Story of My Death, my first foray into Albert Serra’s cinema. The film is eponymous with Casanova’s autobiography, which Serra uses, along with the fictional Dracula, to create a narrative set at the end of the 18th century. The duality of the two figures, according to Serra in his interview with Cinema Scope, is positioned to depict the beginning of romanticism – embodied by Dracula in his lucious blood-sucking form – during that period, concurrent with the end of rationalism represented by Casanova.
The first half of the film, set in Switzerland, consists mostly of long conversations that observe Casanova’s quotidian activities in his ornate mansion; he conducts most of the talking, delivering disquisitions on geopolitics, sex, food, etc. Nobody addressed him by name, and his monologues never served an expository purpose to fill in the context for the audience regarding his importance as a figure. Nominally a biopic, Serra approaches his depiction with an almost absolute freedom. Casanova dominates the scenes by Vicenç Altaió’s exaggerated performance – his upper teeth clenching lower lip, always leaning back into his chair like he desires to be swallowed by it, and he tends to laugh hysterically at the inopportune moments.
Serra’s languid observation of Casanova’s ludicrous lifestyle gives the impression that he wants his cake and to eat it too. The problem is that he not only wants to observe but also underline. The essence of his observation is the derision of his subject matter. In the most egregious example, it is not enough for us to watch Casanova taking a dump in a medium shot with exaggerated sound effects; he then cuts to a close-up of Casanova’s ridiculous expression. It’s rather an awkward combination of formal inconsistencies and a childish sense of humour. Do we really need the cut to understand what exactly Serra is trying to say here? No, but he is so amused by his aristocrat taking a shit that he demands that we look closer. And maybe the derision of shit may in fact turn into gold.
The film is cut down from 440 hours of footage, and Serra admittedly played with the conversation scenes during the edit. For example, a character’s response may not have been originally intended for the question the audience sees in the film. This free play of dialogue and conversation is the opposite of the compositional rigour that each frame creates. Many cuts from a stiltly composed master or double to a single are quite clunky and lack any rhythmic understanding of the dramatic situation at hand. When I watch a static composition from a film of Tsai Ming-Liang, I instinctively understand the decision to compose and hold the shot for an extended amount of time, because there is inherently an idea of movement (or the lack thereof), and spatial logic transcends the ostensibly rigorous frame when human bodies occupy it. In other words, the cuts that invariably appear all contain weight. Because Serra has granted himself so much freedom and leeway, the sequences he creates feel mostly weightless.
There are certain sensorial pleasures to be found in the latter half of the film. Although they are not the pleasure of listening to Casanova biting a pomegranate in the hugely exaggerated sound design. Instead, as a snapshot of a specific time and place, the film sustains a palpable degree of immersion because one in five shots makes interesting use of sunlight, window reflections, or darkness that absorbs the spaces where the characters lie around. The movements of bodies are what intrigue within the incorporation of Dracula. When a vampire tries to bite a person’s neck, they disguise their intent by pretending to lean over for a kiss. The tension between the closely approaching bodies morphs into a double entendre, a sexual tension and physical danger, with both interpretations involving the desire for bodies.
During one of his monologues, Casanova remarks on how writing is always in front of you. The torpidity of film seems like the antithesis of Casanova’s definition of one who writes. So the rationalism that Casanova purportedly represents is contradicted by the staleness of life that stems from the aristocracy’s cynicism and complacency, which sucks the artist’s inspiration out of the frame. Unlike Dracula or Casanova himself, this type of sucking signals no romance or desire. Instead, like the title of Casanova’s autobiography and the film prophesied, it is a sign of death before death. A waiting game with the end in sight. If one finds joy in this sardonic game, feel free to indulge Story of My Death, but as the film stands, rather than rationalism or romanticism, it exudes cynicism for both.
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