Radu Muntean’s One Floor Below is a slow burner leading to a dramatic outburst POINTS: 7 Sandu Patrascu (Teodor Corban) is a middle-aged, middle-class ordinary man. Together with his caring wife, Olga (Oxana Moravec), they have a car-registration business and a teenage son, Matei (Ionut Bora) who is into video games and spends a lot of time online. And they also have a pet: a golden retriever named Jerry. One day, on his way home, Patrascu overhears a fierce argument between young Laura (Maria Popistasu) and her next-door neighbour, Vali (Julian Postelnicu) who, like Laura, lives one floor below him. Judging from what they say, it’s easy to guess they are lovers. Precisely when Vali leaves Laura’s apartment, he sees Patrascu standing on the stairwell. They just greet each other, while Vali’s expression shows he knows his neighbour is more than aware of both the argument and the affair. Later that day, Laura is found dead. While there’s no evidence of her being murdered, it’s highly likely that that’s what happened. So the police come to the building and start interrogating all neighbours. Perhaps out of fear or indifference, Patrascu never tells the police about what he’d heard and seen. But will his conscience bear such a decision in the long run? What if Vali proves to be dangerous to him and his family as well? One Floor Below, the new film by Romanian auteur Radu Muntean (Boogie, Tuesday, after Christmas) is built upon some of the usual traits of a good deal of New Romanian Wave of cinema: a minimalist narrative with a thin storyline, a set of aesthetics anchored in extreme naturalism, a no-nonsense depiction of everyday life, an austere mise-en-scene, a very leisured pace, an observational approach to the characters’ actions and thoughts, and understated dialogue. Sometimes, as is the case here, in the very end you have a dramatic outburst bringing the slow-burner to a climax. Thematically speaking, Mun-tean’s opus is a reflection on a sense of moral and responsibility that arises from Patroscu’s dilemma: to tell or not to tell. Instead of going for a predictable psychological approach — which would have clarified much of the conflict — the focus is on the behaviour of the protagonist whose soul is far from easy to decipher. That’s why Corban’s finely calibrated performance, which takes advantage of a well-developed character, is never that revealing about what he thinks. By working with the bare essentials, the filmmaker manages to address the essence of things. In its metaphorical resonance of how a society at large responds — or doesn’t respond — to the harm done to others it will ring a universal bell. However, the level of tension is rather uneven and so the dramatic progression doesn’t always fuel the story with the necessary energy. As you watch One Floor Below, you may feel that, halfway through the second act, the formula becomes repetitive, and so you may lose some interest. In terms of the story, at times it feels there’s something missing or too much of the same thing. It’s only fair, however, to point out that the ending is quite wise, as it resignifies a central idea of the film. It’s just that perhaps it takes longer than necessary to get there and the road can occasionally be uneventful. Production notes One Floor Below (Romania, 2015). Directed by Radu Muntean. Written by Alexandru Baciu, Radu Muntean, Razvan Radulescu. With Teodor Corban, Iulian Postelnicu, Oxana Moravec, Ionut Bora, Adrian Vancica, Maria Popistasu. Cinematograpy by Tudor Lucaciu. Music by Electric Brother. Editing by Alexandru Radu. Running time: 93 minutes. @pablsuarez
“A group of hunters told us the story of Mario di Marcella, a hermit with a tragic past who lived in a cave of volcanic origin near the town of Vejano. Everybody called him “il solengo”, which is the name for the wild male boar that’s cut off from the rest of the pack. We were immediately intrigued by this man who led a primitive life in the woods for almost his entire life,” say documentary makers Alessio Rigo de Righi and Mateo Zoppis about the insightful Il Solengo, one of the true highlights of the Week of Italian Cinema, also to be commercially released tomorrow. Award-winning Il Solengo may well be about Mario di Marcella, but only on a nominal sense. Or let’s say it’s not solely or mainly about him. Even considering how intriguing this obscure figure is and how mysterious his life must have been, it’s equally intriguing to see if a portrayal of such a person can actually be drawn by those who claim they know more than a thing or two about him. We’re talking about a small group of elders, manual labourers of the Pratolungo community who share their first-hand, colourful and often contradictory anecdotes about an elusive man with a vague identity. Mario di Marcella, “il solengo”, is in fact an ever-present absence that perfectly articulates the deceptively simple narrative, a figure for others to talk about, and, in so doing, to reveal how futile it is to try to assert who someone is. They say Mario had a strange way with people. And that you never knew how he’d react when greeted. He’d only speak to kick people out of his land. He was a good swimmer, too. No one knew for a fact why he lived secluded. He was definitely extravagant, but he wasn’t crazy. Yet some say he was crazy. He was violent. Others say he wasn’t violent unless you provoked him. He was rough with people who were afraid of him. And he had a savage look, like when you run into a boar and he looks at you. And then there’s his dreadful past. People say his mum killed her husband in his sleep because he would always hit her and she just couldn’t take it any longer. She was pregnant at the time, but nonetheless was sent to jail. So Mario was born in prison and lived there until the age of seven or eight. Others claim he’d already been born by the time his mum killed his dad. And some others say it was his mum’s father who killed Mario’s dad. Some say he wasn’t actually his real dad. Go figure. Il Solengo is about the villagers themselves too — their ways of life, their beliefs and how they relate to one another. Not that they explicitly say that much about themselves, but who they are is implied in how they say what they say about others. Which is not only conveyed via the spoken word, because thanks to the pristine, moody cinematography by Simone D’Arcangelo, you get more than a glimpse of rustic Italian life. Let alone the uncanny sense of isolation it conveys when it depicts the area where Mario a.k.a. “il solengo” has spent most of his life. A few minutes before the film ends, a presence comes forward, if only partially. Let’s keep the intrigue and not elaborate on it. Suffice it to say that it brilliantly resignifies some things you already knew even as it provides the film’s most touching moment. Production notes Il Solengo (Italy, 2015). Directed by Alessio Rigo de Righi, Matteo Zoppis. Cinematography: Simone D’Arcangelo. Editing: Andrés Pepe Estrada, Alessio Rigo de Righi, Matteo Zopis. Music : Vittorio Giampietro. Running time: 68 minutes.
Alexander Sokurov’s opus sees the Louvre as a complex, broad metaphor for European civilization POINTS: 9 “What is France without the Louvre?” wonders Alexander Sokurov at a certain moment in Francofonia. And then says: “Who would we be without museums?” Both queries make more than perfect sense, precisely when he utters them. For his enthralling new opus comes across as a most perceptive historical account and a profound elegiac meditation to the Louvre during World War II, under Nazi occupation. However, Sokurov also ponders that the Eiffel Tower may represent more than just Paris, Paris may represent more than just France, and ultimately the Louvre is in a way more than the museum that pulls in more visitors than any other museum in the world. Francofonia examines the Louvre as a complex, broad metaphor for European civilization, which in turn gives way to a masterful reflection upon the timelessness of art at large. And yes, it’s all glued together seamlessly with a continuous intertwining of layers and images that eschew the frontier between fact and fiction. Just like the Russian master did in Russian Ark, which explored the hallways of St. Petersburg’s Hermitage Museum in one long take and thus covered almost 300 years of Russian history, in Francofonia — which is spoken in Russian, French, German, and English - he wanders freely inside the Louvre as his camera falls for the many striking art works, ranging from deathbed portraits of Tolstoy and Chekov to the Mona Lisa and the Winged Victory. Interspersed, there are images of the Louvre’s construction; archive footage of Parisians’ daily life under the Nazi occupation, aerial shots, encompassing pans of the Paris skyline, and newsreels showing Hitler checking out the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Elysees — among many, many other things. Even if Francofonia is more a brilliant film essay than a straight documentary, you could say that its structural narrative is anchored on the fictionalized reenactment of the relationship between Jacques Jaujard (Louis-do de Lencquesaing), the Louvre’s director and a forgotten hero whom Sokurov admires, and Count Franziskus Wolff-Metternich (Benjamin Utzerath), the highly cultured aristocratic Nazi officer and art historian designated by Hitler to supervise France’s art collection for the Nazis. Unlike many of his fellow countrymen, Jaujard never embraced retreat and didn’t leave his post. He wanted to protect the Louvre’s treasures, so by the time the Nazis came into Paris in 1940, he’d already sent a great number of the works to safe castles in France. Likewise, Metternich defied his commanders and helped Jaujard take the remaining works to other secure places across the country to save them from possible bombings, looting and deportation. So it was the fervour for art and bravery that Jaujard and Metternich shared what made a huge difference in preserving many of the Louvre’s most cherished riches. This fictionalized reenactment of the relationship between Jaujard and Metternich is elegantly filmed with a finish of old, fading film stock that adds a curious feeling of overlapping times, as you experience these scenes as if they were happening now — just like your voyage within the museum’s halls — but unlike the past imprint still photography always has. Sokurov’s voice over, which often seems to come out of a faraway place, establishes several levels of enunciation in its melancholy, self-reflecting musicality. And then there are two other rather inventive traits that come as unexpected surprises. On the one hand, you have the presence of the ghosts — so to speak — of the egotistical Napoleon Bonaparte, who keeps repeating how he invaded countries to steal their art, and Marianne, the icon of France, who represents freedom, equality, and brotherhood. On the other hand, there’s a Skype conversation that Sokurov himself has with a ship skipper who’s trying to keep afloat his ship with a cargo of precious artworks amidst a perfectly furious storm. I’m not sure both narrative devices work as well as intended. I find the figures of French nationalism being a bit overly symbolical and perhaps sort of distracting, whereas the metaphorical stance of the fate of the ship in the open sea seems either too muddy or too obvious for its own good. But it’s up to you to decide, considering how open for interpretation Francofonia is. As you’d expect coming from Sokurov, film form is top-notch in every single regard. Particularly the cinematography from Bruno Delbonnel which with much sophistication recreates the ambiance of occupied France while it scans the Louvre under the best possible light, angles, and camera movements. Because, after all, what Sokurov wants viewers to have is one singular trip down memory lane that’s ridden with pain and sadness. But it’s also a humanistic celebration of the nature of art and its power to survive, amidst the worst circumstances, thanks to the will of men working together, heart to heart. Among other things, that’s what makes it nostalgic: it’s nearly impossible to think of a united Europe nowadays, with all the ongoing wars and immigration problems. That’s perhaps the most visible political angle of Francofonia. production notes Francofonia (France-Germany-Netherlands). Directed, written by Alexander Sokurov. With Louis-Do de Lencquesaing, Benjamin Utzerath, Vincent Nemeth, Johanna Korthals Altes, Andrey Chelpanov, Jean-Claude Caer. Voices: Alexander Sokurov, Francois Smesny, Peter Lontzek. Cinematography: Bruno Delbonnel. Editing: Alexei Jankowski, Hansjorg Weissbrich. Music: Murat Kabardokov. Costume designer: Colombe Lauriot Prevost. Sound: Andre Rigault, Jac Vleeshouwer, Ansgar Frerich, Emil Klotzsch. Produced by Pierre-Olivier Bardet, Thomas Kufus, Els Vandevorst. Co-producers, Olivier Pere, Remi Burah. Running time: 88 minutes.
POINTS: 6 British actor-turned-writer/director Craig Roberts’s Just Jim is a promising debut film that ,though it doesn’t bring that much new to the scenario it covers, is shot with enormous confidence and hits quite a few right buttons — the eloquent, bleak cinematography is particularly appealing. Plus it features credible performances from a finely calibrated cast, starting Craig Roberts himself — playing the title character — and Emile Hirsch as his new friend. Jim is a 17-year-old friendless awkward teenager deemed as a loser by all his classmates. No matter how hard he tries — and he does try hard — he can’t fit in with the cool kids, who constantly bully him. That is until he meets the slightly mysterious American Dean (Emile Hirsch) who arrives in Jim’s Welsh village and becomes his neighbour. Dean, who’s reminiscent of James Dean, promises Jim he’ll change him. He’ll make him cool and popular, especially with the girls. Thing is that as the friendship evolves, Jim will see that there’s a sinister side to Dean as well. If you’ve seen Roberts in the pleasant Submarine (2010), you are already familiar with his style of awkwardness. Same thing in Just Jim: contagious quirkiness, dead pan humour, restrained emotions or no emotions at all, almost no body language, and a depressive tint permeating his everyday moods. Jim’s pretty much an island unto himself. In contrast, his classmates are extroverted and aggressive, loud and wicked, whereas his parents are somewhat outgoing, kind of dumb, and totally unaware of his sons’ needs and wants. As a coming of age story, Just Jim is pretty convincing by all accounts. Mostly because it functions on a safe and sound blueprint: the new, cool foreign guy comes into town to help the repressed teen free himself and find his true self. Only this time the uplifting story takes a slightly dark turn and does not become a Hollywood story about changing into a better version of you to fit in. Yet this is also formulaic, it’s been done before many times. Since the humour and the acting do the required tricks most of the times, you might not worry too much about seeing stuff that rings too many bells. Some scenes are better than others — the party Jim throws, the underwater sequences, the ghostly movie theatre — and yet it’s hard to find more than a couple that are genuinely surprising. Sometimes it’s too obvious you are seeing a series of interconnected gags that lack a stronger structure. Then again, Just Jim is skillfully directed in its own terms and carried along with enough energy to be moderately attractive to a certain point. In the future, with a more personal and more insightful script, Roberts is very likely to make a challenging film that dares to explore new roads. production notes Just Jim (UK, 2015). Written and directed by Craig Roberts. With Craig Roberts, Emile Hirsch, Ryan Owen, Charlotte Randall, Nia Roberts, Aneirin Hughes. Director of photography: Richard Stoddard. Production designer: Arwel Jones. Costume designer: Sian Jenkins. Editor: Stephen Haren. Music: Michael Price. Production company: Vox Pictures. Running time: 83 minutes.
“There’s some kind of female behaviour that I can see reflected in literature and cinema, and yet I find it so enigmatic in life that I felt I needed to film it. I’m fascinated by that which is irreducibly female, that which also baffles us men. I think women inhabit both sadness and happiness in a manner that’s foreign to us, they reason and behave according to a different, unpredictable, zigzagging logic,” states Argentine filmmaker Santiago Palavecino ( Otra vuelta, La vida nueva) about his latest opus Algunas chicas (Some Girls), which had its more than auspicious world première at the 2013 Venice Film Festival, and also won the Best Cinematography award in the international competition of the BAFICI that same year. And yes, Algunas chicas is all about women. Loosely based on Italian writer Cesare Pavese’s Among Women Only, Palavecino’s third opus fiercely examines female depression, seclusion, abandonment, and suicidal tendencies too. Fortunately, none of these issues are tackled from a clinical viewpoint — that would’ve been too easy to imagine. Instead, the angle here is downright existentialist, which makes the drama irresistibly volatile. The story goes like this: Celina (Cecilia Rainero) flees from a marital crisis to visit an old friend and her boyfriend who live in a house in the countryside. But the panorama is far from welcoming: her friend’s stepdaughter, Paula (Agostina López), has had a suicide attempt and is trying (not very successfully) to overcome her depression. Such news trigger unexpected, obscure memories that Cecilia won’t share with anyone, least of all Paula’s off-beat friends, Nene (Ailín Salas), who’s a bit of a psychic, and the well-to-do María (Agustina Muñoz), a nihilist per definition. Let alone the nearby small town and the thick woods, ominous and mysterious at once. Such a story can be told in a number of ways. However, not all of them would do the trick. Smartly enough, Palavecino goes for an elliptical narrative that often works wonders. Instead of asserting what’s happening and why, the filmmaker opts to suggest that the whole, if it exists as such, could only be a series of disjointed fragments linked via free association rather than rational thought. You see the signifiers, but that which is signified is, for the most part, elusive. The queries are there, and yet there are no conclusive answers of any kind. For one, Palavecino doesn’t seem to have them. Neither do the characters. What matters here is what’s left unsaid, what cannot be grasped. Consider that depression goes beyond words and cannot be discussed. Those who are depressed are absent from the world, they cannot talk about what’s happening to them. In fact, some of these women are such islands unto themselves that expressing their most intimate feelings is a true tour de force. So instead of articulate words, there are the unstable moods, the gloomy atmosphere, and the characters’ erratic behaviour. Also, there are long silences, the secrecy, and the small talk - the only possible kind of talk. Even if Algunas chicas begins on a realistic note, soon enough a surreal, dream-like air permeates it all as the inner selves of these girls surface and invade the scene — the dream sequences with the swimming-pool, and the woods’ sequence with an unknown animal (is it an animal?) are gorgeously shot, with no pretentiousness whatsoever. As the different levels of reality tend to overlap, a new and disturbingly eerie scenario unfolds. Yet the supernatural element is never presented as such. It’s just there; it’s probably been there for ages. Like the girls’ pain. As you’d expect coming from seasoned cinematographer Fernando Lockett, the cinematography is highly stylish, but it’s never ornamental. Instead, it’s a major narrative tool to express what lies at the core. And while the overall atmosphere is mostly mesmerizing, that is not to say it’s welcoming. Just like the smart sound design by Federico Esquerro and Santiago Fumagalli, which reveals an undercurrent of darkness. In this sense, voluntarily or not, Palavecino reworks some notions of David Lynch’s aesthetics with remarkable brio, without ever being self-indulgent or ostentatious. That’s to be celebrated. Production notes: Algunas chicas / Some Girls (Argentina, 2014) Written and directed by Santiago Palavecino. With Cecilia Rainero, Agostina López, Agustina Muñoz, Ailín Salas, Agustina Liendo, Alan Pauls, Juan Barberini, Pedro Merlo, Germán de Silva, Edgardo Cozarinsky. Produced by Agustina Costa Varsi, Fernando Manero, Santiago Palavecino, VOLPE FILMS. Cinematography: Fernando Lockett. Art direction: Victoria Marotta. Editing: Delfina Castagnino, Andrés Pepe Estrada. Sound: Federico Esquerro, Santiago Fumagalli. Music: Agustina Crespo. Costumes: Valentina Luppino. Running time: 100 minutes.
POINTS: 5 “Mary, as you call her, is a bigoted, blinkered, cantankerous, devious, unforgiving, self-serving, rank, rude, car-mad cow”, says British playwright Alan Bennett (Alex Jennings) about Mary, a.k.a. Margaret Shepherd, an oddball homeless old woman whom Bennet became friends with in the 1970’s prior to letting her temporarily park her Bedford yellow van in his Camden home driveway. She ended up staying there for 15 years. Described by Bennet as “mostly true”, her singular tale was adapted from his memoir into The Lady in the Van, a play starring Maggie Smith back in 1999. Such a play has now become a film of the same name directed by Nicholas Hytner (The Madness of King George, The History Boys) with, of course, Maggie Smith playing the lead. Among other things, Miss Sheperd is a very well educated woman; she was a talented pupil of a famed pianist (she even played Chopin at a concert), drove an ambulance during the blackout, was a non-conformist novice who never became a nun, became an intern committed to a mental asylum by her next of kin, and was also an unfortunate party in a car accident that marked her for life. There’s much more to the life of this unusual character, but should you see The Lady in the Van, then you’ll find out all about her. The question is whether the film is actually as gripping as its title character. I’m afraid it’s not. Which is not to say it’s a total mess. For starters, you have Maggie Smith’s finely calibrated performance. We all know this actress does wonders practically under all circumstances. She’s the only merit of the lame My Old Lady, the weak Keeping Mum, or the lousy Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood — among other flops. As for the other features she starred in, you have the outstanding Gosford Park, the affable Murder By Death, the likable Death on the Nile and Evil Under the Sun, the posh A Room With a View, some engaging outings in the Harry Potter series, the giddy Exotic Hotel Marigold, and needless to say, the successful TV series Downtown Abbey. In The Lady in the Van, she gives Miss Sheperd some unexpected nuances, prevents her from becoming too likable for her own good, infuses her with a believable dose of suffering for her doings, and almost never goes overboard. She turns her into an aggressive and weak creature at once, a woman with a dark past, an uncertain present and no future at all. However, it too often feels like she’s silently struggling against Bennet’s writing and Hytner’s coaching to render a more sugarcoated, less complex character. There’s seldom a streak of meanness or disdain in her, not a shadow of resentment or madness (the fact that she defecated in the driveway doesn’t necessarily equal ugliness since that is treated with convenient humour). And there’s an undercurrent of sadness and loss in Miss Shepherd’s otherwise perky nature that’s never quite fully explored. For that matter, Bennet and Hytner merely scratch the surface of many of the themes they address. Hence, great dramatic potential is sadly buried. Then there’s the sentimental, corny edge that invades the film from time to time in a very blunt manner. As when she is with her wheelchair at full speed, arms open to the wind, Bennet running after her, and both of them laughing as they celebrate life — or something like that. Or the insufferable, ever present musical score punctuating meaningful moments. And the trick of having Bennet divided into two selves, the writer and the man, seen in the same room talking about art and life is less than original and unnecessarily contrived. By the way, their dialogue is meant to be inspired, with lines such as: “I learned there is no such thing as marking time, and that time marks you”, and let’s be frank, that’s not inspired at all. It’s just hollow. On the other hand, there are times when the dialogue is not meant to be enlightening and so it’s actually effective and credible: “Alan Bennett: ‘I bought you these.’ Miss Shepherd: ‘Flowers? What do I want with flowers? They... They only die. I’ve got enough on my plate without flowers.’” To some viewers, The Lady in the Van will do the trick for it’s safe and sound and makes the most, even with its mistakes, of Maggie Smith’s performance. To more discerning viewers, it just won’t for it’s far from being the real thing. And it shows. production notes The Lady in the Van (UK, 2015) Directed by Nicholas Hytner. Written by Alan Bennett. With Maggie Smith, Alex Jennings, Jim Broadbent, Frances De La Tour, Roger Allam, Deborah Findlay. Production: BBC Films, TriStar Productions. Director of photography: Andrew Dunn. Production designer: John Beard.Editor: Tariq Anwar. Costume designer: Natalie Ward. Composer: George Fenton. Running time: 103 minutes.
Catherine Corsini’s La belle saison’s triumph is due to the actresses’ performances POINTS: 7 It’s 1971, in France. Delphine (Izia Higelin) is a young farm girl living in the south of the country with her parents. She helps her father (Jean-Henri Compère) in the many chores of the farm. In secrecy, Delphine has been seeing a girl her age, but the relationship won’t last long since her girlfriend is about to marry a man she barely knows — needless to say, because of parental and social mandates. Tired of putting up with a double life, Delphine decides to leave her town and move to Paris. She gets a job and a place to live, and eventually meets Carole (Cécile de France), an older girl and an active feminist militant whom she soon falls for. But she won’t reveal her feelings to her yet, first she has to find the right moment. In the meantime, she starts attending feminist meetings and a whole new world opens up to her. In due time — when and how won’t be disclosed here — a love story between Delphine and Carole begins to blossom. Bliss wasn’t that hard to find, after all. That is until a most unfortunate emergency takes place at Delphine’s farm. Now things are about to change, and not for the better. Winner of the Variety Piazza Grande Award at the Locarno Film Festival, La belle saison, the new film by Catherine Corsini has the social and political feminist movements of the early 1970’s as a backdrop to focus on the tender and passionate love affair with an appropriate melodramatic edge — the filmmaker had already successfully tackled melodrama in Partir (2009), which unlike many of her films, was commercially released locally. This time, she goes for a more linear story than the ones this genre usually features, but with its intensity. And it’s a wise decision to depict the fundamental issues of those times by following the girls’ story instead of by making what you could call a militant, strictly political film — which would’ve been easier and prosaic. Hence Corsini explores a lesbian romance with a lively, unrepentant spirit that goes hand in hand with love scenes where French kisses acquire a whole new meaning. While watching La belle saison, I was reminded of Milos Forman’s Hair (1979), mostly because both films have a free-spirited air of impertinence, as well as a few common issues in their ideological agenda. Certainly, Corsini’s film is never a musical, yet it boasts a handful of scenes where music plays a narrative role in expressing the couple’s emotions in a very contagious manner. Much of the film’s triumph is due to the actresses’ performances, which render complex, nuanced characters out of otherwise simple girls with no particular distinctive traits. Credit is also due to Noémie Lvovsky, who plays Delphine’s mother with an admirable emotional range, as she is both a victim of moral and social prejudice and a mother who loves her daughter dearly. In fact, if I had to single out the biggest achievement in La belle saison, I’d say that’s its feeling of complete genuineness. production notes Tiempo de revelaciones / Summertime/ La belle saison (France, 2015) Directed by Catherine Corsini. Written by Catherine Corsini, Laurette Polmanss. With Cécile de France, Izïa Higelin, Noémie Lvovsky, Kévin Azaïs, Laetitia Dosch, Benjamin Bellecour, Eloïse Genet, Patrice Tepasso. Music: Grégoire Hetzel. Cinematography: Jeanne Lapoirie. Produced by haz Producciones / France 3 Cinéma / Artémis Productions / Canal + / Naranja Cine Series / France Télévisions. Running time: 105 minutes. @pablsuarez
Rampling and Courtenay deservedly won the Silver Bear at last year's Berlinale for their performances POINTS: 8 It’s Charlotte Rampling what and who you will remember the most long after seeing Andrew Haigh’s seductively understated 45 years, an account of a week in the life of a blissfully happy long-married couple preparing to celebrate their 45th anniversary and who face unforeseen news which could change their lives forever. I don’t mean what they actually do in their lives — walks with the dog, meetings with friends, afternoon tea, book reading — but what goes on inside their hearts and souls. Above all, inside those of Kate, the graceful retired schoolteacher played by Rampling. For it is her shaken expression captured by the camera in the final shot what’s most revealing of uncertain times soon to come. Tom Courtenay who plays Geoff, a retired factory manager, is as convincing as Rampling is, and in a sense he carries on his shoulders a more difficult role — Kate, as British as she may be, still conveys a certain degree of what she feels, whereas Geoff is ever elusive, apparently naïve to the commotion that an unpredicted blast from the past brings to the meaning of their everlasting love. More than deservedly enough, both actors won the Silver Bear for Best Actress and Best Actor al last year’s Berlin Film Festival. Kate and Geoff are a well-learned, middle-class couple who’ve been together for — yes — 45 years. Some people can actually do that and even be happy — and I’m not being sarcastic at all. They’ve had their ups and downs just like any couple and it’s not like they stem that sort of glossy, manufactured happiness typical of a US couple from the ‘50s. You can sense their life together is real and that they’ve worked hard to earn what they have. They don’t have any children — and this will later on in the plot prove to be no small detail. On a given afternoon, their pleasurable present together is invaded by shocking news in the shape of a letter from Switzerland. The dead body of Katya, a former girlfriend of Geoff who had died in a mountaineering accident while they were on a trip together 50 years ago, has been found and recovered from a glacier, almost intact, wearing the same clothes and all. The authorities in charge contacted Geoff for they believe he is the next of kin. You can imagine all the sorts of questions that may arise from such a situation. Now try to imagine how this couple will try to answer them — whenever possible, that is. Could Kate possibly remain indifferent to knowing more about Katya? For her sake or for the couple’s, should she? What place did Katya actually have in Geoff’s life? She knows about her because he’d told she was his girlfriend and he’d told her about the accident when they met — yet never in detail. Because, upon closer look, what Katya meant to Geoff is to affect what Kate has meant to him as well. Consider it from Kate’s perspective. The past is never frozen, and though the metaphor of the body rescued from the iceberg could sound too blunt, it actually isn’t. For writer and director Haigh, who adapted David Constantine’s short story In Another Country for 45 years, never makes an issue of it in a melodramatic way. He simply states his very acute emotional gaze upon what this triggers in the couple in a matter of fact manner and places. He could have, of course, resorted to melodrama and that wouldn’t have been necessarily wrong — we all love a good old tearjerker. But I find that the material the filmmaker is dealing with here is better explored in the vein of a fine, intimate drama that won’t tell viewers that much about what happens, once again, inside stirring hearts and afflicted souls. There’s a particularly shattering scene. Kate has managed to get a hold of a box of old slides and by herself starts viewing them, until she reaches one that shows something different from the rest. I mean the scenario is the same, the composition is basically the same, the lighting is the same; and yet there’s one crucial difference. When Kate realizes what she’s actually seeing, time freezes. It’s like when you see that one detail in the big picture and then the big picture can’t ever be the same. Ever. Haigh is relatively well known for Weekend, the enticing story of a sexual encounter between two young gay men which ends up being more than just sex. Though slightly overrated, Weekend is nonetheless a mastery of subtlety, minor gestures and emotional honesty. In my view, with 45 years Haigh has outdone himself into a work of a deeper resonance and far more nuances. This is the type of movie that stays with you for years to come. Production otes 45 years (UK, 2015) Written and directed by Andrew Haigh. With Charlotte Rampling, Tom Courtenay, Geraldine James, Dolly Wells. Cinematographer: Lol Crawley. Editor: Jonathan Alberts. Produced by The Bureau, Tristan Goligher. Running time: 93 minutes.
Tiempo muerto (Dead Time), the Argentine-Colombian co-production written and directed by Víctor Postiglione, tells the story of Franco (Guillermo Pfening), a man in his thirties who is shattered into pieces when his loving wife, Julia (María Nela Sinisterra), dies in a car accident. The idea of not seeing her again is too overwhelming and so he feels his life has no meaning anymore. Desperate, he is drawn into the power of an urban legend which says that a strange man has the power to make you travel back in time so that you get to have one last moment with your loved one. Such phenomenon is called tiempo muerto (dead time). Sooner than later, Franco meets the mysterious man in question and embarks himself into this time warp experience. Before doing so, he is told not to try to modify the past at any cost. But how is he supposed to accept that when he realizes he can bring her back from the dead? While not original, the overall premise of Tiempo muerto could be good enough to deliver a merely average feature. Thing is that considering you’ve seen this kind of stuff before, then its execution is what really matters — as is the case with all films who rely strictly on a safe formula. Within the conventions, a sense of suspense and a minimum degree of unpredictability are mandatory. And characters that can be described with more than two or three words are also a must; or at least performances that can turn sketched figures into something more gripping. Remember this is also meant to be a drama. Too bad you won’t find much of any of these things in Postiglione’s film. Consider there’s not much here other than the twists and turns of the plot itself and if too early in the film you can already guess all that there’s yet to come, then boredom is bound to take over. And suspense doesn’t mean to resort to intendedly tense incidental music in an obvious and repetitive manner. A dose of fair surprises is also necessary, which you don’t have here. So in the end what you watch is too much dead time even if things do happen. Call it a paradox of time travelling... Technical credits are fine, mostly the cinematography — both in terms of composition and lighting. Aesthetically speaking, the visuals for the past aren’t exactly alluring, but they are not a mess either. Even with these achievements, Tiempo muerto falls below average for this subgenre. production notes Tiempo muerto (Argentina / Colombia 2016) Written and directed by Víctor Postiglione. With Guillermo Pfening, María Nela Sinisterra, Luis Luque, María Eugenia Arboleda, Claudio Cataño, Consuelo Luzardo. Produced by Mauricio Brunetti, Nastassja Bischitz, Deisy Marroquin. Running time: 102 minutes.
Nessuno si salva da solo (You Can’t Save Yourself Alone), directed by Sergio Castellito, tells the story of Gaetano (Riccardo Scamarcio) and Delia (Jasmine Trinca), a broken couple that meets for dinner and to discuss their children’s imminent holidays. As expected, such an occasion prompts them to think about their relationship’s origins as well as the faults and mistakes made along the way. Remembrances come and go, good and bad times, the agony and the bliss altogether in a series of recollections. By the end of the evening, they might not be happier, but they will have learned something important about themselves. The main problem with Castellito’s feature is not necessarily its overworked formula to tackle the history of a romantic relationship gone awry. Of course, having two people sitting for dinner to talk to explain viewers what happened to them is not exactly the best possible departure point. Even with the flashbacks, the whole narrative structure feels too static and lifeless. But in the hands of a talented director, with the right actors, engaging dialogue and moderately inspired scenes from a marriage, the result could’ve been decent enough. But Nessuno si salva da solo can’t do such a trick. It’s not a total disaster, that’s for sure, but it’s frustrating nonetheless. It’s not much of an insightful or personal exploration into what made this couple fall in love and then fall out of love. For an anatomy of a separation, it lacks a distinctive gaze. It even has a too soft approach to complex circumstances. So you get the usual scenes depicting a somewhat workaholic husband — and also a cheater — with his devoted wife, also a somewhat fragile woman at times. He’s good looking, has a good heart despite his flaws, manages to be a decent father for most of the time, and often makes wrong decisions that leave his wife out of the picture. She is pretty and luminous, shy at first but then self assured. She’s a good mother, puts up with the marriage’s frustrations and still loves her husband. In the end, they still love one another, but they just can’t be happy together. In formal terms, think of your average TV movie and you’ll have an idea of what Nessuno si salva da solo looks like. That is to say, it has a rather flat mise-en-scene, pretty motionless camerawork, merely correct photography and unexpressive sound design — except for the musical score, which is pretty annoying. And while the actors do their best to give some credibility to their lines, the truth is that this is the kind of dialogue that spells out almost everything to viewers and doesn’t have much of a subtext. In addition, famed actress Angela Molina shows up in the film’s last 20 minutes or so, in a role that’s as underwritten as it’s artificial. production notes Nessuno si salva da solo / You can’t save yourself alone (Italy, 2015). Directed by Sergio Castellito. Written by Margaret Mazzantini. With Riccardo Scamarcio, Jasmine Trinca, Anna Galiena, Marina Rocco, Massimo Bonetti, Valentina Cenni, Massimo Ciavarro. Cinematography: Gian Filippo Corticelli. Editing: Chiara Vullo. Running time: 103 minutes.