Month: September 2020

Our top 10 dirty picks from the BFI London Film Festival 2020

Posted on by victorfraga

The year of 2020 has been like no other, and every single film event had to adapt. The BFI London Film Festival (LFF) is no exception, as the British capital (and the rest of the nation) grapples with the new lockdown rules and restrictions, which have either prevented or discouraged people from leaving their homes in order to go to the cinema. Of course every cloud has its silver lining, and the good news is that all films are now within reach of anyone in the UK, not just the country’s capital.

Throughout the course of 12 days, 14 feature films and a featurette (Almodovar’s The Human Voice) will available to watch in cinemas, namely the three cosy theatres of the BFI Southbank. Plus 59 feature movies are available on BFI Player at specific time slots (which range from a few days to a few hours). They include 50 virtual premieres. You can see the full list and book your tickets by clicking here. In addition, there is also a short film, XR, immersive art and an augmented reality installation – just click here for more information.

Below are our top 10 picks from the programme. They are dirty movies that we watched earlier this year at the Berlin, the Venice and the San Sebastian International Film Festival (the Spanish festival embraced the entire selection from the cancelled edition of Cannes). They are some of the most innovative, provocative and downright filthy that we have seen this year. Of course we haven’t covered every single film in the LFF programme, so stay tuned for more dirty gems throughout the British Festival!

The 10 dirty movies below are listed in alphabetical order. Just click on the film title in order to accede to each individual review:

.

1. 200 Meters (Ameen Nayfeh):

Mustafa (Ali Suliman) and his wife Salwa (Lama Zreik) live 200 meters apart in villages separated by the West Bank Wall. When he receives a call from his wife saying his son has been rushed to hospital, he’s denied access at the Israeli checkpoint on a technicality. Leaving him with no choice, he pays a driver to smuggle him to the other side of the wall. Mustafa alongside a small group of strangers come to depend on one another, as they undertake the dangerous 200 kilometre odyssey.

.

2. Another Round (Thomas Vinterberg):

A history professor, a school music director, a children sports coach and a psychology teacher walk into a bar. They’ve decided to test the theory that mankind should maintain a 0.05% blood alcohol concentration in order to maximise their potential and achieve greatness. Two glasses of wine for kick-off and then top it up throughout the day. You already know where this is going but it’s an intoxicating ride through Sazerac-sodden highs before the crashing hangover sets in. The four male protagonists won the Best Actor prize at San Sebastian. Another Round is also pictured at the top of this article.

.

3. Days (Tsai Ming-liang):

The king of slow cinema is back, and he’s in great shape. In his latest movie, two men carry on with their lives as normal on the streets of Taipei. One of them (Anong Houngheuangsy) is young and poor, and prepares a meal in his humble dwelling. The other one (Lee Kang) is a little older and seemingly wealthy, judging by the hotel room that he hires. This is where they meet. The conversations are sparse and wilfully “unsubtitled”. The younger man gives the older man a sensual massage, which gradually develops into full-on sex. The action is delicate and sensual, with a palpable sense of intimacy. The two characters develop a bond, helped by the quietly effervescent chemistry between the two actors. There’s also a touch of tenderness. The older man gives a tiny music box to the young one, which appears again in the end of the movie. The two men are inextricably linked through their memories, embodied by the unusual trinket.

.

4. The Human Voice (Pedro Almodovar):

Breaking up with your ex is never an easy task, particularly when he’s already found a new companion. He hasn’t returned home for three days, in a rather unambiguous sign that he has now left for good. You experience a lot of feelings: despondency, jealousy, hate and – first and foremost – rage. You want to stab his chest. You want to cut him up with an axe. You want to set fire to what once was your love nest.

Can you live out these things for real? Probably not a good idea. So the 70-year-old Spanish filmmaker found a cunning solution. He staged the entire action. He built a mock home inside a large warehouse and hired Tilda Swinton to play the jilted lover. She is supported by her doting pooch Dash, dazzling costumes and a jaunty music score by Alberto Iglesias. Almodovar’s latest movie places a 1928 play by Jean Cocteau in a modern context.

.

5. Never Gonna Snow Again (Malgorzata Szumowska/ Michal Englert):

Zenia (played by British Ukrainian actor Alec Utgoff) heals the pains and afflictions of the bored and sick Polish bourgeoisie. He lives in a small flat in town, and spends most of his time – massage-bed under his arm – on an upper class district, visiting very different clients. A woman struggles with an unsatisfactory sex life and an unruly daughter. A man is dying of cancer. An old lady is very sad and lonely, in the company of her three bulldogs. And so on. The young and attractive foreigner is a masseur, a healer, a hypnotherapist, a dancer, a friend and a lover, sometimes all at once.

Never Gonna Snow Again is a highly elliptical film. It’s a collection of allegories, some perfectly intelligible, some deeply personal and moot to interpretation. There is a apparent reference to last sequence of Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979), as a young Zenya uses telekinesis in order to move a glass across the table. Some sequences feel very creepy/ Lynchian, such as an exotic peep show dance (watched by Zenya) and a magic trick on stage (inexplicably performed by Zenya alongside one of his clients). All strangely delectable.

.

6. New Order (Michel Franco):

What was intended to be an ostentatious celebration soon turns into a bloodbath, in the movie that won the Silver Lion of Venice. Twenty-five-year-old, pretty and Nordic-looking Marianne (Naian González Norvind) is getting married to the handsome, Italian-looking Alan (Dario Yasbek Bernal). Both families and their rich friends have united at her family’s spectacular dwelling, somewhere in Mexico City. Everyone is dressed to kill, and food and drink are abundant at the extravagant party. Until their conspiring employees open the house gates to trigger-happy, ruthless rioters.

This is no Marxist revolution. The rebels are profoundly consumerist, wide-eyed with greed, as they steal the expensive electronics, jewels and other valuables from their hapless victims. They take enormous pleasure in vandalising the property. They are not concerned about equality. Instead they work in cahoots with local authorities and other groups. Their allegiance is as fragile as the champagne glasses at the wedding party. Nihilism and factionalism prevail. There is no concern for social justice. They are prepared to betray and to kill their associates without hesitation. They just want money. As much money as possible.

.

7. Nomadland (Chloe Zhao):

Fern (Frances McDonald) is a beautiful and intelligent middle-aged woman. She is very unusually charming, with her quiet and stern smile. She is also in perfect good health. Someone who could be working in Wall Street. Instead she lives in poverty in the back of her van (not a camper van, but a regular size one), travelling across her large nation in search of temporary employment in fast-food restaurants, factories and so on. She literally has to “handle her own shit”, in reference to the bucket that she uses as a toilet. The movie that won the Silver Lion at Venice is based on Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century, a non-fiction work penned three years ago by Jessica Bruder.

.

8. Shirley (Josephine Decker):

In the year of 1964, the highly reclusive horror writer Shirley Jackson (Elizabeth 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.

.

9. Supernova (Harry Macqueen):

Tusker (Stanley Tucci) has received a diagnosis of dementia, causes and stage unknown. Things are definitely worsening, however, this simply won’t do for author Tusker, renowned for his intellectualism and lively personality. Concert pianist partner Sam (Colin Firth) is stoically resigned to tackle the coming challenges and is considering easy access bungalows or outside help. His heart is completely dedicated towards this new goal to spend their remaining time together. “Every moment”. The two are not entirely on the same page, with the sentimentality of Sam’s approach rubbing against the more clinical outlook of Tusker, railing at the inevitability of becoming a passenger in his own body. The diametrically opposed personal introspection of the writer against the sensitivity of an outwardly performative musician has until now defined their relationship, now causing friction.

.

10. Undine (Christian Petzold):

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.

Any Crybabies Around? (Nakuko Wa Ineega)

Posted on by victorfraga

Oversized Oni demons shuffle through a low-ceiling hall of Japan, whilst stamping their feet and tearing hysterical children from the arms of their parents. The kids weep and wet themselves as adults look on in delight, cameraphones at the ready, sake flowing. The camera slowly pans through the terror before alighting upon one ogre, slumped dejectedly at the back of the room with a glazed expression just visible through the mask eyeholes. Squeals of demon and child alike are silenced by a jazz-inflected rendition of Japanese music, heavy on the woodblock and drum. It’s an intro that makes you sit up and take notice and the mise-en-scène conveys the tone, direction and conflict of the entire movie at a glance.

Terrorising children in the name of tradition is something we can all get on board with. It’s the goal of the namahage event described above – an ancient ritual in the town of Odo that is at risk of dying off in the modern day. We see the volunteer demons in the run-up to the event, with young and old lad alike arming themselves with straw cape, mask and, especially, booze. New father Tasuku (Taiga Nakano) has been on the sauce already and this does not mix well with the stifling get-up and feral character of the oni. He looses himself in the mask and manages to make a spectacular tit out of himself on a national platform, shaming the namahage, himself and everyone associated with his person. The specifics of the fallout are not shown but we next seek Tasuku living in Tokyo, all on his lonesome and cut off from his family for the two years since his mistake. These establishing scenes sketch a sparse life in the capital but the plot soon returns to Odo upon hearing that ex-wife Kotoke (Riho Yoshioka) has had some personal trouble.

The flavour of this tale is familiar. The homecoming of a central protagonist is practically a genre unto itself and all those grace notes are present here: returning to a childhood bedroom, butting heads against the past and old pal Shiba helping to get Tasuku back on his feet. They scrounge a living and try to reingratiate Tasuku with Kotoke and their daughter but there is a mountain of indifference to climb. The exiling has been so thorough that all contact has been lost, not even a picture of the young girl.

Whether this harsh degree of separation is common in Japan or due the exceptional circumstances is unclear. They’re young, as well. It’s difficult to place Tasuku’s age exactly but people mention his youth in passing and his comportment furthers the point as he plays keepy uppy with a tissue or fools around with a trolley. The friction of immaturity in honourable Japanese society is interesting in light of their ever-declining birth rate, and older figures rib the younger with requests to have more children underfoot. There’s also some light commentary on the Japanese drinking culture but this is more a seasoning than a main course.

It’s all helped along by stellar cinematography. Odo-on-sea is a small town in bleak, grey surroundings. Yet, in the hands of director Takuma Sato and cinematographer Yuta Tsukinaga there is beauty to the rocky shores and concrete port. Look out too for Oni lit in the night by flaming torches. Interiors of well organised, aesthetically pleasing Japanese homes are always a treat. Shots of wealthy businessmen enjoying themselves in hostess clubs highlight the vast difference in standing between them and Tasuku. This imagery is frequently overlaid with Yuta Orisaka’s contemporary-traditional score but beautiful sights and sounds alone are not quite enough to sustain the film. The gentle progression is much like that of the relationships on display – stilted. Apart from the dependable love of his mother (Kimiko Yo, with world weary resignation) and the open friendship with Shiba, interactions are near-passionless. Characters can take a long time to say what they mean, kind of like the film itself.

Any Crybabies Around? premiered at the San Sebastian International Film Festival:

Sportin’ Life

Posted on by victorfraga

Labelling theory holds that behaviour of people is influenced by the descriptions given to them. With Sportin’ Life it is clear that Abel Ferrara has been described as an auteur enough times that he believes his own hype. Following a long and storied career in fictional features, he documents his recent trip to compete in the Berlin International Film Festival with 2020’s Willem Dafoe vehicle Siberia. To accompany the experience, some gigs have been booked for his blues band – all grist for the mill of Ferrara’s ambition to craft a “documentary about the act of making a documentary”. This knowingly ‘meta’ ambition is on smug display. Suddenly global disaster strikes and the ubiquity of lockdown living insists that that the pandemic, too, is covered. The result is a bloated hodgepodge of themes that never quite cohere and the experience outstays its welcome in even the brief 63 minute runtime.

The outcome is an equal parts band-on-tour rockumentary, family postcard, behind-the-scenes look at a Film Festival, career retrospective, quarantine diary, overview of the coronavirus situation and American talk show Inside the Actors Studio with Willem Dafoe. An overbearance of religious imagery is the kitchen sink (try playing count the crucifixes). These elements blur together original footage shot from too many angles with snapshots of media coverage from both the Festival and the pandemic. It’s all powered along by music from the concert recordings of both original blues tracks but the finished product is a purposefully formless experience; a “chaotic rhythm”, in Ferrara’s own words. It is supposed to be disorientating and begins effectively but quickly degrades into a non-narrative slog. Ambition should always be lauded but greater restraint would have produced something more coherent here.

Points are scored for the sound mixing and the enveloping bass notes that help carry the audience through the screen and into the music venues. Dafoe is always magnetic on screen and the moments that are allowed to breathe in his presence are a pleasure. Family life is also on show, with sweet moments at home and on the road with wife Cristina Chiriac and reliably cute daughter Anna. However, any interesting threads are soon undercut by pointless close-ups of artworks or grainy footage of a patient overflow in hospital corridors, for example. These range from high-resolution digital footage to the blurriest of cameraphone shots and the different textures jar. The coffin is finally nailed by Ferrera’s masturbatory decision to include snippets from his oeuvre, chosen to showcase painfully pseudo-philosophical digressions on the nature of man.

Footage from the Black Lives Matter movement and the recent police murders of civilians in the US bring a close to proceedings. There is no effort whatsoever to integrate it with the whole and this serves as a synecdochical example of the film in general. Why tack this on at the end? Just because he could, thinking that he should.

Sportin’ Life has just premiered at the San Sebastian Film Festival in the Festival Surprise slot:

Falling

Posted on by victorfraga

Poet, photographer, musician, painter, swordsman, polyglot, equestrian, knight of Denmark; man does it all. It goes some way to explaining how Viggo Mortensen’s directorial debut can be so capably constructed. Falling showcases spectacular cinematography of the American outdoors, a thoughtful piano-led score and effective performances – all in service of a difficult narrative told with a non-judgemental eye.

This is a complex characterisation of Willis Peterson (Lance Henriksen) in his extremely advanced years. Formerly an overbearing and controlling bastard in the mould of so many 1960s Republican rancher types, now just a vulnerable old man. Nobody can say they actually like him and his expletive-ridden, unpleasant ways. His mind is shown to be slipping away in repeated episodes and living alone on his New York state farm is increasingly untenable. Son John (Mortensen) brings him to LA in search of a residence within sensible distance of himself and sister Sarah (Laura Linney).

Why, exactly, they would want him near is questionable. Willis has been menacing his children from birth, driving their mother Gwen (Hannah Gross) away in the process. The everyday injustices wrought by Willis upon his family are covered in extensive flashbacks. Indeed, almost half of the film is devoted to the upbringing of John and Sarah in the shadow of the farmhouse. The question of out-and-out violence is unclear but Sverrir Gudnason brings such a frisson of danger to the role of younger Willis that it isn’t hard to imagine.

Recoiling from this treatment, John has built a life on the other side of the country and spectrum to that of Willis’s. Chinese-Hawaiian husband Eric (Terry Chen) and their adopted Mexican daughter Monica (Gabby Cells). Expectedly awkward moments follow. Whatever weak filter that Willis used to possess has been lost with age and the casual bigotry is relentless. The constant name-calling slides off of John, who expresses his desire to avoid the massive blowouts of previous visits. However, the veneer of unflappability is eroded with each “fairy” or “faggot” slung his way.

Some of these outbursts are truly abhorrent and the audience is kept captive as the camera centres on Henriksen’s wizened features. The one redeeming feature is his doting relationship with Monica – on paper a prime target for his relentless ire. There is also the suggestion that he gets on better with nature than people. Each trip to the past is accompanied by elegant imagery of countryside moments: morning dew on a wildflower, snow-blanketed plains, animals of every stripe. It’s implied that these are directly drawn from Willis’s memories – which is only possible if he noticed this beauty in the first place.

Whilst admirable to portray this other side, the constant outbursts are wearing. Together with some of the more synthetic family scenes, this holds the film back from being an unreserved success. Still, Mortensen has come out of the directing gate running. It will be interesting to see if he stays with the family-led stories or moves onto something of a larger scale.

Falling premiered at the San Sebastian International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. It’s out in cinemas across the UK on Friday, December 4th.

Wu Hai

Posted on by victorfraga

Money, money, money, money. Money! Too much and you got problems. Not enough and you’ll have more. Itinerant Yang Hua (Xuan Huang) is skirting the breadline, having exploited his entire world in the pursuit of riches. His dream theme Dinosaur Park languishes in disrepair and the wolves are literally camping at his door. Bad choices follow.

Whilst the apartment in Wu Hai (a city in Inner Mongolia, an autonomous region of China) itself has been re-mortgaged, homelife, too, is at risk and his marriage with Miao Wei (Zishan Yang) is strained to breaking. Theirs is a princess and pauper tale and her monied parents constantly look down upon their union, berating Yang for his poorer background and lack of business acumen. Their combative dismissals of him help explain his later actions – hound a man with a label for long enough and he will come to believe it. With diminished options, Yang ends up debt collecting for old friend and more successful entrepreneur Luo Yu. He wears a tougher face whilst recouping ‘investments’ from student debtors to assuage his own creditors in turn.

If the events of this film are drawn from real life experiences, this kind of loansharking is acceptable and widespread in Wu Hai, taking place in back alleys and boardrooms alike. Director Ziyang Zhou’s feelings on the practice are unambiguous; the film is a damning indictment and shows nothing but negative consequences for all characters engaged in the practice. Clandestine video footage of Yang and Miao at the height of their love shows how the promise and optimism of youth can be corrupted in this world.

The cold reality and deprivations of greed are heightened against the dreamlike imagery of the city hinterlands. Wu Hai, Inner Mongolia, is bounded by the placid, reflective Yellow River and lunar-esque deserts. A giant head of Genghis Khan keeps watch from the mountains. Frequent shots show Yang as isolated and alone in this seemingly alien world, accentuated by the eerie lighting of dusk and dawn. Zhou knowingly plays this up with a yurt-based resort of geometric domes, looking nothing more like some off-world colony. Pacing of the film is languorous to match these surreal moments. It’s a mood piece that shuffles along as dejectedly as its protagonist. Some things take time to come into focus. Blurred sequences that resolve sharply, much like the overall film.

Wu Hai has just premiered at the San Sebastian International Film Festival.

Miss Juneteenth

Posted on by victorfraga

Juneteenth is a holiday observed in 47 American states on June 19th. It commemorates the emancipation of the enslaved people of Texas in 1865 (the last state to do so). It is also known as “Freedom Day” and “Liberation Day”. Its significance for African-Americans cannot be understated. The date is far more than a historical holiday. It represents the a continuous struggle against an intrinsically racist system.

Turquoise Jones (Nicole Beharie) is a single mother living in Texas. She won the Miss Juneteenth pageant as a teenager. Miss Juneteenth is not a beauty competition. Girls do not strut around in bikinis. There are no princesses at sight. Instead, the empowered young women dance, sing, read out poetry, politically-charged literature or stage a performance of their choice. The winner gets a full scholarship to college. Turquoise performed Maya Angelou’s provocative poem Phenomenal Woman. Now she hopes that her 15-year-old daughter Kai Jones (Alexis Chikaeze) will follow in her footsteps by entering and winning the competition, but the adolescent is far less enthusiastic about it.

Despite winning the prestigious contest at young age, Turquoise’s life wasn’t entirely rosy. Her university education was interrupted by the birth of Kai. She had to work as a stripper in order to make ends meet, a secret that she does not wish to share with her daughter. She obtained neither a university degree nor a career, instead working at the local bar and also as a make-up artist at the mortuary. Her romantic life is hardly enviable, either. She has a sexual relationship with Kai’s father Ronnie (Kendrick Sampson), despite the two being separated. It’s little surprise that she seeks fulfilment through her intelligent and emotionally stabled daughter.

Kai eventually decides to enter the pageant, but the nature of her performance and her outfit soon become a challenge. Her careless father isn’t very supportive. Could the quiet and reserved teen pull through such a momentous performance, thereby replicating her mother’s success and fulfilling her vicarious dream? The stakes are very high.

Miss Juneteenth is a loud and proud celebration of African-American culture, a powerful venting outlet for an ethnic group consistently oppressed and denied equality. Turquoise is told: “There’s no American Dream for black folk. We gotta hold on to what we have”. And they have abundant poetry, music, dance, swagger and flare, all at full display in this delicate yet boisterous piece of filmmaking. This is also a moving tale of mother-daughter bonding at the face of adversity. Worth seeing.

Miss Juneteenth is in cinemas on Friday, September 25th. On VoD (BFI Player and other) the following week.

Rebuilding Paradise

Posted on by victorfraga

Paradise has never looked this menacing before. The titular Californian town of 26,000 inhabitants was engulfed by a wildfire of biblical proportions on November 8th, 2018. The tragedy became known as Camp Fire.

This National Geographic documentary starts out in the middle of the fire, with images that the locals presumably captured with their phones. A genuine vision of hell. Giant flames quickly spread through the sparsely populated community, swallowing the houses and everything inside them. Billowing clouds of smoke obliterate the sun. It’s impossible to say whether it’s day or night. Crackling noises prevail, while sparks fly around like insect. Children cry as they see a patch of blue sky, suggesting that their family have found the way out of the inferno. Only in Oliver Laxe’s Fire Will Come (2019) I remember such vivid images from inside a real wildfire.

Drone images reveal the dimension of the destruction, with the grey rubble and charred trees scattered across 240 square miles of scorched earth. On the radio, we hear that at least five people died trapped in their car. Soon the figure goes up to nine. Then 25. Then 48. Then 85 . Many more wounded. But there’s also good news in the middle of this apocalyptic scenery. A fireman cries as he remembers finding the woman whose body he was searching for alive, if covered in burns.

Fifteen minutes on, this 90-minute doc morphs into something completely different. Tens of thousands of people were displaced by the fire. Some lost absolutely everything. A woman displays a little cup, her only belonging spared by the flames. These people have to rebuild their lives from scratch. This reconstruction does not refer solely to the erection of a new home, but reclaiming a purpose in their lives, adapting an entire lifestyle. The movie becomes some sort of social documentary.

Residents scramble to move forward. “Who will pay for this”, asks an older woman. Frustration is pervasive: “Things are getting harder”. Fortunately, the community comes together in their struggle for reconstruction. A very emotional school graduation ceremony with cheerleaders et al is emblematic of their unity. The majority of these people are profoundly attached to Paradise, having lived there all or most of their lives. They are resilient. They wish to move on emotionally, but not geographically. They will not abandon their hometown.

The problem with the “social” part of this documentary and that it fails to delve into the stories of the residents in detail, instead focusing on the community as a whole. This broad-brush, fly-on-the-wall approach renders the story too impersonal, and also a little monotonous. Watching various group activities and countless teary residents without a more profound grasp of their individual predicament gets tiring after a while. The images of the fire at the beginning of the movie will stay with you for a while. Everything else afterwards, less so.

Rebuilding Paradise is in cinemas on Friday, September 25th.

The Great Fellove (El Gran Fellove)

Posted on by victorfraga

In 1999, hardly anybody remembers famed Afro-Cuban jazz scat singer El Gran Fellove (feh-yo-bay). It takes a beguiling sequence of events to bring him to the surface: Jazzophile and well-known Hollywood actor Matt Dillon finds a Fellove vinyl in an obscure Cuban record store whilst on holiday. He digs it. Dillon sends a taping to close friend and bandleader Joey Altruda. He really digs it and goes looking for Fellove with the intention to make a record. He’s tracked to la Ciuded de Mejico and Dillon is brought in to record the making-of. The rest is history.

Except it doesn’t go quite to plan. Only now, in 2020, is the footage receiving its world premiere. The reasons become clear throughout the film and director/narrator/cameraman Dillon alludes to financial issues during a pre-screening presentation. However, the extra time for the production to breathe has resulted in something special. A wide-ranging music documentary that covers the history and highs of the Afro-Cuban Jazz genre, its “feeling” movement, the Cuban Revolution and the story of those artists who left to seek fame and fortune in Mexico. The film scats from topic to topic, sometimes chronologically, other times using thematically resonant elements as branching points.

The backbone to the film is the impressive 1999 footage originally recorded by Dillon. Fellove explodes with an energy that belies his 77 years, immediately upon convening with the band and crew for a pre-recording jam session. The rhythm is infectious and the chemistry of the group needs no further catalyst. They get one anyway with cheeky trumpeteer and old friend Chocolate, reuniting after decades apart. I defy you not to smile along with Chocolate’s every appearance. Their meeting kicks off the whistle-stop tour through musical history.

The sheer breadth of information on offer can be overwhelming at times. There’s a lot to learn – just let it wash over you with the beat of the drumskins and absorb what you can. A whirlwind of interviews with presumed legends of the scene provide great colour to the legend of Fellove (look out for pretenders to the throne Lobo and Melon). Dillon grounds the piece well with his gravelled voice providing narrative cohesion when necessary. He’s quickly established as a real deal music buff but knows enough of his producing role to take a back seat to the main attraction.

Aside from some early friction in the actual recording – his first session for 20 years – Fellove is always at 11. Playing his body as an instrument along with his voice, we see him walk the streets, scatting along with passing mariachis or even church bells. Footage of his many and varied television appearances over the decades are equally magnetic. The man is non-stop until the bittersweet end, always pushing for a fresh career resurgence and trying new trends. It’s obvious where the film is going but still sad to see such an indomitable figure fall. However, the innate joy of the rhythms and friendships shown onscreen are enough to give the Great Fellove a true revival.

The Great Fellove has just premiered at the San Sebastian International Film Festival.

In the Dusk (Sutemose)

Posted on by victorfraga

It starts as it means to go on. Terse, close conversations between the inhabitants of a farmhouse and establishing shots of a Lithuanian countryside that is the opposite of verdant. Sparse scrubland mirrors the fortunes of its inhabitants as the Soviet Union holds uneasy control of the territory. Landowner Pliauga ekes a living for his family, a formerly bourgeouis wife, brought low by the destructions of the war, and their impassive son, Unte. They have a comparatively privileged position, actively imperilled by the USSR soldiers that hold the town and are promising arable hectares to collaborators in line with their communist ideals. You can guess where this land is to come from.

Pliauga is a man of some contradictions. Urging Unte to pursue truth as holy, he nonetheless finds time for chaste kisses with housemaid Agne. Their land is worked by Ignas, an indentured servant with little pay beyond bed and board. Early on he invents a story of offering the man a parcel of his own which was turned down out of ‘laziness’. Yet, he is clearly not immune to the plight of the average Lithuanian man and supports a local rebel band of fighters who rail against annexation with midnight meals and carts of supplies.

This is foremost a story of rebellion. The battered partisan warriors inhabit a tattered camp in the forest, entirely reliant on the goodwill and closed lips of their neighbours. It is a far cry from the organised and successful resistance of the Viet Cong against their encroaching superpower enemy. Thin woodland of narrow trees cannot compare to dense jungle and the group is small by necessity, totalling six hardened men plus a too-young girl. Later, a single truck rolls into town bearing a contingent of Soviet soldiers three times as strong. In the face of the monolithic red army and Soviet Union, what plan can there be except to wait out the enemy. The withdrawal of troops was the prevailing school of thought, evidenced by radio transmission picked up from President Truman. Hindsight, eh?

Unte moves freely between his home and their camp, to the consternation of his father. Having grown up in these conditions, Unte seems at a loss as to why people fight to their last and comes to an understanding far too late. The partisans have the authentic look of non-actors and are codenamed with monikers like Dollar or Boar – a small act of control rather than a fear of being outed. Where else have they to go? It is unclear if they have contact with a wider network or are possibly even the last node of resistance in the whole country.

In the West, the image of the Berlin wall is the most recognisable symbol of the Cold War – a brusque concrete bisection of the city and its peoples over the political machinations of the Soviet Union and the US. Yet, the wall was erected some 15-plus years after the end of WW2. Time in which the USSR consolidated its position through subjugation and terror. It’s easy to imagine that little to no footage of Lithuania escaped the blackout Iron Curtain in those years. Films like Sutemose can help illuminate Lithuanian history and contextualise the geopolitics of now, some 70 years on. However, it can be a slog; perhaps reflecting the drudgery faced by these outlaw partisans. The wheel turns to a flashpoint eventually but overall the film is long, deliberate, and light on exposition. Character motivations can seem unclear but the ambient storytelling gives all the right pieces – time taken to puzzle over Sutemose after a first viewing makes the experience more rewarding on reflection.

In the Dusk has just premiered at the San Sebastian International Film Festival:

Supernova

Posted on by victorfraga

Each of us carries a universe in our head. One hundred billion neurons, approximating the number of stars in the Milky Way. More important still are the connections between brain cells – a quadrillion synaptic junctions, more than the stars in the universe entire. For every node lost from this network, connections drop exponentially and this progression of dementia is masterfully conveyed at the open, with a far-off star going winking out from a crowded night sky, having gone Supernova. Lump in throat viewing follows – come prepared.

Tusker (Stanley Tucci) has received a diagnosis of dementia, causes and stage unknown. Things are definitely worsening, however, this simply won’t do for author Tusker, renowned for his intellectualism and lively personality. Concert pianist partner Sam (Colin Firth) is stoically resigned to tackle the coming challenges and is considering easy access bungalows or outside help. His heart is completely dedicated towards this new goal to spend their remaining time together. “Every moment”. The two are not entirely on the same page, with the sentimentality of Sam’s approach rubbing against the more clinical outlook of Tusker, railing at the inevitability of becoming a passenger in his own body. The diametrically opposed personal introspection of the writer against the sensitivity of an outwardly performative musician has until now defined their relationship, now causing friction.

If the balance of future sufferer/carer were to flow the other way, the film would definitely be less successful and Tucci and Firth inhabit habitual roles with career-best performances. Their easy mannerisms together convey their long and happy history, constantly tinged with the overhanging melancholy of the diagnosis. This in turn permits the pair deep wells of emotion to draw from as the film progresses. How the 35-year-old director Harry Macqueen manages to capture a relationship older than himself is impressive, as too are the framing of the dialogue scenes – perhaps skills picked up on the other side of the camera as an actor in the close sets of Eastenders?

The narrative follows their campervan road trip through the countryside of North England, retracing old memories of roughing it lakeside. Their end goal is a piano recital designed to ease semi-retired Sam back into the game, via a pit stop at Sam’s childhood home where his sister and her family now reside. Not for want of trying, communication between the central pair is lacking in the face of this monolithic pressure. The communal scenes give them a chance to explore how they are handling the situation differently. Small moments with old friends and young nieces reveal Tusker’s acceptance of fate or Sam heart-wrenching terror that he can’t quite admit, even to himself.

In a reflection of the quickly established central plot device, road trip radio is soon replaced by a beautiful, moving score, as befitting the occupation of Sam. Yearning strings give way to more thoughtful piano progression; pitch perfect music choices by folk musician Keaton Hansen

Likewise, the passing of the van through the beautiful countryside makes thematic sense. Immense hills, rolling moors and proud mountains. At times oppressively large against the minute campervan, these will outlast us all, the film seems to say, together with frequent turns to the unknowable vastness of the stars above. There are three casualties on the horizon – Tusker, Sam and the life they have built together. Whether they can find the strength to weather the storm together, or apart, is the question.

Supernova premiered at the San Sebastian International Film Festival in September, when this piece was originally written. It is also part of the BFI London Film Festival in October. In cinemas on Friday, June 25th (2021). On Sky Cinema and NOW on Saturday, January 22nd (2022). Also available on other platforms.

23 Walks

Posted on by victorfraga

The grandchildren are playing with the two adorable pooches on verdant hills, while goats graze and sexagenarian love blooms. The elderly love birds practise their scarce Spanish with a very thick accent: “Hola, ¿cómo estás?”.There’s plenty of tea, a game of draughts and old songs. Sounds like a very British feast of cuteness. Right?

Wrong. This is not a romcom. It’s hardly funny, the comedic elements duly diluted in a far more stern plot. Not quite a walk in the park. And this is not a movie about dogs, either. Our furry friends are entirely secondary. Here it’s the people who do the walk. And the talk. In fact, this a surprisingly human drama. Thankfully for us viewers the titular 23 walks do not come to fruition. The story is not structured outings in the green.

Fern (Alison Steadman) is a 60-something-year-old divorcee. Her husband left her for his much younger secretary. “What a cliche”, she sums it up. Dave (Dave Johns) is a widower of around the same age, his wife having passed away a couple of years earlier. Dave has a child and two grandchildren, while Fern does not have any offspring. Or at least that’s what they tell each other, until the dark secrets gradually emerge. Everyone of us has some sort of baggage. Naturally those who have lived more than six decades have a full trolley.

They meet while walking their respective pooches on the hills of Hampstead Heath, with a spectacular view of London in the background. Dave owns a friendly German shepherd called Tilly, while Fern has a yappy and feisty Yorkshire Terrier called Harry. Not only are their dogs and family histories very different, but they also have colliding personalities. Dave is a garrulous and gregarious Northern type, while Tilly is a far more reserved and cranky Londoner. But Dave gradually breaks the ice, allowing Fern’s protective facade to collapse, revealing an affable, kind and vulnerable human being underneath.

What initially looks like a romantic comedy very quickly morphs into something far more serious and profound. Paul Morrison, who both directed and penned the film, injects a dash of family tragedy within the first 30 minutes of this 100-minute movie, and then proceeds to add dollops of social realism. At times, it feels like a Ken Loach movie, with despondent characters failed by the system in more ways than one (this is helped by the fact that Johns is the real Daniel Blake). Death is also recurring topic, with untimely passings leaving scars on both characters . On the more upbeat side, sexagenarian sexuality is painted in a vivid colour. Old people too can have great carnal fun.

This auspicious little drama provides a very palpable account of loneliness at old age, as the two protagonists grapple with grief and regrets, while physical and emotional challenges prevent their romance from blooming like the large rhododendra on the Heath. It raises a number of pertinent ethical questions about marriage, commitment and family duties.

The twists and turns of 23 Walks are mostly original. Unpredictable even. Much like the labyrinthic paths of the park where the couple first and also gingerly bond. But this is not an impeccable movie. Some of the dialogues are a little contrived, the score somewhat mawkish, preventing the film from achieving its full potential. Ultimately, it lacks the punch factor. Or perhaps a little bite.

23 Walks is out in more than 100 cinemas across the country on Friday, September 25th. Worth a leisurely stroll to your local theatre. On VoD on Monday, January 25th. On Sky Cinema and NOW on September 16th (2021).