Bella Addormentata: To let live or to let die Famed Italian filmmaker Marco Bellocchio’s Bella Addormentata (Dormant Beauty) is based on real events that grabbed the attention of Italian society at large back in 2009 when Bep-pe Englaro decided to take his daughter Eluana, comatose for seventeen years due to a car wreck, off mechanical life support. The one particularity that set this case aside from others it that the father demanded that euthanasia be applied legally and out in the open, as opposed to secretly in private clinics or even hospitals. As was to be expected, a phenomenon was created around it: pro-life activists attacked the position of the Englaro family and Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi was also against allowing the girl to die. Bella Addormentata revolves around a few stories that share similarities, but also display different sides of the same issue. One of the stories concerns a famous actress, “the Divine Mother” (Isabelle Huppert), who has a daughter in a coma, Rosa. She has devoted her life to taking care of her to the point of almost totally neglecting her own son. She’s very religious, therefore against letting Eluana die. She can’t even contemplate the fact that her own daughter could ever face the same fate. Then there’s Maria (Alba Rohrwacher), a religious young teenager who protests against euthanasia, but happens to fall in love with Roberto (Michele Riondino) a young activist man in favour of it who has a brother with mental problems. Moreover, there’s Dr. Pallido (Pier Giorgio Bellocchio) who feels drawn to a beautiful woman who’s admitted to the hospital, a drug addict with suicidal tendencies (Maya Sansa). Not surprisingly, the addict just wants to end her life whereas Dr. Pallido wants to convince that life is not to be tossed away just like that. Finally, there’s Uliano Beffardi (Tony Servillo), an honest senator elected for Berlusconi’s party who’s asked to vote for a law against euthanasia which would forbid Eluana Englaro being taken off life support. The thing is Uliano is in favour of euthanasia — and not without a reason. Marco Bellocchio deftly intertwines these stories in a smart and complex fashion, and in so doing he provides a full panorama with all its nuances on a topic as controversial as euthanasia is. However, expect no propaganda, since one of the film’s major assets is how it portrays each point of view without casting a judgment on it. For the most part, it deals with emotions and feelings of the parties involved. It shows everybody has their reasons. Accordingly, viewers are asked to make up their own minds and find their own answers to the many queries the film poses. This is not to say that there’s no criticism, because the film does indeed criticize politicians for taking advantage of hot issues like this one for their own personal benefit. Or how fanatics can only make matters worse, since they don’t really care about anyone or anything other than their own rigid ideas. People don’t matter to them. Bella Addormentata is a beautifully shot film, dark and moody, with some great scenes filled with infectious pathos alongside a very inspired musical score that gives the film a transcendental, yet not solemn, tone. Expect small dramatic pieces that are as unexpected as they are compelling (the arrival of the suicidal woman to the hospital, or when the shrink talks about his patients from the Senate). Bellocchio’s film is a meditation and an exploration rather than a statement on how things should be. And that’s precisely the best thing about it. Incidentally, the Film Commission of Friuli Venezia Giula was shut down allegedly for budget reasons; when, in fact, it was done as a way to block the film from receiving financial aid. As it’s obvious, the film got made anyway. All the more reasons to see such a remarkable feature.
Top-notch experimental Argentine filmmaking One of the most thought-provoking sections of the last edition of the Buenos Aires International Festival of Independent Cinema (BAFICI), held in April this year, was Avant Garde & Genre, which gathered experimental, groundbreaking features that went beyond preconceived boundaries. Paulo Pécora’s Las amigas and Ignacio Masllorens’s Hábitat are two cases in point. In case you haven’t seen Las amigas and Hábitat at the BAFICI, you now have the chance to do so for they are being screened at the Centro Cultural de la Cooperación (Ave. Corrientes 1543) on Thursdays at 7pm throughout October. Las amigas (Paulo Pécora, 35 mins, 2013). Four girlfriends live together in an abandoned mansion, worn out by tediousness: they are immortal vampires whose lives are nothing but a series of repetitive scenes that have been taking place forever — and will keep on taking place forever too. And these are different vampires too: they talk very little, they don’t really relate to one another, they’re kind of disgusting and don’t do much to hide it. Shot entirely on Super 8mm, and starring Ana Utrero, Mónica Lairana, Gladys Lizarazu y Natalia Festa, Las amigas, by Argentine filmmaker and journalist Paulo Pécora (El sueño del perro, Marea baja), is a rare, most appealing medium-length film that addresses its nominal theme (the universe of deadly female vampires) at the same time it reflects upon the nature of the film medium, about its possibilities, its scope. It’s also the type of film that enters your system and stays in there for a long time. It is narrative, meaning there’s some kind of a story with a conflict, characters and development, and yet you are not likely to remember it as such. It’s more of a surrealistic experience where you wander among a series of images, sounds, fragments, textures, special effects, lights and shadows that creatively create moods and atmospheres for an entire world to exist in. Pécora resorts to black and white, but he also goes for colour as master of horror Dario Argento does, driven by passion and confidence — and with plenty of deep red. High contrasted images mix together with more opaque ones that evoke the air of silent cinema as the enveloping sound design adds yet other sensorial layers. An inspired poetic rendition of lust, sex and death, Las amigas boasts the influence of US experimental filmmaker Maya Deren (Meshes of the Afternoon), Carl Theodor Dreyer, the Hammer horror films and, yes, David Lynch too. But it doesn’t mimic them, it’s not an empty exercise in style. Instead, it’s about taking some bits from these masters to resignify them in a different context, that of an urban Buenos Aires in a suspended time. Despite the influences, Pécora sings his own song. Hábitat (Ignacio Masllorens, 40 mins, 2013). Picture a seemingly endless series of 13-second static shots of Buenos Aires very early in the morning, without a single person in sight. The scenario is literally deserted (though there’s a dog in one shot). The first shots are in the deepest spot the city can offer, where there’s some nature left. Then it’s the turn of avenues, streets, houses, buildings, corners, facades, trees and parks. Eventually, the interiors of ordinary places appear: a factory, a shopping mall, an apartment, the subway. It all looks so different without any people at all. It looks like Buenos Aires and yet it doesn’t: it could be a city anchored somewhere in a lost universe where life has ceased to exist. It’s a surreal city, not like that of Pécora’s in Las amigas, but surreal nonetheless. And it also shares an air of eeriness, although in the city of Masllorens the sun shines bright on even if it seems everybody is dead somewhere out of the picture – surely that’s another reason that makes it creepy. Like Las amigas, Hábitat is a first rate cinematic experience. It’s a journey with no destination and no purpose that just invites you to get lost in the city you thought you knew. It’s beautifully filmed, with a clear eye for composition and visual design and a great understanding of how things can look like when we look at them in a different way. It’s also an architectonic document, but not one made of generic post cards and standardized beauty — on the contrary. Just like it shows the exteriors of things, their surface, it evokes their essence regardless of shapes. It’s observational and contemplative, but it seldom drags. With the healthy influence of US filmmaker James Benning, Ignacio Masllorens also avoids following a predetermined blueprint on how to make a film about a place with no people — and make it cool and arty. He just takes the initial premise, adds his own imprint, and executes it perfectly.
What’s the true meaning of kiss and tell? Juan (Walter Cornás) is in his early thirties and not having the best of times. He’s just split up with his girlfriend, hasn’t seen his best friends in quite a while, and has been working for too long in a place he doesn’t really enjoy. No wonder total boredom has invaded his life. In fact, at times it seems there’s no real way out. However, he knows things have to change as soon as possible. That’s why he decides to spend a few nights at Goldstein’s (Gastón Pauls), one of his most reliable friends and one hell of a pot smoker. They share some joints, talk about their moods, sentimental lives and their plans for today and tomorrow. Soon, Juan rents a small apartment and begins to see his other friends too. He has plenty of laughs and spends quality time with them. Things seem to be getting better. That is, until one day his boss (Eduardo Blanco) gives him a task to be carried out with Luciana (Carla Quevedo), a co-worker he can barely stand. He really feels she’s kind of dumb and a total pain in the neck. Yet, as days go by, he starts to have different feelings for her. Actually, he begins to fall in love. So now new queries come up: is he ready for a new relationship? Does he truly want a girlfriend? Most important, does she even like him enough? 20.000 besos (20,000 Kisses), directed by Sebastián De Caro and co-written with Sebastián Rotstein, is a somewhat unusual feature. It’s a well-executed dramatic comedy with a small, appropriate dose of romance. More than anything else, it portrays that uncertain period in which you have to realize you just can’t keep being a late adolescent anymore, but a full grown adult with the corresponding responsibilities. Of all things, De Caro and Rotstein are interested in the nature of relationship, love and desire, be it a one-night stand, a brief romance or a steady relationship. And friendship, of course. Fortunately, the filmmakers do not seek enlightening truths about the characters, their joys and tribulations. Instead, they show the state of things, explore underlying tensions and follow their characters as they do what they do. Sometimes they even hint at why they do what they do, but never cast a clinical eye on it. Everything is permeated by much welcome humour, the kind of humour you find in your everyday life, if you will. Deliberately and ably light-weighted, 20.000 besos is a film that knows where it’s going. Moreover, its seemingly unelaborate cinematography and its pleasurable soundtrack set the right tone for the best scenes. On the minus side, there are some very visible script problems. While the characters of Juan, Goldstein and Luciana are well defined and do have enough nuances, the others are not much more than figurines who utter lines here and there. It’s hard to care about them because they barely exist. It’s pretty clear that the film focuses on Juan (and eventually on Goldstein, smartly played by Pauls), but better supporting characters would have painted a richer canvas. Granted, the idea of las hadas (the fairies), a group of three giddy, empty-headed girls, pays off because the acting is very natural and the characters, though stereotypes, are believable (but to include a gay man as the fourth fairy is not exactly too ingenious). Then there’s the humour. Just like there are times when the gags and one-liners are surprising and really funny, there are others in which you can see them coming from a mile away, and so they feel obvious and unnecessary. This is precisely when more is less, you can see the pen of the scriptwriters and all magic is lost. The same applies to a few commonplace situations about folks in a thirty-something crisis. There’s no doubt that the scenes flow and, for the most part, are very well developed. Also, there’s an undeniable sense of truth about them. But by the time the film wraps up, you wonder if a stronger central story would have made for a more gripping movie. As things stand, some potentially valuable material has been left unexplored. All in all, however, 20.000 besos is worth seeing because it makes good on many of its promises.
The bloody truth: forensics rebuilding identities “Our goal is to inform. We want young people to know our history and the elders to remember it: this way, we will surely raise awareness. This is a didactic documentary. We’ve wanted to tell this story for a long time”, says Argentine documentary maker Miguel Rodríguez Arias about his film Buscadores de identidades robadas (Seekers of Stolen Identities), which accounts for the origin and development of the Argentine Team of Forensic Anthropology (Equipo Argentino de Antropología Forense – EAAF) which since 1984 has found and identified the remains of 577 persons disappeared during the 1976-1983 military dictatorship. So far, no other feature, neither fiction film nor documentary, has told the story Miguel Rodríguez Arias is now telling with remarkable precision. Buscadores de identidades robadas begins back in 1982 when the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo were trying to find a method to identify their grandchildren who had been kidnapped during the dictatorship. If these children could be identified, then eventually they could be returned to their real families. Initially, there were no scientific methods available to verify blood ties between grandparents and grandchildren. But in 1983 there were two events to be celebrated. On the one hand, the advent of the much sought-after democracy with President Raúl Alfonsín, from the Radical Party, as the new president. On the other, scientists from the US announced that a method to potentially establish the identity of disappeared persons had been discovered. Following a request from the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo, Raúl Alfonsín brought in US forensic anthropologist Clyde Snow, an expert in identifying corpses in criminal cases. Upon his arrival in Argentina in 1984, Snow and local anthropologists founded the Equipo Argentino de Antropología Forense. From the start, the results proved to be fruitful. It so happens that their first identifications of disappeared persons became essential pieces of evidence against the military juntas in the trials carried out in 1985, in which Snow himself testified. The entire process the EAAF is involved in consists of three major steps: a) the preliminary investigation of the case, b) the archeological exhumation of the remains, and c) the anthropologic and genetic analyses in order to identify the remains and provide elements needed to establish the cause of death. Furthermore, a major turning point was reached about eleven years ago when it became possible to get a sample of DNA from the bone remains, and thus it could be matched with the DNA from relatives of the disappeared. Ever since, the EAAF (a non-governmental organization that runs on state funds since 2009) has identified 577 persons out of remains belonging to 1,200 people. Such hard, valuable work has, in fact, gone beyond the frontiers of Argentina and was taken as a model and replicated in more than forty foreign countries. Buscadores de identidades robadas tells this story in a detailed and most meticulous fashion. Every single aspect of the processes undertaken by the EAAF is explained and shown to perfectly inform viewers of some essential realities our present needs in order to keep memory alive. Different interviewees talk about their work and how they feel about their tremendous and priceless task. They talk about the state of things at the very beginning, back in the early 80s, about how things have slowly changed for the better, and about the meaning of their work. Fortunately, what you get is not only information and cold statistics or technical details regarding the many stages of the process, but you can also appreciate the film’s humanistic gaze, its contemplative tone, the respect toward its material as well as the many uneasy questions and thought-provoking queries posed throughout the narrative. Fittingly enough, there’s the much-interesting archive footage (of the trials, newsreels, exhumations) and some recordings of the dictators’ most infamous words — uttered at public events. A potential problem a documentary with so much information can always have is to become tedious, repetitive or plainly confusing. None of that happens in Rodríguez Arias’ film: it is swiftly edited, very well narrated and it boasts the right tempo for all its contents to slowly sink into your conscience. For a didactic documentary, it’s as good as it gets. And while this is a film that never goes for a melodramatic approach (which would have been downright insulting and manipulative), it still is a work that conveys deep sentiment and stirs emotion. More than anything else, Buscadores de identidades robadas is a film about people, dignity and identity.
Man with the Iron Fists is simply overplotted In Jungle Village, the leader of the Lion’s clan Gold Lion (Kuan Tai Chen) is summoned by the Governor (Terence Yin) and assigned to protect his gold, which will be transported through the village. However, he is betrayed and murdered by the greedy Silver Lion (Byron Mann) and Bronze Lion (Cung Le). Gold Lion’s favourite son Zen Yi (Rick Yune), a.k.a. The X-Blade, seeks revenge and heads to Jungle Village, but he is defeated by Brass Body (Dave Bautista) and rescued by the local Blacksmith Thaddeus (RZA). Meanwhile the Gemini Female (Grace Huang) and the Gemini Male (Andrew Lin) protect the Governor’s gold, but they are vanquished by the army of Silver and Bronze Lion. In turn, the Blacksmith is abducted by the Lions and has his arms severed by Brass Body. However he is saved by the British Jack Knife (Russell Crowe), who is the emissary of the Emperor, and he manufactures iron arms for Thaddeus. Meanwhile the Governor sends the Jackal army to fight against the Lions and they hide the gold in the brothel of Madam Blossom (Lucy Liu). However, Madam Blossom and his girls form an army of black widows and together with Jack, Zen Yi and The Blacksmith, they fight against the Lions. RZA’s The Man with the Iron Fists (great title, yet don’t get your hopes high) is determinedly overplotted. But the story is not intricate or zigzagging in a thought provoking fashion.It’s not complicated because it must be so in order to tell the story it wants to tell. On the contrary: it’s overplotted precisely because it has nothing to tell. It’s a martial arts movie, therefore it should contain some kind of homage to traditional Kung Fu movies (don’t expect a wonderful story). But you don’t expect it to have a needlessly confusing one either. And you certainly do expect decent action sequences and visual effects. There must be some adrenaline and as many thrills as possible. It’s the energy that counts. Too bad none of these things are found in this movie produced by Eli Roth (Hostel, Hostel II and Cabin Fever) and presented by Quentin Tarantino. Only God knows why a filmmaker of his stature (like him or not, he’s got a true career) would want to present a film this amateurish. Almost every element in this film has been mismanaged in some way and the result is laughable. Every single line in the script is bad. There’s no other way to put it. It’s poorly paced and the characters are one-dimensional and underdeveloped. Most of the cast make a mess of their poorly penned one-liners, which makes this movie even more difficult to watch. The gimmicky action sequences and the special effects look cheap. Costumes, hair and even sets look cheap throughout. It’s clumsily shot, awkwardly put together and riddled with continuity problems. Furthermore, the music is jarringly out of sync with the movie. It feels like there was no-one to tell the director it was not a good idea or that something didn’t work. A steady, experienced hand in screenwriting or cinematography would have yielded a watchable movie. Instead, an average idea has been turned into an idiotic production. Don’t let Quentin Tarantino’s tagline fool you, this movie is appalling
Girimunho, a dream-like Brazilian gem “She’s the most charming person ever. Not only with me, it’s the same with anyone who arrives in her home. You go there, an Argentine, you don’t speak Portuguese, and nonetheless Bastu will greet you with a wonderful smile, she’ll give you a warm hug and it won’t matter that you speak a foreign language and don’t understand it all. Hers is a universal language, she’s a woman who exudes love, tenderness, bliss. She says she’s cried only once in her life, when she was a kid, and it’s true. Her only worry is simply to live, without thinking she’s old,” says Brazilian director Helvécio Marins Jr. about his remarkable début feature Girimunho (2011), co-directed with Clarissa Campolina, and written by Felipe Bragança — now showing at the Leopoldo Lugones Auditorium of the San Martín Theatre (1530 Corrientes Ave.) Girimunho, a fiction film with a strong documentary edge, tells the story of Bastu, an 81-year-old woman living in a small town in the Brazilian sertão (backcountry), whose husband, Feliciano, has just passed away. Bastu does mourn her loss, indeed, but her life does not come to a halt because of his death. Instead, she moves on. She says time is a gift, so why waste it? Bastu has always thrived on life, so it’s not surprising she enjoys dancing in the batucada, having seemingly trivial conversations with her longtime friend María, going about her daily routine, or even telling her husband’s ghost to stop bothering her with all the noise he makes in the workshop. She happens to like imagining life as she contemplates the landscape surrounding her. She can be meditative and introspective enough to have a most intimate contact with nature in its entire splendour, and yet she’s also outgoing and outspoken so as to be in touch with her loved ones and other folks as well. There’s also the story of Maria, a friend of Bastu’s, another wise old lady who’s also young at heart; and there’s Branca, the girl who wants to leave the small town to go to nursing school. In a sense, Girimunho is about all of them, even if it focuses on Bastu. It’s a film about a place and its soul, its inhabitants and their everyday occurrences. Helvécio Marins Jr. and Clarissa Campolina go for an intimate portrayal of people and the environment they live in with an uncommon subtlety and a poetic sense of looking at life. They also go for what lies inside the people’s hearts. In depicting Bastu’s routine, the filmmakers explore her sense of pride, what she treasures in life, how she manages to find pleasure and joy in the simplest things, how she overcomes adversity and what she does with the past when it has become a burden for the present and future. She misses her husband dearly, but she also reckons there’s no need to keep ghosts around her life. That’s mainly why she doesn’t hesitate when she decides to get rid of old stuff that belonged to him. It’s like starting over — at 81, that is. Girimunho is not film made out of words, although it’s spoken and there are some interesting lines to remember (“We don’t live or die, we are neither old nor young, we just live,” says Bastu at the ending), but a film made of pristine images, both austere and seducing. It’s easy to see that the cinematography is a key asset here, but not because it’s so technically accomplished (which is a plus, of course), but mostly because the visual design conveys a sense of place which is so tangible and immediate that you can’t help being emotionally and sensorially immersed into it. Not only into the place itself, but also into the diverse moods it conjures. Dark shadows and half-shadows encompass characters and things, which seem to exist in a suspended time. A dream-like atmosphere permeates the entire film, characters appear and disappear, and, in the meantime, small changes take place. And, unlike many films with a strong formalistic edge, Girimunho is never self-indulgent or distractive. It’s not one of those films that only look great and fail to communicate anything other than its own beauty. Perhaps it’s because it speaks about the people, what they think and feel, and how they behave, and this is what makes Girimunho such a sensitive, heartfelt cinematic experience. By the way, the people depicted here are playing themselves, with their own joys and tribulations, and much of what happens actually took and takes place in their real, unscripted lives — but this is not to say Girimunho is a documentary one hundred percent. Much has been created especially for the film, and a storyline to have these characters interact was also written. But that doesn’t make it into a fiction film one hundred percent either. It so happens that Girimunho lies somewhere between the blurry frontier that separates reality from fiction, and the fact that you can’t tell whether something came straight out of reality or was instead scripted only adds to the appeal of such a unique piece of work. It makes it all the more special.
V/H/S 2: a fun-thrill ride complete with gore Among horror cinema sub-genres, the so called “found-footage” films have had quite a following (as well as many detractors) in recent years. V/H/S, which was released last year, could have easily been would yet another found-footage film, but it luckily has a twist to it, a flair all of its own. And provided you buy the concept, there is much to enjoy: good scares, ghostly images, unnerving and maddening sounds (get ready for lots of screaming), a good dose of violence, quite good F/X used only when necessary, and a few memorable findings that give an overworked genre something different. And the gimmick of who’s filming it all and why he or she is doing it is pulled off with some wit — for the most part, that is. The twist here is that this is an anthology of short films made by somewhat novel and moderately promising young filmmakers (so you get six short stories for the price of one full-length feature film). Actually, this new premise is cool enough to get you immersed in a different experience, and most of the stories are also appealing and effective. They make up a compendium of well-known topics of horror movies, but rendered under a different light. Some images, more than a handful, are frightening and hard to forget. And the stories do make sense — in their perverted logic, of course. On the minus side, this is a film that needs more tension to make it more gripping and compelling. Nonetheless, V/H/S was indeed a novelty that brings something good to a territory in need for renewal. So, having really enjoyed the first V/H/S, I was more than eager to see what a sequel could entail. If you didn’t like the first one, chances are you won’t like this one either. But if you did like the original film, then you will most certainly be blown away by V/H/S 2, a marvellous sequel unlike any I’ve seen in recent horror cinema. To begin with, it improves over V/H/S in every way. It has way better production values, less shaky camera work (one of the main complaints about the first outing), much better visual and special effects, more and more gore, and even more jumps and scares, too. In other words: it has all it needs to surprise viewers that thought they’d seen practically everything there’s to see in the realm of horror cinema. As with the first film, we are introduced by the wrap-around segment, which tells the story of two private investigators who are sent to look for a missing teenager. When they arrive at his house, there seems to be no one home but they do find a pile of TV screens and VHS video recorders surrounded by various tapes in his living room. The investigators decide to watch some of the tapes, and as was the case with the first film, the rest of the movie is based around what disturbing stuff lurks on these tapes. And in between each tape, we get to see the events in the teenager’s house, with the investigators realizing that maybe they are not alone. We get to view four tapes in all (plus the wraparound segment), each one directed by a different horror genre director. The segments are as follows: Clinical Trials (directed by Adam Wingard). A man gets fitted with a bionic eye after a car accident and this story is told directly through his vision from this implant. As soon as he returns home, he starts to see an array of ghosts that seem too bent on getting his attention. This is the weakest of the four stories since it relies on a too well-trod concept and does not add anything new. Moreover, though it’s kind of creepy, it feels a little rushed and lacks a genuine source of horror. A Ride in the Park (directed by Greg Hale and Eduardo Sanchez). A surprising zombie movie with a true difference. A guy is on a bike ride through the woods with a camera attachment on his bike helmet. He comes across a screaming woman and jumps off of the bike to try to help. Too bad she turns out to be a zombie and bites him. The rest of the story is told through the helmet camera and follows our main character, as he himself changes into a zombie and then goes on a rampage to quench his bloodlust. One of the best segments in the whole film, A Ride in the Park succeeds at delivering a completely new take on the tired zombie genre. You get to see how zombies infect one another, a chain reaction, if you will, but one shown with both much humour and gore aplenty. It’s edgy, very well shot, the FX are awesome and it’s even somewhat threatening in its raw realism. Safe Heaven (directed by Gareth Evans). This is the longest segment, and it spins the tale of a documentary film crew that gets the chance to enter the sacred grounds of an Indonesian cult and interview their leader. Once inside, all hell breaks loose and you see things you’d never expected to see. Perhaps the second best segment (the first one being A Ride in the Park), Safe Heaven does blow you away with its blend of tension, shocking blows and extreme gore. True horror is attained by building up suspense upon an interestingly unusual story. It may need a bit too long to take off, but when it does it’s just like being on a rollercoaster, non-stop, for some thirty minutes. It could even be shown on its own and it would still just as compelling. Slumber Party Alien Abduction (directed by Joe Eisener). A group of obnoxious kids who like to play pranks on their older siblings realize that they suddenly become the targets of alien beings, which are hell-bent on abducting them all. A segment with many good moments and an occasionally a great one, here and there. Plus the fact that is all filmed by a dog (yes, a dog) turns into some kind of a novelty too. Luckily, the alien beings are also quite scary. But the shaky camerawork is frankly off-putting since there isn’t a real need for it. Yet, you still get to be sufficiently engrossed in the unfolding event. Overall, V/H/S 2 is definitely one of the best horror anthology films to come out in years. It’s gory and gruesome, scary in parts, funny in others, has some great ideas and is a complete fun thrill ride. What else could you ask for? A decent horror movie is hard to make, let alone a daring one as V/H/S 2, which takes the bare essentials of true fear and delivers blow after blow with clockwork precision
Observing incarceration Argentine filmmaker Marcia Pa-radiso’s documentary Lunas cautivas focuses on the lives of Lidia, Majo and Lili, three women detained at the Ezeiza penitentiary. Through the lives of these three women, the film also speaks about the situation of other convicts. It’s an observational documentary and, as such, the filmmaker never appears on screen or asks direct questions. There’s no testimonies or voiceovers. Instead, the filmmaker actually observes several situations, and allows them to unfold as the camera goes for details in faces, gestures and body language. Over two hundred women are currently imprisoned in the Ezeiza Penitentiary 31 (Unidad Penitenciaria 31 de Ezeiza). Some are single, some have their babies with them, some are local and the rest are foreigners. Convictions can be quite short, but also rather long, and yet in any case the experience of being deprived of your freedom is equally overwhelming. In order to provide some kind of creative output, some kind of therapy, the penitentiary runs two workshops: poetry and photography. In this context, writing poetry and seeing the world (and themselves) through the lens of a camera are the means through which they find their inner personal transformation. Women in pain, but also in joy, because they have made meaningful friendships inside and share an overall sense of companionship and solidarity with other inmates. These women are indeed imprisoned, but they are not alone. Day after day, they rediscover each other. Most importantly, their minds are more and more free. Paradiso’s gaze is compassionate but never condescending. It’s filled with emotion, but never sentimental. It goes for the essence of things, meaning what these women and their memories are like, it explores their fears and anxieties about imminent release, who they were and who they are now. The panorama is wide but never superficial. Lunas cautivas is about discovery and, in a sense, rebirth. Expressive close-ups and large shots of the penitentiary (inside and from a distance) immerse viewers into this little known universe.
Cirquera: a family album unlike any other Some families are plainly conventional while others may look so, and yet be the exact opposite. Some are off-beat almost by definition, whereas others may be even more peculiar than what they first appear. In the case of Diana Rutkus, her family is one-of-a-kind. She spent her first years between the circus and a motor home because her mother was a trapeze artist and her father was a lion-tamer and a drummer. When she turned five, her parents left the circus and a more predictable life began. More than thirty years after, Diana revisits her early family life, and in so doing she draws a portrayal of many other circus artists with some unusual lives as well. It’s circus time once again. Cirquera is the name of the documentary by Andrés Habegger and Diana Rutkus which uses to interviews, stock footage (home movies), family photographs, the filmmaker’s own voice-over, and a variety of location shots that not only account for particular stories themselves (those of Diana and her parents, to begin with), but also for other stories of a more universal scope. Cirquera is an examination and an exploration of a past long gone, but it’s also an intimate chronicle of circus life today — behind the scenes, that is. Bits and pieces here and there make up a rich canvas with amusingly odd touches. The interviewees speak candidly up as they recall past and present anecdotes that speak of a world that lies largely unrevealed unless you really get into it. Once inside, it’s most charming. For the most part, Habegger’s and Rutkus’ documentary succeeds in fulfilling the expectations it arises. However, sometimes it’s too leisurely paced, and so it tends to drag. It even becomes a bit redundant. Something similar happens with the voiceover, which at times becomes too explanatory. Most of the time, it’s used to reflect upon something of the past (a given event or just an anecdote) or to evoke certain memories, and in these cases it does work pretty well. But when it tells viewers what the filmmakers feel or think about something important regarding the heart of the film, then the overall emotional impact is greatly diminished. On the plus side, the cinematography is noteworthy indeed. Static locations shots establish a sense of time and space as eloquent close-ups allow viewers to get in touch with the most intimate sides of these artists.
Argentina’s past aches in Calles de la memoria “The theme of memory and its many ways of representation it’s a theme I’ve tackled in almost all my films. For us, Argentines, it’s been a very painful topic for quite some time. Every now and then, events in our recent history — and in our not-so-recent, too — trigger a much-needed reactivation of memory. In tune, the strength of the prevailing human rights movements has been expressed by different means, encompassing both ethical and aesthetic issues,” says Argentine documentary-maker Carmen Guarini about her new outing Calles de la memoria (Streets of Memory). And she adds: “This film not only recuperates the experience and knowledge of groups of anonymous men and women who fight against forgetting so many deaths and disappearances, but it also poses questions as to how memory is represented.” In Calles de la memoria, a group of foreign students attending a documentary workshop in Buenos Aires is asked to explore one of the most recent and visible ways of publicly representing memory: flagstones on the sidewalks of many neighbourhoods in the city with names of men and women who were disappeared during the infamous 1976-1983 military dictatorship. None of the students is knowledgeable about the subject, and thus the stories and situations they begin to learn about are very foreign to them. So they first get to know the people who make the flagstones, that is to say who they are, where they come from, and what their particular stories are. At the same time, the process of making the tiles is also being recorded. This way, the documentary also becomes a film essay on how images are protagonists in the reconstruction of the past. But it’s not only about the representational nature of images. Images — in this case the coloured flagstones — are also excuses to conduct brief, assorted interviews with neighbours and passers-by. Their diverse opinions about the laying of the tiles on the sidewalks where victims of the dictatorship lived are, in fact, representative of how Argentine society at large has been dealing with those dark years up to the present. At first, you’d think that most people would want to remember so much carnage just to make sure it won’t happen again. But you’d be dead wrong: in too many cases, the opinions and ideological points of view tend to favour oblivion and comfortable numbness. Some just don’t care, because it’s something that happened too long ago. Others don’t know much about it all, and couldn’t care less — which is even worse. Indifference can be deadlier than anything else. Others certainly do know, but would rather not make any comments. They just won’t talk. And there are some, of course, who don’t want to see any flagstones at all — least of all near their buildings. On the other hand, there are some who not only truly care, but also want to do as much as they can do to keep memory alive. That’s the case of the people of Barrios por la memoria, who have been doing a tremendous, most significant work by having found yet another way to represent through images — flagstones are indeed images — a part of the Argentine story that has healed only in part. Because behind each flagstone there’s a story and remembering that one story is doing justice to every single disappeared. Fortunately, there are many who feel the same way. There’s a middle-aged man interviewed who says that memory is pain, and so it’s better to forget. But he promptly adds that, in cases like these, it’s mandatory to remember. Even if it is painful. There’s a young man who believes that the worst you can do is to forget. He says you have to remember things because otherwise you won’t learn from your mistakes. Or from the history of your own country. If you don’t know your past, how can you understand your present and think of a possible future? There are also many other anonymous men and women who support the project, even if they don’t have any friends or relatives disappeared, or if it all happened long ago when they weren’t even born. There are, in fact, many people who won’t settle for oblivion. So in their quest to keep memory alive, Barrios de la memoria and the documentary Calles de la memoria surely take more than important steps in the right direction. In the hands of a lesser talented filmmaker, a documentary of this type would have probably been sentimental, manipulative or simplistic. But Carmen Guarini smartly eschews these potential problems, and instead goes for a reflexive approach where emotions and feelings do matter, but they are somewhat restrained as not to go over the top. The tone is assured, but needs no stridence to reach viewers. Calles de la memoria is a documentary that certainly knows what it wants to say, but better yet, it knows exactly how to say it as to make a real difference.