|
2017 FESTIVAL
DU NOUVEAU CINÉMA
http://www.nouveaucinema.ca/EN
THE RATINGS
So
far, A & O film critics Robert J. Lewis, Andrew Martin
and Oslavi Linares have seen the following films. Here are
their ratings and comments, always out of 4, reserving 2.5
or more for a noteworthy film, 3.5 for an exceptional film,
4 for a classic.
________________________
3.0
-- IN THE
FADE, Fatih Akin
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis] The
literal translation of the film Aus
dem Nichts is 'out of nothing.' The English title of Fatih
Akin's gripping drama, however off the mark, somehow
communicates, if only in the abstract. But well before the
film's final chapter, the viewer is made to understand why
both the far right and far left in Angela Merkel's Germany
stand accused of turning the country famous for its law and
order into a dysfunctional state.
German-born Katja, who is fond of recreational drugs and tattoos,
is married to Nuri, a Turk who spent four years in prison
on drug related charges before going straight. They have a
six year old son Rocco. Nuri now runs a successful translation
business in the Turkish part of town. Katja's life falls apart
when Nuri and their son are blown to bits by a terrorist bomb.
Even though a Neo-Nazi couple are identified and accused of
the murders, the authorities are more interested in both the
living and deceased's relationship with their past and present
drug use. Much of the film unfolds in the courts. The heated
and blade-sharp court room exchanges echo the brilliant defence
and prosecution of Dimitri Karamazov in Dostoievsky's The
Brothers Karamzov. Into this mix of simmering anger and
grief is the blame and accusation between the two immediate
families regarding the final resting place of Katja's husband
and son. From the biting script to the excellent casting and
performances, ethnic tensions in Germany get a unbouldlerized
hearing, especially through the spellbinding performance of
Diane Kruger in the role of Katja. The slow burn, the imploding
cocktail of anger, frustration and loss she brings to the
screen recalls the stellar performance of Noami Watts in 21
Grams. One can barely sit through her harrowing and withering
facial expressions when the court secretary mechanically reads
out a detailed description of the state of dismemberment of
her son's body and the blast effects of the nails on the internal
organs. Despite an ending that wasn't particularly satisfying
-- albeit the conventional revenge motif is given a totally
unforeseen twist -- the film successfully addresses the burning
issue of immigration without ever succumbing to preachiness
or self-rightousness. In the Fade will not fade from
anyone's memory for a long time and is argubably Akin's best
film since Head-On.
2.9
-- PARADISE,
Andrei Konchalovsky
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis] Despite
the unavoidable clichés that go into the dynamics of Holocaust
film making, Paradise
will hold your attention for all of its 130 minutes. The
film splices together documentary-like testimonials from both
the Nazi and victim perspective and a two-pronged storyline:
the harrowing inner workings of a concentration camp receiving
and disposing of bodies, and an SS officer's love affair with
Olga, one of the inmates with whom he once had a brief romance
before the war. In contrast to the ugly, muddy monochrome
colours of the camp, their story is told under the brilliant
Tuscan sun where the polished marble marvels and everyone
is dressed in white. But the title does not refer to those
paradisiacal days, but the Nazi's whitewashed vision of the
future, a vision that doesn't take into account human nature,
which Helmut, the dashing blue-eyed, blond SS officer is sent
to investigate: the contagion of theft committed by the SS
officers running the camps. From the sleazy role of the French
collaborators, to the courage of the resistance, to the monsters
at the camp, on the surface it seems all too familiar, but
Paradise is a stark and necessary reminder of how
thin is the veneer of civilization, and that it doesn't take
much to awaken the savage that lies at the heart of a species
that, in the absence of a major rewrite, will probably not
survive its worst instincts. Paradise obliges the
viewer to confront the worst of the worst chapters in the
human story of the continuing war between good and evil, with
(in our troubled times) the outcome still very much in doubt.
If you're not familiar with the Holocaust genre, this film
is as good as any to begin your voyage into the heart of darkness,
or, pace Ferdinand Céline, Voyage au but de la nuit,
in part thanks to first-rate production values (especially
the sets) and excellent acting.
3.2
-- LOVING
VINCENT, Dorota Kobiela &
Hugh Welchman
[reviewed
by Oslavi Linares]
Touted as the first oil-painting feature film,
Loving Vincent beautifully brings to life the art and
times of Vincent Van Gogh, but sets itself on an improbable
expositional narrative. The plot starts after Van Gogh's death,
when postmaster and friend of the artist, Joseph Roulin, sends
his eldest son Armand to deliver a forgotten letter to Theo
Van Gogh, Vincent's brother. As Armand travels to Paris and
then to the village of Auvers, he grows curious about what
led the painter to suicide but ends up discovering more about
his life than his death. Roulin's encounters with different
characters reveal Van Gogh's biography through a series of
flashbacks which are in fact expositional confessions. These
disclosures appear repetitive and at times contrived and turn
Armand's quest into a 'who done it' mystery about the artist's
death. However, the narrative stutter is outshone by the art
of the film.
Painted over six years and requiring 65,000 oil painting frames
by nearly a 100 painters, Loving Vincent effectively
immerses the viewer in Van Gogh's painted world. Several original
works serve as reference or backdrop for the film's scenes
and characters, conveying the illusion of two-dimensional
space possessing depth. The camera moving through these environments
along with morphing imagery provide the syntax from one scene
to the next. Such a mix of painted, animated and cinematic
visuals integrate with differing success given the camera-like
point of view of some frames versus more painterly ones. To
these are added the rotoscoped live-action characters whose
rendering becomes more or less painterly through the film
and which resemble the actual characters painted by Van Gogh.
Dorota Kobiela and Hugh Welchman's feature debut was produced
by several studios in England, Poland and Greece, and received
funding from the Polish and European Union governments. Both
directors had worked on short animated films, but it was Kobiela
who had animated with paint and conceived the Van Gogh project.
The feature premiered at the 2017 Annecy International Animated
Film Festival and closed this year's edition of the Festival
du Nouveau Cinéma.
3.5
-- LUCKY,
John Carroll Lynch
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis] Harry
Dean Stanton was 90-years-old when he took on the role of
Lucky in John Carroll Lynch's graceful film of the same title.
Since the makers of the film had the actor in mind during
the conception phase, we fully expected Mr. Stanton (1926-2017)
to fit the role like a velvet glove: fait
accompli and much more. The story is simple: what it is
like being 90.
From his morning exercises to his daily breakfast at the restaurant
and evening drink at the local bar, we learn that being 90
is largely determined by the lifetime's worth of choices and
events that lead up to the present age. Lynch wisely doesn't
romanticize the age and its challenges, nor does he make Lucky
wiser than he ought to be, given what we know of him. Most
of what we learn about Lucky -- at times cantankerous, and
not afraid to speak his mind -- is through his at once haunting
and remarkable face that we can't take our eyes off. His face
is his confession whether it be via an irritating glance thrown
at someone given over to small-talk, or when he's staring
into the deep space of his thoughts, into the remains of the
day, into the nothingness that awaits him -- a self-proclaimed
atheist. Set in a desert town, the wide angle shots effectively
render him small against the background of sky high cacti
and even taller mountains. Despite his years, an imperfect
memory and a recent fall, he doesn't gobble up every minute
of his life as if each remaining drop were precious: he goes
about his day enjoying a pack-a-day smoking habit, get-togethers
with friends, doing the crossword puzzles and watching his
favourite TV game shows to distract him from thinking about
what lies ahead when his luck runs out. When he confesses
to a woman, who has made an impromptu visit out of concern,
that he is afraid, she in turn wordlessly confesses that there
is nothing she can say or do to allay his fears. Despite a
script that goes through a couple of red lights, Lucky
is a stark reminder that time, and not the ephemeral, is calling
the shots, and that what happens between now and the big one
that awaits is often a matter of luck, such as a film of this
caliber being made and entered into the public domain, and
the mother-lode of unexpected satisfactions derived from its
viewing.
3.0
-- BEFORE
WE VANISH, Kiyoshi Kurosawa
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis] If
your science fiction comes off as stranger than fiction, you've
done both your homework and the genre proud. Kiyoshi's Kurosawa's
(Tokyo Sonata) Before
We Vanish survives a bumpy beginning only to leave us
thinking about the future of mankind: no small accomplishment
in yet another aliens taking over human bodies film. Narumi
is concerned about her infidel husband's Shinji's disengaged
behaviour and muscular dysfunction. We soon learn that Shinji
has been taken over by an alien. He explains to her that aliens
plan to eliminate humanity, but they first have to learn about
"human concepts" and for this, they require flesh and blood
guides. Narumi serves as guide for Shinji while Sakurai, a
journalist, guides Amano. Sakurai tries to convince Amano
to change his plans, but his best arguments fall short: humanity
is not worth saving. In the film's other story, Narumi slowly
discovers that she prefers the alien Shinji more than when
he was flesh and blood. What distinguishes this work of science
fiction is that it is short on action and violence and refreshingly
long on dialogue, thanks to a thoughtful script and the director's
inventiveness subsumed by his concern for the perilous state
of the planet. The aliens call off the invasion at the last
moment when Shinji, at the insistence of Narumi, takes over
her concept of love, which leaves her completely empty. The
notion of sacrifice, which is disappearing under our watch,
and the frightening thought that only a major intervention
(substitute genetic for alien) will save humanity from imminent
demise are two of the existentials Before We Vanish has in
its cross-hairs. In the spirit of Japanese cinema at its best,
the film's final sequences rise to the occasion of poetry,
turn the cynical viewer into a willing and wiser accomplice,
and raise the bar for the genre of science fiction. It's a
film that asks the largest questions and persuades us to overlook
its flaws.
2.5
-- SWEET VIRGINIA,
Jamie Dagg
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis] Thriller
noir set in small town Alaska, Jamie Dagg's Sweet
Virginia (motel's name) suffers from an accumulation of
credibility gaps and overuse of standard genre props. Nonetheless,
it's the kind of film you'll watch with eyes wide-shut because
the script is on the money, the ironies are deliciously creepy,
and the film wisely operates under the assumption that the
less said the more is told: a strategy which invites the viewer
to fill in the blanks in respect to the shadowy events and
psychology that informs some of the bizarre choices the film's
protagonists make. A hit-man, Elwood, who has just left three
men dead, strikes up a friendship with motel owner Sam, who
is having an affair with one of the widows, Bernadette, who
is friends with the other widow, Maggie, who hired Elwood
to kill her cheating husband. When Maggie learns her husband
left her deep in debt, she fears for her life because she
can't pay the hit man, a walking time-bomb. So to get him
off her back, she tells him that her 'friend' Bernadette keeps
all of her money in the safe at home, at which point Elwood
decides to make an impromptu visit. What sustains our interest
in the film is that all the relationships are as fragile as
the lies and deceits they are based on. But we're not sure
if the palpable tension is generated by the mannered, decibel
churning soundtrack or the film's internal dynamics. To that,
add the clichéd fear generated when Maggie looks into her
rear-view mirror and notices headlights following her, or
when Bernadette (Rosemarie DeWitt), soaking in the tub after
a tryst, hears an ominous sound downstairs. Somehow all too
familiar, which is a downright shame. The pacing, the casting
and performances were top notch, beginning with Jon Bernthal
who plays Sam, an ex-macho rodeo man, and the icy demeanour
of Christopher Abbot as the explosive hit man. Despite several
memorable scenes, highly charged atmospherics, and beautiful
long shots of Alaska's deep green pine forests and rugged
canyons and cliff sides, Sweet Virginia does not
live up to the promise of its better parts.
3.5
-- INDIAN
HORSE, Stephen S. Campanelli
[reviewed
by Andrew Martin] Stephen
S. Campanelli’s film Indian
Horse, based on the Richard Wagamase novel, uses a frame
narrative to tell the story of Saul’s life, starting with
the present, and then moving us back in time. The story belongs
to an Ojibwe man named Saul Indian Horse, who is a real person.
He is snatched from the arms of his dying grandmother and
forced into a residential school where he and his fellow students
are routinely abused in ways that make you want to reach through
the screen and save them. Saul later finds some hope in a
seemingly warm-hearted, Trudeau-like priest (eye-roll) who
introduces him to hockey. The boy excels at the sport by practicing
in secret, using frozen horse turds for pucks. He goes on
to play in an all-native team, smashing expectations and making
it to Toronto. In the big city, he experiences a different
kind of racism, this time at the hands of Canadian citizens
who have multiplied and usurped the land. These scenes are
devastating in the way they steamroll over Canada’s deceptively
utopian self-image. Forrest Goodluck and Ajuawak Kapashesit,
who both play Saul at differing points in time, left me stricken.
Leaving the cinema, I felt like I had a new understanding
of Canadian history, and a better insight into the absolute
horror that native people are still working through. It could
have been presented as a laundry list of sad moments, but
it’s not. Well-shot and gracefully executed, this film left
me reeling at the end (there is a sort of plot twist).
2.7
-- WESTERN,
Valeska
Grisebach
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
What
gives border films their edge -- keeping us on the edge of
our seats -- are their inherently unstable ingredients. Under
the best of circumstances, it is always a challenge when unlike
peoples are obliged to share the same space. We want to know
how they go about negotiating their cultural and language
differences. Add scarcity to the mix, which is what Valeska
Grisebach does in her latest film, Western, and best-intentions
will in all likelihood be severely tested.
Near the Greek border but in Bulgaria, a German construction
team arrives, tasked with diverting a river for a hydro-electric
project. They set up camp near a very small Bulgarian village
where they are advised they have to share the limited water
supply with the local population, which doesn't go down well
with the German boss and his notions of entitlement, none
of which is helped by the inabitity to speak the other's language.
However, through hand gestures, eye contact, each side shows
a willingness to find common ground while remaining circumspect.
But relations are strained when the the boss makes a vulgar
play for one of the village women whose hat has been swept
downstream. Enter the taciturn Meinhard, recalling the handsome
cowboy on the billboard lighting up a cigarette, all rawhide
and granite jaw, riding a white horse he's found. It turns
out the horse is owned by one of the locals who sells it to
him; the son teaches him how to ride and a friendship forms
and very slowly the village people come to embrace the cowboy,
while his co-workers begin to resent him for his suspicious
behaviour. But when Meinhard, regarded as rich by local standards,
takes their money during a poker game and wins the favours
of the village's most attractive young woman, tolerance levels
are tested with predictable results: late at night Meinhard
gets roughed up on his way back to camp. Shot with a hand-held
camera, the film's very deliberate pacing works on a slow
burn but to no particular climax. At the end of the film,
we're left wondering how Meinhard's relationship with the
village woman will turn out, how the dispute over gravel will
resolve, and how Meinhard will deal with getting beat up after
investing his time in getting to know the local culture. Be
as it may that this is how Grisebach chose to conclude her
film, it remains to be scene if audiences will go along with
her diffuse purpose, if Western has what it takes
to sustain the interest of the wired-for-action western mind.
2.9
-- LOVELESS,
Andrey
Zvyagintsev
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
In
the film's opening scenes, we follow 12-year-old Aloysha walking
home alone from school, and then crying in his room as his
separated parents argue over him. When we see him next, at
the end of the movie, he's a slab on a mortician's table.
Andrey Zvyagintsev's Loveless unpacks the complex
circumstances that sealed the boy's fate. We learn that his
mother, Zhenya, a self-absorbed owner of a salon, was unloved
by her mother, and that she, in turn, never loved Aloysha,
or Boris, the boy's father, who is equally self-absorbed and
now infatuated with another woman who is carrying his child.
Both Boris and Zhenya measure their success in life through
their material and sensual conquests; neither wants custody
of Aloysha, who goes missing. The authorities are unable to
provide the means to carry out a search so the parents are
obliged to hire a private team. The unnecessarily long search
ends in tragedy, with Zhenya in denial, insisting the deceased
boy isn't her son. Three years later, with both parents comfortably
settled into their new relationships, it appears very little
has changed: Boris, impatient with his 3-year-olds restlessness,
ceremoniously deposits him in his crib, while Zhenya, obsessed
with looking good, hits the treadmill. She still posts signs
for her missing son, refusing to take responsibility for her
role in his tragic demise. At every significant juncture of
Loveless, Zvyagintsev takes direct aim at Russian
society and its withering values, and how negative values
take on a life of their own. In Zhenya's case, it's the abused
becoming the abuser: she was unloved, and she in turn doesn't
love her son. Multiply this by the growing number of people
for whom iPhone relationships are on par with real relationships,
and we begin to understand how the notion of sacrifice has
completely disappeared from modern life -- just as Aloysha
has disappeared -- and that this new phenomenon is very much
implicated in a world order that has completely broken down.
Loveless works on many intellectual levels, but it
is the film's aesthetics that sustain our interest, and turn
us into accomplices in creating a world that Zvyagintsev invites
us to question.
2.7
-- CLOSENESS,
Kantemir
Balagov
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
Ethnic
divisions and family conflict run deep in the human story.
Kantemir Balagov's Closeness offers a telling if
somewhat mannered take on the familiar theme. To be noted
immediately is that the film contains graphic newsreel footage
of torture and killing. In this jaded viewer's opinion, it
is gratuitous because it doesn't advance the plot. The film
takes place in 1996, in Nalchik, not far from Chechnya and
Karbadia, mostly Muslim regions just north of Georgia. We
know that Russians and Muslims don't like each other, and
neither like the Jews who are caught in the middle. The film
is seen through the eyes of a Jewish family, in particular
their rebellious, butchy-looking daughter, Llana, who loves
to repair cars.
The extended family is gathered at the dinner table where
the son David announces his betrothal to Lea. Shortly thereafter,
the young couple is kidnapped and held for ransom. The father
is forced to sell his garage, and marry off Llana for the
extra cash. Llana rejects the proposal and decides to lose
her virginity to her hulking Karbadian boyfriend that very
evening. The director leaves little doubt as to where his
sympathies lie in respect to Llana's first night: the ear
can't tell if Zalim (a Muslim) is deflowering the human body
or the building. The following day, at the dinner table, the
families are expected to consent to the union when Llana,
instead of simply announcing that she is in a sexual relationship
with a Karbadian truck driver, tosses her bloodied panty on
the dinner table, a gesture that somewhat alters the groom's
view of his bride-to-be as well as dampening the enthusiasm
for the next course. Overwrought scenes such as this -- and
there are too many of them -- will not help the film in the
Best Foreign Film category. Earlier, Llana's brother David,
proud of his sexual potency, insists on showing his sister
his erect penis: she has to physically ward him off. Again,
not the stuff of Pushkin or Turgenev. Throughout the film,
there are credibility gaps between situations and the off-putting,
exaggerated emotional responses to them, on top of which the
faces occupy the entire screen. In the denouement, to save
face the family has to move. The director makes sure the viewer
sees the real Russia for what it is: the scarred cityscape
of Nalchik, the bleak apartment buildings and grimy factories
left over from the Communist era, all of it contrasted with
the spectacularly beautiful Russian landscape, as if to say
Russia would be OK if it weren't for its people and politics.
Troppo familiare? But for all the film's missteps
and overkill, its potent mix of ingredients set to a diegetic
sound track and a remarkable first performance from Darya
Zhovner in the role of Llana make Closeness a film
that is not only worth seeing but one which will linger in
the mind long after the cyrillic have rolled by.
2.9
-- SUMMER
1993, Carla Simon
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
In
Carla Simon’s Summer 1993, 6-year-old Frida
is whisked away from her home in Barcelona and sent to live
with her Aunt and Uncle in the Catalan country side. In lyrically
understated small scenes, which are their own reward, we learn
that the mother died of AIDS. The film delicately explores
Frida’s adjustment to her new family through the eyes
of the child. We learn that the gift of children is that they
are always in the present, so on the surface, it seems that
Frida is making the adjustment without any apparent trauma.
When she’s not alone she spends most of her time with
her younger niece doing what children like to do: play, invent
fantasy worlds, explore their immediate environment. But despite
her apparent even demeanor – she never cries or cries
out for her mother – cracks appear. She disobeys her
new parents, and tries to run away because she doesn’t
feel loved. For most of the film, the viewer doesn’t
know if in fact she is really unloved by her aunt and uncle
because we see the interaction from Frida’s perspective.
Summer 1993 does not build to a rousing climax or
epiphany. If throughout most of the film Frida is only intermittently
engaged with her new family, we measure her emotional progress
through the gradual increase of meaningful contact with her
new Mum and Dad. Since the story and its even pacing are unremarkable,
what engages the viewer is the director’s uncanny ability
to empathize with Frida, and to sensitize otherwise indifferent
viewers to the general plight of orphans, most of whom will
not have access to the advantages of the kind Frida enjoys
vis-à-vis her very caring, extended family. The ending,
in the spirit of a paradigm shift, will both surprise the
viewer and seal the deal on a quietly satisfying film.
2.5
-- A MAN
OF INTEGRITY, Mohammad Rasoulof
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
Most
Iranian films that make it to the West are criticisms of the
regime. Many of them are made on the sly, or outside the country.
Mohammad Rasoulef spent a year in prison for filming his award
winning A Man of Integrity without a film permit.
What the bare-bones film lacks in subtlety is earned in message.
Reza, who owns two large fish ponds, is struggling to make
ends meet. Abbas, the strongman of the region, wants to expropriate
Reza's farm and will stop at nothing to get it. He poisons
Reza's fish, and then falsely accuses him of breaking his
arm. Hadis, his more sensible wife, pleads with her husband
to pay off Abbas and other officials so he doesn't have to
sell his land for next to nothing, but he refuses. At first
we admire him but when his immediate family is made to suffer
on his account, we wonder if he in fact is a man of integrity
or self-destructively hard-headed? Only after Abbas torches
his home, and Reza's wife and child are sent into hiding,
does he decide to take matters in his own hand. After cleverly
disposing of Abbas, he learns that he has been manipulated
by more sinister forces from which there is no escaping. The
film, an unveiling of sorts, methodically reveals the many
layers of corruption against which the Koran is no match,
and the role of the opium trade that reaches the highest levels
of local government.
The film was effectively shot in Iran's winter. As a metaphor
for regime generated despair and resignation, the sun doesn't
appear once: the drawn out faces take their expression from
the trees shorn of their leaves and skies relentlessly grey.
The film's taking points are delivered with a hammer which
detract from the film's integrity and continuity. In one of
the subplots, Hadis, who is the headmaster of her school,
has to dismiss a student because she's non-Muslim. The student
commits suicide and the townspeople, gathered as a mob, refuse
to let her be buried in the local cemetery. Of course in real
life such a burial would have been a non-starter. While most
of the acting was credible, in particular Soudabeh Beizaee
who plays Hadis, the choice of Reza Aklaghirad to play the
lead was, to say the least, confounding. Instead of looking
thoughtful or imploding with rage, his glassy eyes are so
unmoving he resembles a deer frozen in headlight or an escapee
from a wax museum. To best appreciate this film, stay focused
on its hard hitting message.
3.0--
LES AFFAMÉS (RAVENOUS),
Robin Aubert
[reviewed
by Oslavi Linares]
Les
Affamés could be thought of as the Quebecois approach
to zombie films, not only because of its setting but also
because of its narrative, intimate camera and intriguing soundscape.
Set in a rural community in northern Quebec, an inexplicable
malaise has turned most of the people into entranced cannibals
that stalk the woods and the fields. Fending them off are
different survivors whose paths cross and who must look for
a way to escape the affamés (the ravenous). The film owes
its subtlety to the meticulous character development of the
zombies, who while resembling normal humans are vicious predators,
capable of ambushing, attacking in groups, and even laughing.
Their bizarre construction of piles of objects and the semiconscious
whispers that echo in their minds assure their strange, other-worldliness.
Sound, or a lack off, is indeed a strength of the film but
perhaps also a weakness: the first minutes of the feature
over indulge in the jump-scare cuts. The long periods of silence
combined with a limited camera view point generate considerable
anxiety for what is beyond the field of vision. This claustrophobic
approach is complemented by the atmospheric shots of the forest,
the misty fields, and the zombies' mysterious stillness. With
Les Affamés, actor and director Robin Aubert returns
to rural, existential settings and explorations amid extraordinary
events. This, his fifth feature, won him the Best Canadian
Film Award at the 2017 Toronto International Film Festival.
3.5
-- THE FLORIDA
PROJECT, Sean Baker
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
Nestled
in the lush Florida green of Orlando, surrounded by in-your-face
Disneyland billboards promising the American Dream -- if you
can afford it -- lies the sprawling, run down Magic Castle
Hotel, where you find America's underclass doing what it takes
to eke out enough coin to pay the weekly rent. We quickly
learn about life in the projects through the film's two 6-year-old
protagonists, Moonee and Jancey, who have already learned
how to con cash for their daily dollop of ice-cream and talk
back to adults using the F-word. Immune, as only kids can
be, to their disadvantage and chronic parental dereliction,
we see the world through their joys in a suburbia whose shapes
seem to come out of a comic book: all the buildings and colour
schemes are bright and happy. Moonee is the living tissue
of her sluttishly dressed, foul mouthed mother Halley, who
likes to look at herself and get high, who hawks perfume on
the street to pay the rent, and when that enterprise breaks
down, rents out her body.
What awakens both our sympathy and uneasiness in Sean Baker's
The Florida Project is the child's perspective --
the two kids, best-friends, doing and saying whatever they
want because no one tells them not to. The kids haven't been
so much raised as provided the ways and means to indulge their
every impulse. Their carefree world is opened up by a camera
that merrily chums along with them as they savour their all-consuming,
ephemeral pleasures (ice-cream, fascination with matches and
all things large and small that burn, spitting on people,
stuff that breaks). They are the little terrors we can't help
both adoring and fearing for. In one of the film's many creative
turns, when Halley plays with Moonee we realize that it's
not a mother playing with her kid but another kid. The scene
recalls the Greek fable where after the son swore, the philosopher
Diogenes slapped the father. Halley eventually gets her comeuppance,
but it is already too little too late. The future of these
kids has been mapped and a no-exit sign hangs above the ever
widening gyre as things fall apart. This cutting-edge, provocative
film asks how many consecutive negative experiences does it
take to turn an innocent child into something bad. Sean Baker,
who wrote, directed and edited the film, memorably makes us
count the ways. Every laugh generated by the kids is a cry
for love. Out of projects like the Magic Castle Hotel are
born tomorrow's hookers, hustlers, hit men, drug dealers and
abusers. The film, in its lurid naturalness and use of child
actors that is its own precedent, rings with indictment. It
deserves the widest circulation.
1.0
-- APRES COUP,
Noël Mitrani
[reviewed
by Andrew Martin]
If ever there was a movie that failed to 'show not tell,'
it's this one; quite baffling when the media in question is
FILM. Après
Coup by Noël Mitrani is an excruciating study of one man's
Daedalean journey through guilt. It starts in medias
res, with a conversation between Marc and his therapist.
Immediately, we are aware that something terrible has happened
to him, and that it involves a missing or dead little girl
called Aurélie. At this point, I was ready to be swept up
in a tale of intrigue and mystery - but soon after the mystery
is revealed, and the tension all but evaporates. I barely
remember the characters' names as they are all so two-dimensional:
we can all simply refer to them as 'husband,' 'wife,' and
'child' to make things easier. His daughter's friend, Aurélie,
dies in his arms after she is struck by a car - boo hoo. Rather
than stand up to support his daughter through her grief, he
collapses into himself and slowly begins to tear the family
apart. Mitrani's camera is constantly in the actors' faces,
suffocating us with non-stop close ups. Without a proper soundtrack,
and little quirkiness or humour to lift it, the film just
drags along. Wait until you meet the sadistic therapist whose
job it is to help Marc overcome grief; he really loves to
drive the knife into his patient's gut. The movie totally
lost me when the therapist began performing some hocus pocus
therapy which involved some kind of Jesus type hand gesture.
Please.
3.0
-- ARABY,
Joao Dumans & Affonso Uchoa
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
Unlike
so many films that are in your face (the bane of style over
substance abuse), Araby, scripted and directed by
Affonso Uchoa and Joao Dumans, does not draw attention to
itself in either its production or performances, which allows
the story to unfold without distraction, and for the meticulously
crafted scenes to gradually lay bare the harsh conditions
of life for the working class in the Bleak House that is Brazil.
The film’s languid pacing and sustained minor key assure its
gritty social realism and flinty, depressing charm. Itinerant
labourer Cristiano is in a coma, has no family and no apparent
history. We learn about his vagabond life through a young
neighbour, who finds a notebook he left behind. Through the
luminous, resigned-in-stone face of Cristiano whose youth
has been weathered away, Araby tells the story of
the faceless in Brazil, the multitudes who drift, like weather
systems, from job to job, leaving no trace of themselves behind.
As he chases work across the vast north of Brazil, finding
jobs in agriculture, mining, road construction, and factory
work, Cristiano learns to steel himself against his fate and
the fate of his fellow workers as they get cut lose, and die
old and broken. The days are long, the sun is hot, the work
is hard, at the end of the day they are too tired to get angry.
In his last job before he slips away, Cristiano is working
the mid-night shift in a factory in Ouro Preto, an historic
city and national treasure, but the viewer sees only its dark
side, implying that there are two Brazils, as distant and
unconnected as two planets. Silhouetted against hot fires
and sulphuric air, we’re not sure if Cristiano is working
his shift or is in purgatory. If by film’s end there’s no
doubt as to the intent of the directors, we welcome the message
as a happy consequence of the film’s craft, its abiding understatement,
and the timely use of folk music and landscape as grace notes
in the lives of those for whom the better life is a pipe-dream
that lasts as long as a song and a dance.
2.7
-- THE OTHER
SIDE OF HOPE, Aki Kaurismaki
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
Beneath
every gruff exterior lies a kind and tender heart, is the working
assumption that informs the films of Finland's most celebrated
director, Aki Kaurismaki. Like Le Havre (2011), The
Other Side of Hope follows the lives of people who are starting
over, and who will depend on the kindness of strangers to get
them to the next phase in their lives. An unsmiling, stiff and
cantankerous middle-aged man named Wikström has just left his
wife, quit his job and taken over a restaurant called The Golden
Pint. Khaled, in a freighter's coal storage, has smuggled himself
into Finland. He turns himself over to the police seeking asylum,
which isn't granted. He escapes just prior to his scheduled
deportation, and has to live on the street where he gets badly
beaten up by neo-Nazis. Only in the middle of the film is he
discovered, homed (that is garaged) and offered employment by
Wikström. The latter, and his staff, gradually warm up to the
Syrian, who has lost his entire family in Aleppo, with only
his missing sister still alive. In the spirit of showing us
how to do the right thing, Kaurismaki sets out to prove that
the heart 'is not' a lonely hunter, that goodness, despite the
ever presence of evil, will win the day. The director uses his
usual ploys to make his point: a laconic script punctuated with
drole, dead-pan humour, camera work that is made to serve the
story lesson, and, like Mike Leigh, finding ways to make us
take an interest in ordinary people despite their station in
life. If this is your first Kaurismaki film you'll be thoroughly
charmed and edified, but if it's your fifth film, the plot twists
and devices begin to wear thin. Kaurismaki is still on top of
his game, but it's the same game, which doesn't so much throw
his exceptional gifts and endearingly quirky style into question,
but rather begs the circumstance that will set them on fire
again.
3.1
--
GABRIEL AND THE MOUNTAIN, Fellipe
Barbosa
[reviewed
by Robert J. Lewis]
I
suspect that our fascination with 'on the road'
films runs much deeper than yearning (however
vicarious) for adventure. In the no man's land
between home and destination, no longer subject
to the long-arm of culture and habit, there is
something about making it up, or winging it as
we go along that we can't refuse. We get to reinvent
the world as we see fit, and then learn to take
responsibility for it. Most road films are variations
of Huck and Jim on the raft on the river, where
Huck decides not to turn in Jim -- a runaway slave
-- to the authorities because it doesn't feel
right. Huck is the new law, the flesh and blood
of conscience, and his story becomes our story
as we navigate his particular circumstance and
the decisions he underwrites.
In the spirit of challenging himself, testing
his limits, wanting to be a traveler instead of
a tourist, in Fellipe Barbosa's Gabriel
and the Mountain, Brazilian born Gabriel takes
to the road in Africa, beginning in Kenya and
finishing up in Malawi. Eager to prove himself,
he immediately goes native, goes hunting with
the Maasai, and climbs Kilimanjaro. But as caught
up as we are in Gabriel's story, Gabriel
and the Mountain is first and foremost a meditation
on the reasons we travel; it is an homage to and
invitation to take to the road. The film's exquisite
locations whet the appetite for foreign lands
such that we're not sure if it's Gabriel's person
or the places he visits that fascinate. An unobtrusive
but curious camera takes the viewer deep into
the quotidian that is Africa, its vibrant colour
schemes, its earthy streets, bustling markets
and drop-dead gorgeous landscape; the lens lingers
without apology whenever anything or anybody of
interest is encountered. Gabriel, who makes a
point of learning the local language and customs,
shows himself to be a smart traveler. He quickly
becomes confident and cocky, and ultimately his
own lawgiver. Early in the film he is joined by
his girlfriend Chris. Their volatile relationship,
its physical and intellectual dimensions, is seamlessly
integrated into their travels and travails; their
personalities and idiosyncracies permeate their
surroundings like the diffuse light in a Georges
de la Tour painting. We learn through flashbacks
and digital photos shown in reverse of the events
that lead to a decision that will change Gabriel's
life forever. It redounds to Fellipe Barbarosa's
control over his disparate subject matter that
the true story on which the film is based doesn't
upstage the culture in which it takes place, and
that despite the seductive locations, the film
does not romanticize travel. Wherever he goes,
Gabriel is immediately identified as one of the
'haves,' and has to learn how to fend off the
unwanted 'attention,' just as from the film’s
opening sequences, our 'attention' doesn't waver,
thanks to the note-perfect balance between people
and place and the winning performances of the
many Africans who were recruited to play themselves.
3.5
--
AVA, Léa Mysius
[reviewed
by Andew Martin]
The first question I had before viewing Léa
Mysius’ film Ava
was just how French would it be? Turns out that
it’s pretty frickin’ French: a relaxed
attitude to nudity, disturbing jump cuts (for effect),
and a bit of good old fashioned anarchy all set
by the quaint southern seaside of l’Hexagone.
The story, at first, revolves around a tumultuous
mother/daughter relationship. The Gilmore Girls
this is not. Maud’s world is all pink flowers
and make-up, a stark contrast to her daughter Ava,
whose life is an ever-tightening black hole. As
the movie progresses Ava’s world slowly becomes
darker and darker. She is, in fact, losing her vision.
Watching a 13-year-old girl come to terms with such
a catastrophic diagnosis is difficult; and the movie
revels in the pathos of Ava’s suffering. The
motif of encroaching darkness/blindness is played
out to sometimes fun and other times disturbing
effect. We watch Ava live her life like a wounded
animal, and we see her use this violent energy in
various constructive and destructive ways. But,
as we find out, she is not alone. A black dog leads
her to a dangerous and mysterious boy who is camping
out amongst the rocks of the seaside. When these
two youths come together, it’s fireworks on
the screen. Their performances are raw and understated.
This is not only a good story, it is also told in
an incredibly striking, visual way. You’ll
know what I mean when you witness Ava’s Byronic
battle against the sea for the first time. Although
she may be a 13-year-old girl, make no mistake,
she is an absolute warrior.
Ratings
for 2016 Festival
du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2015 Festival
du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2014 Festival
du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2013 Festival
du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2012 Festival
du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2011 Festival
du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2010 Festival
du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2009 Festival du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2008 Festival du Nouveau Cinéma.
Ratings for 2007 Festival du Nouveau Cinéma.
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3.5 --
THE SAVER, Wiebke
Von Carolsfeld
[reviewed by Nancy
Snipper]
Once in a rare while there comes along a film that steals our heart because
of its honesty and simplicity. Yet the subject matter is pretty serious.
Fern, a 16-year-old aboriginal girl, living in Montreal, has just lost
her mother who spent her life cleaning houses and taking care of her only
daughter. Fern has to start cleaning those houses. She finds a book about
how to become a millionaire and reads it, but saving money just doesn't
get her far. She ekes out a living cooking in an African little restaurant,
avoiding a terrible landlady, and doing odd jobs for her as a janitor,
and then must suddenly put up with her Uncle jack who appears at the door.
He wants to become her guardian. Fern is on her last rent money and is
told to get out, but not only does she do a great deed to help the mean
landlady and her autistic son, but takes in Uncle Jack once again; after
she kicked him out, and gets herself rehired at the restaurant she is
told to leave for having almost burnt down the kitchen. As Fern begins
to deal with the loss of her mother, she enters a happier stage of her
life, and this is where the film ends. It's a moving little film that
turns victimhood into a reverse state of victory. Imajyn Cardinal is a
great actor who deliberately underplays her role in order to fully inhabit
the psyche of Fern and vibrate the pathos buried in our hearts
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