Bal - Honig (Semih Kaplanoglu, 2009)

Yusuf ist ein Kind, das nicht mit der eigenen Mutter sprechen will und ein Außenseiter ist in der Schule--er fühlt sich nur dann wohl, wenn er in der Nähe von seinem Vater ist. Und das ist er auch oft: Er begleitet seinen Vater, den ruhigen Imker Yakub, auf der Suche nach Honig; er hilft ihm bei der Vorbereitung von seinen Werkzeugen. Ein Mal, als der Vater im Wald von einem epileptischen Anfall abgestürzt ist, sorgt sich Yusuf um ihn und rennt zum Fluß, um Wasser zu holen und damit seinen Stirn und seine Wangen sanft zu bestreichen. Yusuf ist gerade mal sechs Jahre alt, ihm hat der Vater aber schon einiges beigebracht, sodass er mit einem Messer einen Apfel halbieren kann. Dafür verwöhnt Yakub sein Kind, er weiß, dass Yusuf keine Milch mag und trinkt sie dann immer aus, wenn die Mutter Yusuf dazu auffordert. Zwischen Vater und Sohn ist ein Vertrauen, eine Zärtlichkeit, was einen geborgen fühlen lässt wie der Wald seine Bäume und Tiere.

Can go through skin (Esther Rots, 2009)

As soon as the movie begins, Marieke, the protagonist in Esther Rots' unsettling and raw debut feature Can go through skin, suffers two huge blows that would change anyone's life. First her boyfriend breaks up with her; then, a pizza-delivery boy breaks into her house out of the blue and nearly drowns her in the bathtub. Unforeseen, ungrounded violence looms large from the very outset; tension, already palpable, will continue to build up throughout the movie.

In many ways, Esther Rots' close, sharp psychological study of a woman combating the loss of balance and attempting to regain strength for life has much in common with the strain of social realism that characterises the work of Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne. Like Rosetta in Rosetta, or Lorna in The Silence of Lorna, Marieke stands for victims that society has wronged or marginalised in one way or another and then left behind. While the attacker gets an unfairly mild sentence, nobody is there to help her, at least not in Amsterdam, and so she leaves, moves into a derelict house in rural Zeeland and struggles to piece her life back together, hoping for a fresh start. But the omnipresent, all-seeing hand-held camera, operated here to great effect on a par with the Dardennes' technique, clearly betrays how shaken Marieke still is.

And so she remains for quite some time, too immobilised and damaged to renovate her house, get proper draining, keep warm, or even eat right. It seems all she does is drink red wine to distract herself from her woes, or attend midnight chat forums to hear fellow victims share their stories. Marieke's apparent disorientation and inability to get a grip on her life reflect the enduring effects of her trauma, but from a certain point on, her withdrawn, pessimistic attitude that is self-defeating becomes apparent. This is when a viewer's empathy likely morphs into disapproval and the sight of her messy living environment with its piles of unwashed dishes starts to get under one's skin.

If an oppressive tone and a repulsive environment are among Esther Rots' tools to depict a victim's scarred psychology, then the dream/ fantasy sequences that punctuate the main narrative and show how Marieke would hurt her attacker add an explosive edge to the director's intentions. Jolting jump cuts, flash backs and a jarring soundtrack teeming with scratching, knocking, slapping noises only push the movie's emotionally exhausting nature to the next level.

Esther Rots does provide some reprieve by showing how Marieke slowly but cautiously returns to social life and develops a relationship with the friendly, down-to-earth neighbour, John. There are signs of a burgeoning love life and a return to normality, as Marieke becomes pregnant and John renovates her house and moves in with her and the two start a family. Only Marieke will never return from the brink of breakdown.

Observant, carefully shot and convincingly play by all, Can go through skin paints a tactile picture of pain, angst and vengeance that is often upsetting and hard to stomach. While it does not go into the politics of victimisation, it does side with Marieke as the victim and can, in this regard, come across as imbalanced in that it condones Marieke's indolent attitude as well as her latent aggression. The movie can also seem didactic and harsh to some for its unnerving, pungent undertone. But this is also where its brilliance lies: by pulling no punches when it comes to showing the hell Marieke has to go through, this movie makes us fear.

Nord (Rune Denstad Langlo, Norway, 2009)

The jaded, clumsy Jomar has been isolating himself from the world and wallowing in his dissatisfaction with life ever since an accident prematurely terminates his ski career and his girlfriend runs away with his best friend. He takes on an uninteresting job as lift operator at a ski resort and surrounds himself with alcohol and National Geographic documentaries; sometimes he suffers from panic attacks. One day Jomar is told that he actually has a son, who is now four and lives in the North Pole. Jomar is initially confused and unmoved but decides, at the moment he accidentally sets his hut on fire, to go find out who his son is. He embarks on a long, strenuous journey through the snow and cold and encounters many a comical character who, in their various ways, bring Jomar back to life. Whether it is a lonesome girl who defies her grandmother and tends to Jomar after he gets snow-blind, or an old quasi-hermit who gives him his credit card before facing his death, they all empower Jomar with a sense of hope that he has all but lost. A confidently shot, subtle film with strong performances from lead character Anders Baasmo Christiansen as well as Marte Aunemo as the young girl, Nord is heartfelt, honest, mature but bustling with childlike enthusiasm and purity and of course, full of Nordic humour. It calls itself an "anti-depressive" "off-road" movie, and it does deliver -- it lifted my spirits and helped me combat the cold, snowy Berlin, even though one would've thought that heaps of snow in a movie tend to make one feel colder. This film may just be the hot chocolate you need on a cold winter night.

The Limits of Control (Jim Jarmusch, 2009)

By the time Issach de Bankole's character (the film's credits call him the "Lone Man") orders two separate cups of espresso, extracts a note written in code from a Le Boxer matchbox and washes it down with a gulp of coffee for the third time, it becomes obvious The Limits of Control is an exercise in repetition. There's always the same greeting exchanged between the Lone Man and the enigmatic strangers he encounters (in Spanish "you don't speak Spanish, do you?"). Conversations always follow the same basic template with the main theme varied each time (sometimes it's art, sometimes it's science or bohemians). The Lone Man is always stoic, never smiles, never has sex while he is on the job and never uses a cell phone, and (for no apparent reason at all) always eats the note after he reads it. We wait in earnest for something else to happen, for the pattern to change up, but what's ironic is that even when it finally does--when the Lone Man reaches his destination, carries out his mission, and returns home extracting this time a blank note from a Le Boxer matchbox--it feels strangely predictable too. Recall Down by Law and we wonder if Jarmusch has lost his sense of the outlandish, the outrageous, the witty.

Nothing childlike, nothing childish

Not everything that features children is childish. For those dissatisfied with High School Musical, look no further than two must-see movies that deal with childhood in a way that is intelligent, playful, always engaging, and definitely adult.

The Class (Entre les murs) stormed the movie world last year with its Palme d'Or victory at Cannes--France's first win in 21 years--and continues to exhilarate and inspire audiences across the globe. Based on ex-teacher Francois Begaudeau's memoir of his experiences in a multi-cultural Parisian school, this well-acted, improvisatory, documentary-styled drama reveals a year of intense teacher-pupil interaction. Teacher Francois Marin (Francois Begaudeau) is beset by problems almost every day at school. Either the 15 year-olds (intentionally) forget to bring their school material to class, or they quarrel among one another, throw dirty jokes around, and taunt him. They are unimpressed with his friendly approach and dismiss him for knowing nothing about their multi-cultural background. To their minds, The Diary of Anne Frank is obsolete and the ability to speak perfect French irrelevant. They believe there are more important things in life, and they might be right.

The movie aims precisely to give these adolescents a voice, to remind audiences that despite their age and inexperience, they may actually know what they want--perhaps more than we do. Director Laurent Cantet also tackles France's controversial race-related issues, featuring in one sequence a lesson on the French language and capturing, with an observant camera, how most pupils cannot care less about French grammar. The implicit question Cantet raises here is, do these adolescents, mostly of non-French background but likely born in France, become less French as a result? It's a bold move that provokes audiences to rethink the concept of French identity.

Cantet also takes great care in developing a nuanced plot and depicting a complex moral reality where the teacher is de-sanctified and makes just as many mistakes as the adolescents. Once Marin loses control and impulsively calls two girls "whores" for having disturbed a teachers' meeting the evening before. This remark causes something of a riot in the classroom and the damage to the teacher-pupil relationship is far-reaching.

Iranian master of cinema Abbas Kiarostami's simultaneously humorous and serious Ten (2002) is less gloomy than the outstanding, gripping Taste of Cherry (1997) and more upbeat. It provides insight into the lives of Iranian women today and features an outrageously feisty but strangely fascinating young boy, Amin Mahernot. Never have I seen a kid argue like a man before, and never have I witnessed a battle of the sexes that is as slippery and intriguing.

In three juicy episodes (out of the total of ten), we see Amin accusing his mother, Mania Akbari (who sits behind the wheel throughout the film) for divorcing his father and neglecting his need for a wholesome family. When his mother raises her voice and defends the happiness she finds with her present boyfriend, Amin raises his too, complaining that her voice is too loud, flailing his hands wildly and preventing his mother from getting a word in. He is angry and for the most part reproaches her for not fulfilling the responsibilities of the "ideal woman". What does an 8-year old know about gender responsibilities? The level of precociousness is baffling, the hint of chauvinism anything but funny.

As accusations continue to sputter out of Amins' mouth, one may be tempted to write off his behaviour as disrespectful. But before doing so, note that the movie takes place in a foreign culture after all. Maybe in Iran, parents and children interact in a manner different to ours? Maybe perceptions of male-female dynamics are so deep-rooted and innate that even children know how men and women should behave?

This is where Kiarostami's movie comes in as an introductory but instructive eye-opener. The director places the camera on the car's dashboard and allows his actors/actresses to develop the drama on their own in the microcosm of the vehicle. As Mania drives around and interacts with the string of characters-- Amin, a female friend whom Mania scolds for having subordinated herself to an unreliable man, a prostitute who gets into the car thinking Mania was male, and other female characters--we also become her passengers, taken along for the ride. We partake in the female's thoughts, which appear at once Iranian and universal, and appreciate how male-female relations function in that culture, as exemplified by Amin and Mania's argument or hinted at obliquely in other episodes. But the list of revelations doesn't end here. There is an infinite number of ways to read the movie and understand its social and political implications for both sides of the Atlantic, and that's one reason why I enjoyed it so thoroughly--besides being completely overwhelmed by Amin's uncanny and anything-but-childlike ferocity.

Araya (Margot Benacerrai, 1959)

The booming voice of the narrator, the pentatonic scale-dominated movie score, the Sun, the Wind and the Sea that fill the movie screen…these are examples of the haunting aspects to the black-and-white Araya, an unforgettable journey into a Venezuelan peninsula inhabited by the Araya people and a persistent, uncannily awe-inspiring look at a community unfamiliar to most but worthy of attention, especially since threats to destroy their traditional livelihood are mounting.

At its heart, Araya is a dense documentary, a drone-like meditation on and solemn observation of nature and man with breathtaking images and evocative sounds. The opening credits--waves crashing against the shore, a minimalist score and panning shots of this vast peninsula--evoke something exotic and distant. A thick male voice narrates dramatically, calling out to each individual viewer and pulling him into the heart of the peninsula. Long takes establish an appropriately patient pace, and overhead, sweeping shots magnify the region's natural beauty.

The Araya people are a subsistent community. Their daily life revolves around one main concern--nutrition--and their movements, gestures and the sparse words that are being exchanged all reflect their down-to-earth nature. Men are born to be fishermen or salt-miners, and women help with the salt mines, make pottery, sell fish, and care for their families. The camera eagerly captures their daily routines: repetitive and rhythmically edited mid-shots of men thrashing salt and propping baskets of crystal on their heads and shoulders, climbing up a salt hill to deposit salt and returning to get more salt, call to mind images of farming from Soviet constructivist Alexander Dovzhenko's Earth (1930).

Whereas man's power over nature and the exertion of this power to control production and to provide for a means of life lie at the heart of Soviet cinema, in the case of Araya the human being is both a master of his environment as well as its servant. The narration highlights the predominance of the Sea as the provider for life, the omnipresence of the Sun and the Wind. Man is but a small part of this vast piece of nature. Diligently, the Araya people work with and harvest from nature for their needs but never damage it. No matter its number, the community exudes a sense of humility. Man and nature co-exist in harmony: there are no factories, no iPods, no SUVs to pollute the natural environment.

What are the Araya people really like? What do they do other than work, and what do they think about their lives? In their stoic way, they do not express with words what they think. Instead, the impassioned narrator describes them, uses his imagination, even tries to step into their shoes and to visualise what they may be thinking. His staccato and dramatic delivery is full of vivid emotions, and like a poet he conjures up a very subjective image of the people and the place.

Given this piece of narration, it becomes clear that Araya is more than just a documentary: it is both documentary and narrative cinema. On the one hand, it documents the livelihood of this community by showing how they live and what the landscape is like; on the other, it subjectifies what it sees by having a narrator voice his personal response that may or may not reflect what the Araya people think. His commentary becomes the storyline. As men move about on the salt mine, he ponders what it may be like working so hard in the sun and raises the question, "When will this fatigue ever be over?" Seeing father and son get up before day break every day to prepare their fishing boat, and imagining that this must be a rather monotonous task, he wonders aloud whether these people ever wish to change the way things are in their lives, as if he would do so were he in their place. The commentary not only provides information, it enthralls viewers at the same time with an added layer of subjective poetry that interprets and gives meaning to every single grain of salt, every single bead of sweat.

Given the rich imagery, it is shocking to realise in the movie's finale that this poetry may soon cease to exist. When the machinery arrives--it is never quite clear from where or from whom-- to mechanise part of the salt-mines operation, the incongruity of the tractors with the previously pristine desert landscape is as jarring as the movie's abrupt change of mood punctuated by a now thrill and urgent score. The narrator expresses consternation: will the people's hands stop making their movement, will they stop labouring for the precious salts? What will become of their lives? Like the narrator, a viewer cannot help but feel pessimistic about what the camera sees: machines, like pests on a field, crawling on the same paths on which generation after generation has toiled. By now a viewer feels so moved by the sounds and the images that he even starts to care for a community that previously seems so distant and irrelevant but whose imminent destruction now leaves him feeling dark, disturbed. The movie has not only offered a glimpse into a far-away land but, without the viewer knowing it, enraptured him with its humanism and affected him with its sympathy for the Araya people. A magnificent work full of poetry and passion for life and a valuable lesson on how fragile life actually is in our modern times dominated by progress and technology.

Permanent Vacation (Jim Jarmusch, 1980)

Like the aimless, "drifting" slacker protagonist it portrays, Jim Jarmusch's Permanent Vacation is itself a nomad of sorts: it follows Allie Christopher Parker around as he wanders around the gritty, largely depilated nondescript New York neighbourhood, listens to the lone saxophone corner blow his horn around the corner, and dances whenever the music pleases him. Despite being a loner who is estranged from his institutionalised mother and not interested in a communal way of living with his roommate (or girlfriend), Leila, Allie is an insightful youth rather mature for his age. He understands he is not cut out for ambitions or goals after which people normally go after in life. He knows all too well about loneliness--"everyone is lonely"--and resorts to drifting around the neighbourhood so that he will not be constantly reminded of his lonesome state.

As a film that blends fiction and documentary, Permanent Vacation places great emphasis on the cityscape in which Allie lives. It plays like a landlocked contemplation on a strange environment that lacks a sense of community. Just like Allie, the other individuals he meets--a veteran who hallucinates that a new war is impending; the withdrawn girl who works at the cinema; a black person in the cinema's lobby sharing a joke; the saxophone player who solos in the depths of night--seem to embody an equal degree of aloneness. It seems that in a city, meeting is always temporary, inter-personal interaction transient: Allie would stop to chat and to listen to these individuals, but then he will be on his way again.

While Allie does not want to become tied down with other people or with New York, and finally decides to leave to Europe by boat, he never seems to be in a rush with how he lives, or with life itself. His naturalistic acting and charming boyish looks endear him to curious viewers. The movie appears to be equally patient and relishes the sights, sounds and smells of the city, with extended takes and non-kinetic editing being key to its moderate pacing. Jim Jarmusch and John Lurie's unadorned yet evocative score that features the latter on saxophone creates a static, near-surreal vacuum in which the streets as well as people are enveloped, a space where time feels stagnant. When the harbour is seen at last, and the boat gets under way, a sense of movement takes over. What will happen to Allie remains a mystery that Jarmusch was contented to leave unsolved. Life is like a permanent vacation, after all.

L'Appat (The Bait, Bertrand Tavernier 1995)

Horrifying events take on an irreverent, cheeky look as three adolescents rummage through their victim's house and commit murder one second and fight over the remote control the next.

While based on true events that took place in Paris in 1984, Bertrand Tavernier's L'Appat is not meant to be a documentary. Rather, it feels like a small-scale noir infused with disorder and accidents. As much as the three adolescents are bent on breaking into their victims' homes, people with power and money whose contact Nathalie systematically organises in her address book, they are never able to device a more-than-makeshift plan. Often Nathalie, the bait, forgets to leave the door to the victim's apartment open for her accomplices; they cannot cope with more advanced security systems and Nathalie's usual way of abandoning a break-in plan at the last minute is by making an excuse to buy Cools cigarettes. Twice they come close to accomplishing their goal, only to discover that their victims' wealth falls far below their estimation. The adolescents grab what they can, and struggle to kill the victims off--hitting one with a heavy object on the skull, stabbing one with a letter opener.

One of the earliest sequences shows Nathalie complaining that Eric and Bruno have been watching Scarface for the "twentieth time". Whether this establishes the fact that Eric and Bruno have violent inclinations is irrelevant, but their immersion in thriller material complements to a certain extent their lack of remorse over their crime. Nathalie does show a trace of uncertainty and confides in her friend Patricia her knowledge (albeit not seeing it directly) that the two have taken lives in their last outings.

The police interrogates Nathalie, who up to the final second makes up stories along the way to hide her involvement. She finally gives up the truth, implicating however Eric and Bruno and rejecting having played a part in the murders. Her coy question at the police officer, "Will I be released before Christmas? Because I need to visit my father" ends the film on an unsettling note especially because Nathalie seems so uncannily innocent. Here Tavernier maximises the sense of teenage abandon and disregard, which he previously highlights by juxtaposing the murders (which take place behind closed doors) with Nathalie blocking out the victims' screams by listening to rock music on her walkman. As the camera focuses on Nathalie and her waiting for her companions to complete the job, it effectively turns its head away from the murder, reflecting Nathalie's attitude of disaffection. While L'Appat goes the full length capturing the adolescents' daily life as well as their crimes, it does not directly condemn them; yet its apparent lack of moral lesson and even giddy, slightly romanticising depiction of the threesome is exactly key to the compelling portrayal of dangerously carefree adolescent attitude and the darkness that actually lies in their yet immature souls.

Sam Mendes speaks to Ali Jafar

Playing with fire--gladly

He never said, "too bad they didn't get it in the United States". For Sam Mendes, the British expatriate in Hollywood with already two widely-circulated American movies in his bag, his affair with Uncle Sam is strictly business. There is no whining, no blaming. Mendes came to the United States with a "European objectivity" to fashion movies that mirror the American experience, and he knew, from the outset, that not all Americans will be comfortable with what they see--not least because in some ways, they regard him as an outsider.

"Over there they think, 'we've put up with him talking about American suburbia, we've put up with him doing a gangster movie, do we really have to put up with him doing a war movie about the Middle East, as well?'" Mendes, in his humorous, casual and confident manner, eased into his chair as we met in London to talk about his latest work. A rueful smile found its way into his face. "In Europe they understood Jarhead. They understand it comes from the tradition of absurdist movies that deal with the futility of war, and has more in common with Beckett, Sartre and Buñuel. In the United States, it's like talking about a different movie." Some American viewers criticise Jarhead for failing to be like an Oliver Stone movie. Mendes' spasms of chuckles, not in the least condescending, showed however that this is a man who knows what he is up against, especially when he makes an adventurous foray into war movie territory, teases the genre and unnerves his audience.

Jarhead is a no-combat movie that does not glorify war or applaud the men who go to war. Drawing on the memoir of the same name by U.S. Marine Anthony Swofford, Mendes disobeys all the laws of American movies and produces a matter-of-fact First Gulf War testimony shorn of explosions but rife with endless waiting, uncertainty and disappointment, all true aspects of war that have frequently eluded the public's imagination. The sense of unease culminates in the final realisation that fundamentally, preparation for war amounts to nothing and justifies nothing. In the face of the current Second Gulf War, this is something the highly-strung Americans do not want to hear.

"I was very aware I was playing with fire." Mendes' self-assurance and clarity of purpose emphasised that Jarhead's message has always been provocative from the outset. "Here, men are being trained and pumped up for the ultimate state-of-the-art war, but are eventually denied it. When war does emerge, it runs ahead of them and they become its witnesses, its victims." The troopers "walked in and didn't have any of those things"--the mythic figure of Saddam Hussein, his stock of biochemical weaponry and immense army, and the huge casualties that the troops thought would await them. The irony remains pronounced, up to the very end--where troopers are convinced they will never have to return--and is multiplied by what the country is to do fifteen years later.

Jarhead shows a bleak situation and sends a grim message to audiences, who now need to confront war's futility and reassess the image of the "heroes" who become involved in an enterprise that eventually adds up to so little. "This is not a movie that can be used to pump up marines," Mendes declared plainly. With the lack of gunfire and explosions, audiences will be hard-pressed to revel in an adrenaline-charged experience. Instead they are to realise it is horrendous to want to become involved the first place. "There's a much more frightening question than asking why politicians want to go to war at a particular time. It's, what can you possibly get out of becoming a soldier and fighting in a war?"

Mendes takes the topic of war seriously. Jarhead makes allusions to other war movies and, in particular, shows the Marines watching clips from Apocalypse Now, whose original editor Walter Murch is also editor here. Mendes knows comparisons to the movies he draws on, like Full Metal Jacket among others, are inevitable, and points to how movie images contribute to the public's imagination of history in general. "Vietnam, for us, is not really Vietnam or documentaries about Vietnam. It's Coppala's Vietnam, Kubrick's Vietnam, Oliver Stones' Vietnam, Cimino's Vietnam. All you really have is movies. Even more so with World War II. Saving Private Ryan is World War II for a generation of young men." What Jarhead also has in common with the war movies it is compared with, is its function in raising questions, in provoking controversy.

Mendes' earlier American Beauty and Road to Perdition are constructed around predetermined storyboards, but with Jarhead, abandoning storyboard control and working with a new cinematographer, Roger Deakins (Conrad Hall was cinematographer for his previous movies), Mendes has taken a step in the improvisatory direction to fashion something more "organic and fluid". His mise-en-scène is however still down to earth. "It's like working with a play here. I told Roger, don't worry about the CGI." To a certain extent, this explains the sober, serious undertone of Jarhead, and its self-defined "not-a-crowd-pleaser" character.

Like the directors he admires--Roman Polanski, Milos Forman, Ang Lee--Mendes has come to terms with his relationship with the United States and deals confidently with American subject matters. Musing about his previous experience working in theatre and learning to adapt to the public eye, Mendes' expression revealed he is up for more: not only to match the public's demands, but to surprise and to challenge the public. Just like American Beauty bares the dark sides of American suburbia, Jarhead, possibly the first postmodern war movie, is an unsettling, unequivocal testimony to the present-day anxiety and even fatuity that characterise the 21st century American experience. I am convinced that Mendes' future output will continue to be, in significant ways, self-consciously reflective of the truth--regardless whether the very subjects of its critique will get it.

The Drummer (Kenneth Bi, Hong Kong/Taiwan/Germany, 2008)

The somewhat different Hong Kong-Taiwanese gangster film

In terms of festival circuit performance, The Drummer has done quite well: it has been nominated for prizes at the Golden Horse Film Festival and Hong Kong Film Awards, and is even the first film from Hong Kong and Taiwan to be selected for competition at Sundance.

And in terms of substance, The Drummer does an equally good job. Director Kenneth Bi starts off by using Hong Kong gangster genre film elements. Sid (Jaycee Chan), the reckless drummer son of Kwan (award-winning Tony Leung), a local gang leader, gets into trouble after sleeping with the wife of rival gang boss Ma (Kenneth Tsang). Ma demands compensation; Kwan covers for Sid and sends him into exile in Taiwan. With quick-paced editing, facial close-ups and a fiery performance from Tony Leung as the loving but strict and rather overbearing gangster father, an underlying violence comparable to that which characterises gangster pieces by Bi's contemporary, Johnny To (like Mad Detective, Exiled), is created.

But Kenneth Bi innovatively interjects the gangster backdrop with a surprising, peaceful middle section that borrows from musicals (minus the glib songs and dance) and stage performances, like Riverdance. Here, the actual Zen drummers of Taiwan's renowned U-Theatre drum group play themselves living and practicing in seclusion on a mountain in Taiwan. Sid encounters them on his exile, and after completing some prerequisite chores, he becomes a member and later a transformed person. Sam Koa on camera carefully captures the impressive drum numbers, and Kenneth Bi even gets philosophical about the relationship between man and music.

The film does end like a gangster film: Sid returns to Hong Kong with U-Theatre to tour, but is confronted with the sudden murder of his father, plotted by his own right-hand man, Ah Chiu (Roy Cheung). But because the director injects the formula with a creative twist, maintains a humorous touch and uses a band of able actors and actresses, he has created something that is different--and constantly entertaining.

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.