In the US-Icelandic doc Time and Water [+leggi anche:
intervista: Sara Dosa
scheda film], Sara Dosa returns to a country she already knows very well. But there are more secrets to uncover in Iceland, and more things to save from extinction. We chat to Dosa about her SXSW-screened movie.

Cineuropa: For your protagonist, glaciers are alive; they even get death certificates. Was that the first thing that piqued your interest?
Sara Dosa: I read an article in The Guardian that Andri Snær Magnason had written, entitled “How Do You Say Goodbye to a Glacier?” That struck me as such a profound question for these troubling times. He was talking about writing a eulogy for the Okjökull glacier. So many people are doing the same thing in their homelands, trying to use language to describe the unprecedented losses that come with the climate crisis. I was familiar with his works – he was one of my favourite Icelandic writers, actually. It was knowing him, knowing how he sees the world and this powerful question that really got me interested.

When you see places as living beings, you think about them differently. You care for them differently.
There’s a rich history in Iceland when it comes to nature spirits, both in terms of the country’s folklore and in everyday conversation. Not all Icelanders believe in it, but it’s part of the cultural milieu. Still, when I was traveling with The Seer and the Unseen [+leggi anche:
trailer
intervista: Sara Dosa
scheda film], people would say: “Thank you for telling the story about Icelandic elves. Here in Hawaii, we have Menehune, who live in lava.” All of a sudden, there were examples of mysterious spirits all around the world.

I’m fascinated by stories that illustrate the power of nature. Not necessarily by anthropomorphising it, but by showing its life force and intelligence, and the way it’s so entangled in human life. [These spirits] can undertake small reparative acts in stories of violence against nature. [It’s especially important] at this moment of planetary crisis because there are so many narratives about how nature is supposed to be a natural resource, or how the wilderness is a wasteland inviting exploitation. When nature is depicted from a more hegemonic perspective, it does such damage.

In this film, you really let Andri tell his own story; you disappear. Why did it feel like the right thing to do?
We always wanted the film to be about his voice, his perspective, his story, his family, his country. It was a very collaborative process of writing the narration alongside my editors, Erin Casper and Jocelyne Chaput, and in collaboration with Andri. It had to feel as personal and as true to him as possible. He’s a writer, a thinker and an artist whose work has spoken to me for a very long time. We all wanted to approach it sensitively. If he had been directing the film, it would have been different, but the balance in our collaboration led to its unique form.

A lot of the movie is inspired by his book On Time and Water. It’s not an adaptation, because it’s wonderfully expansive, but one of the things I found particularly moving is how he writes about his grandparents. There’s such love and reverence for them. He saw their memories as portals to the Iceland of the past. Working with that imagery, which he lovingly captured through his archiving, was so moving for us as a team. The climate crisis can feel so abstract, so finding a human pathway into that abstraction was key. It was always a goal for us to create this feeling of intimacy around glaciers that most people who don’t live in these areas will never experience.

It’s such a touching moment when you’re talking about the first glacier that lost its “status” as a glacier. Was it a challenge, making sure your audience would actually care about them?
That was one of our biggest creative questions. For us, in telling a story about a glacier’s death, it was essential to prioritise the telling of the glacier’s life. If the ice is heavy enough to move under its own weight, then it’s considered a glacier: ice that is alive. Humans can’t see glaciers move, because they move so slowly. But through sound, you can perceive it, and that’s something unique to cinema. It’s the same thing with illustrating the memory encapsulated inside the glacier. Things like that help show the interconnectivity of ice and all water systems, and how it tells this larger story of time. We’re losing so much: planetary memory, cultural memory. We’re losing stories. And of course, we’re losing ice. Glaciers are the water source for billions of people. The stakes couldn’t be higher.

It’s clear you’re interested in people who have a deeper connection to nature. Why?
I think I’ll always be asking myself that, to be honest. I’m so moved by the enormity of our planet, by its power and unfathomable chaos, and the beauty of nature. There’s a mystery I can never make sense of, and yet I’m so drawn to it. The process of being pulled towards those questions brings my life tremendous meaning.

There’s the devastatingly escalating violence of the climate crisis, and these stories bring me into contact with those who are making meaningful contributions during this tumultuous time. Not necessarily in a way that placates my own unease, because I want to be attentive to the catastrophe around us. It’s through uncertainty that there’s a space to act, and that comes through most clearly in Time and Water than in my earlier work.

With something like Fire of Love or The Seer and the Unseen, it would be easy to just titillate the audience. But you always approach your protagonists in such a tender way.
I think of documentary work as co-creation. I’m not this director with a vision coming in to tell a story that I think will shock audiences. I’m working with people who are providing inspiration and are generously sharing their life. It’s always a dialogue, and that necessitates respect. I deeply respect all of the people who have been in the films I’ve worked on. I see them all as teachers.