Cinema as a Buddhist Practice: A Conversation with Khyentse Norbu

The Cup was an audacious debut. How did you come to write it?

That was based on a true story! Growing up in a monastery, I knew that monks are obsessed with football [soccer]. Monks are just human, with normal enthusiasms, especially the young ones. Satyajit Ray’s simple approach to storytelling gave me the confidence to try to make a film. I wanted to maybe demystify the Western sense of Tibetan Buddhist monastery life. Making that film in a real monastery, with mostly monks performing all the roles, involved the whole community, and they had to do their meditations and prayers at 4 a.m. before filming began for the day.

The late Jeremy Thomas, who was Bertolucci’s longtime producer, came on board as a producer and executive producer for The Cup. How did that come about?

Jeremy was on set for Little Buddha, of course, and one day we were flying from Bangkok to Paro [in Bhutan], and there’s not much to do on those Drukair flights, so I was reviewing my script. He was sitting right behind me, and he asked me what I was working on. I told him it was the first draft of a script, and he asked to read it. He read it right then and asked if I really wanted to do it, and I said yes, and he said he’d help. Eventually his Hanway Films took on international sales. He was always interested in my films, and even if he wasn’t officially involved he offered advice and encouragement. I owe him a lot.

You once gave a talk called “Life as Cinema.” What was that about?

Cinema can perhaps be understood as a metaphor for the Buddhist teachings about samsara and nirvana, right? Suppose we were born in a cinema. We only know what’s on the screen; we don’t know it’s only a projection, that nothing is real, that nothing we see has a true existence. But someone in the theater says, “This is just a movie, it’s not really happening.” Perhaps we get it, and then we can just relax and enjoy the show, enjoy the drama, the emotions, not get lost. Well, Buddhist practitioners train to understand, to internalize, that this life—samsara/nirvana—is as essenceless as a movie. Getting even just a glimpse that appearances are not real can give us confidence. It’s more complicated than that of course, but . . .

In most of your films there’s a suggestion of amusement, not just in the stories themselves, but in the tone of the performances, and by extension, in your direction. How do you see that?

Some of that is just in the nature of the stories, but perhaps there is something of the Buddhist view that what we ordinarily experience is without essence, and that can be funny if we see that, no? Amusement at the delusion sort of lurks beneath the surface.

Why do you tend to work with nonprofessionals?

Mostly out of necessity! I make these films on very low budgets, so there’s that. I also enjoy offering young people a chance to learn about filmmaking, about teamwork, about technology, etc. It’s also true that nonactors often are capable of giving very believable performances if given the right environment.

Some find Hema Hema your most mysterious film, primarily because we rarely see anyone’s face. What’s it really about?

That film was an experimental approach to some ideas about identity and the sense of self. The use of masks in a ritualized setting brings to mind Carnival/Carnevale, celebrated in some Christian cultures before the observance of the abstemious Lent each year, an accepted way to briefly be free of one’s identity and any rules that limit experience. We filmed that in Bhutan and were a bit surprised it was banned there, for using masks outside of traditional Buddhist rituals.

Do you have an audience in mind when you write your scripts?

I wish I was that disciplined, but no. I have stories I’d like to tell, but even I don’t know who they’re for, even after I’m done. I am aware that this film may not be for a wide audience or that film might work well in such-and-such a country, but it’s never intentional. I’m always grateful for whatever audience finds these films of interest.

Which is the film you’re most satisfied with?

I have to say Pig at the Crossing. It’s a film about the bardo of dying, that liminal interval between this life and what’s next that can be a time of confusion, fear, attachment, frustration, etc. Bardo also can refer to the interval between birth and death, of course . . .

Image at top of page © Pawo Choyning Dorji