Liverpool (Lisandro Alonso, Argentina, 2008)

Liverpool will have started before one knows it, and will have been over sooner than one thinks. Some may linger in the theatre like several viewers did tonight at Babylon Berlin, but their wish to look for something (more) to happen will not be met.

Employing stationary camera for character study, and wide-shots as well as panning shots for the Tierra del Fuego exteriors, this kind of controlled perspective from Liverpool's creators underscores the austere winter environment, which functions as the backdrop of the sailor Farrel's search for his long estranged mother in his hometown. His homeward journey leads him to discover that his mother is ill and cannot recognise him, and without staying longer, he departs to return to the cargo ship on which he works, and leaves his sister behind with money and a key-chain that reads "Liverpool".

The film's overall slow and largely stoic style bears resemblance to Tsai Ming-liang's capsules of the world's seemingly alienated individuals, and the tension it contains and withholds from the viewers is equally curious. To start with, the tension in this particular film is a result of a lack thereof, underscored by a matter-of-fact and down-to-earth mise-en-scene. The journey is not depicted in a poignant manner, the man's apparent loneliness is not taken as a contentious topic, and no huge drama is spun out of the fact that the mother no longer recognises his son. By means of a sensitive control over pacing and the sense of time, the narrative fuses itself with the natural environment, develops itself and does not end where it starts (i.e. where Farrel's character is built-up). After Farrel leaves, the camera shifts its focus to show the father and sister at work in the fields, and ends in an elliptical manner with a shot focusing on her hands and the key-chain against the sun-light. This shot recalls faintly Shunji Iwai's cinematography (in All About Lily Chou-chou) and even some of Gus Van Sant's camera (in Paranoid Park in particular) to conclude the ultimately simple tale that appears uneventful, as if it is a chance observation of nature and what happens there. The apparent plainness, achieved by precise execution, is what constitutes its poetry.

The Dinner Party (Paul Watson, England, 1997)

British documentary filmmaker Paul Watson's provocative The Dinner Party aims to show what the "people's point of view on politics" is on the eve of the British general election in 1997. An undeniably attention-grabbing film, it is nonetheless weak in terms of content, and actually not very intelligent.

Conceived as an invitation to a group of East Anglia conservatives to "speak their mind on politics on TV", this polemical work draws from both experiential documentary and reality television. The scene is set to put the participants at ease, and to conduce them to share their most personal--perhaps never before revealed--political views before the public's gaze. Surrounded by top-quality silverware, high-class cuisine and food service and observed by the panning, but apparently non-intervening camera, the eight individuals candidly reveal frequently adamant, even rude, attitudes: anti-immigration sentiments, the revival of capital punishment, or a rejection of equal income distribution…the list goes on. The film includes separate black & white vignettes, where each individual is interviewed. These are mixed up with the main dinner-table thread, to fashion a kinetically edited documentary charged with energetic dialogue and unashamed bias, and tailored for controversy.

With such a style, there is little question that this documentary will achieve what it wants-- to provoke its viewers. Exploiting the immediacy of the screen, it tantalises them with its exclusive insider point-of-view on what are apparently some people's "true opinions". These blatant opinions, which theoretically may be otherwise unheard, certainly pique the viewers' curiosity.

But while the film retains the viewers' attention without fail, it does not go far enough to actually engage their mindsThe film aims for emotional impact and is less interested in prompting the viewers to consider and question the issues that are raised. There is no hint as to what ramifications such overt conservative attitudes would have over society in general, or over the outcomes of the upcoming general election in particular. Furthermore, there is insufficient background information from the emotional participants to support their opinions. While it is certainly likely that people form political opinions based on emotions as much as on actual knowledge and awareness, the fact that these very participants remain nameless and mysterious, and have vaguely defined personalities as if they were fictional personae, undermines the credibility and weight of their views. This effectively reduces the acrid declarations, such as "homosexuality is a freak of nature", to gossip, which possibly has little relevance to real conservative views. How seriously can one take the statements that are being made? As it becomes questionable whether the documentary shows the "truth", its persuasive powers weaken, and soon it may even stop making much sense.

So it turns out that what starts off as a clever and daring idea only ultimately culminates in largely insincere and superficial hyperbole. Ironically, to witness this daredevil attempt gradually mutate into something rather dumb is exactly the reason why The Dinner Party is worth watching.

Le Silence de Lorna (Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, Belgium, 2008)

Lorna's Silence
Le Silence de Lorna, Belgium/France/Italy, 2008
Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne

A new feature by Belgium's famed Dardenne brothers and at once restrained and anxious, The Silence of Lorna is an unsettling cinematic feast that leaves the viewers with much food for thought.

Young Albanian Lorna wishes to settle down in Belgium and is the film's main focus. The first sequence starts off the drama immediately and shows Lorna at a bank depositing money into her account, and then conversing with two different persons on the phone. Every minute gesture and sound counts, but the Dardennes are keen to create suspense by not giving viewers any information: there is no explanation why Lorna seems so nervous as she goes about her daily life, or why she avoids Claudy, the junkie who stays in her apartment but sleeps in the living room and seems to lead a separate life. Only gradually does it transpire that Lorna is married to Claudy in a fake marriage for the purpose of gaining Belgian citizenship. It is all part of the local syndicate's plan, which under the leadership of Fabio will put an end soon to this marriage, so that Lorna can marry again to a Russian willing to pay large sums to get into Belgium. These sums will contribute to what Lorna needs for the snack shop she plans to open with boyfriend Sokol.

Shot with the Dardennes' signature hand-held camera (in this case comparatively more static than in The Son or The Child), the drama unfolds in a gripping manner. Fabio plans to murder Claudy, so that the deal with the Russian can be closed soon. Lorna feels uneasy about this proposition and hits herself on the limbs and head, in the hopes that procedures for a divorce can be expedited. The divorce is approved, and Claudy realises Lorna has no more use for him and resorts to drugs again after having only become clean recently. In what would be the next scene (it is purposefully not revealed to the viewers), the syndicate deliberately causes Claudy to overdose and die. In the film's ensuing second half, Lorna appears to struggle with her conscience. The syndicate proceeds with the marriage plan with the Russian, which however eventually falls apart when Lorna believes and claims she is pregnant with Claudy's child (Lorna and Claudy do have sex once, but in reality Lorna is not pregnant). The reasons why Lorna is having such hallucinations are left unclear, but the fact that she no longer acts rationally makes her a burden for the syndicate. She therefore has to be sent back to Albania. On the trip, she attacks the syndicate errand-boy who is driving, runs into the forest and takes refuge in an empty hut for the night. As she makes a fire and curls up to sleep, she comforts and whispers to the unborn in her womb, "I will not let you die, as I let Claudy die."

For some viewers, this final utterance may well be the most important point of this tense but touching film. It may refer to the culmination of a person's guilt, as he hurts somebody else for his self-interests and is unable to remedy the damages in time; the redemption of shame in the final moment of love; and the catharsis provided by hope for the future. Because the impacting delivery of this line effectively closes the film, it may also come to define its gist, and mark the work as a portrayal of a person in times of desperation, conflicting loyalties and pain, rather than a direct statement on the issues of migration, European citizenship, or organised crimes.

But while there is no question to the Dardennes' superior artistry, is their product that which the above emotional readings make it seem-- apolitical, transcendental, sentimentally humanist? Viewers who revisit the film will very likely realise that there is more than what meets the eye.

One key aspect that may have escaped one's attention the first time is the film's necessarily political character, hidden behind the character-centred drama. Indeed, the citizenship trade is in and of itself a political topic, and every depiction of how the characters are affected by it is essentially an oblique political comment. The Dardennes make no pretence about the consequences that come with the criminal business: Lorna plays a substantial role in somebody else's murder and struggles with her conscience; Fabio and Sokol turn their back on Lorna when she starts behaving irrationally and causes the syndicate to lose money; Claudy dies as a direct result of the crime. Furthermore, the directors give the reality of these criminal undertakings material form by unequivocally showing the explicit involvement of money and the ubiquity of violence. In indirect and direct ways, the viewers are always invited to ponder upon the politics of crime. In fact, the narrative's political urgency is just as important as its affecting poignancy.

Another aspect that deserves attention and is worthy of debate, is how the Dardennes maintain a controlled distance from their characters and their fates. As much as they are politically conscious and aware how the criminal system damages individual lives, they do not make excuses for those who choose to be involved in it. At the same time that they do not judge their characters, they do not necessarily show them any sympathy or become complicit in their crimes. The film's ending scene is misleadingly tranquil, as it shows Lorna at peace, the fact that its meaning is ambiguous and does not actually resolve Lorna's situation undercuts the transcendental aura. The pessimistic undertow, already evident throughout, continues to hold sway till the very end. So in a way, the manner in which Dardennes conclude their work may be bleaker and more depressing than ideal, and their view of the human condition more pragmatic than sentimental. The directors certainly leave enough room for a variety of interpretations--this is unquestionably why the film's plot is intriguing, and where part of the overall charm lies.

The Silence of Lorna shows two intelligent directors at work, as demanding on themselves as they are on an intelligent audience, who will need to continue unwrapping the film to appreciate its multifarious complexity.

Zuzu Angel (Sergio Rezende, 2006, Brazil)

Zuzu Angel (Zuleika Angel Jones) was a Brazilian fashion designer who resided in Rio de Janeiro during the 1970s dictatorship and whose son Stuart (nicknamed Paolo by his fellow friends and "revolutionaries"), a student and socialist, joined the opposition, was taken, tortured and eventually killed by the military intelligence operations DOI-CODI. The film Zuzu Angel is based on the true story of the mother going lengths to investigate the reality behind her son's death, moving closer and closer to the truth and at the end was assassinated by members of the military regime in 1976.

A political film based on the personality of Zuzu Angel and set against the backdrop of the 1970s dictatorship, this film is a refreshing look at history, particularly significant amid the ghetto violence and gangster elements that figure in what have come to define a major part of current Brazilian cinema, especially in its overseas reception. The film's narrative is straight-forward and unequivocally sympathetic to Zuzu Angel and Stuart Angel Jones, and contemptuous towards the military dictatorship. Early on the officers at the prison are portrayed as uncooperative and lazy and refuse to find out where Stuart is imprisoned. As Zuzu Angel visits the other prisons of the air force and the navy, the officers show no sympathy and are more interested in inducing Zuzu to admit Stuart's communistic tendencies. It is one woman, occasionally supported by her lawyer, against the omnipresent dictatorship that betrays its brutality and violence through the secret intelligence agents.

Mid-way through the film one may have wished that it provides more information concerning the extent of the dictatorship and how its oppression has played out on the general population. Stuart and his girlfriend Sonia are essentially the only characters who characterize the opposition, and their ideological or physical involvement in the movement is only momentarily commented upon and never gains enough weight to flesh out the period's history beyond Zuzu Angel's personal tragedy. But it is important to remember that the film is about Zuzu Angel as an individual, and that the narrative's occasionally one-sided perspective does not hurt its otherwise acute but controlled political undertone. The titular theme is handled with balance, continuity and clarity; the emotions of a mother who is not glorified for a false sense of idealism or courage, but driven by the anger of losing her son, are depicted with sensitivity and delivered effectively by Patrícia Pillar. As she strives to uncover the truth, getting even the United States and Amnesty International involved, she places herself in a dangerous position and gradually and unintentionally steps into the shoes of a revolutionary. Her efforts symbolize the opposition and the reality of oppression. That she finally cannot escape the fatal grasp of the military regime and is assassinated, is the fact that heightens the film's emotional poignancy and political immediacy.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona (Woody Allen, 2008)

Vicky Cristina Barcelona - Produced by Letty Aronson, Gareth Wiley and Stephen Tenenbaum; written and directed by Woody Allen; director of photography, Javier Aguirresarobe; edited by Alisa Lepselter; production designer, Alain Bainée; released by Metro Goldwyn Mayer and the Weinstein Company; starring Javier Bardem, Scarlett Johansson, Rebecca Hall, Penélope Cruz, Chris Messina and Kevin Dunn. Colour, 97 min. 2008

In Woody Allen’s most current romantic comedy, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, the writer-director moves to Spain to expand his views on relationships and the search for happiness. While not necessarily ambitious, but is balanced in structure, the film is most interesting in terms of how Allen moulds his characters, positions himself against the female and male roles, and creates an American experience without stereotyping Europe.

College best friends Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) leave the States to spend the summer in Barcelona, the former to focus on her masters on Catalan culture and the latter to indulge in new adventures after having experienced numerous relationship break-ups. The first adventure begins when they are approached by the charming Catalan painter Juan Antonio (Javier Bandem) in a restaurant, invited to take a spontaneous trip to Oviedo to see a sculpture, and to have sex with one another. This is the first instance where Vicky and Cristina’s attitudes differ: Vicky clings to her prim morality, reminding herself that she is engaged and soon to get married, and finds Juan Antonio’s proposal offensive, while Cristina is excited by the forward gesture and reacts positively. Vicky convinces herself to tag along to Oviedo only to keep Cristina company. There, Vicky maintains her distance and focuses on the architecture and art; Cristina and Juan Antonio are on to seducing one another, but any obvious sexual contact at the last moment is averted when Cristina suffers a stomach ailment. Vicky and Juan Antonio thus spend more time with one another. A romantic moment at a flamenco guitar concert leads to sex and Vicky falls in love.

One of the film’s strengths is the director’s keen interest in developing his characters. He examines what Barcelona does to Vicky and Cristina, two independent-thinking individuals, rather than lingers on the banal themes of romance, lust, and jealousy. Returning to the city after Oviedo, Vicky realises her growing attraction towards Juan Antonio is one-sided and struggles to forget him. At the same time, her restless passion makes her doubt whether the original plan of getting married to Doug (Chris Messina) will indeed make her as happy as she previously believes. For the first time, she looks at her life and realises she has never before questioned if stability is what she really wants. Her fiancée’s calls and visit do not cheer her, but she never confronts the question of pursuing another way to happiness out of fear and uncertainty.

Whereas Vicky never saves herself from the inertia that results from her unwillingness to let go of the stability afforded by her fiancée, and finally leaves Barcelona disheartened, Cristina throws herself in new situations all summer to find out what it takes to make her happy, and ultimately emerges enlightened. She excitedly meets Juan Antonio’s artist friends and fits in comfortably. Wanting to turn her back on America’s “puritanical and materialistic” lifestyle and all ready for the European way, she maintains her balance when Juan Antonio brings home his ex-wife, the crazed and wild Maria Elena (Penélope Cruz) after she attempts suicide, to stay. Initially cautious around Maria Elena and even jealous of her, Cristina gradually warms to Maria Elena and looks up to her as her mentor for photography. An instance of mutual attraction between the two develops into a physical affair, and next Cristina and Juan Antonio’s relationship expands to include Maria Elena, creating a three-some romantic situation that works wonders temporarily. As Cristina later tires of this lifestyle, however, she takes action and leaves. At the end, she realises this is what she will not want for the future and is contented with her discovery.

Interestingly, Woody Allen approaches his female and male characters differently. His female characters go through a spectrum of emotions and often engage in self-questioning. In fact, as his portrayal of Vicky and Cristina shows, the females are the ones who need to balance the external environment with their inner psyche, confront discoveries that are sometimes unsettling, and accept occasional disappointments. Maria Elena does not hide her frustration when Cristina decides to leave her and Juan Antonio and later becomes once again psychologically unstable, whereas Juan Antonio reacts with less emotion. Vicky and Cristina’s hostess, Judy (Patricia Clarkson), shares her own marriage problems and desire for something more adventurous in a small scene. That she cannot break out, just as Vicky fails to, is another instance that shows how in Woody Allen’s view a woman’s situation is often complicated. He treats the women with empathy and is never chauvinistic even when they cannot improve their conditions. In contrast, the male characters are seemingly complacent and need to face fewer pressing issues. Juan Antonio coolly plays along with the flow, does not shy away from passion but is emotionally distant, always staying unscathed even when an affair or a relationship fails. Doug is steeped in apparent middle-class narrow-mindedness (as he disapproves of Cristina’s three-some lifestyle) and never reaches the level of self-awareness as Vicky does, remaining insensitive to what the latter wants until the end.

Another strength of this film is that it averts mindless cultural stereotypes. The perspective from which the European experience is recounted – through Vicky and Cristina’s eyes – is personal and not inherently American in any decisive way. Cristina’s initial attitude towards America and Europe is not a dogmatic belief that the two continents are direct opposites, but rather results from her innocent excitement and openness for everything new. The two apparently free-spirited Catalan artists are not intended to represent all of Barcelona or Europe, but are two unique individuals whose personalities and not their cultural background spark the complex inter-personal dynamics. Even Doug’s narrow-mindedness must be understood as a personal sentiment and not a characteristically American attitude. The director’s point is only to tell stories about individuals as they look into themselves and interact with each other, and he does so observantly, with humour and generosity. He is not interested in preaching politics.

Eternity and A Day (Theo Angelopoulos, 1998)

Multi-award winning director reflects upon an artist's life

Eternity and A Day deservedly won the Palme d'Or at the Cannes International Film Festival in 1998, and is sure to attract an art-house following. The stoic, yet most charming and convincing Bruno Ganz (Wings of Desire) plays Alexandre, an ailing writer nearing the end of his life, in director Theo Angelopoulos' fine work of cinema that recalls Akira Kurosawa and Ingmar Bergman with his poetic touch, sympathetic view towards human beings, and confident storytelling.
The film is a universe of time all of its own. It encapsulates "eternity"--that which has been in Alexandre's past (as he now looks back and sees images of his wife, the house where the family used to live in, the mother as she aged), as well as that which can happen in the days of Alexandre's life beyond the fateful day, unspoken of but implied in the film's consciously open-ended take that blends sadness and hope, longing and dying and evokes an uncertain future. That fateful "day", which is when the film actually takes place, is when Alexandre saves and shares company with an Albanian boy who was about to be sold by an Albanian syndicate, and attempts to bring him back to Albania. It is when a new life begins, taking a detour from Alexandre's pending death.
The cinematography does not disappoint. From a quietly observant perspective, Theo Angelopoulous makes good use of still camera and wide shots. In combining meditative, vast landscapes with Alexandre's soliloquy, the director has so traced the life and emotions of a man effectively that the viewer will be moved, not only by the fact that death is near, but also that life is beautiful no matter how it is. It may be long (132 minutes), but the film's artistic quality will satisfy all those who appreciate art-house cinema.

Directed by: Theo Angelopoulos; Idea and Screenplay: Theo Angelopoulos; In collaboration with: Tonino Guera and Petros Markakis; Executive Producer: Phoebe Economopoulos; Production: Theo Angelopoulos, Greek Film Centre, Greek Television ET1, Paradis Films, Intermedias S.A , LA SEPT CINEMAA Greek-French-Italian Co-production
Cinematography: Giorgos Arvanitis, Andreas Sinanos; Edited by: Yannis Tsitsopoulos; Sound: Nikos Papadimitriou; Music: Eleni Karaindrou; Costumes: Giorgos Patsas; Sets: Giorgos Ziakas, Costas Dimitriadis
Cast: Bruno Ganz, Fabrizio Bentivoglio, Isabelle Renauld, Achilleas Skevis, Alexandra Ladikou
Running time: 132 minutes. This film is not rated.

The Wayward Cloud (Tsai Ming-liang, 2005)

Synopsis

One summer in Taipei, a prolonged drought. The world revolves around a profuse amount of watermelons, consumed for their thirst-quenching function. Amid TV news reports on watermelon juice, female lone-star Shiang-chyi loses the key to her suitcase one evening on a construction site; the next day she retrieves the key and as she struggles to get her suitcase open in her apartment, down the hall pornography star Hsiao-Kang is at work in a shower-scene, having water sprinkled on him and the female co-star from a makeshift shower, a plastic water-bottle whose base is punctured with holes.

Shiang-chyi and Hsiao-Kang have met earlier, also in Taipei, in Tsai's globe-crossing What Time Is It There?, as Hsiao-Kang sells watches on the skywalk and from whom Shiang-chyi buys her watch for Paris. The Wayward Cloud is more than just a continuation of the quiet, open-ended romance--it becomes graphically and aurally loud. There are numerous musical numbers: female dancers clad in phallus-inspired costumes dancing in a bathroom, or Hsiao-Kang dressed as an amphibian wallowing in the waters of the building's water tower, or yet another trio of heavily made-up female entertainers singing about love outdoors, such interludes occur at unexpected moments in the film. These alternate with scenes from the pornography-in-progress, and from Shiang-chyi and Hsiao-Kang's intimate exchanges in a porn-video storage room.

The film climaxes at the site where a (new) porn film is made, Hsiao-Kang working at the female porn star's body and Shiang-chyi observing from outside and masturbating to the scene. Before the point of ejaculation, Hsiao-Kang leaps away from the female porn star's body, turns toward Shiang-chyi and inserts his penis into her mouth. This scene, shot with a still camera, lingers on for fifteen seconds to conclude the film.

Review

To tell the truth, the first time it may not be easy to endure Taiwanese auteur Tsai Ming-liang's The Wayward Cloud. At first glance, this film's stylistic elements such as costumes, choreography seem so ostentatious, the interjection of musical numbers so random, its conclusion bordering on pornography, that one wonders where the pathos and contemplative nature characteristic of Tsai's films has gone.

So how do we make sense of the wildness, or understand Tsai's intentions? What to make of the film's incoherent narrative, its sexual brazenness, and the occasional lack of subtlety? To place it within the director's oeuvre and compare it to the largely slow-moving, deliberate reflections on what goes on in both the human world (like in What Time Is It There?) and the object world (like Goodbye, Dragon Inn) and has a more melancholic undertone of loss and longing (in both examples above), is only going to show what The Wayward Cloud isn't, but not what it is. Rather, I suggest seeing the film from an intra-film point of view as a piece of cinema and a singular case of creation, focusing less on what Tsai's signature style may be like. It's a Tsai Ming-liang film, but it's also not a Tsai Ming-liang film.

A tale of romance and passion in a world of drought plus musical feats, this film functions immediately as cinema. A world all of its own, an enclosed entity, is created and reproduced on screen and can be anything it wants to be within the premises of the film: "real", evoked by the calm description of a city in drought, the mid-air shots of watermelons floating in a river in Taipei, the still cinematography showing TV reports on watermelons, or "surreal", the music and dance numbers coming grotesquely from another world, or the other way round, depending on the viewer's interpretation.

The film is also conscious of cinema's another function as the platform on which one can play with the concept of time. The storyline independent of the musical elements is rather linear--the drought as introduction, the encounter of Shiang-chyi and Hsiao-Kang, initially innocent, then budding into romance and concluding in the finale of bliss--but with the musical feats which occur at unexpected moments and have almost no coherence with the romance or with the drought, the sense of time is disrupted. Tsai is evidently creatively experimenting with cinema's potential for expressing time in personal, here frivolous, ways. The incoherent narrative is necessarily self-conscious.

The same can be said of the film's explicit depictions of sexual intercourse. The filming of pornography "directed and shot in progress" is a self-reflective device that reduces the immediacy of the sexual act being perceived and renders the viewer less of a voyeur but more an observer of a job getting done. Resorting to humour--water running out of a makeshift shower, a water bottle cap getting stuck in the female porn star's vagina after a love-making scene between the human and the object, the porn director shouting "More passion, more passion!" during filming--Tsai desexualizes the context. The final union between Hsiao-Kang and Shiang-chiyi, penis and mouth, gains meaning not only because it stays out of the pornography-making context, but also because it can be seen as the natural destination of their romance. It's a courageous shot, but the film's take on sexuality is more than just to provoke the viewer and to test his tolerance.

Whether it is real or surreal, all the actors take the film world they live in seriously and deliver convincing performances. As much as one is baffled by the accidental nature of the musical numbers, one can see that the performers do care about the "youth" and "love" they sing about and dance to; Lee Kang-sheng (Hsiao-Kang) and Chen Shiang-chyi (Shiang-chyi) can be both stoic, quite usual of Tsai's character portrayal, and indulgent.

It may be loud, mind-boggling, sometimes long-winded and finally unbelievable--but The Wayward Cloud succeeds as an experimental work with formalistic approaches to perception and time and hugely personal splashes of song and colour. A second watch is urgently recommended.