Anarchist-feminist Emma Goldman’s notorious quote, “if I can’t dance then I don’t want to be a part of your revolution,” serves not only as a rule-of-thumb in regards to political activism but also that of daily labor. What sets The Tsugua Diaries apart is how it treats the fruits of labor like any other in that, if left untouched, they begin to decompose from the inside out — decay bares its incisors when work reigns over leisure.
The throes of COVID-19 exacerbated this stipulation when the transition to full-time remote work was thrust upon much of the in-person workforce. A welcome modernization for many, this disruption proved an equal detriment to the work-life balance of others. Online capacities made the switch seamless for most workflows, but the film industry — something which largely hinges on face-to-face collaboration — was nearly decimated.
The dynamics shifted so violently that being on-the-clock, around-the-clock, became indistinguishable from life outside of employment. For Lisbon-based co-directors Maureen Fazendeiro and Miguel Gomes, that frustration needed an outlet. Cue: the power of dance.
In particular, to the jubilant tune of Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons’ 1972 track, “The Night” — a melancholic paean about fickle love and youth which bookends both sides of the film. Not only are these sequences irresistible in the song’s undulations between Valli’s soprano and a sonorous bassline, but the cast’s articulation of the haze that accompanies coming-of-age introduces a deep-seated interpersonal tension.
The foggy gradations between performance and reality are viewed through a metatheatrical, reverse-chronological, romantic entanglement between Crista (Crista Alfaite), Carloto (Carloto Cotta), and João (João Nunes Monteiro) on the set of a film production during the peak of the pandemic. The trio performs mundane tasks according to their directors’ every whim, but an imbalance between being “on” and time off leads Carloto to make a selfish decision, putting his leading role, as well as the entire production, at risk.
Those acts of labor consist of: building a rickety butterfly house from scratch; reinvigorating a pool lorded over by algae; harvesting the bounties of an in-season orchard — each of these menial chores, dictated by Fazendeiro and Gomes, measure the actors. Not their chops, but their impulses — ossifying the film’s bone structure with naturalistic instinct instead of the orchestrated affectation of acting.
There’s no telling where the line between character and actor lies. What we see of Carloto’s childish smirk may very well be just his natural disposition; what we see of Crista’s simultaneous exhaustion-enthusiasm could just be a reflection of her personal feelings toward the production. Still, we watch as they perform their daily duties, as requested.
Dispersing care unto their dilapidated surroundings — under the compounded oppressive constrictions of a pandemic-time film set — the actors, in their prosaic tedium, hold out hope that through self-preservation, meaning will arise.
The diaries of August in reverse, The Tsugua Diaries is how we survive on the sustenance of intimacy: a lush summer of romantic yearning; investing time into the well-being of our surroundings; relaying all of that in the private whisper of a diary for the sake of posterity. Surviving through acts of labor is not a novel concept, but The Tsugua Diaries respools its reel with intense personal resistance, dancing the night away after days of the same old shit.
