A Cinematic Trip

I have spent the last two weekends in Portugal being on the jury of the Estoril Film Festival. The festival was created by Paulo Branco, a charismatic, easygoing man with a huge Peckinpah-esque moustache. He is a friend of John Malkovich, which is why I was invited, as they showed the three short films we made together: Strap-Hanging, Lady Behave, and Hideous Man (you can see them all on my website www.bellafreud.co.uk). John also did a little fashion show with his spring/summer 2011 collection, modelled by the actors from the latest Raoul Ruiz film Les Mysteres de Lisboa. His clothes are really good, properly “fashion”. I find it impressive that in the little spare time that he has between making films and directing his operas he manages to produce exquisite, beautifully made menswear. And on top of that his drawings are masterpieces, praised by no less than my dad. I have taken photos to show you.
When I arrived in Portugal the temperature was 24 degrees and my hotel suite was of the highest luxury with a multitude of windows and a balcony over looking the sea.
Friday evening started with an exhibition of Lou Reed’s photographs, in the presence of Lou himself. The pictures were beautiful: landscapes with incredible light, some with almost psychedelic shades of green or yellow – all achieved by doctoring the camera and being a fiendish perfectionist.



The next morning after drying my hair in the sun, I went to a three-hour documentary called Ceauşescu Autobiography, almost entirely made with Ceauşescu’s own propaganda films, with clips of him meeting everyone from Nixon to Queen Elizabeth. It was interesting in a sinister way but I couldn’t help nodding off rather a lot. That night there was a screening of On Tour, written, directed and starring the genius actor from Schnabel’s The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, Mathieu Amalric. After, at midnight, a group of us went to Lisbon to listen to Fado music which I was slightly dreading - but it was incredibly good, all sung by really young people in a little club that had been a chapel. Got to bed at 5am.



Sunday there was an exhibition by Spanish photographer Alberto Maria-Alix and a documentary he had made. In spite of being in Spanish, which I don’t understand, it was the most gripping and moving film and I rushed off to the airport on a high. The endorphins must have befuddled me as I lingered rather too long in the Club lounge and managed to miss my flight!