The Habibi Collective

November 03, 2020

Growing up in the west after 9/11 as a child from South-West Asia and North Africa, was an experience characterized by isolation. Your narrative was taboo. Your access to others of the same experience was treated as an act of conspiracy. Accessing your own culture, your heritage, and your people not only othered you, but it was also difficult. It meant watching people that look like you experience unimaginable hardship on the eight o’clock news, and you had to pretend like they were some unknown, far away character of fiction. It meant knowing you were lying to yourself.

Yet, there are those of us who felt the isolation and chose instead to reach beyond the material into the virtual. The internet provided escape routes out of cultural solitude. For those who understood it, it was not a means of communication, but rather a rapidly growing and infinite archive, waiting to be explored. And, simultaneously, it was empty, waiting for stakes to be set in the ground for others in case they ever got lost wandering through the same fields looking for familiar faces.

Interview by Saam Niami
Photos by Malini Vaja
Stills from films featured in The Habibi Collective archive

One such adventurer I have come to know is Róisín Tapponi, an Iraqi-Irish film curator, film programmer, and writer, known to many inquisitors as The Habibi Collective. Róisín has single-handedly created one of the most comprehensive archives on the internet on South-West Asian and North African film, period—but the specific mission of The Habibi Collective is to act as an archive for women filmmakers from the region. The Collective is far-reaching in its implications and archival value. And, as it is staged on Instagram, it has an international reach on a massive platform available to anyone with an Instagram account, circumventing the exclusionary nature of academic and artistic institutions. With almost daily posts of movie stills, videos, presentations, and online screenings shared directly with over twenty thousand followers, the outreach rivals decades-old institutions. Róisín is possibly one of the most successful contemporary film curators in what she has created and proven with The Habibi Collective.

And the emotional gravity, too, of the project is almost as valuable as its successes. It's an instant, approachable archive to culture unavailable to entire generations of both those living in the diaspora as well as those without access to institutions in the region. The Collective is a bridge to culture kept away by distance, politics, and trauma. What once required academic resources or institutional support is now available in your pocket. It’s a project of healing. And it began, exists, and will remain all on Róisín’s phone.

On almost a daily basis, I see people I follow within the diaspora share something from The Habibi Collective. Often, I see people who have never met each other, in different parts of the world, share the same post. And when one does post something from The Collective, it sparks a dialogue, usually difficult to begin in the first place, about the art and culture we all, as one, are searching for. And that’s perhaps one of the most shocking parts of all, that the entire “Collective” so-called is all done by Róisín. Something so significant to so many people is performed by one single person. Entire conversations around culture building begin because of what Róisín decides to post one day.

And I wondered about that throughout writing this article, but never actually got the chance to ask Róisín about it: why is it called The Habibi Collective if it’s just one person? I have begun to interpret, whether this was the intention or not when she began it years ago, that perhaps it’s because we, all of us that receive the archive, are a part of the Collection. Róisín, in real-time, is performing the priceless labor of diaspora building, collectivizing us in spite of the borders that have separated us.

I spoke to Róisín over Zoom, me in Los Angeles, she in her London flat, an appropriate accommodation for a conversation about what is possible at a distance. We spoke on The Collective, future projects in film, and Róisín’s background in journalism.

Hi Róisín, how are you doing?

I'm doing good, thanks. it's been quite a hectic day. I just got back to my flat and I fully crashed, fell asleep. I'm working on a project with The Anthology Film Archives in New York. It’s a really exciting project. Pre- Lebanese Civil War cinema, which isn’t mainstream. There’s no archive, basically. I'm working with a critic and we're trying to make the archives. That's a fun research-led project. but yeah, so that, so I just had that, so I just came up with that. How are you, how was your day?

Where are you right now? Are you in London?

Yeah, I'm in London.

Which area are you in?

I'm in East London and I've always kind of lived in East London when I've been in England. it's very nice.

All of my family is completely displaced, I grew up in a million different places, constantly moving. I'm still living out a suitcase, but this is officially my home and yeah, I very much like it here. It suits me and I have my friends and everything.

I want to get right into the Habibi Collective. What is The Collective to you?

It’s not a business or anything and it's very much based on my motivation. It’s a grassroots initiative, a community-led project. It’s a resource. An open-access site, that's the weird thing about it. It doesn't exist solely in academia, where a lot of my research lies, but also it's not completely divorced from critical inquiry. So it's operating in this weird ground. It's also very much now operating outside of institutional spaces which was a conscious decision I made in the past year or so. If you had to have a geographical map of the arts, cultural film scene, I don't know where it would lie. Yeah. I don't feel like I can explain what it means to me without being able to place where it is for other people.

How did it come about?

It started in 2018, but my research started way, way before that. I grew up primarily in Ireland in the middle of nowhere. I watched a lot of films. I'd watch a director a night. so I would watch a lot of like, John Casavetes I loved, I loved Harun Farocki, I loved Cheryl Dunye, I loved Trinh T. Minh-ha, a lot of essay films. I'd watch a director and night by the stove.

This was very much at the time when I didn't have any cinemas near me. I wasn't in a city, but it was social media platforms started to become a thing. A lot of what I was discovering was online. It’s not like there’s much of a diaspora, apart from my family, in Ireland. Everything I found was on me. I started making a film log, which I still keep to this day, a chaotic 2003 Microsoft document.

I saw that there was a lack of films by Arab women. And that was a huge part of my identity that I wasn't seeing represented on screen. So, my practice is, and always will be, and has been research-led. So I started researching, and I remember watching Measures of Distance by Mona Hatoum. She’s a Palestinian-Lebanese visual artist who studied in London. It's an essay film about her mom, a correspondence. It's very beautiful. That was a huge turning point for me.

I started from that, from that moment on, actively searching for films by Arab women. There was nothing natural about my finding these films. They weren't available to me. Arab women's film especially is very prominent right now. It's very famous. When you think of big films from the region, you think of Haifaa al-Mansour, Nadine Labaki, Shahad Ameen, Charien Dabis, you think of women! But it was not like that at the time.

A lot of people in interviews ask me, “Why are you focusing on women films when programming seems pretty equal now?” My programs, the non-Habibi ones, are always fifty percent men, fifty percent women, or like more women, but there's nothing natural about that. I get sent 98 percent of films by men. And then I have to do that hard research to find women and then somehow make the program equal. So there’s nothing natural about this growth in women filmmaking. It has been the result of a lot of people working hard behind the scenes.

Again, the same premise of people thinks that the most famous films are the best. Which is so not the case. They’re the most famous because they have the most money and they have the best producer and they have the working distributor.

And so I started Habibi, on Instagram, for a few reasons. I was interested academically, in the archive and in an open-access site. I think accessibility has always been at the heart of what I do. Instagram is super accessible. You don’t need a JSTOR password to access it. So I started posting stills from films that I was watching. Now, I usually get some sent to me or I can reach out to other curators. There's no business plan or anything. It's a community that just grew. None of the people that engage with the Habibi Collective are there because they love film. They’re not film buffs. They're there because of representational purposes because they're seeing themselves represented on screen.

So a lot of people started asking, ‘Where can we watch this work?’ They still ask me that every single day and it fucking drives me mad, but that's how I started curating screenings because, I was like, ‘Okay, people want to see these films. I want to see these films.’ So every screening has been sold out to date and they've kind of been everywhere in the world or wherever I'm invited. And I curate around themes. Climate migration. Queer identity. I don’t like to curate around national borders because borders are so precarious in the region and also that's so homogenizing. We never see a festival around ‘American cinema,’ so why should we have one in Lebanese cinema? Though, I have curated in that vein when I have a mission, like a fundraiser. So for example, I did a Sudanese experimental film festival in Sweden to raise funds for the revolution when it was happening. And also I recently did the Beirut artists festival. And of course, the Independent Iraqi Film Festival. And the screenings I do are always free. They’re always after work hours and always attended, which I think is a really strong accomplishment in London. The audiences are young diasporic people of color, people who work in the arts. They're not the white, neoliberal people that are managing the arts in London.

Left — Serheldan (2003), dir. Serheldan Ahmad and Christine Chamas

Top right — Mussolini's Sister (2018), dir. Juna Suleiman

Bottom right — The Three Disappearances of Soad Hosni (2011), Rania Stephan

Wow, that is such a huge accomplishment.

Yeah, I'm pretty proud of that. I think that's what I'm most proud of. For Habibi Collective, even now that it’s getting more popular, the people that it’s made for are the people that are consuming it. Maybe because I'm a very shrewd businesswoman. I have my very strict politics of production. I'm very strict with how I run things and that has helped me keep control. It hasn't been swept up by brands.

What is your relationship with the films that you deciding? I read something you said in an interview, a film archivist is the part of the film industry that isn't appreciated but they're doing the most work. And I wanted to know what is your actual mentality behind choosing a film and how do you engage with the politics of the films you choose?

Well, there’s a lot to say about politics. The people that I admire in the industry are, first and foremost, P.K. Nair, who was an Indian film archivist, and also kind of Henri Langlois, who was a film archivist in Paris. We don't have an equivalent in the region. In London we have the BFI, in New York, we have the Anthology Film Archives. In the region, I get friends sending me all the time film reels that they've saved from the garbage. And with the heat, people don't know how to preserve these reels. Everyone wants to be a filmmaker. Yet, there’s so much work to be done. So much work. And there's a huge lack of people willing to do that work. So I guess I'm just trying to inspire other people to do similar things.

As for the politics of how I choose films, when I started getting commissions it was from London-based white institutions. And then I realized the program's presence in their public program was just to tick those diversity boxes that would get them more funding that I should have been getting. I've always rejected them because they're fine showing a Black artist, but they're not willing to represent that diversity in their boards or in their staff. So a lot of what I do is working beyond the politics of representation and towards the politics of production.

And by that, I mean supporting the filmmakers beyond just screening their films. And, I'm a moving, breathing film. So I will link people up with suitable people like scriptwriters, producers, or I'll help submit their films to festivals or I'll offer advice or give talks. It’s kind of like a directory. I feel like a feel directory. I come across people like that. And then that's how I gain exposure to their work. And then I work with their film. So that's how I find films. The whole project came out of a lack of resources. There’s no online directory where you can search for an Iraqi film on the revolution in Tahrir Square. Everything I receive is from contacts, from people in the film industry who I know and hear.

I'm a bit bored of institutional critique. I used to think that my presence in these spaces would help diversify them, but it doesn't. I like to work in my own kind of space. I have quite a lot of freedom within how I program the films. For example, I directed the Queer MENA Film Festival and that was something that I never would have been able to do in collaboration with an institution in the region. And even distribution is very political. So, distributors, especially now that we've all moved online, have to do this thing called geo-blocking. Neighboring countries who they don't like don't get to see the films.

I was looking into the Independent Iraqi Film Festival, and I wanted to know what that whole experience was like and the reception of it. I read too somewhere that you were talking about how doing it online and independently from an institution in the region saves you the trouble of going through the politics, but how was the actual process of the festival, and did it start online or did it move into that with the pandemic?

I don't particularly like film festivals. They're very, very cold. They’re culturally gatekeeping. They're very exclusive. With Cannes, the biggest independent film festival in the world, they didn't even show it online and it's just that kind of behavior.

So it was built on being creative and finding a new way that film festivals can be run. I was working with three really incredible, amazing people, Israa Al-Kamali, Shahnaz Dulaimy, and Ahmed Habib, all Iraqis. I was directing and doing the programming mainly. We decided, well, I kind of put forward that we don't charge. If you're a filmmaker applying for a film festival, you need to pay an entry fee, usually quite an extortionate one. You need to have a certified producer and you need to have a European distributor among many other things. So we scrapped all of that. Anyone who wants to apply can apply. And also, we were going to pay you as well. We're going to pay your screening fees. And we eliminated the competition element because that's something I really hate. If we wanted to mobilize filmmakers and create an industry, create community, I'm not going to pit them against each other.

We made it open internationally to anyone for free. Obviously no money in it at all. Zero. We didn't apply for any funding. And, it was online because it could reach more people, and also, none of us are living in Iraq. There’s a huge diaspora and the diaspora is very, very strong. I don’t think there’s any other SWANA community that compares. I guess because of the war.

So yeah, that's why we wanted to make it online so most Iraqis could access it. We also had everything in Arabic and English. and I think that's a big part of how we managed to get the huge Iraqi viewership, which is, again, the thing I'm most proud of. We managed to get our biggest viewers were Iraqis in Iraq.

Wow.

As for selecting the films, I watched over eighty films, and they were all very lo-fi, handhelds, all of this documentary, some really beautiful ones. We showed, obviously the ones that were of the highest quality. The women filmmakers were actually really difficult to find for Iraqi cinema. All of the women filmmakers, apart from Zahraa Ghandour, were a part of the diaspora. I think it's maybe because Iraq is a war zone. It’s very easy to ask, ‘Why aren’t there more Iraqi filmmakers?’ You have to respect that. People can’t just do that. It’s not safe.

We're going to have it next year as well. and we might have it. We'd like to have in real life. It will be very, very easy to have it in London, but I'm more interested to have it in Iraq. Although, I don't think the Iraqi government likes me much. I just don't think it will be a good idea or safe.

So you’re starting a streaming service, Shasha.

Yeah! So Shaha is Arabic for 'Screen.' That’s taking up all of my time right now. It’s a huge operation. There's a lot of us. I’ve always run Habibi Collective, I'm the only person involved. I didn't have money to pay a salary and free labor is one of the worst crimes in the art industry. So that was always my reasoning behind that. It’s just me on my phone. But, obviously, I need a lot of people to make a streaming service, so a huge web development team, UI designers, UX designers, graphic designers, brand identity people, programming, team marketing, blah, blah, blah.

So I made it separate from Habibi because we’re going to show films by men. Habibi's women and women-identifying folk, but Shasha is going to be everyone. And also it's a business, it's a streaming service, there's money, there are transactions. Habibi, I want it to stay beautiful, pure. Me on my phone.

It’ll be ready in January. It's the first independent streaming service for SWANA film, which is very exciting. It’s going to be like 20 films per month.

Left — 3eib (2020), dir. Sarah Bahbah

Top right — Be Like Others (2008), dir. Tanaz Eshaghian

Bottom right — Leila and the Wolves (1984), dir. Heinry Srour

Wow, really?

It’s not going to be a normal service. It’s going to be curated each month. I'm really excited. It probably wouldn't have happened without COVID because I was so busy with screenings. So many work trips planned, which all got canceled. I panicked. But now there is a higher demand for online screenings and also it just reaches more people. You can reach anyone in the world. so I guess it fits in with that whole digital foundation that Habibi was.

I wanted to know, too, about your online magazine ART WORK Magazine.

My first job was as a journalist. And this was at a time when fashion bloggers were a thing. I was writing about fashion stuff, then I lost interest in fashion, although I was a model and I was in the fashion industry again, but from a different position. And then I started becoming interested in art and my academic background is in comparative literature.

So, I never studied film or art. I've always studied literature. I started writing for the magazines I was reading. And also, I have a huge love for academic journals. When I first moved to the UK, South London, I remember being in the big Tesco's and seeing a copy of Vogue, which I had never seen before, and I was like, ‘Mum, can I, can I have this?’ And she was like, ‘What do you want that for?’ My family isn’t even remotely interested in the arts.

You don’t have to explain that one to me. Well acquainted with the attitude.

I was just very attracted to that world. I was working my first full time, journalist position at an Arab youth culture magazine, and I was freelancing at i-D and The Guardian.

And then, just like with film, I didn't really like how things were being run. I had all of these problems and I wanted to create a magazine that was completely moved away from that. Just have friends and people I admire write for it, cultural workers living on the margins. It's very chill. I don't want to try to make something big. We'll have the magazine, not stress about it. No bullshit.

It was a very slow process as well. In journalism, you have to file in like two days, whereas I literally worked on these texts for months with the writers and we'd meet up over coffee and stuff. When I’m freelancing, I never meet the people that I actually write for. So we built those relationships. It was collaborative. There was no hierarchy. And they were present through all of the editing. It was not about the actual output, but more about the process. I never really care about the outcome. The value for me is in the process.

Others of us would like to do the work that you're doing, not specifically archival film work, but more spotting holes in academia or ephemera within the region or about the region. Do you have any advice on how to get up and do the work to inform on the region?

I think the number one main thing is to do your research. I didn't, in no way shape, or form, start any of this being like, ‘I want to change something. I want to change the industry.’ I was just pursuing my interests. And I think that's the number one thing. When people ask, ‘How do I change things?’ You need to, first of all, know everything that you can know about film. You do the work first. I work with so many big institutions where the film team doesn’t know about film. People get into these high positions but it’s not because they know shit, most of the time. It’s about connections.

So, value that interest. And if people do have that one thing that they know a lot about and love, then go for it. Pursue whatever you want to change. You don't need a lot of money. You don't need loads of followers. That will come naturally if you are really persistent with what you want to do.

What I try to do is be really honest and transparent about money. And be open with your contacts, too. People are so weird about sharing their contacts. Share your contacts with everyone. That’s so important. Especially as a journalist. I’m always sharing. I have a database of about 300 press contacts which I share all the time so that other people can pursue careers in journalism, to pitch.

Don’t worry about making change, becoming activists, worry about actually doing your research and doing your hard work, and staying up all night, reading about whatever you're interested in. I think that's key, knowledge. Knowledge is power.

Culture

Celebrating Earth Day w/ Nike x office

No Earth Day celebration is complete without action, so here are 10 local NYC-based initiatives you can get involved in to preserve the planet we all share.

Join a community garden: NYC has many community gardens (Brooklyn Botanic Garden, Queens Botanic Garden, The High Line) that offer volunteer opportunities and workshops on sustainable gardening practices.
Volunteer with NYC Parks: The NYC Parks Department offers various volunteer programs, including tree planting, cleanups, and habitat restoration.
Participate in beach cleanups: Organizations like the Surfrider Foundation and the NYC Parks Department organize regular beach cleanups in NYC's coastal areas.
Get involved with local environmental groups: Groups like the Sierra Club, the Nature Conservancy, and the NYC Environmental Justice Alliance offer various volunteer opportunities and campaigns.
Take part in citizen science projects: Organizations like the NYC Audubon Society and the Brooklyn Botanic Garden offer citizen science projects that allow individuals to contribute to environmental research.
Join a local recycling program: NYC's Department of Sanitation offers various recycling programs, including organics collection and textile recycling.
Support local sustainable businesses: Choose to shop at local businesses that prioritize sustainability and environmentally friendly practices. (Here's a great resource for finding them)
Advocate for environmental policy change: Contact local representatives and participate in advocacy campaigns with organizations like the NYC Environmental Justice Alliance.
Participate in park cleanups: Organizations like the Central Park Conservancy and the Prospect Park Alliance offer regular cleanup events.
Join a local environmental activism group: Groups like Extinction Rebellion NYC and the Sunrise Movement NYC offer opportunities for individuals to get involved in environmental activism and advocacy.

Culture

Guess Who?

So, how are you?

I'm good. I'm going to tell you now, I have the worst desert dust cough in the entire world, so I'm going to try and not cough.

That's annoying. Does that happen every time you go to Coachella?

I think I just may have smoked one too many cigarettes, unfortunately.

Oh... I’ve been there. How was the weekend though?

It was a lot, but it was amazing. I'm just happy to be back, but I'm kind of a crazy person, I may be going again tomorrow.

Round 2?

I can't, if I go, I'm only going for a day.

Ok so chill. How old were you at your first Coachella?

I want to say my first Coachella was in 2017 or 2018.... It was either a year or two years before I graduated high school. I'm going to say 2017, I was like 16?

What was the energy like this time compared to then?

Oh my gosh. Very different. It wasn't as packed. It was very mellow, you could walk around and bump into so many people because there weren't that many. You could just see everyone. I feel like the first time I went to Coachella, it was such an intense experience because if you lost any of your friends, it was an immediate freakout, there were just so many people. But also, I feel like when I was 16, I was just such a degenerate. [Laughs]

Have you ever run into an ex, enemy, or crush during Coachella?

Oh my God, I ran into my ex this past weekend. And crushes all the time. Maybe one or two this weekend, nothing too crazy.

That's not too bad. Tell me about the GUESS JEANS compound. What was the vibe?

It was amazing. One of my best friends, Nicolai, just takes care of everyone. He's the most incredible person. There were, of course, a bunch of houses on the compound, but in my house, it was just me and my best friends, which was incredible. And across the street was one of my best friends, Devon, and her sister Sydney and like all of those people so that was really nice. And it was also very tight knit, there wasn't a lot of people, it was just a very buddy vibe, you know?

That sounds ideal. How were the parties?

The parties were pretty amazing. The party on Sunday was Metro Boomin and the whole XO crew and all of that. It's funny. I normally am not a trap scene kind of gal. I just can't get into it some of the time, but I was having the time of my life. It was absolutely amazing. I was on stage with fucking Metro and NAV, dancing and jumping around and moshing like a crazy person. Everyone was dancing on tables. Everyone had a bottle in their hand.

That sounds so fun.

It was 10 out of 10, then we went straight from that party into our house and ended up having a party that was like a full-on rave and our friend Hayes DJ'd, which was awesome.

Any messy moments?

I could tell you there were a few messy moments, but at the end of it, you're also just like, you know what? It's Coachella, it gets messy. But once it's over, all the mess, it's like, Oh, it was just at Coachella. It’s over now.

What happens at Coachella stays at Coachella.

Exactly.

Was there anyone you were looking forward to seeing perform?

This year, all the headliners were super sick, but I didn't really catch any of them. I am like a big techno baddie, so I was in the rave and I mean, it was incredible. There was Gesaffelstein who was amazing and Justice, Peggy Goo, Michael Bibi, Honey Dijon, Green Velvet, like I saw a bunch of people that I just absolutely wanted to see and died.

Then there was Khruangbin. I listen to them all the time in my house 24/7. I watch their live studio recordings and all of it. It was an amazing moment just for me because I've listened to the music for so long, and finally being able to see them on stage and watch their whole set, it was super magical and with all of my friends just right there, and it was an amazing moment.

I was almost going to miss it because I was so defeated. I was like, “I'm leaving Saturday. I can’t do it guys. I have to go. I have to leave.” But all my friends were like, Girl, just go back to sleep. And I went back to sleep and I woke up on Sunday and went straight into Khruangbin and I had the time of my life so it was worth it.

Did you hit up Brutalismus 3000?

No. What is that?

It's this electronic music duo from Berlin that's pretty cool, they started making music in 2020.

Sick. No, I didn't see them, but I'm going to have to check them out. Oh, but I also saw Boy Harsher.

Oh yessss, I love Boy Harsher.

Yeah, that was incredible, 10 out of 10. The speakers were definitely blasting and it was just so awesome. They're husband and wife, they were just on stage ripping together. It was just so cool to see, and they were having so much fun.

Okay so Chella Do's and Don’ts. Hit me with a few.

A do, definitely: bring a fanny pack. If you're carrying a purse at Coachella, you're doing it wrong — or just don't bring anything.

What do you always keep in your fanny?

If you go to Coachella without an ID you're screwed, like you need it to get alcohol. Hand sanitizer. Maybe a fan. Oh, sunglasses, chapstick, hair tie, like all the essentials.

Sahara tent or main stage?

Sahara all the way. Although I don't even think I saw one fucking thing at the Sahara tent, maybe Peggy Goo and that was pretty cool, but I was mostly in Yuma, the outdoor stage or the Quasar stage, which was incredible.

Drink of choice?

Vodka-cranberry. I was getting vodka cranberries every other second or Heinekens, because that's what was there. There was so much, I think they work with Coachella. I had a shit ton, and water babe. You have to stay hydrated. It's so gusty and dry out there.

So do water, don't be dehydrated...

Yeah, do water, don't be dehydrated, do… fucking… sneakers, not heels — actually cowboy boots, do cowboy boots or combat boots, not heels. You're in the trenches out there, you never know what's going to happen. Also don't leave your buddies. Do not leave your buddies. You'll get buried. You need your buddies at all times. It was like me and three to four friends out there which was fun.

Did you have a favorite look you wore?

Ooh, favorite look... either my Friday or Saturday look, I wore cowboy boots the first day and combat boots the second, shorts, a belt and a baggy tee, super shishi and super ravey. But it was so crazy and I was just talking with my friend about this, like when we were walking back to our sprinter to leave, there were girls out here in these teeny, tiny bikini tops and I'm just like, I don't know how you guys do it, but I salute you because it is so cold and so windy. I don't know how these girls are doing it, but they're doing it.

I guess, if you have a vision…

Yeah, if that's is your vision, then complete it, go through with it. No backing down.

What won't you do this weekend if you end up going again?

It's not about fashion this weekend. It's definitely about comfort. I think I'll probably be in sweatpants. I was pretty comfortable last weekend but definitely going in there way more chill. If I go back, I'm going to see the same people, but I just think I need to be a little more present. You know?

So no vodka cranberries is what you're saying?

Well… who knows?... Who knows? We're vodka-cran girls. [Laughs]

Culture

Noomi Rapace and Johan Renck Navigate Colliding Constellations

April 20, 2024

Johan Renck, the director of the new hit Netflix sci-fi movie, Spaceman, believes that especially today, you can do whatever the fuck you want and nobody will give a shit. "There are no rules." Fellow Swede Noomi Rapace, who stars in the new Apple TV sci-fi series, Constellation, echoes a familiar sentiment. So what is the point of art? Typically an antagonism towards the machinaions of culture, the role of art today is especially to make us feel more than it is to make us think.

In light of their concurrent releases, office Editor-in-Chief Simon Rasmussen (who has more in common with Noomi and Johan than their Scandinavian heritage) called them up to discuss life, love, isolation, reality, gargantuan spiders, creativity, and the role of traditional storytelling and a slower pace in a present driven by hysterical consumption. In this conversation, there are no rules to break.

Introduction by Sarah Hersom
Interview by Simon Rasmussen
Polaroid courtesy of Noomi Rapace

Noomi Rapace — I'm so excited to do this. I've been such a big fan of your work ever since I saw Downloading Nancy on a plane. I was completely destroyed. I watched it again straight away.

Johan Renck — That's funny. I just got an email from one of the producers. They're planning a restored re-release in LA. But same, I'm a huge fan of yours. You’re one of those Swedes who gets it. Always moving and shaking it all over the place in all sorts of ways. Relentless energy. You're like a Svengali; you bring people together, find connections, you know everybody on this planet, and you are a formidable actress.

Simon Rasmussen — Noomi, thank you so much for always being curious and wanting more and never settling for less. That energy is what we need.

NR — Before this call, I was thinking about the three of us. It’s crazy: one Dane and two Swedes who broke out and started something else. Your magazine is one of my favorites. It really digs into all my favorite art fields. I feel like a lot of things today slide into something where that becomes either too pleasing or too vulgar.

JR — I so agree with that. I used to just devour various publications and magazines, always in the world of fashion, culture, and music. It's amazing that you hold that banner up. I fucking miss the days of magazines when you’d go out once a month, buy a bunch, and spend the whole weekend reading, getting inspired and discovering shit. There's been a "death of publications" in a way that has forced almost all of them to become so ridiculously polished and policing and polite. I'm not interested in that at all.

Thank you. Sometimes young people approach me like, oh, Simon, I want to start a magazine, and I'm like, don't. It's not worth it. It's messed up [laughs]. It's a weird time for media. I used to buy at least five or six magazines a month, and that was how I got inspiration and knew what was going on. Honesty, in a sense, we don't need that anymore. It's like this weird thing where, yes, we go to magazines for photography, fashion, and culture, but it's so accessible now. We're caught up in our own speed of entertainment and media.

JR — I get it. What a magazine does is curate cultural output and write about it in depth. My sense is that we don't need them as much because many of the things that are covered in these types of publications are slowly dying. Music is no longer as relevant a carrier of youth culture, same with fashion and so on. Music is bigger now than ever, but it doesn't have that kick that it used to. It's not like people are dressing like their idols or writing their lyrics on walls in the city or anything. The same with fashion. It's like expressing yourself is no longer about fashion to some extent, it's gone past that. There are no rules to break. You can wear whatever the fuck you want, nobody gives a shit.

NR — When you screened Spaceman for me in New York, I was running around doing all these bits and pieces. Then I finally got to sit for two hours in the screening room that you set up and I just got to be in your world for a solid chapter. Those moments when you sit down and read an article, dive into a book or watch a film, become diamonds in me today, more than ever. I've watched your film three times now because it's such a beautiful piece. It feels like it's rooted in a love for traditional cinematic filmmaking, but also is a flirtation with the now. It doesn't rest, it never gets boring. It's not slow cinema, but it kind of feels like slow cinema.

Print magazines remind me of movies. Slow although they might not always be. Not to be nostalgic, but there’s that depth to it that grounds you and you can't help but get emotionally involved.

JR — To me, you're a product of the time you're working in. Any kind of expression you do is always going to be a bit of a protest. I'm very much an antagonist. I don’t follow formulas. If everybody's doing that, I'm doing this. In these days of being overfed with very trite content, the film has gone down in quality so drastically over the past 10-15 years. If you watch a dumb comedy from 2001, you go, Fuck, this is a proper film. Then you watch a serious drama today and you go, What the fuck is this shit? Bad writing, bad directing, bad everything.

NR — Because it's rushed!

JR — It's rushed, but it's also done for the wrong reasons. To me, any art form is ultimately about making people feel things, not think things.

NR — And it's not about being liked either. When everything is done to get as many likes as possible and make the loudest noise. That, to me, is like shooting ourselves to death because everyone is just making more and more noise, and I can't hear anything at the end of the day. That's one of the strengths of your film; there's a simplicity to it.

JR — Even subconsciously as a creator, you tend to draw from things that are meaningful to you. It's funny that Spaceman and Constellation premiered on the same day. Both films deal with loneliness and fractured relationships. In Spaceman, somebody asked our guy, "Are you the loneliest guy in the universe?" And in Constellation, somebody says, "And right now, this woman is the loneliest person in the universe." You can't help thinking about the fact that there is this increased sense of loneliness in general terms; we're all becoming more and more lonely. The reason both Constellation and Spaceman happened is that there's an identification with these types of sentiments and feelings.

NR — Also, who are we today? Many people don't take the time to reflect and actually look at their lives. The movies are the perfect setup for introspection. Am I living my life?

JR — But in Constellation, there's this profound moment that was much bigger than it's perceived. There's a scene where you're talking to yourself, saying something like, "It's weird how much pleasure I find in hearing when I can't hear any other voices. I'm so happy to just hear my own fucking voice." Do you remember that line?

NR — Yes. Something like talking to myself gives me a sense of comfort, even if it's just my own voice. It's like, "My voice makes me human. It lets me know that I'm still here."

JR — But I wouldn't be surprised if someone did a global poll and found that people are talking to themselves more than they were 15 to 20 years ago. I find myself talking to myself when I'm roaming around.

When everything is done to get as many likes as possible and make the loudest noise. That, to me, is like shooting ourselves to death because everyone is just making more and more noise, and I can't hear anything at the end of the day.

NR — Simon, do you talk to yourself?

I talk to Siri!

NR — [Laughs] With life it's like, what is success? Like an astronaut that worked so hard for a mission, prepping for years to go up there, and then they're up there. Then it's like, now what? I'm here, and I'm not sharing it with anyone. You can be the most successful star in any kind of field and still find yourself lonely.

JR — You can't share it with anyone. Every time you're away shooting something and you come home, part of you is bubbling with so many new experiences and things you learned, but it's impossible to share that. You know what I mean?

I love that part of what you shared, Noomi. It's a human condition where we're searching for this thing. Being able to make art is beautiful, but it also comes from a place of searching for this thing already there. I don't have to reach the outer galaxies to find out that the one I love was always right next to me. It's the same thing when we're creating things, existentially, it’s not going to make a difference.

JR — I agree with that.

NR — Hanus [in Spaceman] is almost like a modern Yoda because he speaks with thousands of years of wisdom, but almost with a childish belief in something more. Like Alice, in Constellation. Alice and Hanus are the two truth-tellers in our two different projects, reflecting without judgment, being a sobering and innocent eye on something that has gone seriously wrong.

JR — I agree, but the fact is that we're all only here for one reason, and we’ve been programmed for it. To consume. We've been duped into believing that when we're having a great dinner with friends at a restaurant, we're having a meaningful meeting. But what we're really doing is overpaying for a bunch of fucking food — spending money. Over the last 200 years, we've slowly turned into nothing but consumers. There are millions of micro actions in daily life that, if you flip over, you'll see like, yeah, man, it's part of the consumer pattern. That's all it is.

Unfortunately I think it’s just going to get worse. We've only been around for about 50,000 years compared to the 4 billion years of Earth's existence. There's a high chance that we won't exist in 50 years based on our hysterical consumption, and ideological ideas of “progress” and “success”. I sound like some old boomer communist now, but it's just facts.

You don't believe in a second chance? Or a resurrection?

JR — Of humanity? No, I don't. I believe in nature, and we have turned our back on the idea of evolutionary thoughts and on being a species interacting with our environment. I mean, a second chance, we're already past that.

There's a high chance that we won't exist in 50 years based on our hysterical consumption, and ideas of 'progress' and 'success'. I sound like some old boomer, communist now, but it's just facts.

NR — But what is the second chance? I mean, I've gotten so many second chances in life.

JR — Yeah, as an individual, but not as a species.

NR — So if we look at ourselves and the beauty of art… when an artist I love drops an album, I'm like, Whoa, I'm going to stay in this universe. I listen on Spotify, read the lyrics, and I stay there. Sometimes I feel like I've had multiple life chapters, like I can have a second chance and a third. We had this conversation after Lamb in New York. When something is new, I look at myself with fresh eyes. The beauty of life is that it’s constantly changing. Even dark and horrible things can lead you to something.

JR — I don't disagree with any of that on a personal level. But it's about the fact that there's nothing in the bigger scheme that drives towards the betterment of humanity. There are financial interests only. Everybody just wants more, faster, cheaper. I'm sounding bitter, but it's just a stern and factual look on things. All we can do is keep on doing the best we can, find beauty where we can, and find love where we can.

I agree. I'm seeing, feeling, and hearing a new generation born after the year 2000 — growing up with smartphones, Instagram, and whatever social media platforms they're on — and there’s a shift. There's a punk resistance. Punk is always going to exist, it just looks different with every generation. Now punk is being offline, not having an Instagram account, not giving a fuck about likes.

NR — Totally. I had a conversation with my son about that actually, who's 20. He hates Instagram and he's totally anti-celebrities. That is punk, as you say. There's a lot of hope in that.

JR — I mean, punk in all honor, I love. I grew up in the seventies. I had my own fucking punk band. I would still die on the hill for the Clash.

NR — What was the band called?

JR — I don't even fucking remember, I was 14. But punk unfortunately hasn't had a lasting impact beyond pop culture circles. The ‘70s punk scene didn't change the machinations of the bigger scheme. It didn't change governments, it didn't change laws. It's just a reaction or antithesis to cultural movements. But, punk will always exist in some way or another, and I love it.

I know for sure that a lot of kids have a completely different outlook on being online or offline, which is great. These kids are probably going to be smarter than others and they're probably going to grow up and become something good. But ultimately, it doesn't fucking matter because the bigger machine is going to quench all those kinds of things in order for everybody to get more and cheaper stuff.

The beauty of life is that it’s constantly changing. Even dark and horrible things can lead you to something.

NR — But all the responses to Spaceman and Constellation — the strong reactions and the love — suggests that these projects hit some kind of sweet spot in people because they question identity and reflect on life without cynicism. It's interesting because a lot of things are cynical today and still work really well.

Yet, there' are previous generations who have already gone through the circle of cynicism, dealing with mental health issues when it was taboo to say, 'I'm really fucking unhappy.” I feel like it's less taboo to say that now. And as you say Simon, there's this emerging subculture of youth that refuses to be online.

JR — I also see that in artistic expressions, we've built a lot of cynicism over the last couple of years. Even films like Barbie or Poor Things have a cynical aspect to them. I like that there's a movement against that because I'm not so interested in cynicism, and like you say, both Spaceman and Constellation are completely devoid of it.

NR — I feel that your films, whether Downloading Nancy or Chernobyl or Spaceman, have a love for humans that shines through, even in the darkest scenes or moments. I walk away from watching and engaging with your art feeling less lonely. The Chernobyl [disaster] is such a horrible event in human history, yet your masterpiece carries the simple message that we're just humans at the end of the day.

JR — Despite my somewhat gloomy view of the world, I wouldn’t say I’m cynical at all. I'm a humanist. I believe in love and beauty. As an artist, I'm just trying to express myself and be understood. It's a continuous process — sometimes people get it, sometimes they don't. But that's what we're all doing, trying to connect through our expressions. I believe in the human condition, in love, and for the most part, see the good in people.

But we have to remember how weirdly primitive we are. We're a very new species. If it takes an ant 200 million years to learn to live in a colony, just imagine. It's ridiculous. We're still bickering with neighbors, still trying to figure shit out. It's fascinating to think of how we're figuring it out as we go, rather than instinctively or the normal sort of means of any other species figuring things out in a balanced way.

To me, the beauty of life there, in exploring the unknown.

JR — Parenting is a prime example of that. You spend years in school learning about the Battle of Hastings and whatnot, and then suddenly you come home with a baby from the hospital, and it's like, “I don't know one fucking thing about what I'm supposed to do now.” The journey of learning how to deal with it is beautiful.

For me, it's finding out that everything is really simple. Like what Jakub finds out in Spaceman when he's like, “Fuck, it was there all along.” It's the same with parenting and anything else. We don't need all these things. Just be, and you'll be fine.

JR — There's something very simple and sort of pure with that outlook. It is what it is, just be in the now.

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