The global economic maelstrom found a way to creep its way into the 47th edition of the Karlovy Vary International Film Festivalâbut only for a moment. The first few days saw slower ticket sales than usual: In past years, all of the (non-industry/press) tickets for next-day screenings would be gone by 10 in the morning, while this year it was still possible to find tickets for less hotly anticipated titles the day of. And on the third day of the festival I saw Claude Millerâs The Best Way to Walk in a theater with at least 20 empty seatsâwhich is almost unheard of for this festival. However, since July 5 and 6 are national holidays in the Czech Republic, there was a swell in attendance and the festival became its usual teeming not-a-seat-left-empty place. And so, as always, the city hosted nine days of cine-paradise.
The festivalâs dedication to keeping the images of its countryâs rapturous cinematic history alive never ceases to amaze. This year saw screenings of four Czech classics: Milos Formanâs The Firemenâs Ball, JiĆĂ Trnkaâs Old Czech Legends, Ć tefan Uherâs The Sun in a Net, and Jaromil JireĆĄâs boldy anti-communist The Joke. JireĆĄâs film, based on Milan Kunderaâs first novel, swishes back in forth in time between the â40s and â60s to tell the story of Ludvik (Josef Somr), a man whoâs bitterly held onto a grudge from decades ago, when old friends construed a joke he made as an anti-communist attack and voted to kick him out of the university. This betrayal resulted in Ludvik landing in the (politically) âunfitâ section of the army, having to work in the mines for six years. The sorrowful thing is that, while this is a film about a manâs attempt to get over the wounds of the past, by crosscutting between the two decades, JireĆĄ, by way of Kundera, suggests that the crippling post-war communist ballyhooing and herd mentality of the â40s, which led to the trampling of anyone on the âoutsideâ of the accepted ideology, is far from goneâwhich, at the time of the filmâs release, following the Soviet invasion of Prague in August 1968, couldnât have been closer to the truth. Thus, old wounds have to heal so that new ones can be cut open.
This yearâs festival also held retrospectives of Turkish auteur Reha Erdem, Michaelangelo Antonioniâs documentaries, and nine of Jean-Pierre Melvilleâs films (regrettably, the four not shown were Un Flic and the ultra-rare Magnet of Doom, Two Men in Manhattan, and When You Read This Letter). Melvilleâs first feature, The Silence of the Sea, is set during Nazi-occupied France. Werner Von Ebrennac (Howard Vernon) is a German soldier who becomes a boarder in a house belonging to an uncle, who narrates the film, and niece in a small provincial town. The two of them refuse to speak to Von Ebrennac while he makes it a nightly ritual to come talk toâand atâthem as the two sit by the fire. He likes to tell them about the glory the war will bring for France and Germany, as well as his great love for French literature. Von Ebrennac isnât a Nazi, simply a blinded soldier who doesnât realize the horrendous depths to which his fellow countrymen have fallen and the type of annihilative fate theyâve planned for France and its culture. Intermittently throughout the film, Melville lights and frames von Ebrennacâs face as if he were the cyborg out of Fritz Langâs Metropolis. In his first appearance on screen, the man is hit full in the face by bright light as he stands on the doorstep of the house, the light sculpting and bouncing off the angles of his face to create a harsh, almost nonhuman physiognomy. While always suspicious of this man (to the cryptic end), Melville carefully, tentatively, proposes the possibility for the healing of German-Franco relations, at some point in future history.
Emin Alperâs feature debut, Beyond the Hill (not to be confused with Cristian Mungiuâs Beyond the Hills, which also played here), is a study of male obstinacy, fallibility, and the fruitless (dangerous) need to prove ones dominance. The patriarch of a family lives far out in the Turkish countryside with a family who helps him take care of his vast land. His son and two grandchildren come to visit and all of the testosterone turns the film into a standoff between male egos, boiling down to a conflict with the nomads who live over the hillâand who no one ever actually sees on screen, tellingly so. The film ends with bursts of tragedy and violence that threaten to bloom and bleed forever on, as the ironicallyâand jarringlyâmerry rhythm of a-hunting-we-will-go melody accompanies the final images.
Room 514, one of few Israeli films to play at the festival, is Sharon Bar-Zivâs look at corruption within the Israeli army. When an Arab family files a complaint against an Israeli soldier for unwarranted brutality, no one wants to investigate the matter, and, as the film implicitly suggests, the Israeli army is all too happy to sweep such cries of injustice under the rug. Except, that is, for Anna (Asia Naifeld), who takes it upon herself to flush out the truth. Nearly all of the scenes are handheld shots of one-on-one meetings between Anna and soldiers/co-workers. Bar-Ziv foregrounds Annaâs femaleness as a central sticking point between her and the hot-headed, scared soldiers sheâs interrogating by often starting a scene with the male figure off screen, the camera hovering just over his shoulder so Anna is the focus of the frame, before finally cutting to reveal the object of her aggravation. Her interrogations are frequently and comically interrupted by her motherâs phone calls, which threaten to break her credibility as an imposing source of authority, and the soldier accused of the violent acts, who derisively refers to her as a princess, suggests that he protects the country so that people like her can sleep easy in their beds.
While thereâs a clear formal strategy at play, with the handheld movement of the camera often closing in on Annaâs face (especially when the film inexplicably turns to black and white for âmeditativeâ shots of Anna washing her face or drinking coffee), sometimes the loose movements betray an ineptness of framing and staging. Nonetheless, Naifeld turns in a strong performance, and this low-budget film strives not to point fingers or cast victims and villains (the resolution of the conflict further clouding the ideas of ârightâ and âwrongââand at what priceâof justice), but to present a plea for the need for transparency in internal army dealings.
Christian Petzoldâs Barbara, for which Petzold won a richly deserved Silver Bear for Best Director at this yearâs Berlinale, stars Nina Hoss in the eponymous role as a doctor whoâs been sent to work at a tiny village hospital as punishment for having tried to escape from East Germany. The lush colorscape (saturated forest greens, Barbaraâs dark blue dress, pink curtains) is a wonder to behold, each frame becoming a place for aesthetic rejoicingâand a reminder why 35mm should never be allowed to die. AndrĂ© (Ronald Zehrfeld), the good-hearted head doctor at the hospital, tries to befriend the initially cold and reserved Barbara, who, with the aide of her West German boyfriend, is planning on once again trying to clandestinely sneak across the Iron Curtain.
But Barbara is under close surveillance by the local authorities, who make a practice of showing up unannounced to search her apartment. Petzold turns the ringing of a doorbell and a car driving by into sounds of menace and fear, potential disruptions of her carefully laid plans of escape. As the crude injustices pile up, it becomes horrifically clear why Barbara must escape, but an encounter with a former female patient whoâs run away from what Barbara describes as a Socialist extermination camp turns the denouement into a crushing exhibition of the ability of a person to transcend themselves and achieve a state of grace.
Leos Caraxâs Holy Motors, the film I anticipated the most, but the one that game me the most trouble, has a maddening amount of ideas stuffed into it, and makes one want to spend years pouring over its images before attempting to come down with any final judgment. So, consider this phase one of a view thatâs already flip-flopped and evolved more over the course of a week than any other opinion Iâve ever had on a film.
Denis Lavant plays an actor who spends the day being driven around in a limousine on assignments to different places where he transforms into various characters (a stooped old woman, a dying old man, an assassin, the leader of an accordion group, etc.) and acts out non-sequitur scenes whose connection to one another Iâve yet to grasp. Of the many cinema-related questions Carax seems to be addressing, one of his primary concerns seems to be examining what happens to the actor in the age of the death of the mechanical. Michel Piccoli, who appears to be Lavantâs boss, pops up in the limo halfway through the film to say that it doesnât seem like Lavantâs heart is in it anymore. Lavant wistfully responds about how he misses the cameras, for they are now so small as to be rendered almost invisible. The maddening rate of production in the era of near-invisible recording apparatuses leads to the obfuscation and obliteration of an actorâs identity. (If there are no large cameras that one has to load with film, and light properly, think of all the time saved on setups, blocking, and rehearsal!) Lavant slips in and out of costumes and characters at such a fast pace that he hardly exists outside of the makeup and affectations of a character. We, perhaps, get to see a sliver of his real self in the Kylie Minogue-starring section of the film, but this, too, could just be an act.
Some scenes, such as Lavant playing a wild hair-munching troll, then later the leader of a group of accordion players, are either formally or narratively interesting, while others, such as Lavant as a man on his deathbed, or as an aggravated father having picked up his daughter from a party, are simply banal. But maybe thatâs precisely the point. As much as Holy Motors is a goodbye kiss to the mechanical, to the physical and corporeal nature of things related to film production (cameras, film stock, etc.), it doesnât believe in an end to cinema. Rather, despite the changes, Carax foresees a future for the artâa future which, much like the past, offers a full range of stories, characters, and aesthetic choices, some of which are triumphant successes, others barely there efforts. Holy Motors isnât a dirge, but a waltz that begins in the late 19th century and plays through the 21st and beyond.
Furthermore, Carax proposes that cinema may be a dream of the collective unconscious (one of the first shots of the film is of a dozing audience in a theater)âor perchance cinema is the dream of one being. A man awakens from his sleep and goes over to his bedroom wall, which serves as a portal into the theater full of dozing patrons. Perhaps itâs this man whoâs dreamed not just the movie but the spectators as well. (Heâs created the world.) And so, tangibly mechanical objects (Bolex, RedCam, and so on) have slowly become obsolete because cinema isnât the recording of life, but life itself.
The Karlovy Vary International Film Festival ran from June 29âJuly 7.
New York Film Festival 2019
If cinema is, indeed, the domain of freedom, then the festival doesnât see Netflix as the villain in that struggle.
âCinema is the domain of freedom, and itâs an ongoing struggle to maintain that freedom,â said New York Film Festival director and selection committee chair Kent Jones in a statement last month accompanying the announcement of the films that will screen as part of the main slate of the 57th edition of the festival. And depending on who you ask, Netflix is either the hero or villain in that struggle.
More than half of the 29 titles in the main slate enjoyed their world premiere earlier this year at Cannes, where Netflix had no film in competition, as its battle with festival director Thierry FrĂ©maux, who requires a theatrical run for any Cannes entrant, continues unabated. (The streaming giant did walk away from the festival with acquisition rights to JĂ©rĂ©my Clapinâs I Lost My Body and Mati Diopâs Grand Prix winner Atlantics.) Thereâs no right or wrong here per se, though itâs clear that FrĂ©mauxâs edict is an extension of his nostalgia for the golden age of cinema, which he sees as sacrosanct as the length of the theatrical window, and just how steadfastly he sticks to his guns may determine the fate of the worldâs most important film festival.
The New York Film Festival opens on Friday, September 27 with the world premiere of Martin Scorseseâs hotly anticipated The Irishman, almost one month to the day that it was announced that Netflix could not reach a distribution deal with major theater chains, including AMC, Regal, and Cinemark. The film will drop on Netflix less than a month after opening in some theaters across the countryâa non-traditional distribution strategy that will continue to be seen as short-circuiting a Netflix filmâs best picture chances at the Academy Awards, at least until one comes along and does what Alfonso CuarĂłnâs Roma couldnât last year.
It remains to be seen if The Irishman will be that film. But this much is also clear, and the New York Film Festival is making no bones about it: This streamable movie is very much a movie, and to be able to see a new Scorsese film that might not have run three hours and 30 minutes had it been released by a traditional distributor is very much a win for freedomâor, at least, a certain stripe of cinephileâs idea of freedom.
In addition to The Irishman and Atlantics, Netflix also has Noah Baumbachâs Marriage Story, starring Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver, at the festival (the centerpiece selection no less). Baumbachâs divorce drama bowed last month at the Venice Film Festival, alongside Martin Eden, Pietro Marcelloâs first feature since Lost and Beautiful, and The Wasp Network, which marks Olivier Assayasâs 10th appearance at the New York Film Festival. Among the returning auteurs are Kleber MendonĂ§a Filho (Bacurau, co-directed with Juliano Dornelles), Kelly Reichardt (First Cow), Albert Serra (LibertĂ©), Arnaud Desplechin (Oh Mercy!), Pedro AlmodĂłvar (Pain and Glory), Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne (Young Ahmed), and the greatest of the great, AgnĂšs Varda, whose Varda by AgnĂšs premiered earlier this year at Berlinale alongside Nadav Lapidâs Golden Bear winner Synonyms and Angela Schanelecâs I Was at Home, ButâŠ
Among the festivalâs noteworthy sidebars are Spotlight on Documentary, which includes new works by Tim Robbins (45 Seconds of Laughter, about inmates at the Calipatria State maximum-security facility taking part in acting exercises), Michael Apted (63 Up, the latest entry in the filmmakerâs iconic, one-of-a-kind British film series), and Alla Kovgan (Cunningham, a 3D portrait of the artistic evolution of choreographer Merce Cunningham); the MUBI-sponsored Projections, which features the latest films from Ăric Baudelaire (Un Film Dramatique) and Thomas Heise (Heimat Is a Space in Time); and a Special Events section that includes Todd Phillipsâs surprise Golden Lion winner Joker and Francis Ford Coppolaâs The Cotton Club Encore, which brings the 1984 period film back to its original length and luster. Ed Gonzalez
For a complete schedule of films, screening times, and ticket information, visit Film at Lincoln Center.
Atlantics (Mati Diop)
Starved for work after the depletion of Senegalâs local fishing industry, thousands of young men take to the sea every year aboard pirogues, or small boats, fleeing their country for Spain. Those who have emigrated, died, or been incarcerated as part of the âpirogue phenomenonââreferred to colloquially as âBarcelona or deathâ in Senegalese communitiesâare the ghosts that haunt Atlantics. The forms those spirits take in the film represent just some of whatâs so extraordinary about Mati Diopâs first feature as a director, a work of disparate influences and genres that pulses on its own oblique wavelength. Atlantics transitions into oblique genre fare in a manner reminiscent of Bertrand Bonelloâs Zombi Child, with electronic musician Fatima Al Qadiriâs multifaceted score adding ghostly strings and pop guitar riffs over spiritual, syncopated Middle Eastern arrangements. Despite its wild narrative leaps, the film is undergirded with a holistic mix of serenity and trauma that recalls Apichatpong Weerasethakulâs Cemetery of Splendour. Christopher Gray
Bacurau (Kleber MendonĂ§a Filho and Juliano Dornelles)
Kleber MendoĂ§a Filho and Juliano Donnellesâs Bacurau assembles a vibrant and eclectic collage of reference points. Itâs a wild neo-western that pulls into its orbit UFO-shaped drones, elaborate folklore, limb-flaying and head-exploding gore, and Udo Kier as a villain who shouts in a mockingly high-pitched voice, âHell no!â The Bacurau of the filmâs title is a fictional town in Brazilâs northeastern interior, depicted here at some point in the not-too-distant future. The citizens live in a relatively undisturbed harmonyâuntil Bacuaru is literally wiped off the map (GPS no longer can locate the backwater), local cell service is jammed, and the people find themselves hunted, A Dangerous Game-style, by gringo infiltrators. MendoĂ§a Filho is one of contemporary Brazilian cinemaâs most sharply political filmmakers, and Bacurau solidifies his commitment to rebuking Brazilâs current administration and its willful erasure of the countryâs culture and heritage. Sam C. Mac
Beanpole (Kantemir Balagov)
Kantemir Balagov has set Beanpole largely in tones of dark amber, bright green and red, and filthy yellow redolent of old incandescent lightingâand itâs the red of upholstery, Soviet imagery, and blood that cuts most forcefully through the brightest of those greens. Cinematographer Kseniya Seredaâs color palette recalls that of Krzysztof KieĆlowskiâs The Double Life of Veronique for the way it gives settings an artificiality that nonetheless brings Beanpoleâs grounded sociopolitical commentary into greater focus. Iya (Viktoria Miroshnichenko), a nurse working at a Leningrad hospital after the end of World War II, feels trapped in trauma, suffering from recurring fits of full-body catatonia. Her psychological state is magnified by the more visible scars of the soldiers recuperating all around her, adding to the sense that Balagovâs hermetically sealed vision of Leningrad only compounds and reflects Iyaâs PTSD back onto her. The filmmaker may depict the pain of his characters in blunt terms, but he traces the aftershocks of collapse with delicate subtlety. Jake Cole
Fire Will Come (Olivier Laxe)
Oliver Laxeâs Fire Will Come refreshingly occupies an almost uncategorizable cinematic realm. Were it a piece of writing it would exist at the crossroads of an essay, a reportage, and a series of haikus singing the praises and the plights of a threatened ecosystem. Although we know its images to be composed and assembled, and as such âfiction,â the filmâs delicate pace and the contemplative choreography of its camerawork conjure a sense of authenticity so organic that weâre almost convinced that thereâs no space between the characters and the actors, between the filmed setting and the actual landscape. This is a film where the charactersâ names coincide with those of the actors playing them. Itâs at once a portrait of a place and a portrait of a personânamely, of the Galician countryside and of Amador (Amador Arias), an arsonist who returns home to see his elderly mother, Benedicta (Benedicta SĂĄnchez). Given the rich simplicity of the scenario, Laxe recognizes that even the smallest amount of traditional plot would feel excessive. Diego Semerene
First Cow (Kelly Reichardt)
First Cow is one of Kelly Reichardtâs shakier efforts. The film begins with an especially incisive William Blake quote (âThe bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendshipâ), and its themes of systemic exploitation, the enduring vagaries of the free market, and the alternately tender and tempestuous bonds of male camaraderie are propped up by characters who come off as half-formed avatars rather than flesh-and-blood human beings. That isnât to say Reichardt, whoâs edited all of her films since Old Joy, has lost the ability to create multilayered, gently provocative imagery. Thereâs a beauty of a shot in First Cowâs first scene, set in the present day, of a young woman (Alia Shawkat) walking her dog and uncovering a pair of skeletons beside an Oregon river. Cinematographer Christopher Blauvelt frames the bones in a steady, un-showy composition (the film is photographed in the boxy 4:3 aspect ratio) so that it takes a few seconds to realize what youâre looking at. The slow-dawning revelation of the moment epitomizes Reichardtâs tendency in First Cow, as well as in many of her other films, to let drama emerge steadily and organically. Keith Uhlich
A Girl Missing (KĂŽji Fukada)
Throughout his 2016 film Harmonium, KĂŽji Fukada favored ambiguous, emotionally charged tableaux over narrative mechanics, and he continues that emphasis in A Girl Missing to ambitious, evocative, and troubling effect. The film is a story driven by kidnapping thatâs almost entirely disinterested in the motivations of the kidnapper and the pain of the victim and her family. Instead, the film is attached, to a consciously insular degree, to a nurse, Ichiko (Mariko Tsutsui), whose life is ruined peripherally by the kidnapping due to one peculiarly bad choice on her part. As austere as Harmonium could be, the characters were in their way dynamic and made sense. With A Girl Missing, Fukada may believe that heâs transcended the melodramatic strictures of a regular crime film or of the kind of womanâs martyr vehicle in which Joan Crawford used to specialize. Instead, heâs fashioned an occasionally haunting art object with miserable stick figures. Chuck Bowen
The Irishman (Martin Scorsese)
More so than Goodfellas or Casino, Martin Scorseseâs two other told-in-retrospect gangster films, The Irishmanâat least for the first two hours of its riveting three-and-a-half-hour runtimeâfeels composed of burnished, often blackly funny, fragments of erratic memory. The elderly, wheelchair-bound labor union official and mobster Frank âThe Irishmanâ Sheeran (Robert De Niro) glosses over the truth even when heâs telling it, recalling the past, even at its most violent, with a propulsive, rosy cheer that plays at a cursory glance like Goodfellas-lite. Scorsese knows what his audience is hoping for: glory days, resurrected. But he also understands the impossibility of anyone being exactly as they once were. So he weaves that longing into both The Irishmanâs text and its technique, presenting Sheeranâs youthful recollectionsâhis rise in rank with Russell Bufalinoâs (Joe Pesci) crew, his work with a beleaguered Jimmy Hoffa (Al Pacino) during the era when Attorney General Robert Kennedy (Jack Huston) worked hard to bring down organized crimeâas augmented hoodlum reveries that will soon catch up with the characterâs spiritually impoverished present. Uhlich
I Was at Home, ButâŠ (Angela Schanelec)
Angela Schanelecâs I Was at Home, ButâŠ take a fairly simple premise and builds a multilayered series of narrative threads around it, one filled with the detours and inconsistencies of life as itâs experienced on a day-to-day basis. In doing so, Schanelec isnât complicating or overthinking the familiar, but, rather, inviting her audience to rethink how these seemingly universal narratives function. The film is at its in moments when Schanalecâs insight into trauma as a menace that asserts itself at inopportune and confusing moments is powerfully dramatized. Itâs less successful when reaching for symbolic associations, as in the strikingly staged but inert passages of Shakespearean recitation that draw out connections between the story of Hamlet and a troubled fortysomething motherâs (Maren Eggert) life, or in the strained, bookending bits of business involving a dog and a donkey. For her part, Schanalec has preached in interviews that an experiential, non-intellectual approach to watching her films is ideal, so itâs telling that, in spite of its occasional academicism, I Was at Home, ButâŠ configures itself most potently in hindsight as a punch to the gut. Carson Lund
LibertĂ© (Albert Serra)
As they move inexorably forward in time, Albert Serraâs films donât crescendo so much as peter out. In Story of My Death, the harbinger on the horizon is the return of irrational, Romantic thinking in the late 18th century, which would effectively smother the enlightened libertinism that the story otherwise wallows in. And in The Death of Louis XIV, itâs the fate promised by the title, to which the film marched with solemn certitude. Serraâs new film, the audaciously perverse and amorphous LibertĂ©, doesnât give up its game so readily. Nearly without narrative conflict, it homes in on a long night of sexual experimentation among a group of libertines hiding out from the French courts on the Prussian border in the late 17th century, and for much of LibertĂ©âs duration, the only things generating forward momentum are the subtly escalating intensity of the acts themselves and the faint expectation, however ruthlessly exploited, that the sun will eventually rise again. Lund
Marriage Story (Noah Baumbach)
Noah Baumbachâs Marriage Story initially occupies a rather nebulous spot between broad-strokes comedy and raw melodrama. But as the initially amicable split between a playwright, Charlie (Adam Driver), and his actress wife, Nicole (Scarlett Johansson), takes a sour turn, the film becomes more acerbic, fixating on how familiarity breeds contempt. At one point, we catch a glimpse of old magazine profile of the coupleâwritten at the height of their artistic collaboration and domestic blissâtitled âScenes from a Marriage,â a throwaway allusion to Ingmar Bergman thatâs also a winking promise of the decline and fall to come. But even at its most blistering, the film contains small moments of grace in which Nicole and Charlie reflexively help or comfort each other. These subtle glimpses of their lingering affection for one another and familiarity complicate the bitterness of their separation. Elie Wiesel once said, âThe opposite of love is not hate, itâs indifference,â and only two people who were once as deeply in love as Nicole and Charlie were could have spent so long observing every minute detail of their partner to become so obsessed with each otherâs flaws in the first place. Cole
Martin Eden (Pietro Marcello)
Pietro Marcelloâs Martin Eden works better as a story of self-loathing and self-destruction than it does as a social critique or political statement. Marcello and Luca Marinelli, as the handsome, uneducated sailor of the filmâs title, donât make the difference between Martin at the beginning and Martin at the end distinct enough for viewers to really appreciate the characterâs transmogrification. But as a piece of filmmaking thatâs about the craft of filmmaking, Martin Eden, which was shot on 16mm, is occasionally brilliant. Itâs an amalgamation of epochal aesthetics and formal styles, from drifty handheld shots and grainy close-ups of emotional faces that recall the French and Italian films of the late-â60s, to static compositions and inky-black shadows that threaten to swallow Martin and the bourgeoisie. The color grading lends an ethereal air to the landscape shots (the ocean, blue and writhing, looks especially beautiful). Marcello splices in clips of silent films and footage of workers in Naples, which further emphasizes the timelessness of the filmâs themes. Greg Cwik
The Moneychanger (Federico Veiroj)
Federico Veirojâs The Moneychanger charts the prosperous, morally rotten career of Humberto Brause (Daniel Handler), a prominent money changer for all manner of neâer-do-wells. Much is made of gestures like hand-tailoring suits to transport money, but the movement of cashâfrom client to Humberto to various far-flung locations around the globeâis by and large curtly presented. The film eventually verges on the farcical, with Humberto engaging in a Force Majeure-esque act of cowardice during a shooting while driving with his wife (Dolores Fonzi) in Argentina and a rushed scheme to steal from a dead man before heâs interred, among other indiscretions. While these scenarios are somewhat absurd and funny, they feel calculated in their attempts to stress just how pitiful Humberto has become that he has to turn to such pathetic ploys to stay afloat. Itâs apparent that Veiroj disdains no one so much as Humberto, but the film makes little of the manâs undoubtedly twisted psyche. Throughout, The Moneychanger maintains a monolithic meanness, skirting even the smallest gesture of sympathy for Humberto and bulldozing him with further proofs of his depravity. Peter Goldberg
Motherless Brooklyn (Edward Norton)
Fans of Jonathan Lethemâs Motherless Brooklyn will be immediately struck by Edward Nortonâs decision to change the novelâs time setting from 1999 to 1957 for his long-gestating film adaptation. Given how effectively the novel transplanted a classic hardboiled noir setup to contemporary New York, Nortonâs popping of the novelâs anachronistic bubble is curious for how it makes literal what Lethem made so playfully postmodern. By setting his film in the â50s, when the noir style was at its most influential, Norton only makes it easier to spot those moments where the dialogue is trying much too hard to capture the snap, wit, and loquacious cynicism of the genreâs best films. Throughout, Nortonâs too-neat visual coverage is indicative of his filmâs greatest failing. At its best, noir leaves enough unsaid that, even if a mystery is solved, one is left with the distinct impression that nothing has been fixed. Motherless Brooklyn feels altogether too tidy, a film that revives many of the touchstones of noir, but never that throbbing unease that courses through the classics of the genre. Cole
Oh Mercy! (Arnaud Desplechin)
Based on a 2008 documentary, Oh Mercy! follows a police precinct in Roubaix as it pursues various cases. Throughout, director Arnaud Desplechin is bracingly concerned less with any isolated crime or character than he is in conveying simultaneousness by seizing on stray details. Thereâs a sense here of the dwarfing mechanics of maintaining process amid chaos, which is rare for films and common of perfunctory crime novels. Before the authorities in Oh Mercy! can comprehend an act of arson, a serial rapist commits another assault in a subway. And before someone can make sense of that action, a girl runs away. Presiding over the madness is a police captain, Yakoub Daoud (Roschdy Zem), whoâs a quiet and dignified model of patience and sobriety, who must navigate nesting strands of social tensions, on the personal as well as the political level. Oh Mercy! is a striking stylistic departure for Desplechin. By the standards of florid pseudo auto-biopics such as Kings and Queen and Ismaelâs Ghosts, this film is an exercise in formal and tonal restraint. Bowen
Pain and Glory (Pedro AlmodĂłvar)
A film about an aging artist struggling to recapture his yen for creation, Pain and Glory has the makings of a deeply personal, career-capping work for Pedro AlmodĂłvar. His name may be Salvador Mallo (Antonio Banderas), but the gay filmmaker, with his tussled hair, white beard, and red turtleneck, may as well call himself Pedro. One of the very few differences between them is that Salvador has stopped making films while AlmodĂłvar continues to work at a relatively steady clip. Pain and Glory is a ballsy admission on the Spanish auteurâs part that he hasnât made a film in more than a decade that can compare with his most outrageous and subversive output, which makes it all the more dispiriting that his latest only occasionally captures the spry, comedic rhythms and impassioned, melodramatic intensity that defined Law of Desire and Bad Education. Still, however much AlmodĂłvarâs formalist bona fides may have cooled, his ability to craft emotionally acute, achingly felt scenes between men in the throes of love is as vigorous as ever. Mac
Parasite (Bong Joon-ho)
Parasite finds Bong Joon-ho scaling back the high-concept ambitions of Snowpiercer and Okja, in favor of examining a close-knit family dynamic thatâs reminiscent of the one at the center of The Host. Except this time the monster isnât some amphibious abomination that results from extreme genetic mutation, but the insidious forces of class and capital that divide a societyâs people. Parasite is an excoriating indictment of South Koreaâs dehumanizing social culture, mounted by Bong with a dazzling control of genre conventions that he continues to seamlessly bend to his absurd comic rhythms. The film is also reinstates the emotional core thatâs been missing from Bongâs recent work, and even feigns a concise narrative structure. Itâs the kind of bold and uncompromising work that confirms why Bong is one of our most exciting auteurs, for how his sociocultural criticisms can be so biting, so pungent, when theyâre imbued with such great focus and sense of intent. Mac
Portrait of a Lady on Fire (CĂ©line Sciamma)
CĂ©line Sciammaâs Portrait of a Lady on Fire is a taxonomy of gazes thatâs also a discourse on them. This sweeping portrayal of a romance doomed to brevity asks how to memorialize an image, but also how to keep it eternally alive. Sciamma isnât out to question the gazes exchanged between Marianne (NoĂ©mie Merlant) and HĂ©loĂŻse (AdĂ©le Haenel), but to point out that one gaze is always met by another, and whatâs most stirring about her film is the lack of artifice in HĂ©loĂŻse and Marianneâs feelings for one another. The film frustrates when it feels compelled to elucidate those struggles in words, or through a hokey flashback structure (that, it should be said, yields to an ecstatic final shot). Sciammaâs script has more than a handful of dazzling turns of phrase, but itâs also unnecessarily keen to give some present-day relevance to a romance thatâs assuredly timeless. Where her prior films have excelled in situating their protagonists in complex, sometimes hostile societies, Portrait of a Lady on Fire is at its most beguiling and probing when the rest of the world feels far away. Gray
Saturday Fiction (Lou Ye)
With Saturday Fiction, divisive Chinese director Lou Ye applies a distinctly modern film vernacular to an anachronistic period setting. As in Michael Mannâs Public Enemies, the digital image, disjunctive editing, and a roving handheld camera serve to tether the filmmaking of the present to more remote events of the past, lending immediacy to the action. In Public Enemies, this served to frame what weâre watching as a construct of mediaâhistory bleeding into myth and articulated through a modern-day understanding of celebrity. But in this film, the artifice also exists to complement his World War II spy narrativeâs preoccupation with different modes of performativity. And at the center of all this is screen legend Gong Li, who, in her first film role in three years, gradually undergoes a transformation from passive observer into gun-wielding firebrand, resulting in the most truly iconic performance that the actress has delivered in decades. Mac
Sibyl (Justine Triet)
Justine Triet uses the relationship between the creative process and the work of psychoanalysis, or its simplified cinematic version, as raw material for her latest dramedy. Sibyl follows the madcap efforts and subterfuges that the eponymous alcoholic therapist (Virginie Efira) deploys in order to finally write a novel. And the first step she takes is to get rid of most of her patientsâmost, not all, so that thereâs always a lifeline connecting the new Sibyl to the old one. That is, so Sibyl never has to truly let go of anything at all. This tactic, beyond mere plot device, is the first crucial clue, or symptom, that Triet discloses about Sibyl as the filmmaker smartly humanizes the figure of the therapist as someone in desperate need of a therapist herself. The initial line in Sibylâs (non-)emancipatory equation, to start anew by keeping her old life handy, is one of the filmâs many instances of mirroring, as some viewers will easily recognize in Sibylâs pursuits their own tendency to make half-decisions. Which is to say, the way we can fool ourselves into thinking that weâre pursuing something whereas weâre secretly pursuing something elseâsomething less avowable. Semerene
Synonyms (Nadav Lapid)
Nadav Lapidâs Synonyms doesnât hew to a steadily progressing plot. The attraction Emile (Quentin Dolmaire) and Caroline (Louise Chevillotte) feel to Yoav (Tom Mercier), and the tensions that drove Yoav away from Israel, will come full circle, but only after the film takes a circuitous route through Yoavâs brief employment in security at the Israeli embassy; his friendship with a militant Zionist who tries to provoke fights he can claim as anti-Semitic attacks; and a required assimilation class he takes as he attempts to legitimately immigrate. A certain calculated inconsistency in style and pacing also makes the film feel elusive and estranging, but thatâs most likely the point. Certainly one concern of Synonyms is the irrational sickness thatâs nationalism: At times it appears that Israeli nationalism has driven Yoav mad, given him his detached affect and his habit of obsessively reciting synonyms in the street. Funny, frustrating, and stealthily sad, Synonyms is a bold film about the refusal to assimilate in one country, and the failure to assimilate in another. Pat Brown
To the Ends of the Earth (Kiyoshi Kurosawa)
Kiyoshi Kurosawaâs latest is a radical departure for the auteur, as it isnât beholden to a taut narrative. Instead, itâs squarely focused on characterâa strategy that results in his most intricately rendered portrait of the psychology of fear to date. To the Ends of the Earth is not, by any measure, a horror film, but it uses aesthetic and philosophical foundations that Kurosawa laid in his genre work to insinuate tensions and anxieties lurking beneath the serene surface of everyday life. The filmâs setup could almost be interpreted as a kind of self-aware joke: A Japanese camera crew arrives in Uzbekistan with the purpose of shooting footage for a travel show and becomes increasingly frustrated over not having enough usable material. As such, generally little in the way of incident occurs for much of the film. However, To the Ends of the Earth isnât just a meandering film born of an auteurâs plane ticket to a foreign country: If Kurosawa is less interested in narrative dynamics, itâs because heâs focused on an acute understanding of societally and sociologically conditioned behavior. Mac
The Traitor (Marco Bellocchio)
Though Pierfrancesco Favino plays Sicilian mob boss turned informant Tommaso Buscetta with the stern poise of a criminal boss, the gangster easily, almost comically buckles under the slightest pressure from the state. But itâs in director Marco Bellocchioâs depiction of the âMaxi Trialâ in a heavily fortified courtroom in Palermo that The Traitor completes its metamorphosis from a grisly, stone-faced drama about mob violence into an almost farcical satire of Italyâs justice system. Unfortunately, as is often the case with contemporary Italian genre pieces, the film is too brutish by half, as well as 40 minutes too long. The comic brio of Bellocchioâs staging of the âMaxi Trialâ invigorates The Traitor, but he surprisingly wraps up that arc with close to an hour left in the filmâs running time. The extended final act, which follows Tommaso and his family as they enter into American witness protection before ultimately returning to Italy for a series of follow-up trials, drifts along without clear purpose, unevenly oscillating between the comedic and the somber. Cole
Varda by AgnĂšs (AgnĂšs Varda)
AgnĂšs Vardaâs final film is essentially a lecture, with the iconic filmmakerâs talks from multiple events threading together highlights from her oeuvre. Throughout, she shares the underlying inspiration for films like ClĂ©o from 5 to 7 and details her creative process. While her other documentaries (among them The Gleaners and I, The Beaches of AgnĂšs, and Faces Places) have often explored the intersection between art and life, Varda by AgnĂšs finds the filmmaker far less able to extend her gaze beyond her own work. She allows herself to go off on tangents, and, ironically, her ancillary thoughts feel a bit less navel-gazing than the filmâs main thrust. For one, the story about directing Robert De Niro for one day for her final fiction film, One Hundred and One Nights, should seem an extraneous bit of boasting, but Vardaâs bashfully excited tone makes it seem generous. And whenever she talks about her beloved husband, director Jacques Demy, who died of AIDS in 1990, the film also approaches a kind of âsharingâ not borrowed from her previous work. Brown
Vitalina Varela (Pedro Costa)
As in Horse Money, shadows blanket Vitalina Varela, with slivers of light only illuminating people and whatever objects writer-director Pedro Costa wishes to call attention to. This yields images that are arresting on their face but also hint at richer meanings, as in a shot of Vitalina (Vitalina Varela) in silhouette folding the safety vest of a construction worker who stands in a doorway in the background, also in shadow, with only the reflective green-yellow of the vest giving off any light. The sight of immigrants obscured from view as a symbol of their menial labor glows in the foreground speaks volumes to a way of life that consumes the characters. Yet the film is no polemic. It raises delicate questions about postcolonial immigration, such as whether breadwinning vanguards should gamble on the allure of the unknown to make way for a possibly better life or settle for the hard but known life they already have. The filmâs oblique nature elides any simple interpretations, and the irresoluteness of the social commentary mingles with Vitalinaâs personal ruminations over her life. The film, like Colossal Youth and Horse Money, is a ghost story. Cole
The Whistlers (Corneliu Porumboiu)
Mercilessly efficient and righteously cynical, writer-director Corneliu Porumboiuâs The Whistlers is nested with twists that place corrupt Bucharest policeman, corrupt Bucharest policeman, further and further from discovering whoâs manipulating the byzantine plot he finds himself enmeshed within on La Gomera, the âpearlâ of the Canary Islands. Cristiâs inability to make sense of his place in the very case heâs investigating is just one of the filmâs cruel, quite funny jokes. Another is Silbo, a whistled register of the Spanish language that inspires the filmâs title. Composed of a half dozen notes that each represent certain letters of the Spanish alphabet, the ancient language has been used by natives of La Gomera for generations. Throughout, Porumboiu largely handles The Whistlersâs persistent strain of artifice masterfully, hurtling his narrative ahead even as heâs jumbling timeframes and lingering in moments of ironic menace. Though the film is sometimes too liberal in its arsenal of references, Porumboiu executes his plot with a persistently low-key swagger, coaxing his actors into memorable but perfectly blank performances. Gray
The Wild Goose Lake (Diao Yinan)
Diao Yinanâs The Wild Goose Lake is a crackerjack genre exercise, but itâs up to a fair bit more than it might at first seem. Diao joins other contemporary Chinese filmmakers like Vivian Qu (Trap Street) and Xin Yukun (Wrath of Silence) in recognizing that genre movies offer a kind of smokescreen for a form of sociopolitical engagement that the Chinese censors likely wouldnât otherwise approve. Which is to say, the heightened violence and ugliness of a crime film seems to allow for a kind of depiction of Chinese social life that wouldnât be acceptable from a ârealisticâ drama. Diao takes this all a bit further, however, utilizing the sprawling geography of whatâs essentially a chase film to deep-dive into the sordid underbelly of a Chinese society where lawlessness trumps order. The Wild Goose Lakeâs masterstroke is that its fugitive antiheroes are framed by an environment that reflects their criminal lives back at them, seemingly no matter where they turn. Mac
Young Ahmed (Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne)
In many of Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenneâs films, elliptical structures communicate the scattershot-ness of peopleâs lives, suggesting an endless string of calamity and confusion. But in Young Ahmed, the ellipses suggest an unwillingness to imagine an aspiring radicalâs inner life. Initially, the Dardennes donât exactly engender pity for Ahmed (Idir Ben Addi), as that response would compromise their fetishizing of his impenetrability as a testament to their own humanist bona fides. They maintain a distance from the Belgian teen as a way of celebrating their refusal to reduce him to any easy psychological bullet points, which ironically reduces him to a signifier of their virtue. Yet Ahmedâs seduction by a manipulative mentor, Imam Youssouf (Othmane Mouman), is still fleetingly âexplainedâ with references to family trauma that unsurprisingly suggest that Ahmed has daddy issues and is looking for a mentor. The Dardennes donât dramatize these traumas, as such events might destabilize the plaintive quotidian mood they cultivate throughout and require them to stretch and challenge the strict boundaries theyâve applied to this subject matter. Bowen
Zombi Child (Bertrand Bonello)
Restlessly shuttling between 1960s Haiti and present-day France, Bertrand Bonelloâs Zombi Child roils with colonialist tensions. But as with the directorâs prior Nocturama, this quixotic, slow-burn genre film is political largely in the abstract. While there are moments here where a history of exploitation informs the relationship between the French, lily-white Fanny (Louise Labeque) and Haitian refugee MĂ©lissa (Wislanda Louimat)âclassmates at an all-girls school established by Napoleon BonaparteâBonelloâs interests go much deeper than race relations. The dialectical relationship between past and present has become a central organizing principle of Bonelloâs artistry, evident in his anachronistic soundtrack choices and his unmooring of characters from their period settings through decidedly modern behaviors or situations, but here he approaches that dialectic in a crucially different manner. Instead of overlaying modern-day signifiers on a period piece setting, as he did in House of Pleasures, Zombi Child suggests two temporalities that exist parallel to each other. Mac
Locarno Film Festival 2019: Technoboss, Echo, & A Voluntary Year
A striking number of the titles that appeared in the festivalâs competition slate this year operate in a playful, breezy register.
Locarno often leans into its reputation as Europeâs most unapologetically highbrow summer festival, but a striking number of the titles that appeared in the festivalâs competition slate this year operate in a playful, breezy register. Such as JoĂŁo Nicolauâs Technoboss, an unwaveringly deadpan musical comedy about an aging divorcĂ©, LuĂs (Miguel Lobo Antunes), nearing the end of what seems to have been a tedious career selling and maintaining integrated security systems. His existence is far from enviable, as heâs past his prime as a salesman and baffled by modern technology, while his primary companion is his cat. To compound the overriding sense of ennui, Nicolau presents a decidedly drab vision of Portugal, all cramped offices, cluttered shop floors, and soulless hotels.
LuĂs, though, remains optimistic, as evinced by his tendency to burst into song as he drives between assignments, and by the quietly determined way in which he attempts to regain the affection of an old flame, Lucinda (Luisa Cruz), despite her apparent disdain for him. Antunes, in his first professional acting role, is compelling, with a perpetual twinkle in his eye that hints at a rich inner life. And while his vocal range is limited, to say the least, he brings an earnestness to the musical numbers that elevates them above mere quirky window dressing.
Ultimately, the film is too narratively slight and tonally monotonous to justify its two-hour running time. One running joke in particular, involving a smarmy executive whoâs frequently heard off screen but never seen, runs out of steam in the final act. And yet, when viewed in close proximity to the likes of Park Jung-bumâs dreary crime drama Height of the Wave, which bafflingly won this yearâs special jury prize, Technoboss is a breath of fresh air.
Runar Runarssonâs Echo isnât exactly a laugh a minute: An early scene depicts the preparation for a childâs funeral, while subsequent sequences revolve around police brutality, domestic violence, and the lasting impact of childhood bullying. But itâs delightful to behold Runarssonâs sly execution of a formally bold premise. Clocking in at 79 minutes, the film is composed of 56 standalone vignettes connected by a Christmas setting. The constant narrative shifts are initially jarring, but recurring themes begin to emerge: rising social inequality in the aftermath of the financial crisis; the impact of modern technology on traditional ways of life; the drabness of winter and its impact on the countryâs collective mental health.
Yet while the filmâs underlying tone is melancholic, there are frequent bursts of pure comedy, from the absurd spectacle of abattoir workers bopping along to a jaunty rendition of âJingle Bellsâ amid animal carcasses, to a farmer and her partner earnestly squabbling about the state of their relationship as they document the mating habits of their goats. Humor also arises through the juxtaposition of scenes. The haunting image of a boy in a coffin is followed by a clinical shot of a similarly motionless adult body, and it takes a moment to register that weâre looking at not another corpse, but rather a man lying under a tanning lamp. Later, a heartwarming kidsâ nativity scene cuts abruptly to a shot of bikini-clad bodybuilders performing in a harshly lit, half-empty auditorium.
However, itâs Echoâs sincerity that really impresses. One sequence, in which an emergency services operator calmly reassures a child reporting a violent altercation between his parents, is remarkable in the way it hooks the viewer emotionally in mere seconds. The film ultimately coheres into a vivid portrait of contemporary Iceland thatâs equal parts bleak and beguiling.
A Voluntary Year, co-directed by Berlin School alumni Ulrich KĂ¶hler and Henner Winckler, is a similarly bittersweet affair, walking a fine line between raw domestic drama and precision-engineered comedy of errors. Sebastian Rudolph stars as Urs, an off-puttingly pushy small-town doctor intent on packing his teenage daughter Jette (Maj-Britt Klenke) off to Costa Rica to volunteer in a hospital. Jette, though, would rather spend her gap year at home with her boyfriend, Mario (Thomas Schubert), who seems harmless enough but has been written off as a poisonous influence by Urs. A sequence of mishaps in the thrillingly unpredictable opening act gives the young couple a brief chance to take charge of their own futures, but the decision Jette hastily makes pushes her strained relationship with her father towards breaking point.
KĂ¶hler and Winckler do a fine job of eliciting sympathy for their deeply flawed characters. Jette is maddeningly indecisive and prone to overly dramatic outbursts, but her brash exterior masks deep-seated vulnerability. Meanwhile, itâs easy to share Ursâs disbelief that Jette should be even remotely infatuated with the woefully uncharismatic Mario, but the boyâs earnestness ultimately proves strangely endearing. Urs is much harder to warm to, as heâs the quintessential big fish in a small pond, clearly used to throwing his weight around and getting his own way. To add insult to injury, his handling of sensitive situations is often jaw-droppingly misjudged. And yet, the viewer is given a strong enough sense of his good intentions to at least partially root for him as he attempts to patch things up with Jette.
While it may not do this modest film any favors to make the comparison, there are shades of Maren Adeâs masterly Toni Erdmann in The Voluntary Yearâs nuanced depiction of a fraught father-daughter relationship, and also in the way the filmmakers play the long game when it comes to delivering comic payoffs. An enigmatic narrative thread involving a migrant boy has a laugh-out-loud resolution that also neatly paves the way for a moving final scene.
The Locarno Film Festival ran from August 7â17.
The National and the Global Intersect at the 2019 Jerusalem Film Festival
Even the most casual exchanges at the festival ended with some variation of a sentiment that arose as a mantra: âItâs complicated.â
Gur Bentwichâs Peaches and Cream contains a running joke that resonated in the context of the 36th Jerusalem Film Festival. Bentwich follows a director named Zuri (played by Bentwich) who undergoes an odyssey after his new film, also called Peaches and Cream, has been indifferently received on its opening weekend. In various encounters, people tell Zuri that they prefer European to Israeli cinemaâclaims that feel ironic given the way that the lurid and feverish nature of Bentichâs film feels pointedly European and American in sensibility. Peaches and Creamâs wandering camera, eroticized women, and narcissistic macho anxiety suggests a Fellini production as viewed through the prism of contemporary American films like After Hours, Listen Up Philip, and Birdman, creating a friction. Zuri and Bentwichâthe two are deliberately indistinguishableâhave both made a quasi-European film only to be discounted for not being European enough for Israeli cinephiles.
I thought of Bentwichâs running joke when the international criticsâ delegation of which I was a partâand which also included writers from China, Poland, Lithuania, Portugal, Russia, and Slovakiaâwas treated to a dinner with a group of Israeli critics. Peaches and Cream came up in conversation, with one Israeli writer voicing his irritation with the filmâs references to Western cinema, the sort of fealty which he said was part of the problem of Israelâs cinematic exposure to the rest of the world. Western films reference one another, he said, creating an echo chamber that serves as an affirmation of legacy, while Israeli cinema tends to emulate not itself but the West as well. This writerâs sentiments echoed comments I heard at the Warsaw Film Festival last year, from critics and filmmakers from various countries.
Such conversations are reminders that pop culture is one of the Westâs great legacies and means of influence. (In Tel Aviv for a few days after leaving the festival, I noticed that every bar in my neighborhood played vintage American music, from Bob Dylan to the Talking Heads to Alice Cooper to the Notorious B.I.G.) Another joke in Peaches and Cream almost subliminally parodies the neuroses that such an attitude may inspire: Zuri fights to keep posters of his film up in public, trying to protect them from being obscured by other notices.
Relatedly, I saw a Peaches and Cream sticker that had been stuck on a large banner for Pedro AlmodĂłvarâs Pain and Glory, a hot-ticket item at the festival. The bannerâs commanding imageâof a tormented and gray-bearded Antonio Banderas, who won the best actor trophy at this yearâs Cannes for his performance, casting a shadow in the shape of AlmodĂłvar himself against a red backdropâhad been merged with an advertisement for Bentwichâs film, the round sticker providing Banderas with a makeshift eyepatch that cheekily embodied the very intersection between Israeli and international cinema that drives the JFF at large. The festival had one of the most eclectic lineups that Iâve seen, including vintage restorations, lurid thrillers, many Cannes entries, notable American films from last year, documentaries, shorts, and homegrown Israeli productions, which were often the most difficult to get into.
Generally, my fellow critics didnât care much for Peaches and Cream, finding it narcissistic and borderline sexistâqualities which struck me as part of the filmâs joke. Thereâs no way that an actor-director, other than maybe Kevin Costner, could give himself this many close-ups without a satirical intent. Peaches and Cream is a messy and unruly film, at least until the requisite redemption provided by the third act, and it indicates the Jerusalem Film Festivalâs taste for bold formalism. Most festivals open with a bland audience-pleaser, while the 36th edition of the festival kicked off with Bong Joon-hoâs Palme dâOr-winning Parasite, which is the very embodiment of confrontational political cinema.
Parasite initially suggests a South Korean cover of a Patricia Highsmith novel, with a family that literally lives under the surface of mainstream society conning its way into jobs with a wealthy household. In the filmâs first hour, the greatest achievement of Bongâs career to date, viewers are encouraged to enjoy the poor familyâs ruse, which the filmmaker renders with svelte long takes and pans that elucidate shifting modes of power while providing visceral visual pleasure. Bongâs kinetics are also a form of misdirection, as the filmâs tone gradually curdles, with the class resentment thatâs been percolating under the narrativeâs surface eventually exploding into a massacre that suggests a microcosm of both revolution and genocide. As always, Bong clinches his themes and symbolism too tightly, but Parasite is still a significant comeback from the exhaustingly broad Snowpiercer and Okja.
The setting of Parasiteâs premiere at the JFF intensified the filmâs power, as it was shown at the Sultanâs Pool, a striking outdoor amphitheater from which you can see the walls of the Old City, the Tower of David, and even, from certain angles, portions of Palestine. Now a legendary venue thatâs hosted the likes of Eric Clapton and Dire Straits, the Sultanâs Pool was a site for childrenâs sacrifices centuries earlier, before it was later modernized by Herod into a portion of Jerusalemâs water supply system. Before Parasiteâs premiere, there were many speeches testifying to Israelâs dedication to cinema, including an appearance by the countryâs president, Reuven Rivlin. This pageantry isnât without tension, given the conservative governmentâs hostility to films that are critical of authority, which was expressed by the audienceâs traditional booing of the Minister of Culture and Sport, Miri Regev, whoâs wanted to cut the governmentâs funding of the arts, and who appeared at the JFF this year via a pre-taped speech. Which is to say that, in a setting freighted with ghosts and nesting political tensions, in a city and country with as much cultural baggage as any in the world, a left-wing horror film like Parasite carries extra weight. It even feels a bit like a dare.
Film festivals can be a paradox. On one hand, theyâre the ideal of the world most artists and critics would like to live in, one where like-minded people share the experience of art, food, and drink as communion, though theyâre also dream realms that cast a potentially insidious illusion of rebellion, giving audiences a faux catharsis that enables the very repression that artists and critics are often railing against. Arenât festivals, regardless of the politics of the art they program, ultimately P.R. for governments that still do whatever they like? (Perhaps Regev either doesnât understand this possibility or is expertly playing her role as a liberal foil.) In such contexts, I think of Matrix Reloaded, in which the hero learns, in what must be one of the most convoluted speeches in the history of cinema, that heâs a tool for providing an appearance of hope and choice to a population thatâs still nevertheless controlled.
Yet it also feels unfair to single out the festival experience for this train of thought, as all artistic endeavors run the risk of rendering palatable the sources of their ireâa topic we also touched on at the criticsâ dinner. Art opens us up to other cultures and ideas, but it can also lull us into a kind of waking sleep, making us think weâve initiated change merely by going to a festival or watching a film or posting something critical on Facebook or Twitter. And this danger of art is especially material when one gorges on the fruits of creativity for days at a time. The act of sipping a drink and eating nice dishes before the Parasite premiere while surveying the Palestinian landscape does, for instance, carry a certain frisson. Many films playing at the festival were concerned with the legacy of Israel, particularly regarding Palestine, and the Israeli critics and press openly spoke of these ambiguities. Even casual exchanges with journalists and average filmgoers alike ended with some variation of a sentiment that arose as a recurring festival manta: âItâs complicated.â
The JFF seems intent on working within the system by using government funding as well as donations to both preserve and establish an Israeli cinematic canon, which it compares and contrasts with the cinema of the rest of the world. Many of the festivalâs screenings were held in the Jerusalem Cinematheque, which is located near the Sultanâs Pool and houses a film archive. The delegation was invited to take a tour of the archive, and in the labs we saw ravishing silent images of Jerusalem desert that have since been modernized as part of the city. We also spoke with people who are restoring films from Israel and other countries. Several restorations played at the festival, among them Amos Guttmanâs 1986 crime drama Bar 51 and Clemente Fracassiâs 1953 opera Aida, a stagey yet hypnotic Verdi adaptation featuring a gorgeous Sophia Loren and Technicolor that might make the artists of Hammer Films blush.
Color is used to florid and rapturous effect in another JFF selection, Karim AĂŻnouzâs The Invisible Life of EurĂdice GusmĂŁo. The film tells one of the oldest of melodramatic tales, following two sisters whoâre separated from one another in 1950s-era Brazil by a patriarchal system that fetishizes female obedience. EurĂdice (Carol Duarte) is an aspiring pianist, while her older sister, Guida (Julia Stockler), is a free spirit who runs off with a Greek sailor. Returning home single and pregnant, Guida is rejected by their father, Manuel (Antonio Fonseca), who calls her a slut and lies to each girl about the other in order to keep them apart. Itâs a ruse that will haunt the family for the rest of their lives.
Starting with the filmâs opening, a humid fantasy sequence in a tropical forest that serves as a metaphor for the girlsâ eventual plight, AĂŻnouz goes stylistically big, utilizing a swooping camera and a wrenching score to sweep us up in EurĂdice and Guidaâs longing for one another, which resembles romantic passion. This texture gives The Invisible Life of EurĂdice GusmĂŁo, which won the Un Certain Regard prize at this yearâs Cannes, a streak of perversity thatâs amplified by the explosion of harlequin reds and blues that signify dwarfed desire. Though this film has an unimpeachably feminist sensibility, AĂŻnouz also evinces remarkable sympathy for Manuel, a square whoâs stymied by his devotion to a hypocritical culture. A shot of the man waiting for his âgoodâ daughter and her child in a restaurant, while the âbadâ daughter spies on them unseen, is among the most haunting images Iâve seen this year.
Colors serve the story of AĂŻnouzâs film, while color is much of the story driving Diao Yinanâs The Wild Goose Lake, a Chinese gangster drama that grows increasingly hallucinatory as it somewhat moseys toward its climax. The narrative opens on a man with a past, Zhou Zenong (Hu Ge), as he meets a woman, Liu (Gwei Lun-mei), from the wrong side of the tracks. We soon learn that Zhou is waiting for a different woman, though Liu assures him of her loyalty. But the play of light and rain across these arresting faces is more commanding than this expositional business, with Diao soon splintering his plot into suggestive abstraction, as we learn how Zhou became a hunted man enmeshed in a war between crooks and law enforcers. The plot becomes so riven with betrayals and reversals that oneâs encouraged to digest the film as pure poetry, homing in on the explosive hues and stunning action scenes and foreboding shadows and, particularly, the pervading feeling of rootlessness and loss thatâs occasionally exacerbated by brutal violence. The Wild Goose Lake is a ballad of aggression and decay, relating a shaggy dog story thatâs truly a portrait of a country eating itself alive.
Color has a colder and more sinister purpose in two of the other thrillers I saw at JFF. In Vivarium, through sheer force of will and formalism, director Lorcan Finnegan makes a potentially trite premise eerie and suggestive. Gemma (Imogen Poots) and Tom (Jesse Eisenberg) are a couple looking to move in together, and on a whim they agree to look at a townhome in a yuppie neighborhood that theyâre sure theyâll despise. The neighborhood is revealed to represent corporate efficiency and impersonality to the ultimate degree, with identical, unforgettably hideous pea-green homes that suggest Monopoly pieces as arranged by the Tim Burton of Edward Scissorhands. The neighborhood is so generic, in fact, that Gemma and Tom get lost trying to leave, until itâs revealed that theyâre trapped here via supernatural means, and forced to raise a child (Senan Jennings) who suggests an ill-tempered robot, screaming at a glass-shattering pitch when he isnât fed on time.
Finnegan understands that to explain his premise too much is to dispel its power, and the vagueness of his narrative serves to place the audience in his protagonistsâ shoes. The filmmaker also doesnât over-emphasize the obvious thematic hook, which is that Gemma and Tomâs no-exit situation suggests a nightmarish version of the disappointment that can arise when people succumb to the social pressure to mate, procreate, and attain boring jobs in the name of respectability. As precisely made as Vivarium is, with irrational images that are worthy of classic horror cinema, itâs all concept. Gemma and Tom are merely sketches of the fear and ennui that arrive on the cusp of reaching middle age. The charactersâ immediate accommodation of their new hell feels truthful, but it also robs Vivarium of urgency. Once one accepts its message, which is clear early on, thereâs nowhere else for the film to go.
In certain fashions, Jessica Hausnerâs Little Joe is reminiscent of Vivarium, though itâs a richer and more unsettling work. Both films feature intensely symmetrical imagery and rich colors that suggest a mockery of the emotions that are being suppressed by the rigid settings. But thereâs more mystery and emotional variety in Little Joe; one canât quite pinpoint the meaning of Hausnerâs aesthetic flourishes, such as deliberately unmotivated dolly shots that cut characters out of certain frames in order to emphasize windows or other passageways. And why does a laboratory for breeding plants suggest a Wes Anderson set, with clothes that match the colors of certain pieces of furniture? This color scheme subliminally complements the plant that Alice (Emily Beech, who won the best actress prize at this yearâs Cannes for her performance) has bred. Her creation, which she calls âLittle Joeâ after her son, Joe (Kit Connor), is obscenely fake-looking, suggesting a combination of a rose and a penis. When the plant is stimulated by human talk, it opens up into full bloom, its bright red head serving to satiate the yearning emanating from Alice, a single mother, and her workaholic compatriots.
The plant is engineered to trigger happiness in humans, a concept that reveals how alien the notion of human interaction is to Alice, who rebuffs her poignantly worshipful colleague, Chris (Ben Whishaw). But Alice, a control freak, stymies the plant in a way that reflects her own alienation, rendering it incapable of reproducing. The plant strikes back, gifting human happiness at a price that steers Little Joe into Invasion of the Body Snatchers territory, leading to a brilliant joke: that Alice, in her self-absorption, canât see the invasion thatâs engulfing the world around her. At times, this stark, sad, weirdly exhilarating film also suggests David Cronenbergâs The Fly, similarly boiling a potentially sprawling plot down to a few settings and characters, evoking an aura of clammy claustrophobia. Cronenbergâs film ended with an operatic crescendo, however, while Hausner keeps us trapped in her hermetic world, in which a plant teaches humans to abandon the possibility of ecstasy.
At the JFF, I missed Yolande Zaubermanâs much-buzzed-about M, a documentary about the child abuse thatâs wrought in an Orthodox Jewish community, due to considerable demand. I did, though, catch a few documentaries that should earn attention outside of the festival circuit. Ai Weiweiâs The Rest continues the artistâs project of exposing the refugee crisis in Europe, in which countries like France, Turkey, and Greece fight over where to store people whoâre fleeing from endless wars in Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, and others. Thematically and aesthetically, the film is similar to Ai Weiweiâs Human Flow, though the filmmaker has compressed his footage here, editing The Rest down to 79 minutesâ worth of tactile physical gestures that bring home the reality of the refugeesâ lives, divorcing the topic of platitude. We see refugees burning plastic water bottles to start a fire for warmth, people cradling a cat deep into their chest, and, most wrenchingly, Ai Weiwei captures a government destroying a shanty village with a bulldozer, a sequence the filmmaker shoots with a matter-of-factness thatâs unflinching and unforgettably moving. Most importantly, Ai Weiwei reminds us of a harsh reality: Most of the refugees merely want to return to their war-torn countries, willing to risk death over the abuse and contempt that awaits them throughout the rest of the world.
Because of the auteur theory, people have an image of films as springing from a maestro directorâs head, when theyâre really works of communal endeavor. Catherine HĂ©bertâs Ziva Postec reminds us of this fact, following the primary editor of Claude Lanzmannâs Shoah as she goes antiquing and recollects the six years she spent culling hundreds of hours of footage into a nearly 10-hour opus that would help define the worldâs grasp of the Holocaust. A few startling details emerge. Shoahâs most important formal gambitâthe contrast of the aural interviews with filmed footage of Holocaust sites as they looked at the time of the filmâs productionâdidnât crystallize until years into the post-production process. Also, Postec tells us how she remixed the interviews, adding space between sentences so that dense descriptions of atrocity would attain a musical cadence that would help viewers understand the stories. HĂ©bert eventually connects Postecâs astonishing accomplishment with the editorâs own conflict over her Jewish and Israeli roots, and Ziva Postec becomes a testament of a woman facing her cultureâs demons and arising out the mess somewhat cleansed. One senses that this sort of reconciliationâof the demons of the past with the yearnings of the futureâis what ultimately drives the JFF at large. Such a bazaar of art allows us to give voice to anxieties and exaltations that are normally thought to be, well, complicated.
The Jerusalem Film Festival ran from July 25âAugust 4.
Odessa IFF 2019: La Belle Epoque, Sorry We Missed You, & The Orphanage
The festival feels very much on the rise, both as an international industry shindig and a well-funded driver for cultural tourism.
The Odessa International Film Festival feels very much on the rise, both as an international industry shindig and a well-funded driver for cultural tourism. Free open-air screenings on the Potemkin Stairs ensured a broad public audience; festival branding adorned buildings all over the gently chaotic city center; a modest film market attracted buyers and sales agents from across Europe; and this yearâs guests of honor included Mike Leigh, Catherine Denueve, and Rose McGowan. And yet, in the absence of any significant world premieres, the midsummer event seems to serve largely as a chance for local cinephiles to catch up with highlights from more venerable recent European festivals.
I was particularly struck by three titles, relatively fresh from the Cannes Film Festival, each of which takes a distinctive approach to depicting a family unit under duress. The 10th edition of Odessa IFF opened with Nicolas Bedosâs La Belle Epoque, a crowd-pleasing comedy about a stale long-term relationship and the cultural impact of the digital revolution. Daniel Auteuil stars as Victor, an aging bourgeois Parisian who sees himself as a victim of technological advances: The slow death of print media has put an end to his lucrative job as a newspaper cartoonist, while his wife, Marianne (Fanny Ardant), has taken to donning a VR headset at bedtime to distract herself from the monotony of their passionless marriage.
Victor, however, is offered a shot at regaining his joie de vivre by his sonâs friend, Antoine (Guillaume Canet), a screenwriter whoâs amassed a fortune devising personalized interactive theater productions that allow wealthy clients to live out their historical fantasiesâthink Westworld staffed by temperamental actors rather than malevolent robots. For reasons that arenât immediately apparent to the audience, Antoine owes Victor a debt of gratitude, and so offers the older man his first âexperienceâ on the house. A sentimental soul at heart, Victor elects to relive the day he first met Marianne in a bohemian Lyon bar in 1974. Perhaps inevitably, he swiftly falls for Margot (Doria Tillier), the actress hired to play the young Marianne, who also happens to be Antoineâs on-and-off-again girlfriend.
La Belle Epoque sustains a compellingly off-kilter tone, bouncing viewers disorientingly between the real world and Antoineâs elaborate soundstages. One sequence, in which Victor and Margot escape the set of a weed-fueled â70s house party and find themselves in a painstaking reconstruction of Nazi Germany, feels decidedly Charlie Kaufman-esque. And yet the film never fully succumbs to whimsy, as Victorâs nostalgia trip ultimately proves deeply poignant, while the depiction of Antoine and Margotâs dysfunctional relationship introduces a darker view of romance. And while the gags and social commentary are often a little broad, Bedos admirably refuses to hold the viewerâs hand as the intricate plot unfolds, paving the way for several immensely satisfying moments as the puzzle pieces finally slot together.
Ken Loachâs bruising 2016 drama I, Daniel Blake, which won the Palme dâOr at Cannes, tapped into mounting Brexit anxiety and anti-Tory sentiment to become both the directorâs highest-grossing film in the U.K. to date and the subject of heated parliamentary debate over its damning portrayal of Britainâs broken welfare system. Sorry We Missed You sees the octogenarian filmmaker reteam with screenwriter Paul Laverty to deliver another timely, compassionate account of working-class life in North East England.
This time around, the focus is on a nuclear family suffering immensely as a consequence of the gig economy. Former builder Ricky (Kris Hitchen) has struggled to maintain a steady income since the financial crisis of 2007-2008, and thus jumps hastily at the chance to sign a zero-hour contract as a delivery driver. What seems like a valuable opportunity to quickly accumulate cash soon begins to resemble a Kafkaesque nightmare, with humorless traffic wardens, obstinate customers, opportunistic thieves and a thuggish depot manager (Ross Brewster) conspiring to make Rickyâs work life borderline unbearable.
Things arenât much better for his wife, Abbie (Debbie Honeywood), a benevolent contract nurse with neither the time nor the resources to adequately care for her elderly patients. Adding insult to injury, the coupleâs taciturn teenage son, Seb (Rhys Stone), seems intent on punishing Ricky for his failings. And to cap it all off, Sebâs sensitive younger sister, Liza Jane (Katie Proctor), has started wetting the bed in response to this domestic disharmony.
In some regards, Sorry We Missed You is an even angrier, more urgent film than I, Daniel Blake. Scenes depicting Rickyâs delivery runs are mini master classes in stomach-churning tension, which hammer home the appalling precariousness of his existence. However, Loach offsets the mounting misery with moments of warmth. A sequence in which the family resolve to make the most of a rare evening together is particularly moving, and serves to make the bitter feuds that inevitably follow all the more heart-wrenching.
By and large, Sorry We Missed You is a little rough around the edges, as some of Rickyâs interactions with customers feel stilted and contrived, while Rhys Stone struggles to convey a convincing sense of Sebâs inner life. And yet, as a tirade against modern Britainâs obscene social inequality, Loachâs latest is undeniably propulsive and persuasive.
Shahrbanoo Sadatâs warmly received 2016 debut Wolf and Sheep tells a mildly fantastical tale of childhood in 1980s rural Afghanistan, centered partly around a boy named Quodrat (Qodratollah Qadiri). The Orphanage continues Quodratâs story, catching up with him as a teenage orphan living on the streets of Kabul. After heâs caught by police selling cinema tickets on the black market, heâs sent to a Soviet-funded orphanage where bullying is widespread. The boy swiftly learns that heâll need to form strong allegiances in order to keep his head above water, and thus he sets about building his own family unit.
For a large stretch, this is an enjoyable, if generic, coming-of-age drama, heightened chiefly by the novelty of its setting; Afghanistanâs brief period as a secular Soviet ally is a fascinating, oft-overlooked footnote in the countryâs turbulent modern history. But the film really comes to life thanks to a smattering of charmingly shambolic Bollywood-style musical numbers, employed to offer insight into the withdrawn Quodratâs desires and fears. Those paying close attention to the timeline may be anxious to learn what role the mujahideen, the Islamist guerilla groups committed to ending the Democratic Republic, might have to play in the narrative. Sadatâs bold decision to answer this question with a bombastic musical-action set piece pays off handsomely, bringing The Orphanage to an achingly bittersweet conclusion.
The Odessa International Film Festival ran from July 12â20.
Odessa IFF 2019: The Cossacks, Queen of Hearts, Monos, & Projectionist
The festival feels like a long-awaited apparition in a place where events of its magnitude might be scarce.
At first glance, Odessa recalls the Algeria of the 1980s as described by playwright Jean-Luc Lagarce, a place where local âcurrency has no value and there is nothing to buy anyway.â Odessa seems coy about offering a fantasy version of itself to those who arenât already confined to it and to whom displaying the cityâin the shape of superfluous possessions or souvenirsâwould amount to a perverse redundancy. Itâs a city coherent to the brutal honesty of its human faces, a city virtually without store windows to hawk unessential goods to passersbyâunless one traverses its center, where a McDonaldâs and a Reebok shop appear as reminders of a glossier elsewhere. Perhaps the way Cameroon, as one Cameroonian once told me, is a country without sidewalks, âunless you go to Douala.â This is, of course, a respite from the capitalist assaults of places where to experience the city is to stack up on its mementos. Itâs this context that made the Odessa International Film Festival (OIFF) feel like a long-awaited apparition in a place where events of its magnitude might be scarce.
By the Lermontovskiy Hotel, where the international journalists covering the OIFF stay, only food seems to be for sale. Thereâs a 24/7 supermarket that closes when the security guard sees fit, a âJapanese and Thai Asian CafĂ©,â and a regal restaurant named Aleksandrovskiy, which sits inside a garden full of Versailles-esque fountains and statues, and where a select few can feast on a scrumptious leg of lamb on a bed of polenta for 12 euros. Perhaps the same select few who show up for OIFFâs outdoor screening of the 1928 film The Cossacks at the Potemkin Stairs but donât use the steps as bleachers, like the rest of us, instead taking their seats in the large cordoned-off VIP section close to the live orchestra for a few selfies and then dashing off.
A brief video pleading for the release of Crimean filmmaker Oleg Sentsov from a Russian prison preceded the film, eliciting passionate applause. Those actually using the steps as seats seemed to truly savor the event, which took the shape of what film screenings were probably more like in the early 20th century: raucous fair-like happenings with lots of talking and where the film was only one of many multi-sensorial elements. In many ways, The Cossacks is about how the production of a nation is entwined with the production of gender norms. Lukashka (John Gilbert) is seen as a softie. Heâs derided as being a fraction of a man, or a half-Cossack, because he would rather spend his time reading than fighting, to the horror of his entourage. He ends up going to war in order to legitimize his status as a man for his family and his beloved Maryana (RenĂ©e AdorĂ©e). In the world of the film, becoming a man involves killing at least one Turk or two, and becoming a woman means marrying a man who has killed Turks.
The Cossacks was a fascinating selection to screen at the Potemkin Stairs because it wrapped a critique of normativity in some of the most sexist of cinematic languages, female ass shots as gags and all, making it hard to know what kind of selective reading of the film the audience might be making. The men on the screen are always either accosting, harassing, molesting, or trying to rape Maryana, which might be what triggered Rose McGowan, one of the festivalâs celebrity guests, to leave just a few minutes into the screening.
As much as watching a film such as George Hill and Clarence Brownâs silent drama at the place where one of cinemaâs most iconic sequences was shot feels like the crossing off of a bucket-list item we didnât realize was on that list until we experienced it, the off-screen drama was just as enticing. There was, for instance, the blatant spectacle of Ukrainian income inequality with âthe peopleâ huddled up on the uncomfortable steps for two hours eager to engage with a silent film while Ukrainian socialites decked out in animal prints treated the event more like a vernissage. There was also the impossible quest for a public bathroom mid-screening. This involved walking into a half-closed market across from the Potemkin Stairs and interrupting a loud quarrel between a mother and her adult son, who worked at one of the market stalls.
Itâs difficult to guess where queerness goes in Odessa. Maybe it only lives as disavowal, as in The Cossacks, which ends with Lukashka, after anointing his masculinity by slaughtering 10 Turks, stating to Maryana heterosexualityâs mathematical logic in its simplest form: âI am your man. You are my woman. I want you.â And the anointing is never final, the film seems to say. Indeed, as his father lies dying in his arms, Lukashka asks him: âFather, am I Cossack?â The question of where queerness might live, in this context, would be finally answered a few days later when I visit the only gay club in Odessa, Libertin, and meet a trans woman name Jalala, who confides that thereâs a âplaceâ in Odessa where straight men can go to to have sex with women like her. âIs it an app?â I ask. Jalala smiles and says that itâs a park. âBut itâs dangerous,â she tells me. âItâs very exciting and very dangerous.â Because there are skinheads, she says. âDo the skinheads want to kill you or fuck you, or fuck you and then kill you?â I ask her. âI donât know,â she responded. âThatâs why itâs dangerous.â
The festival main grounds, in front of the majestic Odessa Academic Theatre of Musical Comedy, arenât unlike Londonâs Southbank Centre in the early days of summer, where visitors and locals are both sold the idea that the city is this fun all year long. The atmosphere is cosmopolitan, with Nina Simone remixes or early Erykah Badu playing in the background, food trucks, a Mastercard stall, and outdoor sitting poufs. Thereâs also no stress in the air, no suffocating crowds, and as such no anxiety about being turned away from a screening.
When looking at the festivalâs program, one may scoff at the apparent lack of diversity and, more specifically, queerness. After a few screenings, though, one may get the sense that queerness does live at the Odessa International Film Festival and, per Jalalaâs account, in Odessa more generallyâit just isnât publicized. In Queen of Hearts, for instance, director May el-Toukhy takes the age-old narrative of the stranger who turns up to disrupt domestic bliss, or ennui, and gives it a daring incestuous twist. Anne (Trine Dyrholm) and Peter (Magnus Krepper) live an idyllic life in a mansion somewhere in Denmark with two young, and creepily angelic, twin daughters (Liv and Silja EsmĂ„r Dannemann). Thereâs something eerie about this setup even before Peterâs problematic teenage son, Gustav (Gustav Lindh), from another marriage is shipped from Sweden to live with his dad and unsettle everything.
Whatâs uncanny about Anne and Peterâs home is, of course, the way it gleams a kind of speckless completion of the heterosexual project, which could only ever be possible as a mirage. Theirs is the home of dreams bound to become nightmares by the introduction of even the most vaguely foreign element. Such as reality, that most irksome of registers, or a long-lost son. The house of Queen of Hearts, whose drama is so latent youâd only have to snap your fingers for chaos to erupt, evokes the house of Bong Joon-hoâs Parasite, the kind of immaculate luxury that could only be sitting on top of some macabre bunker full of roaches and well-fed zombies. The drama that links these homes is the notion that the epitome of the heterosexual family bliss borders its very obliteration, with the unruly resurfacing of all the gunk that had been swept underneath, as the very foundation for its habitat.
When Gustav arrives, then, and ends up having an affair with his stepmom, a trench coat-wearing lawyer for young victims of sexual abuse, weâre only surprised at how careless they seem to be about being found out. El-Toukhy is smart to avoid sensationalizing the taboo-breaking premise of the narrative with a camera that sides with Anne: her sexual hunger, her contradictions, her stretch marks. This isnât a film about roundabout incest, but one about the impossibility of satisfaction even for the most privileged woman, one with a high-powered and socially engaged job, money to spare, and a mansion by the lake in a Scandinavian country.
Queen of Hearts focuses on Anneâs paradoxes: Sheâs a savior and a monster, a middle-aged mother and a horny teenager, unabashedly exposing the inconvenient pores that remain underneath even the most beautifully made-up Nordic skin. And the film is about skin, ultimately. In the way Anne and Gustav have raw sex and the marks on Anneâs stomach are filmed with purpose, sincerity, and no apology. The affair begins when Anne walks into Gustavâs bedroom and gives him a handjob without bothering to lock the door. This comes soon after he brought a girl his own age home and Anne had to sit in her living room, staring at her laptop and drinking a glass of wine, while listening to the teenagers having sex. By the time Anne goes to the lake with Gustav and one of her twin girls, and Anne decides to get in the water, we know the deal is done. âBut you never swim,â says the girl. Water in Queen of Hearts bears the same prophetic sexual force thatâs appeared in many films, queer or not, from F.W. Murnauâs Sunrise to Alain Guiraudieâs Stranger by the Lake.
The affair isnât about love, of course, or passion. Itâs not even about the sex itself. The affair is a settling of accounts, a vampiric attempt to deny the passing of time, which, by virtue of having passed, feels like itâs been wasted. For Anne, the culprit is Peter, who becomes a cock-blocking nuisance. The film, a melodrama with a superb final shot that offers no closure, at times tries too hard to provide a cause for Anneâs passage Ă lâacte. When Gustav asks Anne who she lost her virginity to, she answers, âWith someone it shouldnât have been,â which makes it seem like the film is suggesting that predatorial behavior is a sort of damned inheritance. The Queen of Hearts is much more successful, and courageous, when it follows the logic of sexual yearning itself, not worrying about rational justifications.
The first few sequences of Alejandro Landesâs Monos evoke Claire Denisâs Beau Travail, except it isnât only men training in the deserted landscape. A few young women join them, which, inevitably takes the narrative elsewhere, even if the filmsâ basic premises are similar. In Monos, teenage guerilla fighters are supposed to guard a foreign hostage, Doctora Sara Watson (Julianne Nicholson), and a conscripted cow named Shakira. Intrigue and sexual tension ensure that nothing goes according to plan. The only thing that never finds any respite is the flow of violence, which increasingly loses its metaphorical sheen, becoming gratuitous toward the end. What starts out like a social critique gains the aura of an unnecessarily grisly horror film, more about overtly visible chains than the allegorical slaughtering of cows by paramilitary children named Rambo, Lady, Bigfoot, and Smurf.
It turns out that queerness lives even in the faraway mountaintops of the Colombian jungle, as one of the guerilla girls makes two boys kiss at the start of the film, which brought a discrete discomfort to the screening room I was seated in. By the time Nicholsonâs character shares a brief lesbian kiss with a reluctant fighter whoâs supposed to watch over her, later in the film, queerness is no longer a conceptual surprise hinting at meaningful registers beyond the narrativeâs surface, but a kind of desperate attempt to make the plot seem cryptic. Like The Cossacks, Landesâs film is also about the impossibility of maintaining complete control over oneâs claim of masculinity, or power more generally. In moments of crisis, the line between predator and prey get very thin, and even the most well-armed warriors have a way of becoming disarmed, naked, and sentimental.
Yuriy Shylovâs Projectionist follows the frailty of all flesh, hawkish accessory in hand or not, through the portrayal of the end of a film projectionistâs 44-year tenure at one of Kievâs oldest movie theaters. Itâs an end that coincides with the crumbling of projectionist Valentinâs own coughing body, and that of his bedridden mother. It turns out that the movie theater, too, is reaching its expiration point. Soon, its doors will close and its employees will be fired, and thereâs a sense throughout Shylovâs documentary that analog cinema will be dealt a major blow with the theaterâs closure. What will become of the space? Perhaps a Reebok or a McDonaldâs. Perhaps a derelict muse for a Nikolaus Geyrhalter portrait of decay.
âYou think youâre loud, but in reality you can only hear yourself,â Valentin tells his mother at one point. Her futile yelling of her sonâs name from her bed is one of the most haunting motifs in the film. An uttering for utteringâs sake, a demand without expectations of an actual response, a mantra to remind oneself that one is, for now, still alive. Valentin has installed a whistle next to the bed, which he would actually be able to hear when she called if only sheâd use it. But the mother mostly refuses to blow in the pragmatic apparatus, instead finding solace in the calling that wonât be heard and, thus, will need to be repeated ad nauseam.
Projectionist can feel a bit aimless, but itâs a welcome reminder of how the materiality of film, and thus its finitude, has something in common with our ownâa kinship of frailty that the flawlessness of the digital image erases. Analog is the only technology that Valentin knows, whether heâs sewing, as heâs seen doing in the film, fixing a neighborâs straightening iron, or projecting old home videos on filthy kitchen tiles. Thereâs pleasure to be found, for Valentin, not just in the stories, concepts, and metaphors of cinema, but in the very stuff that supports his craft, the paraphernalia of cinema thatâs bound to crack, to dry out, to turn to dust, to disappear forever: film stock, Movieolas, spools, and so forth. Cinema, weâre reminded, is necessarily a tool of exposure, not just of the human condition in the face of death, but the human condition as an always gendered affair. Itâs a tool thatâs never settled, never comfortable, and never forgotten. âMen are cowards, didnât you know that?â is how Valentin puts it toward the end of Projectionist. In his world, one would know, by looking at the projector, at the very stuff of cinema, how much longer a film would last. The remainder of the filmâs âlifeâ is perfectly real, perfectly tangible, and alive because itâs in constant danger of being jammed up and torn by the very engine that ensured its running.
The Odessa International Film Festival runs from July 12â20.
Japan Cuts 2019: Demolition Girl, And Your Bird Can Sing, & Being Natural
Japan Cuts has established itself as the definitive Japanese film festival in the United States, thanks to the scope of its programming.
Japan Cuts has established itself as the definitive Japanese film festival in the United States, thanks to the scope of its programming. The 2019 edition is no exception, with over 30 events over 10 days, among them talks, screenings, and Q&A sessions with filmmakers as diverse as Macoto Tezka (The Legend of the Stardust Brothers) and Shinya Tsukamoto (Tetsuo: The Iron Man), the latter of whom is this yearâs recipient of the festivalâs Cut Above award, which is given to a defining figure of Japanâs cinema, and will be awarded before the East Coast premiere of his latest film, the samurai action-drama Killing.
Lest you think Japan Cuts is only a showcase for genre exercises, the festival abounds in works that explore the struggles that erupt from the Japanese capitalist system, and are felt in different ways across generations. Demolition Girl, Genta Matsugamiâs feature debut, is among the strongest of recent films to bluntly speak about class difference. It follows 17-year-old Cocoa (Aya Kitai), who, in the wake of her motherâs death, has decided to forgo a university education and get a job. But as her shifts at a local amusement park only pay so much, she starts to perform in adult fetish videos that see her stomping on cans, trash, and balloons.
At his best, the film taps into the heightened experience of the poorest of the people living on the edge. For one, whenever Cocoaâs father (Yota Kawase) has some money on hand, he yearns for instant satisfaction, spending it on expensive sushi. As for Cocoa, whoâs isolation is emphasized through shots that see her alone in corridors, or studying late at night in her room, itâs almost as if sheâs destined to fail. And, indeed, when her school finds out about the adult videos sheâs been making, and just as she was beginning to realize her promise of going to a Tokyo university, her life falls apart. When confronted by friends about why she made the videos, all she can do is yell at them: âYou wouldnât understand, youâre rich, you wouldnât know. Will you pay for my expenses?â In this moment, Kitaiâs triumph is making her characterâs wail against a cruel economic system feel as if it could be our own.
And Your Bird Can Sing, directed by Sho Miyake, is focused on two late-twentysomething slackers: the unnamed protagonist (Tasuku Emoto) and his roommate, Shizo (Himizu and Parasyte star ShĆta Sometani). Both work crappy jobs, and they try to stay sane through copious amounts of drinking and pointed mockery of the economically fraught lot theyâve been handed in life. The protagonistâs attitude could be summed up by one early sequence, when he meets a co-worker and convinces her to go on a date, only to later miss the date, fall asleep, wake up, and decide to spend his night drinking with Shizo.
A love triangle between the roomies and one of the protagonistâs co-workers, Sachiko (Shizuka Ishibashi), brings some solace to the menâs lives. Thereâs redundancy to the way that Miyake frames these characters, showing their faces up close rather than the screens they peer at as they text each other, but his wide shots speak to how they all work to fill empty spaces. Miyakeâs style is relaxed, almost as if his camera has absorbed everyoneâs slacker vibes. Especially of note is a sequence that lingers at length on Sachiko paying for groceries while the two men in her life try to hold their laughter, saying to each other that sheâs going to regret her purchase. Miyakeâs gaze is empathetic, and thereâs truth in his understanding that you have to sometimes laugh at your underprivilege in order to prevent yourself from screaming.
More tonally varied, and operating on a larger scale, director Tadashi Nagayamaâs satirical Being Natural broaches the subject of gentrification as it immerses viewers in the daily routines of a middle-aged man, Taka (Yota Kawase), who lives in a small town in the countryside of Japan and works with his cousin, Mitsuaki (Shoichiro Tanigawa), and their friend, Sho (Tadahiro Tsuru), at a fishpond inherited from his deceased uncle. Everything starts to derail for the three men when a family arrives on the scene from Tokyo with the hopes of opening up an old-style cafĂ© that will only sell natural and locally grown products. At the start of the film, the still-grieving Taka doesnât fully understand what he has until someone tries to take it away from him, and by the end, a spectacular show of violence will see him finally realizing the nature of the economic system heâs trapped within.
The filmâs style is initially sweet and mellow, with the softest of songs dotting the soundtrack. Taka plays bongos, and the sounds of the instrument are also heard throughout. At first, this sound creates a calm atmosphere thatâs in sync with the bright cinematography. But as the film introduces a series of sinister twists, those bongos come to take on an almost murderous bent. The sounds of the instrument point to the encroachment of a capitalist economy on a place relatively untouched by it. In its final minutes, Being Natural takes a turn toward the supernatural, and itâs satisfying for giving the main characters the reprisal they want, but also poignant for the way it has us understand that it only occurs in the realm of fantasy. The film, in the end, acknowledges that itâs difficult to go against the system, and that to stay sane means finding a little pocket of happiness in the world and enjoying it while it lasts.
Japan Cuts runs from July 19â28.
Docaviv 2019: Comrade Dov, A Whore Like Me, & The Times of Bill Cunningham
Docaviv continues to thrive in increasingly challenging circumstances.
Docaviv, Tel Avivâs biggest film festival and Israelâs most high-profile celebration of documentary cinema, continues to thrive in increasingly challenging circumstances. The festival is partially reliant on government funding, but since her appointment as minister of culture in 2015, conservative politician Miri Regev has done her best to create a nerve-racking environment for Israelâs artists, threatening to withdraw financial support for any cultural enterprise deemed to undermine Israelâs image or criticize government policy.
Yet these threats have largely proven empty, and after spending a week at the recent Docaviv, I was left with a strong sense of Tel Avivâs film community rallying together to resist censorship and preserve their freedom of speech, albeit in a tactful manner. The festival sustains a tone of political neutrality in its presentation of films, but a striking number of titles in this yearâs selection, both from Israel and abroad, centered around tenacious underdogs speaking truth to power, questioning the status quo and remaining optimistic in the face of adversity.
Freedom of artistic expression in Israel is directly addressed in Comrade Dov, Barak Heymannâs affectionate portrait of left-wing Jewish politician and activist Dov Khenin, who represented the Arab-dominated Joint List party at the Israeli parliament, or Knesset, for 12 years before retiring in April 2019. During one of the documentaryâs numerous heated parliamentary exchanges, Khenin eloquently voices his outrage at a proposal by fellow member Alex Miller that funding for the Tel Aviv Cinematheque (Docavivâs primary venue) should be cut in response to a festival commemorating the 1948 Palestinian exodus. The sequence illustrates both Kheninâs innate skill as a negotiator and his effectiveness as a stone in the Knessetâs shoe: He persuasively counters extreme-right rhetoric with an impassioned leftist stance, and deftly steers conversation towards a middle ground.
Heymann is plainly enamored with his subject, and strikes a playful, upbeat tone in the establishing scenes. As we observe Khenin silently moving around his spartan apartment, the filmmaker wryly explains, in voiceover, that âthis is the first and only time I filmed him at home. I was so excited that I forgot to turn on the sound.â Shortly thereafter, Heymann remarks that âall of the activists I know are depressed. But Dov always seems to be optimistic, which is why I love being with him.â Indeed, Dov is an instantly appealing protagonist, equal parts scrappy boyish charm, intellectual rigor, and emotional honesty.
But despite Dovâs enviable personal attributes, and his impeccable track record of fighting for social justice, Heymann takes care to ensure that the film doesnât become too blandly hagiographic. In a particularly poignant sequence, Israeli Arab activist Hana Amoury explains, calmly and respectfully, that while Dov clearly wants to improve the lives of his Palestinian constituents, his desire to simultaneously be part of the Israeli establishment ultimately makes him an ineffective ally. And several of the battles we witness Dov wage over the course of the film, including one on behalf of mistreated factory workers, end in decisive failure.
Sharon Yaish and Yael Shacharâs A Whore Like Me, another Israel-set account of a David-versus-Goliath battle, benefits from an instantly gripping, thriller-like premise. At 22 years of age, Chile was abducted in her native Hungary and sold to Israeli sex traffickers, leaving behind a young daughter. She ultimately escaped her captors, but subsequently lived on the streets for years before conquering drug addiction. Now, 20 years on from her kidnapping, her only hope for successfully appealing against the Israeli Ministry of Interiorâs decision to deny her residence is to procure concrete proof of her ordeal. Thus, she hires a private detective and embarks on a quest that forces her to relive past traumas.
The film clocks in at just 60 minutes, but it offers an impressively rich portrait of a woman whoâs been failed by society at every turn. The filmmakers keep the exposition succinct, focusing on the emotional cost of Chileâs decades-long ordeal. She has, by all accounts, made a remarkable recovery: When we meet her, sheâs 10 years sober, and volunteering at a sexual health clinic helping other vulnerable women. Yet the odds remain depressingly stacked against her. Without permission to work in Israel, she finds herself lapsing back into prostitution to stay on top of legal costs. And in the filmâs most uncomfortable scene, weâre introduced to an older man, presumably a former client, who takes complete credit for her rehabilitation and demeaningly refers to her as his pet, while she sits awkwardly by his side.
However, as the investigation into the whereabouts of her captors begins to yield promising results, Chile becomes increasingly emboldened, and uses the filmmaking process as an opportunity to reckon with the ways in which sex work has shaped her identity and sense of self-worth. At one point she begins filming encounters with clients, as if to assert authorship of her narrative. While Chileâs future hangs in the balance at the end of A Whore Like Me, one is left with a powerful sense that Yaish and Shachar have at least armed their protagonist with the tools she needs to build a better life for herself.
As if to offer respite from appalling social injustice and hot-button political issues, Docaviv lightened the tone of this yearâs international selection with a host of art, fashion, and music docs. But even among these glossier picks, tales of underdogs and marginalized communities took center stage. Mark Bozekâs The Times of Bill Cunningham, a worthy companion piece to Richard Pressâs Bill Cunningham, New York, is structured around a previously unseen interview with the late fashion photographer, conducted by Bozek in 1994. Itâs a pleasure to hear Cunningham describe in his own words his rise from impoverished milliner to the toast of Manhattan high society; heâs an irresistible screen presence, with a wide-eyed enthusiasm for his industry, a childlike demeanor, and an occasionally eccentric turn of phrase.
Moreover, when detailing Cunninghamâs work as a discreet queer activist, the film packs an emotional punch. Though by all accounts he lived a monastic existence, he clearly felt a deep personal kinship with New Yorkâs LGBTQ+ communities, and took advantage of editorial freedom at the New York Times to celebrate them throughout the dark days of the AIDS crisis. At one point in the film, his chirpy demeanor cracks and he begins silently weeping for the friends he lost to the disease. And yet the film is ultimately celebratory, paying tribute to a headstrong individual who resolutely refused to obey his familyâs orders to pursue a more âmanlyâ career, and who pursued his passions entirely on his own terms.
The Docaviv International Documentary Film Festival ran from May 23âJune 1.
Cannes Film Festival 2019: Oh Mercy!, Les MisĂ©rables, Young Ahmed, & Atlantics
Many of the selections at this yearâs festival were genre films, or, at least, exhibited notable genre-adjacent elements.
Surprisingly, many of the selections at this yearâs Cannes Film Festival were genre films, or, at least, exhibited notable genre-adjacent elements. By and large, audiences recognized the influence of genre on these works in the moment, as in a UFO randomly popping into frame during Kleber MendonĂ§a Filho and Juliano Dornellesâs Bacurau, or the eyes of a group of women rolling back in their heads during Mati Diopâs Atlantics.
Sometimes, though, a film turned out to be exactly as advertised, and thatâs for the worse in the case of Oh Mercy!, Arnaud Desplechinâs follow-up to his prismatic, semi-autobiographical Ismaelâs Ghosts. Set in the directorâs hometown of Roubaix, this modest film about the work of maintaining order in a community stars Days of Glory actor Roschdy Zem as a level-headed police chief in charge of overseeing a number of investigations. Captain Daoud largely farms out his duties to a phalanx of hot-headed underlings, but he takes a determined interest in one case involving the murder of an old woman, possibly at the hands of her two neighbors, Claude (LĂ©a Seydoux) and her girlfriend, Marie (Sara Forestier).
This case paves the way for the filmâs most impressive sequence: two parallel interrogations depicting the methods used to meticulously weaken Claude and Marieâs resistance to being interrogated and draw out the truth. Otherwise, there isnât much depth to this scenario to capture the viewerâs attention. At the margins of the plot, Desplechinâs attentiveness to local color is noticeable, which at least imparts a sense that he knows this community quite well and understands how social dynamics play out within it. But it isnât too long into its running time that Oh Mercy!, in its generally abiding faith in the effectiveness and general well-meaning of police work, comes off as undiscerning in its pro-cop stance.
Still, Oh Mercy! somehow manages to seem a lot more empathetic and realistic than Les MisĂ©rables, Ladj Lyâs police drama set in the Parisian commune of Montfermeil. Lyâs feature directorial debut pretentiously co-opts the cultural cache of its Victor Hugo-penned namesake as a means of bolstering its activist political message. A brief and promising montage opens the film, and depicts jubilant Parisians of all races in a state of revelry. (This is actually documentary footage from the aftermath of Franceâs 2018 World Cup victory, so not exactly the June Rebellion that closes Hugoâs opus.) From this point forward, Ly largely relies on gritty faux-doc aesthetics redolent of The Wire to maneuver through a narrative that splits its time between police on the job and embedding itself with the people theyâre meant to serve.
Nonetheless, the focus remains largely on StĂ©phane (Damien Bonnard), the newest recruit of the dubiously named Anti-Crime Squad thatâs tasked with patrolling Montfermeilâs crime-ridden Les Bosquets social estate, and the way the soft-spoken manâs conscience is tested on his first day as he rides alongside two corrupt cops (Alexis Manenti and Djibril Zonga). Ly seems to give the cops too much latitude, or at least he muddles his condemnation of their behavior by lumping it in with a broader message about an untamable chaos in the suburbs of Paris. The filmâs explosive finale, which sees the oppressed city kids rise up and start a war with law enforcement, could be interpreted as a call for revolution, but it could just as easily be read as a fortification of the idea that The Streets Arenât Safe, and a film like this shouldnât make the conflation of progressive and conservative politics that easy.
Les MisĂ©rables does, at the very least, lay bare the reality of an everyday form of violence and prejudice and makes some kind of attempt at responding to it, which is more than Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne bother to do with Young Ahmed. In the film, the eponymous Ahmed (Idir Ben Addi) puts distance between himself and his family, deciding that his Arabic teacher is a heretic before, finally, turning to violence. The Dardennesâ signature observational cinema, one thatâs shaped by lightly applied genre conventions and subjected to chain reactions of dramatic incident, comes to feel exploitative in this context, as Young Ahmed demonstrates little interest in understanding the psychology or pathology of the troubled youth at its center, or even in grasping the sociocultural conditions that affect him.
As is their wont, the Dardennes start their film in medias res, which proves to be their first big mistake: Ahmed has already been radicalized, and so from here on out we observe his actions in a kind of vacuum. The film, then, becomes just an exercise in redundancy for the Dardennes, hitting as it does the same narrative beats of sin and redemption that all their character studies do, albeit with a different cultural face. This isnât a well written or conceived narrative either, especially in its contrived and manipulative finale. But what makes the film outright offensive is its flippancy toward the Muslim faith. At one point, we get a match cut between Ahmed being kissed by a non-Muslim girl and the young man vigorously washing out his mouthâa moment that elicited much laughter at the filmâs gala premiere.
In the past, the veracity and realism of the Dardennesâ aesthetic mode has made for convincing portraits of life on the margins, but here thereâs an uncomfortable friction between the way their technique engenders a feeling of truthfulness and the calculated and methodical depiction of Ahmedâs actions. The only party that benefits here are the Dardennes, whoâve brazenly attached themselves to a subject that grants their film an unearned political weight.
One film at Cannes this year that got its genre inflections, its social commentary, and its understanding of race generally right was the steely and quixotic Atlantics, Mati Diopâs first feature-length fiction film. Atlantics derives some of the broader strokes of its narrative from a short of the same name that Diop directed a decade ago, about Senegalese youths discussing the possibility of crossing the Atlantic toward Europe. The feature version of Atlantics is set in Dakar and follows Ada (Mame Bineta Sane), a 17-year-old whoâs in love with a boy named Souleimane (Ibrahim Traore) but whoâs been arranged by her parents to marry a wealthy older business man. After this ostensible love triangle ends in tragedy, Diopâs film briefly morphs into something of a procedural, as a young detective (Amadou Mbow) is called on to investigate a mysterious act of arson committed on Adaâs wedding day.
Itâs the way that Atlantics pivots into the realm of the supernatural, and even flirts with the horror genre, that makes it so unique. The blend of folklore spiritualism and commitment to social realism, paired with an ethereal visual sense that emphasizes the spectral experience of the subaltern, can be imprecise in terms of its political implications, but Atlantics nonetheless evokes the palpable feelings of its charactersâ displacement through its shift into ghost-movie terrain. Even Diopâs balance between a more visually poetic register and a devotion to maintaining her narrativeâs momentum seems less like a compromise than a reflection of this filmmakerâs confidence in her own ability to tell complicated and unusual stories in the guise of familiar narrative form. In fact, thatâs a good way to frame a lot of Cannesâ competition films this year: Many are genre-adjacent, but itâs those from filmmakers that display a sense of confidence in their approach that have tended to leave the best impression.
The Cannes Film Festival runs from May 14â25.
Jeonju IFF 2019: Coincoin and the Extra-Humans, L. Cohen, & Introduzione all’oscuro
These are three enigmatic, challenging, and weird works of art by filmmakers pushing at the boundaries of the cinematic form.
Shortly after arriving in Jeonju, the mid-sized Korean city about 200 kilometers south of Seoul that serves as the site of the Jeonju International Film Festival, I pulled my bedraggled, jet-lagged body over to the guest center to pick up my press credentials. As I made my way through the carnivalesque open-air city block known as Jeonju Cinema Town, I found myself, to my surprise, in the midst of a rather peculiar, almost surreal scenario as a bunch of white- and black-suited stormtroopers marched in lockstep toward me, weapons at the ready, flanking none other than the Grand Imperial Poobah himself, Darth Vader.
The group maneuvered around me without incident, eager to pose for selfies with the crowd of locals assembled in the area, but after over 20 hours of travel, the encounter took on a vaguely sinister air, as if the forces of Hollywood monoculture had been dispatched to this relatively remote cinephile retreat to ensure that no one here got the wrong idea: Have fun with your cute little art films, but remember who really wields the power in the world of cinema.
I suppose these are the sorts of strange inclinations that strike you when your bodyâs circadian rhythms have been shaken up like a snow globe, but, despite the presence of the Walt Disney Company as one of the festivalâs premier sponsors, the films I sawâpersonal, challenging, at times exhilarating work from all across the worldâcouldnât have seemed further away from the market-tested franchises that clog American cineplexes. Having said that, itâs with some irony that one of the first films I took in at Jeonju IFF was in fact a sequelâalbeit one whose eccentric sense of humor and repetitive, unresolved narrative mean itâs never going to be mistaken for the latest from the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
The sequel in question is Coincoin and the Extra-Humans, Bruno Dumontâs follow-up to Liâl Quinquin. One of the great left turns in the history of auteurism, Dumontâs 2014 miniseries signaled his transition from austere Bressonian miserablism to a singular brand of deadpan grotesquerie that gleefully explodes the thin line between the clever and the stupid. Dumont doesnât vary his style too much for the sequel, as itâs another bizarre sunlit mystery set in the windswept countryside of Dumontâs native Nord-Pas-de-Calais. And Dumont has reassembled the same cast of non-professional local oddballs led by Bernard Pruvost as Commandant Van der Weyden, a twitchy, hapless police detective investigating matters way beyond his depths.
Dumont, though, still finds ways to mess with his audienceâs expectations, starting with the baffling and completely inexplicable change of the title characterâs name. If the earlier film felt like Dumontâs riff on popular international crime dramas like Broadchurch and The Killing, Coincoin turns out to be his spin on The X-Files, a sci-fi pod-people procedural featuring a mysterious black goo from outer space that inhabits its victims and forces them to give birth to their own uncanny clones. Like many stories about body-snatching, the series is a satireâhere on provincial racism, the poor treatment of African migrants, and the rise of the French far rightâbut Dumont isnât simply interested in topical point-scoring against Marine Le Pen, the anti-immigrant politician who represents Nord-Pas-de-Calais.
Rather, with its ambling, directionless narrative and lackadaisical long shots that perversely undercut the screenplayâs gags, Coincoin evokes a deep-rooted spirit of reactionary malaise, of people whose lives are hopelessly circumscribed by their own fears and prejudices. Dumont rigorously resists developing his plot or deepening his characters: Theyâre all trapped in an absurd loop, doomed to endlessly say the same things and reenact the same jokes.
Van der Weyden sums up that mentality in a single line: âProgress isnât inevitable.â Thereâs a group of black men who periodically appear throughout the film only to be consistently and summarily dismissed in a fit of racist panic. Each time, we expect the film to create some meaningful interaction between the white townsfolk and these migrants, and each time weâre rebuffedâthat is, until a final musical explosion of kumbaya-like camaraderie thatâs somehow goofy, moving, tedious, and invigorating all at the same time.
Dumont is one of the few artists in cinema willing to risk exhausting his audience to induce a particular effect, but heâs not the only one, as demonstrated by James Benningâs L. Cohen, a 45-minute static shot of a seemingly unremarkable field with a mountain visible in the distance. Itâs an elegantly composed frame, reminiscent of an American Regionalist painting and whose centrally located peak perhaps coyly refers to the Paramount logo.
After 20 minutes, even the most hardened cinephiles are bound to be squirming in their seat, at which point Benning reveals his remarkable trump card: As the sky quickly darkens and blackness falls over the Earth, we realize that weâve been watching the leadup to a total solar eclipse. Itâs a moment of quiet astonishment and confusion for anyone who doesnât know itâs coming, bringing us close to the feeling a caveman mightâve had when the same event occurred. With typical mathematical precision, Benning has placed the eclipse at the exact center of the film, allowing us to explore the subtle shadows that precede and follow it.
The film, however, isnât just some academic structuralist exercise, as itâs also a meditation on death, a fact highlighted by the next startling moment: the inclusion of Leonard Cohenâs âLove Itselfâ on the soundtrack, a stark divergence from the ominous drone (identified by Benning during his festival Q&A as the hum of airplanes flying overhead) that fills the rest of the film. This song and the dedication of the film to the recently deceased Cohen add a deeper layer of meaning to Benningâs precisely calibrated study of light and time.
L. Cohen is in essence a meditation on temporality. All things are fleeting, even grand interplanetary ballets. Considering the brief alignment of these celestial bodies puts one in a cosmic mood and calls to mind a cryptic, haunting line from a different Cohen song, âStories of the Streetâ: âWe are so small between the stars, so large against the sky.â
One could also find the specter of death looming over Introduzione allâoscuro, an expressionistic tribute to director GastĂłn Solnickiâs good friend, Hans Hurch, the recently departed director of the Viennale, the Vienna International Film Festival. Described by the director not as a film about Hurch, but a film for him, Introduzione allâoscuro dispenses with biography entirely, instead evoking its subjectâs buoyant, ragtag spirit in an almost subliminal fashion: through music, film, and the city of Vienna. Hurch âappearsâ in the film primarily through his letters and through his voice, recorded by Solnicki when he provided notes on one of the directorâs previous films. Solnicki does appear on screen: a comically lonely figure visiting some of Hurchâs favorite Viennese hauntsâsuch as the CafĂ© EnglĂ€nder, from which he would periodically steal cupsâon a journey that drolly recalls Holly Martinsâs investigation into the apparent death of his pal Harry Lime in The Third Man.
Like Solnickiâs KĂ©kszakĂĄllĂș before it, Introduzione allâoscuro is what might be called âslideshow cinemaââa procession of taut, piquant compositions whose relationship to one another isnât precisely clear but which, when taken together, create an indelible impression of a highly specific milieu. Structured more like a piece of avant-garde music than a narrative work or traditional documentary, the film has a hypnotic yet often dissonant allure. It pulls us into a strange liminal zone where Hurch seems to be simultaneously present and absent, haunting the film like a benevolent spirit. Solnicki simply has one of the best eyes in cinema today, and itâs the pungency of his images which makes the film such an endlessly compelling experience, even when the reasons behind Solnickiâs individual choices remain obscure.
Abstruseness, though, is no crime. In fact, the greatest pleasures of Jeonju IFF were to be found in grappling with âdifficultâ films such as Coincoin and the Extra-Humans, L. Cohen, and Introduzione allâoscuro: enigmatic, challenging, and even downright weird works of art made by filmmakers pushing at the boundaries of the cinematic form.
The Jeonju International Film Festival ran from May 2â11.
Maryland Film Festival 2019: The Hottest August, Donbass, & American Factory
This yearâs selections exhibit a scope and ambition that should continue to draw adventurous filmgoers for years to come.
Judging from the enthusiasm of the surprisingly high number of New York filmmakers and critics this writer met in Baltimore this past weekend, the Maryland Film Festival isnât seen as a pale shadow of Big Apple filmgoing. Rather, itâs a vital supplement to itâa program that compresses many of the festival seasonâs essential offerings into a manageable four-day run in an easily walkable city with comparatively chill crowds.
Those who made the commute to Baltimore for the festival this year had the chance to encounter one of the more trenchant New York-set films of recent memory in Brett Storyâs The Hottest August, an essayistic documentary made in the intellectually vagrant spirit of Chris Marker. Shot in August of 2017 around a principle of âorganized spontaneity,â per producer Danielle Varga, the film spans New York Cityâs five boroughs while adhering to a nebulous, difficult-to-define but nonetheless valuable objective: to take the temperature of the times we live in and tease out the collective mood of the countryâs most densely populated area.
Willfully biting off more than it can chew, The Hottest August features rich people, poor people, scientists, skateboarders, entrepreneurs, intellectuals, barflies, artists, and more waxing extemporaneous on topics including climate change, economic inequality, automation, racism, and the future. The mood is off the cuff, conversational. A pair of women in lawn chairs joke about how their streetâs rat population has swelled as a result of gentrifying construction in adjacent neighborhoods. Two former cops reframe the term âracismâ as âresentmentâ in a sports bar just moments after demanding that no politics enter the hallowed space of the drinking hole. A loft-dwelling futurist pontificates on what the tax system might look like if the country embraced robotics instead of fearing it as a job killer. Occasionally we hear the filmmaker off screen, tersely prompting her subjects with open-ended questions, but mostly this is an ensemble of eager talkers, their openness running contrary to the old chestnut about closed-off New Yorkers.
Finding form in this seemingly disconnected mass is editor Nels Bangerter, who managed a similar feat with Kirsten Johnsonâs Cameraperson. The film drifts subtly from subject to subject, pointedly using B roll not just to evocatively provide a sense of place, but to extend someoneâs thought or offer counterpoint. Three streams of information exist at once: whatever opinion is being put forth by the person on screen; whatever in-the-moment perspective Story takes on her subjectâs response through the questions she asks or the camera angles she chooses; and the question of how that segment ultimately interacts with the film in its final form, where images have been invested with meaning through context.
The Hottest August is a film thatâs constantly âthinking,â and that thought isnât fixed or authoritative, but rather in flux and negotiable. Story isnât setting out to answer any pressing political issues so much as capture the tactile sense of how those issues permeate everyday settings. Hers is a form of ambient reportage that feels very welcome in our contemporary moment, when the daily barrage of information can sometimes make it difficult to recall how one felt about something two days earlier, let alone in that turbulent August of 2017.
Similarly macro in its approach is Sergei Loznitsaâs Donbass, which adopts a sprawling, vignette-driven structure as it catalogues the miseries and grotesqueries of the eponymous eastern Ukrainian territory. A region occupied by pro-Russian paramilitary forces (specifically the Donetsk and Luhansk Peopleâs Republics) ever since the Ukrainian Revolution in 2014, present-day Donbass is a morass of conflicting sympathies and ideologies that Loznitsa doesnât so much seek to clarify with this film as reflect in all its muddy complexity.
In fact, Loznitsa goes so far as to call into question the very possibility of the truth of this situation he captures on camera. Whenever reporters appear on screen, theyâre portrayed as ineffectual stooges waiting to be chewed out as propaganda peddlers by their political opponents, and the filmâs bookending sequences, set at the trailer park of a movie set, build toward a thesis statement on the dubiousness of contemporary reporting with its tendency to stage and reframe reality according to the mandates of whatever affiliation is being placated.
Cameras, weâre repeatedly reminded by the mise-en-scĂšne, are violators, as they merely augment the dangerous power of the person wielding them. Donbassâs most harrowing elucidation of this theme comes in a scene on a public street, where a Ukrainian loyalist, tied to a telephone pole by a pair of armed separatists, endures a humiliating beating at the hands of a growing mob of passersby, one of whom decides to record the grisly spectacle with his smartphone. As Loznitsaâs camera circles the action, the hecklerâs phone presses right up into the face of the prisoner, relishing in the manâs suffering, and we get the sense that the escalation of violence may have never come to pass in quite this way were it not for the spontaneous idea to turn it into a video meme. Later, the recording gets shown to a hooting crowd of Novorossiya sympathizers at an absurdly overemphatic wedding celebration, assimilating smoothly into the atmosphere of nationalist fervor.
Donbass is fueled by such collisions between the grave and the comic, a tonal oscillation mastered by Loznitsa in his documentaries and carried over here to support a vision of a society cracking under the weight of its own inconsistencies, corruption and mob mentalities. Less tightly structured than Loznitsaâs preceding fiction work, the film adopts the immersive observation of films like Maidan and Victory Day with a more active, roving camera but a similar degree of durational endurance. In one scene, Loznitsa even seamlessly integrates an extended use of documentary language into a longer fictional setup when his camera descends into a cramped and overcrowded bomb shelter, where a local host, lit by a camera-mounted source, walks us through the destitution of those living inside. As with the later street scene, the dreariness is eventually spiked by a dash of absurdism, but the counterpunch isnât intended to lighten the mood so much as further disorient, ultimately giving Donbass an unnerving precarity that must come somewhat near the feeling on the ground.
If these two films, content as they are to revel in ambivalence, seek to grasp the experience of the now in all its bewilderment, Julia Reichert and Steven Bognarâs American Factory takes a more committed stance on an issue thatâs equally topical. Fuyao Glass America, an outgrowth of a global glass manufacturer owned by a Chinese billionaire, opened in Moraine, Ohio in the shell of a shuddered General Motors plant toward the beginning of the decade, persisted financially for years while pursuing its awkward goal of unifying Chinese and American work cultures, and then inevitably ran up against controversy in 2017 when safety concerns and low wages encouraged the local employees to vote to unionize.
American Factory charts this entire compelling history with surprising comprehensiveness: When a late scene plays out as an illicit audio recording from an employee over a black screen, it stands out for being one of the only instances when the filmmakers donât appear to have unencumbered access. But this sprawl has its downsides. Though briskly edited and tonally varied, Reichert and Bognarâs documentary skims over the surface of some of its most fascinating threads while in pursuit of a rousing decade-long tale.
The American workers depicted in the film, disgruntled by their diminished earnings and recalling a recent past with less bureaucratic oversight, too often blend into one undistinguished mass of Midwestern homeliness, and the few individuals who do get singled out for attentionâa woman living in her relativeâs basement and a rancher who befriends one particular Chinese co-workerâoften get neglected for long stretches of time. The Chinese are perhaps even less differentiated, their insistence on dogged work ethic and company allegiance repeatedly emphasized almost to the point of xenophobia. That Fuyao chairman Cao Dewang, who weaves through the film as an amusingly oblivious villain for its majority, eventually gets a moment to fondly reminisce on Chinaâs pre-industrial past and contemplate his own complicity in the countryâs shift to globalized capitalism comes across as penance for the filmâs occasional treatment of foreigners as misguided corporate drones.
What American Factory ultimately amounts to, however, isnât an exploration of culture clash or a penetrating depiction of rust belt dejection, but rather a rallying cry for worker solidarity (in America, if not across the globe), a message it pulls off resoundingly in the final hour. Reichert and Bognar smartly detail all the insidious ways in which corporate messengers mischaracterize unionizing as a threat to individual liberty, and the populist filmmaking vernacular they employ as the union vote nearsâfluid crosscutting between different intersecting narratives, plenty of emotional close-ups, a score of almost Spielbergian grandiosityâgives the documentary a genuine shot at trafficking radical politics to a relatively wide audience. If itâs any indication of future success, American Factory was one of the most well-attended screenings I went to during my time in Baltimore, but itâs a testament to the Maryland Film Festivalâs outreach that healthy crowds congregated throughout the weekend. Though modest and inviting, this yearâs selections exhibit a scope and ambition that should continue to draw adventurous filmgoers for years to come.
The Maryland Film Festival ran from May 8â12.
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