Hey folks, Harry here with the final report from Elaine of this year's ROTTERDAM INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL. She's been just a bang up great pair of eyes, ears and an amputated baker's dozen of fingers keeping us on the up-n-up on everything going down in that wonderful land of film. Well folks, take a look... mark down the films on her top ten list and just think... Someday you may see those titles, if you do.. see them, cuz the lovely Elaine says so...
Hi Harry,
Here, finally, is the last instalment of my Rotterdam
coverage. I meant to get it to you earlier, but social
engagements kept me from the two things I love most:
films and writing. I hope that the size of the report
will make up for the wait...
DAY 10
I missed Holland's grand royal wedding in order to attend the final day of the festival. I'm glad I did, though, for if it hadn't been for the very disappointing closing film, Day 10 would have ranked amongst the best days I have had in Rotterdam. Three of the four films I saw were excellent; two of these ("Whispering Sands" and "The Hidden Half") were so good that they actually made my festival top-10, ranking 5th and 6th, respectively. Extensive reviews of these two films and the other two I saw ("Hedwig and the Angry Inch" and "Mischka") follow below.
I'm also including a review of Sinisa Dragin's "Every
Day God Kisses Us on the Mouth," a Romanian film I saw
on Day 4 but didn't get round to reviewing at the
time. Odds are you will never get to see it, but it
did get a Tiger Award for promising debut or second
film, so it deserves a bit of attention.
EVERY GOD KISSES US ON THE MOUTH (Sinisa Dragin, 2001)
I love sepia films. As anyone who has seen "Avalon" or "Eureka" can attest, there is something melancholy, something incredibly atmospheric about black-and-white films printed on colour stock (or whatever the technical process is). And not just when Japanese directors shoot them, either; Eastern Europeans are getting the hang of the sepia trick, too, as Sinisa Dragin's "Every Day God Kisses Us on the Mouth" proves in an impressive manner.
"Every Day God Kisses Us on the Mouth" (In fiecare zi Dumnezeu ne saruta pe gura) is the story of a man and his goose. The man, Dumitru, is a serial killer whose prison sentence has failed to cure him of his homicidal habits; the goose, which may or may not represent innocence, is a prize he wins just before he kills his first victim, and the only being he truly cares for. Whether the two eventually find happiness together is a question that appears to be left unanswered, but you could do worse than try and find out for yourself.
"Every Day God Kisses Us on the Mouth" could be described as a fable about guilt. Rather than chart the police hunt that follows Dumitru's murder spree, as an American serial killer drama would, it focuses on Dumitru's own reactions to his violent outbursts, which range from guilt and self-loathing to a growing belief that he does what he does because God wishes him to, and that he won't be caught or killed until he has served his divine mission. By concentrating on the religious aspects of Dumitru's acts of violence, the film in effect becomes a study in fate and predestination, in which fate catches up with Dumitru in the shape of the wife of his first victim - the one he killed just after he acquired the goose. Interestingly, this woman (a gypsy) is the only person in the film who is occasionally invested with some colour, which makes her an even more sinister presence than she already is.
With its deterministic tone and the oppressive
atmosphere created by the black-and-white photography,
"Every Day God Kisses Us on the Mouth" could have
become an utterly depressing film. However, thanks to
some pitch black humour (culminating in a love scene
in which two very drunk and very undignified
middle-aged alcoholics get very messy indeed) and a
refreshing refusal to moralise, the film is actually
quite bearable. In fact, it is pretty powerful, and
where the relationship between Dumitru and his goose
is concerned, it even becomes poetical at times. There
aren't many mass murderer flicks which can claim a
poetic quality, so be sure to cherish this one.
THE HIDDEN HALF (Tamineh Milani, 2001)
"Doctor Zhivago" set in Iran. That would be the pitch for "The Hidden Half," the plea for open-mindedness and objectivity that finished fifth in the Audience Award standings despite holding second place until the very last minute. It's a sweeping epic of love and revolution which earned its director, Tamineh Milani, a prison sentence, and if that isn't a reason to go and see it, I don't know what is.
"The Hidden Half" is the story of Fereshteh, the 42-year-old wife of a high-ranking Tehrani judge. When her husband is assigned to try the case of a female political activist in whose motives he seems barely interested, Fereshteh tries to convince him to give the woman a fair trial by telling him about her own life as a political activist, led before she met him. A lengthy flashback then takes the viewer back to 1979 (the year of the Islamic Revolution), when Fereshteh was a member of a communist organisation which helped depose the Shah, only to be persecuted by the fundamentalists once they had taken over power in the country. What follows is the story of a 19-year-old whose revolutionary ideals clash with her feelings for an older, bourgeois publisher, and who ends up learning that using her immediate sphere of influence can be a more effective way to make a difference than writing revolutionary poems.
Two things stand out about "The Hidden Half." First of all, it is a remarkably accessible film. Although it has the poetry and humanity of all good Iranian cinema, it lacks the repetitiveness and stress on insignificant activities that mars many Iranian productions. There are no endless car repair scenes here, nor symbolic references to obscure Persian poetry; instead, one is treated to a fast-paced story with intriguing plot turns and an emotionally satisfying ending, which could be western if it weren't for the scarves the women wear.
Secondly, "The Hidden Half" differs from its Iranian counterparts in that it makes no secret of its political agenda. Forget about innocent children encountering sketchily drawn, barely-commented-upon social injustice; this is a mature, socially engaged drama in which a spade is called a spade and in which government officials are explicitly requested to listen to both sides of an argument before convicting those who hold dissident opinions. And it doesn't stop there; apart from being a plea for open-mindedness, the film also has a strong feminist slant in that it requests the right for women to show themselves "as [they are], not as others want [them] to be," and to acknowledge their love for "the people," as opposed to the few persons they are supposed to serve at home. No wonder the director spent some time in jail.
With so many messages to cram into 103 minutes, the film might have turned into a political pamphlet, but the opposite is true. "The Hidden Half" is not heavy-handed proselytism; it is a tale of love and confusion, with a heroine who inspires sympathy, a hero who remains enigmatic until the very end, and a judge who gains the sort of insight one hopes the whole world will at some point acquire. If it does occasionally try to teach the viewer a lesson, it does so in a pleasant way, with plenty of grand emotions and a surprisingly light-hearted sense of humour to make up for the moralism. For make no mistake about it: "The Hidden Half" is a funny film. Although Milani clearly loves the idealistic communists and snobbish intellectuals she depicts in her story, she is not above poking a little fun at them, which results in some charming scenes in which the teenage communists discuss issues such as how many sets of clothes a revolutionary is allowed to have and whether it is OK to hang a photo of Gary Cooper between one's portraits of famous revolutionaries. She also gets quite a kick out of criticising socialist-realist writing, as witnessed by the very funny scene in which Mr Javid (the charismatic publisher with whom Fereshteh has a relationship before she meets her later husband) explains to Fereshteh the difference between realism and socialist realism. It is little touches like these, plus the genuinely compelling choices Fereshteh has to make in the second half of the film, that make "The Hidden Half" the gem it is.
"The Hidden Half" may well be the most important film Iran has produced in the recent past. It is exotic enough to be intriguing, yet universal enough to be recognisable, and carries a message that seems even more relevant today than it was when Milani shot the film, both to those who occupy high positions in Iran and to mankind in general.
If only George W Bush could be forced to see it...
WHISPERING SANDS (Nan Achnas, 2001)
Some films are born out of a situation. Others have as their point of departure a personality trait a writer wishes to explore, or a message he wishes to pass on. And yet others start with a location.
"Whispering Sands" is an instance of the latter. The wind-swept dune landscape depicted in the film is more than just a setting; it is a character in the film, breathing, whispering and full of a mysterious power. It is alive, and more atmospheric than any other setting shown in this year's festival, including the Arctic vastness of "Atanarjuat, the Fast Runner" and the stunning cityscape of "Avalon."
Wow.
As is often the case with films which revolve around a setting, the story of "Whispering Sands" doesn't amount to much. What little story there is focuses on the problematic relationship between 15-year-old Daya (Dian Sastrowardoyo) and her overprotective mother Berlian (Indonesian diva Christine Hakim), a single mother who consistently addresses her only daughter as "child." When the story opens, political unrest forces Daya and Berlian to leave their seaside village, where bodies are beginning to float ashore and houses are regularly set on fire. In order to save their lives, the duo flee to Pasir Putih ("Whispering Sands"), a dune village which is supposed to be a place of refuge. However, their new setting does not exactly solve the problems between them. While Berlian (whose highly symbolic name translates as "diamond") tries to eke out a living in the barren wilderness that is Pasir Putih, Daya has little to do but learn silly Japanese songs and traditional dances. Disappointed by her mother's aloofness, she begins to idealise her absentee father in a way which makes it obvious to the viewer that if the man ever returns, he will turn out to be a total bastard. Thus, the stage is set for the denouement, which is not only a rite of passage for Daya but strengthens the bond between Daya and her mother into the bargain.
"Whispering Sands" could be said to be a chick flick. Apart from the problematic relationship between Berlian and Daya, a lot of stress is put on Daya's friendship with Sukma, the Pasir Putih girl who initiates Daya in the mystic power of the sand. Yet neither relationship is explored as fully as the atmosphere of the Pasir Putih sandscapes. For more than a film about changes in relationships, "Whispering Sands" is a collection of images - startlingly, hauntingly beautiful images. From the scenic opening in the village which is eventually burnt down to the poetic image of Daya lying on her stomach to look for her dead friend in the sand ("Sukma, are you in there?"), the film strings together a series of impossibly visually arresting moments, filmed in widescreen and replete with some of the most impressive colours I have seen outside a Zhang Yimou film. Some of these moments are merely atmospheric, such as the impresssions of the sand and the sun above it; others are intensely symbolic, such as the scene in which Daya plays with the mask that is supposed to protect her from demons, or the one in which the virtually nameless "child," after having finally learned the alphabet, writes her name in the sand. And then there are scenes in which hardly anything happens but which somehow have a deeply poetic quality - and they make up most of the film.
"Whispering Sands" is a rich, poetic experience that
simply drips with atmosphere. It won't appeal to those
who insist on a strong narrative or natural acting
(some of the performances here are a bit too
melodramatic for western tastes), but those who are
susceptible to visual poetry are likely to be blown
away by it. I certainly was, and I was by no means the
only one.
HEDWIG AND THE ANGRY INCH (John Cameron Mitchell,
2001)
A friend of mine once claimed that when two people become one in a relationship, you are left with two half persons. This may be true in general, but it certainly doesn't hold true for Hedwig, who unites her two selves in a way which denotes completeness rather than halfness.
For those of you who don't know yet (there can't be many; this story was new about a year ago), "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" is about a rock star who spends half her life looking for the "other half" that will complement her, only to find it in herself. The twist is that Hedwig is a transsexual who has to come to terms with both her male and her female sides before becoming "whole." And while that isn't quite the love story one expects when Hedwig sings her song about "The Origin of Love" (about the ancient Greek notion that people were once physically separated from their complementary halves, whom they spend the rest of their lives searching), it is in its own melodramatic way more poignant than any of the other relationships hinted at in the film could have been.
In short, "Hedwig" is about self-acceptance. This is true, but it's hardly the first thing that strikes one when watching the film. It is first and foremost a rock opera, with songs reminiscent of Bowie and T-Rex in their heyday, and an art direction which is every bit as exuberant as that of "Moulin Rouge," albeit a lot gaudier. "Hedwig" isn't sophisticated, but there is something poetic about its campness - the poetry of gummi bears, trailer parks and Farrah Fawcett wigs, and then some. It's as raw as Hedwig is bitchy, and as profound as Hedwig's "brilliant lecture on the influence of German philosophy on rock 'n' roll," entitled "You Kant Always Get What You Want." Which ends, of course, in Hedwig's getting not what she wants but what she needs, which is exactly what she needs.
Personally, I liked "Hedwig" a lot. I loved Stephen
Trask's songs (most of them, anyway) and the pathetic
quality with which John Cameron Mitchell managed to
infuse his otherwise bitchy heroine. I was also
impressed with the symbolic way in which Hedwig puts
her all into the creation of Tommy Gnosis
("knowledge"), is then forsaken by both Tommy and
wisdom, only to find both back in herself. And I
positively loved the way Tommy and Hedwig do not just
kiss, but actually breathe through each other's
mouths, resulting in the sort of erotic symbiosis
which Hedwig will find hard to reproduce once she has
found Tommy within herself. But (there's always a
but), I did get the impression that something was
missing. Although I loved "Hedwig" while I was
watching it, I never thought about it again until I
began this "review." Nor do any of the songs linger in
my head, although I can with a bit of effort retrieve
the gist and lyrics of most of them. This wouldn't be
such a bad thing if I hadn't recently had the
experience of the different-but-similar "Moulin
Rouge," which HAS made a lasting impression on my
memory, and parts of which ("How wonderful life
is...") I simply can't get out of my system, even
though it has been months since I last saw the film. I
was hoping that "Hedwig" would be a similarly lasting
experience, but somehow it wasn't; which, in my humble
and admittedly rather belated opinion, makes it a good
film but not a brilliant one.
MISCHKA (Jean-Francois Stevenin, 2002)
The closing film of a festival is supposed to be a highlight. Something which reflects the main tenets of the festival and finishes it off with a bang.
Unfortunately, Jean-Francois Stevenin's "Mischka" (of which Rotterdam got the world premiere) did neither of these things. A comedy-cum-road movie which fails to get funny or poignant, it is not only utterly uninvolving, but so annoying that I couldn't be bothered to stay for the denouement and left in time to catch the last train home. Judging from stories I heard afterwards, I made the right decision.
"Mischka" is about an old widower (played by Jean-Paul Roussillon) who is neglected by his family, hooks up with some strangers and finds they are better company than his real family. As for how all this comes to pass, well, it is basically "Pane e tulipani" (Bread and Tulips) all over again: an old man and his family are on their way to a campsite, the old man goes to the loo, his family drives off without him, and by the time they discover that they have left him behind, he has already gone off with someone else. This could have resulted in an interesting road movie, but unfortunately for the viewer, the person with whom the old man hooks up is Gegene (played by the director himself), an idiot who not only insists on calling him "Mischka" (because the old man reminds him of the little grey bear of that name who was the mascot of the 1980 Moscow Olympics) but also wishes him to pretend he is his father (don't ask - you don't want to know). Rather than drop Mischka off at the campsite where his family are waiting for him, Gegene takes him to a village where he hopes to find his teenage daughter, whom he has not seen for many years. They do not find the daughter, but they do bump into a teenage girl and her little brother who have run away from home because they hate their mother and want to live with their father, plus an unhappily married gypsy woman who later turns out to be a rock star. After a whole lot of mistaken identities (ha, ha - not!), these disappointed people hook up together - to learn, it seems, that if one's family situation isn't satisfactory, one can in fact assemble a surrogate family, as long as one is open-minded enough for the experience.
The problems here are numerous. On top of the jokes being unfunny and the cinematography being the most dizzying thing I have seen since my 5-year-old cousin first got hold of a handicam, there is the fact that several of the characters are annoying and that the fellowship of which so much is made is an extremely unlikely one. One could buy the kids' and the gypsy's staying with "Mischka" and Gegene if they were warm and loving characters, but the opposite is true; Mischka, far from the huggable teddy bear which the others' fuss about him would have you believe he is, is a bitter old git who seems demented for most of the film but comes up with enough sensible remarks to rule out the possibility that he actually is, while Gegene (the director himself, in a part he probably would have deleted if he could have seen how truly annoying it is) is so hyper, so irritating, that he is downright unbearable. It is impossible to see why these two inspire the devotion in the others that they do, which makes the bond that grows between them improbable, and the film as a whole an unbelievable experience.
Stevenin (a former assistant to Truffaut and an
experienced actor in his own right) claims that the
idea for "Mischka" was born during his travels through
France, and that the landscapes he saw on the way
became characters in the film. All I can say is that
if these blurry images of the French countryside are
Stevenin's idea of landscape as a character in a film,
he should take a long, hard look at "Whispering
Sands," which pulls the same trick about a hundred
times better, and in a far less annoying way.
ROTTERDAM STATS
By some strange coincidence, the first film I saw at this year's festival turned out to be the best, while the official closing film was amongst the worst. However, this is not to say that the festival declined between the beginning and the ending, for the final days harboured some pleasant surprises - particularly "Whispering Sands" and "The Hidden Half," both of which are reviewed above.
As I already mentioned when I reviewed the film in my Day 6 report, the Audience Award went to Danis Tanovic' "No Man's Land," which led the standings from the moment it was first shown and never looked back. Runners-up were "Atanarjuat, the Fast Runner" (reviewed in my Day 8 report) and Eugenie Jansen's "Tussenland" (Sleeping Rough), which also became the first home-grown product to take a Tiger Award. The other two Tiger Awards (for most promising debut or second feature film) went to Sinisa Dragin's "Every Day God Kisses Us on the Mouth" (reviewed above) and Bohdan Slama's "Wild Bees," a Czech film I unfortunately missed. Finally, the FIPRESCI prize of European film journalists was awarded to Sven Taddicken's "Mein Bruder der Vampir" (My Brother the Vampire, or Getting My Brother Laid), which I reviewed in my Day 1 report.
Interestingly, the traditionally successful Asian
contingent failed to take a single award this year;
the first time this happened, apparently, since
Rotterdam began awarding prizes. The only Asian film
which came close to winning a prize was Korean
break-up drama "One Fine Spring Day" (reviewed in my
Day 3 report), which was runner-up in the Youth Jury's
standings. The Youth Jury's top award, meanwhile, went
to Catherine Breillat's "Fat Girl," which I reviewed
in my Day 7 report.
THE TOP-10 AS VOTED BY THE ROTTERDAM AUDIENCE:
(1) No Man's Land
(2) Atanarjuat, the Fast Runner
(3) Tussenland (Sleeping Rough)
(4) Samsara
(5) The Hidden Half
(6) Il mio viaggio in Italia (My Journey in Italy)
(7) Scratch
(8) Lucia y el sexo (Sex and Lucia)
(9) The Navigators
(10) Tape
MY OWN TOP-10:
(1) "Flower Island": Poetic, compelling and intensely emotional, this is, as far as I am concerned, the one genuine masterpiece shown at the festival. I doubt it will be distributed outside the festival circuit, but if you are lucky enough to find yourself in its vicinity, don't miss it. And be sure to let me know what the aria is that Yoojin sings at the beginning, for it positively HAUNTS me.
(2) "Avalon": If this is pseudo-existentialist crap, I'll have more of it, please.
(3) "No Man's Land": Absurd fun with a hard-hitting message.
(4) "Address Unknown": Or, how an utterly depressing downward spiral can amount to great art.
(5) "Whispering Sands": Lyrical poetry from a country which is still in its cinematic infancy. Very, very impressive.
(6) "The Hidden Half": Love and revolution in the most accessible Iranian film I have seen. One to cherish.
(7) "Va savoir": Pretentieux? Oui. But ever so entertaining.
(8) "Fat Girl": French drama about sex and sibling rivalry, with a thoroughly thought-provoking ending.
(9) "Suicide Club": The most wicked fun of the festival. If the ending had been more consistent with the rest of the film, this would have been an instant classic.
(10) "Pulse": Fascinating horror from the Japanese master of suspense, Kiyoshi Kurosawa.
Well, this concludes my Rotterdam coverage for this year. I may be back next year, but first I'm going to take a long and deserved break from films - for at least a week, anyway.
All the best,
Elaine
