[Interview to be found in the spring magazine, in kiosks or on subscription.] After seven years away from cinema, Gus Van Sant returns with The Dead Man’s Wire, in theaters this Wednesday, April 15. With this film, again inspired by a true story, the American director continues his exploration of violence rooted in despair.
On February 8, 1977, in Indianapolis, in the American Midwest, Tony Kiritsis goes to the office of his real estate broker. Unable to face the deadlines of his mortgage, this 44-year-old American decides to take hostage the man he sees as the cause of his misfortune. To prevent his escape and ensure that the police sharpshooters do not shoot him, the kidnapper ties to the back of his victim’s head the barrel of his rifle, which he connects by a wire to the trigger at his own neck. A devilishly ingenious device that gives its name to Gus Van Sant’s new film (Dead Man’s Wire in VO), his 18th feature, in theaters this Wednesday, April 15.
With this incident that held the whole country in suspense for sixty-three hours, the author of My Own Private Idaho (1991), Good Will Hunting (1998), Elephant (2003), or Harvey Milk (2008), revisits themes that have punctuated his work: fate, in a country laid bare, of an outcast whom despair drives to violence. So, is Tony a criminal or a victim who seeks justice? A half-century after the events described, the questions raised by the film remain eminently topical in Trump-era United States. The occasion to sit down with the 73-year-old filmmaker to discuss his forty-year career and the current state of his country.
Your cinema is full of antiheroes, and Dead Man’s Wire is no exception. Where does this fascination come from?
I have always been interested in the margins, in desperate characters who stand out from the ordinary. Sometimes they become antiheroes, as in Drugstore Cowboy (1990) or, indeed, Mala Noche [made in 1985, ed.], but not always. They are above all outsiders. That is why I chose to make my first film, Mala Noche [made in 1985, ed.], whose lead character was difficult, a non-person, one of those you don’t usually see in films. The story was written by one of my friends, Walt Curtis, drawing on his own life. He was a poet, and some poets are great misfits. They have something uncontrollable, dangerous, but also a certain gentleness. I find that the humanity of the characters is even more striking when they are not lucky enough to be understood.
In Trump-era America, the themes of your cinema find a new resonance. Does this dark era inspire you more than it disheartens you?
Much has changed since Donald Trump returned to the White House. With the strengthening of anti-immigration police forces, all this suffering and these questions, the United States is heading into the unknown, and with it, the rest of the world. But extreme fear and this sense of not knowing where we are going can be a source of inspiration.
Do you think that in this context, the film you dedicated to Harvey Milk, the gay activist assassinated in 1978, could still see the light of day?
I think we’ve returned to a time when Harvey Milk could be assassinated again. But I believe we could still make this film today. It’s possible that the situation could become even more complicated, especially if more studios care about opinion and political current events, but other factors come into play. Cinemas aren’t doing very well, many theaters are closing, which is more of an economic problem caused by streaming platforms. People prefer watching films on their television or on the Internet rather than going to the cinema: it’s likely that this will have an impact on everything you see.
When it was released, your film Elephant had the shock effect on the subject of youth violence. Yet, more than twenty years later, nothing has changed…
It has even become a recurring problem; there have been so many school shootings since Elephant. But did you know that HBO, which produced the film, doesn’t even want to stream it on its platform? You can’t watch it anywhere! I suppose it’s too frightening, even though it has become our daily reality.
Can one draw a parallel with Dead Man’s Wire?
There are many common points between these two films, which are based on true stories. Tony Kiritsis resembles the two boys in Elephant who shoot their classmates at school. They are margins, who feel excluded from the system and react with violent actions and concepts. Stylistically too, both focus solely on the crucial moment, leaving out what precedes and follows the event.
Dead Man’s Wire was shot in only nineteen days. Is the economics of cinema making it harder to make independent films today?
For me, no. I’ve always known how to work with the means I’m given. Of course, you have to make some sacrifices, such as refusing to have your own dressing room or foregoing certain equipment you don’t really need, but I’m used to sacrificing a lot to make a film. As long as you have a story and a camera, you can make it happen.
What do you think of today’s queer cinema, you who are now one of its legends?
Queer culture has diversified a lot, with plenty of programs, such as RuPaul’s Drag Race. Many stories, even written by people who aren’t queer, take on the subject. Look at the phenomenon Heated Rivalry: the success of this series changes the game for many filmmakers and television producers. It’s a fairly simple idea, but it has won over its audience, which surprised everyone, especially gay or queer producers. Many could have done it much sooner, but they did not try.
And you, did you like Heated Rivalry? Or any recent films?
I started watching it before the public seized on it, so without being influenced by the phenomenon. I watched three episodes and then stopped. It was simple, very visceral and exciting, but I didn’t feel the need to continue. When the buzz began, I decided to pick it up again. Some of my close friends watched it on loop, so I thought I might have missed something! And indeed, the progression of the story is interesting, the sex scenes, perfectly choreographed, are a revolution in themselves. In terms of queer representation, Heated Rivalry should serve as a reference. Recently, I also really liked Pillion, by Harry Lighton. Here is another film that changes the game.
Thirty-five years after its release, My Own Private Idaho attracts new generations of cinephiles, queer or not. Does that surprise you?
I’m very happy about it! You know, it’s the only film I wrote entirely by myself from A to Z. In the 1980s, before my first film, I wrote screenplays. It took me a month to write each of them. After Drugstore Cowboy, I revisited them and decided to use three projects that approached the same subject with the same characters — two screenplays and a short story — to merge them and create My Own Private Idaho. It was almost experimental, because I wasn’t following a dramatic concept or rules. I didn’t even know the rules. So, I made up my own.
You spoke of revolution regarding Heated Rivalry, but My Own Private Idaho was one as well…
What was revolutionary, above all, is that the film was able to be released across the entire United States. My Own Private Idaho was seen by young people living in Alabama or Mississippi who could come out of the closet thanks to the film. These are testimonials that reached me over the years, as I have received many about Good Will Hunting, which speaks to the same age group. I feel lucky.
In the magazine, our “Retro Retina” section highlights lesser-known queer films. Which work would you like to share there?
Taxi zum Klo, by Frank Ripploh (1981), the story of a gay teacher in West Berlin in the 1980s. It was an important film for me when I was a young filmmaker. Derek Jarman’s cinema is also foundational. One of my favorite films of his remains The Last of England (1989), which is hard to find these days.
