characterized by a tendency to layer or combine multiple images and by an unusual sensitivity to texture, color, and light. Each of these tendencies can be understood as an emblem of a particular understanding Baillie had developed. The layering and combining of imagerymost memorable, perhaps, in
(1964),
(1966), and
(1966)became a way of expressing the complexity of experience, the discovery that reality is not simply a set of surfaces available to perception and intelligence, but a composite of surface and of spirit that flows beneath the surface and behind our perception of it. Baillie's dexter-
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ity in capturing the sensuous textures of the worldparticularly notable in
(1968),
(1970), and the recent video
(1990)is an emblem of the degree to which he sees the perceivable world as invigorated by spirit. And his fascination with color and light in such films as
(1966),
and
(1977) is a function of his desire for spiritual enlightenment; it connects his work with that of such predecessors and contemporaries as Oskar Fischinger, Jordan Belson, James Whitney, Stan Brakhage, and Tom Chomont, who have used film as a way of visualizing the colors of the soul on its journey toward spiritual regeneration.
For Baillie, the very idea of making his films is so out of synch with the mainstream history of film and the commoditized world it reflects and reconfirms that it renders him an anomaly, an outcast, a 'pure fool' like Parsifal and Don Quixote. Indeed, modern society is encoded in the very tools a filmmaker must work with. Achieving the spiritual by means of filmmakinga mechanical/chemical processsimply 'can't be done,' and
is worth doing as a means of demonstrating the ability of film artists to transcend their means. In
[1963],
and
[1965] Baillie becomes the spiritual knight-errant not only in terms of what he trains his camera on and how he uses it but by being willing to enter the field and make films at all.
His refusal to betray his cine-spiritual quest, despite the resistance that surrounded him, became a demonstration of the spiritual integrity of his work. Throughout the sixties, Baillie functioned as both film artist and as organizer. He was the catalyst for the Canyon Cinema exhibition programs that finally resulted in Canyon Cinema distribution, now (along with the Museum of Modern Art's Circulating Film Program) the most successful American distributor of a wide range of critical forms of cinema.
I spoke with Baillie in June 1989 at his home on Camano Island in Washington State.
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How did you get started?
What led me toward making films in the beginning, in 1960 or even a little before, was an interest in theater and the need to function in the world through art. When I was a kid, in sixth or seventh grade in Aberdeen, South Dakota, we messed up one time and the principal's punishment was that we had to give a play for an assembly. At first, we thought this was a severe penalty, but pretty soon we liked the idea.
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Later, we asked him could we give a play every assembly; we had formed a little theater group called 'The Acme Company' I stayed involved with theater all through high school and into college (and I refer to it in the introduction to
Part Four). Then when I was alone, I thought, well, now that I'm without all these guys, I'll do it on the big screen. I went to the University of Minnesota. A professor there recommended I go to the London School of Film Technique, which was just starting: it was a small operation and they didn't have much equipment, but there were several very good teachers.
This is when?
1958 or 1959. We were an international group of university graduates, ambitious, impatient, and mostly poor, except for the Arabs, who lived in Chelsea hotels and who had numerous English and German girlfriends. We couldn't do much there and were very discouraged. I was sick: the London fog and the poor food made me weak. So I just left in the middle of the term. I went down to Yugoslavia, where I remember seeing a sculpture by the best- known Yugoslavian sculptor: a relief depicting the cycle of life circling a traditional well in the Austro-Hungarian center of Zagreb, where people came for water and to meet each other and gossip. I thought, 'This relief is at the source; it's an essential part of everyday life.' I liked that, and decided I wanted to do something similar with film.
I came back and thought, 'Well, I'll just figure out how to make films.' By then I was in San Francisco. I tried to figure out how sound got onto film. I couldn't. There weren't any manuals on it. And nobody could tell me! Finally, I met Marvin Becker, who was making travel and educational films. He was a real expert in 16mm (35mm, too) and had a big studio in San Francisco. He'd hire a few free-lance people for big jobs. I told him, 'I'll work eight
