Films of the Brothers Quay
Opens Fri Oct 27 at the Grand Illusion.

FOR 20 YEARS, since their dazzling debut with the moody Nocturna Artific-iala, the Philadelphia-born, London-bred identical twins the Brothers Quay have carried the torch of surrealism through the halls of cinema. Their work combines flawless animation, delirious sets, and an obsessive use of objects--dolls, balls, miniatures--to create what are widely accepted as modern cinema's most compelling dreamscapes. These are two of the most technically talented filmmakers working today, with a style that is seductive and inimitable (though many try to copy them--witness the flaccid plagiarism in the recent film The Cell). Their newest film, In Absentia, opens a retrospective of some of their best work this Friday at the Grand Illusion.

Following a viewing of this work, Charles Mudede and I sat down to answer some meaningless questions.

JAMIE: What the Brothers Quay present is a world where symbols and images are very much alive, but hidden behind man's desire to narrate them and intellectualize them. They are attempting to create a lexicon of abstract thoughts and images. Take In Absentia: the lexicon of light, of time.

CHARLES: They make films that self-consciously subvert meaning. And once that happens, another world is exposed--the world outside of use. The useless world.

JAMIE: I would maintain that they are subverting meaning in a new, constructive language; they are trying to subvert the laws of meaninglessness by providing a logic and language of dreams that can then be used in everyday life. André Breton said, in his first surrealist manifesto: "If the depths of our minds conceal strange forces, capable of augmenting or conquering those on the surface, it is in our greatest interest to capture them."

CHARLES: With a film like In Absentia, or any surrealist work of lesser quality (like that hack Salvador Dali--who, by the way, was Norman Rockwell's brother; they were just separated at birth), interpretation is a weakness. What the surrealist does is produce objects or images that are empty of meaning. And how can we interpret something that has no meaning? True, they are beautiful images, but we should leave them as is: Reserve yourself, do not give in--because then you have been tricked into giving meaning to what is ultimately meaningless.

JAMIE: But that would imply that there is no narrative, which is wrong. In In Abstentia, you inevitably draw a narrative, because, at the end, the Brothers Quay let you know that the film is dedicated to a woman who is locked in an asylum and wrote love letters to her husband. The moment you see that, you create an entire narrative for the film. The mindscapes, especially the images of light, are suddenly laden with meaning--with the applied meaning that comes from interpretation.

CHARLES: But it's important to see things without them having meaning. It is important to not surrender to the intellect. Supposing we were "mind mechanics," and we went into the mind of the insane wife in the film and said, "What we have here is a consciousness that is not operating properly; everything is distorted. Things are too close, sounds are too loud (that amazing Stockhausen soundtrack), things are out of focus. Let's tune this consciousness so that everything falls into order." Once you fixed these problems, then the beautiful images would be normalized, would have meaning. It's at this point, in the normal and in-focus world, that we can interpret what is happening.

JAMIE: I agree that the intellect is constantly in opposition to the other senses. When you eat a hamburger, you are thinking about how bad it is for you, but it tastes great, and when you drink, your body feels good, but still, your mind plays tricks on you and tells you it is a bad way to be. So the intellect and senses are in opposition, they are warring for control of the body and spirit. But I don't think you can avoid it when faced with a work of art. I don't think anyone can stand before, say, an abstract painting, and see only the surface, devoid of meaning. The intellect is engaged by any work of art--in fact, this is why Hollywood films are not art. They try so soullessly to subvert the intellect that you're no longer able to have an intellectual connection to the work.

CHARLES: You've set off something there that demands an entire investigation.