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Film: Sakuran
Release date: 12th January 2009
Certificate: 15
Running time: 111 mins
Director: Mika Ninagawa
Starring: Anna Tsuchiya, Kippei Shiina, Yoshino Kimura, Hiroki Narimiya, Miho Kanno
Genre: Drama
Studio: ICA
Format: DVD
Country: Japan
First time director Mika Ninagawa captures a vibrant interpretation of a the manga series of the same name, and Japanese idol Anna Tsuchiya brings the main character to life as a bad girl rising her way up the ranks from servant girl to the highest courtesan, known as an oiran.
The pre-credits begin in a flurry of cherry blossom, appropriate as sakura translates to cherry blossom, and they feature throughout. We see the not quite linear narrative of Kiyoha, sold into the Yoshiwara pleasure district as a maid when she was young; she is rebellious and rude, even as a child. Her attempts at running away are always thwarted, and she is told that it doesn’t matter where you are in life, every place is the same.
Enveloped in this world of women, she is raised to be a courtesan and singled out early by the current oiran as not only having potential and the spirit needed to be successful, but also the tenacity to maintain her position.
Soon after her debut, Kiyoha is quickly established as one of the most popular girls in the district, despite her young age. She has learnt the tricks of the trade well, and men can’t get enough of her. Such success, however, inevitably invites jealousy from the other girls, and tensions bubble to boiling point. It’s not long before she attracts the attentions of a handsome client and they fall for each other, but she is soon to learn that age old lesson that the road of love for a courtesan is never easy or obstacle free...
Sakuran is shot in an extremely vibrant and lively environment, perfectly capturing the slightly more garish world of courtesans compared to geisha. In every scene, the surroundings and colours are constructed perfectly. There is a heavy emphasis on red in most shots, obviously bringing to our mind the passion which this film is focused around. Yet the occasional shot of nature is astonishingly beautiful, particularly the cherry blossom which surrounds the city. It is filmed in a playful way, much like the character of Kiyoha - a little bit rude and abrupt, yet dreamy. In a film about prostitutes, one might expect plenty of shots of seedy trysts, and whilst there are a few, there are also some surprisingly intimate and tasteful scenes as well.
Whilst the narrative might come across as a typical story of the ambitions of a young girl turning to a love story, it brings something more to the tale than that. It explores the occasionally toxic environment of the working girls, the jealousies that grow, and the deceit which is inherent in the position. It highlights the trials and tribulations facing these girls: the desire to escape, desire to love, and the reality that it is near impossible. The mood is one of a harsh reality that the girls can only attempt to make the best of, despite their disdain for the job and their hope to escape it.
Anna Tsuchiya plays the role of troublesome Kiyoha to perfection. Bursting onto the acting scene with her role as tough-girl yanki in Kamikaze Girls, in which, despite her constant head-butting and spitting, she brought a certain charm and tenderness to the role - exactly what she does here. Supported by the other strong performances, she plays Kiyoha as cheeky and likeable, insolent, but tender-hearted deep down, illustrated in some truly touching emotional scenes later on.
One of the more surprising aspects of the film is its innovative soundtrack. Throughout the film, it swaps between Japanese jazz, big band sound, soulful female singers, J-pop and even grunge. A veritable melting pot of modern music, and all utilised extremely effectively depending on the scene. Occasionally during montage sequences, the shots have been made to fit the music, making them punchy and effective. Although the music might appear heavy handed, it fits in with the playful style that the film has throughout.
Sakuran plays out like a high contrast Memoirs Of A Geisha, but with less restraint, more fun - and a lot more smut. A touching and modern take on the life of working girls in the Edo period. If nothing else you’ve read about the story and performances grab you, the film’s recommended for the stunning visuals alone.
Film: The Portuguese Nun
Release date: 21st January 2011
Certificate: TBC
Running time: 127 mins
Director: Eugène Green
Starring: Leonor Baldaque, Francisco Mozos, Diogo Dória, Ana Moreira, Eugène Green
Genre: Drama
Studio: ICA
Format: Cinema
Country: Portugal/France
The Portuguese Nun pursues the emotional journey of Julie de Hauranne, a French actress shooting a Portuguese film in Lisbon. Beginning as a character with unsteady feet, Julie is the subject of a progressive epiphany as she realises that she has the capacity to embrace life. Despite having three previous feature films, this is director Eugene Green’s first to be distributed in the UK – and he does not disappoint. Instead, he smothers viewers with his peculiar approach to cinema, playing with unconventionality and casting actors who have a blinding capacity to project emotion through their facial expression. It is with such experimentation that the film basks in an unconcealed pretention, allowing itself to exhibit a sardonic atmosphere rather than a solemn one.
The Portuguese Nun follows Julie around a picturesque Lisbon setting as she frivolously befriends anyone she meets, unfalteringly jumping into romantic exchanges and an assortment of acquaintances. We meet a 6-year-old orphan named Vasco, a suicidal local, the supposed reincarnation of dead Portuguese king Dom Sebastião, a co-star in search of a brief love affair, and a moustached disco-dancing film director. Julie is French, but her Portuguese mother has given her the gift of language necessary for fully experiencing her brief encounter with the country’s capital.
Julie is filming a bizarre movie based on a 17th century text about a Portuguese nun who falls in love with a French sailor, starring just two actors – Julie as the nun, and Martin as the sailor. The slack filming schedule facilitates her various meetings, starting with a momentary romance between Julie and Henrique. It is intentionally stiff and deliberate; their kiss is choreographed by procedure rather than passion. Julie soon becomes intrigued by a real local nun who appears to be forever knelt in front of the altar, and, in a bold directorial move, Julie and the nun spend almost fifteen minutes discussing spiritual versus secular love, religious philosophy and the presence of God.
The film within a film becomes almost a mirror image of the narrative: Eugene Green embellishes his talents at writing and directing by also playing the part of the film’s director Dennis Verde; Julie’s role as a nun is paralleled by the presence of the authentic nun; Julie and Martin’s on-screen love scene is later re-enacted in her hotel bedroom. And then suddenly Julie is surpassing this fabricated bubble of fiction as she undergoes a long-awaited revelation, narrated over a view of calm, open sea: “my passion increases with each moment…”
The Portuguese Nun opens before the soundtrack is introduced, painting an untainted image of Lisbon’s architectural personality before romanticising the view with the sound of mournful fado guitars. The same track is later allowed within the walls of the film’s narrative in a full-length performance of ‘Esquina de Rua’ by Camané. Julie watches, mesmerised by its haunting melancholy, while the camera plays upon the intensity of emotion projected between the music and the characters. It lingers on a section of grey wall, there are leaves dancing in a circle of wind in the background - it is an early indication of the director’s abstract style.
The film is constantly silhouetted by its dedication to the awareness of acting. Dialogue is intentionally rigid and movements are conscious - everybody knows that this is a staged work of fiction. And so Green’s creative choices are in fact brilliant, displaying his refreshingly eccentric skill of highlighting everything which would normally remain hidden in conventional filmmaking. Green liberates the principles of cinematography with his idiosyncratic techniques: focusing on characters’ feet rather than their heads; using as much silence between characters as there is speech; allowing the shot to linger on the backdrop, even after all the actors have left the scene; and shooting conversations with the actors speaking directly into the camera, surpassing the boundaries of the screen and reaching into our own world.
Leonor Baldaque is adequately likeable as Julie, but the director’s obviously stylised approach eventually mutates her great performance into something tiresome and simulated. Baldaque’s sparse dialogue is compensated for by her unflinching and vast eyes, which somehow have a consistent ability to communicate everything which the director requires. But while being forced into an unnerving face-to-face intimacy with every character is initially fascinating, its novelty eventually wears off due to its frequent rather than poignant use.
In a comical attempt at reading the minds of many cynical viewers, the opening scene features the hotel concierge declaring:“I never see French films, they’re for intellectuals.” Perhaps Eugene Green is encouraging the world to give abstract French cinema a second chance. Or perhaps he is simply paving the way for the rest of his mocking script. Green himself is subtly hilarious as he plays the part of Denis Verde, laboriously articulating his vocabulary in an attempt to maintain the non-acting which makes the film so intriguingly artificial.
The Portuguese Nun spends over two hours detailing Julie’s short journey of spiritual and social progression, using understated dramatics to belittle the elite world of French cinema whilst still endorsing the idea of obscurity. What it lacks in plot development, it makes up for in quirkiness. Green allows his film to laugh at itself without smiling - there is some humour concealed within his serious French walls. Sadly the static nature of the film hinders it from having an enormous psychological impact, but its visual quality remains a romantic ode to Lisbon. NM
Green’s international acclaim has been reflected in a retrospective at the Ciné Lumière in 2007 and sell-out screenings at the London Film Festival. His works include Le Pont Des Arts (2004), Le Monde Vivant (2003) and Toutes Les Nuits (2001).
Displaying Green’s distinctive minimalist style, the film follows Julie de Hauranne (Leonor Baldaque), a young French actress whose mother is Portuguese, as she visits Lisbon for the first time. She is there to act in a film inspired by Guilleragues’ Letters Of A Portuguese Nun, an infamous 17th-century work, widely believed to be a work of epistolary fiction.
Julie becomes fascinated by a nun who prays each night at the Nossa Senhora do Monte Chapel on Graça Hill. During her stay, the young woman has a number of encounters that, at first, seem ephemeral and without consequence. But one night, after finally speaking with the nun, she glimpses her destiny and the meaning of her life.
The Portuguese Nun joins an eclectic tradition of films featuring nuns and monks: from the recent Xavier Beauvois's Of Gods And Men (2010) and Michael Whyte’s Notting Hill-based documentary No Greater Love (2009), to classics such as Powell and Pressburger's Black Narcissus (1947), Manoel de Oliveira’s The Convent (1995), Fred Zinnemann’s The Nun’s Story (1959), Ken Russell’s controversial The Devils (1971), and a section of Rossellini's neorealist epic Paisà (1946).
Film: The Portuguese Nun
Release date: 21st January 2011
Certificate: TBC
Running time: 127 mins
Director: Eugène Green
Starring: Leonor Baldaque, Francisco Mozos, Diogo Dória, Ana Moreira, Eugène Green
Genre: Drama
Studio: ICA
Format: Cinema
Country: Portugal/France
Film: La Cienaga
Release date: 6th December 2010
Certificate: 12
Running time: 103 mins
Director: Lucrecia Martel
Starring: Mercedes Morán, Graciela Borges, Martín Adjemián, Leonora Balcarce, Silvia Baylé
Genre: Comedy/Drama
Studio: ICA
Format: DVD
Country: Argentina/France/Spain
La Cienaga, or The Swamp, is the debut film from Argentine filmmaker Lucrecia Martel. Originally released in 2001, the film announced the arrival of a unique new voice within international cinema. Finally granted a DVD release in the UK, it shows that the director of The Holy Girl and The Headless Woman had emerged with her distinctive and uncompromising vision of cinema already fully formed.
The movie tells the story of two families' summer holiday, spent in a decaying estate in the mountains, as a record hot spell grips Argentina, and the neighbouring town of Cienaga is riveted by the appearance of the Virgin Mary on a water tower.
Tali is minding four small children with little help from her husband, who is preoccupied with the opening of hunting season. Her cousin, Mecha, is a borderline alcoholic living in a dilapidated country retreat with her husband Gregorio and her teen children. During one heavy drinking session, she slips and cuts herself on broken glass, instigating a visit from her son Jose, alongside Tali and her brood, as Mecha recuperates in bed.
What follows is not so much a family reaching crisis point, as one stuck in the deepest of ruts. These are characters that dimly sense something has gone wrong at some point in their lives, even if they do not know at what point, or where to lay the blame.
In the course of a season, two accidents bring the two families together, but together is a loaded term in Martel’s film of decay, dislocation and estrangement…
A group of middle-aged drinkers lounge around a putrid swimming-pool as the camera lingers on exposed flabby and worn-out flesh. The day is hot but not sunny, and thunder rumbles around the surrounding mountains. The incessant clicking of cicadas mixes with the clinking of ice cubes within wineglasses and the scraping of chairs across the patio floor in a combination all the more nerve wracking for never reaching a crescendo, like the sound of a tap dripping in the middle of the night. The children are out hunting in the mountains, where they come across a cow trapped in the treacherous swamp lands. Their semi-feral hunting dogs bark and snap at the visibly distressed animal as it sinks further into the mire. It’s an opening that is horribly effective in creating a mood of unease and tension, one which never quite leaves you, even as much of what follows seems banal and tediously uneventful.
For a while, the only way for British audiences to experience Martel’s latest film, The Headless Woman (La Mujer Sin Cabeza), was at the Tate Modern. In a way, this makes perfect sense for the art gallery seems more of a spiritual home to Martel than the cinema. Her films do away with basic film grammar (establishing shots, traditional film transitions), resulting in work more akin to video installation. The Headless Woman, when first shown at Cannes, was variously jeered at for being a boring muddle, or hailed as compelling and inspired, and it is likely Martel’s debut film will meet with similarly polarised opinion. The overt and more easily comprehensible sexiness of Martel’s international breakthrough film, The Holy Girl (La Niña Santa), feels like an anomaly in this light. Like The Headless Woman, La Cienaga is art-house with a capital A, unapologetically eschewing narrative and easily identifiable character motivation in favour of mood, atmosphere and a subjective approach to our interpretation of what the films means.
Reaching an understanding of La Cienaga’s underlying message is no easy task. At once oblique and blankly opaque, it could mean just about anything. It's filled with ideas and images that are never quite clear, that deliberately remain unreachable, like the image of the Virgin Mary that appears close to a water tank that we hear about but never get to see. Martel’s characters seem to have a life outside of the film; they begin before the film begins and they continue after the film ends. Scenes and even the majority of shots begin ‘in media res’ from actions that are already taking place, and often requiring us, as viewers, to weave the events together ourselves so they acquire meaning.
The American critic Roger Ebert, in a tellingly ambivalent review of the film upon its 2001 release, likened it to the experience of attending a family reunion when it’s not your family and your hosts are too drunk to introduce you around. It’s a useful analogy which touches upon the strange sense of familiarity and apartness we, as viewers, experience as we watch events unfold. We feel within the film, and, at the same time, discomfited by our sense of being voyeurs as we watch a family in quiet turmoil going about their everyday lives. It’s a well worn subject but rarely has it been approached in such an un-movie-like manner. It is literally as if we have been granted a glimpse into the workings of a real family, with all the mundane banality of their everyday reality presented in relentless and painstakingly rendered detail.
Though nothing quite matches the overpowering vividness of the opening, Martel takes naturalism to a degree rarely seen in modern cinema. Her knack for establishing tactile hyper-reality can be overwhelmingly palpable; you can almost smell the sweat and unwashed hair, the dank bedrooms and festering swimming-pool. Heightening the uneasy mood is the movie's busy sound design, which itself is amplified by the absence of a musical score. While seemingly improvised, La Cienaga was actually carefully scripted. It is testament to Martel’s skill, as well as the naturalistic performances of the largely non-professional cast (particularly the younger members), that nothing appears on screen that does not feel completely intentional.
Tentative themes do emerge, like murk from the eponymous swamp. Many of the children carry wounds or are disfigured in some way – one has a scar instead of an eye; one young boy is mysteriously forever being cut; another breaks his nose in a fight. These wounds are indicative of hidden dangers which seem to lurk just off screen, as well as portents of a tragic accident which will befall one young child towards the end of the film. Close ups linger on the mouth of one boy whose mangled gums bear the trauma of adult teeth coming in, one tooth coming in through the roof of his mouth - a painful process of entering adulthood. The matriarch Mecha lies in her bed, the cuts on her chest slowly turning into scars. Every time the children look at the adults they seem to sense what lies in store for them. For all their self-involvement, these are characters that do not stop to think and are constantly at risk of repeating life based on the dysfunctional models lived by their parents. Mecha, in a rare moment of lucidity, wonders whether she will end up a bed-ridden alcoholic just like her mother before her. Tali, the most sympathetic adult character and seemingly most clear-sighted, justifies speaking about familial problems in front of the children by insisting they must know so as not to repeat the same mistakes. It is ironic that her negligence leads to that final accident involving her own child.
Other themes touch upon problems within Argentine society in general. That Mecha’s family own a country house indicates this was a family that were once rich; but the building is run down, the pool fetid - the apparent downturn in their fortunes seems linked to the collapse of the Argentine economy. The casual racism practiced by both the adults and children towards the native servants offers a further glimpse of that society’s dysfunctional class dynamics and problematic race relations.
Martel’s major theme, though, is ennui; and it is her willingness to explore everyday ennui and treat it with the same dramatic presence as any other great subject which most characterises La Cienaga. It certainly won’t be to everyone’s taste, and even those who buy into Martel’s cinematic vision will undoubtedly find much of the film a gruelling and, it has to be said, often boring experience. In keeping with the extremity of Martel’s oblique method, the real drama is destined to occur only after her film is over. The young boy’s accident, which may be fatal, occurs out of sight of the other characters, and is left undiscovered as the film ends. It says something about the film’s murky ambivalence that the possibility of something good may come of this - at the very least, it might shock the characters out of their rut. Of course, that could just be grasping at straws, in a film that offers very little in the way of optimism.
Beneath the surface banality of La Cienaga lies a resonant and troubling picture, the work of a filmmaker with a considered and singular artistic vision. Even if Martel’s particular vision is likely to repel as many as it attracts, her film possesses a lingering, haunting power. Not especially enjoyable, but undeniably affecting. GJK
In one drinking session by the pool, Mecha falls and cuts herself on broken glass, this leads to a trip to the hospital and a visit from her son Jose (Juan Cruz Bordeu) and cousin Tali (Mercedes Moran), accompanied by her younger children. With no adult supervision, the kids are left to their own devices; sunbathing, hunting, dancing, driving illegally and diving in the stagnant pool. The only adults who seem to care at all are the Indian servants who are constantly being harassed by Mecha for allegedly stealing towels.
What unfolds is a subtle and sly look at intimacies of a midldle class family in crisis; the infidelities, alliances, prejudices and secret infatuations.
The film won the Best Newcomer award at the 2001 Berlin International Film Festival, and was nominated for the Golden Bear award at the same event.
Film: La Cienaga
Release date: 6th December 2010
Certificate: 12
Running time: 103 mins
Director: Lucrecia Martel
Starring: Mercedes Morán, Graciela Borges, Martín Adjemián, Leonora Balcarce, Silvia Baylé
Genre: Comedy/Drama
Studio: ICA
Format: DVD
Country: Argentina/France/Spain
Film: Kitchen Stories
Release date: 6th September 2004
Certificate: PG
Running time: 95 mins
Director: Bent Hamer
Starring: Joachim Calmeyer, Tomas Norström, Bjørn Floberg, Reine Brynolfsson, Sverre Anker Ousdal
Genre: Comedy/Drama
Studio: ICA
Format: DVD
Country: Norway/Sweden
Despite failing to make the cut as Norway’s 2004 submission for the Oscars, Kitchen Stories received extremely favourable reviews in the press. It’s a quirky tale which subtly wrings laughs from the relationship between the Norwegians and the Swedes, and the gradually thawing of a frosty relationship between the observed and his observer.
In 1940s Sweden, a home economics company (with more than a hint of Ikea about it) is conducting experiments on how to layout a successful and efficient kitchen. Having established the best set-up for women, they turn their attention to single men, and send their team of observers to watch how Norwegian bachelors utilise their kitchen appliances.
Seated on Baywatch style high-chairs, these impartial observers neatly and methodically log all movements within the kitchen. They are forbidden from interfering with their subjects in any way, and sleep outside the host’s homes in bizarrely bubble-shaped mobile caravans.
When Folke (Tomas Nortström) is assigned to log the movements of loner Isak (Joachim Calmayer) things do not look promising. More than a little disgruntled by the Swedish interloper, the elderly Norwegian initially refuses to let him in. But just as Folke looks set to quit, their relationship begins to slowly develop – and eventually blossom…
To say that the opening of the film is eccentric would be an understatement. Scenes of domestic science have rarely been as strange as these: Scandinavian housewives test all manner of kitchen appliances whilst rigged up to medical equipment and breathing apparatus, all in an attempt to gauge their effectiveness. It’s played utterly deadpan and extremely effective for it – the gravity afforded the job of ‘observer’ is established from the outset, and emphasises the sense of the absurd from the start.
This sense of the strange is accentuated as a fleet of pastel green cars cross the Sweden/Norway border, each of them towing an egg-like caravan. These are the temporary homes of the Swedish observers – barely big enough to lay down in, yet strangely homely. It’s a good job, too, as the subject Folke is sent to observe is unwilling to let him into his house.
The film is almost wordless at this point, as a series of short scenes demonstrate the stubbornness of the irascible Isak. It’s practically a silent comedy, as Isak locks Folke out, repeatedly turns out the lights on him, and even drills a hole in his own ceiling so that he can observe the observer from the bedroom above. Not only that, but he begins cooking his meals upstairs on a camping stove.
The slow transformation in their relationship is so effective as to be almost invisible. Tentative conversations begin, small favours are done for one another, and gradually the two characters become friends. The sharing of food is key to this – having seen each character eat alone, the sharing of birthday cakes and booze is in sharp contrast to a poignant scene of Folke eating alone in his caravan.
A Swedish smorgasbord is also served up at one point, with both characters enjoying the pickled herring which Folke’s aunt has sent him. It’s symbolic of the burgeoning relationship and understanding of each others’ culture that they can share such a typically Swedish meal, but also serves as a plot device when Folke’s boss turns up, and comes close to realising that the policy of non-interference has been utterly disregarded. It’s a rare moment of tension in the film, and works all the better for Reine Brynolfsson’s performance as the slimy jobsworth Malmberg.
The danger that the pair will be ‘discovered’ becomes central to the plot, as a number of near scares ensue. Isak repeatedly falls asleep in Folke’s observation chair, and is caught there by Malmberg. As well as talking his way out of trouble, he makes excuses for Folke, and thereby saves their friendship. But, more importantly, he saves the Swede’s life in a tragicomic scene caused by the jealousy of Isak’s best friend Ralph.
Clearly this is a touching and tender tale of friendship – and the fact that the characters are in the twilight of their lives makes it more touching still. But beneath the surface, the film has more to say. There are a few mentions of World War II, and its influence on the themes of the film is obvious – initial animosity between the Swedes and Norwegians has roots in resentment over their roles in the conflict. Whilst Norway fought, Sweden remained neutral, and it’s very apparent that the role of the Swedish observer in the film is a comment on their non-violent stance – perhaps implying that it’s not possible to remain neutral after all.
Kitchen Stories is a wonderfully understated – yet affecting – movie. Its heart-warming tale of friendship is what holds it together, but there is a smorgasbord of weird and wonderful events and characters which lift it above many similar films: silver fillings which transmit radio signals; a room filled with pepper; caravans pulled by horses and mishaps with mousetraps. Strangely, it’s not really a story about kitchens at all – cooking takes place elsewhere, and the kitchen scissors are used to provide haircuts. But that’s entirely apt in this beguiling, charming film. RW
Film: Blame It On Fidel
Release date: 26th May 2008
Certificate: 12
Running time: 99 mins
Director: Julie Gavras
Starring: Nina Kervel-Bey, Julie Depardieu, Stefano Accorsi, Benjamin Feuillet, Martine Chevallier
Genre: Drama/History
Studio: ICA
Format: DVD
Country: Italy/France
Adapted from the novel by Domitilla Calamai, and directed by Julie Gavras, Blame It On Fidel is a coming of age story with a difference. Taking the lead from her father, internationally acclaimed filmmaker Costa Gavras, the director has created a political drama set in 1970s France, filmed from the point if view of its 9-year-old protagonist.
Anna is a child of the French bourgeoisie - and proud of it. She lives in a big house in Paris with a garden, and all her and her brother François’s needs are taken care of by their Cuban born Nanny, Philomena. Her father, Fernando, is a successful lawyer, and her mother, Marie, is a journalist for Marie Claire; life is pretty swell. Unfortunately, the arrival of her Spanish activist aunt soon puts an end to all of this, much to Anna’s consternation.
At the start of the film Fernando attempts to explain to Anna that his sister and niece had to be smuggled out of Spain, after his brother-in-law was killed for his political beliefs, and cannot go home. Anna immediately senses the threat to their way of life, and rightly so. Fernando’s guilt at not helping his sister earlier, and the unexpected support of his wife, leads him to quit his job and go to Chile to support the socialist Allende’s campaign for power.
Anna is left increasingly concerned by her parents changed behaviour – they move to a small apartment, have an array of migrant nannies, invite a load of Communists around for dinner, and her mother takes up feminism and compiles a book on women’s experiences of abortion – it is a lot for a 9-year-old to take on board.
Anna retaliates in a series of amusing ways, including turning the lights and heating off to save money and eventually stealing from her class mates, convinced that if they only had more cash they could move back to the big house and life would get back to normal. But, eventually, through her conversations with the adults who surround her, and despite of her parents inconsistencies, Anna starts to adapt to, and even enjoy, her new life…
Blame It On Fidel deals with the complexities of a young girl trying to get to grips with the world. In Anna’s case, this involves forming complex political and religious beliefs. The film is shot from the child’s point of view, and the viewer is as limited in their understanding of events as Anna is herself. She learns about what is going on around her by overhearing conversations, but also through listening to stories that people tell her. At the start of the film, Anna tells her mother that her favourite story is that of Genesis, and her understanding of religion is limited to the narrow view of Catholicism, but by the end she has learnt tales from Greek mythology and Vietnamese folklore, not to mention the ideals of Communist atheism. As a director, Gavras draws the viewers’ attention to the power of stories in forming the beliefs of a society.
When it becomes apparent that Anna’s parents have become Communists, Philomena is outraged and tells Anna that Communists forced her from her home and made her flee to France for safety. She describes them as bearded and red, which turns out to be amusingly close to the truth. Her grandmother is also judgemental of their politics, and believes that communists want to take away her money and house. Anna confronts her parent’s friends with these stereotypes but they laugh it off and try to explain their point of view, utilising an orange as the world cut into segments to be shared. At the beginning of the film, we also see Anna cutting fruit; she lauds it over the other children at the wedding and considers them below her when they do not cut their fruit as neatly. Through these linked scenes, and the symbolism in each of them, the viewer can see that Anna has grown.
There is often humour in this film, which could so easily have been a dry political commentary on post ‘68 France. This is best captured when Anna tries to play shop with the revolutionaries sharing her home, and adds a massive mark-up to the price of the plastic plates on her stall utilising free market economics, while the men try and explain the concept of the redistribution of wealth.
Kervel plays the part of Anna brilliantly throughout, and was picked by the director out of 400 other girls because she so closely resembled the character. This is not to take away from her acting ability, which shines through every pouting mouth and tantrum, ensuring that the viewer cannot help but be on her side through it all as it becomes apparent how fallible and inexplicable adults can be.
Blame It On Fidel is a beautifully shot, well-rounded drama that remains true to its main character and the mood of 1970s France. It can be both confusing and frustrating as the viewer to be forced into the position of a child, but the humour of the film, made possible by this disparity, more than makes up for it. EM
Film: OSS 117 - Cairo: Nest Of Spies
Release date: 23rd February 2009
Certificate: 12
Running time: 99 mins
Director: Michel Hazanavicius
Starring: Jean Dujardin, Bérénice Bejo, Aure Atika, Philippe Lefebvre, Constantin Alexandrov
Genre: Adventure/Comedy/Crime
Studio: ICA
Format: DVD
Country: France
Based on a series of 1950s and 1960s spy films, which were in turn based on a series of novels by French author Jean Bruce, the movie both parodies the original OSS 117 franchise along with other spy movies from the time, especially the Connery-era James Bond films.
The story is a simple fish-out-of-water comedy, whereby the suave, (not so) sophisticated Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath is sent by his superiors to Egypt during the 1950s to find out what happened to another agent – and Hubert’s old friend – Jack, who is believed to have been killed.
Upon entering the country, agent OSS 117 encounters beautiful women, religious fanatics, people of all races and nationalities, and even has run-ins with Nazis inside the pyramids…
The plot is very basic, loosely holding together a series of comic situations. The film literally throws every cliché of the spy genre at the screen which, while unorganised, ultimately prevents the film from becoming too predictable as you never know what insane plot twist will occur next.
Much of the film’s humour derives from Hubert’s old-fashioned, 1950s sensibilities, and although his xenophobia and sexism will not be to everyone’s liking, the humour is generally handled well, ensuring that it is Hubert who is being ridiculed and humiliated and not his supposed targets.
As well as the ‘humour of awkwardness’, there are also plenty of visual jokes and slapstick comedy that make the film extremely accessible for people with varied senses of humour. Furthermore, the supremely likable Jean Dujardin delivers a performance that ensures the audience continue to enjoy Hubert’s company despite his flaws, and Berenice Bejo is an excellent counterfoil as the seductive, strong, and intelligent love-interest, reversing more traditional roles for a nice contemporary twist.
Our introduction to the eponymous OSS 117 – eyebrow and gun cocked, white teeth sparkling – occurs during a black-and-white, pre-credit sequence set towards the end of WWII, where he and his comrade must steal a briefcase from a fleeing Nazi. From there, we are launched into the glorious and gaudy Technicolor of a 1960s movie, with the filmmakers lovingly recreating the look and feel of works such as the early Bond movies, down to minute details; usually evoking these as jokes as well as a faithful homage. As such, the direction and cinematography comes across as deceptively simple, but it all adds to the enjoyable nature of the film.
Unlike its overblown, overly politically-incorrect and disappointing sequel, OSS 177 - Lost In Rio, Cairo: Nest Of Spies is a far more concise and compact movie, overflowing with jokes and fun.
Nothing in the movie should be taken seriously, except maybe the beauty of the filmmaker’s attention to period/cinematic detail and the joyous soundtrack (there’s even a musical number!) - in short, the movie is a breezy, colourful comedy that should delight all those who are not easily offended.
A must for fans of the Naked Gun and Austin Powers films, or anyone who enjoys the early James Bond movies, OSS 117 - Cairo: Nest Of Spies is a wonderful guilty pleasure. CD
Film: The Ape
Release date: 10th May 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 81 mins
Director: Jesper Ganslandt
Starring: Ollie Sarri, Francoise Joyce, Niclas Gillis
Genre: Drama/Thriller
Studio: ICA
Format: DVD
Country: Sweden
All things considered, The Ape is quite baffling – but only because we have become accustomed to dreadfully simplistic narratives and unrealistic dialogue. The Ape returns to a style of filmmaking that is out of favour currently.
Ollie Sarri is Kirster, a man who awakes confused and covered in blood. Sarri goes on to appear in every single frame of The Ape’s remaining 77 minutes, and starring alongside Sarri is an increasing sense of nausea, foreboding, pent up aggression, resignation and mental incapacity. Make no mistake, The Ape is a snapshot of a man losing (or already lost?) his grip on his marriage, his job, his sanity, and everything which connects him to his run of the mill existence…
This may at first glance appear familiar territory, The Ape is not the first film based upon the premise of following a character as they descend into a self-destructive hell. Where The Ape differs from most is that we are never shown the causes of Kirster’s distress, just as we are never shown any outrageous acts of violence. That isn’t to say the viewer doesn’t know exactly what has happened, of course, we do. The Ape never allows the viewer to sit back and comfortably sum up what is happening or has happened to Kirster because everything is only hinted at - it is entirely up to the viewers to cross the Ts and dot the Is. What we do get are glimpses of Kirster’s temper, or possible explanations for his obvious frustration, or hints at the possibility of violence that always seems to flicker behind his mournful, unblinking eyes.
The Ape is a complete success due in the main to fabulous direction and a possible career making performance. The direction is snappy without being fussy, and Jesper Ganslandt has placed his cameras right in front of the action. Not only is Ollie Sarri in every frame of the film, but at least half of the film seems to be shot close up to the actor's face. As the action unfolds, Kirster’s increasingly erratic behaviour is so unbelievably close to the screen that you can almost smell the manic fear and desperation.
There are so many standout scenes, and the tension is never allowed to drop for one second; watch in awe as Kirster explodes with pent up fury while instructing a learner driver. Feel queasy as a tennis practice match hints at the uncontrollable rage and longing which has built up inside this man in the midst of a break down. Three scenes, in particular, are so beautifully filmed and performed: a truly terrifying scene involving Kirster’s mother and a large kitchen knife will make anyone paying attention squirm; the scene toward the end of the film where Kirtser’s character bumps into an old friend is excruciatingly uncomfortable viewing, as we realize the character has now completely disconnected from reality and is unable to communicate in even the simplest of manners; and the final moments of the film are perfectly executed as the viewer is deliberately separated from Kirster, reflecting his own disconnection with the events around him.
The use of close up forces the viewer to share the anxiety of Kirster’s character, and coupled with the minimal dialogue, which is also almost entirely one-sided for the majority of the film, we not only see and feel everything Kirster is going through, we also share his emotions. The lack of music and the way the sound has been recorded places the viewer in the centre of Kirster’s world, and it is an unsettling experience.
Although not a true Dogme film, it shares many of the characteristics of Dogme, and is far more successful than even the much lauded Festen. The characters and settings are real, everything is entirely believable, and this snapshot of the violence and mania which can exist under the most normal of facades is a touch too close to reality. As Kirster’s mental capacity decays his ability to function normally also lessens, and the clever use of Kirster’s relationship with his mobile phone is a brilliant device, which illustrates the character's mindset perfectly. This truly is low-budget, minimalist cinema at it’s very best.
It is impossible to talk about The Ape without focusing on the performance of Ollie Sarri, displaying depth of emotion while maintaining an almost implacable expression. The pain, loss and desperation visible on Kirster’s blank face, the palpable sense of nausea and bewilderment, the sheer scale of his wrong doing are all on view, yet never once does the character become one dimensional. It would have been easy for Kirster to become an overwrought and overblown caricature, and in the hands of lesser actors that would have been the case. Sarri pulls off the seemingly impossible by never allowing Kirster to become a monster - he maintains the character as someone deserving of sympathy throughout.
The Ape is complex, emotive, expressive and arresting. It grabs your attention from the start and holds it unflinchingly until the final frame. It also leaves all the right questions unanswered. SM
Film: OSS 117: Lost In Rio
Release date: 12th April 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 101 mins
Director: Michel Hazanavicius
Starring: Jean Dujardin, Louise Monot, Rudiger Vogler
Genre: Comedy
Studio: ICA
Format: DVD
Country: France
Spoof spy films were old hat even in the 1960s, when David Niven lampooned James Bond in the original 1967 Casino Royale movie. But it seems the cinema-going public never tire of retro-60s glamour and sheer daftness – it certainly hasn’t done Mike Myers’ career any harm – which goes a long way to explaining why the OSS 117 series has been so successful in France.
The first film to star Jean Dujardin as the special agent Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath. – OSS 117: Cairo Nest Of Spies - was a big hit in France, and it was only a matter of time before a sequel hit the screens. OSS 117: Lost In Rio finds our hero hunting for a fugitive Nazi in South America with predictably disastrous results.
Like Austin Powers, Get Smart and most of the Roger Moore James Bond films, the plot itself is flimsier than a watered-down vodka martini. It genuinely it not worth thinking about, but the film motors along nicely – ticking all the boxes we know and love. There are glamorous locations, ridiculous fight scenes and beautiful women...
It almost goes without saying, but it’s a French comedy – so it’s insanely unfunny. If you thought the Asterix films were a high point in cultural excellence, then you will feel right at home here. Laugh out loud jokes are thin on the ground, but there are plenty of groan to yourself moments.
It’s almost as if the nation of France are finally paying us back for all those British daytrippers buying cheap lager in Calais, and for murdering their native tongue with ‘Allo Allo’. In hundreds of years’ time, we may know what the greater crime was, but for now we can only guess. My money is still on Café Rene, though.
Louise Monot is perfectly cast as the easy-on-the-eye sidekick who manages to resist OSS 117’s charms long enough to solve the case. Jean Dujardin plays it straight as the stuck-up and hopelessly un-PC secret agent. He’s no Peter Sellers, admittedly, but his attempts to seduce women by talking about cheese will crack a few smiles. Plus he looks good in a dinner jacket, which always helps.
The problem is that he never really convinces as a suave ‘60s man-about-town. He just comes across as a bit boorish and stupid. That might be part of the joke, but at least with Austin Powers, you had a hero you could root for. The occasional twinkle in his eye would have helped.
Where this genuinely triumphs is in the way the filmmakers have perfectly – and I do mean perfectly – recreated the look of 1960s films. From the clothes to the slightly washed-out cinematography, it is a flawless homage to that era. But the split screen effect – another nod back to ‘60s films – is used on one too many occasions, and rapidly becomes annoying.
Ludovic Bource’s score to the film is a shameless celebration of cocktail hour kitsch, and really adds to the feel of an era when Jason Bourne was just a glint in the spymaster’s eye, but the jokes do wear a bit thin, so there’s that inevitable feeling that all the best one-liners were used in the first film, and this is just their lap of honour.
The film certainly suits the small screen. In many ways, it’s the French version of the Rowan Atkinson spoof Johnny English. It’s harmless enough, but could have benefitted from Atkinson’s finely honed comic skills and rubbery face. Great soundtrack, though! JH
