Augusto Gomes,
Alvarez, and the architect Januˆhrio Godinho.
The group was more visionary than political,
and was not welcomed by the regime.
It also included philosophers and poets,
with a natural propensity towards ascending to the sublime.
From the Central we moved on to the Cafˆm Majestic,
a magnificent work of the ornamentation of the twenties
by the architect Joao Queirˆuz.
The Cafˆm Majestic was fashionable then, and is so again today,
now conserved just as is was when it opened.
We used to get together in this corner and,
on other occasions and at other times of day,
I would come here on my own. And here I withdrew
to write almost the whole plan for a film, 'Gigantes Do Douro',
that I was stupidly not allowed to make
because it showed the effort carried out by workers
to transform the steep slopes into terraces,
and afterwards planting and cultivating the vines,
up to the extracting of the precious nectar that is our Port Wine.
Times that have now gone,
but which have left forgotten a work that was unique,
difficult and cruel, and today is done by machines.
This was in 1934.
We ended up in the Cafˆm Palladium,
located on the ground floor of this remarkable building,
the Grandes Armazˆmns Nascimento,
the work of the great architect Marques da Silva.
Very late on certain nights,
we liked to wander through the dark alleys of the old city.
Besides me there were Casais,
Rodrigues de Freitas and Antˆunio Silva.
We would stroll through the alleys, giving free rein to our imagination.
Casais Monteiro, a humanist poet,
was arrested and persecuted by the regime.
He ended up taking refuge in Brazil.
The years went by
and his exile reminded me of the figure of the Desterrado.
Soares dos Reis, the sculptor, committed suicide,
when he felt insulted by the accusation
that he had plagiarized Rodin's The Thinker. An unjust accusation.
What the 'Desterrado' expresses is longing.
And it seems to hold, in its hands crossed and resting on its knees,
the deep sadness coming down from its face.
Adolfo Casais Monteiro died in exile.
His bitterness towards his homeland
and the despondency he received from Europe
were overshadowed by hopefulness,
as is shown in his long poem 'Europe',
broadcast by the BBC in London in 1945.
"Europe, without future Europe, morning to come
Frontiers with no guard dogs Gates left open
Europe without the suffering Dragging their rags
Will you come one day? Will there come the day
On which you are reborn purified?
Will you one day be The common home
Of those who were born On your devastated soil?
Will you rise, phoenix, Out of the ashes
In which, false grandeur, Burns
The glory that your peoples Dreamt themselves
Each in wanting all of you?
Europe, future dream If one day it ever comes!
Europe who did not know How to hear in the depth of time
The voice in darkness crying
That your grandeur was not In only being prodigious of spirit
If avaricious of bread!
Your grandeur was made
By those who never asked What race they served
Your glory was won By hands that in freedom molded
Your unshackled body In an ever to be achieved dream
Europe, oh world to create! Europe, oh dream to come
Before descend to earth
The voices that have molded Your ideal figure
Europe, unraised dream,
Until the day on which falls Your spirit over the waters
Europe without the suffering Dragging their rags
Will you come one day? Will there come the day
On which you are reborn purified?
Will you one day Be the common home
Of those who were born On your devastated soil?
Will you rise, phoenix, Out of the ashes
Of your divided body?
Europe, you will only come When among nations
Hate does not have The last word
Hate is not guided By the avaricious hand
The hand is not made bold
By the empty sound Of the burying of the coffers
Digesting the blood of the flock
Of the flock killed in daylight The man you dreamt, Europe
Be life!
Oh dead civilization! No more your rotten blood!
Stiff, parched corpse, To the grave, to the grave!
Yes to your new song! Purified
Your name Europe
The evil you were Redeemed
The good you gave Shared!
There goes the corpse adorned In speeches
Blooming with wounds With pus, with repulsion...
A corpse adorned by frontier wars
Fiction to serve The dream of violence
Masks of ideal Covering old rage
Go, corpse covered in crimes
For the restless gravediggers Find the whole earth little
No blood is enough for them!
On the corpse your gravediggers Dance their dance
Black foreboding crows Suck your wretched blood
The more the blood The more they dance
And you are carried You perform
The steps of your Funeral dance
But from the blood You will be born
Or never again Europe of the future!
And the hand to stop you On the brink of the abyss
Will be born of the blood!
And the arms to defend Your tomorrow
Will be born of the blood!
The blood will teach
Or a new, greater slavery
Will bring mourning To your fields sown
With gallows and tyrants
You will cleanse of blood Your tormented body
And, phoenix, you shall live".
Exiled like Casais, under different circumstances
was Agostinho da Silva, another illustrious figure from Oporto.
We would go down to the river and hold discussions
like the crossed iron beams held up the bridge.
Or we would remember the 'Douro Faina Fluvial'.
This is where I wrote that film,
the first that I directed.
A passion that stole me from sport,
just as the latter stole me from the bohemian life.
From passion to passion I became the filmmaker I am today
and that I will be to the end.
In this house I wrote and imagined many films that I could not direct.
In this garage, which was the garage of my house,
turned with Antˆunio Mendes into an impromptu laboratory,
we developed most of the negative.
In order to save money I did the editing by hand,
directly over the negative,
with these rolls around the billiard table in the house
that saw the birth of both myself and my first film.
Thanks to the cinema,
we can see these bits over and over again.
But only each person's memory can recall things
that only we did live through.
And is doing so not the best way of showing who we are?
But many of my memories, in going back into the past,
have been lost and today are entombed,
just as this ruin has been entombed...
Oh, how many years ago Did I depart in tears
From my cosy, caring home
Twenty? Thirty? Do I not even know when
My old nanny, You who are watching me...
On other occasions we would recall Paz dos Reis,
and would think about the Camisaria Confianca shirt-makers,
in the Rua de Santa Catarina.
Saint Catherine, patron saint of the seamstresses,
who were the unknowing performers in the first Portuguese picture.
In those days the showing of films was improvised in sheds.
Only much later was there the building of the first cinema,
the 'Cinema High-Life'.
A bell used to ring to warn the audience,
"Ring-ring, ring-ring".
When it stopped, it meant that the film had started.
During the film, when the bad guy would hide behind the door,
there was always someone in the stalls that would warn the hero,
shouting. "Don't go in, the guy's behind the door..."
Today it is this modern building, the 'Cinema Batalha',
built on the site of the former 'High-Life'.
So the 'Batalha', conserved by the City Council,
remains as the historical bastion of the cinema here in Oporto.
And as we have turned to the first page of Portuguese cinema,
let us work some magic
and have Paz dos Reis filming the workers leaving their workplace,
at 'Oporto 2001, European Capital of Culture.
The city is being renewed,
but no matter how much it is changed
it will always be my childhood Oporto
with a gold stream running at its feet.
"Do you want to play with me?"
Like once before In the beloved lap
I am dying, dying Let me rest
Oh, how your little boy Has changed
My old nanny How he has changed
Sing him songs to sleep To dream
Sing me songs, softly So, so softly
Sad, so sad Like the sea at night
Sing me songs to see If I can manage
To make my soul sleep Be at peace, at rest
When soon Death Comes to take it from me
Translation David Alan Prescott
Spotting Margarida Silva Dias