Month: February 2020

The Woman Who Ran (Domnahchin Yeoja)

Posted on by victorfraga

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM BERLIN

Watching the latest Hong Sang-soo’s movie is like drinking a glass of white wine with a friendly stranger. It’s a light-hearted and thoroughly enjoyable experience, but you will hardly remember the content of the conversation a couple of days later. Such is the case with his 24th feature The Woman Who Ran.

Gamhee (played by Sang-soo’s diva and partner Kim Min-hee) has spent every single day of the past five years with her husband because he believes that “that’s what people in love do”. He’s now away on a business trip, and so Gamhee takes the opportunity to mingle with three female friends, and to discuss the banalities, the trivialities of her relationship, of causal love, of eating animals and feeding robber cats. One of her friends is now in a relationship with one of Gamhee’s former lover, a talkative man who does not demand that his partner is constantly attached to him (in stark contrast to Gamhee’s clingy spouse).

Food is a central character, and much of the action takes place on a dinner table (a common feature not just in Sang-soon’s prolific cinema, but also in South Korean culture as a whole). Character share their casual stories and off-the-cuff life lessons and advice while they eat apples and sip white wine. The extensive conversations are simple and mundane on the surface, yet dotted with subtle humour and peculiar pearls of wisdom. An interaction with an angry neighbour who does not like feral cats being fed by humans is particularly amusing.

Sang-soo’s movies are so similar that it’s often difficult to describe and rate them. The minimalism is pervasive: the camera hardly moves, except for a few zooms and horizontal pans, the settings are ordinary, there’s no artwork and the music score consists of no more than a few piano notes. Characters are nonchalant, the acting is very plain, and precisely for those reasons the story is very convincing. This is cinema reduced to its bare essentials.

You are far more likely to enjoy and engage with the latest Hong Sang-see movie if your mind is clear and your heart wide open. Otherwise they can be a excruciatingly tedious experience. How else would you find passion and wit in a conversation about chickens, looking at a nondescript knoll, or observing your friend shun a one-night-stand via the interphone? Just take a chair, sit back and join Gamhee and her friends in the kitchen for a relaxed 77 minutes.

The Woman Who Ran showed in Competition at the 70th Berlinale, when this piece was originally written. Hong Sang-soo is a regular at the Berlinale, Cannes and film festivals across Europe. It’s out in selected cinemas and Curzon Home Cinema on Friday, December 11th. It’s on Mubi on Sunday, December 20th.

Military Wives

Posted on by Jeremy Clarke

Twenty and a bit years after the hilarious British comedy The Full Monty (Peter Cattaneo, 1997) in which a group of unemployed male steelworkers reinvent themselves as a striptease act, director Cattaneo tries something similar with a group of soldiers’ wives on a British army base at the time of the Afghanistan War who, in order to deal with their isolation from their active service husbands, reinvent themselves as a ladies choir. Where the men in the earlier film underwent a crisis of identity when they lost their jobs, the women here are by default defined by their absent husbands, waiting for the text messages that inform them their men are out of satellite contact until further notice or, worse, the knock on the door bringing news of their loved one’s death.

Insofar as the film is interested in the effects of war, its concern lies with how the wives left back on the base cope with their situation. The army’s idea is, let the wives find some group community project to keep their minds otherwise occupied. Left to their own devices, consumption of alcohol is a popular option. When pushed towards something more constructive which they can do as a group, these particular wives alight on the idea of a choir.

You might think that Cattaneo, who so brilliantly deployed a bleak Yorkshire view of life to great comic effect in The Full Monty to show the terrible effects of unemployment on people, might try to plumb the darkness of these women defined by their absent husbands’ employment to similarly poignant comic effect. For much of the narrative, however, the overall feel is much more twee, falling back on the pairing of chalk and cheese leads Kristin Scott Thomas and Sharon Horgan while failing to give the other, promising female cast members more than one showstopping, character-defining scene each.

Colonel’s wife Kate (Scott Thomas) is both aloof and complex, a woman who perhaps understandably looks down on the lower ranking wives. She also has personal demons in the form of never having got over the death of her soldier son who was killed on active duty and in private spends her days binge buying household items she doesn’t need from the shopping channel. The lower ranking Lisa (Horgan) is a life and soul of the party type, very much one of the girls, and used to play keyboards in a band back in the day. As Kate tries at once to take charge and not to interfere with Lisa’s running the choir, conflict between the two is inevitable.

While the pairing of these two is a definite asset, with the two actresses clearly able to contribute far more than lesser actresses might, the script at least as filmed fails to fully develop the characters of the other women in the choir. One wife can’t sing in tune but thinks she’s God’s gift to music. One discovers she can sing while the group pause in a tunnel to rest during a cross country walk. One has a husband who repeatedly leaves two teddies in explicit sexual positions on the bedroom shelving. And one, inevitably, is going to get that terrible knock on the door at some point in the film.

There are occasional moments of astute observation, for instance the opening when Kate’s car, entering the base, is held up at the entrance checkpoint by a soldier who, through a mixture of following orders and being new to the base and therefore not knowing who she is, keeps her waiting. And there’s a very nice plot thread in which Kate has to use her late son’s run down car, known affectionately as Shite Rider, to get to a concert venue. I would be lying if a said there were no laughs. What’s more, occasional scenes are extremely moving.

However, much of the film comes over as twee in a way that The Full Monty never did. I couldn’t help but feel that the film could have been a lot more abrasive and darker and funnier, perhaps in the process doing greater justice to the real life military wives on whom the story is based. In the end, this is a largely lightweight audience pleaser when, as its occasional heavier and darker scenes suggest, it could have been so much more. The Full Monty it isn’t.

Military Wives is out in UK cinemas on Friday, March 6th (2020). On STARZPLAY on Tuesday, May 4th (2021)

Siberia

Posted on by victorfraga

There is no storyline, no contextualisation and no chronology. This Italian/German/Mexican co-production follows the footsteps and the imagination of a man (Ferrara’s regular collaborator Willem Dafoe, often described as the director’s “acting ego”) who meanders through various continents and episodes of his life, reconnecting with his late parents, past lovers and all types of strangers. And even with his own reflection in the water. There’s a pregnant Russian woman, and a blonde one that morphs into an oriental female. People often speak languages (Russian, Japanese) that our protagonist doesn’t understand, and there are no subtitles. Don’t try to make much sense of it. The distancing is intentional. These fragments are random and diverse, and they are not intended to fit in together neatly. This is a metaphysical and sensory experience, not a prosaic one.

The film, which was penned by Ferrara and Christ Zois, begins in a cold and barren land, presumably the titular part of Russia. It then travels to deserts, woods and dense forests. The cinematography is quiet and meditative. The images of the snowy mountains are particularly impressive. DOP Stefano Falivene films non-conventional bodies from non-conventional angles. This includes Dafoe’s scrawny and bony figure, captured in good Ergon Schiele style. The Wisconsin actor is very effective at conveying a sense of reflection and introspection. I imagine that the New York director, more used to gritty urban environments, found inspiration in Tarkovsky’s photography for his latest movie. Naturally, his cinematographic skills are far inferior to the late Russian filmmaker.

The problem with Siberia is that it focuses on one individual character without allowing for character development. As a results, the images seem gratuitous. Ferrara fails in his lyricism, This is not Tarkovsky’s Mirror (1975), a film devoid of storyline and chronology, yet bursting with exuberant and fathomable symbols. Ferrara’s latest feature film has a lot of blood, of dogs, of disabled people, and even a talking fish. But these signifiers never gel together. I have no idea why the film is called Siberia and quite frankly very little desire to find out. It’s a movie intoxicated with idiosyncrasy, to the point of alienation.

Siberia received a frosty reception at the Berlinale, when this piece was originally written. Many people laughed out loud throughout the film, which is intended to be a meditative experience, not a comedy. Plus people walked out of the cinema in droves. It premieres in the UK in October as part of the BFI London Film Festival.

My Little Sister (Schwesterlein)

Posted on by victorfraga

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM BERLIN

Sven (Lars Eidinger) is a successful thespian at Berlin’s Schaubuehne theatre. But he has been diagnosed with myeloid leukaemia, and his body is becoming increasingly vulnerable. He has undergone chemotherapy, a bone marrow transplant, plus he has to take a copious amount of corticosteroids. As a consequence, his face is swollen and his hair is gone. His nephews don’t even recognise at first. To top it all up, he has eczema, and his body is covered with wounds.

His twin sister Lisa (Nina Hoss) moved Switzerland with her husband and children, after giving up her ambitions as a playwright. Sven calls her “my little sister” because she was born two minutes after him. She returns to Berlin in order to care for her ailing brother, as his condition begins to deteriorate. At first, Sven avoids self-pity and is determined to continue working. Until reality hits: he’s to frail to get back on stage. His erstwhile director is concerned that he will collapse and die in front of the crowds. So he tries to find joy elsewhere. He goes on a frantic night out in search of sex and entertainment only to realise that that too won’t alleviate his malaise.

Sven’s condition is so critical that it challenges German stoicism, a culture generally used to dealing with death, Sven has heated arguments with his mother and sister, and Lisa’s relationship with her husband Martin (Jens Albinus) also begins to deteriorate. Tears and hollering populate the movie throughout. Martin suggests that Lisa and the children should return to Switzerland because he does not want his boys to witness (and become traumatised) by their uncle’s condition. Lisa is infuriated by her husband’s selfish proposition.

My Little Sister is a crude and merciless portrait of a terminal disease. Be prepared for a rough ride, devoid of lyricism and romanticising. The details of the treatment are very graphic and vivid. Sven’s palpable pain is jarring for both Lisa and the viewers. It’s impossible not to the moved by Sven’s realisation that his career is over, and by his overwhelming agony on a hospital bed.

But not all is doom and gloom. Lisa has a plan in store. She begins to write a play for her ailing brother, one which he can perform on stage (perhaps while sitting down). The text is inspired on the fairy tale Hansel and Gretel (aka Little Brother and Little Sister). Sounds like a brilliant idea, and the epitome of fraternal love and altruism. But could a final performance instil some joy into Sven’s despondent existence? But is it ethical? And is it feasible? Lisa is determined to find out.

My Little Sister is showing in Competition at the 70th Berlin International Film Festival.

Shirley

Posted on by victorfraga

In the year of 1964, the highly reclusive horror writer Shirley Jackson (Moss) and her husband Stanley (Michael Stuhlbarg) “welcome” two graduate students into their Vermont mansion, Rose (Odessa Young) and her spouse Fred (Logan Lerman). Rose and Fred are vibrant, optimistic and full of life. Shirley are cruel and offensive misanthropes. Shirley will attempt to hurt and humiliate the naive couple at every opportunity. Her equally unpleasant husband will support her in the very questionable endeavour.

Shirley wasn’t just a reclusive, who rarely ever left her large estate. She was also a sociopath. In the few occasions when she ventured out of her property, she helped to ensure that everyone in her surroundings felt threatened and mortified. Her actions included the the sharpest and meanest remarks, pulling scary faces and spilling wine on the sofa. Her gaze overflowing with hate and envy. She has Bette Davies eyes, complete with the bitchiness of Margo Channing in All About Eve (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1950). The difference between between Davis’s character and Shirley is that the latter is genuinely cold-blooded and brutal.

The heavy drinking and smoking author (who died just a year later, a the age of just 48), Shirley was attempting to find inspiration for her writing. No one could enter the room where she worked. She literally attacked Rose when she quickly looked at her latest words still attached to the typewriter. And this isn’t the only time that Shirley resorted to physical violence. Other ruses included feigning her death and forcing Rose to eat a “poisonous” mushroom. Plus she was hellbent on destroying Rose’s relationship with Fred, particularly upon finding out the young woman was pregnant. Rose and Fred put up with the abuse because they are strangely fascinated by Shirley and Jason’s repulsive yet magnetic demeanour.

Josephine Decker’s fourth feature fiction is crafted like a horror movie, with dark imagery, unusual angles and action confined mostly to one creepy Gothic mansion. It’s mostly effective, yet rather conventional for a director more used to formally complex and multilayered movies (such as last year’s Madeline’s Madeline). What the two films have in common is that they both examine a female character experiencing a mental breakdown.

The film presumably blends real with fictional elements, as Shirley never wrote an autobiography, and the screenplay was signed by Chicago playwright Sarah Gubbins. The ending is the most powerful and ambiguous part of the movie, when Shirley and Rose confront each other under very dramatic circumstances. Have the tables turned? Is there perhaps a scintilla of humanity in this profoundly bitter human being?

Shirley showed in the 70th Berlin International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. It was part of the Encounters section. It was a hit in Sundance a month earlier. The film, which was exec produced by Martin Scorsese, premiered in the UK in October, as part of the BFI London Film Festival. It’s out in cinemas on Friday, October 30th.

All the Dead Ones (Todos os Mortos)

Posted on by victorfraga

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM BERLIN

Brazil is undergoing fast changes in the year of 1899. The Republic is just a decade old, and it’s only 11 years since slaves became independent. Black people and their former owners are still coming to terms with the newfound freedoms. Other nationalities – such as Italians and Lebanese – have migrated into the booming nation, rendering the melting pot ever more diverse.

The Soares used to run coffee plantations, but they are now on the brink of bankruptcy. Isabel (Thaia Perez) misses having her feet massaged. Her husband virtually abandoned the family in order to work remotely in order to pay off their debts. They have two daughters. Maria (Clarissa Kiste) has become a nun, and lives in the local convent. Ana (Carolina Bianchi) sees dead people and is mostly detached from reality, offering her mother little support. Now destitute of her slaves and living in a relatively modest dwelling in the oppressive city of Sao Paulo, Isabel has lost her desire to live.

Ana has a very unorthodox plan to instil hope and joy back into her mother’s and sister’s empty and meaningless lives. A plan that is at odds with her very Catholic faith. She asks the family’s former slave Iná (Mawusi Tulani) to stage an African ritual in order to re-energise the ailing woman. Iná reluctantly agrees, but the impromptu performance does little to improve Isabel’s despondent condition.

There are a number of subplots, including Iná’s son and husband, a Portuguese neighbour and her mixed-race nephew (who is in love with Ana), other friends and so on. These stories hardly fit together. The narrative is a big patchwork. I assumed it was a poor literary adaptation, only to find that the script was actually penned by the two directors. The direction is heavy-handed, the acting stilted, the cinematography mediocre, the story hardly comprehensible. Plus it’s entirely humourless. At 120 minutes, All the Dead Ones is painful to watch, if not deadly.

On the positive sight, the film provides some interesting insight into the African cultures of Brazil. But it fails to go into too much depth. At one point, Iná explains to her former owners that “Africa is big” and their culture not monolithic, yet we never learn what these differences are. A missed opportunity to investigate the complex roots of Brazilian identity. The attempt to depict Brazilianness is both shallow and pretentious, says a writer born and raised in largest country of Latin America.

Interestingly, some elements of modern-day Brazil gradually creep into the story. Cars and high-rise buildings suddenly pop up, without the story moving into the 20th century. For a while, I wondered whether this was poor mise-en-scène or a creative choice. The explanation comes at the end of the film, with a very cumbersome twist. I wouldn’t recommend sitting down for two hours in order to find out what this is.

All the Dead Ones is showing in Competition at the 70th Berlinale, which is taking place right now. The directors are likely to return to Brazil empty-handed. I must note that this is a divisive movie. A couple of critics that I spoke to seemed to enjoy it far more than I did. Perhaps I’m not Brazilian enough for Berlin!

Undine

Posted on by victorfraga

Undine (Paula Beer) is an eloquent historian. She teaches tourists about the architectural history of Berlin in a local museum. She shows them a giant model of the city as it currently is and another one of what it would look like now had the GDR not unexpectedly collapsed 30 years earlier. Her life is also seeing a very abrupt change: her lover Johannes (Jacob Matschenz) is about to dump her. The nonchalant yet assertive female has threatened to kill him in case he proceeds with his plans. She does not wish to see their romance confined to the past, just like urbanistic plans for the defunct communist state.

She then meets the handsome Christoph (Franz Rogowski), a diver familiar with the underwater secrets of the German capital. The grounded lady and submarine gentleman complement each other. They meet entirely by accident (literally), in one of these rare occasions when the underwater world comes crashing into the surface. Undine was unwittingly waiting to submerge into Christoph’s world for some time. Her name is a reference to a 200-year-old German novella about a water spirit.

Undine’s romantic life keeps going underwater and resurfacing for air, much like the city where the entire film takes place. We are told that the etymology of the word comes from “dry land about the marsh”, indicating that Berlin has a profound relation water. In reality such etymology is disputed, with many historians arguing that it comes from the word “bear” instead. One way or another, water pervades the city, and it’s on one of the many footbridges on top of the Spree River that a very fast and unfortunate encounter takes place.

The camera is almost entirely static throughout the movie, giving it a distant, almost Brechtian feel to it. It’s as if the characters were imprisoned within the frame. Yet they continuously attempt to break the mould, and to change their personal history. The ending is particularly powerful, when life and death acquire an entirely new dimension for Undine, Christoph and Johannes. Misfortune and zemblanity prevents our protagonists from achieving their full romantic potential. Yet they stay afloat and reinvent themselves, just like the German capital in the course of the past eight centuries,

Dotted with awkward surprises and very strange symbolisms, Undine firmly establishes the Christian Petzold’s reputation as one of Germany’s most innovative auteurs. He’s stepping on familiar ground, having worked with both Beer and Rogowski in his previous movie: the equally unusual Transit (2018). And it isn’t just the actors that the movies share. Both blend past and present in a very unusual way. Petzold has a crafted an instantly recognisable and vaguely absurdist language, some sort of gentle German Lanthimos.

Undine premiered in Competition at the 70th Berlin International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. It is part of the BFI London Film Festival in October. On Curzon Home Cinema on Friday, April 2nd.

First Cow

Posted on by victorfraga

This is a very unusual American indie. It’s filmed in 5:4, there is very little artificial lighting, the narrative pace is languid, some of the dialogue hardly audible, one conversation (in an indigenous language) not even subtitled/translated. None of this can be held against the movie. In aesthetic and formal terms, this is a very unusual and audacious film. The problem is that it simply fails to captivate and moooooo-ve!

In the mostly wild and yet-to-be-colonised Oregon Territory, people from all over the world are seeking to become rich. Americans, Russians, Chinese and others mingle with the indigenous people, who carry on with their lives as normal, with little interest in the much-coveted metal. A baker aptly nicknamed Cookie (John Magaro) and a Chinese man called King Lu (Orion Lee; a very strange casting choice, as the British actor hardly sounds Chinese) are not particularly competitive miners. Cookie is rather clumsy, while King Lu is wanted for killing a Russian man.

The two underdogs bond and develop some sort of bromance. They move in together into a shackle in the woods, and enjoy a borderline marital existence, dreaming of settling and running a hotel further south. Yet it’s by selling oily cookies that they begin to make money. The little cakes fried in oil, smeared in honey and sprinkled with cinnamon become an instant amongst the ambitious miners.

Their avid clients are very curious to find out what the wonderful ingredients are, but the two man refuse to reveal their secret. King Lu claims that he learnt the recipe in China. In reality, the two are stealing milk every night from the first cow in the region, owned by a wealthy British entrepreneur and aristocrat (Toby Jones), who also happens to be one of their most prolific customers. They found a real cash cow. The story finds subtle humour in awkward situations, such as the dangerous interaction between the wealthy Brit and the racketeering bakers. It slowly builds its narrative arc upon the inevitability of the two man being caught, and the possibly fatal consequences.

Directed by a woman, this is a film almost entirely populated by men. But it doesn’t dive particularly deep into masculine psychology (certainly not in the way that fellow American female director Eliza Hittman – who is also in Competition in this year’s Berlinale – does in 2017’s Beach Rats). The characters are unremarkable and the action is trite. This very long movie (with a duration of 122 minutes) feels pointless and unnecessary. And it’s as thrilling as milking one of our bovine friends.

First Cow showed in Competition at the 70th Berlin International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. It shows at the virtual Glasgow Film Festival between March 5th and 8th (2021). In cinemas Friday, May 28th. It’s also available on Amazon Prime.

The Salt of Tears (Le Sel des Larmes)

Posted on by victorfraga

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM BERLIN

The young and charming Luc (first-time actor Logann Antuofermo) is visiting Paris in order to take an exam for a local joinery school. He lives with his much older father (the veteran André Wilms) in an unnamed rural town. Upon arriving in the French capital, the meets the naive Djemila (Oulaya Amamra) at the bus stop. They spend some time together and fall madly in love with each other. The few hours that they spend together wiull be carved in their memories forever. But Luc has soon to return home, and he has to wait months for the exam results.

Back home, Luc encounters Geneviève (Louise Chevillotte), a lover from six years earlier who had moved to a different town. The two immediately begin an intense relationship. His heart is split between the two women. He chooses the more convenient relationship with Geneviève, unaware that he would be soon accepted into the joinery school and have to move to Paris. He simply fails to turn up at the hotel that he booked himself when Djemila shows up for an intended reunion. But that won’t be his last gesture of “cowardice” (a word he uses himself in order to describe his questionable behaviour).

Geneviève reveals that she’s pregnant shortly before Luc departs to Paris, infuriating the gorgeous garçon. In Paris, Luc’s more candid and ingenuous side is quickly wiped out by the hedonistic lifestyle. He makes friends, goes out to clubs and brothels. He soon finds out that not all females are vulnerable and easily manipulated. The realisation of his own frailties is both painful cruel. Could it be that his feelings for Djemila and Geneviève were his only experiences of real love?

This is indeed a banal and ordinary tale, in the hands of an extraordinary director. The story is both palpable and heart-wrenching. It’s impossible not to be moved by the grief-stricken Djemila and Geneviève, and not to laugh at ironic surprises that life has in store for the fallible yet irresistible Luc. All filmed in black and white, in Carrel’s frugal and plain style, which remains as Truffaut-esque as ever. Hardly innovative, yet entirely auspicious.

There is only one element of The Salt of Tears that’s a little disconnected from reality. Despite being set in 2019, technology is almost entirely absent in the film. Lovers never exchange an email or even their telephone numbers. Meetings are arranged verbally, and there’s not a single electronic message exchanged. That’s perhaps because the 72-year-old director Garrel wrote the script himself, and he’s not entirely in touch with the reality of young people. A little peculiar, but it won’t prevent you from engaging with this profoundly frank and human story.

The Salt of Tears has just premiered at the 70th Berlin International Film Festival, and it’s in Competition for the much coveted Golden Bear. A viable contender.

Uppercase Print (Tipografic Majuscul)

Posted on by Redmond Bacon

Two films in one. In the former, we learn of Romanian Mugur Călinescu, who, upon listening to messages from Radio Free Europe in 1981, writes pro-democracy messages on walls in chalk. In the second, Radu Jude presents archival footage from the time. The propaganda scenes, however staged, are exciting and filled with life; the reality, however true, is artificially staged and alienating. They form a curious dialectic: Romania as it really was, and Romania as it presented itself on television.

It starts with a quote by Michel Foucault: “the resonance I feel when I happen to encounter these small lives, reduced to ashes in the few sentences that struck them down.” Starting mid-sentence, it is typical for the Romanian director, who likes to present things to you piecemeal, expecting the viewer to fill in their own details.

This quote is more apposite considering the way the stages are set up. Arranged in a circle, they resemble his famous panopticon, and stress the all-powerful surveillance scheme of the Securitate, the secret police force of dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu.

An adaptation by the documentary play by Gianina Cărbunariu — which was assembled through police transcripts and secret recordings — these scenes are deliberately alienating. Characters recite their lines with little passion, meticulously explaining the events around Călinescu’s illegal pro-democratic writings and how the Securitate came into contact with them. They are framed against bright pink and purple lights, with giant tape recorders and televisions in the background, deliberately making everything feel artificial.

Uppercase Print

If these scenes are carefully calibrated, the propaganda is far more chaotic. Ranging from the obvious pageantry found in a dictatorship to songs about children being the future to people being fined for honking their car horns illegally, these scenes form a strange and bewildering counter-narrative. What makes it a disorientating experience is that the links between the two clips are not obvious, forcing the viewer to work through their own connections.

Radu Jude makes active films as opposed to passive ones. You can’t simply sit back and enjoy a film like Uppercase Print; you have to bring your own intellect to bear upon Jude’s, making them challenging cine-texts. Nonetheless, for those patient enough to tackle them on their own terms, they can be immensely rewarding.

If there’s a through-line between this and Radu Jude’s previous film, the more stylistically diverse I Do Not Care If We Go Down in History as Barbarians — which tackled Romania’s shameful role during WW2 — it is the sad fact that people don’t know or reflect upon the mistakes of history.

The entire film comes together in its final moments — which jolt us back into the present day, showing that little has truly changed. One of the men justifies his surveillance tactics by invoking Cambridge Analytica; reminding us that constant surveillance is hardly a concept novel to communism. By analysing Romania in such forensic detail, the film opens up to the world, reminding us that these issues can happen anywhere.

A truly difficult work, its not one I can say I enjoyed as much as I found intellectually stimulating, like listening to a fascinating yet over-long lecturer from an intermittently charismatic professor. Nonetheless, it remains a convincing reminder that Jude is one of the most unique directors working out of Eastern Europe today. I want to see everything he’s made.

Uppercase Print played in the Forum section of the Berlinale, when this piece was originally written. Watch it online for free in December only with ArteKino

Hidden Away

Posted on by victorfraga

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM BERLIN

Toni is disabled and has learning difficulties. He isn’t the picture of beauty, either. The balding man has a hunchback and a protruding Adam’s apple. His large moustache is often smeared with drink and food leftovers. He has regular spams and tantrums: he rolls across the floor hollering in despair. He is played by 39-year-old Italian heartthrob Elio Germano, with excellent make-up and impressive dramatic skills. Toni is the epitome of the troubled human being. He also happens to be a very talented and influential painter, who became of the biggest exponents of Naive art.

The story begins in the turn of the century, as Toni’s birth parents entrusted him to a couple in Switzerland. In his early teens, he was hospitalised in a psychiatric clinic following an altercation with his foster mother. Such institutions would became an integral part of his life. An increasingly dysfunctional Toni was eventually deported to Italy. He moved to the hamlet of Gualtieri, in the province of Reggio Emilia, where his father lived. That’s where he would spent most of his life. Hidden Away zigzags back and forth in time in an attempt to recreate the painter’s early life, and to pierce together his pains and afflictions.

Toni began painting as a venting outlet for his many frustrations. At first, people laughed at his works, which infuriated the young artist. He was accused of doing “nothing to support the fascist regime”, which ruled Italy at the time. He often destroyed his own work in sudden fits of rage. He was hospitalised due to self-mutilation, but returned to painting after being assisted by sculptor Andrea Mozzali.

In the late 1940s, he began painting more intensely. Journalists, critics and art dealers became interested in his work. He was recognised throughout the nation and also internationally. He was told there are avid buyers even in the US. He became rich, and quickly splashed his money in cars and motorbikes, two of his real passions. He was also in love with his muse Cesarina, a local maid, but she was advised by her boss to refuse his advances. He attempted to impress her with his alleged fortune, only to be reminded that he’s unable to control his finances. Despite his commercial success, Toni’s mental condition remained unstable. Unable to feed himself, he returned to a psychiatric institution.

Hidden Away is a technically accomplished movie with astounding visuals and a broad colour palette. It does justice to its central topic of painting. The Italian director Giordio Diritti – who is also from Reggio Emilia – and his cinematographer Matteo Cocco are particularly skilled with sunlight, capturing the various tones of the quaint Italian hamlet at different times of the day. Often the frames resemble a quiet and sombre painting. Not quite the plush and vivid colours for which Ligabue became recognised, if still very impressive.

The narrative, however, isn’t as colourful. Despite Germano’s strong performance, the movie is just too long and slow, at nearly two hours. The script lacks vim an enthusiasm. The languid pace might appeal to his fans and art lovers. However, I doubt that it will enrapture the broader public, and reach UK cinemas. I’m not alone in my reservations towards the movie: there were numerous walkouts throughout the entire press screening.

Hidden Away just premiered at the 70th Berlinale, and it’s showing in Competition.