By Pablo Suárez For the Herald POINTS: 6 “The role assigned to film distributors allows them to be in direct contact with the main players of the industry, so they usually have a privileged panorama of the state of things. And film distributor Pascual Condito has all the elements to be a good host at the time of exploring this universe in an intimate manner. His strong personality, the peculiar way he works, his passion for cinema, it all made him an outstanding personality within the industry,” says Argentine filmmaker Marcos Martínez (Estrellas, Sordo) about his new documentary Tras la pantalla, an engaging portrayal of a unique persona whose love for movies has translated into bringing to theatres hundreds of Argentine movies as well as the finest samples of foreign art house fare. Two years ago, Condito announced he was retiring because the ongoing battle to keep alive a business constantly threatened by US blockbusters was bad for his health. But he didn’t retire. Instead, he downsized and kept on working in a different place, as the building on Riobamba Street where he had his office was to be demolished. A legendary building because many layers of the cinema arena were established there: a film lab, another film lab, some historical film distributors, the former National Film Board INCAA’s rating office, which saw the first screenings of Bernardo Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris, just to mention one example. Martínez’s unobtrusive camera films Condito in his everyday routine and we get to see him argue vehemently with film exhibitors who want to favour US mainstream features rather than the type of cinema he’s worked for all his life. It’s no news that although some 150 Argentine movies are produced yearly, only a very small percentage reaches the viewers it needs and deserves, since Hollywood commercial cinema floods the market in what Condito calls “a true massacre.” And he’s absolutely right. He’s tattooed the face of Totó, the protagonist of Tornatore’s famous Cinema Paradiso, on his arm, has long thought of making a film of his own, has had cameos in over 60 Argentine films — and says he won’t stop until reaching 100 — and though he’s quick-tempered and kind of grumpy, you can easily see that, deep down, he still is the same kid who was totally mesmerized by the first film he saw, a western. Come to think of it, he’s a warrior and an unsung hero, too. Tras la pantalla gives an accurate description of the local scene with its ups and downs, joys and hardships, and it includes snippets of conversations with film critics Diego Trerotola, Javier Porta Fouz, Hernán Guerschuny, Pablo Udenio, and Fernando Martín Peña, with filmmakers Raúl Perrone and Lisandro Alonso and screenwriter Pablo Solarz. It all adds up to a multifaceted, colourful depiction of a little-known side of movie business. It’s only fair to point out that, considering how rich this material is, there’s some considerable potential left unexplored. Sometimes key topics are just addressed and not fully examined, or some scenes are cut short when they could have given way to more insightful discovery. But it’s also true that this panoramic view works fine for the most part and what’s more important, it captures Condito as a true character who’s not acting for the camera, but instead being himself. Which is to be celebrated. Production notes Tras la pantalla (Argentina, 2015). Written and directed by Marcos Martínez. Cinematography: Sebastián Menassé. Editing: Andrés Tambornino. Running time: 64 minutes. @pablsuarez
Outcast superheroes face danger in Greater BA By Pablo Suarez POINTS: 8 Local genre piece Kryptonita mixes sins with redemption in show of craftsmanship Faithfully adapted from the novel by Argentine writer Leonardo Oyola, Kryptonita is the new film by Nicanor Loreti, whose debut feature, the gory Diablo (2011), a prime work of local horror cinema, was far more than a pleasant surprise in a genre seldom tackled successfully by local filmmakers. And the same could be said of Kryptonita: it’s as much the work of an inspired auteur as it is an accomplished genre piece — even if that might sound contradictory. More precisely, Kryptonita depicts a local urban universe within the mould of a superheroes movie, no less. It’s mainstream, but also art house. And we’re not talking about your conventional superheroes. Instead, think of a gang of delinquents from La Matanza, Greater BA, who are led by Nafta Súper (Juan Palomino), an atypical superhero who’s nearly fatally injured after an attack, and is then taken to the emergency room of a public hospital where a worn-out, pessimistic doctor (Diego Velázquez) and his nurse (Susana Varela) will have to save his life, no matter what, as ordered by the criminals. Other members of the gang include transgender wonder-woman Lady Di (Lautaro Delgado), Juan Raro (Carca), Ráfaga (Diego Cremonesi), Faisán (Nico Vázquez), his girlfriend (Sofía Palomino) and El Señor de la Noche (Pablo Rago). And there are, of course, the dirty cops played by Luis Ziembrowski and Diego Capusotto, who want to take down the gang at any cost. As the Doctor tries to save Nafta Súper’s life, through flashbacks we learn some bits and pieces about the past and present of the superhero, as well as about past events where he proved how invincible he is. That is, invincible so far because he may not make it this time. As Loreti himself acknowledged, Kryptonita has a setting familiar to fans of John Carpenter: a group of characters is locked in a house, a police station, an island, or a building, and are attacked by outside forces who want to destroy them. Echoes of Carpenter’s Assault on Precint 13th abound as well as stylistic flourishes and imagery from the likes of Robert Rodríguez and Quentin Tarantino. Special credit goes to cinematographer Mariano Suárez, whose camerawork and lighting design create and convey an atmosphere of bleakness. In the flashback sequences, the fast and nervous editing by Loreti and Francisco Freixá alongside the inventive F/X by Andrés Borghi render a very appealing sense of surreal reality. Then there’s the eloquent musical score by Darío Georges, which enhances the ambiance of turmoil, and the art direction by Catalina Oliva and Laura Cacherosky which turns an otherwise ordinary emergency room into an urban shelter. Unlike Hollywood mega-productions which strive harder and harder to dazzle viewers with sophisticated F/X, Kryptonita smartly utilizes its moderate budget to deliver the most with what’s available and turns visual tricks into a show of craftsmanship. More interesting is the fact that the focus is on the characters and their ordeal in becoming unwanted and unsung heroes. Because the fantastique is the vessel for a story anchored in human bonds and affections — the monologue by Lady Di is frankly moving — in the vein of realism and not without a good dose of social commentary. Loreti knows better than having a condescending, patronizing view of his outcasts, and he never portrays them as victims of the establishment — although it’s plainly clear that he has an emphatic outlook. And it makes sense, considering they all make up a family with their own codes where honesty and justice prevail above everything else. For treason and cruelty, you have the cops. So Kryptonita opens up a new path within a genre that still needs much development in Argentina. Just like he did in Diablo, Loreti mixes drama with action, humanity with hostility, and sins with redemption. And it all works to superb effect. production notes Kryptonita (Argentina, 2015) Directed by Nicanor Loreti. Written by Nicanor Loreti and Camilo De Cabo, based on the novel by Ignacio Oyola. With Diego Velázquez, Juan Palomino, Pablo Rago, Lautaro Delgado, Diego Cremonessi, Diego Capusotto, Luiz Ziembrowski, Sebastián De Caro, Nicolás Vázquez, Carca, Susana Varela, Sofía Palomino, Pablo Pinto. Cinematography: Mariano Suárez. Editing: Nicanor Loreti, Francisco Freixá. Running time: 80 minutes. @pablsuarez
Zulu is one of those effective thrillers with a crime story and a political backdrop that nonetheless falls somewhat short considering its potential. That said, it’s equally true that some of its assets — the performances, the action-packed scenes, the killings — partly make up for what seems to be missing. Set in Capetown, in today’s South Africa, Zulu tells a rather formulaic story: a young white woman is found brutally murdered, apparently in connection to the use of a new illegal drug. So police officers Ali Sokhela (Forest Whitaker) and Brian Epkeen (Orlando Bloom) are assigned to the case. Eventually, they’ll be joined by agent Dan Fletcher (Conrad Kemp), who may not be as tough as Ali and Brian, but is more than eager to find the killer. Now, the political angle is introduced via Ali’s past: as a young boy, he saw his father burned alive by white men in 1978 during the apartheid (enter an appalling flashback), but as a grown man he feels that for a society to heal forgiveness is better than revenge — though his convictions are bound to change if the wrong guys do their evil deeds. Also, there’s the disappearance of black street children, quite possibly related to the killing of the young woman and the new illegal drug. In the end, Salle’s opus is a good cops vs. mean drug dealers movie, as the political backdrop is not examined in all its complexity. It’s brought to the fore every now and then, but it doesn’t have much weight in the main plot, which basically has to do with how the three policemen deal with the scenario. Brian is usually on the verge of drunkenness, is separated, has a bad relationship with both his son and his ex-wife, and sleeps around as much as he can. Dan is a family man with two children and a caring wife who has cancer and yet has an uplifting attitude towards life. And Ali, of course, is the central character who embodies the scars left by apartheid, and whose actions define much of what happens in the story. As far as the characters go, they are quite developed for a film of this type. You believe they are real people, and not cardboard figures. Of course, that the performances are convincing, even with a couple of flaws here and there, is of much help. And then there are the action-packed scenes, the bloody shootouts, the brutal killings and the beatings. With remarkable camerawork, brisk editing, and an expressive sound design, the film’s pulse never fails, not by an inch. Nerve-wracking at times and suspenseful at others, Zulu is directed with assurance and it shows. Not that it’s extraordinary, but it does deliver in most accounts and it’s moderately entertaining. Production notes Zulu (France, South Africa, 2013) Directed by Jerome Salle. Written by Jerome Salle, Julien Rappeneau, based on a novel by Caryl Ferey. With Orlando Bloom, Forest Whitaker, Conrad Kemp. Cinematography: Denis Rouden. Editing: Stan Collet. Running time: 110 minutes.
Absorbing courtroom drama follows a woman’s Kafkaesque struggle to break loose Featured in Cannes’ Directors’ Fortnight in 2014 and winner of the Silver Hugo Award for Best Script at the Chicago Film Festival and the Otra Mirada Award at San Sebastián, Gett: the Trial of Viviane Almsalem is a powerful courtroom drama written and directed by siblings Ronit and Shlomi Elkabetz. The two main characters, Viviane (Ronit Elkabetz, yes, she plays the lead too) and Elisha (Simon Abkarian) first appeared in To Take a Wife, when Viviane decided she would put an end to a barren 20-year marriage. Then the Elkabetzes followed their story in The Seven Days, in which the couple started to separate — and eventually did. And now, in this third part, Viviane is determined to have her husband give her a divorce. But considering the state of affairs regarding marriage and divorce in Israel, Viviane’s struggle for freedom will be far too difficult — and that’s an understatement. No matter how much she may be in the right, the judges from the Orthodox rabbinical courts won’t side with her. In Israel, civil marriage and civil divorce simply don’t exist, and so only rabbis can validate a marriage or its dissolution. Yet for a woman to get divorced, she must have total consent from her husband, strong grounds are mandatory, and sentiments are left out of the picture, of course. See, the fact that Viviane doesn’t love her husband anymore — and perhaps never did — doesn’t count in the slightest. She’s been applying for a divorce for some three years, but her husband won’t give in. The more she and her lawyer try to convince the judges that she has an undeniable right to her freedom, the worse her situation gets. But don’t think that this is a black and white situation for even the judges sometimes contradict themselves, and are all ambivalent towards this particular case. More to the point, the filmmakers know better than to demonize the bad guys and turn the good ones into saints. For a film set completely in the courtroom, it is as dynamic as it gets, not only because of the smooth, invisible editing, but also — and perhaps even more so — because of how well written and articulate the screenplay is. Even if you are not familiar with how these things are in real life, the whole process is believable. Nothing feels forced, out of place, discursive, or artificial. So no wonder you get hooked from the very beginning. And you don’t need to have seen the two previous films to understand this last outing. Mostly shot in close-ups, two-shots, and medium long shots, Gett: the Trial of Viviane Almsalem may remind you of Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, and not necessarily because of its aesthetics — to which it bears only a slight resemblance — but mainly due to the suffering and torment Viviane endures at the hands of the judges, her husband, and her husband’s lawyer. And, of course, the fact that the performances are perfectly calibrated to the tiniest detail — that of Roni Elkabetz is simply riveting — is very helpful to achieve a remarkable sense of truth and realism. Which leads me to the award-winning A Separation, by Asghar Farhad, another intense courtroom drama that also excels cinematically in every regard. In comparison, the Elkabetzes’ film is more conventional, let’s say it’s filmed more by the book. Yet both of them convey the complex circumstances without an inch of oversimplification. Something that’s clearly easier said than done. One more thing: this is the kind of film that doesn’t drag for a single minute and in which everything said matters as much as that which is left unsaid. So be prepared for a cinematic experience that demands close attention, and in turn provides much gratification. Production notes Gett: the Trial of Vivian Almsalem (Israel, France, Germany, 2014). Written and directed by Ronit Elkabetz, Shlomi Elkabetz. With Ronit Elkabetz, Menashe Noy, Simon Abkarian, Sasson Gabay, Eli Gorstein, Gabi Amrani, Rami Danon. Cinematography : Jeanne Lapoirie. Editing: Joelle Alexis. Music: Michael Eckelt, Remi Burah, Olivier Pere. Running time: 110 minutes.
Articulate documentary delivers wild story of political and industrial espionage The astute Argentine documentary El Crazy Che, directed by Nicolás Iacouzzi and Pablo Chehebar, tells a real life story that could have easily been turned into a tortuous spy film like the ones we all like so much. It tells the story of Guillermo “Bill” Gaede, an Argentine engineer born in Lanús who, during the Cold War and onwards, stole secrets about computer-chip technology from companies in the US such as AMD and INTEL and passed them to the governments of Cuba, China, Iran, and Russia. More precisely, Gaede was responsible for one of the largest — if not the largest — dollar losses ever seen in a high-tech case. We’re talking about US$20 million. Not only that: Gaede eventually switched sides and became an FBI informant and a double agent. And that’s as much as you need to know for it’s best to discover Gaede’s story, with its many twists and turns, as you watch Iacouzzi’s and Chehebar’s documentary. Not that it plays out like a thriller, which is doesn’t, but nonetheless it hinges on suspense and surprise to tell a story that is as erratic as it is unprecedented. As you start watching El Crazy Che, you may think you know what’s going to happen and how it’s going to end, and you’d be dead wrong. The story is intricate, complex and with plenty of information left and right. So in the hands of unskilled filmmakers, the narrative would’ve certainly been confusing and muddy, zigzagging but not for its own good. Fortunately, that’s not the case here. Nicolás Iacouzzi and Pablo Chehebar have created a very articulate, very well organized script which guides viewers into this unknown universe while showing the traits of a unique man who did everything he did out of political conviction. And not for money, as you’d expect. By resorting to archive footage, informal interviews, appealing animated sequences and useful reenactments, the filmmakers devise a frame from which Bill Gaede emerges — both as a character and a real life fellow. These many resources are utilized just as much as they are needed, never less or more. And it is this precision that also marks the rhythm of the film thanks to its finely tuned editing. Perhaps the most interesting testimony is that of Bill Gaede, who speaks to the camera very informally, sometimes with a mischievous smile, as if he’d been a bad boy. Never solemn or redundant, El Crazy Che’s story is sometimes so farfetched that it makes you wonder if it really happened the way it’s narrated in the film. Who knows? Most importantly, while watching the movie you may recall the stories by Ian Fleming, which gave way to so many James Bond movies. So I guess you can think of Bill Gaede as an Argentine version of the world famous spy. Especially because just like in James Bond movies, there’s a biting sense of humour here, even if underlying the drama and not out in the open. By the way, El Crazy Che was featured at the Panorama section of BAFICI 2015, where it received a good response from critics and general audiences. Production notes El Crazy Che (Argentina, 2015). Directed by Nicolás Iacouzzi, Pablo Chehebar. With Guillermo Bill Gaede, Alejandro Gaede, Esteban Rubinstein, Ricardo Saenz, Esteban Carag-umechian, Etsuko Gaede, Brad Krupsaw, Liliana Fraigi. Cinematography: Alan Badan, Pablo Chehebar, Nicolás Iacouzzi. Editing: Nicolás Iacouzzi, Pablo Chehebar. Drawings: Jorge Conde, Rodrigo Tabarez, Rodolfo Suarez. Animated sequences: Pablo Chehebar, Esteban Debonis, Nicolas Iacouzzi. Running time: 87 minutes.
Testigo íntimo (Intimate Witness), the new film by Argentine filmmaker Santiago Fernández Calvete, follows four characters tangled in a web of deceit and lies as they try to make their hidden wishes come true. There’s Facundo (Felipe Colombo), a smart, young lawyer on the rise who works for his mother-in-law (Graciela Alfano), an influential and dominant established lawyer. Apparently, Facundo has a normal life, and yet he’s cheating on his wife, Ángeles (Evangelina Cueto) with no less than his brother’s girlfriend, Violeta (Guadalupe Docampo). The thing is that it doesn’t take long for Facundo’s brother, Rafael (Leonardo Saggese), a boxing fan, to find out his girlfriend is cheating on him and with whom. So it’s only a matter of time until the cheaters are caught in the act. But an unfortunate event takes the brothers by surprise: Violeta is found dead in her home. And there are no traces of the possible killer. Rafael thinks Facundo might have done it, and Facundo feels Rafael is the guilty one. Either way, they are both stuck with Violeta’s corpse at home. And this is only the beginning of a long and winding road. Like the effective horror feature La segunda muerte, Fernández Calvete’s debut film, Testigo íntimo also has a good cinematography that conveys both an asphyxiating sense of space and an air of sordidness. Well-framed compositions and the right shades express the tribulations of these characters left to their own devices. And while the incidental music, as well as the overall sound designs, often proves to be ominous, other times it just doesn’t do the trick for it feels repetitive and unnecessary. The plot itself plays out in a very straightforward manner, with few surprises and insights but hitting most of the right notes nonetheless. It’s all done by the book, but that doesn’t make it any less efficient. Performances are basically correct, with some missteps here and there, and with some scenes where Felipe Colombo and Leonardo Saggese do a good job. Their algid confrontations do ring true and generate some nervousness. Upon solving the crime, the scenario does make sense, but further development of some parts of the story would’ve been welcome — just like more tension and suspense would’ve made a difference for the better.
After run in festivals, Favula and Ragazzi will screen in BA at Sala Lugones, MALBA At the recent edition of the Valdivia Film Festival, maverick Argentine filmmaker Raúl Perrone premiered his new film Samuray-S, a poetic and absorbing take on three stories involving samurais, love, revenge and death. Shot in austere black and white, with heavy traces of expressionism and surrealism, no direct sound, no dialogue and only some subtitles when exactingly needed, Samuray-S proved to be yet another significant turning point in his always innovative body of work. Many Argentines and international guests had a privileged chance to enjoy it recently at the Mar del Plata Film Festival, where it ran in the Latin American Competition. And while Samuray-S is yet to be released in the Buenos Aires art house circuit, the good news is that Perrone’s previous two films, Favula and Ragazzi, will now be screened at the emblematic Sala Lugones and the MALBA. Favula had its world premiere at last year’s Locarno film festival and was then screened at Mar del Plata, Valdivia, Jeonju, Hamburg, and Viña del Mar, where it won the prize of the International Jury of Critics. Ragazzi was first screened at the Rome Film Festival, and then at the BAFICI, Sao Paulo, Cartagena, Pachamama, and Las Palmas. You could say that Favula is a surreal, magical film, a poetic fable ... and you’d be dead right. Like Perrone’s latest features, it defies standard synopsis for it mostly belongs to a very personal trend of non-narrative cinema, but not completely since a minimal story is narrated. So let’s just say that it takes place in an enchanted jungle of sorts, also a sensual and dangerous milieu where the characters find one another, get lost, and then get to meet again. There’s a mean woman (who may be a witch that sometimes turns into a tiger), her wicked husband (a zombie-like character that may be involved with the military dictatorship), two hideous men, a good-looking and pure young man and a pristine teen girl, that is to say the two suffering heroes who make for so much darkness. Eventually, another teen girl comes to their aid. Soon, the bad guys — the woman, her husband, and the two evil men — do their wicked deeds, the good guys are in danger and a shoot-out ensues. Fortunately, the mysterious surroundings, with its waterfall, storm and rain, protects the pure souls in their frantic escape. The film was shot entirely inside a studio in an abandoned factory, in alluring black and white and back projection, with very, very little dialogue conveyed in an unidentified language — sometimes with subtitles, other times without them. With a trance-like cinematography that stresses textures, shapes and layers, alongside a continuous yet eclectic musical score, Favula is a work of unique appeal that goes beyond predetermined cinematic boundaries, even those Perrone had set for himself in the past. Then, there’s Ragazzi. It’s a film narrated in two consecutive movements, which first focuses on the last day in the life of famed Italian filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini, who was brutally murdered under mysterious circumstances on November 2, 1975. A hustler (ragazzo in Italian) was eventually convicted for the murder. It should be noted that Ragazzi doesn’t mean to reconstruct the true facts surrounding Pasolini’s death, but it’s instead a personal interpretation. In fact, Perrone stands on the teenage killer’s side, whom he also portrays as a victim. The second movement exposes, in a meditative manner, some seemingly ordinary moments in the day of a group of young cardboard collectors and a teenage girl after a hard day’s work. As they swim, sunbathe and goof around in the river, they inhabit their own private world where any kind of future is out of sight. Once again, the dialogue is subtitled, but this time is spoken backwards, as a shimmering black-and-white cinematography envelops it all. As for the musical score, Perrone once again intervenes renowned tunes in instrumental versions. So expect personal versions of Stairway to Heaven, Angie, and Imagine, among others. As in Favula, inventively superimposed images add up to a loose sense of storytelling and turn the film into more of a dreamlike contemplative cinematic experience than just a movie to be merely watched. In fact, Favula and Ragazzi — and the mind-blowing P3nd3jo5 before them — rework the aesthetics of silent cinema, mainly the auteur works of the 1920s and 30s, deeply admired by Perrone. When and where Sala Lugones (Av. Corrientes 1530). Thursday to Sunday at 2:30pm and 7:30pm (Favula), 5pm and 10pm (Ragazzi). MALBA (Av. Figueroa Alcorta 3415). Fridays at 8pm (Favula) and 9:30pm (Ragazzi).
fter run in festivals, Favula and Ragazzi will screen in BA at Sala Lugones, MALBA At the recent edition of the Valdivia Film Festival, maverick Argentine filmmaker Raúl Perrone premiered his new film Samuray-S, a poetic and absorbing take on three stories involving samurais, love, revenge and death. Shot in austere black and white, with heavy traces of expressionism and surrealism, no direct sound, no dialogue and only some subtitles when exactingly needed, Samuray-S proved to be yet another significant turning point in his always innovative body of work. Many Argentines and international guests had a privileged chance to enjoy it recently at the Mar del Plata Film Festival, where it ran in the Latin American Competition. And while Samuray-S is yet to be released in the Buenos Aires art house circuit, the good news is that Perrone’s previous two films, Favula and Ragazzi, will now be screened at the emblematic Sala Lugones and the MALBA. Favula had its world premiere at last year’s Locarno film festival and was then screened at Mar del Plata, Valdivia, Jeonju, Hamburg, and Viña del Mar, where it won the prize of the International Jury of Critics. Ragazzi was first screened at the Rome Film Festival, and then at the BAFICI, Sao Paulo, Cartagena, Pachamama, and Las Palmas. You could say that Favula is a surreal, magical film, a poetic fable ... and you’d be dead right. Like Perrone’s latest features, it defies standard synopsis for it mostly belongs to a very personal trend of non-narrative cinema, but not completely since a minimal story is narrated. So let’s just say that it takes place in an enchanted jungle of sorts, also a sensual and dangerous milieu where the characters find one another, get lost, and then get to meet again. There’s a mean woman (who may be a witch that sometimes turns into a tiger), her wicked husband (a zombie-like character that may be involved with the military dictatorship), two hideous men, a good-looking and pure young man and a pristine teen girl, that is to say the two suffering heroes who make for so much darkness. Eventually, another teen girl comes to their aid. Soon, the bad guys — the woman, her husband, and the two evil men — do their wicked deeds, the good guys are in danger and a shoot-out ensues. Fortunately, the mysterious surroundings, with its waterfall, storm and rain, protects the pure souls in their frantic escape. The film was shot entirely inside a studio in an abandoned factory, in alluring black and white and back projection, with very, very little dialogue conveyed in an unidentified language — sometimes with subtitles, other times without them. With a trance-like cinematography that stresses textures, shapes and layers, alongside a continuous yet eclectic musical score, Favula is a work of unique appeal that goes beyond predetermined cinematic boundaries, even those Perrone had set for himself in the past. Then, there’s Ragazzi. It’s a film narrated in two consecutive movements, which first focuses on the last day in the life of famed Italian filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini, who was brutally murdered under mysterious circumstances on November 2, 1975. A hustler (ragazzo in Italian) was eventually convicted for the murder. It should be noted that Ragazzi doesn’t mean to reconstruct the true facts surrounding Pasolini’s death, but it’s instead a personal interpretation. In fact, Perrone stands on the teenage killer’s side, whom he also portrays as a victim. The second movement exposes, in a meditative manner, some seemingly ordinary moments in the day of a group of young cardboard collectors and a teenage girl after a hard day’s work. As they swim, sunbathe and goof around in the river, they inhabit their own private world where any kind of future is out of sight. Once again, the dialogue is subtitled, but this time is spoken backwards, as a shimmering black-and-white cinematography envelops it all. As for the musical score, Perrone once again intervenes renowned tunes in instrumental versions. So expect personal versions of Stairway to Heaven, Angie, and Imagine, among others. As in Favula, inventively superimposed images add up to a loose sense of storytelling and turn the film into more of a dreamlike contemplative cinematic experience than just a movie to be merely watched. In fact, Favula and Ragazzi — and the mind-blowing P3nd3jo5 before them — rework the aesthetics of silent cinema, mainly the auteur works of the 1920s and 30s, deeply admired by Perrone. When and where Sala Lugones (Av. Corrientes 1530). Thursday to Sunday at 2:30pm and 7:30pm (Favula), 5pm and 10pm (Ragazzi). MALBA (Av. Figueroa Alcorta 3415). Fridays at 8pm (Favula) and 9:30pm (Ragazzi
The Visit, the new film written and directed by M. Night Shyama-lan, confirms that this once-moderately surprising filmmaker can no longer surprise anybody, let alone helm a horror tale that should have a decent number of scares and yet is bound to bore you to death. In fact, I believe that the ingenious Sixth Sense is arguably the only really good film he’s ever made — perhaps Signs and The Village are decent enough in their own terms, but alongside Sixth Sense these were made in his early career in the late 1990s and early 2000s. And that was a long, long time ago. The plot goes pretty much like this: two siblings, a young brother (Ed Oxenbould) and a teen sister (Olivia DeJonge) are sent to spend some days with their grandparents, whom they never met since their mother had an awful fight with them when she was 19, and so left her home. Then out of the blue, her parents (who found out where she lives because they looked her up online), ask their daughter to allow them to see their grandchildren. Why she would agree to their request still eludes me. Nonetheless, off they go. In the meantime, she takes a vacation. Upon arrival, the kids and the grandparents act as though they knew each other. No signs of uneasiness are ever exposed. You figure it out. Soon enough, the old-timers begin to show some very, very strange behaviour — you know, granny wakes up at night and walks around naked, while grandpa dresses up for a party that doesn’t even exist and also leaves his dirty diapers hidden in the house. Of course, it’s all attributed to different illnesses they both suffer. And to their old age. As some elements make clear — an isolated house, surrounded by sombre woods, the old woman asking her granddaughter to get inside the oven to clean it, the dark side the grandparents eventually exhibit — this film is meant to be a reworking of Hansel and Gretel. And since the kids want to document their visit, guess what? They film the visit on a camcorder, ever since they left home. So once again you have an entire movie shot in first person singular and accordingly seen from the camera’s lens. Not only does The Visit have quite a few absurd moments of near total lack of plausibility, but it’s also extremely annoying from a cinematic point of view. For instance, the fact that the characters film the visit is absolutely unnecessary for the plot. It would’ve been exactly the same film had it been shot in a conventional manner. Perhaps Shyamalan thought the gimmick would add some interest, but so many horror films are made this way that by now it just doesn’t work — unless it’s recreated in a yet unseen fashion and for a good purpose, which is surely not the case here. The characters themselves are far from interesting as there’s basically nothing that individualizes them. So how could you relate to them? Likewise, how can you get hooked on a horror film with basically no scares at all? Sure, there’s a feeble streak of tension and nervousness here and there because something supposedly malignant seems to be lurking around the corner. But as the largely uneventful plot unfolds, you keep waiting for the terror to come. At the same time, you know you are waiting in vain. By the time a “big secret” is unveiled, what little mystery was there vanishes for good. The revelation is so moronic that you now know you’ve been cheated for good. Production notes The Visit (US, 2015). Written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan. With: Olivia DeJonge, Ed Oxenbould, Deanna Dunagan, Peter McRobbie, Kathryn Hahn. Cinematography: Maryse Alberti. Editing: Luke Ciarrocchi. Running time: 94 minutes.
Mar del Plata award-winning film How Most Things Work is successful and enjoyable Celina (Verónica Gerez) is a somewhat withdrawn young woman living with her sick father in a humble house, in a working-class neighbourhood in a small San Juan town. She works at a toll-booth of a God-forsaken side road with almost no traffic, since not long ago a nearby wide freeway was inaugurated. Considering she has little to do, it makes sense that she helps out her friend Nora (Miriam Odorico) with her passion for crosswords puzzles. After all, time seems to stand still no matter what. She also has a boyfriend, Sandro (Esteban Bigliardi) and yet she doesn’t seem to be in love. Perhaps he isn’t either — it’s hard to tell. On an unfortunate Sunday right after she comes back from mass, Celina discovers her father has died. Of course, it’s heartbreaking, even more so because her mom left them when she was two and she’s never seen her since. She’s been told that her mom is a professional singer living in Italy. While sorting out her dad’s stuff, she finds her mom’s exact address and makes up her mind: it’s time to pay her a belated visit. But she has no money for the trip. So what is she to do? Of all things, she wants to sell encyclopaedias door to door, which is exactly what her dad did for a long time. More precisely, we’re talking about the very same encyclopaedias he used to sell, which claim to have the answers to how almost all things work. Of course, the things that truly matter are not to be found in such books and can only be learned by undergoing challenging experiences. No matter how painful or disappointing they might be. Winner of the Best Director Award and Best Script in the Argentine Competition of the recent Mar del Plata Film Festival, Cómo funcionan casi todas las cosas (How Most Things Work) is the promising film debut of Fernando Salem and is produced by Tarea Fina, which has made La luz incidente, Ciencias naturales, Samurai, and Las acacias, all of them rather remarkable, award-winning features with an identity all of their own. And How Most Things Work is no exception. From the very first minutes, an appropriately gloomy, unhurried tone is set and then smoothly maintained throughout the entire film. In a very down to earth manner, each character gradually begins to show their colours, and for the most part they ring true. Not that they are extraordinary beings, but their appeal lies precisely in that unfussiness. Of course, this is also a merit of the largely natural performances, with Verónica Gerez and Pilar Gamboa heading the list. Coaching actors is quite a hard task and Salem appears to have the right tools to do so effectively. In fact, I personally believe that How Most Things Work is better directed than it is scripted. For instance, the use of incidental music is ably restrained and so it only punctuates the necessary scenes. In tune, the camerawork is invisible, since what matters is the drama and not stylistic flourishes. And the lighting design together with the sound design ensures a sense of identifiable spaces, an atmosphere that has a direct effect on Celina’s tribulations. In a coming-of-age story like this one, special attention must be paid to what makes the characters feel what they feel and do what they do because that’s where the core of the film is. And Salem is more than aware of this simple truth. So some subtle details and minor gestures acquire larger meanings in a film where less is more. However, just like there are some subtleties here and here, there are quite ideas and concepts that are expressed too obviously, be it metaphorically or literally. In these involuntary self explanatory moments, How Most Things Work loses its necessary ambiguity and uncertainty. Because you do get the ideas anyway, and even if you’re in doubt, in a film of this kind it’s better not to know too much for sure. Perhaps a bit more substance than style would’ve added extra layers too. Yet in what matters the most, meaning the film’s heart and some of its veins, How Most Things Work is both successful and enjoyable while it also shows the hand of a novel director who knows what’s he doing. Production notes How Most Things Work (Argentina, 2015). Directed by Fernando Salem. Written by Fernando Salem, Esteban Garelli. With Verónica Gerez, Pilar Gamboa, Marilú Marini, Rafael Spregelburd, Esteban Bigliardi. Cinematography: Georgina Pretto. Editing: Emiliano Fardaus. Running time: 95 minutes. @pablsuarez