Theodore Ushev discusses his masterful new film ‘The Physics of Sorrow’
The latest film from the Academy Award® nominated, Montreal-based Bulgarian experimental animator and director Theodore Ushev is The Physics of Sorrow. Adapted from and inspired by the writings of Georgi Gospodinov (on which Theodore’s 2016 film Blind Vaysha was also based), the film is a stunning, half-hour examination of an unknown man’s travels through life and across the globe. Having moved on from his early years in communist Bulgaria to a listless adulthood in Canada, he likens his labyrinthine life path to the roaming minotaur of mythology, accompanied by a miasma of memories, self-reflections and yearnings for simpler times.
Featuring the voices of Rossif and Donald Sutherland, the film’s themes encompass the poignant dynamic of father-son relationships, the turmoil of immigration – and what the term denotes – as well as traversing the daunting landscape of self.
No stranger to challenging animation techniques (prior work has seen him animate using his own blood), for this latest piece Theodore has made use of encaustic painting, a technique dating back to antiquity in which a paintable substance is created from heated beeswax mixed with coloured pigments.
Skwigly were delighted to again catch up with Theodore to learn more about this fascinating approach and his personal journey of crafting The Physics of Sorrow.
Your previous film Blind Vaysha was also adapted from a Georgi Gospodinov story – can you tell us a bit about your connection to/relationship with the writer?
Actually, I began working on The Physics of Sorrow first. In 2011 I read the book [of the same name by Gospodinov] in one night. The next morning, I had the film in my head. A friend of mine, she knew Gospodinov and contacted him—and voilà! I started working on it. Afterwards, I made Blind Vaysha; actually, the idea was that Blind Vaysha would be part of an omnibus film based on his short stories. But due to some problems with the financing of the omnibus, I finished Vaysha first—the NFB and Marc Bertrand were kind enough to let me do it—and at the end of it all I found myself with not one but three films based on Gospodinov’s books (because after that I made my short for the omnibus film 8 minutes and 19 seconds, and it was my first live-action film. But there was no time and no budget for another animated film anymore!).
What were Gospodinov’s impressions of your version of Blind Vaysha? I would presume positive as you have continued to collaborate but I’m always curious to hear how authors respond to adaptations of their work.
We became very good friends. He writes the same way as I draw. There was never a problem in the creative process; he understands that it’s extremely difficult to turn his “poetical realism” into a film. So he just let me do whatever I found was needed for the film. He gave me advice, feedback—sometimes I found it useful, sometimes it didn’t work. Actually, I’m more afraid of how he’ll take The Physics of Sorrow, because it uses his writing but the action in the film is completely different from the book, invented by me, or blended with stories from my childhood or my friends’ stories. So the film is as far from the book as it is close to his writing style. I just tried to interpret a world closer to his. Not literally, but emotionally, a “poetical realism.”
Were there any particular themes, characterisations or story threads in The Physics of Sorrow novel that appealed to you the most as far as deciding to adapt it?
The reason this book resonated so much with me is that it was “my story.” I felt as if Gospodinov spoke with the voice of my generation. When he talks about his childhood, he talks about mine as well. We often joke that we’re the Minotaurs from the dark basements of our small, provincial towns. “I am us.”
Was it a difficult process to filter which elements of the source material would be best served by a half-hour animation, and were there plans at any point to perhaps adapt it to something longer or shorter-form?
A shorter film wouldn’t have been possible. Yes, we were conscious that the length of this film (27 minutes) is not typical for the world of animation. But I didn’t care; I wouldn’t change the length of a film based on whether it will be accepted in the festival world or what its chances at commercial success are. And we were right: despite the runtime, the number of film festivals it’s been accepted to is amazing, almost 95% of the ones we submitted to.
While the concept of yearning for ‘what once was’ is certainly relatable to any generation, does is carry an added personal resonance for you in this day and age, in our current political climate?
Absolutely. This film is a time capsule. It contains objects, memories, sounds and hopes for current and future generations. How much those generations will learn from our mistakes is not yet known. I must say, I feel that our generation failed in their most important mission: to make a better world. We thought that living a happy, relatively successful, colourful life would automatically turn the world into a “paradise on Earth.” Our lack of empathy backfired. And now we find ourselves back in the basement that we’d left. With all our fears, demons, tyrants and ghosts of the past. Our world has suddenly turned into a dirty, polluted, closed space, a Minotaur’s labyrinth.
Photo: © Stephan Ballard
Did the decision to animate using encaustic painting come as a direct result of this story being developed into a film or had you planned to use it beforehand? If the former, which elements of the story most informed the decision to animate using this method and why?
I imagined the film as a time capsule. The first time capsules were the ancient Egyptian tombs, which contained everyday objects. On the lid of the sarcophagus they painted amazing, realistic portraits of the dead inside. All those portraits are still intact because of techniques they used. They heated beeswax until it turned into a liquid, mixed it with pigments, painted on wood while it was still hot. This technique is called encaustic painting. So I decided, damn it, I have to find a way to animate like this! No one had tried it before. It was so hard to adapt it for animation! My first attempts and scenes were a disaster. But scene after scene, the paintings got better, the movements got smoother. It was like memory sculpting. You have a drawing, then you completely destroy it so you can create the next “frame.” You don’t have time to attend to details, to fix your mistakes. The wax melts in its own way, you control the movement and let it dry, then melt it again. After a few months, I was able to animate six seconds of film per day. Finding my own little tricks, reinventing the medium. I felt like an archaeologist discovering Tutankhamun’s tomb! It was an exciting process. I could easily continue to create more and more minutes of film. I got addicted to the smell of the pure beeswax. My producer, Marc Bertrand, joked that my studio smelled like a candle workshop or an orthodox church. That was indeed my temple. I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said those six years of animating the film were the happiest time in my life.
Can you describe what precisely the process of encaustic painting entails?
I built my own modern version of the encaustic mechanism. A pancake electrical plate (with controllable temperature). It’s all about the temperature that heats the wax. It can become a liquid or a paste, depending on what you need. A little secret ingredient that my father taught me (he’s a painter as well) resulted in a different substance too. So, you paint very fast, with a soft brush, with different mediums, bleached wax, damar gum (at the end I started experimenting with carnauba palm wax, which raises the melting temperature, in order to preserve the elements that don’t need to change). Pure alchemy!
While it has been used historically throughout the ages, to the best of my awareness encaustic painting is not a common animation approach. Have there been any notable attempts to use it for animation before this film?
As far as I know, it had never been used in an animated film. Or, if there had been any attempts, they were by fellow animators who visited my studio during those eight years—my encaustic studio at the NFB became a kind of attraction—some of whom may have tried to “steal” the process from me; but as far as I know, they quickly abandoned it due to the extreme difficulty of the technique. You have to be in very good shape to do this for eight hours a day. Strong shoulders, strong back, steady legs, and most important of all, you have to be able to paint very fast. Which puts more stress on your palms. So I can safely say that this is the first-ever film to use the encaustic technique. And probably the last, as I never use a technique more than once.
The end result is undeniably stunning and makes a case for it to be used more frequently as an animation method – what would you say are the most challenging aspects of this technique?
As I mentioned before, you have to be in really good physical condition. You can think of it as a workout. Plus, you need to be brave and have good painting skills. And not doubting yourself is crucial. You have to not be afraid of making mistakes during the process. So will power and stamina are key.
By contrast, did going down this route open up any new avenues for you artistically that you might not otherwise have explored?
For sure, it was a challenge. But if it hadn’t been, I couldn’t have done it…
Photo: © Stephan Ballard
In terms of the overall labour of the film did you take on the bulk of the animation yourself or did you work with a crew (and if the latter were there any challenges in getting them acclimated to the process so as to ensure a consistent end result)?
No, I never work with a crew or animators. I always animate everything myself. How could I explain to someone where to make mistakes, where to be more expressive?
I note that this film is dedicated to your father, who I gather played a significant role in your introduction to encaustic painting. Did this connection also extend to the themes and story of the film itself?
That was the most difficult part. Yes, he helped me enormously with his advice, experience… My script was written in 2011. He was in good shape back then. Still, I clearly saw some deterioration in his health. The scene in which my mother calls me was fiction when I wrote it. But then it happened, almost exactly as seen in the film, late in 2018. The scene was already animated, all my portraits of my father were done. I have goosebumps just thinking about it! I kind of predicted my father’s sickness, his death. I knew it would come one day but was hoping it would be later. Sadly, that was not the case. Around this time a year ago, I saw him conscious for the very last time. In December 2018, he passed away. I was just in the midst of painting the final scenes, and he was gone… If I’d still been creating his portraits at the time, I wouldn’t have finished the film on time…
I remember editing the film. While working on the scenes with my father in them, I was constantly bursting into tears…
With much of your previous work music plays an important part, choosing pre-existing pieces to drive the narrative rather than a bespoke score. What are the advantages of this approach and do you have a process for selecting which pieces best suit the vision of the film?
My process is extremely intuitive. I just kind of feel what pieces of music I need to serve me. That’s why I rarely use new, original music—I’m a control freak. If I were to work with a composer, he would have to be able to compose as I see it, but without imitating other composers… I don’t like imitation in scores… Sadly, I can’t engage Mendelsohn, Schubert or Françoise Hardy to create an original score for me…
To reprise an earlier question, did Gospodinov have any direct involvement in the development of this vision of the film and has he seen the end result?
No, he wasn’t involved in the vision and hasn’t seen the film so far. I’m planning to surprise him during the screening in Sofia this fall. He’s read the script, though probably not the final version. But I’m very optimistic about his reaction. Like I said: we breathe with the same rhythm 🙂
In anticipation of its world premiere is there anything about the film in particular you hope will resonate with audiences the most?
I hope that the audience forgets about the technique and dives into the story and the emotions. That’s why I made this film.
The Physics of Sorrow is part of the Annecy 2020 online edition‘s Official Selection programme 4. Full access to the festival, which runs from June 15th-30th, is available for €15 – visit annecy.org for accreditation info.