2001, summer (approximate date). Road to the Lenin School, Havana. Morning (approximate time).
For the casting he goes with Omar to the Lenin. At the time, theatre students from the School of Art Instructors are being housed there. He is looking for two actors who can recreate that scene without turning it into something else. Omar drives. He has photographs, some notes, the camera.
During the drive he asks him what kind of young man they need.
The question makes him uncomfortable again.
—An actor.
—I know, an actor.
—Then.
—What does he have to be like?
He looks out the window.
He thinks of the Chilean.
Of him at twelve.
He thinks of Tony holding the camera a few hours earlier and asking him what he had really come to film.
—I do not know —he says.
Omar laughs.
—Some director.
—Someone who looks like a memory.
—That is harder still.
They go on.
In 2001 he thinks they are casting.
Many years later, when he tries to reconstruct how La Virgen de los Peregrinos worked, he remembers this scene and grows uncomfortable. One person seated in front of others, looking at faces, rejecting, moving closer, trying to find in a stranger something he already carries in his head.
It is not the same.
He knows that.
He does not want to think too much. He likes writing this way. More intuition, less induction.
A casting is not a criminal selection. A camera is not a weapon. A desire is not a crime.
And yet perhaps that is why he understands the mechanism so well.
Because every selection begins with a prior image.
They are looking for something before knowing who will embody it.
The difference lies in what they do when it finally appears.
Tony had understood something before he did.
That is why he took the camera away from him.
Before telling him who he was, he wanted to know who the man looking at him was.
2001, summer (approximate date). Road to the Lenin School, Havana. Morning (approximate time).
For the casting he goes with Omar to the Lenin. At the time, theatre students from the School of Art Instructors are being housed there. He is looking for two actors who can recreate that scene without turning it into something else. Omar drives. He has photographs, some notes, the camera.
During the drive he asks him what kind of young man they need.
The question makes him uncomfortable again.
—An actor.
—I know, an actor.
—Then.
—What does he have to be like?
He looks out the window.
He thinks of the Chilean.
Of him at twelve.
He thinks of Tony holding the camera a few hours earlier and asking him what he had really come to film.
—I do not know —he says.
Omar laughs.
—Some director.
—Someone who looks like a memory.
—That is harder still.
They go on.
In 2001 he thinks they are casting.
Many years later, when he tries to reconstruct how La Virgen de los Peregrinos worked, he remembers this scene and grows uncomfortable. One person seated in front of others, looking at faces, rejecting, moving closer, trying to find in a stranger something he already carries in his head.
It is not the same.
He knows that.
He does not want to think too much. He likes writing this way. More intuition, less induction.
A casting is not a criminal selection. A camera is not a weapon. A desire is not a crime.
And yet perhaps that is why he understands the mechanism so well.
Because every selection begins with a prior image.
They are looking for something before knowing who will embody it.
The difference lies in what they do when it finally appears.
Tony had understood something before he did.
That is why he took the camera away from him.
Before telling him who he was, he wanted to know who the man looking at him was.
2001, verano (fecha aproximada). Carretera hacia la Escuela Lenin, La Habana. Mañana (hora aproximada).
Para el casting va con Omar a la Lenin. Por entonces alojan allí a estudiantes de teatro de la Escuela de Instructores de Arte. Busca a dos actores capaces de reconstruir aquella escena sin convertirla en otra cosa. Omar conduce. Él lleva fotografías, unas notas, la cámara.
Durante el trayecto le pregunta qué clase de muchacho necesitan.
La pregunta vuelve a incomodarlo.
—Un actor.
—Ya sé que un actor.
—Entonces.
—¿Cómo tiene que ser?
Mira por la ventana.
Piensa en el chileno.
En él a los doce.
Piensa en Tony sosteniendo la cámara unas horas antes y preguntándole qué vino realmente a filmar.
—No sé —dice.
Omar se ríe.
—Tremendo director.
—Que se parezca a un recuerdo.
—Eso está más difícil todavía.
Siguen.
En 2001 cree que están haciendo un casting.
Muchos años después, cuando intenta reconstruir cómo funcionaba La Virgen de los Peregrinos, recuerda esta escena y se incomoda. Una persona sentada frente a otras, mirando rostros, descartando, acercándose, tratando de encontrar en un desconocido algo que ya lleva previamente en la cabeza.
No es lo mismo.
Lo sabe.
No quiere pensar demasiado. Le gusta escribir así. Más intuición, menos inducción.
Un casting no es una selección criminal. Una cámara no es un arma. Un deseo no es un delito.
Y, sin embargo, quizá por eso entiende tan bien el mecanismo.
Porque toda selección empieza con una imagen previa.
Buscan algo antes de saber quién va a encarnarlo.
La diferencia está en lo que hacen cuando por fin aparece.
Tony había entendido algo antes que él.
Por eso le quitó la cámara.
Antes de decirle quién era, quiso saber quién era el hombre que lo estaba mirando.