Horror comedy moves to flesh-eating witches Two down-on-their-luck anxiety-ridden men decide to rob a “We Buy Gold” store located in front of the La Puerta del Sol Square in Madrid. It’s a most peculiar robbery because José (Hugo Silva), a divorcee and one of the thieves, has to take Sergio (Gabriel Delgado), his eight-year-old son along with him. It so happens that it’s his turn (not his wife’s) to take care of the boy. Moreover, Tony (Mario Casas), the other thief, can’t find his car to flee after the hold-up because his girlfriend took it to go shopping. Now they have thousands of gold rings, but no car. So they kidnap a taxi driver, Manuel (Jaime Ordoñez), and his customer too (whom they put in the trunk of the taxi). And together, they hit the road to France. But they never get there. Instead, they get lost in the woods of Zugarramurdi, a region known for its flesh-eating witches and their abominable covens. The most dangerous of them all is Graciana Barrenetxea (Carmen Maura) because she’s the one who leads all the others. What they have in mind is not hard to figure out: they want to celebrate the arrival of the men and the kid by having a feast. Of course, they are the food. Las brujas de Zugarramurdi, the new film by famed Spanish director Álex de la Iglesia (El día de la bestia, La comunidad, Crimen ferpecto, Balada triste de trompeta) is quite a hilarious comedy with traits of a horror film gone nuts. It’s not one of his best films but it surely is above average (unlike The Oxford Murders, for instance). It boasts the same kind of black humour and extravaganza his early films had, but with better production values and a more assured direction. At times, it goes over the top, but not excessively — at least not for a film by Álex de la Iglesia. So the bizarre elements never reach the point of being ridiculous. Within the logic of the movie, they all make sense and don’t feel forced for a second. And unlike many other derivative films that tread the same territory, the universe depicted here is, indeed, original. Moreover, it’s filled with truly funny verbal gags and witty one-liners, great visuals and a superb cast that delivers equally convincing performances. Plus it’s told at the right pace thanks to its clear-cut editing. In all these regards, Las brujas de Zugarramurdi goes from good to better. However, when it comes to the screenplay, things are not that accomplished. Despite all the creative, very well executed scenes and sequences, the overall narrative sometimes comes across as a compendium of entertaining ideas — as if a story with a stronger dramatic edge were missing. Take the witches, for example. They have some characteristics to individualize them and a bit of a story of their own. Still, the main roles are underwritten. They play their roles in the story, but it would have been great if that included something other than performing a series of somewhat predictable behaviours. All in all, Las brujas de Zugarramurdi delivers what’s expected of it and sometimes goes a step further. It’s a crowd pleaser, granted, but it’s an intelligent one. I found myself laughing unexpectedly at different times in the movie. Other times, I could see the gags coming from a mile away. Nonetheless, the final result is more than satisfying. It might not be memorable, but it does pay off.
“What’s called scientific agriculture is actually an agriculture of ignorance. It’s an agriculture of ignorance because it uses the tools of warfare — instruments of war brought to agriculture, unaware of what they will do to our health when we eat this food,” states Dr. Vandana Shiva, from India, herself a recipient of the Right Livelihood Award (otherwise known as the Alternative Nobel Prize) when asked about the use of modern machinery and agrochemicals (such as pesticides). Her words are shared by many others, such as professor Gille-Eric Seralini, a specialist in molecular biology from France, and Argentina’s Walter Pengue, an agronomist who specializes in genetics and vegetable breeding. Their testimonies, with those of other scientists and scholars, are gathered in Argentine filmmaker Ulises de la Orden’s documentary Desierto verde, which focuses on the local production of genetically modified organisms (GMOs), such as soy bean, treated with glyphosate, a herbicide used to kill weeds without killing crops (this way, yields can increase up to 300 percent). More production, more profit, more business. Argentina is one of the world’s largest soy bean suppliers, which has fuelled spectacular economic growth. But not without a price. According to studies conducted with human cells and clinical observation, glyphosate is most likely to cause health problems when used in transgenic soy fields. This is exactly what started to happen in Barrio Ituzaingó, in the city of Córdoba, back in 2001. First, a small number of women lost their hair and there were kids with respiratory problems. Little by little, more cases became known. A group of women started going around the neighbourhood, marking the houses with severely ill people. The scenario was devastating: out of 5,000 neighbours, 200 had cancer, a good number of young men aged 18 to 25 had brain tumors, and 13 kids had leukemia. Then came death. As the cases multiplied, the women, under the name of Madres de Ituzaingó, organized protests and demanded an investigation, which was indeed conducted, concluding that one of the possible causes for the illnesses could be the fumigation planes flying directly over their houses, contaminating water supplies, soy fields and the air. The Madres de Ituzaingó demanded justice and managed to put the guilty parties on trial. But nobody listened to the mothers. They were referred to as lunatics. Nonetheless, they kept speaking up, and after 10 years of struggle, an unprecedented trial was finally held, changed the course of the events forever. Desierto verde exposes the facets and ramifications of the use of transgenic soy bean in Argentina and also chronicles the events that led to the trial. It confronts the testimonies of those in favour of using GMOs (the heads of multinational companies) with those affected by them. The film resorts to fragments from TV news shows and interviews with renowned personalities in the fields of medicine, biology and genetics. It features video excerpts from the trial, arguably the most compelling parts. From a formal point of view, the film is well scripted, professionally shot and skillfully edited, and it’s never confusing thanks to its clear narrative. However, it sometimes looks and feels like a TV news report. It’s not a mistake, it’s a production decision. The result is rather limited in scope. They rely too much on words, and in a very conventional manner, and they don’t provide much of a subtext or different discoursive modes. But, considering the need for awareness and debate on the use of GMOs in Argentina and the world at large, Desierto verde is helpful and timely — perhaps this is what it intended to be.
The Iceman: real-life sociopath and loving family man The Iceman, from Israeli-born director Ariel Vromen, deals with the story of Richard Kuklinski, the infamous contract killer who murdered more than 100 people over the span of two decades until his arrest in 1986. Dubbed “the iceman” for his method of freezing his victim’s bodies in order to erase the time of death, Kuklinski was repetitively involved with a large number of East Coast crime families in the late 1950s. In practically no time, Kuklinki’s criminal career turned him into a successful man, so what followed was moving his wife Deborah and their two daughters (whom he adored) into a new house in a welcoming New Jersey suburb, where they all led a happy existence (truly). In fact, for a contract killer with a family who was unaware of his doings, Kuklinski did very well, in all regards, for quite a long time. Unfortunately, he also gained some very dangerous enemies along the road, including those who once were his friends. Based on Anthony Bruno’s reality-based crime novel and a HBO documentary, Vromen and co-writer Morgan’s loosely fictionalized screenplay is more concerned with Kuklinki’s personality, with the man, if you will, than with his criminal activities and his status as a serial killer. Which is a good thing, since there’s plenty of potentially rich material to delve into here. Most outstanding is Kuklinki’s firm resolve not to kill women or children, not even harm them in the slightest way. Above all, we’re talking about a man who only experiences feelings of affection when it comes to his family. For everybody else, he’s just a coldblooded killer. Yet this potentially rich material is not fully explored by a screenplay that goes for the basics and nothing but. Or, better said, it pretends to go somewhere, but when you think you are about to go deeper into Kuklinki’s mind, actions and reactions, scenes are cut off somewhat abruptly, and soon the next anecdote enters the story. It’s too rushed, there’s not enough development, hence expect little dramatic drive. The drama here is in a strong need of a better set-up but the screenplay only scratches the surface. For a character study, it lacks the kind of insight that would have turned the infamous assassin into a complex character with hidden depths. Even if this merciless killer was inscrutable, the script could have accounted for that, which it does not. It just depicts what you can see at first sight. On the other side, what the script fails to do for Kuklinski, Michael Shannon (Revolutionary Road, The Greatest) does it for him — and very well indeed. His performance is to be celebrated for its imposing aura of underground tension and affective dissociation. I mean, you really get to see two Kuklinskis — and in a very subtle fashion too. The family manis tender, warm, respectful and loving — and unafraid to show it. But when it comes to the rest of the world (literally) what you get is a block of ice, a killing machine (unemotional as all machines) who never misses his target. The complexity of such a persona is clearly understood by Michael Shannon, with his stern looks, restrained facial expressions and imposing body language that speak volumes. This is, indeed, why the film is alive. To a lesser degree, other cast members add their personal imprint to otherwise formulaic characters. Chris Evans is remarkable as Kiklinki’s ace partner-in-crime, as fierce as they come; David Schwimmer delivers a nuanced performance as Roy Demeo’s sloppy thug — whereas Demeo is played by Ray Liotta, with expertise but not much heart. For that matter, Robert Davi as a high-ranking criminal is surely more convincing. As for Kuklinski’s naive and adorable wife, expect a more than watchable Winona Ryder, but not more. Come to think of it, the production design that mirrors different time periods is also a modest asset — mainly the alluring cinematography of sombre, gloomy colour shades and unsettling shadows. But the main thing, the intricacy of the Iceman's mind and heart is left pretty much unexplored.
“Amidst the great crisis our country endured towards the beginning of the 21st century, we had access to plenty of television newsreels taped during the military dictatorship. All these hours of television showed an almost perfect country, with no conflicts, no strikes, no protests, and a military with a repetitive speech about the existence of a slanderous, hidden and mysterious enemy: international terrorism,” says Argentine filmmaker Alcides Chiesa about his documentary Dixit, co-directed with Carlos Martínez, which pits the official version (that of the genocides and its apologists) against the testimonies of people who were kidnapped and others who, though not abducted, were still victims and can talk about those dark, underground places of torture. In Dixit, Chiesa, himself kidnapped and detained for 10 months in the penitentiary units of La Plata and Rawson, goes for a very straightforward, no beating around the bush approach. He intertwines compelling television material featuring notorious military officials but also their defenders and (be it in the media realm, the world of business, or in that of religion, with the Catholic Church) testimonies from people who were in nine different clandestine detention centres, including the infamous El Vesubio, the plant of the Ford factory in Pacheco, and the one in the Hospital Posadas. From the confrontation, you can see how unreal and perverse the official version was. The words and images speak for themselves. So do the faces and gestures of the victims. As for the newsreels, the truth is they are indeed appalling. Not that you haven’t seen any of this material before, it’s just that while well known, it still feels mind blowing — and extremely painful. That is precisely the film’s chief asset. The testimonies of the victims are overwhelmingly moving (how could they not be?), and those who speak do so calmly, carefully picking each word they utter. It’s not only what they say, but how they say it. Their voices are precise, undeniable. They are not furious, they’ve gone way over that. They just want to their tell stories in order to keep the memory alive. So, by having nine people talk about nine clandestine detention centres, you get a picture of a bigger scope, one of unspeakable horror. This way, Dixit becomes a valuable historical document that goes beyond being simply a film. At the same, in terms of film form, Dixit follows conventions by the book. And yet it somewhat fails to acquire an overall good pace and lacks some dramatic progression. Sometimes it drags and stalls, and this is when you may lose interest — it does become a bit repetitive. Less would have been more. A tighter editing job would have given it more resonance. Nonetheless, Dixit fulfils most of its goals even if doesn’t reach its full potential.
María y el Araña: a story of hidden pain “With this film, I felt the need to plunge into the world of kids, of marginal teenagers. To tell a story from the points of view of María (Florencia Salas), a 13-year-old girl who lives in the shantytown of Villa Rodrigo Bueno, and that of Araña (Diego Vejezzi), a 17-year-old teen dressed in a lousy Spider-Man costume who scrapes a living by juggling balls in the subway. María and Araña are surrounded by adults who do little or nothing for them. Sometimes, they even hurt them for life. I care about their inner worlds. What do they feel? What do they think?,” says Argentine filmmaker María Victoria Menis about her new film María y el Araña, co-written with Alejandro Fernández Murray, who also co-wrote the scripts of Menis’ two previous films, El cielito and La cámaraoscura. María lives with her grandmother (Mirella Pascual) and her sentimental companion (Luciano Suardi), a younger man with a secret. She also works in the subway, but is now about to finish elementary school and has received a scholarship to enroll in high school, something she and her grandmother have dreamed about for a long time. As Araña and María slowly, but firmly, fall for each other, which makes her grandmother’s companion mad. Sooner or later, the secret he keeps, which involves María, will be revealed indirectly. It is then when things take an abrupt turn – and not for the better. María y el Araña is a film that begins with a straightforward premise: to portray the thoughts and feelings of a girl and a boy as they fall in love. Or so you’d think during the film’s first half, which mostly deals with introducing the characters, establishing their longings and desires, and placing them in diverse situations of their everyday reality. However, as the film unfolds, another story comes to the foreground, a story of subjugation and hidden pain. And this is one of María y el Araña’s main assets: its ability to smoothly switch the dramatic focus without ever feeling contrived or arbitrary. It’s not that the filmmakers decided to merely add another layer for shock value or go socially conscious for the sake it. On the contrary. It’s plainly clear that the two stories — the visible one and that kept in the dark — have always been conceived together as the two sides of María’s present, blissful and dreadful at once. As regards the love story, expect subtlety and tenderness. In fact, a great deal of its appeal is due to its meditative tone that says lots of things with no stridence, few words and even silences. Menis’ camera examines and caresses María’s sweet face, which is arguably the film’s delicate heart. It effortlessly catches the smallest of expressions and gestures, and this way it brings her closer to viewers. Remember that, above all, this is an intimate film. Neither María nor Araña are fully fleshed-out characters, but they are no stereotypes either. After all, this is not a profound character study. All the same, they have enough personality traits to make you care for them (more so María), and provided that what matters most is both their falling in love and how they behave in their worlds, you get more than the basics just by observing without knowing that much about them. María y el Araña is, at least partially, a film about moments and details, and that’s why it’s so important that they are captured in an honest, substantial fashion. You have to believe them and feel their immediacy. It helps that Diego Vejezzi and Mirella Pascual do deliver convincing performances that add to that of Florencia Salas, a non-professional actress who truly excels. On the minus side, there’s a problem with the film’s tempo and with some scenes that, instead of adding something new, merely say more of the same. Even for a contemplative feature, María y el Araña sometimes drags and so its emotional impact is diminished. It’s as if sometimes it takes too long to say something which is not really that interesting. But even with its flaws, it meets most of the expectations it arises.
La toma: A useful glance at BA’s public education It’s certainly no news that the situation of public education in Buenos Aires is far from satisfying. The ongoing conflict between students of state-run schools and the administration of Mayor Mauricio Macri over education reform peaked again recently when several schools — including the legendary Nacional Buenos Aires, the Carlos Pellegrini, the Mariano Acosta — were occupied, and a protest was staged at the BA City Education Ministry. The main reason for the protest couldn’t be more compelling: the “New Quality High-School” programme launched by Macri’s government seeks the implementation of curriculum changes that will reduce orientation programmes as well as hours of instructional time in fundamental subjects such as Geography and History. To be more precise, the conflict escalated last year when 45 schools were occupied as a response to such reprehensible measures. Hence, a court ruling then ordered local authorities to extend the effectiveness of the reform until 2014. However, students claim the unwanted changes are already being implemented and demand to take part in the debate. Back in 2011 and 2010, almost 40 schools had already been occupied, to demand the government to execute the budget for education, improve the infrastructure and implement the required scholarships. Among the occupied schools in 2010, one of the most important was the Nicolás Avellaneda, whose building has barely since renovations since it was built. This is, in fact, when the rightful claims for a better public education started to be chronicled by the media at large and became an important issue in the local agenda. La toma (The Occupation), the new film by Argentine filmmaker Sandra Gugliotta (Un día de suerte, Las vidas posibles) is, more than anything else, an informative documentary that chronicles the events surrounding the 2010 occupation of the Nicolás Avellaneda. It shows meetings of the Students’ Centre, countless talks with school officials, organizational efforts for the occupation and its conclusion with its due political effects. Equally important, it shows students debating what the best strategies are in order to achieve desired results. As Sandra Gugliotta explains it: “In La toma, you can see how the kids take charge and carry on a discussion (with all its contradictions, trials and errors) that should be of the utmost importance to all adults; in fact, they should be the ones involved in the discussion. What’s going on with public education and what things do we have to do to avoid its continual destruction? In a sense, I think the film speaks of cracks, and these cracks are taken out in the open by the students.” On the plus side, La toma gives you a pretty good idea of the state of things, it features some eloquent fragments of the meetings and discussions, captures the air of resistance, and shows the commitment of students who want nothing but a better education. At times, it really conveys the sense of being there with them, side by side, listening to what they have to say and sharing some important moments in the course of events. For the most part, the camera is unobtrusive and in sync with the many speakers. La toma is a didactic film, but in a good way: that is to say it doesn’t underestimate its viewers and attempts to show reality in all its complexity — including the points of view of school officials who want to fight for the school as well, but have some differences with the kids as regards the most effective strategies. On the down side, as a film, it lacks the necessary dramatic progression to become a more visceral, fully-developed piece of work. It doesn’t individualize the students, even if it tries to do so by giving some of them more screen time. It’s too bad that you don’t get to know much about them, other than their discourse, making La toma somewhat impersonal. And whereas sometimes it maintains a good pace, there are other times when it drags on. All in all, La toma is the kind of film that’s more valuable for its content and its ideology than for its film form. For an informative documentary, you get most of what’s expected. In these strict terms, it works fine.
Argentine indie gem replicates Earth political mess on Mars “Just like in Sidra, my previous film in which the content had an effect on its form, the exact same thing happens in T.Ves?. Because what’s happening on the red planet is relayed to us via television. That’s why viewers will see not only a film, but also a TV show,” says Argentine Diego Recalde about his new work. Now, what’s happening on the red planet? Well, lots of things, actually. In an unspecified time after the year 2000, US citizens arrive on Mars and discover life there. Three years later, the red planet has turned into a huge metropolis full of buildings, casinos, cabarets and fast food diners. But the economic and political system implemented by the Empire has seriously harmed Martians. Soon enough, they experience inflation, unemployment and social chaos. This time, human beings are the invaders. As for the aliens, they can barely endure knowing that everything is going to get much worse. There are a lot of good things to be said about T.Ves?, the first one being how unusually inventive it is. It makes sense: Diego Recalde is an unusual character as well. He’s scripted TV shows such as Roberto Petttinato's Duro de domar, where he also worked as a comedian and a reporter. He’s also scripted TV shows like RSM, Mundo perfecto, Televisión registrada, and Caiga quien caiga. He has plenty of experience in the realm of radio in programmes such as Zona liberada, No se desesperen, and Mondo Beat. He’s written more than a handful of novels and draws comic strips for local dailies. And he sings. As a filmmaker, he’s produced, written and directed three feature films before T.Ves?, which are Sidra, Habano y cigarrillos and El periodista, all of them made in a very independent manner and presented commercially in theatres. T.ves? will screen exclusively at the Cosmos movie theatre. As written above, T.Ves? is quite an original feature. On the one hand, you could say it’s a kind of parody or satire (a most inspired one) on how television news shows convey and distort information — or even editorialize it for their own gain. It’s depicted as a TV news programme, in three different spaces: there’s a reporter at the network (played by Recalde), a female reporter covering the repercussion on Earth (the protest of left-wingers in front of the US Embassy is simply hilarious) of the tumultuous situation on Mars, and a male reporter broadcasting live from Mars (his voice is out of sync with the image). Thanks to a very well paced editing, the rotation of these three places never drags (and we’re talking about a long series of static shots). There are, too, some smart, amusing parodies of TV commercials, including one about people whose everyday suffering leads them to seek salvation in dubious places. Furthermore, the deliberately slightly over the top acting goes hand in hand with the kind of finely tuned absurd humour (with a most incisive political edge) that envelops the entire film. What's most appealing is the ongoing sense of discovery that makes you expect the unexpected and turns T.Ves? into a different feature. Most of the time, the verbal gags are bound to catch you off-guard, time and again. At a time when independent cinema tends to be not that independent, T.Ves? is a small, rare gem not to be missed.
Caíto: a moving film about brotherly love Caíto, actor Guillermo Pfening’s directorial début, is both a documentary and a fictional account starring his younger brother Caíto, who suffers from a genetic disease that causes muscular dystrophy and prevents a normal lifestyle. He needs assistance to move, get around and do simple chores. Pfening had already made a short film with his brother, also called Caíto (2004). Now’s the time to go big. Caíto, the film, does two things at once: it documents Caíto’s life and it also depicts the making of a fiction film with Caíto playing himself. Or, better said, a fiction film based on his real life with his real friends and relatives. In the main story, Caíto has a warm girl friend who loves him dearly, while he becomes a father figure for a 9-year-old girl mistreated by her family. In the fictional movie being shot, Caíto sees his most cherished dream come true: to have a family of his own. So you see the preparations for the fiction film, some scenes as they are being shot, other scenes as you would see them if you were watching the finished film and, in between, the documentary on Caíto’s regular life. Above all, what you see is a declaration of love between brothers. Guillermo Pfening gives his younger brother the opportunity to be on the big screen, to be the protagonist of a dream, and Caíto returns the favour by expressing love and affection in a way only brothers can. There’s no doubt that Caíto, the film, is living proof of a most loving bond that overcomes adversity and misfortune. It is, indeed, an act of love. However, as a film, Caíto is not that compelling or insightful. It’s merely descriptive, at best. It presents a scenario, introduces the characters, makes a couple of observations, and that’s it. The love these brothers feel for one another is unquestionable, but the film that comes out of that love is purely anecdotal. It just doesn’t dig deep into the many facets of this material. It doesn’t say much about Caíto’s real life, or what he thinks and feels towards this or that. It’s a film made with the best intentions, but that doesn’t make it a film with thought-provoking questions. From a strictly cinematic standpoint, it’s just correct, no formal exploration of the film medium is found here. On the plus side, this type of material often gives way to facile sentimentalism, inducing viewers’ identification with the plight of the protagonist. In short, films meant to make you cry or be moved by manipulative means. Fortunately, it’s not the case here. Pfening casts a dignified, respectful and sometimes humorous look on the story, the kind of humour that does not make fun of its subject.
A small boy looms large in Swiss drama Sister Twelve-year-old Simon (Kacey Mottet Klein) has obtained a season pass to a classy winter ski resort in the Alps. Everyday, he rides up the lifts to the top of the mountains and mingles with the rich and famous. However, he is not interested in skiing —not at all. Instead, he steals skis, poles, boots, gloves and sunglasses from the wealthy guests and sells them at a lower price to the less-fortunate workers and kids who, like him, live in the town below. This way, he can support himself and his twenty-something sister Louise (Léa Seydoux), an unfocused, somewhat selfish wanderer who seems not to care too much for their well-being. Most of the time, she happens to be too busy flitting from job to job and from lover to lover — with little, if any, success. So it’s entirely up to Simon to keep them afloat, and he’s a quick learner. Even at age 12, he can cook and clean and knows ski equipment better than even expert skiers, even though he is no skier himself. He’s a businessman in a risky line of work. And a lonely kid in need of love. The many layers in the story of Louise and Simone are insightfully explored by Franco-Swiss filmmaker Ursula Meier (Home) in her arresting L'enfant d'en haut (Sister/La Hermana), which was featured at the Berlinale and it’s Switzerland’s submission for Best Foreign Film at this year’s Oscars. Simon does indeed live two lives at once: an imaginary life up in the Alps, where he pretends he’s a wealthy kid with loving parents, since the stolen ski gear makes him feel he belongs there; and his real life, down in the town at the foot of the mountain, where he is just another worker and a kid with no parents and a distant sister. As Meier told the Herald in an interview, having an imaginary life makes it easier for Simon to survive his real one. He’s not absolutely alone since he has Louise, but whereas he has grown more responsible and composed, she’s actually a burden as she relies on him for almost everything. She can’t (or won’t) even hold a job. Indeed, they’re both pretty much alone. L'enfant d'en haut does not only observe its two characters individually (there are, for instance, separate subplots involving them), but, above all, it focuses its sensitive gaze on their relationship of co-dependence, which has more sides that remain kept in secrecy. However, an hour into the film an unexpected revelation changes the way you see them and what they mean to each other. But it doesn’t change the course of the main story. It’s just that now you see fundamental layers that turn the whole thing into something far more complex. In most films, unexpected and abrupt twists that redefine the scenario are nothing but unsubstantial narrative gimmicks used to fill in the lack of good ideas. But here you have the exact opposite case. It makes sense that you learn what you learn when you learn it. It couldn’t have happened before. And it doesn’t feel forced for a second. In formal terms, L'enfant d'en haut shares some traits with films Rosetta, The Son, or The Kid with the Bike, by the Dardenne brothers, meaning the camera almost stays always on the characters, the mise-en-scène is austere, there’s no use of incidental music, and a documentary-like feeling permeates it all. But whereas the Dardenne are equally focused on both the intimate drama and its social context, Meier places social realism in a second place and favours the fable. She’s after portraying the everyday life of Simon and Louise, and in so doing she reveals a universe of broken ties, unrequited love and emotional lesions. In the end, it’s all about their thoughts, moods, and feelings. L'enfant d'en haut is indeed a very heart-rending film, but there’s not a hint of facile sentimentalism. There’s sentiment aplenty, but conveyed with restraint, in a low key. There are no judgments on the characters’ actions either. It’s not about preaching. Instead, this is the kind of film that asks viewers to care for the characters without ever being condescending or moralizing. Yet it asks you to think about individual and collective morals. That’s precisely what makes it all the more fascinating. Such a character study had to have outstanding performers to embody nuanced characters that live in their own, personal worlds. Plus there are a handful of quite painful scenes. Take the one where Simon learns about his origins. Or when he’s hit by a skier whose ski gear he’d stolen. It’s deeply satisfying to see that both Kacey Mottet Klein and Léa Seydoux are simply superb, as natural as spontaneous as they come. They feel very real and immediate. You believe them. Though there’s a good deal of dialogue, there are also long stretches of silence. And it is during these silences when you feel most what an atmospheric film L'enfant d'en haut is. Needless to say, credit is due to cinematographer Agnes Godard (Beau Travail, The Dreamlife of Angels) who infuses the film with a moderate dose of melancholy and softness. At a time when most mainstream movies as well as large part of indie ones are predictable and one-dimensional, L'enfant d'en haut offers a cinematic experience rich in affections and affliction, an experience in which blood ties, love and the absence of love are indelible marks.
An arduous, self-conscious exercise in style Six friends in their thirties get together to spend an entire Sunday at a country house. When they were younger, they had lofty ideals and big plans for themselves. They were naive and optimistic. Now that time has gone by and the future is already here, they all share a common feeling: they are disillusioned with who they are, whether they like to acknowledge it or not. Granted, they enjoy a life of privilege typical of the bourgeoisie, but have a hard time trying to find a state of true well-being and fulfillment. It makes sense: they are just too cynic. As the day goes by, they engage in diverse conversations, all trivial, some filled with carefully disguised resentment. They tell each other anecdotes, recall old stories, discuss this and that, but they never get anywhere. Their conversations are, in fact, so inconclusive that they feel an urgent need to switch from one topic to the next. For the most part, they talk about nothing and hide what really happens to them. Sometimes, however, they do confront some of the fears and reasons for their malaise. They even seem to learn from it. Perhaps, after all, there’s hope for a better tomorrow. Or not. The truth is that it remains to be seen. Give or take, this is at the core of Argentine filmmaker Luciano Quilici’s opera prima Los quiero a todos (I Love You All), which was first a play written and staged by Quilici himself three years ago in a small BA theatre. The very first day the play opened, the director felt that the language of theatre was insufficient for the full potential of his material, so he decided to make a film. Made on a low budget and with no official funding, Los quiero a todos surely is the kind of film the director wanted it to be. Each single decision (camerawork, editing, sound design), was carefully studied and neatly executed. Nothing was been left to chance. Everything was under control. A near perfect and carefully engineered piece of machinery, if you will. But the problem is that the film shows too much. Los quiero a todos boasts the kind of formalism that draws attention to itself to the point of eclipsing the drama instead of underlining it. For the most part, it’s a self-conscious exercise in style. An accomplished one, no doubt, but an exercise nonetheless. Take the obsessive, clear-cut framing. It’s eye-catching at first, but when you realize it doesn’t convey much, it soon becomes monotonous, automatic. The same goes for the composition of each shot, too calculated and even rigid. It doesn’t really communicate much about what’s going on. It’s just smart looking for the sake of it. This is how a film intended as a real portrait of real people ends up looking and feeling artificial and rehearsed. An unintended paradox. To be honest, there’s some spontaneity in the dialogue, which closely reflects the way people speak in real life. The words and expressions and the way they are used, and the pauses and silences ring true. It does help a great deal that actors Leticia Mazur, Ramiro Agüero, Margarita Molfino, Valeria Lois, Alan Sabbagh, Loren Acuña, Santiago Gobernori, and Diego Jalfen are more than aware of how to deliver their lines and make them sound natural. Sometimes, however, they tend to overemphasize their gestures, actions and reactions. The problem is not what is said but rather the way it is said. As an exploration on the disenchantment of a generation, it resorts so much to commonplace and overworked notions that there’s nothing much to write home about. What these characters say and what the film says about them has been said so many times before that you’d think you are watching a remake of a dated artsy movie. On the plus side, the overall sound design, expressive and recognizable, and some isolated scenes are to be celebrated. It’s precisely when there’s less control of the drama, which flows more realistically. This happens in the least important conversations, in what seems to be strictly anecdotic, when the subtext is not heavily handed. Too bad there are not enough of these lucky breaks. This is when you get a glimpse of what a film like Los quiero a todos could have been like