Original subtitles

Heavenly cities float.

They have no top or bottom.

They call San Francisco "the holy city. ”

its the city of love.

Hippie art is psychedelic. its magnificent.

Perhaps its an explosion of [0 y.

The night has tremendous charm too. I compare the night to God.

Then theres the dawn. — “R0sy—fingered dawn. ”

I ’In Greek.

Greece today

is in the hands of bastards.

its a military junta.

Anyone who thinks freely

is thrown in prison. its awful.

I ’m not into politics.

I side with the young people.

At all the universities, the men of tomorrow,

those who 7] go Vern America,

are against the go Vemment

They get massacred by the police.

its a wonderful protest...

against war.

Here, basically...

it’s a revolution without bloodshed.

The intellectuals think we should end killing,

that killing leads nowhere.

Sausalito. . .

is what they call "aquatic suburbia. ”

The aquatic suburbs...

represent a certain intelligence.

its people who aren '2‘ rebels with guns,

but rebels against the system,

against the American obsession with making money.

They're really fine people.

Here everyone builds his house

on pilings, pontoons, anything.

This one 3 like an oriental pagoda.

its an old converted machine.

He built it all around the old A—framed hull.

The peaked edges and ornamentation are all his work.

He 3 inspired.

A writer uses that little house to escape the noise.

Theres a farmer from the Midwest.

He has a pig on board, and two or three ducks,

who try to escape now and then.

He has chickens for fresh eggs every morning.

He has a goal‘ for milk.

He 3 happy.

its important to always be by the sea.

The sea is the element of lo Ve.

The Greeks say so. Aphrodite emerged from the water.

This Greek who says so lives on the water

in this floating house right out of a cartoon,

in this ark worth y of Noah,

017‘ this island worth y of a Greek.

This American who speaks French so well,

rolling his RS like a Greek,

is a painter, my ancestor, my floating root,

a member of my family.

I knew he existed

A traveler had spoken of him, and I '11 read Henry Miller.

But a name 3 not much.

On my wa y through San Francisco, I wanted to meet him

in his aquatic suburbs.

I sent my friend Tom to scout out a possible introduction,

not knowing just whom I was going to find.

My imaginary family, I love you.

In this picture album I dedicate the following scene to you

in which we reenact this avuncular meeting,

or "How Uncle Yanco Met

His Niece Agnés. ”

I don’t know.

— Are you Eugéne Varda’s daughter? — Yes, I am.

I often wondered, and when I read MiIIer’s book —

Me too.

I always wanted to spoil you.

So you’re my niece. — That’s right.

Cut!

I am Jean Varda, son of Michel

and cousin of Eugéne_

I was born in Smyrna,

but I left before it was sacked in 1913.

I was in Paris after that,

and then I came to America in '39,

and I’ve been here 27 years.

I recall Eugene as a boy, and then we parted ways,

because our paths were so utterly different.

In our family, they thought a painter, an artist,

was a social outcast, a sort of clown

or hoodlum.

We parted ways, but there was no falling out.

Eugene never spoke of his family. He’d forgotten he was Greek.

On the family tree we have Lucien,

born in 1776.

He had four children: Michel, Theodora,

Sylvester, and Jean.

My father Michel had

Lucy, Nina, Stepho, Costa,

Niko, Jean — that’s me — and AIeko_

— But Jean, the doctor — — My grandfather.

had Lucien, George...

Eugéne — your father — and Agnés_

Papa had five children. Helene, Lucien, me, Jean, and Sylvie.

— I had Vagadu_ — And I had Rosalie.

I thought I’d found a rich American uncle.

I ’m sorry.

I’m not really your uncle,

because you’re my cousin Eugene’s daughter.

And I’m not really American,

because I was naturalized when I was 50.

And I’m not rich, because I never put money aside.

I don’t know what side to put it on.

But feel free to call me your uncle if you like.

Every one calls me Yanco. So call me Uncle Yanco.

Sounds good, doesn '2‘ it? — Yes.

This Varda won me over as soon as he opened his mouth.

The hearfline overpowered the bloodline.

Was our last name always Varda ?

Varda or Vardas. Our real name is Vardas.

In the 12th century, Basil,

a general nicknamed "Bulgaroktonos, ”

meaning "slayer of Bulgarians, ”

took 10, 000 Bulgarians prisoner.

He blinded them,

leaving just one out of every hundred or thousand with one good eye

to lead them across the horrible Macedonian mountains

and make an example of them.

In Athens even today,

theres a "Basil Bulgaroktonos Street, ” and he was a Vardas.

But its not certain he was from the family.

No, but hes the only one in the history books.

We celebrated our meeting with a feast.

The uncle wanted to show his niece to his neighbors.

The niece wanted to show her uncle to audiences in dark theaters.

To show the lover of life, the fine cook,

the good papa—hippie whom the hippies like because he has long hair

and whom they come to see on Sundays

to go out in his slow lateen sailboat

for the “anti—regattas” of San Francisco.

Above all, to show the painter, joyful to the point of naiveté,

serious to the point of transfiguring knowledge.

Painting is something that grows.

When you enter inside a painting, you don’t know where it will lead.

It’s an adventure, an exploration. You discover yourself.

I don '2‘ like people calling them "collages. ”

I use all sorts of durable materials,

be they plastics or fabrics.

When I did mosaics,

I used marble, stone, glass, anything.

But they were easier to move around.

After that, of course, I paint.

It’s completely covered with paint. Nothing’s left of the original.

For me, the goal of painting

is to have light penetrate matter and dematerialize it.

It’s truly the redemption of matter.

Basically, painting rivals the splendor of a bird,

the opulence of the sea or any landscape —

but it surpasses them.

Oh, how I wish —

Between conception and execution,

that’s where the tragic difference is found.

Like between the cup and the lip, there’s bitterness.

The shadow falls.

Above all, man is nourished by what’s marvelous.

It nourishes the soul.

Like chlorophyll in a tree,

there’s this secretion, this desire for Eden.

In the realm of God there are no shadows...

only light.

I did a series of heavenly cities.

Artists have always depicted heavenly Jerusalem.

The walls were emeralds

and precious stones and so forth.

I did some heavenly cities three years ago.

I did 30 of them.

They’re all hanging in houses now.

Some cities are blue, red, gold, black — every color.

Gold — more childhood memories, of course.

Mosaics, the gold backgrounds.

Gold is the color of revelation.

— Do you believe in God? — I can’t help but believe.

I have a very orthodox background,

which I keep coming back to.

What we seek in painting isn '2‘ the sky

but the watery depths.

To the eye that is pure, the world is transparent.

Agnes, please let me take a nap.

I don’t sleep much at night. I love you, but let me take a nap.

Just half an hour.

It’s a beautiful day. Just the way I like it.

The sea plays a Very important role.

For me, the only wa y not to succumb to lifes supreme indignity,

which is being psychoanalyzed,

is to go sailing once a week, with no motor...

due to the fact

we ’re so tied to the element that is the sea.

It seems I’m a landmark,

like a mountain or a lighthouse or I don’t know what.

Sunday is open house here.

its chaos.

Sometimes there are charming things that happen,

and people I end up being Very fond of

It’s not some dump.

It’s a place where people gather

to discuss art, music,

sometimes love — like these two.

Look how sweet they are.

It’s not particularly cheap here,

though it may look very scruffy

and a bit bohemian. It’s not at all.

My charming girl!

More friends.

Vercingétorix!

Like a patriarch, he makes his rounds.

Charming friends everywhere.

Like a Greek bard, he tells tales.

Yes...

the most intelligent and creative people live out here.

It’s like a brotherhood, a sort of...

artistic gathering spot...

for people of goodwill, people with talent.

Like a mentor, he defines things.

The family is what we mustn’t be.

The establishment smells bad,

so bad that I can’t even talk about it.

Paradise is the very essence of man’s desire.

Golden mouth with silver hair, define yourself

Answer us.‘ What is a Greek?

A Greek?

I can’t define myself.

— What is old age? — What is what?

A nd hell?

Hell is doing what you don’t like to do,

having to do what you don’t like.

And death ?

We mustn’t ask questions larger than ourselves.

Life is steeped in death. No doubt about it.

How do we know that death isn’t life and life isn’t death?

Life... death...

they’re like train wrecks.

As Cocteau said, “You can’t explain it. You feel it_”

We can '2‘ live without color.

For me, color is ecstasy,

and everything but ecstasy is Vanity.

Yet it was without Vanity

that I made this film for my uncle,

an homage to age, humor, talent‘,

wisdom, and goodness...

made with the friendly and technical assistance of David Myers, Didier Tarot

Paul Oppenheim, Jacques Maumont,

Jean Hamon, Roger lkhlelf

plus Pierrette, Franpoise, Marc, René, Kim, Bob, and Tom,

I not forgetting Eclair Laboratories,

and with music by Yannis Spanos, Richard Lawrence,

and A lbinoni.