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Anthony Dod Mantle on Cinematographer Origins
Anthony Dod Mantle on the set of 28 Years Later The Copenhagen-based British cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle is known for his innovation around diverse shooting formats, from the MiniDV of The Celebration to the SI-2K digital camera of Slumdog Millionaire and iPhone of his most recent, 28 Years Later. But as a producer who has worked with Anthony—on Harmony Korine’s MiniDV-shot julien donkey-boy and Gus Van Sant’s Easter—what I most associate with him is his ability to locate a script’s latent, least articulable meanings and then, using a combination of instinct, storytelling insight and technical prowess, bring those images to the screen. Recently, I shared a script with Anthony, and his one-line analysis of the project’s deeper goals echoed through my head all during production. So, for this issue I decided to talk to Anthony about everything but the cameras—his background, his influences and the methods by which he achieves a kind of mind-meld with his directors. — Scott Macaulay
My fascination with the image began with sculpture and painting. I was obviously fascinated by directors—I knew more about them than about the odd, anonymous characters behind the camera. I was particularly interested in aesthetics but didn’t necessarily relate to the technique of cinematography. I came from painting and sculpture, texture and the smell of turpentine. I grew up with the classics, so I knew Rembrandt and later British painters like Turner. De Chirico was interesting to me: something about his paintings is incredibly evocative, so clearly about something else. With his metaphysical period, he became the standard bearer for surrealism, and as soon as he realized that he was being adopted, copied and respected for that, he changed everything and started doing absurd self-portraits dressed up as a cavalier, which I found really interesting, too.
Otto Dix and [Oskar] Kokoschka were tapping into fundamental horror and hate in Europe between the first and second world wars—artists were more [engaged with their times] than filmmakers. Classical cinema has a different communication system: a start and a middle and an ending, generally one and a half to two hours, a combination of experience and titillation. You walk out, and either you’ve got your money’s worth or you haven’t. But with paintings, you get devoured by the color, the form, the texture, something or someone within the frame. The painting becomes a mirror to your psyche. There’s a strange concept of time. You can be in your own limbo, your own time zone, while looking at paintings. I’ve always enjoyed that, and I don’t have that same experience in cinema. I’m always aware that there’s a beginning and an end, and we’re running out of time.
Today, films don’t really pass the test as far as technical standards are concerned—I’ve just taken part in Oliver Stone’s remastering of Snowden, which was only made 10 years ago! Some films that I’ve seen remastered almost lose what they had, but that’s because you’re looking at them on DCP or another digital format as opposed to celluloid, fluttering prints passing through a projector. Roger Deakins has done so many brilliant films, but I think 1984 is one of his best ever. It’s like a struggling, deteriorating, green-ish surface bubbling in the dark at you—very beautiful and appropriate for George Orwell.
There’s an enormously restrictive and preventive tendency evolving now because of what I call “factification,” the industrialization of cinematic language. It’s the exact opposite of what independent filmmaking should and could nurture. The conventional studio [production] is a highly efficient machine, then there’s independent chaos, but there’s a big world in between. It doesn’t always have to be one or the other.
There’s a certain delusional factor to many people in Britain thinking they’re making great British films. They are actually pawns of an American dollar. I think [commercial expectations are] also seeping into students at film schools. I meet students sometimes, talk to them as a mentor, and sometimes feel like an art poet freak from another epoch talking to people who think they’ve got it sussed out. I’m not blaming that on teaching—there are some very good teachers doing their utmost to guide students. It’s the industrialization of thought that is seeping into every stage of the industry.
I can sense within seconds of walking into a room, even by looking at an interview, if I can work with a director. If I sense extreme arrogance, I’m pretty scared off. I really want to feel that there’s one thing in the room, a bigger elephant than them, me or the producers, and that’s the film itself. Ego is important, but in relation to the storytelling there has to be a kind of love and humility.
When I sit with a first-time director, the script’s the drawbridge between the two of you, but there are a lot of gaping holes—it’s one of those string bridges across the rapids, you know? What I try to find out is, who is this director? How does this person deal with comfortable and less comfortable situations? In my first week working with them, I do a bit of questioning and show humility and respect. I want warmth, and I show as much warmth as I possibly can, but I also engineer a realistic illustration of what I stand for. Films can go quickly wrong if you’re not communicating well in the first week, and to detect potential problems you have to hunt down each other’s honesty. You don’t have to go out and get sloshed, but you need to try and meet on different levels. I’ve learned something from dogs: they don’t have a language, but they’re always assessing the situation. They know who to go toward in a room and who to stay away from. Those are animal instincts, and now I use a lot of those because we’ve lost touch with that as human beings.
