By M. Sellers Johnson.
Rather than provoking a kind of response from nothing, we hoped to shape the characters out of the reality of their lives and reality experiences. As a director, I feel that it is more important to listen than to talk.”
Oceans Are The Real Continents is a lush quilted mosaic of quotidian tales from contemporary Cuba. The film is as captivating in its simplicity, as it is stirring in its themes of liberation, dreams, and the elegance of life at face value. In all of its charm, candor, and subtle drama, Tommaso Santambrogio’s debut feature is enlivened by its ideas of migration, national identity, love, and memories of transnational experience. Oceans charts the lives of five central characters, all living in the town of San Antonio De Los Baños. Three storylines weave in and out of one another as they follow two adult artists (Edith and Alex) who face challenges in their art and immigration, the elderly Milagros who clings to the letters and memories of her husband who never returned from Fidel Castro’s Operation Carlota in Angola, and two young boys (Frank and Alain) who yearn for the American Dream while gamboling about the naturalia of their provincial town.
Informed by his early experiences as an Italian youth abroad, Santambrogio returns to this warm and worn nation, to bring to life a series of stories that draw from reality and embody a modern Cuban experience. The following dialogue with Santambrogio illuminates more details and perspectives of this accomplished debut, which beautifully evokes the essence of identity and visceral memory. In this, lies a tension of the needs and desires of life abroad that generate rich conceptions of transnationalism—in all its loneliness, aspirations, and emotional resonance. These insights warmly welcome a deeper appreciation for Santambrogio’s moving feature debut.
One can tell a lot by a film’s inaugural moments: its mood; sense of place; the characters; and inklings of a greater narrative to come. The opening sequence of Oceans is a testament to this in its striking visuals and tone. It does well in introducing the central characters, presenting its themes of separation, and the presence of water. Was this sequence something that you envisioned from the start?
The first scene that I thought about was actually the final scene, but then I started to think about the beginning. At the beginning of the process, I had the idea of facing the topic of separation, because it was something really present and impacting the daily routine and daily life (emotional life) of the Cuban people. So, that was the feeling that I wanted to explore. And in talking with Alexander (Diego) and Edith (Ybarra Clara) at the beginning, they were the first characters that I got to know. We were talking about how separation was a part of our life, our subconscious, and our culture. Because everyone has a story of separation and faces those kinds of struggles. This idea since the beginning was, “How can we portray separation?” As artists, Alex and Edith were saying how the only way to face that separation was through their art. So, we started thinking of how we could use their art in a narrative way, in order to approach separation. In thinking about the artistic contribution that this could give, we started imagining a performance to be the opening scene. With Edith, we also started thinking and writing the puppet show sequence, early in the project.
In fact, one of the first things that I had in mind was the final scene. A friend of ours (me, Alex, and Edith) was saying to me that “cemeteries in Cuba are like the train stations and airports.” Those words were stuck in my mind and really impacted me, so I began imagining the final scene at the train station, and then, in talking with Alex and Edith, we discussed how to express, through artistic content, the idea of separation. For the opening performance, we discussed many different references that were coming from the San Antonio De Los Baños traditions, on the one hand, and on the other, the cultural background of artists like Ana Mendieta and others who were creating the art traditions for performances in Cuba. And then we had the background of Latin American cinema that was often using performance and surrealistic insertions. We were working with all these different ideas about the island, connections of the body to nature, and references to movies by Glauber Rocha which used surrealistic language. While at the same time, we played with the idea of the sound of water and thunder, putting all of these elements together.
In writing the opening scene, we were also thinking of the dramatic structure and how to introduce the characters in a powerful and meaningful way. We have Alex, Edith, the children (Frank and Alain), and then Milagros (Llanes Martínez). When Alex and Edith are performing, there is an artistic perspective of separation, where Alex is representing the Cuban people sacrificing themselves and leaving their “Mother.” Edith then represents the “Mother” in a religious and syncretistic way, acting as both the island and “Mother.” The children are also taking part in that separation, but they are not really aware yet. They are just playing and eating nuts in that moment, though they will probably leave Cuba in the future. Then we see Milagros, who is watching the performance and staring at something that she already experienced and she cannot do anything but look at the past. So, all three stories and perspectives are all in one scene and it was probably the most complicated one to shoot.
After spending years in Cuba, you end up talking about freedom all of the time. Because it’s something that you don’t really experience in the same way compared to occidental countries.”
How do you differentiate individual and collective memory in your film?
That was something that I was wondering and thinking about a lot. The idea of creating a subjective treatise of their stories and experiences, on the one hand, but also to show a collective experience of separation and of contemporary Cuba. That was a challenge that we were facing. In this process, I was spending a lot of time with the characters, looking at them and listening to them. Writing down their ways of moving, thinking, and expressing themselves. Seeing the actors/characters for their personal experiences and also spending a lot of time in Cuba, gauging the vibes, feelings, and atmosphere of the place. When I came back to Italy from Cuba, I spent three or four months putting together all of these elements, creating new notes for the script, and changing some of the scenes. And while I was in Cuba, I was making recordings and taking notes about ideas of collective memory and collective traces of ideas. I was collecting feedback and stories from other people; living in contact with a lot of people there, like with friends, or going out and drinking a lot of coffee while visiting with people. But I didn’t want to impose my own idea, because I’m not Cuban and I didn’t want to take advantage of that in any kind of colonialistic way. I just wanted to listen to the people and help to give them the possibility to express themselves, because in Cuba there are not so many movies that are made every year. Of course, a lot of this comes through my point of view because I am an artist, and I have my own way of expressing things. But I ultimately wanted to give my characters the possibility to validate what I was saying and what we were expressing, and to create something that may have been more of their expressions than my own ideas.
For example, at first, I didn’t want to include Angola, but after spending a lot of time with people who were of Milagros’ generation, all of them were talking about Angola. It was almost like Vietnam for the U.S., something that you can’t avoid talking about. Even Milagros’ story was about Angola, so at a certain point I realized that I couldn’t avoid talking about that. Initially, I was scared about dealing with something that was part of the political stories of the country, but this ended up being something collective and personal, at the same time. Part of both the collective memory and the story of Milagros. The same thing came about in the magical experience of Alex who connected to the tree—to Santeria. Elements of the older religion and Santeria in that connection to the ground. There are a lot of elements that came into the film because of the characters and their stories and sensitiveness. Because they were part of the collective memory and experience of the people living there.
There is a scene early in a classroom, where the students discuss José Julián Martí. They even sing a song about him on the way to school in a previous scene. Martí is quoted as stating that “Freedom is the essence of life.” Do you see this as a kind of thesis for your film? This idea of la libertad?
Yes, that was something quite important of the movie. Actually, after spending years in Cuba, you end up talking about freedom all of the time. Because it’s something that you don’t really experience in the same way compared to occidental countries. It’s quite different on different levels. And that is a perfect example because I didn’t write those scenes in the classroom. We were simply recreating a normal day in class for the children. So, we shot for an hour, basically the whole lesson. In this, I realized that there is this idea of Martí as a national hero. He is also a big reference for the idea of the puppet show. The lessons of the children really impacted me and that led me to focus more on the scene of the bird in the cage on the balcony. In shooting the film, we were exchanging reality and improvisation, along with the script. Ultimately, allowing reality and fiction to influence each other. Freedom is a topic that I, of course, wanted to talk about as something central in the movie. And while we were editing, we realized how important those realities were in influencing discourse and dialogues.
The three main storylines weave in and out of one another quite seamlessly. How did you and your editor find balance in situating this constellation of moments in the lives of your characters?
It was a big challenge, especially because of the Milagros story. The other two stories are more similar from a narrative point of view. The narrative arc of those characters is quite similar because of the bigger changes in their lives. But the issue with Milagros is that not as much is happening, by comparison to the others. Her story is more internal, about the risk of losing memory or losing the letters. Milagros’ experiences have already happened from a past perspective. So, to balance that in the editing was a challenge. For example, after the performance in the beginning, there was originally a scene with Alex and Edith, but we had to change it to put Milagros in early. The pace of Milagros’ story really influenced the others, as the slower story helped to set the pace in the editing. Once Milagros’ story was established in the editing, it was easier to find that flow with the others.
What more could you share of the title? It seems to have a poetic resonance. In my mind, oceans represent both barriers and passages of travel. Oceans can isolate people, but they can also yield promise and hope. What do you think?
The title is based on a poem from Francisco Rivero (Guzman), who was censored until a few years ago. I actually got into his poetry thanks to Alex and I was reading one of his last poems “Toma esta final,” which had this verse. This is also a poem about separation because the poet’s girlfriend was leaving Cuba, and the poem evokes how their love could survive the separation and distance. How the oceans could become like streets or lands that connect us. It works as a title because it gives you a feeling and creates images in your mind, and everyone can feel it differently and interpret it in a different way. The title also comes from a marginal poet in Cuba and the film talks about the marginality of a people in a provincial town.
How does your film have a presence in globalization or migration? The story takes place in Cuba, but there’s mention of relationships with other nations, such as Mexico, Angola, the United States, and Italy.
It’s part of my experience and I wanted to give attention to the expressions of local communities, but also to show how something local can be universal. It was special to have the stories of Edith, Milagros, and the others to connect with people from all over the world. An idea that I wanted to explore was to build bridges between cultures across different continents on the grounds of humanity. That was a great challenge, to be local and universal at the same time. To show respect to a local culture and also to show its universality. This is something really important to do in art now, I feel.
You mentioned before that “In Cuba, stations and airports are the real cemeteries.” How might this reflect your early experiences in Cuba, as a child?
I grew up with a big influence of Cuba, as it was the first place I went to outside of Italy when I was eight years old. My parents were really in love with the country so we would come back every two or three years. The biggest memory that I have from that first trip was of a father and a daughter who were separated. They were in the airport crying and embracing because she was moving and he was staying, and they were not sure if they would see each other again. I was really shocked by that image that was stuck in my mind as I came back to this project. When I asked myself why I should talk about separation, that was my answer. This was part of Cuban culture for many years because of migration and embargoes, so separation was strongly affecting Cuba. It was also a shock to see that as a child, something so tragic could happen in real life.
When the characters all connect once more in the end, the story threads come together in a way that feels effortless yet profound. What feelings or ideas do you have in this sentiment?
Our goal from the beginning was to put the three stories in a wider view. The idea was to create a mosaic of contemporary Cuba, and that station was the right place to end those three stories. Since I thought of that scene from the beginning, it was helping to also build each of the stories. The challenge, of course, was also to create a film with three stories that didn’t feel like a Robert Altman movie or that kind of para-fiction style, multi-linear story. I wanted the characters to also have the freedom to change scenes while we were shooting and to capture that reality, so I didn’t want to have a hyper-connection between the stories. I wanted those stories to be part of the same path and to be close to the others (like in real life) but without intercepting.
You mention using a maieutic process when working with these actors. What more could you share about this process?
That process is just a way of saying that we use their existing stories and experiences, part of their past and their histories, and not just invent new ones. Rather than provoking a kind of response from nothing, we hoped to shape the characters out of the reality of their lives and reality experiences. As a director, I feel that it is more important to listen than to talk.
Tell us about the epilogue sequence, with Alex’s letter to Edith. The sequence seems to take on the framework of an essay film, echoing works like Chris Marker’s La Jetée. The final image of the film, like so many others throughout, is hauntingly beautiful. A memory staged for the tensions between love, aspirations, sadness, and hope. Ocean waves swell in the background, as we hear the sea. The film feels like it ends with an ellipsis, with echoes of hope and love. As you paraphrase from art critic John Berger, “The true enemy of love is not hatred, but separation.”
A while ago, I made a short film that first explored the idea of the feature, so those ideas have been there since the beginning. And, of course, there is an homage to Chris Marker, who is one of my favorite directors. There is also that idea of creating a time ellipsis, that you don’t have during the main movie. The movie has a linear timeline, so there is an evolution of the story, and suddenly there is this final part of an epilogue. There is this photographic letter that Alex is sending to Edith that has many levels. On one side, it is a way of connecting the three stories, because Alex is now connecting with Milagros’ story through the letters in the same way. So, there is a connection to that that is happening also because of the images of the past are compared with the voices of the past. That is something really interesting from my point of view. Also, the film ends with the sea, which we haven’t seen for the whole movie. The final frame shows the sea, which has really been there the whole time. And on the other hand, we are getting to the emotional essence of the story and the essence of cinema. We are coming back to a frame. The essence of cinema, of love. The idea of longing, of missing someone. How one story can become another and connect to other stories. Love is the only answer. And by doing this I also put a spotlight on the story of Alex and Edith, but that’s because theirs is the present story and the present perspective. That becomes something powerful and important for the movie.
M. Sellers Johnson is an independent scholar and editor whose research interests include French art cinema, transnationalism, historiography, and aesthetics. He received his MA from Te Herenga Waka (Victoria University of Wellington) in 2021 and his BA at the University of North Carolina Wilmington in 2018. His work has appeared in Afterimage, Film International, Film Quarterly, Media Peripheries, Mise-en-scène, Offscreen, and sabah ülkesi, among other outlets. He is the founding Citation Ethics Editor for Film Matters, and the current Book Reviews Editor for New Review of Film and Television Studies.