Tag: Arte Kino

Sami, Joe and I (Sami Joe und Ich)

Posted on by Paul Risker

The “I” in the title refers to Leyla, one of three friends who have finished school, and are ready to seize their first summer of freedom. Director Karin Heberlein’s Swiss coming-of-age drama, Sami, Joe and I (Sami Joe Und Ich), opens with the evocative words of Leyla’s late mother: “Always keep more dreams in your soul than reality can destroy.” This sentiment haunts the story, as Sami (Anja Gada), Joe (Rabea Lüthi) and Leyla (Jana Sekulovska) become deflated by harsh reality.

It’s Heberlein’s intent to show the difficulties of young adulthood, that contrasts to the hopeful enthusiasm of her characters. The trio are filled with naïve and abstract notions about the future, as they should be. There is a time to dream, to feel empowered, and the prospect of escaping institutional control fuels such hopes. The director however, is not narrow-minded, and she does not lose herself in the romanticisation of youth.

After an argument with her controlling and disciplinarian father Adem (Astrit Alihajdaraj), Sami overhears him tell her mother that their son is enough for him. Joe’s mother struggles to raise her children as a single parent, and Leyla experienced the loss of her mother at a young age. Even before the burden of young adulthood penetrates their future dreams, the trio have not been spared difficult experiences. From here the story touches upon the troubling issues of generational trauma and sexual assault.

Sami’s father lived through the Bosnian war, before resettling in Switzerland. Frequently clashing with his daughter, his past experiences allow the audience to show a modicum of sympathy, his nature possibly one borne out of traumatising experiences. It would have been interesting had the director explored the theme of generational trauma, penetrating the ambiguity whether Adem’s past experiences are the reason for his nature, or is he patriarchal? Heberlein is non-committal, but her approach to Joe’s own experience of trauma following a sexual assault is clearer. The film directly addresses toxic power structures, that force victims to live in silence or seek revenge, however, each choice is filled with pain.

As in all coming-of-age stories, the characters encounter a metaphorical death as their experiences emotionally transform them. Leyla’s mother spoke about dreams, but Heberlein also emphasises that what we believe in is important. This is a source of energy we can draw off, even as our dreams collapse.

Sami is drawn towards the web of radicalisation because of her father’s controlling nature, and when she asks Leyla what it is she believes in, her friend answers, their friendship. It’s a moment that reminds us of the value of those simple joys that we need to hold on to. Our dreams and what we believe in are vulnerable and impermanent. We must protect ourselves from their destruction. The story celebrates friendship, and how we can empower ourselves when we’re connected to our tribe.

In spite of the challenges, Sami, Joe and Leyla hold on to an energy for life, but we’re left to ask the question whether it can hold out against adulthood adversity? Heberlein’s film doesn’t offer an end, instead the credits mark the end of a chapter, only there’s no next chapter, except life’s uncertainty.

Sami, Joe and I is a rewarding film, showcasing a filmmaker in command of her story. By not exploring the themes and ideas as aggressively as she could have chosen to, Heberlein creates a space for her audience to enter the film. She also honours the reality that people often internalise their thoughts and feelings, or as this trio do, internalise inside of their tribal bubble. Some questions are not asked, others may be left unanswered, but it remains an engaging film that acknowledges the difficult experiences, as much as it celebrates youth and friendship.

Watch Sami, Joe and I watch it online for free in December only with ArteKino.

Wood and Water

Posted on by Paul Risker

Director Jonas Bak’s German drama Wood and Water is either blessed or cursed by its stoicism. I say either because this is a particular type of film for a particular cinematic taste. Executed with patience, the director’s observational camera is as interested in the spatial as it is observing its character. The most effective description of Wood and Water may be as an amalgamation of art, story and character, however, its backbone is more plot than it is story.

As one chapter closes, another opens for Anke (Anke Bak), as she begins her retirement. Bak wastes no time in establishing the observational aesthetic that will drive his film, watching from a distance Anke pray, then depart the church where she’s worked as an administrator. She cycles home, the camera watching from its birds eye view as she disappears into the distance, among the rooftops of rural German homes.

Anke is disappointed when her son Max, who is living in Hong Kong is unable to attend a family holiday with his mother, sister and cousin. His absence is excused by the flight restrictions imposed, a response to the pro-democracy protests. The impression, however, is that Max’s absence over the past three years suggests it’s a convenient excuse. Anke travels to Hong Kong to see Max, but finds herself spending time alone, and explores the place that is home to her distant son.

Memories are shared on the family holiday and joint celebration of Anke’s retirement, yet the director chooses not to share an important event with his audience until later in the film. It offers a different context to the nostalgic remembrance of past holidays, and makes the invisible Max who we never meet, more intriguing. Beneath the surface there’s a story left untouched, common in stories such as this, driven by patient observation and spatial aesthetics.

A comparison early on appears to be to Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation (2003), about an American actor, played by Bill Murray, confronting an existential crisis in Tokyo. Wood and Water is a more restrained character piece, inclined to offer only a fleeting insight into Anke. Whereas Coppola’s approach was for her character to dominantly reflect our own anxieties and existentialist thoughts, Bak’s approach is to create a hypnotic and meditative space for his audience to enter. It’s about the feelings we project onto Anke, although she echoes that feeling of wandering through space and time, that can be a pleasant or a troubling experience.

Wood and Water never entertains exploring existential themes. The slow and observant pace of Anke’s journey, juxtaposed with the energy of the protests, and their ongoing looming threat, along side Max’s absence, conveys the idea that we reach a point in our lives where the world moves on without us. Bak is not cynical in this expression that his audience can either acknowledge or look past. It’s an idea, and in cinema ideas resonate subjectively. If we’re to acknowledge it, the director offsets it with how we must grow our lives, finding new connections and new purposes in the shadow of fading relationships. It doesn’t mean we must surrender our loved ones, but we must accept that in living our lives, we can grow apart.

Watch Wood and Water for free during the entire month of December only with ArteKino.