A National Film Board of Canada production 

Intrigued by a theatre artist’s creative process, a filmmaker tries—over 16 attempts—to make the film she wants. As the years go by, unexpected turns of events blur the boundaries between art and life. And the work emerges when we expect it least.

From Montreal to the far reaches of the Canadian Shield, from the mountains of Iceland to the depths of the Earth, I Lost Sight of the Landscape is an improbable comedy that reveals the uncontrollable nature of life, with honesty—and a good dose of humour.

Intrigued by a theatre artist’s creative process, a director makes 16 different versions of the same film—one in which art and life are continually intertwined—revealing the uncontrollable nature of life, with honesty and a good dose of humour.

The starting point for the film is your decision to follow your neighbour, theatre artist Gabriel Charlebois-Plante, through his creative process. How did he react to the idea of being filmed?

Gabriel was very enthusiastic about the film right from the start. We didn’t know each other very well, but we liked each other’s work, and he trusted me—even if my idea was pretty open-ended. It might actually have been that openness that led him to trust me. We were both setting out on a journey of discovery, on equal footing when it came to our respective creative projects. We cautiously embarked on this adventure with no idea what lay in store for us.

I was happy he’d accepted because I saw him as a touching character who would allow me to talk about art in an accessible way. I was aware that the idea of the film might seem too niche, but I was counting on the result being both rich and funny. I knew that was possible with him as the subject.

Gabriel admits that his own creative process is influenced by the presence of the camera. How would you define the connection between each of your works—his theatre projects and your films? And did Gabriel’s role in the film change over the course of the project?

Gabriel’s role in the film didn’t really change. At first, we told each other that the film and the play would probably feed off each other, and that’s exactly what happened. Over the course of four years, our projects developed alongside each other. Our formal research and the needs of our respective projects each naturally shaped the other person’s process.

Even though I was trying to go into this project without any preconceived ideas, one thing was very clear to me from the start: I definitely did not want to direct a “making of” about a play. I wanted to explore Gabriel’s creative process as part of a much larger search for meaning. So, I kind of wound up dragging Gabriel all over the place, to satisfy the needs of the film. I had him carving headstones, made him stay up all night in Iceland, gently forced him to crawl through the winding passages of a cave in Saint-Casimir de Portneuf… He was very patient with me! I think each of these adventures nourished both the play and the film, albeit in different ways.

And since, with this project, I was trying to free myself from some of the conventions of cinema—some of the rules that seem to define documentary filmmaking—it was really inspiring to be with an artist who allows himself to be carried away by the unexpected and by a spirit of discovery. I quickly realized I wanted the film to explore the tension between the desire to let the film go wherever it took me and our desire for control. This became a comic motif in editing. I endlessly repeat that I hope to let myself be carried away by events, and yet I’m endlessly reframing the story in an attempt to hold onto it and control it.

Much of the writing for this film was done during the editing stage. What was the process of working with your editor, Myriam Magassouba?

The film was more or less constantly being rewritten—from pre-production all the way to the final minute of the edit. After each shoot, I would rewrite and rethink the connections between the events I’d filmed. I would think about what I was missing. I wrote a bit blindly, without really knowing where I was going until quite late in the process. It was a bit disorienting.

Then we got to editing, and Myriam wrote “Trust the process” on a Post-it note she stuck to the monitor of our computer. As we started to peel back the layers of the material, I was trying to shape the film into the form I’d conceptualized at the start. I wanted the film to tell the story of our creative journeys, of the development of a show—but it wasn’t just the story of a show. It refused to be just that! I had to finally accept what the images were really trying to tell me. It was a film about beginnings, a film that’s constantly searching for what it actually is, and it’s about how to start and how to tell the story.

The narration was written and recorded during editing, which required a ridiculous degree of precision. At some point, near the end of the editing process, we’d found the overall structure of the film, and the crux of the work with Myriam was finding the exact words to tie it all together. On those days, you hoped to have had a good night’s sleep, because we would spend hours trying to write three sentences.

How did you come to the idea of structuring the narrative in 16 acts, or 16 “attempts”?

For a long time, I thought the film would start over three times. A classic film in three acts. Then, between two rounds of editing, I came across an essay by Janet Malcolm [“Forty-One False Starts”], in which she writes about a painter [David Salle] and tries to capture his life story by starting over and over again. I sent the essay to Myriam, and we both realized the film could include more attempts than we had originally considered.

Afterwards, we had all kinds of trouble translating that idea into the language of film. Obviously, it’s very different from written literature. But once everything started to fall into place, this structure allowed me to broach the difficulties we face in telling a story, when events are out of our hands. When the story that we don’t want to tell bubbles up from everywhere. And when the world around us starts falling apart too. At a time like that, how do you tell a story?

Your off-screen narration plays a critically important role in the story. But it can be a little unsettling to use your own voice. Did you find that hard? Or was it a natural way for you to express yourself?

I never really thought I would make a film with voiceover. It took me a long time to face the fact that I was going to have to use my own voice to speak to the audience. But the idea of playing with the voiceover appealed to me a lot. When we found just the right words, and the right tone, it was very satisfying. And the more we found the right tone, the right voice, the right balance between humour, mockery and honesty, the easier I found it to take on the voice.

The film takes a humorous approach towards the necessity of applying for grants. But how do you finance a film with no script and without a clear and precise topic?

Well, I did have a subject and a very specific angle at the start—but no script. And I fear that it is not possible to finance a film without a script anywhere except at the NFB. (That was my experience, anyway.) I was extremely lucky to have the support of the production team, who let me dive into it. This film would not have existed without the NFB. I hope with all my heart that it will continue to make space for documentary exploration, because that’s so, so valuable, and it doesn’t really exist anywhere else.

Gabriel talks about the giddiness he feels when the work is completed. How did you decide when it was time to stop filming?

It’s hard to say, because it’s a feeling you have. You have to let go a little bit at the end of each stage. At the end of editing, you make the decision that it’s done. At the end of mixing, you decide to let it go. And without your even realizing it, the film is finished. And then you absolutely have to think about the next thing, and start something else.