Author: victorfraga

Stepne

Posted on by victorfraga

Anatoly (Oleksandr Maksiakov) is a middle-aged male about to enter the winter of his life. His mother Maria (Nina Antonova) is in the very late winter of her life. He travels to the Ukrainian countryside in order to care for her. His brother Alexey (Oleg Primogenov) is nearby, but it is Tolya who devotes the most time to the increasingly frail woman who barely recognises her own children. Shortly before she passes away, she shares the secret of a secret treasure hidden inside the shed. Was that an old-age delusion, or is there a valuable asset to be unearthed? “Tolya” (Anatoly’s nickname) is keen to find out. Meanwhile, he also reconnects with his long-lost, youth love Ania (Radmila Shegoleva).

This godforsaken village is the image of yesterday. The locals live in shabby houses with asbestos rooftops, and walls that have not seen a lick of paint since the day Stalin died. There is not a young person at sight. The headscarf-clad, wrinkly old ladies and their sullen, octogenarian husbands look like characters from a Soviet movie. USSR memorabilia and mementos are conspicuous, including a drawing of Lenin and a half poster of Stalin erected on a wooden structure (the fat moustache giving away his identity). This community is so precarious and deeply buried in the past that you would never guess that the story takes place in present-day Ukraine was it not for the brief appearance of a mobile phone. The remoteness of the area caters for the lack of mobile reception, reaffirming the sense of otherworldliness and detachment from the rest of Europe that prevails throughout the movie. There is no mention of the Ukrainian War (and that’s ok: it’s not mandatory that every single Ukrainian movie should directly address the Russian invasion).

The weather is wintry and inhospitable, adding the perfect finishing touch of melancholia to this twilight drama. The sense of isolation is highlighted by a bumpy bus ride, in the film’s opening sequence. The camera – presumably a subjective take from Antatoly’s point-of-view – reveals a long and windy dirt road covered in snow. The vast landscape too is covered in white, in contrast to the grey houses and the dark attire of the few and far between villagers. The cinematography is moody and gloomy, the colours mostly opaque. This is a movie that could have been made in black-and-white (as are the visual memories that audiences will take home with them).

Is a quiet dog that observes the mourning an augury of tragedy? The animal neatly embodies the overpowering sense of mourning that intoxicates the movie. His fate in unclear. Could he be devoured by the wolves, or simply die of starvation if left behind? The answer to this question has a profound resonance, bringing closure to this story of loss, grief, and coming to terms with the circle of life.

Stepne deserves credit for its realistic portrayal of a little-known face of Ukraine, and for the convincing performances (both Maksiakov and the elderly actors are honest and candid). At times, the movie feels like an observational, almost sensory documentary, a fly-on-the-wall type of register. Ukrainian director Maryna Vroda, however, had bigger intentions. She explains that Stepne reflects upon “the silence of past generations about their history”. It takes an eye extremely familiar with Soviet history in order to grasp the inferred topics. While I recognise that the characters are mostly silent (the conversations are sparse and laconic), I have absolutely no idea what is it that these people are refusing to discuss, and which taboos the movie is attempting to address. A woman’s choice to speak in her native Russian tongue is briefly challenged, presumably a comment on language as a geopolitical weapon. But that’s about it.

The biggest problem with Stepne is that it fails to enrapture viewers. It possesses neither the storytelling panace nor the visual splendour required in order to keep viewers hooked for nearly two hours. Instead, it becomes monotonous roughly 30 minutes from the beginning. This is not Alexander Sokurov’s Mother and Son (1997). Maryna Vroda’s debut lacks the vigour and the aesthetic supremacy of its Russian counterpart, also a movie about an ageing son caring for his dying mother.

Stepne just premiered in the Official Competition of the 76th Locarno Film Festival. Maryna Vroda won the Palme d’Or in 2011 for her short Cross Country. The film shows at the Best of Festivals section of the 27th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival:

The Permanent Picture (La Imatge Permanent)

Posted on by victorfraga

The story begins 5o years ago in Andalusia. Teenage mother Antonia lives in a closely-knit, destitute rural community. Her mother Milagros, her baby, the local priest and a few young women are the only ones around. The almighty Catholic Church has a firm grip on people’s lifestyle and behaviour. Females are quiet, demure and barely literate. Their biggest source of entertainment is an image of the Virgin of Carmel, a local patron saint, on fluorescent paper. This is post-war, Francoist Spain: an impoverished nation with a deeply religious regime that actively discourages individuality, in favour of very conservative values. The setting and the demeanour of the characters look medieval, a far cry from modern-day Spain. there is no room for dissent and rebellion. Perhaps precisely for that reason, Antonia simply vanishes in the middle of the night, leaving behind her baby. And she is never to return.

Fast forward five decades. Antonia (now played by Antonia Ortega, in a viscerally enthralling performance) lives in progressive and Cosmopolitan Catalonia. Only two in every 10 locals describe themselves as conservative, the movie reveals. She is a perfume merchant going from door to door with her little wheeled suitcase in search of clients. One day, she attempts to sell her products inside a publicity agency, her image inadvertently captured by the company’s internal CCTV. The top publicists decide that she perfectly embodies authenticity, and send shy casting director Carmen (Maria Luengo) on a mission to locate the mysterious, elusive woman. Despite a few tribulations, she eventually succeeds. The two quiet characters bond in their loneliness, with Carmen learning some life lessons from Antonia’s spontaneity, and intense joie-de-vivre. Her biggest challenge is convincing her new friend to accept the publicity gig, which comes with generous payment attached. “I already have a job”, explains Antonia, who is perfectly satisfied with the petty money that she gets from her casual, poorly remunerated work.

The experience of the migrant is one of the film’s main pillars. Antonia is barely the same person as five decades earlier. She has been almost entirely reshaped by her new society. She has however retained at least one characteristic of her youth: the Catholic stoicism. She advises Carmen, repeating verbatim the proverb that the Andalusian priest once uttered: “When it comes to your health, it’s in the hands of God”. A migrant learns the hard way to accept the inevitabilities of life, such as senescence. The human body is a temple that gradually falls into disrepair.

The conflict between the passing of time and the titular “picture” (printed or digital) is another one of the film’s central topics. We watch people that never existed morph into one another thanks to artificial intelligence. The see old, black-and-white pictures of yore acquire a ghostly spectrum due to double exposure. And we see our two protagonists fuse into one character on a semi-mirror glass (in a fabulously simple and affecting shot). The rich commentary on the power and the mortality of the image is achieved through very unpretentious narrative and technical devices. there is no elaborate wizardry. Aesthetically, The Permanent Picture has the spartan elegance and the palpable naturalism of Ulrich Seidl: the wide shots, the static camera, the lengthy takes, the slow action. The characters are socially awkward and strangely fascinating in equal measures, much like in the fiction films authored by the Austrian filmmaker. And the story is credible. The frank portrayal of old age is another common trait that deserves a mention.

To boot, Spanish politics are a topic. The film briefly showcases pictures of Spanish of socialist leaders Felipe Gonzalez and Pedro Sanchez, while also reflecting on the “change” that they promised, and what they actually achieved since Spain was rescued from the ravages of fascism. Franco died in 1975, and Gonzalez is widely credited with the rapid modernisation of the nation. We are subtly reminded that the left wing too has to rely on publicity in order to win the hearts of voters, and that too has an impact on the genuineness of their message. There is a palpable conflict in the relationship between publicity and authenticity. It may not be possible to convey the perfect image while also remaining true to oneself. This paradox applies to both the agency’s mission to find an authentic person such as Antonia, as well as to the country’s political establishment.

Ultimately, The Permanent Picture asks viewers: does the image have the duty to accurately portray its subject, or should it seek to subvert authenticity instead?

First-time director Laura Ferres has created a visually compelling and emotionally affecting drama bursting with subtleties. Perhaps worth a second viewing. At the age of just 34, this filmmaker has a promising future ahead.

The Permanent Picture premiered in the Official Competition of the 76th Locarno Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. Also showing in November at REC, Tarragona International Film Festival.

The Vanishing Soldier

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QUIC K AND DIRTY: L:IVE FROM LOCARNO

Slomi (Ido Tako) is just 18 years old and in love with the young and beautiful Shiri. Like all Israeli men of his age, he has to serve in the military. He panics upon learning that his lovebird is due to fly to Canada in order to attend college, in just two weeks. So he runs away from the military, just like the film title suggests. He leaves behind a trail of death and oppression, plus a vast network of people wondering whether he’s dead or has been kidnapped by the Palestinians. The IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) and the secret agency Mossad decide that the latter option best suits their narrative. So they set out on a mission to liberate the poor soldier from the hands of the evil enemy, while conveniently aggrandising/propagandising their intrepid actions.

Our young, handsome and somewhat naive protagonist is aware that his actions could have very serious consequences for his regiment, for Palestinians and – far more significantly – for himself. Should the authorities ever find out that he defected entirely out of free will, he would face a lengthy custodial sentence. He visits his mother Rachel and his ailing father Yoel (who suffered a heart attack after witnessing a bomb attack). The former soon realises the gravity of the situation, begging her son to forge a “voluntary” return, while also protesting her vulnerable husband from the bitter truth. It soon becomes evident that Israel oppresses young men in manifold ways. All Israeli males beginning at age 18 are required to serve 32 months in the military, except Arab citizens. As far as I’m aware, no country in the world offers asylum to young Israelis seeking to evade such cruel fate.

On his chaotic journey for love and freedom, Shlomi comes across people – Israelis and foreigners alike – who celebrate the Israeli military and the concoction of national heroes (he could be deemed one himself, if he was to be killed by the Palestinians). But he feels no allegiance towards such people. In fact, he is prepared to rob and defraud them, as we find out in the film’s most tragicomic sequence. Nothing will stop Shlomi in his chosen personal battle for happiness.

Shlomi isn’t politically-driven. He remains mostly indifferent to the constant television reports announcing the number of casualties on both sides. Overall, The Vanishing Soldier refrains from making an overt political statement. However, any vaguely non-conformist action can be deemed deeply subversive in Israel. The mere seeking of adolescent love thus becomes a politically-charged gesture. This means that Dani Rosenberg’s third feature film makes a subtle yet unequivocal anti-war statement without slipping into didacticism and pamphleteering. Instead, it uses the psychology of a young, tormented individual as a metonymy for his nation’s troubled identity, and its ubiquitous military apparatus. It also denounces the machinations of a system that tyrannises the Occupied Palestinian Teritories as well as its very own citizens. A watertight alliance of the government, the Defense forces and the mainstream media leaves virtually no room for dissent. On the other hand, the film lapses into some familiar cliches and tiresome narrative devices, particularly in its final quarter of an hour, rendering the denouement a little predictable.

The Vanishing Soldier just premiered in the Official Competition of the 76th Locarno Film Festival. A dirty gem that merits a viewing both inside and outside Israel.

Do not Expect too Much from the End of the World (Nu Astepta Prea Mult de la Sfârsitul Lumii)

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With a title as long as this and a duration of nearly three hours (163 minutes), Radu Jude deliberately sets out to challenge and alienate his viewers. Do not Expect too Much from the End of the World is both narratively and aesthetically fragmented, with manifold languages and textures overlapping and abruptly combined in order to create a colourful and rough patchwork of cinematic references. It is tiring and monotonous, and indeed difficult to watch, however not without some remarkable achievements.

It will take you a good 20 minutes before you join the pieces and begin to follow the narrative thread. Angela (Ilinca Manolache) is a sequin-clad, blonde and scrawny production assistant hired by multinational business in order to elicit statements that suit their narrative from victims of workplace accidents. Her job is underpaid and unfulfilling. Instead, Angela seeks thrills in social media. She has a TikTok alter-ego called Bobita, a super racist, sexist, Putin-loving and vulgar man who boasts his connection to Andrew Tate (incidentally, the British influencer currently lives and is under arrest in Romania). Bobita is as repulsive as the real-life ultra-misogynist, aided by the bizarre filter that turns Angela into a bald man with super-thick eyebrows. A real vision from hell.

Most of the film is in grainy black and white, except for what’s captured by a different media (such as Angela’s phone, or a 4k/8k camera at work), and a strange collage of roadside crosses (devoted to those who lost their lives in road accidents). It’s as if the director was saying that metalanguage prevails over reality. We live in such a visually multilayered that the image captured by naked eye becomes banal and trivial. The jittery camera and the sudden cuts remind us that Jude wishes to freely experiment with these layers. To top it all up, Angela’s predicament is interspersed with clips from Romanian film Angela Moves On (Lucian Bratu, 1981) starring the veteran Dorina Lazar as a taxi driver who who becomes infatuated with one of her passengers. The “real-life” Angela incorporates a very similar affair into her life, namely inside her car. Fiction and reality establish a symbiotic relationship. Ultimately, Jude’s film is a mockery of the technical wizardry that constrains the world of cinema.

After numerous interviews and extensive internal meetings, Angela’s employersettles for wheelchair-bound Ovidiu (Ovidiu Pîrșan) as the subject of their workplace safety movie. He was in a comma for 13 months because he did not wear a helmet at work. They opt to conceal his foreign surname (because it has a dirty sexual connotation in Romanian), and also the fact that his employer too was negligent. That’s because they failed to provide lighting and to paint a car park barrier, which would have prevented the near-fatal accident. As usual, the blame lies with the victim. The capitalist world has sneaky ways of rewriting the narrative, and subverting dialectics. Angela’s Austrian boss Doris Goethe (Nina Hoss) travels to Romania is order to ensure that the promotional video delivers exactly what it should, without compromising the company’s reputation.

Do not Expect is a blundering movie movie with a crass sense of humour. Angela is particularly fond of crude jokes: “in the US a shop donates a bazooka to Ukraine for every rifle that people buy”, “a blind man walked to fish market and said ‘good morning girls’ to the people”, or a “God granted a man a wish and promised him that his neighbour would get twice what he asked, so the man asked God to pluck one of his eyes out”. German director Uwe Boll (playing himself) complains that film critics who constantly pan his movies, and argues that these horrible people (vile human being such as myself)should be subjected to violence (much like the characters in his films). Uwe is affectionately/infamously known as “the world’s worst filmmaker”. Andrew Tate, Uwe Boll: Jude wishes to celebrate the worst in mankind and in film alike.

The cherry on the cake comes in the final scene: a 30-minute static wide shot of Ovidiu being made to repeat the details of his accident ad infinitum, with his incredulous family standing right next to him. Angela and other crew members often step in front of the camera, in a shambolic effort to direct the poor man to his greatest strength. They have to grapple with a stubborn subject, temperamental equipment and unsavoury weather conditions alike. Ovidiu is finally given green cards to hold (to which they can add any text they wish in post-production). A fabulous mockery of the technical wizardry that defines and imprisons cinema and – more broadly – the visual media. The outcome is clumsy and awkward. Wilfully so. The only problem is that viewers have to wait more than two hours of repetitive action before reaching this dirty anti-climax, in a movie that indubitably overstays its welcome.

Do not Expect too Much from the End of the World premiered in the Official Competition of the 76th Locarno Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. The Romanian director won the Golden Bear two years ago with Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn. The UK premiere takes place in October at the BFI London Folm Festival. It also shows at the 27th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival, as part of the Best of Festivals section, and at the 41st Turin Film Festival. In cinemas on Friday, March 6th.

Manga d’Terra

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QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM LOCARNO

Twenty-year-old Rosinha (Eliana Rosa) left her two young children behind under the care of her mother in order to move to the Portuguese capital. She works as kitchen assistant for the motherly yet formidable Nunha (Nunha Gomes) in a precarious restaurant in the suburban slums, where they sell Cabo Verde’s national dish cachupa (a stew of corn, beans, cassava, sweet potato and meat). The life of an African immigrant in Europe isn’t particularly rosy. She often has to fend off police violence, living in a ghetto-like community virtually segregated from the rest of Portuguese society. There is little entertainment for our young protagonist, except perhaps for a platonic relationship with singer Ze Bula. She seeks solace by often talking to her family via videocall, with the longing for her land and her loved ones permeating every aspect of her life.

Nnnha is very fond, but also overprotective of her perceived protegee. She is terrified that the attractive young woman could slip intro prostitution. One day, her exaggerated care backfires, leaving Rosinha homeless. She seeks refuge with Lu (Lucinda Brito), a newly-found, very kind acquaintance, but that too proves challenging. Jealous female characters become one of the biggest challenges that Rosinha has to overcome, in a culture where hot-blooded women are encouraged to be sensual, overtly sexual and “fight” for their loves ones. Arguments and conversations between women often explode into a loud and indistinct razzmatazz. Ardent female sexuality is subject to the unruly and untethered male gaze. Rosinha’s voluptuous body hence becomes a handicap instead of an asset. As a consequence, She becomes increasingly introspective. Her broad, contagious smile is replaced by a protracted long face.

It is in music that Rosinha finds a powerful venting outlet. She often bursts into semi-diegetic singing. In other words, she starts chating her life story, without any explanation as to why her lines are being sung (think little snippets of Jacques Demy’s The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, from 1964, and you are halfway there). She deliver her songs in magnificent morna fashion, often without any supporting instruments. Morna is a music genre most closely associated with Cabo Verde, which received worldwide recognition thanks to Cesaria Evora. Incidentally, Rosa is a locally acclaimed morna singer, and she indeed is set to play the Barefoot Diva in an upcoming television series.

Manga d’Terra works tremendously well as an ode to Capo Verdean culture and the Cape Verdean diaspora. The director explained:I wanted to pay tribute to the women of the Reboleira district through a musical that revisits the cosmic sounds of Cape Verde.” On the other hand, it is only partially effective as a drama. Rosinha has to juggle various microconflicts: racism, violence, poverty, the hypersexualisation of her body, and even homelessness. But these elements are not woven together into one robust thread, and the narrative arc is not raised high enough. This is a film that will make you smile, even gently shake your hips, however it will neither enrapture nor hit you. The director attempts to elicit strong reactions from the audience by alternating between red and blue lights, as if creating an arena for conflicting emotions, but that too isn’t entirely fruitful.

Manga d’Terra just premiered in the Official Selection of the 76th Locarno Film Festival. Worth a viewing.

Sweet Dreams

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QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM LOCARNO

The story takes place in a farm at the heart of the dense Indonesian rainforest, in what was then known as the Dutch East Indies, in the year of 1900. Agatha (Renee Soutendijk) and her husband (Hans Dagelet) are the ageing owners of a the plantation and the factory. They enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, with a horde of employees ensuring that the business runs smoothly. Slavery has been abolished, however working conditions are barely commendable, and payments are often delayed. Jan has a child with his employee Siti (Hayati Azis), a young boy called Karel. The topic of the child’s fatherhood remains tacit, allowing Agatha and Siti to retain a civilised relationship.

Agatha is the first woman to take matters into her own hands, seeking a very strange type of liberation from her relative stability. Her meticulous actions lead to Jan’s death. She urges her son Cornelis (Florian Myjer) and his heavily pregnant friend (an equally unhappy) wife Josefien (Lisa Zweerman) to travel from the Netherlands in order to help her to run the business, and sort his father’s inventory. Nobody was prepared for what would come next. Jan wrote a testament naming his “only legitimate son” as his sole heir. That’s not European Cornelis, but instead the small, olive-skinned Karel. This leaves Agatha penniless, shocked and despondent, while also subverting colonial power relations. Maybe it’s time for the last Dutch settlers to leave? Cornelis suggests that his mother should move to Europe, but the old woman refuses to budge. She is profoundly attached to the land where she spent her entire life.

Siti is the second strong woman. She has plans for herself and her child, as well as an allegiance towards the workers with whom she shares the ethnicity. She has an affair with the charming and muscular Reza (Muhammad Khan), but refuses to flee with her people. She doesn’t want to return to her origins. In fact, she has never been to the place of her origins (the film once again delves into an elusive sense of belonging). While it is her self-determination that prevails, the real motives that drive Siti are never entirely clear. She is mysterious and ambiguous, the most complex character in the film. A deeply introspective, cathartic dance at the end of the 102-minute story emphasises that she alone is the master of her steps, in one of the film’s most powerful scenes.

Josefien is the third strong-willed female character. Unlike her mother-in-law, she despise the rainforest: she finds the smells and the flies vomit-inducing, the slow passing of time excruciating. She wears the trousers in the relationship with the hesitant and dispassionate Cornelis. Despite her protruding belly, she is bursting with sexual desire, and her husband is hardly prepared to meet her needs. And she is the one who makes the decisions, spurring her spouse on as required, while also manipulating others around her in order to achieve her main objective: returning to the Netherlands. What all three women have in common is that they are in firm control of their body, as their choices gradually reveal.

Sweet Dreams meditates on colonisation, empowerment and belonging. While Josefien wants to be in Europe, Agatha and Siti want to stay at the rainforest. The identity of these three women is defined by their life and experience, and not by their ethnicity. Agatha is a European whose heart belongs in the Indonesian rainforest. She takes this attachment to an extreme, in the other one of the film’s most powerful scenes. This is a movie that derives its strengths from strong scenes infused with symbolism, rather than complex, multi-threaded dialogues. It is often silence and exuberant body language that prevails. These women communicate with their subtle (and also not-so-subtle) gestures. It helps that the production values are very high: the cinematography is rich and vibrant, with the bursting colours of the rainforest, while music score is pervasive and enveloping (composed of various strings gingerly arranged to enthralling – and at times unsettling – results). This is an elegant arthouse period drama that delivers constant thrills and occasional chills.

Sweet Dreams just premiered in the Official Competition of the 76th Locarno Film Festival. It is the second feature film by Bosnian-Dutch director Ena Sendijarevic, who also wrote both of her movies.

Yannick

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Somewhere in Paris, three actors deliver a comedy entitled Cuckold, about a woman leaving her husband for an older uglier man. There are no more than 20 theatre-lovers in the audience, who are thoroughly enjoying the performance. Suddenly, Yannick (Raphaël Quenard) stands up and interrupts the show in order to express his frustration. He is angered that he travelled for 60 minutes from the outskirts of the French capital in order to watch a play that makes him feel even more miserable than he normally does. The three actors Paul (Pio Marmaï), Sophie (Blanche Gardin) and William (Sébastien Chassagne) attempt to reason him to no avail. “This isn’t just about money”, an adamant Yannick argues. “I had to take a whole day off work and now I feel worse than ever”. He explains that he’s car park watchman, and that in three years a vehicle has never been robbed or even damage. It is therefore only reasonable that the three thespians should carry out their job just as duly.

What’s spectacular about Yannick’s tirade is that it neatly encapsulates the sensations that all of us have experienced when we sacrificed time and money in order to watch a play or a film that turned out to be painful. Our protagonist then resorts to some extreme measures, making us all regret we did not take matters into our own hands with a similar approach. Bad spectacles should never be tolerated. Overt criticism and sheer violence are the most appropriate response, we soon find out. Why should anyone be held hostage and under torture, without even being allowed to pee, for nearly two hours inside a (movie) theatre? Yannick liberates us from the shackles of etiquette and civility that inconveniently bind us to our theatre seats.

Gradually, the conflict escalates. The audiences become thoroughly entertained by the impromptu, real-life intermezzo. Allegiances suddenly change. Yannick is hellbent on proving that he is not as dislikable as he may seem. He eventually lets how guard down, giving the “hostages” the opportunity to react. Could Paul, Sophie and William turn the table, or has Yannick unearthed some inopportune truths, and taken the actors our of their comfort zone to very revealing results? The meta-stage becomes a place for confession and redemption.

Quentin Dupieux has penned and directed a pithy, robust and thoroughly entertaining 65-minute comedy that raises some very serious questions about the relationship between the artist and the audiences, and tests their connection to the extreme. An astute script, a firm directorial hand and a few good performances are the main ingredients for success. Yannick is a truly cathartic and refreshing film experience. Just make sure you come armed. And that your weapon is fully loaded!

Yannick premiered in the Official Competition of the 76th Locarno Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. Also showing at the Turin Film Festival. In cinemas on Friday, April 5th (2024).

Slimane

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QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM LOCARNO

Omar (Akin Victor) is released from prison. He jumps on a train and visits his friend Ava (Banafshe Hourmazdi), who lives with her dog. She tells him that most of their friends have fled, that she broke up with her partner Violet, and that their friend Slimane has been taken away. There are no further explanations, and audiences are left to put the puzzle pieces together. The film synopsis explains us that the film takes place “in a Germany in the not too distant future” and that “queer people have become more marginalised and under threat”. It would be barely possible to work that out without this information to hand.

Roughly three quarters of this 19-minute exquisite blend of slow cinema, queer drama and science fiction are entirely devoid of dialogue. The conversation between Omar and Ava is very languid, and the camera hardly captures their face as they speak. Instead we see the dog, a leg or the wall as the two young people talk. For about three minutes, the static camera shows nothing but the blurry wallpaper. The weather is cold, the sky is grey. These creative choices create a sense of distance and alienation. This is a bleak and despondent world. The only slimmer of hope appears in a cathartic gesture in the final scene (the movie’s most powerful moment).

The biggest challenge that Portuguese director Carlos Pereira faces is to create a coherent piece of slow cinema within such a short duration. The latest movie by Tsai Ming-Liang, a masterpiece of LGBT+ film and slow cinema, had a runtime of 127 minutes. While visually bewitching, Slimane also feels loose and fragmented. Perhaps that too was a creative choice, providing the movie with an otherworldly, enigmatic aura. Either way, I look forward to seeing Pereira fully develop his language and vision, and author his first feature film (this is his third creation, all of them short films). I shall look out for the director’s name in a “not too distant future”. Hopefully his fate won’t be as bleak as his characters’.

Slimane premiered in the Pardi di Domani section of the 76th Locarno International Film Festival on Friday, August 4th. Incidentally, Tsai Ming-Liang will be honoured with a Career Achievement Award at the very same event in just a couple of days (on August 6th).

This piece was published in partnership with Ubiquarian.

Paradise Europe (Du bist so Wunderbar)

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QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM LOCARNO

Edu (Murillo Basso) is a 20-something-year-old Brazilian gay man living and working for Amazon in the German capital, while also struggling to fit in with the local culture. He has a serious medical condition (we see the disturbing graphic details within the first minute of the movie), a consequence of his presumably promiscuous lifestyle. The gay scene in Berlin is highly sex-orientated, and Edu works occasionally works at the local sauna. There are ample opportunities for him to meet as many partners as he like. But the consequences of these encounters can be destructive. To make things worse, Amazon has not paid his health insurance, leaving him in a vulnerable and indeed embarrassing situation. What a pain in the arse. Quite literally.

The 17-minute short film follows Edu as he desperately scrambles to find a new room, while also grappling with a sore back door. His prospective landlords are deeply intrusive, and their demands frivolous. He’s asked to turn vegan, not to use the bathroom at a certain hour in the morning, and to go away at weekends so that his landlady can enjoy her privacy with her boyfriend. Even his homosexuality is brought into question. Fortunately, he is not asked to undergo the Flour Test. And there is the occasional racist comment, always neatly wrapped in dissimulated cordiality. It is awkwardness that prevails in these strange interactions, which serve to highlight that even a city as progressive as Berlin is not as welcoming for foreigners as many of us would like to think.

These countless and protracted interviews are interspersed with images of a demonstration against the removal of the renting cap in Berlin. Edu wishes to attend the protest, but his busy routine coupled with the fact that he only has a few days to find a new dwelling prevent him from doing so.

Paradise Europe presents the experience of immigration through a realistic lens. The story is mostly credible and palpable, even if some of the characters that Edu encounters on his journey slip into facile cliches (the precious vegan, the eccentric artist, etc). Young Brazilian filmmakers Leandro Goddinho and Paulo Menezes have created a film that’s uncomfortably funny to watch. It leaves viewers wanting to laugh about Edu’s absurd predicament, without being sure whether that’s acceptable or not. Brazilian gay men who lived in Berlin during their youth (myself included) are used to putting on a half-smile, and finding humour in the most preposterous of situations. Bottoms up, everyone!

Paradise Europe (aka You are so Wonderful) premiered on August 3rd at the Pardi di Domani section of the 76th Locarno Film Festival on August 3rd. It won the Silver Leopard.

Kokomo City

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A bleak statistic that emerged in 2015 claimed that the average life expectancy for black trans women is 35, which equates to living in the 16th century. Even though the claim has since been contested as not entirely accurate, it is still representative within some cohorts of this community, specifically sex workers, the subject matter of a powerful and candid documentary, Kokomo City. Liyah Mitchell, a large feature in the documentary, poignantly states that if she carried on with sex worker, she is likely end up dead. Sadly, her words resonate even more acutely with the recent death of another of the documentary’s subject Koko Doll who was shot in a hate-motivated crime.

Kokomo City is by first-time director D. Smith, previously working in the music industry as a producer for the likes Lil Wayne and Andre 3000, yet once she started her transition found herself ostracised, jobless and eventually homeless. Whilst couch surfing, she turned her hand to documenting her personal research into sex work, considering it as a possible, if not one of the only ways to make money. Through Instagram and YouTube, she managed to locate her interviewees; black trans sex workers Koko, Liyah as well as Daniella Carter and Dominique Silver – from Atlanta and New York. D.Smith took on a softer approach, seeking to make her interviewees feel comfortable and trust her in a bid to reveal more of themselves. Removing any formality in the interview process by placing the camera at lower angles and striking a conversational rapport.

Her strategy paid off with exceptional results. For a debut, D.Smith has impressively captured the essence of her subjects likened to a seasoned director. She has created a documentary that is unique and fresh, garnering confessions that are incredibly frank and authentic telling a story that feels very urgent. Unabashed, brazen comments such as “they want to see a pretty-ass girl with a big dick” are regularly and unapologetically blurted out, but ultimately offer an enlightening picture of the inner workings of the profession. Simultaneously these tête-à-têtes offer perceptive reflections about the trans and black experiences from individuals like themselves in the periphery, looking in.

We gain further insight of the internal machinations of their male clients and how deeply suppressed these individuals can be. In an eye-opening moment, Dominique exclaims after detailing a difficult altercation “violence doesn’t happen before the orgasm. It happens after,” suggesting their clients’ instant feelings of vehement remorse is contributed to widespread internalised trans/bi/homophobia. It would appear their very existence is threatening, questioning the very foundations of black heteronormativity.

Shot in black and white, we are treated to montages of the women flaunting their bodies; beautiful bodies that they have worked hard for, of which D.Smith encourages them to show off and celebrate. Furthermore, there is lightness permeating throughout, amplified by an upbeat musical score, but wholly attributed to the subjects themselves: their vivaciousness, the way the inject humour even when detailing of the most life-threatening of encounters. Their openness to reveal themselves and attempts to remove any shame instils a sense of ownership of their actions, consequently, providing a more positive attitude towards sex work.

This documentary is a vehicle for D.Smith to highlight and empower these marginalised lives, attempting to replace any victimhood with agency, and autonomy.

Kokomo City is on BFI Player on Monday, September 11th. Also available on other platforms. It shows at the Doc@PÖFF of the 27th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival.

Does Christopher Nolan look down on his women?

Posted on by victorfraga

Within just a couple of days of its release in cinemas worldwide on Friday, July 21st, Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer widespread accusations of sexism. Some critics noted the that first female character only speaks after 20 minutes into the film, and then someone immediately has sex with her. Face the inevitable consequences of opening your month, babe! Others pointed out that the film fails the Bechdel Test. This is indeed true. Despite the presence of three significant female characters, they never talk to each other at all. Oppenheimer’s lover Jean Tatlock is played by Florence Pugh (pictured above), while his wife Kitty is played by Emily Blunt, and his sister-in-law Jackie by Emma Dumont. The cast includes nine female characters, against 119 males (according to IMDB). A disgruntled viewer slammed the “blow-up doll” treatment that these women received. Another one joked, while also extending the comment to Nolan’s entire filmography:

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According to various sources, there is not one single scene in Christopher Nolan’s entire filmography of 12 movies in which two (or more) women talk to each other about anything other than men.

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This is what Victoria Luxford (who wrote our review of Oppenheimer) has to say:

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“I’m wary of any metric that takes nuance or storytelling out of the equation – by the strict rules of the Bechdel Test, The Room [Tommy Wiseau, 2003] is a better film that The Godfather [Francis Ford Copolla, 1972 ]. Allison Bechdel herself says she never intended the comic strip to be adopted as a doctrine.

For Oppenheimer itself, I think the articles implying the film is sexist is a stretch. Florence Pugh’s character is a psychiatrist who is shown to be in her own field on Oppenheimer’s level in terms of intellect. Did she need to spend most of her time nude? Probably not, but I think to focus on that is dismissing some interesting dimensions to their relationship.

Equally, Emily Blunt’s character, Oppenheimer’s wife, is shown to be equal to the men questioning her in the latter stages of the film. She’s shown to be morally stronger than her husband in almost every aspect.

It’s true that they are angry, frustrated, troubled people, partly because of the position society puts them in. I would say this is period – accurate. It’s the 1940s, and these are women kept from decision making roles, particularly in this space. Nolan reflects this in a small moment where Olivia Thirlby’s character is irritated that security assumes she is a typist and not one of the scientists.

My personal opinion, both as a woman and as a film lover, is that with films such as these there seems to be a need for people to have a strong reaction, even if it’s based on shaky ground.

As with the argument that Barbie [Great Gerwig’s other half of the Barbenheimer duo, released on the same day as Nolan’s film] is ‘anti-men’, I would say that calling Oppenheimer a poor representation of women is a point that relies on ignoring a lot of nuance.”