Play (Chile, 2005)

“The times were hard, but they were modern,” reads the Italian proverb that begins Alicia Scherson’s magnificent debut film about love and loss in contemporary Santiago, my favorite discovery at this year’s PSIFF. Technically, I suppose it’s not my discovery–Scherson recently won Best New Narrative Filmmaker at the Tribeca film fest for it. But it’s a film I knew next to nothing about and took a chance on, and its formal ingenuity, infectious humor, and generous spirit dazzled me.

After an inventive credit sequence placing titles and names along the streets and buildings surrounding Cristina–a young, obsessively curious attendant for an elderly invalid–the film follows a heartbroken thirtysomething, Tristan, whose wife has just left him. Scherson’s intercutting between these two characters is lively, rhythmic, and layered with evocative music (streaming from their iPods), until their chronologies converge. Cristina and Tristan walk through the colorful sights and sounds of Santiago (which Scherson captures on astonishingly rich digital video), experiencing eccentric, surreal moments (dream imagery, gazing into mirrors, quirky routines), and crossing paths in random, often secretive ways. Cristina–fascinated by scents and smelling–decides to trail Tristan, but less as an admirer than an anonymous kindred spirit clued in to his unhappiness. As Tristan undergoes his grieving process (part of which includes spending time with his blind flamboyant mother and her fatuous magician boyfriend), both characters search for their identities and emotional reference points.

While the movie exhibits an indulgent playfulness, unlike most contemporary films, its stylistic witticisms increase our emotional connections rather than decrease them. More tantalizing than ridiculing, more Jacques Rivette than Jean-Pierre Jeunet, the film celebrates the way personal curiosity and anonymous compassion can inform and enliven modern, urban lives. “I’m tired of thinking,” Tristan intones at one point, and the film is a tribute to the complex existential pulse of a city and its myriad inhabitants.

Much of the film’s pleasure can be found in its enigmatic associations, among them the interest Cristina’s client exhibits in an Amazonian tribe exposed to white civilization but nearly wiped out by foreign ailments. (I was reminded of Herzog’s recent short film documenting such a tribe for Ten Minutes Older: The Trumpet.) Perhaps the tribe reflects Tristan’s own emotional seclusion–something as “ordinary” as the loss of a relationship can devastate a life lived in isolation. “This lack of love,” Scherson has suggested, “when examined under a microscope, makes even the smallest things appear larger than life.”

Scherson grew up in Chile, but studied film at the University of Chicago; apparently, she teaches film in Santiago, and Play is her first feature. It’s a gem of a movie: bright, sexy, inventive, and deeply felt. Living in a large urban city myself, the film so effectively captures the paradox of public anonymity and connection, it has cast a spell on my perceptions for days.

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(I should also mention that I caught the Brazilian film Underground Game at this year’s festival, a movie based on a story by Julio Cort·zar–whose previous work inspired Antonioni’s Blow-Up–about a man who devises a mental game following attractive women in the Rio subway. It’s a stylish and clever film with similar themes to Play, but because it’s a cold neo-noir emphasizing a fair amount of convention and cruelty, and because I was so moved by the freshness of Play, I was underwhelmed.)

Like a lot of festivals, PSIFF is pretty aggressive about getting attendees to rip score cards after each film and drop them into a box; I think they specifically train volunteers block and tackle maneuvers, because it always requires significant dexterity to dodge the ballot people crowding the exits. I usually ignore this routine unless the screening is sparsely attended and I’m particularly excited about the film. But at each of my screenings this week, the presenters noted the ballot results “could affect whether or not a film will get distributed.” Whoa. After hearing that, I resolved not only to rip a card for every film I had even marginally positive feelings about, but to also give all of them the very highest rating. I’d like to think some bleary-eyed distributor, pen in hand hovering over a dotted line, will say to himself, “If I see one more positive response to this film, I’m buying it” . . . and lo and behold, my ballot will appear. Vive le cinÈma!

The House of Nina (France, 2005)

Agnes Jaoui may not be the most trail-blazing of filmmakers, but as an actress, writer, and director, she typically offers sensitive and nuanced reflections on life. Working here with writer-director Richard Dembo (who died during the final editing of the film), she plays a woman who runs a Jewish orphanage during the Liberation of France in the final months of World War II. This is a very thoughtful and moving drama about the survivors of the war and their efforts to re-engage life that maintains its potency by combining a pragmatic acceptance of pain with quiet hope. “We could cry all our lives for good reason, but the children need us,” Nina gently tells a coworker. While many of the children at Nina’s house are initially secular French Jews, near the end of the war, religious Jews begin to appear from eastern Europe, concentration camp refugees with severe emotional trauma who wish to preserve their religious heritage, and the mixture proves to be culturally volatile. The film could easily have been trite or melodramatic, but it navigates its philosophical and emotional terrain with genuine grace and proves to be a beautiful swan song for Dembo. I would imagine the film has a good chance for US distribution, and it deserves it.

Salvador Allende (Chile, 2005)

This is a pretty straightforward essay film by Patricio Guzm·n that made me want to see The Battle of Chile, his famed three-part account of General Pinochet’s US-backed coup d’etat of Allende, the democratically elected leftist president of Chile, on September 11, 1973. As we now know, Pinochet’s 18-year reign of terror left a devastating legacy on the people of Chile–including the torture of thousands and the exile of hundreds of thousands–that has only recently received wider attention in the form of released documents and the ongoing trial of Pinochet. Guzm·n narrates the film and reconstructs the impact of Allende’s career and vision on his life. He mixes archival footage (much of it his own) with assorted interviews, including footage of former US ambassador Edward Korry gleefully describing the millions of dollars spent in anti-Allende propaganda by the Nixon Administration. It’s a fascinating summary of a dark era that foreshadowed our own in more ways than one; giving a UN speech in the early ’70s, Allende warned about the growing influence of multinational corporations and their unaccountability to people or governments, a fact that now virtually defines the global economy.

Occupation: Dreamland (USA, 2005)

This observant and compelling documentary opened in Los Angeles a few weeks ago, but disappeared before I could catch up with it, so I was glad to see it here. It follows the 82nd Airborne squad in early 2004 stationed in Falluja, a city considered unimportant during the invasion of Iraq but which was later thought to be a stronghold for Sunni insurgency. The only talking heads in the film are the soldiers themselves, who reveal a surprising diversity of political opinions and interpretations regarding their mission in Iraq, and a pessimistic view regarding any potential for sociopolitical change in the region. The filmmakers record the soldiers on patrols, evading fire, searching homes, interrogating and arresting prisoners, attempting to converse with civilians, and lounging around in their barracks. “If this was my home in Chicago and some Iraqis were coming in and waving guns, I’d probably be running up to the roof with a couple of guns, too,” one soldier remarks. In the midst of this tactical and ideological confusion, the soldiers are periodically given re-enlistment pep talks that sound more like manipulative scoldings than sober evaluations. While I could’ve done without the accompanying pop music to the images of Falluja’s destruction in the film’s closing sequence, by and large it’s a film that invites empathy for both the American soldiers and the Iraqi civilians in ways that penetrates the gloss of most embedded journalism.

CafÈ Transit (Iran, 2005)

The basic premise of this film resembles Juzo Itami’s Tampopo without the silliness. A woman’s husband dies, but instead of succumbing to culturally accepted norms and remarrying, she remains single and reopens a roadside cafÈ. Churning out one exquisitely rendered dish after another, she also offers strength and companionship to a gathering band of misfits, including a loyal waiter, a wandering Greek, and a Ukrainian refugee. The film was written and directed by Kambuzia Partovi, whose previous credits include Jafar Panahi’s sublime The Circle and the screen adaptation of Atiq Rahimi’s Earth and Ashes, and the film has a smart construction that showcases his scripting talents. Panahi is actually credited with editing the film, and it’s a carefully assembled critique of patriarchal culture. First-rate performances and an unwillingness to compromise its thematic principles (while keeping the film relatively light) makes it a genuinely inspiring tale, and its adoration of well-prepared food makes it a strong Iranian contribution to the culinary genre established by films like Babette’s Feast, Like Water for Chocolate, and The Vertical Ray of the Sun.

PSIFF organizers claim festival attendance is up 20% this year, and it’s difficult not to believe them. Almost all of my screenings have been well-attended, at least until people walk out of them. But I hear more complaints about challenging fare here than elsewhere. “What’s your favorite film you’ve seen so far?” a woman in line asked me last night. The Death of Mister Lazarescu, I replied, and made her gasp. “That’s your favorite film? Why?” I blithely said I thought it was a revealing look at the people of Romania and health care issues we all face, and she answered, “My husband walked out after thirty minutes, I walked out after an hour and thirty minutes, and my friend stayed the whole time but said it didn’t get any better.” Then her husband arrived and she pointed at me: “Ask that gentleman what his favorite film of the festival has been.” He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “The Death of Mister Lazarescu,” I said, feeling like a punchline. He shrugged. “After thirty minutes of watching that guy puking and complaining, I’d had enough.”

But kudos to the larger Palm Springs community, which continues to support the festival’s diversity each year. While I don’t get the impression that many attendees eagerly embrace the artier fare, they seem glad enough that somebody does.

My latest screenings…

Magic Mirror (Portugal, 2005)

96-year-old Manoel de Oliveira’s latest film, based on a novel called “The Soul of the Rich,” revisits territory familiar to fans of perhaps the oldest of internationally venerated filmmakers. An aristocratic woman distraught at her husband’s inability to impregnate her finds herself increasingly drawn to speculation about the Virgin Mary, and turns to religious scholars (including one played by Michel Piccoli, who assures her of Mary’s wealth) for intellectual comfort. A couple of ex-cons conspire to stage an appearance of the Virgin, but much of the film centers on erudite conversation and manners between the woman and her confidants and potential suitors, in many ways resembling BuÒuel lite (appropriate since de Oliveira is currently filming a sequel to Belle du jour). I found the film clever and intriguing (particularly its elliptical final act), but not particularly resonant.

Reaching Silence (India, 2005)

This film certainly has a premise with rich cinematic potential–Sarit, a young businessman in Delhi’s increasingly globalized economy, becomes hypersensitive to noise pollution: traffic, blaring music, loud voices, even ambient sounds and clatter. Director Jahar Kanung effectively highlights the sights and sounds of the congested city (telephoto compression and an aggressive sound design that comes within hailing distance of Bresson), but Sarit’s perpetual annoyance makes him such an extreme and sullen protagonist that he never seems too emotionally accessible. The audiophobe moves to a rural village, where he enjoys the soft light and subdued sounds of the Bengal countryside, but his nirvana is complicated by a romantic interest who finds his strict limitations burdensome and isolating. It’s an interesting theme well-handled, but I found the film more curious than compelling. It lacks dramatic urgency, even though it largely makes up for it with fine visual and aural textures.

Season of the Horse (China, 2005)

Ning Cai is a renowned Mongolian actor, and this is his directorial debut. Visually stunning compositions (endless Mongolian vistas and indigo nights) present a herdsman named Wurgen and his family, who are forced to abandon their trade after the government fences off vast swathes of land for preservation and commerce. Reflecting current events, the film highlights a vanishing way of life deeply rooted in the Mongolian psyche and national character. Particularly effective in the way it conveys Wurgen’s complex mixture of pride and defeat, the film offers a nuanced representation of the relationship between Wurgen and his wife (played by the acclaimed actress Narenhua), a character every bit Wurgen’s determined equal who embraces the need for change long before he does. It’s a deeply felt story told through a succession of breathtaking landscapes.

Dreaming of Space (Russia, 2005)

File this one solidly within the respectable historical drama category of recent fare like Downfall and The Best of Youth; its detailed recreation of the Kruschev era in the Soviet Union and well-rounded, literary characters makes it engaging viewing, even if it ultimately seems a bit too polished and ideologically tepid beyond rudimentary observations about entrapment and freedom. Two young men, a cook and a mysterious agent, meet and form a close bond that includes their romantic courting of two sisters. The film recently won the top prize at the Moscow Film Festival, and its mixture of technical virtuosity (desaturated palette, complex camera moves, energetic close-ups) and cultural nostalgia (the early years of the space race were particularly kind to the Russians) fashions the kind of handsome historical summary national organizations enjoy. And the performances are top-notch as well. Why, then, does it leave such a minor aftertaste? A Gallipoli for the Soviet Union, its pleasures are so immediate and easy to digest that it’s not until later that its lack of penetrating cultural insight (as opposed to period detail) fully registers.

The 17th Palm Springs International Film Festival is well underway, and it seems like a good event to resume the blogging here at Filmjourney. Like last year, I wrote a couple dozen film synopses for the festival catalogue and obtained a fest pass in return, but PSIFF remains a mixed bag of an experience for me. While it’s certainly the best event for world cinema in Southern California (232 films from 72 countries), it occurs in a resort town primarily catering to gamblers, golfers, and wealthy retirees. I’ve only been here two days and I already miss the social diversity experienced at festivals in San Francisco and Toronto, not to mention my own neighborhood in Los Angeles.

Regardless, I’m seeing some great films, with more on the way.

Moonrise (USA, 1948)

Could there be a better way of inaugurating a film festival than a lush, restored classic by Frank Borzage? In many ways the cinema’s great romantic, Borzage’s impassioned melodramas in gauzy soft focus set the standard for tales in which love conquered all. What a pleasure it is to see this–one of Borzage’s last efforts and a rare film noir in his oeuvre, equal parts shadowy guilt (lensed by Psycho‘s cinematographer, John L. Russell) and a tribute to transcendent amour. In a matter of moments, the famous opening sequence establishes the protagonist’s backstory: his father was executed for a crime, he has suffered from inherited guilt and years of social marginalization, and is currently in the midst of a brawl with a lifelong tormentor. A viscerally psychological and intimate film about fate versus choice, the heart of Moonrise can be summarized with one of its many memorable lines: “To resign from the human race may be the worst crime of all.” Fortunately for the protagonist (and the audience), Borzage offers an alternative.

Sex and Philosophy (Tajikistan, 2005)

Iranian filmmaker and cinema activist Mohsen Makhmalbaf has recently set up shop in Tajikistan (north of Afghanistan), a country once incorporated into the Soviet Union that survived a civil war in the ’90s but has recently simmered. Makhmalbaf (who founded the first Didar Film Festival in the capital) has fashioned his latest film as a tribute to Tajikistan’s rich song and dance culture; it’s a lively and witty musical of sorts addressing, well, sex and philosophy, presented through vivid and surrealist imagery. It was also apparently the single most offending film of the festival so far for reasons entirely beyond me–scores of viewers walked out of the film in several waves, typically during the more abstract sequences. I can only chalk this up to misplaced expectations by an unadventurous crowd hoping for a casual who-knows-what on a Saturday evening, because I found the film completely entertaining on many levels. From clever motifs (stopwatches marking romantic fervor, enflamed–but doomed to expire–candles) to playfully erotic substitutions for explicit sexuality (washing another’s hair, caressing hands, lovers listening to heartbeats), the film is a visually assured and stylish meditation on the lifelong implications of fleeting passions.

The Death of Mister Lazarescu (Romania, 2005)

Five minutes into this closely observed and riveting film you might think its title is a spoiler, but don’t worry–Lazarescu and his death are virtual McGuffins for the film’s ultimate concern: the various ways people contextualize and respond to the man and his health crisis. Despite his self-diagnosis and requests for specific aid, everyone–relatives, neighbors, paramedics, specialists, and surgeons–offers their own interpretations and judgments. Lazarescu is a sponge for their social as well as medical assumptions. Characters begin to solicit his opinions only after he begins drifting out of consciousness, and filmmaker Cristi Puiu charts this maelstrom of human response with terrific immediacy. Rushing from one overcrowded hospital to another, his caretakers and analysts reveal varying shades of confusion and expertise, professionalism and exhaustion, empathy and callousness, as the night inexorably progresses. The film’s evocation of the emotional and psychological effects of time is stunning; by the end, the characters perform their jobs in a somnabulist haze of late night ethics.