Mysteries of Lisbon, or: The splendid art of storytelling and the fine line between fiction and reality

Mysteries of Lisbon (2010)

***SPOILERS***

Directed by Raúl Ruiz

Raúl Ruiz’s Mysteries of Lisbon is a crowning achievement in the most obvious way. His labyrinthine tale of the intercrossing citizens of Lisbon is just as vast and sprawling as Camilo Castelo Branco’s original novel. Each and every story permeates through the others, yet each feels like a wonderful tale on its own. To think all these varying tales remain intriguing through their unique narratives and inventive filmmaking is impressive—only more impressive is director Ruiz’s ability to maintain such a fascination without succumbing to vehemence during his 272-minute runtime. Each sub-story is methodically laid out and carried forward, only to lead directly into another seemingly disconnected story. And while characters work themselves in and out of each story, the true connection lies in the art of storytelling. The fine line between fiction and reality discreetly emanates through it all, only coming in full force during the film’s final somber moments. But however audacious and adventurous Ruiz’s final film may be, such a vast concept is inherently crippled by inconsistencies in filmmaking and disintegrating themes...right?

The main theme, which is able to stand the test of time (all 272 minutes of it), is one of reality vs. fiction. Or, when it comes down to it: free will vs. fatalism. It’s just hard to tell whether the main theme runs through the finish line in first place, or simply limps across due to a poor training schedule. Such a concept is explored early on with João (João Arrais). After a boy insults his father, João becomes involved in a tussle that sends him into a fit. Unfit for school for weeks, he lies in bed, grappling with jealousy and hate towards the boy who insulted João’s long-lost father. He returns to class, and Father Dinis (Adriano Luz) presents João with the wooden ball that the bully used to send him into a comatose state. João holds the ball, and then rolls it back to the Father. Instantly free will is created within João, creating the idea that he can control his own fate. João certainly exercises such a gift, dictating situations as the story progresses with his miniature theater and its puppets. João will set up a scene, which is immediately followed by a real-life portrait of the event depicted. The theater brings a sense of whimsicalness to the film, bolstering the fairytale aspect of the story. But in addition, these opening scenes with João come back in the end and make us wonder: was it all really just a dream?

Of course it’s futile (and pointless) to debate whether or not João imagines the entire film, both because it holds no bearing to the film’s overall quality and nobody, including Ruiz, can truly answer such a question. But for the sake of exploring the film’s intentions and discovering whether or not Ruiz indeed pulls off such an incredible feat, we can look at the film’s final thirty-or-so minutes and analyze João’s renewed presence. After all the tales of lost love and regret and sorrow and reconciliation and retribution, we come full circle and find Alberto de Magalhães (Ricardo Pereira) face-to-face with João once again. João, now a foolish love-stricken adolescent, is humiliated by Alberto and left dishonored in an open clearing after losing a duel. João sits down, and just before shooting himself, he narrates:

“Suddenly, I felt lost. I was once again the Joao of Father Dinis’ school, before I ever found my mother or knew my name, or my history. A mere puppet, manipulated by invisible hands at the mercy of some other will. I didn’t know what to do, or what decision to make.”

The young freethinking João used his miniature theater to control situations, moving people in and out of situations at his own will. Such a sense of free will burdens João with a naïve mindset, leading him to believe his decisions actually mean something in the grand scheme. But as the story moves away from João—to the point where he’s a ghost of the past—his reappearance places him in strange company. Originally the base of our tale, he’s now become another branch in a seemingly endless tragic story that continues to grow and grow. What’s key is the line: “A mere puppet, manipulated by invisible hands at the mercy of some other will.”

When he was the story’s protagonist, João’s presence would accompany every shot of the theater, perpetuating João’s clouded free-will mindset. But as he fades out of the tale and becomes replaced by Father Dinis and Alberto, we see a shift. The theater still accompanies the film’s transitions, depicting scenes before they occur, but now it holds the entire frame, as if presenting the story from a different perspective. Perhaps…the director’s? It would seem fitting as Ruiz’s final and most daring undertaking that he insert himself into a film—especially one that requires a masterful storyteller. As the master himself, Ruiz becomes a concealed force, dictating the story through his own narrative and presenting the grandest puppet show of all. João’s realization that his fate is controlled by a set of “invisible hands” almost feels like a painful concession on Ruiz’s part. Ruiz gives João a purpose and a place, only to abandon his young hero and utilize his sad story as another transition. It’s a bold acknowledgement on Ruiz’s part, and its power radiates tenfold through João’s pathetic attempt to recapture his free will.

João’s “suicide accident” is really a figment of his imagination—a longing to control his own fate. But the story continues after the gunshot, as Ruiz relentlessly keeps hold of João, sending him back to Alberto to gain further knowledge of his insignificance and how his life was bought for a mere 80 coins. A realization that his entire life is in debt to Father Dinis and indirectly controlled by invisible hands sends him into a depression, leading him to a remote hotel where he climbs into bed, echoing the small room he occupied as a child. He places his theater on the cabinet and the wooden ball in front of it—the theater representing fatalism, the ball representing free will. And as he lay there, he recounts those days he spent in a fever dream as a child.

“I don’t know how long had passed between the time I lost consciousness and the moment I opened my eyes again. I thought I had dreamt it all.”

He smiles as he says this, slipping into a dreamy state where young João never wakes up from his hospital stint. Looking upon that wooden ball and the theater surrounding it, João finds bliss in his fictitious longings, where he’s no longer the butt-end of someone else’s story, but once again the protagonist, occupying the scene and all its importance. And however feeble such an attempt may be, it’s comforting to find João taking control of his life once again, wrangling the strings from the puppet master’s hands and sealing his own fate.

For the concept of free will vs. fatalism to reach its true peak during these final moments, one would have to be convinced of João’s corrupted mindset and imagined suicide attempt. The answer can be found in Ruiz’s filmmaking, which is so capricious and uniquely inventive that it seems impossible to match any one style to any given situation. But in keeping true to his storytelling duties, Ruiz chooses to insert himself during the film’s transitions between stories. Sure, the diverse camerawork can be seen as Ruiz’s moment to shine and show off his chops as a seasoned director, but it’s a welcomed temperament. Just as João received his story and dictated it as he pleased, each and every tale is uniquely composed by its storyteller. This is where the most blatant line between fiction and reality is treaded, as each scribe gives his or her story its own personality. The Count of Santa Bárbara’s (Albano Jerónimo) tale is mystical, depicting Sebastião de Melo (Father Dinis’ first alter ego) as an elusive ghost that mysteriously disappeared at a moment’s notice. When Sebastião de Melo first appears to the Count, he’s met with a Scorsesian zoom-in, with the walls and ceiling closing in and around the shrouded figure, creating a sense of entrapment and fatalism that isn’t blatantly inserted into each storyline, but exists uniquely to its particular storyteller. Such a style seems odd in such amongst the stagnant stories of others, whom often become affixed on their own musings. This includes João’s final story, which isn’t accompanied by the rigid structure of his earlier tale, but now clouded in dreamlike filmmaking, with people shifting in and out of focus and waves of blurry images accompanying his dead body. This is the first true moment of fiction. While the Count and others’ stories are affiliated with exaggeration, this is the first time where the image, and thus the story, becomes distorted, relating an aura of fiction and disbelief—or João’s final futile attempt to regain control of the story.

In interweaving all these tales, Ruiz truly captures a time period where men fought over women as much as they wrestled their own egos, and a period where women were left to occupy their predestined social roles. While no dominant theme ever pushes itself into the forefront, these small grapples with social settings effect each character, challenging their place and importance in a tale that owns no protagonist. Ângela de Lima’s (Maria João Bastos) father was once a wealthy, controlling dictator of his home, only to become a beleaguered, abandoned, and penniless beggar. The sinister and murderous Alberto de Magalhães adversely mirrors him, going from rags to riches, relating that the difference between good and evil is not defined by class structure. And as each tale extenuates the last by completely abandoning it, we see such themes and motifs disintegrate and reappear, owning as much adherence as the characters perpetuating them. In the end, these tales are merely eye candy until we eventually reach João once again, where the level of their importance and their elongated stagnancy comes to represent how many years have past and how removed João has become. And while a fully realized vision, one must inevitably ask: is something lost in the shuffle?

The vision isn’t lost—in fact, the further Ruiz moves away from João throughout the film, the more powerful the impact it has upon João's emptiness. And you can’t complain about the tales themselves, for they connect in their own ways and produce a sprawling narrative that is wonderful in its own right. The final statement regarding free will and fatalism is just icing on the cake. The only flaw to Ruiz’s tale would be inconsistent filmmaking, for which he is seemingly free of guilt. For a film that requires Ruiz’s divine presence as a storyteller, his manic camera only becomes its own beast during characters’ recounts, only succumbing to out-of-tale antics when João controls the story early on. The only moment Ruiz presents himself is merely done to extenuate his role as a storyteller: flooding each sub-story with maids, monks, and other eavesdropping bystanders that exist to carry the story on. But it seems a selfless act. By utilizing these minor characters, they become as every bit as important as the protagonist of each meaningless tale. For Ruiz to tell his story, he needs these people. However cruel their importance may be, they are Ruiz’s fodder. His tools. His inspiration. They are the reason why Mysteries of Lisbon exists—the reason why the splendid art of storytelling will never die.