Tag: Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival 2022

Lovable (Milulis)

Posted on by Paul Risker

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM TALLINN

A pearl of wisdom I’ve often heard is that a story requires a sympathetic character, because without one, who does the audience sympathise with? This is, in my opinion, theoretical poppycock. What motivates the audience is not only sympathy, but interest in both the themes and ideas of the story, as well as the characters. Latvian director Staņislavs Tokalovs, and his co-writer Waldemar Kalinowski’s Lovable (Milulis), which competed in the Baltic Film competition at this year’s PÖFF, toys with both its audience’s interest and sympathy.

The story revolves around Matiss (Kārlis Arnold Avota), a young debt collector who is involved with Agate, an older, single mother. The businesswoman takes him under her wing, helping to steer his professional ambitions amongst a world of cutthroat business types. In the opening scenes, the filmmakers activate our voyeuristic natures – we’re intrigued by the power dynamic between the pair. They play the part of a married couple, but when they interact with her nine-year-old daughter, Paula, there’s something askew about the image. Even in their sexual relations, there’s something off.

We’re ultimately led to conclude the power in their relationship lies with Agate, when she tells an associate at a party that young men like Matiss, are, a better fuck than men his age. Her lover, meanwhile, is crudely advised by another colleague of hers, who she connects him with to discuss potential opportunities, that he’ll be okay so long as he performs well in bed. The feeling that something is off is attributable to the fact that the young man is a predator, or deep down a dominant personality type. One version of the film would have been to see how their relationship unfolds, but Agate’s premature death redirects the narrative.

After her mother’s death, the young girl temporarily remains in Matiss’ care. Tokalovs and Kalinowski begin to orchestrate the conflict that will drive the film. Lovable is a story of a man morally fractured, and Agate’s final words, that Paula adores him, and he should make this his home, reverberate throughout the film. They place an onus on him to do right by Paula, which the audience hold him to. Agate’s words haunt the film, keeping her alive in spirit.

In a move that isn’t surprising, Matiss allows one of the cutthroat business associates to talk him into an illegal scam to deny Paula her inheritance. Later we learn that other shady characters are involved, the type you don’t want to owe money to. The conflict that unfolds is one of competing interests, and the attempt to back out of the proverbial hole he has dug himself.

While Lovable is a simple enough film to describe, it doesn’t do this intriguing work justice. Most films are driven by a dramatic necessity, but here the filmmakers are free of such shackles. Lovable looks like a streamlined mainstream feature, but the creative choices defy this categorisation.

Tokalovs makes the bold choice to predominantly omit a soundtrack. Music is traditionally relied upon to communicate the emotional intent of a scene, and guide the audience’s emotional or intellectual response. Here, there’s little to no accompanying score, but it’s a fitting choice when we consider that Matiss is largely an unsympathetic character. Just as he’s driven by greed, a cold, cruel and indifference towards others, especially his younger lover, who he treats appallingly. She’s an object for his sexual pleasure, and if she should deny or challenge him, she’s reduced to something he can discard and pick up again when it suits him.

The absence of a soundtrack is noticeable, and we quietly yearn for that silent void to be filled – much in the same way as Paula grieves the loss of her mother, and the worry that she’ll be removed from her home by social services. There’s an unspoken sense that both she and Matiss want him to be her guardian, that teases our optimism that this will be a redemptive story. Tokalovs and Kalinowski, however, are not interested in such neat and tidy narrative arcs. Instead, there is a sense that Paula has provoked a change in Matiss, awakening his gentler spirit, but he’s a ways off from undergoing the significant transformation necessary. Paula commands our sympathy, but by the end of the film, we’re left none the wiser about how we feel about Matiss. There’s a semblance of something that we can sympathise with, because he does make difficult moral choices and sacrifices his self-interest, but he’s mostly a character we have to settle finding interesting instead of likeable.

To say Lovable boasts bold filmmaking choices is an indictment against the unoriginality of mainstream cinema, which prioritises a willingness to conform over free expression. Tokalovs and Kalinowski’s film requires patience to fully appreciate it. Remaining true to its willingness to be bold, the story is left incomplete.

It takes courage to make this type of filmmaking, when other films, like Sebastián Lelio’s Wonder (2022), overcooked its ending, and their efforts and commitment deserve our appreciation.

Lovable has just premiered in the Baltic Competition of the 26th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival.

Rebelión

Posted on by Paul Risker

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It has often occurred to me that we’re guilty of romanticising the creative process – enchanted by what is created, that we don’t appreciate the arduous effort that goes into the act. The process is intimately involved with agony, self-doubt, and many creatives are weighed down by imposter syndrome, or so I’ve been led to believe in conversation with filmmakers.

Columbian director José Luis Rugeles and his co-writers Chucky García, Martín Mauregui, craft a captivating biopic about the celebrated Columbian singer and songwriter, Joe Arroyo, played by Jhon Narváez. Known for mixing various styles of Latin American, Caribbean and African music, in the 1970s, he was at the forefront of the “salsa explosion.”

Borrowing the title of their film from one of Arroyo’s most famous songs, Rebelión, the filmmakers enter the realm of fiction to explore the life of this prolific artist. An opening disclaimer reads: “The events, characters and facts shown in this film are fictitious or based on facts of public knowledge. The names of those involved, the stories, details and results of the cases are the work of fiction.”

Here we have one of those films that presents a conundrum for the film critic. Art needs to be discussed to thrive and films are made for a response. However, there’s the occasional film we should discover for ourselves. Here’s an example of one we should approach with the mind as a blank canvas – like you’d enter and be caught up in a dream.

It’s no coincidence that I wound up making the comparison to a dream, when Rebelión’s artistry is so pleasing to the senses. There are moments when the cinematography and the story splice through time and space, effortlessly creating a non-linear exploration of the artist. As if the past and present are parallel, not linear, the film functions on a dream logic, as if this story of a life unfolding is from the point-of-view of a dreamer.

This is not a glamorous portrayal of an artist – instead, Arroyo’s world has the feel of a hellish creative space. We witness a gauntlet of emotions: arrogance and selfishness, love and affection, passion and enthusiasm. We also witness what Freud termed the “death drive”, which makes me wonder whether, as much as creativity and sexuality are linked, is creativity prone to flirting with self-destruction?

Amidst the fever of creation, the film is littered with scenes of agony, anxiety and despair, and in an early scene, it’s mentioned that Arroyo’s pain was the inspiration for some of his music. Rugeles and his collaborators offer us a portrait of the joy and sorrow of creative expression, the extreme highs and lows. Beneath the bravado, there are moments when he or she succumbs to humility, whether consciously or not, which often presents as self-pity or a disposition of being indifferent.

What captivates about Rebelión, is, compared to other biopics, it has an insular energy. We find ourselves isolated within certain spaces and time periods. Instead of following them around, seeing how events in their personal and professional lives became their life story, we spend time with the characters. We’re expected to not just look and listen, but see and hear. The film is a series of impressions, instead of an informative deep dive. Yet through this aesthetic and narrative approach, combined with the fictionalisation, it feels that we get close to the truth of who the man behind the artist was.

Rebelión has just premiered in the Rebels With a Cause Competition of the 26th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival.

The Coffee Table (La mesita del comedor)

Posted on by Paul Risker

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There’s a pleasure to be had in dark or absurdist comedies – the subversion of the written and unwritten rules of etiquette and decency. Spanish director Caye Casas and his co-writer Cristina Borobia’s The Coffee Table (La mesita del comedor), offers audiences a delightful helping of black Spanish humour. It feels decidedly f***ed up, in the best possible way.

The film opens with the screams of a woman in labour. From there we jump forward to a furniture shop, where first time parents, Jesus (David Pareja) and Maria (Estefanía de los Santos), are caught in the crosshairs of a sales assistant. In one moment, he says, “I guarantee that this table, due to its design and standard, will change your life for the better. It will fill your home with happiness.”

Maria runs him in circles, leading him through a series of instances where he contradicts himself. Jesus is besotted with the item because purchasing it against Maria’s wishes will empower him. It’s a decision that will have consequences beyond his worst nightmares, when the couple host Jesus’ brother Carlos (Josep Riera) and his eighteen-year-old girlfriend Cristina (Claudia Riera), who they disapprove of, for dinner that evening.

The filmmaker delays the inevitable revelation of what happened when Jesus was home alone. They carefully build towards their dramatic finale, by toying with interpersonal relationship dynamics, channeling traditional domestic tensions. They also use a dark and uncomfortable sub-plot, with a neighbour, to complicate an already emotionally explosive situation. The film is constructed around the concept of avoidance. It harks back to Alfred Hitchcock’s idea that the audience’s pleasure is in the threat of the bomb exploding. The filmmakers here understand that the thrill of their story is the anticipation, and wisely tease us until they’re unable to any longer.

A carefully orchestrated dance, the back and forth dialogue perfectly plays on what the audience implicitly knows, flirting with an almost sardonic wit that will alienate some audiences.

The filmmaker and the co-writer Casas and Borobia blur the line between black humour, absurdist comedy, and dramatic suspense. I found myself questioning whether I should perceive moments as comedy or the latter – the comedy and tragedy are interchangeable.

The film has a chameleon nature, shifting between the two depending on the point-of-view of the audience. That said, it’s effectiveness lies in the audience being receptive to the humour, as there are certain beats that are intended for a humorous pay-off. But one cannot ignore the pathos of the tragedy that unfolds, and the pleasure of the film is derived from genre tones complementing one another. Nor the interest in critiquing interpersonal dynamics, that drives the thematic interest in cause and effect.

Jesus and Maria’s marriage juxtaposes derisive and affectionate humour, that’s complicated by the feelings towards Carlos and Cristina. Maria derisively refers to him as a paedo, but at dinner, they appear amicable. It creates social tension and a suspicion of how the characters really feel about one another. While the table is viewed as the antagonist, leaning into shades of horror, the provocation is contentious power dynamics and interpersonal relationships. The Coffee Table is a critique of familial relationships snd how we orchestrate our own misfortune and destruction.

As the audience tries to anticipate how events will unfold, the filmmakers find ways to play on the anticipations in a dark and twisted way, especially in the final act. Even as we’re laughing, we appreciate how f***ed up it all is, but it’s so wickedly funny we can only hope for absolution later.

The Coffee Table has just premiered in the Rebels With a Cause Competition of the 26th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival.

Plastic Symphony (Plastiksümfoonia)

Posted on by Paul Risker

QUICK SNAP: LIVE FROM TALLINN

Trained documentarist Juraj Lehotský, continues to explore his interest in fiction with the striking emotive and meditative drama, Plastic Symphony (Plastiksümfoonia).

The director takes his audience on a journey, one that cannot be appreciated until the final frames. There are moments where the film feels shallow, hampered by the concept of the plot and a filmmaker unwilling to make bolder choices. By its end, however, we’re left with a film that expresses the virtue of simplicity, that doesn’t lack an emotional punch.

The story centres on Matúš Vrba (Bartosz Bielenia), a talented cellist who mysteriously disappeared five years earlier, leaving behind a promising career in music. He unsuccessfully auditions for the first cello in the Slovak Chamber Orchestra, where he’s quizzed about why he left his studies with the Berlin Philharmonic. A man of few words, he succinctly tells them it was because his mother was dying. When he’s asked where he currently plays, he says, “Vienna.” The truth has a touch of quirky romanticism – accompanied by his stepbrother Dávid (Vojtech Zdrazil), he plays Beethoven on the streets of Vienna under a plastic sheet when it’s raining.

By chance, he meets former schoolmate Albert (Sabin Takbrea), a successful violinist and music programmer. It’s a meeting that opens up the world of lucrative performances in high society. Matúš’s life is transformed, but as the fame of Albert’s quartet grows, Matús finds himself unsettled about the choices he has made. Also, the necessity to compromise on performing his own compositions, in favour of playing popular pieces for the pleasure of the elite, quietly suffocates him

I’m forced to conceive the impression that Lehotský is in love with the face of his lead actor. The way he frames Matúš, feels as if we’re being asked, or urged to read his unspoken thoughts – to look and to understand, instead of having the character explain. Yet it’s not only his silence that is captivating, but a hypnotic vibe that he carries throughout the film. There’s an almost ethereal presence, where the silent facial expressions and body language, the movement and the way he handles the cello, or composes, has its own melody and rhythm.

Plastic Symphony aspires in part to forge a communion with musical (non-lyrical) expression by creating a space for the audience to be in the presence of the character – not to listen to him, but sense his aura and read his unspoken thoughts.

One of the film’s intriguing points is its minimalist nature. Before we near the half way point, we learn little about the siblings, other than that Matús left his studies when their mother was dying, and we suppose the two have taken care of one another. Lehotský understands the necessity of patience, and when we finally learn the bare details of their shared history, it’s significantly more impactful.

Structured as a film of two halves, it’s a play on a rags-to-riches tale, albeit it’s not as dramatic in the juxtaposition. We think of creativity as being full of soul and character, which is in abundance in the first half. As Matús enters high society and he finds himself in the orbit of Albert’s musical celebrity, this begins to fade. We also find ourselves lamenting how the struggle, and the film was formerly more interesting.

As our journey with Matúš reaches its conclusion, Lehotský’s modest vision can and rightfully should be appreciated. He’s a filmmaker in command of his craft, supported by Bielenia who learnt to play the cello for the role. If there’s a theme or idea that comes into bloom, it’s how transformative our encounters can be, but also our willingness to be independently minded, and pursue what will offer meaning and purpose. Plastic Symphony is about how some people belong, while others create a place to belong. It’s a simple and powerful idea worth meditating on.

Plastic Symphony has just premiered in the Official Competition of the 26th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival.