A text by Veronica Lazăr and Andrei Gorzo
The relation between the film and the literary text
In its opening credits, Radu Jude’s beautiful and stimulating Scarred Hearts describes itself as a film “freely adapted from Max Blecher’s literary works”. It is worth trying to establish more precisely what kind of adaptation we are dealing with. One thing about the film that should be immediately striking to Blecher readers is that writer-director Jude doesn’t make the slightest attempt to filter his presentation or staging of the narrative events through the subjectivity of the main character: in other words, he doesn’t do anything to construct a cinematic equivalent for the “exacerbated perceptions” (to quote the literary critic Dinu Pillat), “the out-of-the-ordinary sensorial acuity” (literary critic Adrian Marino), much remarked upon in Blecher criticism.
One example should suffice: the scene in which young Emanuel, a sufferer from bone tuberculosis, is subjected for the first time by the doctor to a puncture. In M. Blecher’s Scarred Hearts (a novel published in 1937), the narration is in the third person, but at the same time it is tightly wrapped around Emanuel’s subjectivity. Here is a passage:
“Around him he saw his wardrobe, the books and the table, the old familiar things, the well-known things, but now they came unstuck, indecipherable in their murky lucidity, like the chaotic words shouted by an unknown voice in a throng of people crowding out an assembly hall.
‘Anaesthetic,’ said the doctor laconically.
The only thing Emanuel could see was the assistant approaching the bed with a large glass tube. The doctor covered Emanuel’s face with his shirt and told the concierge to take hold of his hands. The big test-tube gave a sudden hiss and Emanuel felt, in a place just above the abscess, an ice-cold gush of liquid on his skin that stiffened the flesh around it.
A metallic box opened and closed.
‘Needle,’ said the doctor, as the assistant approached once more.
‘The needle… Now he’s going to stab me with the needle…’ thought Emanuel. Each second throbbed terribly in his temples.
He opened his eyes a crack and through part of the shirt he spied the assistant pumping something into a bottle; he couldn’t make out anything else.
The concierge lifted the shirt off his eyes. The doctor was swabbing ether onto a little spot that bled a little. The bottle on the table was full of thick yellowish liquid.
‘What’s that?’ Emanuel asked, worn out of the strain and agitation.
‘Pus, my friend! Pus!’ replied the doctor with his usual joviality.”[i]
This passage could very easily be turned into a cinematic découpage (i.e., the shot-by-shot breakdown of a film sequence). Basically, Blecher has already done the job – descriptions of camera angles, descriptions of sounds etc. – complete with suggestions for small “special effects”, for expressionist distortions of visual and aural reality (the surrounding objects coming unstuck “in their murky lucidity”, the throb in the temples), a reality which Emanuel, in his pained and troubled state, is perceiving distortedly.
But a lot of the Romanian cinema which emerged after the year 2000, out of the example set by director Cristi Puiu with his 2001 Stuff and Dough and especially with his 2005 The Death of Mr. Lăzărescu (Radu Jude worked as an assistant director on the latter), is a resolutely anti-expressionist cinema: a cinema which refuses to subjectivize (in ways like those described above) the events it shows, favoring instead a clinical, external presentation. Jude’s film of Blecher’s Scarred Hearts is no exception. It is a film constructed of fixed shots, mostly long takes, all of them objective views – none of them represents Emanuel’s (or another character’s) optical point of view.
Jude doesn’t attempt to “translate” in cinematic terms the inner life that we’re plugged into while reading Blecher. He does something else with that inner life: he transcribes it on the screen just as he finds it on the page – he lifts chunks of Blecher’s prose (not only from Scarred Hearts, but also from his other novel, Occurrence in the Immediate Unreality, published in 1936, as well as from his sanatorium diary, The Illuminated Burrow, published in 1971) and showcases them as intertitles. These fragments are of diverse lengths – from just a few words to long, complex sentences. The first word in never capitalized – as a matter of fact, it is most often not the first word in a sentence, most of Jude’s excerpts starting in the middle of Blecher’s sentences – just as no excerpt ends with a full stop. In this way, the excerpts wear the marks of their extraction from bigger blocks of prose; they are chips or splinters. And, especially in the first part of the film, there is not always a direct or obvious relation between what can be read in these intertitles and what can be seen in the sequences preceding or following them. For example, one of the first intertitles reads: “Immense new hopes and expectations were born in me.” Jude doesn’t try to make us see the hopes and expectations in the sequences flanking this bit of Blecher’s prose; he doesn’t try to express them through either dialogue, staging or acting. And, because he doesn’t do that, he brings out the mutual alterity of the two media – the literary and the cinematic.
Writing in 1951 about Robert Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest, which Bresson had adapted from Georges Bernanos’s novel, André Bazin remarked that Bresson had neither contented himself to illustrate the novel, nor attempted to construct a film equivalent; rather he had treated the novelist’s prose like a “cold, hard fact”, a brute fact, a hard reality, trying to film that reality, the fact of the existence of that prose[ii]. What Jude does in Scarred Hearts could be described in similar terms. (His film also has in common with Bresson’s the fact that, of course, it portrays a sick young man during the last months of his life.)
Another Bazinian observation which is also relevant to our case is that, although Bresson’s literary source abounds in moments and images which read as if they were crying out to be filmed, as if their impact on screen were guaranteed (Bazin’s example is the moment in which the priest’s eye meets the dead stare of a rabbit, one in a bloodied furry bundle of dead rabbits lying in a game-bag), Bresson ignores most of them.[iii] This could also be said about the way in which Jude adapts Blecher, whose novel is full of striking images and macabre details – from the scene in which Emanuel’s horse-driven carriage gets stuck on the muddy beach, to a woman patient’s amputated leg, which her servant (seeing it carried out of the operating room by a nurse) takes for a bouquet of flowers. Jude also leaves most of these images unfilmed. (It is telling that, even though he uses the protagonist’s visually suggestive dream – taken not from Blecher’s Scarred Hearts, but from his sanatorium diary – of being trapped inside a room which is really the skull of a dead horse, with the horse’s empty orbs as the windows, Jude uses it only as verbal description, not attempting to film it.)
Bazin’s observation that, of the two versions of Diary of a Country Priest, Bernanos’s and Bresson’s, it is the novel that seems more “cinematic” (i. e., more suspenseful, more powerfully visual etc.), and, conversely, it is the film that seems “literary”[iv] – this observation also fits in some ways the two Scarred Hearts, Blecher’s and Jude’s. First, there is more talk in the film than in the novel. Then, the protagonist, Emanuel, comes across on screen, much more than in the novel, as a young man with his head in the books: he talks more about them, and he quotes and recites from them (most often in a mocking, parodic manner) at the slightest provocation (when he’s not quoting or mimicking radio and newspaper advertisments). Not that he would only be interested in books: he’s also interested in discussing the current (1937) Romanian and European political situation – the far right’s ascension to power. Such exchanges are completely absent from Blecher’s literary writings and almost impossible to find even in his letters. At a certain point, Jude (who in his previous film, Aferim!, had provided his characters with dialogue which was in large part a collage of literary texts from many different sources) borrows some famous words from Mihail Sebastian’s polemically autobiographical essay How I Became a Hooligan (1935) and makes Emanuel speak them, thus endowing Emanuel with an acute consciousness of his Jewish identity: “I have never had a conversation with someone without asking myself whether that person knows I’m a Jew and whether, knowing that fact, he or she forgives me for it.” Neither Blecher’s Emanuel, nor Blecher himself ever makes such a confession.
The Jewish identity
So Radu Jude takes a decisive step outside the purely literary frame and instead pushes inside the film the historical context of the experiences described by Blecher. Since Blecher apparently does not ground his personal identity upon his being a Jew, could Jude’s insistence on his Jewishness be regarded with suspicion? Could it be regarded as somewhat analogous (even though rooted in the opposite of anti-Semitism) to the anti-Semite’s always identifying a Jew as The Jew? Prior to the release of the film, at a literary event dedicated to Blecher, where Jude described his film to an audience who hadn’t seen it yet, he had this danger pointed out to him.
It’s difficult to establish, in the case of Blecher’s writings, whether his lack of references to his own Jewishness is directly significant or not, whether it’s a way of resisting the intrusion of his anti-Semitic environment or more like a matter of indifference. In the case of Jude’s film, however, the decision to emphasize the matter of Jewish identity amounts to a straightforward acknowledgement of the fact that the film – unavoidably – looks at Blecher’s life and work from the vantage point of a later era. From this vantage point, ignoring the political context – anti-Semitic history gathering momentum towards the end of Blecher’s life and after his death (which happened in 1938) – can appear not as an objective or neutral rendering of the past, but as a guilty truncation of it. (Pointing out that the anti-Semitic context can’t be overlooked may have been one of the reasons for this film’s very existence.) Increasingly, in the Romania of the 1930s and then during the war, an individual’s identification as a Jew ceased being a matter of personal preference or choice; the identity of a Jewish citizen (or ex-citizen, after the Goga-Cuza government – in office between December 29, 1937, and February 10, 1938 – revised the right of citizenship) was inevitably produced by the state, with concrete (not only symbolic) consequences on the citizen’s life. In these circumstances, claiming that identity was still a matter of personal choice, or trying to pursue art and literature as practices that were universal, autonomous, politics-free, would have amounted to no more than disconnection from reality.
Parenthetically, it is worth looking at how the enforced marking of Jewish writers as Jewish connects with various pronouncements on the autonomy of the aesthetic realm. In his 1941 History of Romanian Literature, G. Călinescu – a (somewhat ambiguous) supporter of a number of Jewish writers, and a critic who would later be credited with playing a major role in establishing a Romanian literary canon based on the principle of the aesthetic realm being autonomous (although his doctrinal development was really more complex) – dedicated a coda to the matter of the specifically national in literature; here he used the literature produced by Jewish writers to bring out through contrast this “national specificity”. This literature produced by Jewish writers comes out, in some passages from G. Călinescu, as being too ethnically marked to rise to the condition of disinterested creation: “The Jews, few for reasons of natural proportionality, and present in our literature just as they are in all others, remain a factor from outside the racial circle, constituting a bridge between the national and the universal. (…) In literature they are always informed, prone to colporting all manner of novelties, anti-classical, modernist, agitated by all sorts of problems. They counterbalance the inertia of tradition, which they force to revise itself. Their sincere humanitarianism modifies a spirit of self-preservation which could otherwise degenerate into obtuseness, nudging it toward an elevated Christian vision. These virtues come hand-in-hand with the typical irritating faults: the lack of any interest in creation as an end in itself, the obsession with «lived experience» and «the authentic», the negation of criticism (which we – being a constructive race – are in need of), humanitarianism pushed to such lengths that it starts impinging on our national rights and traits. Because of this tactlessness, the Jews – here as elsewhere – regularly bring everybody’s wrath upon themselves.”[v]
Or this passage about writer F. Aderca: “Like almost every Jewish writer, F. Aderca is obsessed with humanitarianism, pacifism, and all the others aspects of internationalism. (…) The anti-national fanaticism of the Jews (who are nationalistic for themselves) leads them to tactless manifestations which are really errors of thought and which are apt to irritate even the most unprejudiced mind. (…) In fact, this curious mentality belongs to the Jews and to them alone, and herein lies their tragedy. They don’t understand that the national interest is a fundamental coordinate of our soul (together with the territory we live on). Their point of view is that of a nomadic people, indifferent to and contemptuous of all other peoples.” G. Călinescu finds that in Aderca’s work “the national ideal is contested and ridiculed”; the reason for this is that the Jew is, secretly, “a Jewish nationalist on foreign territory”, sworn to resisting any affirmation of national specificity and denying the existence of a Romanian essence.[vi]
G. Călinescu also insists that defining ethnic specifities – Jewish or Romanian – has nothing to do with politics: politics and pure literary creation must be separated. Or, to put it differently, anti-Semitic persecution and praise for Jewish writers can co-exist peacefully in the universe of a critic like G. Călinescu (who is truly free of anti-Semitic hatred). This is why his History of Romanian Literature, which played a fundamental role in the emergence of the Romanian postwar literary canon, can be seen as a bridge between the explicit anti-Semitism of the interwar and WWII years (because of Călinescu’s “ethnic” readings of particular novels, and his postulation of “essential” Jewish features, supposedly incompatible with the Romanian character), and the aesthetic autonomism which, from the 1960s onwards (after pushing socialist realism to the margins), would serve as the reigning principle of the local literary field. This “depoliticized” autonomism entailed a tendency to keep completely silent about the matter of Jewish identity – including the history of anti-Semitic persecution and the major responsability of the Romanian state and its citizens. This tendency was strengthened not only by the aesthetic conservatism of the postwar Romanian canon (which implicitly marginalized to a certain degree the interwar avant-garde movements to which many Jewish writers had contributed), but also by the elements of nationalism and (both latent and explicit) anti-Semitism which were and are present in Romanian communism and post-communism.
Under these conditions, Radu Jude’s adaptation of Scarred Hearts involves both a historical contextualization of Blecher’s moment, and, in its subtext, a cultural contextualization of Blecher’s posterity as a (no matter how reluctantly) Jewish writer.
Jude’s stepping outside the internal logic of the novel he adapted can result in the questioning of another reception cliché: the identification with the main character, by virtue of the “universality” of his suffering and his humanity. Emanuel was one of those to whom such universality was denied at the time, because of his belonging to a “race” with ostentatiously specific and hostile characteristics; so his horizon of experience was radically different from that of the contemporary reader. Leaving aside the political matter, by not attempting to convey the subjective, internal, phenomenological slant through which someone afflicted with bone tuberculosis views the world and feels his or her own body, Radu Jude doesn’t deprive the spectator of a strong emotional involvement, but he limits the possibility of illusory identification with the experience of extraordinary suffering, with physical paralysis and imminent death. His Emanuel is not “man in general”, he is not “everyman” or “any of us”.
The problem of the “historical” or “period” film
The work of historical contextualization undertaken by Jude in his adaptation of Scarred Hearts is, in a way that may appear paradoxical, the mark of a relativization, of a distanciation from the film’s subject matter. Jude is far from believing that building a perfect replica of the past is either possible or desirable – at least in the cinema: his previous film, Aferim! – playfully foregrounding the artificiality of its historical reconstruction by blatantly deriving a lot of its dialogue from literary sources – made very apparent a skepticism about the possibility of accessing the past otherwise than in a very partial, approximate and deformed manner.[vii] In this sense, Scarred Hearts is a historical film, a literary adaptation in which attention was paid to the historical contextualization of the source novel, but at the same time it keeps its subject at a significant historical and aesthetic distance. The acknowledging of the conventionality of the historical film, based on partial representations of the past, manifests itself here through the refusal of any detailed historical reconstruction (“meticulously detailed” being a cliché term of praise indiscriminately used for cinematic reconstructions of the past).
Scarred Hearts does transpose us to a reconstructed 1930s setting, but the work of reconstruction is clearly not driven by an obsession with fidelity, nor by a desire to fill the frame with as much 30s paraphernalia as possible, producing a certain kind of satisfaction through the sheer density of period objects. The reconstruction here consists of a combination of historically accurate elements, intentional anachronisms, and continuities between the 1930s and our own era, the latter potentially inducing an almost strange feeling of familiarity. This familiarity is not like witnessing the past “come alive” before our eyes: apart from shooting them in the old square-shaped Academy Ratio that was being used in the 1930s, Jude avoids giving his images any historical patina, anything to do with that conception of the interwar period as an elegant, nostalgic piece of china – a conception which has sadly become a commonplace in Romania; this is one period film which doesn’t look like an album of old, yellowing photographs (although it’s been compared with one). The feeling of familiarity arises from the marked presence of anachronistic elements and from the continuous leaps back to non-familiarity, and then back again, and so on. As in Aferim! (though sometimes more difficult to perceive), there is a permanent play between closeness and distance, recognition and estrangement from the characters and the historical period, so that the viewer is not allowed to be captivated completely, without dissonances, by the reconstructed past.
At first, what’s most visible to us is, of course, what’s most “historical”: the horse-drawn carriages, the straw hats, the chests or trunks of wood and leather, the costumes worn by the medical staff, the stretcher-beds on which the patients lie. Immediately after that, strange and striking, comes the medical equipment: the X-ray contraption with its funnel; the huge, scary syringes; the small sacks tied to the patients’ feet for extending their atrophied legs; the patients in the background, tied to devices which look as if they were designed for purposes of torture; the patient uncomfortably spread on a wooden grate while waiting for his plaster cast to dry; doctor Ceafalan jovially telling a nurse about some experiment conducted around 1870 on convicts, involving their being fed rotten polenta and leading to their becoming sick with pellagra (“Served them right, too!”, doctor Ceafalan adds). The medical equipment, with its retro-sci-fi air, looks so violently intrusive to the bodies of the patients and to our eyes – in contrast with those elements of the period costumes and sets that are soft on the eye – that it doesn’t so much add to the authenticity of the historical reconstruction as it lends it a playfully macabre dimension.
The strangeness generated by Jude’s use of the “period” elements is amplified by their immersion in the often very modern air and language of the film’s dialogue. There is a moment when Emanuel utters a word that is no longer in use today – a romanianized version of a French word for „slut”, salope – and the familiarity of the surrounding language brings out the antiquarian resonance of this isolated word in all its quaintness, while the isolated word, in its turn, breaks the spell of familiarity. Even the „period” music and (most of the) clothes can be easily transplanted to the present. The „period” quality of the clothes is generally toned down: with the exception of some of Solange’s costumes (which are thus rendered even more striking), they don’t anchor the film strongly in a historical era and they don’t fuel fantasies of vintage fashion. As for the period songs, a number of them are heard on the radio, which suits a present-day audience’s habit of relating to them as museum pieces.
Elements of continuity between Emanuel’s era and the viewer’s own – a traffic incident with angry drivers swearing at each other, the care and comfort provided by the sanatorium, envious talk of the politicians’ corruption, of the sybaritic opulence in which they live – are seamlessly integrated with anachronisms (or elements which feels like anachronisms). Some of the latter have to do with language – someone talking about having to write „a text”, characters referring to menstruation or to the lavatory in the modern colloquial way. While others have to do with the relations between characters: sexual relations which seem free of hierarchies and patriarchal reflexes, if only because these characters don’t have much to lose in the crass materiality of their condition; Emanuel’s relation with his father, affectionate in a way which seems very modern, with a warmth that is close to the surface and a common language – when bidding farewell to his father, Emanuel quotes to him in a clownish voice from Mateiu Caragiale’s Gallants of the Old Court, while at another time he jokingly tells him that, if the older man fell sick and needed his care, he would kill him.
Radu Jude’s macabre farces
One of the surprising things that Jude and his main actor, Lucian Teodor Rus, do to Blecher’s protagonist is that they turn him into a portrait of the artist-intellectual as – partly – a young clown. Their Emanuel lives a lot in the world of books, arts and words, but he doesn’t live there solemnly; he plays with them, he uses them as materials for his clowning and his flirtations, he is a parodist and a puckish ham. His comic imitations of various voices from radio advertisments („Cure drunkenness before drunkenness breaks the law!”, „The devil is black, but not as black as «Vultur» boot polish”) become a trademark of his character and a motif in the film. While flirting with another patient, Isa (Ilinca Hărnuț), he quotes to her an advertising slogan for a champagne brand called Mott, but he changes the name of the brand with the name of his affliction – „Pott’s disease”; of course he doesn’t lose the opportunity to remind Isa that the Mott advertisment was written by famous writer Arghezi. He treats literature as a permanent source of inspiration for such frolicking. To Solange (Ivana Mladenovic), with whom he has a romance, he quotes from the famous folk poem about Master Manole – a mason who builds his wife alive into the wall of a monastery that he’s constructing – playfully analogizing this sacrifice with Solange’s fate of being embraced by a lover who’s encased in plaster. To Dr. Ceafalan (Șerban Pavlu) he quotes from Richard III, while (switching from literature to painting) he compares another doctor with the inquisitor painted by El Greco. (The doctor and Solange can be quite histrionic themselves: for instance, she amuses Emanuel by mixing two Eminescu poems and reciting the results to him, while the doctor is given to parodically declaiming pompously phrased orders like „Out of my sight!”. And such inclinations or élans are shared by others who live in the micro-society of the sanatorium or on its margins. For instance, there is a patient who does Hitler impersonations. There is also Emanuel’s father, marvelously played by Alexandru Dabija, who at various points in the film tells a Jehovah joke, sings in approximate German a children’s song which is very well-known in Romania, and calmly recounts a practical joke that he played on a friend, causing him a serious accident.) In the last part of the film, when Emanuel’s energy level falls and falls (eventually to zero), the loss is very striking: it fell from such heights.
The literary jester’streak is, of course, not the protagonist’s only dimension. Apart from giving ample space (as discussed above) to his preoccupation with Jewish identity and with politics in general, the film sketches several coordinates of his (and Blecher’s) literary sensibility: his affinity with the poetry of George Bacovia, his debts to literary decadentism and surrealism. But, to say it once more, this sensibility is not one that Jude is attempting to emulate in his film. The spirit of the film is different – closer to that of Jude’s earlier films than to that of Blecher’s writings.
There is a lot of ludic freedom in Jude’s work. Although Scarred Hearts is a film about a dying young man, set in a sanatorium and consisting almost exclusively of fixed shots, which add their immobility to the immobility of the afflicted patients – a description which can make the film sound doubly punishing to the viewer – it is stylistically not a particularly austere film. On the contrary, the shots (with art direction by Cristian Niculescu and lighting by Marius Panduru) abound in gags, in ludic touches: from the stuffed boar which Dr. Ceafalan keeps in his office (and which looks towards the camera, although from the margins of the frame), to the tied patients in the backgrounds of some shots (looking like fodder for diabolical tortures and experiments); and from the grouping of the medical staff around Emanuel, at a certain point, in a tableau parodying Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, to a scene in which Emanuel visits Solange in a nearby town and, as she opens the door, we glimpse behind her, out of focus, a strange man on all fours, with one of her furs around his neck, doing something that is never elucidated. (This man is played by film critic Andrei Rus, whose 2014 essay „The Macabre Farces of Radu Jude”, published in the collective volume The Politics of Film, was one of the first substantial pieces of writing on the director.[viii]) The presence of such gags and touches is a reason why, no matter how artfully composed the film’s shots – whose design often brings out geometric patterns, and makes use of doorways, window frames, mirrors and other reflecting surfaces – formalism never takes over. Another reason: the compositional schemas used by Jude are rather diverse – the same schema is not repeated too often.
When Emanuel is first wrapped in his plaster cast, he is made to lie face down on a wooden grate, with his chest and his abdomen hanging out, and there is something comical about this position. For the sake of good taste, of decorum, of preserving a solemn unity of tone fitting the films’s subject matter, many directors would have chosen not to confront the viewers with such potentially comic sights. On the contrary, Jude highlights such aspects (as the patients lie face down on those grates, the doctor jokingly refers to them as meatballs on the grill). The potentially comic element in Emanuel’s physical position is part of the complexity of the scene, as is the doctor’s near-euphoric joviality (he has put on a romantic song on the gramophone and, while working on Emanuel, he is telling the nurse about the bacteriological experiment involving convicts and rotten polenta), which Emanuel is making efforts to match. The putting of the plaster cast on Emanuel is visualized by Jude with no recourse to cliché and, therefore, with no cues to the viewer whether it is „correct” to laugh (and, if so, then up to what point) or just be horrified. The bad taste of some of the characters’ jokes and declamations is not something that the film keeps at arm’s length, attributing it only to the characters and affecting an ethnographic-descriptive stance towards it. It is something that Jude takes an obvious, amused, playful interest in.
Jude’s daring is nowhere more evident than in the fact that he is willing to visualize scenes from the patients’ sex lives – Emanuel with Solange, Emanuel with Isa – and do so in a manner which is neither solemn, nor euphemistic, acknowledging the discomfort and the technical difficulties (even catastrophes) produced by the lovers’ condition, and not shying away from reminding viewers (not comfortably in this particular case) that erotic awkwardness is also a venerable source of comedy.
Idiosyncratic, richly intertextual, full of verve and substantial ideas about literature, film, and history, Scarred Hearts is the work of an innovator of Romanian cinema. But, even more than in the case of Aferim! – a film whose critical engagement with national literature was not easily traslatable from the Romanian, but, nevertheless, a film capable of touching through its story an international political nerve – the density of the new film’s references to Romanian culture, the depth of its immersion in it, are all the more remarkable for being difficult to export and translate culturally in an international idiom of festival cinema.
(Originally published in Romanian in Observator cultural no. 838, September 1-7, 2016)
[i] M. Blecher, Scarred Hearts, translated from the Romanian by Henry Howard, Old Street Publishing, London, 2008, 18-9.
[ii] André Bazin, What Is Cinema?, volume one, translated from the French by Hugh Gray, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1967, 136.
[iii] Bazin, What Is Cinema?, 127-128.
[iv] Bazin, What Is Cinema?, 128.
[v] G. Călinescu, Istoria literaturii române de la origini pînă în prezent, ediția a II-a revizuită și adăugită, editura Minerva, 1988, 976.
[vi] G. Călinescu, Istoria literaturii române de la origini pînă în prezent, 790-792.
[vii] Veronica Lazăr & Andrei Gorzo, “Aferim! Ceva nou în cinemaul românesc”, in Andrei Gorzo, Andrei State (eds.), Politicile filmului. Contribuții la interpretarea cinemaului românesc contemporan, editura Tact, Cluj, 2014, 301-311.
[viii] Andrei Rus, “Farsele macabre ale lui Radu Jude”, Politicile filmului, 119-127.