London-based filmmaker Jim Longden messaged us late last year about a project documenting Brazilian musician Rodrigo Amarante – the renowned Brazilian-born, LA-based musician who has collaborated with the likes of Devendra Banhart, Kevin Morby and Fabrizio Moretti, who recently created the soundtrack for Azazel Jacobs’ 2024 film His Three Daughters, and is one of Longden’s musical heroes. The resulting text and photography story is one of serendipity, love and friendship soundtracked by some of the most powerful music.

“Just over a week ago, while partaking in a late-night London frenzy, I ended up meeting a Yemeni man whose main occupation was running a grand hotel in Vienna. In the midst of what began as a short conversation to introduce myself and thank him for allowing my companions and me to join him at his gathering, I looked around and noticed that on the wall he had a poster of Tarantino’s 2007 film Death Proof.

This triggered the beginning of what would evolve into a 72-hour back-and-forth about the wonders of cinema – from Haneke and Kaurismäki’s filmography and the hope that they would make another picture, to Roy Andersson’s Songs from the Second Floor, Tarantino’s mastery of timing his soundtracks, and the perplexing fact that he did not win Best Picture for Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood. We discussed Paul Thomas Anderson’s collaboration with Jonny Greenwood in Phantom Thread and the use of God Only Knows by The Beach Boys in Boogie Nights, before eventually arriving at the topic of my ongoing and painfully poignant quest to make my debut feature film.

While explaining my current conundrum of writing the next draft of the script, my new friend invited me to join him in Vienna, where he would provide me with a room in his hotel so I could try to conquer this quarrel I had with my script.

Forty-eight hours later, I arrived in Vienna. I was picked up by a driver named Peter. As I entered the car, I quietly heard the voice of Leonard Cohen seeping through the speaker. I then saw that he was playing the Songs of Love and Hate album. With much admiration, I expressed to him that Famous Blue Raincoat was a song that meant a great deal to me. Peter then explained that years prior to our journey, he had been Cohen’s driver while the musician was performing in Austria. He went on to show me a photograph of the two of them.

I was in awe and eager to learn more. Peter paused before continuing his story. I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed that his face had shrunk with a small sense of sorrow. He then continued staring deep into the empty road before finally saying, “I get upset sometimes when I think about Leonard.”

At that moment, I was bewildered and didn’t know what to say. Peter then summarized his story by simply saying, “Leonard was a very good man to me.”

We continued listening to the Cohen album throughout the journey. We did not need to speak much, and every so often, I would look into the rearview mirror again to see Peter timidly singing along with the poetic words of his dearest Leonard…

As we arrived at the hotel, Peter turned down the music and exhaled before muttering, “Sometimes, you just meet somebody and—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. We both exited the car, and I completely understood why it was hard to describe the feeling he held.

Sometimes, life can be stranger than fiction, and sometimes, life can hold nothing but suffering—to the point of questioning what is what, why is why, and who the hell is who! But, as the vast majority of humans know, in the lucky glimpse of beauty, there can be a time, a place, a moment where you look another human in the eye and realize why the earth can be a place called home.

I thanked Peter, shook his hand, and said, “Until the next time, Peter.” He smiled and continued his journey, which I am sure was accompanied by Leonard.

As I walked into the hotel, I remembered the first time I met the man I call The Wizard, Rodrigo Amarante.

Three years ago, when I was 22, I had just finished my second short film and was convinced I was ready to make a feature. I had several story ideas I thought could work as a screenplay, one of which was inspired by my time in the small Italian town of Fano. I had been brought to this magical place by an eccentric Italian photographer – born and raised there – whose real name, age, and backstory were all shrouded in mystery. She called herself the Italian Gypsy, a title that added an extra layer of adventure to an already wonderfully chaotic trip.

During my stay, I met a man named Angelo, who soon became one of my closest friends. The funny thing about my friendship with Angelo was that he didn’t speak a word of English, and I couldn’t speak a word of Italian. But, this didn’t hinder our connection, and strangely, although he had never been to the UK, he had a tattoo of the West Ham logo. Me, being an Arsenal supporter, turned this into our inside joke – one that nobody else over there seemed to understand. The point being, as Peter said, “Sometimes, you just meet somebody and—”

After spending several weeks in Fano, I became enamoured by how mesmerising it was. I learned that Fellini had gone to school there, that it was rarely used as a filming location, and that the locals and I were getting along to such a degree that they would grant me permission to shoot a film there with support from the town’s community. So, within a few weeks, I completed a draft of the script and sent it to the nearest production company that could help bring it to life.

One of my favourite scenes in film history is from Almodóvar’s Talk to Her, where Caetano Veloso performs Cucurrucucú Paloma. So entranced by that scene, I wrote a moment in my screenplay where Rodrigo Amarante would perform at the character’s birthday gathering. To blur the line between fiction and reality, I wrote that the character herself was an avid fan of Rodrigo and that it was an inconceivable dream for her to have him appear at her celebration. Of course, this heavily reflected my own thoughts – this would not only be my chance to meet Rodrigo, but also to capture him on film, to hear him perform, to have him there in the flesh: the maestro, the anomaly, the magician!

With a “nothing to lose” spirit, I then wrote to Rodrigo’s management, asking whether something of this nature would be possible. I even felt a thrill from composing the request, as I truly did – and still do – see Rodrigo as one of the greatest musicians living today. A man whose lyrics, compositions, performances, eyes, mind I have spent hundreds of hours, perhaps more, examining and analyzing, a hero some may say, an idol, a hope… I must emphasise to you, my dear friends, that I do not find reason in mentioning Amadeus, Hamsun, Salinger, Bergman, Fante, Carax or Lennon without mentioning Amarante! And during this turmoil, of which we find that the inner greatness of what is seen as an artist is decaying, and that the raw truth of an artist is fading, people like him should be seen as sacred.

After a month, I was informed that he was busy on tour in Brazil and couldn’t do it. I also realised that I had sent his previous manager an idea for a music video for his song The End, which he wasn’t informed about. Of course, it all seemed too good to be true anyway.

Regardless, financing the film was beginning to seem like an impossible mission, and as Coppola recently said, it’s a battle with “an industry so terrified of risk.” But the majority of those who read the script emphasised that there was potential, and with the support from the locals in the town, there was still a chance we could make it happen. So, while thinking of alternate films I could produce in London, I still held on to a glimpse of hope that my scene with Rodrigo could one day prevail.

Back in the cold land of England, I struggled to sleep. Then, in the middle of the night (evening in Los Angeles), I received a message from Rodrigo himself. For the first time, the mystery man had spoken. It was a strange sensation – reading words directly from the person who wrote The Ribbon, Mon Nom, I’m Ready, and Evaporar. Yet there I was, taking in his kind words, his admiration for my films, and his interest in one day working together… And that, my dear civilians of Earth, is when the world’s everlasting weariness can be reversed and conquered, and hope can abruptly be rekindled.

“I received a message from Rodrigo himself. For the first time, the mystery man had spoken.”

As I amplified my motivation to continue the parade of making the film, I was caught off guard by the might of life’s unexpectancies. The day after Christmas, I collapsed, and for the following year, I was in and out of the hospital, caught in the midst of having a rather frightening brain tumour. And that’s the way the cookie crumbles, they say!

During these times, Rodrigo and I would write to each other every month or so, and when we did, it would be in the format of a long letter from a relative who lived across the world. As if we were pen pals, we got to know more about each other. A brotherly foundation was being formed, and what began as a conversation about work, eventually formulated into two humans talking about the methods of living and the queries of life.

Two years later, after recovering enough to be able to fly to New York, Rodrigo and I planned to finally meet.

It was February, and since I had first spoken to Rodrigo, I had released my book of short stories, Memoirs of a Balloon, and my third short film, Puddle of Muddles. Rodrigo had finished his original score for His Three Daughters, and things seemed as if they were adding up. I had told Rodrigo prior to our meeting that it would be an honour to take some photographs of him, which one day I would put to good use. He agreed, and off I set to confront the phrase, “never meet your heroes.”

From a distance, I spotted Rodrigo, and like a drunk aunt, I raised my arms in the air and smiled. He did the same. There were 20 seconds before we finally reached each other, and within the first few words, I had lost any fear or worry that one might have in such a circumstance.

After spending the day travelling through New York, I was welcomed into Rodrigo’s abode. Church stained windows separated his living room from the streets; hundreds of books, vinyls, the instruments I had seen him use in videos of his performances, score sheets, kitchen utensils, and artworks – it would take a Capote or Joyce to portray how much his surroundings aligned with his music and essence.

At this point, I felt as if I was back home, in a place where I belonged. I met Rodrigo’s partner, she was working on a theatre play – yin and yang, it was like the puzzle pieces together forming an image only Hopper could paint. And, as The Four Aces gleefully chanted, Love Is A Many-Splendored Thing…

My mother and my aunties used to call me The Rascal, and I have never changed. So, as one must do, I cheekily asked Rodrigo to perform my favourite song of his, Mon Nom, a song which I had listened to for many years prior – from times in the middle of the night while lost in Paris with no place to go, to times I was in love and showed her the songs that saved me, to moments in which I would discuss music as if playing chess with a drunkard in a bar in Berlin, countering the fool for not having heard the music of Amarante!

And there he sat, The Wizard, playing the song, just him and me. I didn’t shed a tear, as it would have been rather weird. But my soul most certainly felt as if the ticking time bomb had paused while witnessing such history.

The next day was Valentine’s Day, and as a lonely, poetic cliché of a man surviving the story of a tortured artist figuring out how to figure things out, I was planning to spend it watching Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, deliriously hoping that one day I’d fail in all my methods of becoming a feature filmmaker, which of course, would inevitably result in me having no choice but to attend my daily service as a salesman in a family-owned secondhand bookstore.

“And there he sat, The Wizard, playing the song, just him and me.”

That was until Rodrigo and his partner invited me to join them for dinner. Call it what you will, but it was the best date I had ever been on. From making homemade pasta to me performing my guitar song The Toddler’s Happy Tantrum, to explaining why my tendencies as a hopeless romantic will likely leave me lost and alone, like Toni Servillo in The Great Beauty, it was a day I will never forget. When I left, the first thing I did was play Mon Nom again – but this time, I could say I had spent Valentine’s Day with the person who wrote it.

A year later, Rodrigo had a show in London. I met him for a drink and handed him my latest script for a film which, this time, I hope will get made. The film, in essence, holds aspects of a musical and is based on a selection of Rodrigo’s songs and, soon, if fate shall offer me the wisest solution, my dream of having Rodrigo perform in a scene of mine will prevail. During our meeting, Rodrigo, knowing how close I am to my mother, asked me how she was. I explained to him that she was struggling to sleep and, as she is practically my identical twin, both she and I are just a pair of mad thinkers trying to figure out answers to questions that shouldn’t even be asked in the first place.

I had to rush to Paris the next day for a shoot, so I couldn’t attend Rodrigo’s show. The Wizard then emphasised that my mother should attend and she would be added as the guest of honour.

The next night, I received a call from her, and with a wonder of excitement, she told me that during the performance, Rodrigo dedicated a song to her – and it was called… Fall Asleep.

Anyway, I started writing this at 4AM, and it is now 10:30AM. I have planned to show my new friend from Yemen the Forman film, Taking Off as he hasn’t seen it yet. So, I must listen to The Wizard and get some rest.

Take from this whatever you will: a journal, a memoir, a gloat, a report, a brag, maybe the most delicately crafted name-drop one can portray, or maybe it’s just a heavenly escapade of a dream coming true.

But, at the end of the day, as Peter said, “Sometimes, you just meet somebody and—””