The Devil’s Hand mixes slasher vibes, satanic notions, fundamentalism in recipe for failure Not knowing what genre the film you’re making belongs to cannot be any good — except if you’re a gifted auteur defying conventions and deliberately fusing genres. But if you are a regular film director making a mainstream PG-13 horror film that soon turns into a run-of-the-mill thriller, which eventually aims to be a serious drama only to later on become a shy horror film with a sort of a sinister ending, then you’re in trouble. You just can’t have those many films in one — especially when none of the genres has been tackled skilfully, to say the least. Such is the case of Christian E. Christiansen’s The Devil’s Hand (also known as Where the Devil Hides), which mixes a slasher plot (with little, if any, gore, and unimpressive kills), some satanic notions that are never firmly rooted, a drama about religious fundamentalism in a small Amish town and how much it affects families in general, and young women in particular. Exactly 18 years ago, six baby girls were born on a fatidic date: the sixth day of the sixth month. The town’s fearful religious leader wants to kill the girls to fend off or avert a prophecy that says one of them will be the Drommelkind, a satanic demon (or something like that) when she is 18. But the father of one of the girls confronts him and saves the girls — except for one who’s killed by her own mother who then kills herself as well. Now 18 years have gone by and a mysterious unknown killer — thriller alert — is keen on slaying the 5 remaining girls. Apart from the genre confusion, most of the performances bring to mind those of low-budget, formulaic horror movies from the 1970s and the 1980s — which were likable at the time, but are pitiful in a different context — beginning with the cartoonish Colm Meaney as the town’s leader. Some tension is achieved from time to time, but overall The Devil’s Hand is pretty dull. And while the cinematography is technically well executed, it fails to create a menacing atmosphere. The ending, however, while trite, reveals there was a potentially effective (albeit standard) horror feature to be made provided director and screenwriter had stuck to the genre and fully exploited it. When and where The Devil’s Hand (US, 2014). Directed by Christian E. Christiansen. Written by Karl Mueller. With Rufus Sewell, Alycia Debnam-Carey, Thomas McDonell, Adelaide Kane, Leah Pipes, Jennifer Carpenter, Jim McKeny, Katie Garfield. Cinematography: Frank Godwin. Running time: 86 minutes
Diego (Diego Peretti) has just lost his job as an entertainer for parties and special events, he owes a somewhat large sum of money to an uncle, feels he’s failed big time (again), and so has no choice but to sell his apartment and go live in the outskirts of the city, in Tigre, with his wife and teenage daughter in a weekend house belonging to the very same uncle he owes money to, who also gives him a job as a realtor. So a new life, but not an exciting one, begins for him: from 8am to 7pm he has to work at the showroom in Buenos Aires, meeting all sorts of prospective clients who many times turn out to be bored folks who just want to kill some time. Other times, he realizes he lacks the necessary skills, and so misses on some real buyers. Quite occasionally, he sells an apartment. But he’s not making nearly enough money to pay his debts, doesn’t enjoy his job, is leading a stressful life, and has no quality time at all with his family. For better or worse, something must change sometime soon. You could say that Showroom, the first fiction film by Argentine documentary maker Fernando Molnar (Rerum Novarum, Cuba plástica, Mundo Alas), is a comedy — in fact, it’s billed as such. Yet while you’ll find many of the traits of the genre — perceptive verbal gags, episodes filled with deadpan humour, funny insights into urban neuroses — perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Showroom is an understated drama in disguise. That is to say, the drama of your average Joe who dreams of living like those who buy the pricey and exclusive apartments he has on sale, fools himself into believing that social mobility is not that hard after all, and is at odds with the fierce competition he finds day after day. So he cannot but grow increasingly unhappy as time goes by. Showroom is also a vehicle for Diego Peretti in a role that’s rather different from what he usually does. Here he’s extroverted and restrained, outgoing and repressed — all at once. He can be a funny clown, but also an anguished man. Better said, the clown hides the man in pain. In fact, it’s Peretti’s accomplished performance that keeps the film going when the narrative loses its dramatic pulse and stalls. Or when the surprises in the plot are not surprising at all. Or when the tone gets too languid for its own good. However, for the most part, Showroom is an enjoyable, unpretentious feature. Production notes Showroom, la vida que soñaste ya no es un sueño. Argentina, 2015. Directed by Fernando Molnar. Written by: Fernando Molnar, Lucía Puenzo and Sergio Bizzio.With: Diego Peretti, Andrea Garrote, Pablo Seijo, Roberto Catarineu. Cinematography: Daniel Ortega. Sound: Martin Litmanovich. Produced by Magoya Films & Werner Cine. Distributed by: Primer Plano. NR. Runtime: 78 minutes.
Finally, after more than twenty years, Argentine Alejandro Agresti’s El acto en cuestión, has had a local commercial release after overcoming never ending distribution problems. It was first presented at Cannes right after it was made, then in Holland, and years later it was screened in a retrospective at the Sala Lugones, last year at the Mar del Plata film fest and this year at the BAFICI. Funded by the Dutch TV network VPRO, El acto en cuestión is regarded as Agresti’s best film to date. It wasn’t shot in Argentina but in Rotterdam, Munich, Ghent, Karlovy Vary, Paris, Budapest, Sofia, Romania, Bologna and Prague. And while many scenes take place on location, much of the film transpires in especially made soundstages and settings. In this unusual feature, Agresti has truly created a world that resembles nothing you’ve probably seen before. The lead character, Miguel Quiroga (deftly played by the late Carlos Roffé) is a two-bit go-getter who has specialized in stealing books from libraries and bookstores he visits regularly. One of such books is devoted to occultism and provides him with a magic trick to make things and people disappear. Sooner than later, he sets up a disappearing act he performs at circuses and fairs. In no time, he becomes famous and admired. But what would happen if someone found another copy of the same book and learned how to perform the same trick? How would people at large react if they knew his act is not his own creation? Filmed in lustrous black and white, with an imaginative mise en scene where more is more, tilted camera angles, distorted spatial proportions, a highly inspired cinematography, and a dramatic musical score, Agresti’s finest film is shaped as a fable, but also has a strong allegorical edge as it hints at the disappearance of people during the 1976-1983 military dictatorship in Argentina. But unlike many films from that period, which relied too much on allegories and failed to properly develop the literal story, El acto en cuestión offers a set of aesthetics that is as cinematically innovative and ideologically insightful. Like in Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, books are burned here too. Also, there are other and more visible literary references to the likes of Roberto Arlt, Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares, as well as an assessment of the traits that make up the idiosyncrasy of Porteños. The rest of the cast, that is to say, Mirta Busnelli, Lorenzo Quinteros, and Sergio Poves Campos in the leading roles, delivers colourful and more than adequate performances. From a distance, El acto en cuestión may come across as too exuberant and perhaps too heavy on formalism and symbolism, but in the context of time it becomes even more valuable. Production notes El acto en cuestión (Argentina, Netherlands,1993) Written and directed by Alejandro Agresti. With: Carlos Roffé, Sergio Poves Campos, Mirta Busnelli, Lorenzo Quinteros. Cinematography: Néstor Sanz. Editing: Stefan Kamp. Music: Toshio Nakagawa. Distributed by: Zeta Films. NC13. Runtime: 110 minutes.
Argentine Victor Saldaño left the city of Córdoba as a young man in 1989 and took a long journey across Latin America, which lasted until 1995 when he arrived in the US. He had long wanted to see the whole wide world, and so it seemed his desire was to be fulfilled. After a brief stay in New York doing odd jobs, he moved to Dallas with Jorge Chávez, a Mexican friend of his with whom he got hooked on drugs and crime. Following some heavy partying, on November 25, 1995, Saldaño and Chávez kidnapped 46-year-old US citizen Paul Ray King with the intention of robbing him. But as King resisted the assault, Saldaño killed him with three shots to the chest and one to the head. Saldaño has stood trial twice since then. With enough evidence against him, he pleaded guilty in both occasions, and was sentenced to capital punishment in both trials. He was first given the death penalty because, as a Hispanic, he was regarded as very likely to commit another crime in the future — that is, according to the legislation of Texas, which was later on modified. In the second trial that took place after 12 years of inhumane imprisonment on death row, as Saldaño’s mental state was bordering psychosis, he was nonetheless considered a sane adult, eligible for the death penalty and not an asylum. From a legal standpoint, this is a case with the right charges and the right conviction, no doubt about that. But it has been alleged that he’s been wrongly sentenced to the death penalty because of racial and discrimination issues. As he couldn’t afford experienced lawyers, he was initially granted a poor defence by the State. As of today, Saldaño awaits execution. Raúl Villaruel’s documentary Saldaño, el sueño dorado (Saldaño, The Golden Dream) provides a very basic panorama of the entire affair, with testimonies from Saldaño’s mother, his US and Argentine lawyers who took the case at different stages, Argentine government officials and other legal experts. It also includes footage from the police interrogation of Saldaño the night he committed the crime. So if you want to be informed in broad strokes, you will be. Yet from a cinematic standpoint, Villaruel’s film is very flat and poorly conceived. A series of talking heads alone don’t make for good cinema, lack of subtext and few insights into potential layers as well as telling details render it obvious and formulaic, and a didactic stance towards viewers doesn’t allow them to reflect upon the material. And while the formal values — cinematography, sound design, editing — are not a total mess, they are merely correct, at best. And yes, the documentary does raise uneasy queries about injustice in a legal system and the inhumanity of the death penalty, but it’s been done before many times and in much better shape. As it is, many of the particulars of this case, including a full portrayal of Victor Saldaño, the man, are left unexplored.
Benoît Jacquot’s subdued melodrama begins in a most typical manner: Marc (Benoît Poelvoorde), a tax inspector, misses his train on his way back to Paris, and while walking around, looking for a hotel to spend the night, he meets Sylvie (Charlotte Gainsburg), an enchanting good looking woman about to turn 40 — he’s just turned 47. As they stroll around, they talk about this and that but say very little about each other. Soon, it is plain clear they have connected, even if they are total strangers — or precisely because of it. The night feels so romantic that the newly-made couple opts not to sleep together right away and, instead, agree to meet a few days later in a specific spot. As you’d expect, Sylvie will be at the right place at the right time, but Marc runs into unforeseeable trouble and can’t make it. So there goes the happy present and future of love at first sight. Sometime later on, Marc meets another woman, Sophie (Chiara Mastroianni), unaware of the fact that she’s Sylvie’s sister, who by then has moved to the US with her husband. When will Marc find out? Will Sylvie come back to spoil his happiness? Wait, is he actually happy with the tranquil and nurturing love he shares with Sophie, or would he rather live a torrid love affair with Sylvie? So far, pretty generic stuff. And even once the film keeps unfolding, there won’t be any real surprises — except for the ending, romantic and realistic at once. But what makes a strong difference here is how Benoît Jacquot tells the story: with a suave gliding camera that provides a smooth visual rhythm, static shots that ask viewers to observe the lovers’ intimacy and the apparently insignificant signs, naturalistic dialogue that spontaneously gives way to a more poetic edge, compelling and heartfelt performances that speak of real-life individuals, quite smartly constructed ellipsis that leaves viewers to understand on their own just precisely what sometimes matters the most, and last but by no means least, an ominous musical score that accompanies slightly idyllic images — and so an uneasy weirdness arises out of the blue. For the most part, it’s very easy to be immersed in the drama, as the whole atmosphere is quite enveloping without ever being forceful or overwhelming. Moreover, because they way the characters struggle with their dilemmas is as familiar as it is emphatic, and while we’re always talking about melodrama, it’s not the heavy-handed type filled with explosive bouts of passion. Nonetheless, these characters make some decisions in the end that may catch you off guard. Or not. In any case, you are likely to be moved by them. Production notes 3 coeurs (France, 2014). Written by Benoît Jacquot, Julien Boivent. Directed by Julien Boivent. With Benoît Poelvoorde, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Chiara Mastroianni, Catherine Deneuve. Cinematography: Julien Hirsch. Running time: 106 minutes.
Horror fans know for a fact that vampires of all sorts have become so popular in these last 10 years that we are not surprised at all by most new vampire movies. More often than not, they fail to break new ground, be it due to lazy screenwriting or because they are plainly formulaic — and not in a good way. But what if there was a seriously funny documentary on these bloodsuckers that could even change the way you view them? What if they came out of the shadows to show you what their everyday life is like? What if you realized they are not that different from you, after all? Now there is such a movie. Winner of Best Film in the Midnight Madness section of the Toronto film fest and the Audience Award at Sitges, written and directed by New Zealanders Jemaine Clement (from the television series Flight of the Conchords) and Taika Waititi, What We Do in the Shadows is an ever surprising, exceptionally witty and hilarious mockumentary about four hundredsomething vampires — Vladislav, a mediaeval count; Deacon, a 19th century peasant; Viago, an 18th century dandy; and Petyr, an ancient version of Nosferatu — who share a flat in Wellington as they do their best to cope with everyday dilemmas. That is to say, what do you do if by mistake you hit the main artery in your victim’s neck? How do you dress properly for a party if you don’t have a mirror reflection? How do you get into a night club if you’re not invited? What’s the best way to introduce a newly-made vampire to the ups and downs of eternal life? Is it possible to protect your human friends from being eaten by vampire flatmates? Starring Jemaine Clement, Taika Waititi, Jonathan Brugh, and Cori González-Macuer, What We Do in the Shadows takes the mockumentary subgenre to a whole new level: it not only is perfectly shot in a deliberate imperfect style typical of a low-budget documentary, but it also becomes an amusingly nuanced character study of immortal souls trying to figure out what a good vampire ought to be like today. Chances were that such an undertaking would probably consist of a just series of smartly connected skits, at best. But Clement and Waititi know better than that and have created a close-knit narrative with a character driven story that goes beyond a mere sum of funny scenes. I mean, you even get to care about these vampires in a very humanistic way — pun intended. The escalating verbal and visual gags are right on cue, they always make sense, and you can hardly see them coming, even if you have like one a minute or so. Because they steam out of the narrative rather than being forced upon it for comic effect. Irony and dead pan humour are alive and well in this unique behind-the-scenes look at what vampires do in the shadows. One more thing: expect werewolves and zombies as guest stars — and forget all about Twilight. Production notes What We Do in the Shadows (New Zealand, 2014). Written and directed by Jemaine Clement, Taika Waititi. With: Jemaine Clement, Taika Waititi, Jonathan Brugh, Cori Gonzalez-Macuer, Stuart Rutherford, Ben Fransham, Jackie van Beek, Rhys Darby. Cinematography by Richard Bluck, DJ Stipsen. Runtime: 86 minutes.
Of all the film versions of Jeanne-Marie Le Prince de Beaumont’s classic fairy tale of Beauty and the Beast, the one made by French surrealist master Jean Cocteau in 1946 is unlikely to ever be out shadowed. Utterly poetic and absorbingly beautiful, Cocteau’s film is both very personal and faithful to the spirit of the fairy tale. It’s more of an adults’ version than one for children, and yet it’s magical from beginning to end. The other famous and dazzling version, as we all know, is the 1991 animated musical romantic fantasy by Walt Disney Pictures, which premiered at the New York Film Festival and was instantly embraced by viewers and critics alike. It was the second Disney film produced using Computer Animation Production System, which provided a wider range of colours and soft shades, and allowed for the simulation of multiplane effects that gave the illusion of depth. In their own senses, both Cocteau’s and Disney’s versions are true accomplishments that even went beyond the expectations they’d aroused at the time. Too bad the same cannot be said of the new production Beauty and the Beast, directed by Christophe Gans and starring the beautiful Lea Seydoux and Vincent Cassel as the odd couple falling in love. Not that it’s a total mess, because it really isn’t. But it’s wrongly conceived from the very start in some key aspects, so no wonder it has such a hard time taking off and, in the end, it never quite delivers. For the most part, this cinematic version is also faithful to its source: it’s the story of an unlikely romance that blossoms after the youngest and prettiest daughter of a merchant who’s down and out on his luck offers herself to the strange beast to whom her father was indebted. As we all know, the Beast is nothing but a handsome prince who will become a man again only if he can get a woman to love him. The first thing you can say about Gans’s version (whose credits as a director include the passable Brotherhood of the Wolf and Silent Hill) is actually a good thing: the mise-en-scene and visual design of his new film are indeed eye-catching. Lots of attention has been paid to minute details as well as to the big picture, and so a world of its own unveils a few minutes into the story. The same goes for the technically impeccable cinematography, which changes colours, shades and textures according to the changes in the story. As for the atmosphere and visuals, nothing to complain about. However, bear in mind that this is the exact kind of work that Hollywood producers and directors do all the time and in the exact same way — there’s little personality to be found here. And then there are the problems, which are far more important, starting with the awkward mix of aesthetics traits typical of fairy tales with multiple and often unnecessary CGI effects. It’s hard to maintain your suspension of disbelief when you feel you are watching two different films at once. Then there’s a problem with the target audience, and not a minor one either: there are times when the plot is narrated in a somewhat complicated manner for young children (past and present switching back and forth, and not via conventional flashbacks, plus a subplot that goes nowhere), but the film itself is too childlike for older kids or young teens, let alone adults. So who’s to watch it? Furthermore, there’s something else that you’d never expect from fairy tales in general, and most particularly from this one: little passion, little sentiment, little romance. Not only because the script doesn’t provide the actors with many chances to act them out, but because when they do it seems they are just going through the motions. And that’s when you realize that this version of Beauty and the Beast is drowning in its own visual splendour. So no wonder it is a slow moving film that soon turns into a tedious one that will eventually become quite forgettable. Production notes La belle et la bête / Beauty and the Beast (France/Germany, 2014). Directed by Christophe Gans. With: Lea Seydoux, Vincent Cassel, Eduardo Noriega. Cinematography: Christophe Beaucarne. Running time: 115 minutes.
“My work deals with one thing only: the condemnation of existence. A human being, as a multidimensional human being, no longer exists today. And this is the annihilation I reflect by eliminating the hand and feet, the eyes and mouth. They have none of these. I can see it and hear it, I am certain of it. They have no life whatsoever. And this is what I show: this person that is nothing. But at the same time I have compassion. Because, after all, he’s human,” said exiled Iranian artist Bahman Mohassess, the so-called “Persian Picasso” — whose work was prominent in pre-revolutionary Iran — in Mitra Farahani’s remarkable documentary Fifi Howls from Happiness, filmed a few months before the painter’s death and completed after it. Actually, Bahman Mohassess was not only a consummate painter, but a gifted sculptor and a famed translator of literary works as well. And just as important as Mohassess, the artist, was Mohassess, the man. Or perhaps even more. Confrontational and biting, his outspoken opinions made him a rather controversial figure: he called his fellows Iranian “bootlicking cowards,” he was resentful with the world at large in almost every which way, he found the notion of an afterlife to be unbelievably stupid, and also felt that homosexuality lost all its meaning and force when it was no longer forbidden (the idea of same-sex marriage drove him mad). As he liked to say, he was a homosexual with a penchant for “straight” boys with fiancées as his companions, and definitely not a gay man into effeminate creatures. Old school, but never a homophobe. Neither was he an essentially obnoxious or inconsiderate character. He was no monster — unlike some of his bizarre sculptures with missing limbs and featureless faces. You get to learn all this and much more in Farahani’s revelatory documentary, and yet there’s no need to fear since it’s not another case of a talking head in front on the camera. On the contrary: Fifi Howls from Happiness smartly resorts to the spoken word as much as needed, but never as a tedious series of fancy words — let alone big meanings. In fact, Mohassess’ speech is pretty down to earth and is used to interplay with the voice over of the documentary maker, who questions and motivates the painter in order to draw a real portrayal of a person instead of that of an artist on a pedestal. So words are used in a candid and friendly manner, as they are swiftly intertwined with still images of his work and with framed paintings he used to decorate the functional and somewhat comfy hotel room where he lived for ages. Since this is a man who had opted to seclude himself, a real home to end his life in would have been out of the picture. He was also a cinema lover and Luchino Visconti’s Il gattopardo was one of his favourite films. He also believed, as a line from the film has it, that “men used to be leopards and lions, but have been replaced by jackals, hyenas, and sheep.” He liked cinema so much that he dared advise the filmmaker how to design and shoot her film, which is actually a work in progress of sorts that displays its own narrative and aesthetic mechanisms. Not as a case of a self-conscious exercise in style, but arguably as the best way to portray such an unpredictably nuanced character. As an example, when a couple of Iranian artist brothers visit him to commission a large oil painting on subject of his choice, his proverbial sarcastic and judgmental nature gives way to a kind, sensitive man. Someone you can care for. That’s surely why the abrupt and eerie ending is bound to hit you with deep emotional resonance. It wasn’t planned at all, but, one way or another, you could probably see it coming. Production notes Fifi Howls From Happiness (Coprod., 2013). Written and directed by Mitra Farahani. With Bahman Mohasses, Mitra Farahani. Cinematography: Mitra Farahani. Running time: 99 minutes.
I didn’t have any reason to hope that Peter Chelsom’s Héctor and the Search for Happiness was going to be a good film. I mean, after having made Hannah Montana: The Movie and Shall We Dance?, what were the odds? But I thought: maybe it’s so bad, that it’s good — you know, sort of a guilty pleasure. Well, it’s not. To be exact, it ranks in the top five worst US films I’ve seen in a long time. And that’s an understatement. The so-called story in a nutshell: Héctor (Simon Pegg) is a boring and bored psychiatrist whose life hasn’t seen any changes in years. Despite having a gorgeous girlfriend (Rosamund Pike) he’s unsatisfied and unfulfilled. So one day he has a great idea: to search the globe to find the secret of happiness. That is for his own benefit, for that of his girlfriend and his patients. First problem: Héctor and the Search of Happiness pretends it has a storyline, but it actually doesn’t. Instead, it has an arbitrary series of loosely connected moronic situations in different countries. Each is meant as some kind of life-affirming experience to get some ideas on how to achieve happiness. Each is more overworked than the previous one. So Héctor is nothing but a cliché walking among clichés. Then expect high-class (and regretful) prostitutes, mobsters, hectic nights and neon lights in China. Expect filthy rich businessmen who do the right thing for a change. Expect exotic milieus and lots of photos. Then you get to Africa, filled with poverty and hunger, uncivilized (but colourful and musical), overcrowded and dirty but, above all, in dire need of help from good white men — medical doctors preferred. You get the idea. Shot as a travelogue, with a condescending and pious gaze, Chelsom’s feature fails at every level: from the underwritten screenplay to the pedestrian direction, with no sense of comic timing and no genuine pathos (this is a wannabe dramatic comedy). Meant to be humanistic and enlightening, it’s actually downright insulting as mere broadstrokes address intricate issues. So how can you care for a film that doesn’t work as neither a comedy nor a drama? Worst of all, it’s not even campy. Production notes Héctor and the Search for Happiness (US, 2014). Directed by Peter Chelsom. Written by Maria von Heland, Peter Chelsom, Tinker Lindsay. With Simon Pegg, Rosamund Pike, Jean Reno, Stellan Skarsgård, Toni Collette, Christopher Plummer. Cinematography by Kolja Brandt. Music by Dan Mangan, Jesse Zubot. Produced by John Albanis, Christian Angermayer, Kim Arnott. Distributed by: Buena Vista. NR. Running time: 99 minutes.
Leviathan, the new film by Russian master Andrey Zvyagintsev (The Return, Elena), was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Foreign Film, won the Golden Globe in the same category, as well as Best Screenplay at Cannes. It takes its title from the Book of Job and is a synonym for any large sea creature, often great whales. But it also refers to the classical book Leviathan, by Thomas Hobbes, which deals with the structure of society and legitimate government and proposes that a model state protects its citizens from being left to their own devices, outside of any effective help. Kolya (Aleksey Serebryakov) is a working-class handyman who owns a small, yet somewhat cozy house in a small town on the coast of the Barents Sea in Northwest Russia, more precisely on the Kola Peninsula. The place used to be a prosperous fishing community, but it now amounts to a vast terrain littered with pieces of wood and scattered bones, nothing but remains of ships and whales. Having a hard time to make ends meet, Kolya leads a difficult life with her young, good-looking yet depressed wife Lylia (Elena Lyadova), and Roma (Sergey Pokhodaev), his teenage son from a previous marriage, with whom Lydia argues at all times. To top it all, Vadim (Roman Madyanov), the corrupt mayor of the town, can and will manipulate the law to illegally seize Kolya’s land for an underpriced quotation. He intends to build a public centre for his own benefit. But Kolya won’t give in without putting up a fight, and so he asks Dmitri (Vladimir Vdovichenkov), an old military buddy and a fairly good lawyer residing in Moscow, to help him out in his countersuit against the mayor. Little did he know that the arrival of Dmitri — who’s not exactly as honest as he thought he was — would bring unforeseen consequences. In the end, Kolya’s futile attempts to get some justice make all the matters worse than he’d ever imagined. The awfully sad irony here is that, as you’d imagine, Kolya is actually not only left to his own devices but, most importantly, he has to struggle against a crooked government the size of two huge whales put together. With a sense of impending doom from the start, Leviathan’s plot sees that Kolya’s attempts to hold on to what is rightfully his becomes more and more futile. Aided by the Church, the mayor does as he pleases in every which way, because he lives in an world with no law and no God. This way, what happens in this small town on the coast of the Barents Sea becomes a metaphor not only for political disease in Russia, but also for that of many other countries. Just like he did in Elena, Zvyagintsev narrates the story of Kolya with striking realism. Just like Elena, Kolya doesn’t find solace anywhere. But in the end Elena does achieve some kind of triumph — at a high price. Kolya won’t have such luck. Even Dmitri won’t be of any help and will taint an already dirty scenario with betrayal. Which shouldn’t come as a surprise since morals and ethics are nowhere to be found. It seems they got lost long ago together with so many other fundamental things. And what’s lost is lost. Unfolding at quite a leisurely pace, and never turning into a tedious work, Leviathan is very meticulous in the description of the state of things. Some details may appear somewhat irrelevant at first, but then they acquire sound meanings. Take, for instance, some bits of the emotionally-detached conversations between Kolya and Lylia. Some key events take place offscreen, and so they become more ambiguous. The impressive but austere and never decorative cinematography turns the hostile environment into gloomy internal landscapes inhabiting the characters’ selves. While a discouraging tone is soon established from the first scenes and onwards, it’s during the last third of the film where the bleakness of the panorama hits you like a sledgehammer, right when Kolya is at the end of his tether. And so are his loved ones. Production notes Leviathan. Russia, 2014. Directed by Andrey Zvyagintsev . Written by Andrey Zvyagintsev, Oleg Negin. With: Aleksei Serebryakov, Roman Madyanov, Vladimir Vdovichenkov, Elena Lyadova, Sergey Pokhodaev. Cinematography by: Mikhail Krichman. Music by: Phillip Glass. Produced by Sergey Melkumov. Distributed by: IFA. NC13. Running time: 140 minutes.