Month: May 2019

The Invisible Life of Euridice Gusmao (A Vida Invisivel de Euridice Gusmao)

Posted on by victorfraga

This is as close as you will ever get to a tropical Douglas Sirk. Karim Ainouz’s eighth feature film and the second one to premiere in Cannes (after Madame Sata in 2001) has all the ingredients of a melodrama. The 145-minute movie – based on the eponymous novel by Martha Batalha – is punctuated with tragic relationships, epic misfortunes, fortuitous separations and untimely deaths. All skilfully wrapped together by an entirely instrumental and magnificent music score.

The titular character (Carol Duarte) and her sister Guida Gusmao (Julia Stockler) live with their traditional parents. Their Portuguese father Antonio is rude and formidable, while their Brazilian mother Ana is quiet and passive. The action takes place in the charming and quaint Rio the Janeiro of the 1950s. One day Guida elopes with her Greek boyfriend Yorgos, leaving behind a letter explaining that she loves her family and intends to return a married woman. Instead, she returns single and pregnant, after Yorgos turned out to be “a scoundrel”. Her father does not accept her back into the house because he feels “ashamed”. The submissive mother simply abides by her husband’s decision. “My mother lives in the shadow of her husband”, Guida later clarifies.

The problem is that by the time Guida returns, Euridice has already married a man called Antenor (Gregorio Duvivier) and no longer lives with her parents. Antonio lies to Guida. He tells his daughter that her sister Euridice moved to Vienna in order to study in a conservatory and become a professional pianist. And he never tells Euricide that Guida returned from Greece. As a result, Euridice thinks that Guida is in Greece, while Guida thinks that Euridice is in Austria. In reality, both sisters still live in Rio not far from each other. This is not the first time that Karim Ainouz addresses the desire to traverse the Atlantic, moving from Brazil to Europe. The Brazilian director himself crossed the pond many years ago, having migrated from Brazil to Berlin (where he’s now based).

Guida constantly writes to her sister in Austria. Euridice never responds because she is neither in Austria nor aware of the existence of such letters. Guida continues to write anyway in order to keep the memory of her sister alive. These letters eventually become some sort of diary. Their content revs the engine of the narrative. The plot is multi-threaded and complex. It could’ve easily become jumbled up. But not in the skilled hands of Ainouz. The film never gets tedious. Every detail is gingerly handmade. This in an immaculate endeavour of love. A masterpiece.

Guida and Euridice get pregnant in the same year. Neither one wants to keep their baby. Guida regrets her pregnancy because of the disappointment with Yorgos. Euridice mulls an abortion because she wishes to travel to Vienna in order to fulfil her career dream. Both women give birth to a healthy child against their will. Guida finds solace and shelter amongst the black and impoverished communities of suburban Rio. This is a sobering reminder of the sharp racial divide that still defines Brazil. She moves into a shack with an older Black woman called Filomena, who becomes a maternal figure.

This is a film about women forced to make decisions against their will. About the subtle and also the not-so-subtle ways men oppress women. Antonio is a rabid misogynist. Antenor isn’t as overtly sexist, yet he cannot disguise his anger when Euridice wins a piano competition. Both men oppress Euridice in very different yet equally efficient ways.

The cinematography is spectacular. Rio de Janeiro is verdant and plush. The skies are lustrous. The interiors are vibrant, with radiant yellow, green and blue walls. The textures are rough and exquisite. Mirrors are used auspiciously and in abundance. The 1950s’ costumes and mise-en-scene are impeccable. The sexual frankness of the movie also deserves credit. Euridice’s awkward nuptial night (when she loses her virginity) is both funny and cringeworthy. The young female is entirely alien to sex. She has never seen a penis is her life. She bursts out laughing when Antenor pulls his pants down, revealing an enormous erect phallus. Her contorted facial expressions during coitus are unforgettable.

Eighty-nine-year-old Brazilian über-actress Fernanda Montenegro (the only person ever to receive an Oscar nomination for a Portuguese-speaking role) plays Euridice at old age, in the last 15 minutes of the film. She has two adult children and several grandchildren. But what happened to Guida? Did the two sisters ever meet again? What about the letters? Were they thrown away? Or did they eventually reach their intended consignee? I can’t answer these questions without spoiling the film for you. You will have to watch it and find out yourselves.

The Invisible Life of Euridice Gusmao showed in the 72nd Cannes International Film Festival, as part of the Certain Regard section, when this review was originally written. It won the Best Film award of said section, a brand new achievement for Brazilian cinema . It received a rapturous standing ovation, and teary faces could be seen everywhere. In a speech in French immediately prior to the screening, the Brazilian director dedicated his movie to Brazilian women, the face of resistance in a country increasingly intolerant (in a indirect reference to the country’s ultra-racist, homophobic and misogynistic president Jair Bolsonaro).

The film premiered in the UK in October 2019, as part of the BFI London and the Cambridge Film Festival.

In cinemas on Friday, October 15th (2021).

The Invisible Life of Euridice Gusmao is in our Top 10 dirty movies of 2021.

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Posted on by victorfraga

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM CANNES

Mandy wakes up on her front lawn. She doesn’t remember what happened. The next day, her friends send her a video of her unconscious body on the floor surrounded by a group of males teens in a party. They joke about her being dead, challenge each other to have coitus, and even question whether “sex with a dead person” indeed counts as sex. Then the video ends, leaving Mandy to put the puzzle pieces together and work out what happened to her. She has a large bruise of her back. She fears the worse: that she has been violated.

At first, her schoolmates ask her not to take it serious. It was just a prank, and she should just forget the whole thing. A friend reminds her “you found it funny when duct taped Craig naked”. Her parents eventually find out and persuade Mandy to report the incident to the police. She hesitates at first, but finally agrees to open up. The problem is that she can’t remember anything. The police investigates and charges one of the teens, a male called AJ (Nicolas Galitzine). But they don’t have enough evidence to prosecute him. Mandy and her parents are told that a criminal prosecution is very onerous, and that a civil case could take years.

It’s often suggested – if in subtle ways – that Mandy is responsible for being abused. After all, she wilfully intoxicated herself with alcohol. At times, she feels guilty and just wishes to forget everything. At other times, she wants to find out more, despite fearing the worse. Although the word “rape” is never used in the film (the likely violation is instead described euphemistically), there is little doubt that Mandy may have been molested. The male teens involved hesitate to discuss the evening in detail, suggesting that they are indeed hiding something.

Pippa Bianco’s first feature film raises a lot of ethical, moral and even legal questions. Are you responsible for your actions when you are drunk? When is drunk consent acceptable? Is it ok to forgive and forget, dismissing teenage misconduct as a mere “silly mistake”, or does that equate to complacence? I think we all know the answers. However, the fact that Mandy herself feels ashamed is a testament that our society isn’t entirely ready to hear the voice of oppressed females.

While its premise is interesting and thought-provoking (and guaranteed to please the #MeToo movement), Share isn’t entirely accomplished from a cinematographic perspective. The camerawork is rather uninspired and the performances lack vigour. And the music score is a little irritating, with the same suspenseful chord repeated ad infinitum. Bianco made an interesting topic choice for her debut feature, but she still needs to overcome some teething problems.

Share is showing the the 72nd Cannes International Film Festival, which is taking place right now. It premiered in Sundance earlier this year.

Thunder Road

Posted on by victorfraga

Why are public meltdowns so intriguing? There is something oddly satisfying about the complete breakdown of a social convention. It’s a cathartic primal scream signalling somebody is cracking and can no longer keep up appearances. It can be scarily unpredictable and pitiful to watch. However, there is also something defiantly liberating about it. It reveals that under the thin veneer of social norms, all humans who are struggling. Jim Cummings’s debut feature Thunder Road (he also pens and stars in the movie) captures the dual nature of such a breakdown. It’s a dramedy that will have you laughing and crying – often at the very same time.

Louisiana police officer Jim Arnaud (Cummings) is enduring the most difficult stage of his life. The film’s opening sequence sets the tone. At the funeral of his mother, Jim delivers a cringeworthy, heartbreaking and absurdly funny speech to a bewildered audience. His mental state begins to spiral out of control whilst he also grapples with a messy divorce and an estranged daughter. All the while, Jim continues to pretend that everything’s under control. He repeatedly tells his friend, “If you see me fighting an alligator, save the alligator”; it is unconvincing.

This is a very compelling character study, with Jim Cumming’s performance holding the film together. Despite the facade of the stoical police officer, his pain is entirely palpable. He allows moments of pain to flash across his face but never fully come to surface. The fact that these can be the film’s funniest moments, tells you a lot. Comedy and drama are amalgamated into one single beast, which sets a tone I’ve never felt before. It shouldn’t work but it does.

The film, however, does get a little repetitive at times. The narrative is rhythmically paced with similar fights and repressed emotions dotting the story. Yet, it adds up to the final conclusion: an incredibly satisfying and poignant gut-punch that will make you reach for your hankies.

Thunder Road is based on the eponymous short film (the basis for the opening scene), which wowed Sundance three years ago. You can watch the short film by clicking here. It is fascinating how Cummings developed a small idea in to a feature of such empathy and humour. Thunder Road is a superb tonal balancing act and it will make you question the lengths we go to keep our social veneer intact.

Thunder Road is in cinemas across the UK on Friday, May 31st. On VoD Friday, September 20th.

Still riding fast half a century on!!!

Posted on by victorfraga

No movie crystallises the time and place in which it was made quite like Dennis Hopper’s 1969 road odyssey, Easy Rider. The film reflects on the schism of war and peace that permeated America in the 1960s. Watching it today, the stench of reefer smoke, stale sweat, beer and the boiling asphalt of the long highway linger on as the film’s two heros Billy (Dennis Hopper) and Wyatt (Peter Fonda) drift across the American landscape, chasing down the American Dream on their custom-built motorcycles. There only goal is to get rich, get loaded, hit the Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and as Billy exclaims, “retire in Florida”. They call this land home, but the county, at least the mainstream aspects of society, is done with them and their kind. They are the US’s lost sons, rebellious, done with the hokey past and waiting for the future to be born, whilst not actively participating in it.

For the most part, one could watch Easy Rider today through the prism of nostalgia for a more innocent time, one that most viewers of the film would not have even lived through. An almost hopeful and naive optimism runs through the narrative of the film. The optimism is obviously misplaced and its makers know this for the film offers an underlying sadness, a futility in existence, and the improbability of ever living in a truly free society. For example, when Billy and Wyatt encounter a hippy commune basking in the hot desert and watch as they plant there seeds into a rugged dry hilltop, Wyatt declares that their harvest will be successful and they will prevail, even though the odds are stacked high against them. Billy, ever the pessimist, knows they are doomed to starvation and failure.

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Oblique criticism

Easy Rider never directly comments on the true-life circumstances the country was facing at the time; the Vietnam War, the Cold War, riots in the streets of every major city, a President shot dead at the start of the decade.

These events are not witnessed nor spoken of. And the film does not comment on the positive aspects of 1960s’ America; the women’s liberation movement, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 ending racial segregation and discrimination. Not only this, but the cultural shifts and events that were peppered throughout the decade that would come to fruition in the following decade (I’m thinking here of Woodstock, Roe v Wade). In Easy Rider’s worldview they did and didn’t happen, or perhaps it just doesn’t matter either way.

At least on the surface, the visual beauty and vibrant colour of Easy Rider did not portray a country in turmoil. Cinematographer László Kovács is perhaps the unsung hero of the piece, effortlessly opening up the spaces and letting the film draw in huge lungfuls of air and lingering on bright and vibrant colours. This is what separates Easy Rider from its biker-movie brethren; the sense of space and time spent rambling down empty freeways gives the film an expanse that engulfs all. Yet underneath this bright and shiny veneer the rot is clearly setting in, as witnessed by the opposition that Billy and Wyatt encounter on their travels. When they pull up to a motel on the freeway, the sign suddenly changes from ‘Vacancies’ to ‘No Vacancies’. They are not welcome. When they enter a roadside cafe, they are faced with a torrent of vulgar abuse concerning their ‘hippie’ appearance and attire. Only in New Orleans are they welcomed and this possibly has a lot to with the expenditure of cash stolen from George Hansen’s battered body (the hicks from the diner extract their revenge) on drinking and dining in a New Orleans pleasure palace.

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Riding into the 1970s

Easy Rider makes it very clear that our heroes are a part of a demonised and unwelcome tribe. It was a monumental little movie that generated enough heat, vision and revenue to change the direction of Hollywood, and independent movies alike, for the foreseeable future anyway. The film allowed the New Hollywood ethos to fully engage and for small auteur movies to be made in the early 1970s, such as Bob Rafelson’s Five Easy Pieces (1970) , Peter Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show (1971), Monte Hellman’s Two Lane Blacktop (1971), and, of course, Dennis Hopper’s own ill-fated Easy Rider follow-up, The Last Movie (1971). The influence would also reverberate into the 1980s and beyond as smaller movies were steamrolled by the Sci-fi mega-blockbusters of Lucas and Spielberg and their ilk. Oddly enough, students of the New Hollywood themselves. Filmmakers such as David Lynch and Quentin Tarantino would look to Easy Rider’s DIY ethos, if not its exact content, to find success in making independent movies in this era.

For example: the film’s all-conquering soundtracking signalled a new and dynamic approach by incorporating already known and popular rock and folk songs into the mix. Tarantino obviously took extensive notes from Easy Rider when soundtracking his own movies in the early 1990s.

The songs included on the soundtrack to Easy Rider lighten and darken the mood where appropriate with songs such as Steppenwolf’s The Pusher and Bob Dylan’s It’s Alright Ma (I’m only Bleeding) casting a grim, deathly shadow over the narrative, whilst Fraternity of Man’s reefer anthem Don’t Bogart Me and The Holy Modal Rounders’ bizarre and joyous If You Want To Be A Bird allow for humorous moments to unfold.

Although in their early-to-mid-thirties, Hopper and his cohorts understanding of youth culture was clear in the choice of music. Every song in some way corresponds with the visual elements. It’s now impossible to hear Steppenwolf’s Born to be Wild or The Byrds’ I Wasn’t Born to Follow without envisioning Billy and Wyatt rambling across the American landscape.

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The summary of an era

With all the weight of trying to define the era, it is easy to forget that it is often the improvised campfire interactions of Hopper and Fonda, and later, when they are joined on the road by Jack Nicholson’s George Hanson, which drive the loosely tied plot together. The ad hoc conversations provide some invigorating black humour and insightful, if slightly undeveloped, observations (“I mean, it’s real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace”). Without this content Easy Rider could have easily become another exploitation biker movie, it is credit to Hopper and Fonda that they saw an opportunity to use this tried and tested format to also summarise an era.

Following the success of Easy Rider, Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda began to distance themselves, both personally and professionally, from one another. A disagreement with screenwriter Terry Southern and between themselves over the authorship of Easy Rider’s screenplay was never fully resolved and fractured the relationship and artistic partnership. Fonda showed up fleetingly in the background of Hopper’s The Last Movie, but after that film, their on-screen alliance was severed forever. A shame as their onscreen partnership and offscreen friendship seemed genuine and relaxed and might have produced more films.

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Make America racist again

Easy Rider is far from perfect. Fifty years on from its release, what has changed? In fact not much at all and Easy Rider, and its director are partly responsible for this sense of stuckism. In the US, President Donald Trump is by and large a broadened out version of the small-town hicks Billy, Wyatt and George encounter at the roadside cafe. No prejudice is left behind. Immigrants, refugees, feminists, the poor, the political left, the unions. Anything ‘other’ is ridiculed as inauthentic and unAmerican to the proposed progress of American might.

In dialogue set round the campfire, George Hanson recalls that “this used to be one helluva good country,” and then goes on to talk about personal freedom. Trump’s campaign slogan of “Make America Great Again” and Hanson’s point evokes the same principle of looking backwards to a time when America was prosperous and in control of its own destiny. On reflection it’s still almost impossible to decipher what era of American greatness Hanson and Trump are trying to evoke. The assumption is that any era they are discussing is romanticised and vague, at best, and is not any version of America that they ever actually lived through, perhaps never even existed in the first place.

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Pushing the envelope?

Easy Rider was a fair stab at societal commentary for the time, but despite its gallant efforts in attempting to explain that money does not equal personal freedom and anyone who follows that path is doomed, it’s also a deeply flawed film in that it ignored the plight of anyone other than the white hippy and the professional beatnik. Afro-Americans play no role in the film. They are only seen in passing and marginalised to the side of a road in shacks and shanties.

Despite pushing the boundaries, and in fact breaking some (smoking real joints on camera), there were many more that would have made Easy Rider a more inclusive film and a genuine article of the era of liberation.

To take it on face value, Easy Rider still resonates 50 years on. The content may have dated (though capitalism is an issue that so far has never gone away and still plagues us), but its value as an extraordinary piece of independent filmmaking and game changing use of music and visuals, the incorporation of political and societal commentary, and of course the iconic motorcycles and attire means that its place is firmly held as one of the most important and vital films to be made in the short history of film.

As the tagline for the movie stated: “A man went looking for America and couldn’t find it anywhere.” Fifty years on we’re still looking.

This is an edited and expanded extract from Create or Die: Essays on the Artistry of Dennis Hopper

Lux Aeterna

Posted on by victorfraga

At just 50 minutes of duration, Gaspar Noe’s latest movie constantly challenges its audience. The director uses his trademark colourful flashing lights in abundance, combined with a screechy cacophony of music and sounds. You are guaranteed to leave the cinema with a throbbing headache. Which is exactly what the 55-year-old Argentinean-born French filmmaker wants.

The film starts out nicely. A very relaxed Charlotte Gainsbourg talks to Beatrice Dalle (both French actresses play themselves) about the joys of filmmaking, and share some very spicy secrets about their career. Gainsbourg reveals that once a handsome young actor ejaculated on her leg. It reminded me a lot of “the most erotic scene in the history of cinema”, in Bergman’s Persona (1966). Except that the screen is split in two, with one actress on each side. Subtitles are also split.

Gradually, the film descends into a nightmare. The actresses prepare to a scene on which they are burnt at the stake. The film frequently references to Carl Dreyer’s classic Day of Wrath (1943), in which a woman is accused of witchcraft during the Middle Ages, and numerous females are burnt alive throughout. The crew is constantly arguing and shouting at each other. An aspiring filmmaker is trying to tell Charlotte about his upcoming project. Charlotte receives a telephone call informing her that her daughter has possibly been abused at school. All of this takes at the same time in the setting. It’s impossible to work out exactly what’s going on. Noe splits the screen in two, then in three. Conversations in different languages take place simultaneously. Tempers reach the point of ebullition. Gainsbourg is tied to the stake. She panics. It’s not clear whether she’s acting or indeed scared for her life. Guaranteed to piss off #MeToo enthusiasts without a sense of irony.

Lux Aeterna is film about the almighty male auteur who constantly tortures his female subjects. By extension, it’s a film about sexism in the film industry. Directors believe that they are God, and their formidable attitude can intimidate and scare the vulnerable actresses. Ultimately, cinema is a curse. And the filmmaker isn’t God, but the devil himself. We learn that Dreyer left his actress for two hours at the stake, and that the horror on her face was probably very real. Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Jean-Luc Godard and Luis Bunuel are quoted (their names, however, aren’t clearly displayed). I found it strange Werner Herzog was missing. The German director infamously threatened his cast with violence and even murder.

Cinephiles and film professionals will likely appreciate Lux Aeterna. It will do well in film festival across the Globe. The movie constantly references such events. At one point, the Cannes tune can be heard in the background. The broader public, however, will likely find the film pretentious and self-conceited. They Latin title and the numerous references will alienate those less familiar with the history of the seventh art.

Lux Aeterna premiered at the 72nd Cannes International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. The screening was scheduled to begin at 00:15, but it was about 4o minutes late. Keen viewers had to wait outside in their tuxedos and evening dresses under the rain while the Festival vacated the 2,309-seater, and the director and cast walked up the red carpet. Perhaps that was part of the film gimmicks: audiences were made to suffer both inside and outside the cinema.

On Arrow Films on June 3rd, 2022.

Forman vs Forman

Posted on by victorfraga

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM CANNES

Entirely narrated by Milos Forman himself (in Czech, English and French), Forman vs Forman offers a clear and auspicious flash tour past the extensive career of the Czech-born filmmaker, who later naturalised as a US citizen. At 78 minutes, it will likely please both die-hard fans keen to see and hear their idol and those less familiar with his filmography. The movie is solely made of archive footage and extracts from Forman’s films deftly combined with Forman’s voiceover from various interviews. The director passed away last year in his chosen home, the US.

Chronologically and didactically constructed, Forman vs Forman starts off with the director recalling his youth in the tiny Czech town of Caslav, and being perplexed and confounded at having his parents taken away to a concentration camp by the Nazi, where they would be killed. He recalls being too young to fathom the gravity of the situation. We then learn about his early days as a students, and how he became a filmmaker. He despised the so-called “social realism” films made in Czechoslovakia. He thought that they were “boring”, and that there was nothing realistic about them. Instead they portrayed an idealised vision of Communism. His early films Audition (1963) and Loves of a Blonde (1965) were heavily influenced by Italian Neorealism, he explains. He became one of the leading filmmakers of the Czechoslovakian New Wave movement.

Forman’s straightforward, humanistic streak, combined with the prominent use of non-professionals, quickly won hearts around the world. His 1967 comedy The Firemen’s Ball was a mockery of the Communist regime, and consequently banned in Czechoslovakia. The ban was lifted by the liberal communists who took over following the Prague Spring of 1968. Forman’s allegiance to revolutionary thinkers wasn’t confined to his birth nation. In 1968, he withdrew The Firemen’s Ball from competition in Cannes (precisely where this doc has just premiered) in solidarity with the student protests in Paris.

Following the return of the Stalinists to power later in 1968, Forman migrated to the US, leaving behind his first wife and twins. He wouldn’t return to the country for almost two decades, after giving up his birth nationality in favour of American citizenship. He confesses that he found freedom boring, at least in some ways.” The hippies did nothing but smoke joints, he complains”. He recalls having fun dribbling and tricking censors back in Czechoslovakia.

Forman lived in the iconic Chelsea Hotel for three years, where he grappled with depression and slept up to 23 hours and day, following the commercial and critical failure of his first American movie Taking Off (1971). But not everyone disliked the film. Michael Douglas was impressed, and consequently invited him to direct Someone Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest (1975), which won the Best Picture Oscar and catapulted Forman to fame. He would repeat the achievement nine years later with Amadeus. The 1984 film enabled him to reenter his home nation for the first time since the late 1960s, where he encountered his wife and children. By that time, he had wholeheartedly embraced the American culture and the US, where he would spend the rest of his life.

We then learn that he was elated about Velvet Revolution of 1989, when his youth friend Vaclav Havel became president of Czechoslovakia, that he had another set of twins with a different woman, and how The People vs Larry Flint (1996) fit in neatly with Forman’s perceived notion of freedom. But then the film ends, entirely omitting the last two decades of his life. That’s very strange, as the director was still active, making films and giving interviews up until his final years.

Forman vs Forman is showing at the 72nd Cannes International Film Festival as part of the Classics section.

The Wild Goose Lake (Nan Fang Che Zhan De Ju Hui)

Posted on by victorfraga

Zhou Zenong (Hu Ge) is a quiet and introspective gangster who has just been released from jail. He soon lands in hot water, after a meeting with other criminals does terribly wrong. What was intended to be a motorbike theft workshop suddenly goes violent, with a man being shot on the leg and a policeman being killed. Zenong fends for himself by using a bike lock as some sort of nunchaku. As a result, he’s once again wanted by the police. Tens of undercover cops are sent on a mission to find the elusive bandit. They go on a wild goose chase (I doubt, however, that such phrase exists in Chinese; the titular wild goose is probably coincidental).

Most of the story revolves around Zenong and the “lake beauty” Liu Aiai (Gwei Lun Mei). Her accolade is a reference to the Wild Goose Lake, where where she works as a prostitute. It’s unclear whether Liu is loyal and perhaps even infatuated with Zenong, or whether she’s some sort of femme fatale about to turn him and receive the 300,000 yuan ransom offered by the authorities. Zenong’s motives too are ambiguous. At times he seems keen to turn himself in, as long as him wife receives the large money sum.

The cinematography of The Wild Goose Lake is nothing short of spectacular. The Chinese director and his loyal cinematographer Jonsong Dong – who won the Golden Bear five years ago for Black Coal, Thin Ice – know what they are doing. Almost all action takes place at night. The crammed buildings and dirty and narrow alleyways of greater Wuhan (in Central China) look like a labyrinth. There are very few windows. Artificial yellow and violet lights give the film an ethereal feel. You will feel giddy, like you have been transported onto a different planet. It reminded me a lot of Bi Gan’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night (2018). Minus the 3D. Plus some blood.

The director, however, does not overplay the violence. The gruesome sequences are sparse, the most peculiar one being an umbrella killing. Instead the director focuses on the ambiguous relationship between Zenong, Liu and their associates (some of which meet a horrible death). The problem is that the plot gets a little banal and trite. And some nuts and bolts just don’t fit together. At times, I couldn’t work out who was who, and the purpose of each character. Perhaps the director intended to comment on China’s descent into criminality and despair. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. While hypnotised by the visuals, I also lost interest in the film narrative and any underlying connotations it may have.

The Wild Goose Lake premiered in competition at the 72nd Cannes International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. Available on Mubi from February 28th for a month only.

Naach Bhikhari Naach

Posted on by Jeremy Clarke

Night time. An open air, square theatre stage under a canopy. Backstage, a male performer dons bras and stuffs them with padding to create the impression of boobs. Out front, a member of the company in traditional Indian male clothing, a gold suit with a purple scarf, tells the expectant audience to be patient and explains that the upcoming performance will be in Bhojpuri (the language spoken by the Bhojpuri people who live in the Bihar region of North West India and Southern Nepal). Assorted musicians sit behind him at the back of the stage, among them tabla and sarang players, who will accompany the performance.

He starts walking up and down the stage, gesturing expressively with his arms and hands, singing an expository song about Bhikhari whose low birth belied his significant cultural contribution to Indian theatre. As the play proper gets underway, a man and a woman (played by a man) argue about her going to work in Calcutta. Also on the stage is a stock Joker character, in a black costume with white collars and ruffs, whose role appears to lie somewhere between the the idea of a Greek chorus commenting on events and a character who makes provocative suggestions to the other characters in the play. The performance is intriguing and possessed of a certain charm, even if the proceedings are a little impenetrable to Western viewers unfamiliar with the local culture or this specific art form.

Welcome to the Naach, a form of Indian folk theatre developed by social activist and playwright Bhikhari Thakur (1887-1971), the ‘Shakespeare of Bhojpuri’, whose presence inevitably hangs over this documentary which sports both his name and that of his art form in its title. Curiously, there’s no direct attempt to show pictures of him or tell the story of his life in any sort of direct fashion. Instead, the film makers show excerpts of live Naach performances, often with little explanation as to what’s going on within them, and intersperse interview material featuring four ageing Naach performers, each one interviewed separately.

Lakhichand Manjhi, 67, explains how Bhikhari’s troupe assimilated a rival troupe run by Gaurishankar. We see him wandering around the National Academy of Music, Dance and Drama, applying makeup, donning costumes. Ram Chander Chhote, 70, talks about Bhikhari’s low birth – a big deal in India under the caste system -– and how he would doggedly affect the outward signs of his social status by sitting on a plain mat rather than a chair when addressing people of high birth as a way of reinforcing his own cultural identity.

Bhikhari’s play Beti Bechwa is discussed, dealing as it does with the once common practice of men selling their daughters into marriage at local markets. “There’d be rows of girls. People would inspect them like one inspects cattle,” says Shival Baari, 75. These days, this apparently no longer happens. The practice started being prohibited after people first saw the play performed.

Naach Bhikhari Naach plays in the UK on Sunday, May 19th at Hundred Years Gallery, Hoxton, London. Click here for more info. Watch the film trailer below:

Pain and Glory (Dolor y Gloria)

Posted on by victorfraga

This is as personal as a film gets without being explicitly autobiographical. Yet this is neither a self-deprecating comedy nor an haughty self-referencing Woody Allen romance. Pain and Glory is much closer to Fellini’s 8 1/2 (1963). This is a nostalgic and astute examination of life of the filmmaker, the perennial search for artistic freshness and the realisation of the limitations of the ageing body. At times it’s sombre and fatalistic. At other times plush and upbeat.

Despite its esoteric topic, this is not a film exclusively for cinephiles and people in the creative industry. While not everyone will relate to some of the most subversive elements of the story (such as the casual heroin-taking sessions), the protagonist’s physical pains and psychological malaises are universal enough for anyone over the age of 30 who’s ever loved to recognise. In the hands of a less skilled director, Pain and Glory would’ve easily slipped into cliches and tedious self-exaltation. With Almodóvar, the self-referencing, the intertextuality and filmic tropes acquire a gentle humanistic touch.

Salvador Mallo (Antonio Banderas) is an ageing filmmaker in Madrid. His biggest hit Sabor is now 32 years old. He is wealthy enough to lead a comfortable life in a luxurious house surrounded by impressive art pieces. Yet the years are taking the toll on his body. He has an enormous scar on his back from a major spinal surgery two years earlier. He constantly chokes, even on pureed food. Worst still, his soul is sick. He has experienced depression, anxiety and panic attacks.

One day the local cinemateque decides to screen Sabor and invites Salvador for a Q&A. Salvador reconnects with the lead actor Alberto Crespo (Asier Etxeandia) and invites him to join him during the debate. He fell out with the actor shortly after the film was finished because he didn’t like his “heavy” performance. Such rejection affected Alberto profoundly. He became addicted to heroin, and his dishevelled appearance suggests that he too isn’t too happy with his life. Salvador decides to “chase the dragon” (take heroin) with Alberto. A soothing remedy to his copious maladies.

As in nearly every single Almodóvar film, the narrative zigzags both in time and throughout Spain. We see a young Salvador dwelling in a cave with his mother (Penelope Cruz) in the quaint Valencian town of Valencia. We learn of an Argentinean lover who moved from Galicia to South America (we don’t see the action outside Spain, as Almodóvar focuses solely on his homeland). And we see present-day Salvador grapple with his health and his creativity in the Spanish capital.

Parallel to Spanish geography, Almodóvar examines the male anatomy. Animated cartoons portray the human body, and repeated visits to the hospital remind viewers that healthcare becomes an integral part of your life once you have gone past a certain age. Then comes the shock revelation: Salvador could have cancer in his throat. Could it be that his body has decided to betray him?

In Pain and Glory, Almodóvar moves away from the heterosexual female world (as in 2016’s Julieta) and lands firmly on homosexual male territory. Yet this is a very subtle movie. Apart from the drug-taking, there are no extravagant antics. No epics death, no glitzy transsexuals and no neurotic females. There’s no steamy sex, either. Just a little nudity and sensuality, as Salvador recalls seeing a naked man for the first time as a child. All riveting and very good taste. I’m not suggesting that Almodóvar earlier and more outrageous films were inferior and bad taste. Instead, I’m noting that the 69-year-old Castilian director has a firm grasp over both subtle and brazen movies.

So, what’s Pain and Glory all about then?

Firstly, this is a film about memory and cognition. Salvador thinks that Alberto’s performance in Sabor has “matured” in the past few decades – despite being printed on film and therefore immutable. This is a filmic twist on Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray: the moving image has aged. Of course it’s only the artistic perception that has shifted. But that’s far more significant than what’s on the actual print. It’s the artistic perception that shapes the art piece.

After regaining his trust as an artist, Alberto convinces Salvador to allow him to perform one of his scripts in the local theatre, and to claim the authorship of the script. The play is called Addiction, and it’s about Salvador’s youth lover Federico, who was addicted to heroin. Serendipities define the future. Federico (who now lives in Argentina) fortuitously attend the play and recognises the story. Once again, memory and cognition shape the narrative. Alberto reconstructs, Federico recognises, and the viewer relates as they see fit, thereby foreground the fluid connection between the artist and the audience. This is metalanguage at its finest.

Secondly, Pain and Glory is also a film about letting go. Return and reconciling with the past in order to move on. The maternal figure is a central anchoring device (both at youth and adulthood) – a constant feature in Almodovar’s filmography. Salvador returns and makes amends with the past by using his tremendous creative force. I can’t tell you exactly how he does that without spoiling the film ending. A very unexpected twist in the final sequence lends an entirely new layer of significance to the whole story. A little bit like in Francois Ozon’s Swimming Pool (2003). It all ends up with a gentle and intense newfound joie-de-vivre.

Praise must also go to the music score composed by Academy Award nominee Alberto Iglesias. It deftly combines gloom with melodrama. The vibrant colours of Almodóvar, in the hands of José Luis Alcaine, also deserve an honourable mention. Who else could find life and vigour in a hospital environment, even inside the operating theatre?

Pain and Glory showed in competition at the 72nd Festival de Cannes, when this piece was originally written. Banderas won the Best Actor prize, but Almodovar left empty-handed. In cinemas Friday, August 23rd. On VoD in January 2020. On Mubi in June/July.

Pain and Glory is in our list of Top 10 dirtiest films of 2019.

Atlantics (Atlantique)

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Ada (Mama Sané) and Souleiman (Ibrahima Traoré) are young and in love with each other. They walk along the beach and gaze into each other’s eyes. They hold hands and kiss. The next day Souleiman sets off on a primitive pirogue towards Spain, like many other refugees have done. Ada is left to contend with an arranged marriage to wealthy and arrogant Omar, whom she despises. After the ostentatious wedding ceremony, however, strange things begin to happen, such as the nuptial bed that suddenly catches on fire. The police suspect that Souleiman never left and is involved in the arson, and Ada is his accomplice.

This may sound like your traditional love story, but it isn’t. In reality, Atlantics is a an eerie ghost story imbued with religious, social and political commentary. Djinns (supernatural creatures in Islamic mythology) haunt the locals. The dead return in order to seek justice for their loves ones. Perhaps Soulemain died at sea and his ghost is playing tricks with the living?

The photography is nothing short of splendid. Shades of yellow and brown paint the screen at day time, while blue-hued tones populate the evening. A sad disco ball illuminates a group of lonely females. They are sullen because their men departed to Spain. The permanently misty weather and the raging Atlantic provide a mysterious backdrop, while screechy strings and synthesizers combined with local chanting offer the finish touch to the creepy atmosphere.

Ada is attempting to break away from old-fashioned traditions. She shuns her husband after receiving a text message from Soulemain. She’s convinced that her loved one has returned in order to be with her. She does not heed the advice of her parents, who beg her to settle with Omar. One of her friends expresses her desire to become Omar’s second wife. Ada is entirely indifferent. She does not wish to live in accordance to the Koran.

The story takes place somewhere on the coast of Senegal. A very large modern tower is being erected, in stark contrast to the impoverished districts elsewhere. The building workers haven’t been paid in three months. Perhaps some of them set off with Soulemain in search of a better life in Europe. The ubiquitous Atlantic represents a new opportunity, but it could become the final resting place for these poverty-stricken people.

While visually impressive and peculiar enough to keep you hooked for 104 minutes, Atlantique is also a little convoluted. It blends too many genre devices (sci-fi soundtrack, horror scares, romance ingredients and even a couple of noir artifices), and the script has quite a few loose ends. It could have done with less characters and twists. Still, not bad at all for a first-time director.

Atlantics premiered at the 72nd Cannes International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. The director won the Festival’s Grand Prix, becoming the first ever black woman to do so. The film premieres in October in the UK as part of the Cambridge Film Festival. It’s out in cinemas on general release on Friday, November 29th.

Sorry We Missed You

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Ricky (Kris Hitchen) is a building worker with an impeccable CV, living with his family somewhere in suburban Newcastle. He persuades his wife Abbie (Debbie Honeywood) to sell off her car in order to raise £1,000 so that he can buy a van and move into the delivery industry. A franchise owner promises Ricky that he’ll be independent and “own his own business”, and earn up to £1,200 a week.

The reality couldn’t be more different. Ricky ends up working up to 14 hours a day six days a week. He literally has no time to pee, and instead urinates in a bottle inside him own vehicle (I would hazard a guess that Amazon’s infamous practices inspired scriptwriter Paul Laverty). His draconian delivery targets and inflexible ETAs (estimated time of arrival) turn him into a delivery robot. A small handheld delivery device containing delivery instructions virtually controls his life. Ricky has been conned. His “independence” is but an illusion. He might own his car, his company and his insurance, yet he’s entirely at the mercy of his franchiser.

Abbie is a carer for the elderly and disabled, and having sold off her car she now has to travel by bus in order to see her clients. She’s the epitome of selflessness. She is prepared to visit a client on a Saturday night if necessary, despite not being paid extra hours and travel time. She finds strength in helping these extremely vulnerable people. She tells one of her clients, an old lady unable to control her bladder, clean up and look after herself: “I get from you as much as you get from me”. She seems honest. This is a very short yet deeply touching conversation. The entire movie is dotted with small yet very powerful gestures of humanity and altruism.

Despite the illusion of independence, both Ricky and Abbie work on zero-hour contracts. They are left with virtually no time for their two children, Seb and Lisa Jane. Seb turns violent and shoplifts. He does not wish to go to university because he’s afraid that he’ll end up with a huge pile of debts (he mentions a depressed friend who owes £57,000 in university fees). Lisa Jane internalises her anxiety, until it comes out in a shocking manner.

The pain and the helplessness of the entire family are very palpable. How long will it be before either Ricky or Abbie breaks down and snaps out of sanity? The entire film narrative is built upon such tension, similarly to Loach’s previous feature I, Daniel Blake (2016), which won the Palme d’Or just three years ago. Will Ricky and Abbie have their cathartic moment, the equivalent to Daniel Blake’s outrageous graffiti gesture, or will they continue to internalise their suffering until their financial condition improves?

In reality, Ricky and Abbie are trapped in the wrong end of capitalism. They work in conditions analogue to slavery. There is no way out, no matter how hard they work. They must carry on working without challenging the system and the rules, otherwise they could end up on the streets. They are not the only ones. Around four million people in the UK are now working while living in poverty thanks to slow wage growth and cuts to in-work benefits. Sorry We Missed You is not a melodramatic take on reality. Sorry We Missed You is reality.

Ken Loach and Paul Laverty reveal that Britain has consistently failed the working class through a succession of events. It all started with the nationalisation of Northern Rock in 2008 and the subsequent mortgage crisis, which left Ricky and Abbie unable to get into the much coveted property ladder. Then came the widespread dissemination of zero-hour contracts (such working arrangement were initially intended for casual workers), leaving people destitute of labour rights and entirely at the mercy of greedy bosses. Then came university fees, leaving many young people hopeless.

The film also reveals that capitalism pits people against each other. Ricky gets a more profitable driving rota because another worker facing personal problems has failed to meet his targets. The dismissed driver becomes very angry at Ricky. Soon Ricky too fails to meet his targets, and his boss quickly threatens to dismiss him. The ruthless corporate environment in prepared to replace drivers at the blink of an eye. People are treated like disposable robots programmed to compete against each other.

The film title has a double significance. Firstly, it refers to the message on the paper card left in the mailbox of people who are not at home at the time of the delivery. Secondly, it refers to people like Ricky and Abbie, and every single person who has been marginalised and failed by the establishment. Sorry Britain failed you! You have to fend for yourselves. Tough.

Sorry We Missed You premiered at the 72 Cannes International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. It moved me profoundly. I feel like giving the next Amazon delivery guy a big hug. It shows at the Cambridge Film Festival, which takes place between October 17th and 24th, and it’s out in cinemas on Friday, November 1st. Out on VoD on Monday, March 9th.

Sorry We Missed You is in our list of Top 10 dirtiest films of 2019.