Film screening at balkanfest // Caliu: Nothing Else, What Else Can I Do?

When
February 18th 18:00 - 19:30
Where
Cinemateket in Trondheim

About the film:

A captivating wind swept across Europe, filled with intricate rhythms and an intensity that knocked us off our feet.

That’s what they were—the outlaws of music!

They were wild; they played like the devil.

They’d spill out of their bus like a school of musical fish!

They’d throw themselves into the thick of the crowd—laughing, smoking, grinning, and playing—unleashing melodies and rhythms unlike anything we had ever heard.

We stood there, spellbound, our eyes wide as vinyl records, wondering what on earth had just hit us.

They leaped right over everything we thought we knew—and couldn’t have cared less about the establishment.

Charmingly, impossibly so—they were rough around the edges, old, bald, and some even toothless—yet they played us into the ground!

They came from Clejani, Romania—a village where musical instruments were passed down through generations.

A place so isolated that they forged their own unique style. How could it have turned out any other way?

All they did was play (while their wives took care of the livestock, the children, the household, and the crops).

Fiddle, accordion, cimbalom, double bass, and Romanian flutes known as Nay and Ney.

And the singing.

Songs that were fairy tales—stories passed down from one generation to the next.

Sounds that had been cast against the hills for ages, tumbling down the slopes like stones—carrying words and rhythms—only to be caught, reshaped, and transformed, over and over again.

Folk music.

And out in front stood Caliu—Anghel (Caliu) Gheorghe.

Standing wide-legged, like a fighting bull, he played with such ferocity that the horsehair on his violin bow would snap—almost every single time! Hypnotic—with that wild look in his eyes!

Once you’d seen him, you’d never forget him.

It had to come to an end eventually.

They went from sold-out arenas in London, Paris, and Tokyo—hailed by fashion guru Yohji Yamamoto and stars like Yehudi Menuhin, and becoming close friends with Johnny Depp.

They held the Romanian record for the number of venues played across Europe—including places that rarely appear on a typical tour itinerary: Storås, Sollefteå, Bakke Community Center, Falun, Førde, Piteå, Rødovre, and so on.

Perhaps the most surreal aspect of Taraf de Haïdouks was the stark contrast between the different lives they led.

As soon as a tour ended, they would take their earnings in cash, fly home to Romania, and head straight back to the village of Clejani.

There, the money was immediately distributed among the extended family—used to buy horses, expand a neighbor’s house, or pay for massive, three-day local weddings. Just days after performing for movie stars, you might find those same musicians playing for pocket change at a village wedding.

They adamantly refused to move to the big city, believing their music would "lose its soul" if they didn't live in Clejani.

And then, it was over.

Europe was no longer quite as hungry for the madness of Clejani. Some of the musicians passed away—far too young. To a man, they had all been top contenders in the world championships of cigarette smoking and other less-than-wholesome lifestyle choices.

Caliu still lives in Clejani.

He’s still waging war on his violin.

What else is he supposed to do? Presenting: Caliu: Nothing else, what else can I do?

For the first time in Norway, we are screening director Simona Constantin’s feature film debut.