Guy Maddin: A Cinematic Journey
During the production of his debut film, The Dead Father, director Guy Maddin made a pivotal choice that would shape his artistic identity. It was the early 1980s in Winnipeg, and Maddin, then just 26 years old, was beginning to immerse himself in the world of cinema. A friend had been sneaking him into film classes at the University of Manitoba, igniting a passion that would lead him to create his own black-and-white short film.
In preparation, Maddin decided to pick up a book on filmmaking, which introduced him to the concept of three distinct types of lighting. When he began shooting, Maddin diligently set up all three lights he had acquired, aiming them at his lead actor’s face. However, the result was a trio of nose shadows that he found unappealing. He quickly unplugged one light, then another, until only a single light remained, casting just one shadow. Although it resembled a Hitler mustache, Maddin cleverly directed the actor to adjust his head until the shadow disappeared.
When the rushes returned, Maddin was struck by the powerful visual effect created by that single light, evoking the haunting aesthetic of 1920s German expressionist cinema. “That wasn’t conscious,” Maddin later reflected. “I just wanted an image without the distraction of three nose shadows.” Yet, he soon recognized that he had inadvertently discovered a unique style that resonated with themes of nostalgia and memory. He explained, “The Dead Father” drew its title from a Donald Barthelme novel but was deeply inspired by recurring dreams of his own father, who had passed away unexpectedly years prior. “When you’re crafting a dream about a past where your father was alive, then dead, and then alive again,” Maddin noted, “the style felt fitting for the film’s themes. I embraced it, and by the time I made my next movie, I felt confident in my ability to create films with this aesthetic.
Since then, Maddin has unearthed an idiosyncratic niche within the film world. With 13 feature films and numerous shorts to his name, he has positioned himself as cinema’s foremost nostalgist and a quintessential auteur. His work is characterized by an avant-garde aesthetic—most films are shot in grainy black-and-white, often on rudimentary sets, invoking a bygone cinematic language filled with iris shots, Vaselined lenses, intertitles, and dissolves. Yet, there is a whimsical quality to his films, particularly in their embrace of melodramatic narratives from the more sensational silent and early sound film eras.
Maddin’s films are frequently labeled as “experimental,” but this descriptor can be misleading. While some shorts may fit that bill, his features are undeniably entertaining—rich with humor and creativity. His most recognized work, The Saddest Music in the World (2003), presents itself as a lost Depression-era film, yet its plot is laced with absurdity. The story centers on an Olympics-style competition of mournful songs, orchestrated as a promotional gimmick by a 1930s beer baroness, played by Isabella Rossellini, whose hollow prosthetic legs serve as vessels for her product. “You can almost hear the typhoon bearing down on a defenseless seaside village through this tortured flute solo,” an announcer remarks during a performance by a Siamese musician, encapsulating the film’s unique blend of humor and creativity.
Ari Aster, a director and long-time admirer of Maddin, shared his thoughts on the filmmaker’s work: “What was exciting about his films is they didn’t necessarily feel like they were paying tribute to anything that had existed. They felt like unearthed movies that couldn’t have existed.”
Maddin, now 68, has predominantly remained in Winnipeg, aside from brief periods spent in Toronto and Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he served as a visiting lecturer at Harvard. During my visit to him in August, he welcomed me with an enthusiastic text: “It’s Guy Maddin here! Welcome to sorry-ass Winnipeg!” The following morning, I was set to meet him alongside Evan and Galen Johnson, co-directors of his latest film, Rumours. Maddin suggested a charming itinerary that included lunch at “the Sals, a regular haunt of ours” and a visit to the highest point in the city— a park built atop a municipal dump affectionately known as Garbage Hill. He humorously added, “To increase your Pulitzer chances, we should take you to places that make good metaphors.”