The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa: Volume Seven (79 page)

Q:
Is that the absence of buddha?

R:
That’s right, you’re getting it. Most of the good films have a limited quality except, if I may say so, some of the samurai films. This is because they are not so excited by the highlights. They just take advantage of the highlight shots and whenever there is a gap, the gap becomes artful. This is based on some kind of pride or ultimate confidence in the Japanese mind.

For example, if you study with a teacher who acquired his understanding by information alone, that person may tell you very wise things, beautiful things. But at the same time he won’t know how to handle the gaps. He blushes or gets embarrassed or he fidgets around between the stories, between the wisdoms that he utters. Whereas if you are dealing with somebody who is completely competent, who is actually living the information, then the teaching becomes part of the whole being; there is no embarrassment. It goes on and on and on like the waves of an ocean. There is endless richness. You receive a lot but at the same time you don’t feel that he emptied out all his information to you. You feel there’s much more to be said.

I think this could be the whole approach in a film as well. We put out just a corner of our knowledge instead of saying a lot even though that would make people more comfortable because they would feel more secure.

Q:
Do you think people are going to be able to identify the five buddha qualities in the film?

R:
No, I don’t expect that. But if we are into it completely then it will show. There’s no point in presenting the philosophy of the doctrine too precisely. The five buddha principles have a part in it, but this is a kind of yeast that ferments. Just let it develop. If the things are expressive enough then they automatically develop.

Q:
When I saw
Seven Samurai
I was impressed by a real human quality, the dignity of human life, the details.

R:
To me,
Seven Samurai
was not a particularly good film. Its makers were very much afraid of the audience. They spent tons and tons of energy to impress the public, particularly the Western public. They produced a hypothetical possibility of something good but it was not natural enough. The music wasn’t good at all, it was embarrassing, really.

There was one samurai film made by Kurosawa that was fantastic, a very long one that began with Japanese classical music. The theme was “stab him through me.” There was one piece of swift swordsmanship where the samurai beheaded his enemy. The enemy was smiling, and when his head landed on the ground it was still smiling, the samurai was that fast. Also,
Woman in the Dunes
was not bad at all.

Q:
If one were telling a story, would you begin with one of the five elements and go onto the next? Would there be any kind of ideal structure in terms of the five families?

R:
You would probably have to have some handle, and that would depend on the family characteristics your composition begins with. That’s what all of us always do. When we introduce ourselves and start to make conversation we come out with one of the family styles.

Q:
If you happen to start with, say, padma, would it be ideal to go on with any particular one of the others?

R:
You can switch into karma, being aggressive. That might wake people up. Or else you could start with aggression and then go to padma, try to draw people in. You have limitless possibilities.

Q:
Or could you weave all of them together?

R:
Yes. That’s extremely difficult to do, but one can. It’s possible anyway.

Q:
What prevents the film from being simply a procession of images? What kind of thread is there?

R:
That’s the point of spending a lot of time on one particular theme. Generally this isn’t done because there are all kinds of exciting possibilities that tempt the cameramen and directors and they don’t become really involved in what they’re doing. They don’t cultivate inspiration so the work becomes jumpy. The whole idea of our approach is that if we develop a keen eyesight and use hairbreadth lenses and see how intricate and how rich the objects are, then we look at them one by one and we build up a whole sequence and the pattern automatically develops.

Q:
Could you say that the continuity comes from the fact that someone is really doing it, is fully involved?

R:
Yes, it’s like meditating. You work with one technique for a long, long time and finally the technique falls away. There’s some discipline and continuity of stubbornness all the time that you are willing to relate with. Even if the object rejects you or the light isn’t right or something else goes wrong, still you go on and do it.

Q:
I still have the feeling that it’s happening out there, like something happening out the window. That’s pure over there, and man is in his dark pit over here. The nature shots inevitably are seen as entertainment.

R:
That whole thing is quite interesting. If you present nature with an ideal rhythm—when you get tired of one particular shot then you turn to something else and it goes on and on and on—then it is just like watching television. You are just viewing it. But in this film the scenes will begin to become unpredictable—they just hover around or they go beyond your expectation of space. When they become irritating you begin to panic psychologically—“Will this continue?” Or, “That might not happen.” Then you are really taking part in it. You begin to realize that you can’t control it, can’t have merely predictable entertainment. Then you forget you are looking out of the window, but you are out on the street yourself.

You see, psychologically one has to be very careful and deliberate about editing. Work with a level of entertainment and then step beyond that level. You don’t have to introduce new things at all. Just do more than they expect, so the expectation begins to develop into a type of panic.

Q:
Entertainment is an important word in film. In a sense if you don’t entertain the audience you don’t hold them.

R:
When people go to a movie they go because they want a change. They want something to see besides their usual scene of washing dishes, working in their office or whatever. This automatically means that they need space. So if this movie presents space, no matter how irritating it may be, it will be worth it. They won’t come out tensed up; they’ll they’ll come out relaxed. They’ll have gone through the whole trip of waiting to see something and then actually seeing something. They’ll have gone through an eye-massage process.

I think it is a challenge for both the audience and the filmmakers. It is like crossing the Himalaya range to escape from the Chinese.

1
. Originally published as “horse-ship.” However, it is likely that Chögyam Trungpa said “horseshit” and this was mistranscribed.—Editor

2
. From
The Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa,
translated by Garma C. C. Chang.

3
. Fully awakened state of mind.

Prajna

T
HE PLAY IS PERFORMED
in a large rectangular space with a circular performance area in the middle. Aisles lead to the circle from three points of the compass. When the audience is seated around the circle, the musicians go to their places at the fourth point of the compass. When the house lights go down, the actors go to their places in the dark.

A recorder duet is heard, then lights come up revealing six people dressed in white pajama-like clothing, holding brooms and facing each other at the center of the circle. They still sway to the recorder music even after it is finished. Their actions seem somewhat self-conscious and devotional. After a short time they turn outward as a group and begin sweeping the area in a choreographed pattern—out to the edge of the circle, in again, out again, and exit. Woodblocks clap.

Two men in white reenter with a low wooden table, place it near the center of the circle, bow affectionately to each other, and exit. Another man brings on a large gong, places it on the center of the table, bows, and exits. After a pause more objects are brought on: flowers, bowls of fruit, candles, incense, finally a plate of cream cheese and a basket of bagels. All exit.

From behind the audience a bugle fanfare is heard which is quickly joined by the percussionists. All parade on stage behind two large flags of India and the United States, which are placed in stands by the shrine. The music stops. They bow to each other, music recommences, and all march off. Blackout.

In darkness a shakuhachi flute is heard. The sound is penetrating. A single light picks out the shrine. Woodblocks clap four times. Clustered in the three aisles, the company chants the entire
Heart Sutra:

Thus have I heard: Once the Blessed One was dwelling in the royal domain of the Vulture Peak Mountain, together with a great gathering of monks and bodhisattvas. At that time the Blessed One entered the samadhi which examines the dharmas, called “profound illumination,” and at the same time noble Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva-mahasattva, looking at the profound practice of transcendent knowledge, saw the five skandhas and their natural emptiness.

Then through the inspiration of the Buddha, Shariputra said to Avalokiteshvara: “How should those noble ones learn, who wish to follow the profound practice of transcendent knowledge?” And Avalokiteshvara answered: “Shariputra, whoever wishes to follow the profound practice of transcendent knowledge should look at it like this, seeing the five skandhas and their natural emptiness. Form is emptiness, emptiness itself is form; emptiness is no other than form, form is no other than emptiness; in the same way feeling, perception, concept, and consciousness are emptiness. Thus all the dharmas are emptiness and have no characteristics. They are unborn and unceasing, they are not impure or pure, they neither decrease nor increase. Therefore since there is emptiness there is no form, no feeling, no perception, no concept, no consciousness; no eye, no ear, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind; no appearance, no sound, no smell, no taste, no sensation, no objects of mind; no quality of sight, no quality of hearing, no quality of smelling, no quality of tasting, no quality of sensing, no quality of thought, no quality of mind-consciousness; there are no nidanas, from ignorance to old age and death, nor their wearing out; there is no suffering, no cause of suffering, no ending of suffering, and no path; no wisdom, no attainment, and no nonattainment. Therefore since there is no attainment, the bodhisattvas abide by means of transcendent knowledge; and since there is no obscurity of mind they have no fear, they transcend falsity and pass beyond the bounds of sorrow. All the buddhas who dwell in the past, present, and future, by means of transcendent knowledge fully and clearly awaken to unsurpassed, true, complete enlightenment. Therefore the mantra of transcendent knowledge, the mantra of deep insight, the unsurpassed mantra, the unequalled mantra, the mantra which calms all suffering, should be known as truth, for there is no deception. In transcendent knowledge the mantra is proclaimed:

OM GATE GATE PARAGATE PARASAMGATE BODHI SVAHA.

O Shariputra, this is how a bodhisattva-mahasattva should learn profound transcendent knowledge.”

Then the Blessed One arose from that samadhi and praised the bodhisattva-mahasattva Avalokiteshvara, saying: “Good, good, O son of noble family! Profound transcendent knowledge should be practiced just as you have taught, and the tathagatas will rejoice.”

When the Blessed One had said this, Shariputra and Avalokiteshvara, that whole gathering and the world with its gods, men, asuras, and gandharvas, their hearts full of joy, praised the words of the Blessed One.

Lights come up on the circle. A woman wearing maroon robes walks slowly and deliberately to the shrine, kneels, removes a candle, rises, turns, and walks off. A man, also in maroon, enters from another direction, removes a bowl of fruit, exits. Others enter singly or in pairs to remove objects from the shrine, until only the gong remains. One of the robed men enters in the dignified manner that characterizes all of the maroon-clad ones, and places an empty vase on the shrine. Again the shakuhachi is heard. After a pause a woman in long white robes, carrying a white flower, enters and walks slowly and deliberately to the shrine, kneels and places the flower in the vase. She then stands, and turning away from the shrine, speaks:

A scene from the play
Prajna
by Chögyam Trungpa.