Tony Gatlif, an Algerian-French film writer/director of Berber and Roma descent, works between several cultures and his symbols in films like Vengo and Latcho Drom draw from each tradition. As such, the symbols become multi-layered and represent several different phenomena simultaneously. Two of Gatlif’s most important symbols (wind and water) figurativly embody the very places from which he writes, and this pattern of self-referencing symbolism sets into motion a cyclical movement that connectes to the film’s major themes. The pattern also compliments the complex nature of cultural symbols in Andalusia (the region of Spain where “Vengo” was filmed) and forms the center of what I would call a “Sirocco Aesthetic”.
Sirocco (from the Arabic, sharq which means “East”) is a term which refers to the seasonal winds that originate in the Sahara Desert, move across the Mediterranean Sea, and later transform the climate of Spain (where it is also called, “Leveche”), France, Italy, and countries farther east. These wind patterns connect North Africa, Andalusia, and though indirectly, India (the Roma motherland), and are an endless source of creative inspiration especially in flamenco song lyrics and compositions. The sirocco’s movement across the Mediterranean can be understood as a methphor of the complex history of previously connected groups (Roma, Sephardic Jews, Berbers, Moors, West Africans) that re-encounter(ed) each other in the seemingly familiar arid, desert-like terrain of Andalusia and completely transform(ed) Spanish culture.
The multiple meanings of the title, “Vengo” provide insight as to the relationship between the film’s recurring, seemingly disconnected symbols and support the central theme of repetition, cycles, and a collective Roma awakening. Translated literally, the word “Vengo” can be interpreted in at least two ways: ‘I come’ (from the first-person, present-tense form of the Spanish verb, “Venir”) and ‘I avenge’ (from the first-person, present tense form of the Spanish verb, “Vengar”). These two meanings are apparent in the main character’s decision to ‘come’ forth as the agent of ‘revenge’, and on another level, in his decision to ‘come’ to death, and ‘come’ to/reunite with his deceased daughter Pepa by offering himself to the Caravaca family. Both of these proposed movements are cyclical in nature and they metaphorically set the stage for Gatlif’s dynamic symbolism which penetrates a complex layer of historical cycles within the Roma Diaspora and the culturally diverse region of Andalusia.
When Caco (the main character) offers himself to the Caravaca family so as to resolve the ongoing family feud, the philosophy of group over individual is clearly put into action. Thus, the “I” in “vengo” can also be interpreted as “we come” and “we avenge”. With the importance of the group in mind, the first person singular of “venir” and “vengar” can be figuratively translated into a collective process that applies to the events in the film as well as an extra-textual, political affirmation: ‘We, the Roma, have come. We are claiming our history, our art, and our culture, and in this process, we are engaged in an act of revenge against those who have sought to oppress us.’ Importantly, this process of rising up, reclaiming, and avenging is done in a metaphoric Roma language that gains and generates power through the possibilities of multiple meanings. The relation of these meanings, distance between them, and their inseparability, forms a zone of dialogue that is aligned with cultural spaces such as Andalusia where so many linked traditions/histories have come into contact.
Setting the Stage: disparate lands, hybridity, and creating from between
“Vengo” opens with the sound of a flute being played and two boats moving across what appears to be a river. The beginning immediately links several potent symbols (flute, wind, water, music) that refer to the concept of the unity of disparate lands; the fluid, continuously moving connections between them; and those natural forces like wind and water which link them. On one boat, there is a rower and a man playing the laud and on the other boat, there are several people dressed elegantly, and a flute player. As the two boats move across the water (a symbolic journey between worlds) a musical dialogue between the flute player and the laud player begins and will continue on into the next scene.
On two levels, the boats metaphorically occupy the same historical and cultural space that the director both embodies and explores in the film: they are engaged in dialogue despite the water barrier between them, and physically, they are positioned between two shores. The concept of linking shores is also a reference to Andalusia’s geographic position: it is only an 8.5 mile wide strait that separates/connects North Africa and Andalusia, the southern region of Spain that was the one of the most important centers of Islam (711-1492) and place where Roma, Sephardic Jews, Berbers, Moriscos, Moors, Mozarabes, and West Africans lived together, intermarried, and borrowed from one another’s traditions. Culturally, the 8.5 mile Strait of Gibraltar is a superficial barrier: the architecture, food, language, history, aesthetic sensibility, and especially the music and dance all flow between the two continents like Sirocco winds and Mediterranean waters. The two mentioned elements are (both directly and indirectly) recurring figures in the film and are linked to the interplay between several other symbols that form a carefully coded alter-narrative. Though seemingly hidden, this sub-(his)story – triple-edged like the title “Vengo” -- nourishes the entire plot with a versatility rooted in Roma / Andalusian aesthetic practices and cultural traditions.
The boat scene establishes from the beginning Gatlif’s exploration of an Andalusia that is constantly moving between and in dialogue with North Africa, and a North Africa that is engaged in the same discourse. In addition, the boats and water can also be looked at as symbols of the Roma people who, throughout Indian-Spanish-North African history, have also linked (and re-encountered in) the mentioned lands. The position of moving between and uniting two shores is directly alluded to in the following scene when the group of “gitanos” performs with the group of North African musicians in a private festivity at the top of a hill.
The scene begins with a group of young Spanish Roma playing amongst themselves. As the flamenco duende mounts, the sound of the flute marks the point at which the North African group enters in dialogue. This moment (along with the first scene in which the flute initiates the musical dialogue between distant shores) establishes the flute as the wind instrument which will metaphorically delineate musical, cultural, and philosophical fusion. For a brief moment, the “gitanos” are hesitant to accompany the North African musicians but within seconds pick up the rhythm – a common rhythm for both groups – and join the latter group as one. The scene reaches a climax when the elder North African musician (he who drives rhythm by striking a glass instrument) sings to the flamenco guitarist’s accompaniment. The viewer – in this intense, strikingly clear moment of fusion – realizes that the North African musician is using the same tone, rhythm, intonation, and pitch as would a flamenco singer, and that the guitarist, while playing within the flamenco scale, is equally rooted in North African musical traditions.
Toward the end of the performance – and key to one of the symbols that Gatlif will continuously return to – a female dancer appears and moves in astounding circles reminiscent of the Turkish whirling dervishes. Dressed in white, she moves (often gracefully, often frenetically as if being mounted by a spirit, or perhaps, as a spirit) beneath an iron candle chandelier that is forged in what appears to be the shape of the Star of David and is enclosed by a surrounding circle (again reiterating the omnipresent symbol). Interestingly, the hexagram is also the Hindu symbol, Shatkona and -- as the balance between fire and water (again, a recurring symbol in the film), mankind and the divine -- is another prime example of Gatlif’s multi-layered symbols that further depict the multi-cultural history of Andalusia. A close-reading of Gatlif’s repeating circles and other symbols will directly connect this dancing scene to the scene in which Diego (Caco’s nephew) puts on a particular song, to Caco’s dream scene, and to the final events of the film. The choreography of the circle dance, it’s repetition throughout the film, the significance of the woman who is dancing, and connections between the living/deceased are all symbols imbedded in dynamic code-work that represents what is perhaps the philosophical center of the film: life and life’s events exist within a pattern that repeats itself in cycles. At an extra-textual or political level, the mentioned concept of cycles is linked to the resurgence of a collective Roma history and identity that (through artists like Antonio Canales, La Caita, La Paquera de Jerez, Camarón, Las Cigalas and Tony Gatlif himself) continues to avenge by (re)claiming a profound legacy which, though overlooked, has completely transformed popular culture throughout the world and especially in Europe and the Americas.
The rapid transition to the next scene – one which is solemn, silent, still, and in the daytime -- leads the viewer to quickly detach from the intense fusion of North African and Roma music and dance. The camera slowly pans over Pepa’s altar (Caco’s daughter who may have been killed in a similar kind of inter-family feud) and remains fixed on a small light near her photograph, flowers, the image of what appears to be a Saint, and the following words which I have translated into English:
Pepa, each night I will light a candle for you
Each night I will open a bottle for you
Your death is a flame that will never cease
The light/flame, continuous communication between living/deceased, and reference to the 'bottle' will be alluded to in later scenes and is linked to the increasingly multi-layered code through which the film’s symbols interrelate. This altar, as the viewer learns in the following scene, is located on the church grounds and is alluded to each time the church appears as an image and/or appears indirectly through the sound of bells that will also repeat at key moments in the film.
This dramatic contrast between the film’s first and second scenes opens a series of questions regarding their relationship. These questions explore whether the previous scene actually occurred in the “physical reality” of the plot or if it is an extension of Caco’s dream that will take place toward the middle of the film; whether the present scene in which Caco speaks to the spirit of his deceased daughter is occurring at the same time as the Roma/North African music and dance fusion scene; and whether the altar scene may be – through memory – conjuring the music and dance from the fusion scene or vice versa (the music and dance conjuring the present moment at Pepa’s altar). These questions, among others, spawn infinite readings that are all valid, all linked, and all connected to the themes of ancestral and political cycles, rising up, and the collective reclaiming of a Roma voice.
Further emphasizing the connection between music, dance, Pepa, and ancestral presence, the camera frames Caco in front of Pepa’s altar and the hundreds of other altars which are all numbered and adorned with small lights that illuminate the names of the deceased. Later in the film (after the Roma-Soldier encounter scene, one in which La Caita reaches deep within the Roma cante jondo tradition), Caco lights a candle for Pepa and the previously described image of the main character in front of hundreds of altars is repeated. Gatlif is clearly creating a pattern in his movement from music and dance, to altar, to the giving of light to Pepa’s spirit. Again, after the mentioned Roma-Soldier encounter, the contrast between the music scene and the altar scene creates a sense of detachment that connects music and dance to Pepa, the ancestral world, and the act of honoring the dead. In addition, the abundance of illuminated altars emphasizes the idea that deep within the film’s most powerful music and dance scenes is a legacy which is as much a part of the art as the very musicians. The camera then focuses on Caco who, wearing heavily the loss of his daughter, approaches the altar and taps on it’s glass encasing. The rhythm he taps – again alluding to the pattern of repeated symbols and the surrounding theme of circles/cycles – is the same rhythm that marks Caco’s procession towards his death after offering himself to the Caravacas at the end of the film.
Within the Sirocco: fusion, unity, cylclic movement
The scenes that follow gather a series of symbols (wind, water, bottle, flute, and circles) and string them together into one dynamic body. What had appeared to be several alter-narratives all unite, and the film’s cinematographic rhythm increases. After the scene in which Caco taps the same rhythm that will manifest as he stumbles towards death, there is a seemingly disjointed scene in which three of the main characters stop close to the village church and listen to the sound of wind move through a tree. It is here that wind acquires transcendental meaning and links to themes such as cultural unity and the powerful role of the ancestral world. When one of the protagonists listens to the sound of the wind – this same element that (like the water which also repeats throughout the film) connects Africa
and Europe, moves throughout the Roma Diaspora, travels like a spirit – he hears the distant cry of siguiriya and sings along. The other two family members begin to clap a rhythm that represents the transmission and reception of centuries of duende tradition, and reaffirms the central role of music and dance only moments before these two art forms simultaneously link the various narratives, seemingly disconnected symbols, and the film’s predominant themes.
Gatlif continues to develop a powerful cinematographic rhythm that carries into the scene in which Diego plays Pepa’s favorite tape. The stillness of the camera draws the viewer’s eye to Caco and Diego, yet in the background, the river from the opening scene flows, the wind moves through the trees, and an opened bottle slightly enters the screen (perhaps a reference to Pepa’s altar). The recording is the same music that was performed in the film’s first scene and the viewer learns that Pepa always cried when she listened to the tape. As the film’s symbols converge and the fury of thematic duende stirs, this scene indirectly alludes to memory: it is Diego’s memory of Pepa that frames the events, Pepa’s yearning for her ancestors that may have made her cry, and the pain of remembering his daughter that makes Caco turn off the tape. This conjuring of memory – again, rooted in music and dance -- develops further in the following scenes.
In previous music scenes, Gatlif moves from intense musical rhythm directly to Pepa’s altar. This time, however, he accentuates the transition towards the film’s narratological climax by including yet another powerful music scene that also takes place by the river. The scene opens with the sound of a flute which marks, once again, a symbolic space of fusion of histories and (now that music and dance is directly linked to Pepa) spiritual and physical realms. The sound of the flute fades into the night and Las Cigalas begin to play “arrincónamela” (‘surround/encircle her’, translated literally). The repetition of the word arrincónamela -- a word that implies circles, cycles, a music/dance tradition that spans centuries and countless legacies – carries the power of spoken prayer and seems to summon a ‘she’ who is not there physically.
Interestingly (certainly a subject for future newsletters), the camera briefly pans over a woman in the chorus as she claps and sings “arricónamela” in the song’s climax. In the form of earrings, she wears what appears to be an ankh (an ancient Egyptian symbol of life and continuity) which features a small red circle enclosed by a larger gold encasing (also shaped in a circle, reitierating this omnipresent theme of cycles). Connected to the circle is a small red staff that is momentarily broken by/linked to what appears to be a double-sided axe. The latter symbol (and keeping in mind that the scene is rooted in music/rhythm) could represent Shango, the powerful Yoruba god of fire, thunder, music, and justice. Such reference to a West African Orisha, leads to a lesser known history of West African presence in Andalusian cities like Seville and Cádiz. At one point in the sixteenth century, ten percent of Seville’s urban population was “black” or “mulatto”, descendants of sub-Saharan Africans who were brought by force to work in Spain. Gatlif, who grew up in an important center of African culture in France, was most definitely aware of the historical and cultural links between Sub-Saharan Africa, North Africa, and the Spanish Roma in particular.
With each chant/utterance of “arrincónamela”, Caco moves further towards an inebriated state and eventually drops his wine glass. As his neighbors – all widows, all honoring their deceased loved ones – put him down on a mat to sleep and blow out a candle, Caco says “Pepa” three times. The extinguished candle/light could represent Pepa’s return to Caco (in his dreaming state) as well as her return to the music circle – now illuminated with the arrival of dawn -- to which she was summoned/conjured. The sound of the flute marks yet another point of fusion (both in musical, historical, and in spiritual terms) and the onset of morning casts light upon the same omnipresent river which opened the film.
After several scenes pass, the camera returns to Caco who remains asleep on the mat. The church bells ring (this is the same church that lies next to Pepa’s altar, the same church that is next to the duende tree, and the same church which will be Caco’s point of departure and return at the end), and the camera focuses on the image of a figurine that spins in the wind and casts reflections on Caco’s face and body. The music from the beginning of the film/Pepa’s favorite tune slowly increases in volume and from the spinning figurine the camera cuts to three women dancing in the same manner as in the opening scene of the film. With the sound of the flute growing in intensity, there are a series of quick cuts between Caco and the figurine. From the image of the spinning figurine, the three dancers return (perhaps the manifestation of Caco’s three calls of his daughter’s name since all of the women are dressed in white and appear to be the same person) and the same North African musicians from the opening scene appear. The camera cuts back to the figurine, then to Caco, and moves to the image of one woman dancing alone who seems to have pinned two braids of hair behind each shoulder.
As she spins in circles, the camera cuts to the musicians and then back to the woman whose movements become frenetic as if something or someone has mounted her. The other two dancers appear, and after the camera cuts back to Caco, a collage-like image unfolds. With the flute powerfully resounding, several important images are seen juxtaposed: the musician from the opening scene playing the glass instrument; a lizard walking on the light of Pepa’s altar; the rosary beads, written words, and photograph of Pepa all from the altar; a boy (perhaps the same boy who Alejandro asked to take care of Pepa’s altar, perhaps that same boy who will appear moments after Caco’s stabbing at the end of the film) holding a lizard by it’s tail; an insect; a spider; and a spider’s web. This juxtaposition of images reinforces the narratological web that links symbols in this film. In addition, the scene confirms the connection between Pepa/the ancestral world, music, dance, and (as a narrative technique) implies that within each symbol and event there are multiple meanings and multiple ways that these symbols and meanings connect. This pattern or concept with regards to the narrative structure reiterates the point that the Director is exploring an extremely complex history on it’s own terms/language.
Continuing the Cycle: vengeance, death, and reunification
After the cinematographic fusion scene, events enter a new phase: vengeance. Shortly into this phase is the scene in which Mario (Caco’s brother who killed Sandro) calls from Ketama (a region in Morocco). Gatlif returns to the theme of the connection between North Africa and Andalusia when Alejandro (Caco’s relative) searches for cell phone reception. In one specific part of the road, mutual reception -- like invisible streams flowing between landmasses -- allows Mario to hear a song that Pepa recorded before her death. Interestingly, the song opens with the flute and the lyrics penetrate Gatlif’s sirocco:
No tengo lugar
No tengo paisaje
Yo me no tengo patria
con mis dedos hago fuego
y con mi corazón te canto
las cuerdas de mi corazón lloran
Nací en el amor
Nací en el amor
No tengo lugar
No tengo paisaje
Yo me no tengo patria
Nací en el amor
There are striking dualities in the meaning of Pepa’s song that, like the repetition of the words themselves, continue to build upon the theme of repetition and cycle. Though the singer has no homeland, it is through the guitar and her proud song that she finds her center: love. Love is what continues to unite Caco and Pepa and it is also what drives Caco to offer his own life to save Mario’s son (Diego)at the end of the film. While simultaneously expressing a way of life (to move freely without forming roots), the yearning for a past that is seemingly far removed, and a long history of persecution, the speaker also indicates music as a medium to reach back to the love that has enabled survival in the face of complete adversity. Further, when the speaker states that she has no place, no homeland, and no land, she is also saying that she – like the siroco that moves accross the Mediterranean and eastward -- has many patrias. Her method of coming home is through music and this pluralistic nature of “home” is part of Gatlif’s portrayal of Andalusia as a place that lives within and connected to many traditions.
After two previous encounters with the Caravaca family, death weighs heavily in the air. Under the pretense of a last attempt at negotiating the terms of the Caravaca’s revenge, Caco and family drive alongside the repeating river and eventually arrive at the Baptism of Sandro’s daughter. This particular event is highly symbolic as it marks – with music, dance, food, and celebration -- the beginning of a new generation. As this new life takes form, another must go: the cycle continues. When arguing proves futile, Caco and family leave the baptism. On their way home, however, Caco asks that they leave him at the same church that appeared in previous scenes. With the bells ringing, Caco returns to the baptism and enters what will be his own death. When the Caravacas see Caco, they rush towards him and (perhaps because they know that Caco’s death will later be avenged in an endless cycle of bloodshed) try in vain to restrain Sandro’s brother. When Caco is stabbed and left to die, the camera quickly cuts to the same image of a boy (perhaps he who was taking care of Pepa’s altar, perhaps Sandro’s son, perhaps one who will someday be in Caco’s position) who held a lizard in Caco’s dream. Caco then walks back towards the church but falls on his way. When he can no longer move, the camera focuses on Caco’s face and his left hand that is adorned by Pepa’s three rings (the fourth was given to Diego). Thus, the last image of the main character is steeped with reference to circles/cycles and once Caco dies, Pepa’s song (“Nací en el amor”) begins and the film ends in the form of a journey across an unending road. This road represents Caco’s transition to the spiritual world, his reunification with Pepa, the continuity of a proud tradition, and perhaps (in terms of narrative technique) the fact that the viewer has seen several different (his)stories – all of which are connected by symbols that have seemingly endless repertoires of representation which are also linked together – subtly fuse into one grand cycle. The road navigates the outer rim of this circle and it is now up to the viewer to decipher how exactly the concepts of circle dances, cycles of Roma family feuds, and repeating, multidimensional symbols carry a message.
“Vengo” explores the continuity and multi-faceted influence of Roma and North African cultures in Andalusia through a narrative structure that employs similar patterns of continuity and duality. Gatlif’s multi-layered exploration of regions and cultures marked by the sirocco is guided by a brilliantly coded series of symbols and alter-narratives that are woven together by recurring symbols such as wind, water, music, circle dance, and light, among several others. Thus, the film’s most prominent symbols are the very elements/features that link the seemingly separate lands and traditions of Spain, North Africa, and India. This pattern of duality (i.e. the pattern of symbols that link alter-narratives and simultaneously represent the physical place being explored in the film) is the building block of a much more complex movement that – connected by the repeating symbol of the circle dance -- revolves around the theme of cycles.
“Vengo’s” cycles, as stated previously, are part of a powerful political message that proudly announces a collective awakening and the acknowledgement of the great Roma impact on the Western world. Though it has happened in centuries past, we have entered a new era in which Roma culture will avenge those that that have sought to suppress her while simultaneously stealing from her traditions. The characters in the film -- Antonio Canales (among the greatest of flamenco dancers), La Caita (one of the most powerful voices of Roma expression), La Paquera de Jerez (the epitome of the depths of the Cante Jondo tradition), Tomatito (master of the guitar and disciple of legends like Paco de Lucía), Remedios Silva Pisa (a rising figure rooted in the flamenco tradition) – and Tony Gatlif himself are the leaders of this complex movement, realized in a highly coded Roma language, that will soon reclaim an entire volume of history and demonstrate the astounding contribution of the Roma Diaspora. As Alejandro said: “¡Viva el flamenco! ¡Viva el flamenco puro!”
(Jacob Dyer-Spiegel © 2006. All Rights Reserved.)