On April 25, 1974, a military coup overthrew Salazar, signaling the end of more than forty years of dictatorship in Portugal. On the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of this event, the Histoire TV channel is broadcasting this Wednesday, at 8:50 p.m., Under the carnations, the Portuguese revolution. This documentary by Tony Liégois retraces in one hour the days that changed the country forever. Lio is the narrator. The artist, born in Portugal and who fled the dictatorship with her mother, explains to 20 minutes how this film, loaded with intimate resonances, contributes to her desire to devote herself to projects that make sense to her.
This documentary echoes your personal story…
We left Portugal for personal reasons, linked to my mother, but also political: under the Salazar dictatorship, divorce was prohibited. When someone was convicted of adultery, their parental authority was withdrawn. There was a trial and, at the same time, my mother was starting a new life with someone else – the father of my sister Helena, who was called to fight in the colonial wars. He didn’t want to go there. So there was this leak, in two stages. First, my mother and me. Alberto joined her later. It was in 1969. Initially, the idea was to settle in Paris, but the city was recovering from May-68, so we arrived in Brussels, by this famous train that many political refugees took in fear since there was the PIDE [la police politique de Salazar] who passed and checked the papers at the Spanish border. It wasn’t easy.
Saying the comment therefore carries an emotional charge?
This goes hand in hand with the experience I had, even though I was little. There is a charge of emotion, of course, but also of memory. I wanted to make known this episode which is so important for us, the Portuguese, but also, I think, for the world, quite simply. It was the end of a dictatorship. And we tend to want to forget it, to want to make it forgotten, today with the rise of the extreme right. Portugal, which was spared until three years ago, finds itself with a skyrocketing extreme right.
Do you have the impression that the French are familiar with the Carnation Revolution and what it involved and led to?
No, they don’t know this revolution well. Because the Portuguese immigrants who arrived had only one desire, to integrate. So they didn’t talk too much about politics. They were talking about it among the Portuguese.
The French perhaps have more easily in mind the fall of Franco and the Spanish “Movida”…
Exactly. Franco is a much stronger image. There was the civil war, it was very violent. He is truly recognized as a dictator. Everyone sees his face – his dirty face, I would say. Salazar’s is much more discreet. It really is peasant fascism, very discreet. His sympathies were clear but he tried to maintain neutrality. He was a schoolteacher, not a soldier, so he did not capture the collective imagination like a Franco.
You were 12 years old at the time of the Carnation Revolution. What memories do you have of those days?
I remember being incredibly excited. It was terribly strong. We had only just had television, in black and white. I remember the round tables with Álvaro Cunhal [le leader du Parti communiste portugais qui s’était exilé] and Mario Soares [secrétaire général du Parti socialiste, lui aussi exilé, qui sera élu président du Portugal en 1986] in front of this screen, Chaussée de Waterloo in Brussels. The priority question, for me, was whether we could spend a vacation in Portugal, return there…
Were you able to return there quickly enough?
Immediately afterwards, for the summer holidays of 1974. I returned without my mother because the amnesty for crimes that were said to be common, such as adultery, was later. I arrived there in August, I saw my cousins again, everyone had pins with the hammer and sickle. Lisbon was decorated with wonderful revolutionary paintings which have all since been covered up – maybe one or two were saved but they wanted to erase the traces, it was not considered historic. Everyone was campaigning, even the very young! It was like breathing, it was huge.
Participating in this documentary or, as you did recently, on the jury of “Drag Race Belgium”, is part of a desire to devote yourself to projects that make sense to you?
Yes. I think that the appointment that you should not miss in life is with yourself. Otherwise, we are not incarnated with others either. It turns out that I survived, more as a woman than as an artist, following positions that seemed self-evident to me but were obviously not at the time. Thus, there was no longer a “Lio chante Lio” disc but Lio sings Caymmi where I had to fight for six years for people to finally release it [en 2018] pinching his nose. I existed thanks to the new generation who, all of a sudden, recognized me for my words. I realized that my words had meaning, weight. To name things better and remove unhappiness from the world. Because misnaming things is adding to the misfortune of the world, as Albert Camus said. I am 60 years old, I am a senior. While waiting to make a record of “Lio chante Lio”, I lend my voice to subjects and my face to projects that seem important to me.
You denounced gender-based and sexual violence long before the subject was taken into account by the mainstream media. You were a strong voice, but a little isolated. With what’s happening recently, particularly around #MeToo in French cinema, do you feel less alone?
I’m just happy that things are moving forward. It’s not about feeling less alone. I feel quite alone. But not from a sisterhood perspective. I don’t want us to forget those who took all the risks at the start. #MeToo cinema is not Judith Godrèche alone. It was, before her, Adèle Haenel, who paid very, very dearly for it and I think that it is thanks to this first stone that Judith Godrèche has her words better heard today. This doesn’t take anything away from his fight, but I wouldn’t want it to be said that it has just started. It started well before but France is a country that resists terribly. It is not for nothing that Robespierre is the hero.
Your appearance on Thierry Ardisson’s show “Everybody talks about it” in 2006, where you talk about the way in which Marie Trintignant was killed by Bertrand Cantat, made an impression. He reappears regularly on social networks. Do you believe that it was fundamental in your speaking out, in your career?
Despite him. Despite this man [Thierry Ardisson] who is a manipulator and whom I do not respect.
Do you agree with Christine Angot who, in a column published a few days ago, was outraged that Emmanuel Macron awarded the Legion of Honor to Thierry Ardisson? She says she perceives this as “a slap in the face” which honors “humor-humiliation”.
I did not read his platform but basically in what you tell me, yes, I agree. In any case, since Mr. Macron came to power, Foutriquet has been giving us slaps one after the other. Now that I know that this gentleman only does that – I also heard his positions on Gérard Depardieu – I know that he has no words, that he doesn’t care about women. This well represents the state of mind of France in relation to violence against women and children, and against homosexuals and trans people. Speech is freed but the ear should also relax, right? If there are no ears, one can shout in the desert for a very long time.