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They sat it out on the benches. Few filmmakers have been honoured with a museum. There might be statues and memorials. A spray of graffiti. A book sometimes good, sometimes not. Or an attempt at telling a life. After all, a museum is an effort to organize memory - and to do it physically. To commemorate, but also to learn. Parajanov chose the site himself. A change of opinion. Shifting sands. The punishment was outrageous. He would spend a mess of years in a Siberian labour camp before he was freed. Jean-Luc Godard fought for his release. As did Fellini. In , the Museum — only half-finished, barely begun — would be damaged by an earthquake. Meanwhile, the government who had given it the go-ahead also fell. When Armenians arrived into the bright dawn of the early s, they found themselves with a blinking and brand-new democratic government. But they also found themselves with a museum to a man whom the country now recognized as their national artistic genius. By then, he was already dead. I was born in Georgia, worked in Ukraine and I'm going to die in Armenia. It is filled with the great and good of Armenia. Theatre directors. I had temporarily moved back in with my parents on the Suffolk coast, finding it hard to pick up the pieces of a life that had played out on other coasts and in other countries. By night, I found it difficult to adjust to the norms of sleep. I sat up. Rolling cigarettes, brewing coffee, wandering in circles around the garden. And then to drift off to sleep. That night, I would find something strangely stirring and poetically ambitious in its surreal, intricately composed tableaux. I got hungry for it, and for his wider slew of films. You are always chasing that high. Finished projects. Some shorts. Screeners and tests. Half-finished things and others that had been left to rot and linger. As I learned more about his life, and about the complex politics and exegesis of producing films amidst the bureaucratic bloat of the Soviet production industry, it seemed half-obvious why a filmmaker like Parajanov bisexual, independent, provocative had found it difficult to sustain his career. There would be reprisals. Time spent in prison. Projects would be considered and then rejected as supportive then oppositional Mosfilm studio heads bartered and agitated for and against him. Parajanov, caught in the flux of this, tried his best. Put them together, spine to spine, and they take up a little chunk on your shelf. And that is all. A bad time to make strange films. A rare honour. After graduation, he apprenticed as a second and assistant director in Ukraine. Romantic, epic, burly. But it might just be socialist realism caught in the dressing cupboard, flowing gown and crown of gold half-shoved upon its scarlet cheeks. Where Pomegranates is slow and static, choreographic in its gestures and painterly reveals, this earlier work has a gloss of cinematic conventionality. A wide, lingering establishing shot of a caravan of hunters, trudging through the snow. A highly stylised and delicately composed Hutsul wedding. This is an ordinary film. Frequently, that intent is upset, unhooked from its socket joint. Parajanov, speaking in , spoke compellingly of film — of his art — as a putting on of costumes. A transformation of subjectivity. It is modern, minimal, strange. Soldiers sit with machine guns in their laps while actors, not yet costumed, strike surreal, frozen poses in tight jeans and colourful shirts. Gaudy, hollow picture frames and fragments of sculpture stand alongside Orthodox priests and entirely nude women. No shrinking violet. Kyiv Frescoes would have been a simple story, complexly told. Later on, the Infanta steps literally out of the painting, so as to console the grieving widow. The production was — to say the least — chaotic, or at least convoluted. Revisions were made. But a film like this? Experimental, compositional, ethereal. The two worlds gazed at one another, before turning their faces away. But Parajanov, brimming with a newly-discovered language and vibrating with the possibilities of a truly poetic cinema, tasted the fire on the wind. Wounded, but undimmed. Instead, he headed home to Yerevan. But not with his tail between his legs. A film that would eventually become The Colour of Pomegranates. Behind him is a softly billowing curtain, yellow, ochre, red, a film reel propped against a wall. What troubled him, and motivated him, was an obliteration of the past - the past that he so desperately sought to drag into his present. But it is Parajanov who must become their vehicle. This impasse was the denial of the Soviets to allow Parajanov, and filmmakers and artists like him, to bear the legacy of their collective past. He smiles again, gesturing from his throat. Ghosts that are channelled, ghosts that are summoned. Let loose. He must rip his shirt and don the costume of an excavated, obliterated past. They haunt, and wheel, and caterwaul. Parajanov let them bathe in the blank, glossy surface of his films. In The Colour of Pomegranates , ripe fruit is split with a knife. Its juice bleeds into the shape of the borders of the ancient kingdom of Armenia. Later, dyers lift bolts of wool from vats in the colours of the national flag. It does not reveal itself easily. Its references are coded, submerged, even while they operate with the loudness of screaming. The film — his masterwork, nobody would disagree — tells the story of 18th-century Armenian poet Sayat Nova. A foot, crushing grapes beneath its heel. Flapping fish, gasping for air on a large stone plate. The poet as a youth, the princess whom he loves. A nun. An angel. The questionable scent of mysticism, faith, autonomy. It would receive its full release only in , fourteen long years since its completion. My own journey to the Parajanov Museum, to the long, low loop of the Hrazdan River, was complicated by its indirection, and the dates seem difficult — years later — to fathom. A layover in Berlin. A train to Prague. A flight to Hungary, where me and a friend, H, linked up with another friend, also H. And then we flew again to Istanbul, where Prague H and I had already spent so much time, though never together. Him, exploring. Me, working. We tarried, without a map or a motive. We met up with a friend, a photographer, W, before passing slowly and lazily south, and then striking east. We stopped in Antep. We rode, by bus. No air conditioning. Lazy heat that sank. By night, American and Turkish fighters took off and plunged into the inky black swirl of the Syrian night. Little white flashes. Dropped ordnance. By day, just heat haze - and a view toward infinity. I was still trying to steer a magazine at that time, drinking thick Turkish wine and smoking cheap cigarettes and doing fuzzy video calls on the patio. We decided to head east, again. Further, toward the sump of Mount Ararat. Toward Van with its pearlescent, shimmering lake. It was strange, strangulated. Our little group was held together by a lattice of shifting and complicated needs and motives that none of the others ever got a grip on. One night, I slept on a balcony - escaping the ferocity of the heat after a day of warm beers and too much coffee. We got way too high by the shores of the lake and stumbled back through a tormented, garish nightmare of blasted roads and campfires and neon-lit car dealerships. It had brought us together. It had shoved us apart. Weeks and weeks upon that slow road had begun to wear heavily on all of us. Eventually, already too late, we packed everything up, the pieces of us, and headed north - toward Kars, high in the verdant and historic hills of ancient Chorzene. As we climbed, the air began to thin - the scrappy, scrubby desert and dry plains giving way to green farming towns and, eventually, mountains. Now we could really breathe. Landscapes rarely come to mind when you think of Parajanov. Lutes, stringed instruments, gilded coffee sets and the flapping pages of religious books. You think of costumes and props and swords and animals. A flurry of chickens thrown down onto the floor of a church, scrabbling wildly, some bleeding, others flying and limping away. Delicate linen held before the face of a beautiful woman. But these films are, each of them, grounded in the spaces of the Caucasus - a tiny terrain riven with violently diverse landscapes, where towering snow-capped mountains jostle against rolling plains, traffic-swarmed cities, rolling deserts, arid tundra. Pot-holed roads bear cattle and pre cars. His car was a sort of limousine, reserved once for party officials - and now us. I was there on assignment. Writing, or trying to. The Colour of Pomegranates takes place in the cloisters of a monastery, giving only fleeting glances of the world beyond. A cemetery, thronged with choreographed and worshipful mourners. A black, fertile field of clods and soil, over which two boys run and fall. It is a closed world, a place of vaults, courtyards and windowless rooms. Even leopards, lounging. Slowly, after years of confinement and prison, Parajanov began to reach outwards, longingly, into the landscapes of his beloved and multiple homelands. The world will be filled with myth. Modern life is legacy, lived. When thinking about where Parajanov stands amongst his peers, there seem few handy similarities. The obsession with myth, with the rich potentiality of national folklore. I think of Pasolini and, particularly, the staginess of his Medea. This is recounted in the documentary Parajanov: a Requiem. It would be worth remembering that Pasolini suffered some thirty-three trials in his own lifetime, almost always battling the same repression and misunderstanding. He was friends with Tarkovsky. They shared letters, drawings and works of art while Parajanov languished in prison. These were difficult and transformative years. Unable to shoot, he drew. He sketched. Scenes of prison life hairy, lice-ridden convicts holding their genitalia in their hands before a trough of water. Scenes of religious ecstasy. But some whispers of this world did escape his confinement. In this rapturous and surreal tale, a convict — a skewed mirror of Parajanov? It is a tale of the tortures and agonies of political repression. It is a romance. It is a tragedy. Nobody is Parajanov. Parajanov is Parajanov. He said that you are born with your art, that it cannot be taught. Not even at the best schools. Maybe once I would have curled my lip at this. I used to believe that I might create something lasting, a moment of shimmering, shivering space. But now I think about the importance of simply being honest to that art you have carried with you — in your stomach — even if it is quiet and minor. Even if it has the littleness of a stone that has been crushed by a century of rivers. As long as it might let the ghosts in. In a short film from , Arabesques on the Pirosmani Theme , Parajanov made his most daring attempt to join the confluence of the legendary and the living. An experimental study of the paintings of Niko Pirosmani, with Parajanov on top and boisterous form; composed, formulated, playing both with the frame and the framed. Two horsemen, dressed in glorious medieval finery, rove and rear around him. Art, modernity. The living and the long-ago dead. All ride together. All live and die as one. Several visits. Delayed decisions. I spent a final long week in Tibilisi, not doing much at all. We spent afternoons together and, increasingly, apart. Its walls of costumes, its folded letters, its collages and sculptures. I was curious. Curious about who else was here, who visited. The odd tourist, nervously stepping over the foyer, as I first did. Eventually, we spent an evening in a small, shabby hotel. Our friend slipped off with somebody. We cradled drinks in the syrupy heat. At some point, I decided that I was done. A ticket booked, connecting the dots between Tibilisi — with its hulking modernisms, its delicate balconies, its golden churches — and London. Nor was I sick of this, of this place. Sometimes, you turn your face away from something, not because you know why, but because you realise you can. So I turned my face, and I put the city — the region — behind me. What I found in Parajanov — what I continue to find — are not symbols, signs swallowed by their signifier, but places where the world of past, present and future wear thin, so translucent you can almost hold each of them in your hand. This is how the ghosts get in. This is how the future might be made. The Cinema of Sergei Parajanov. Kinocultura, Share this post. Copy link. Aug 18, Discussion about this post Comments. Ready for more? Start Writing Get the app. Substack is the home for great culture. This site requires JavaScript to run correctly. Please turn on JavaScript or unblock scripts.

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