epetrov Reviews

About the Living (2001)

Seres Humanos is overblown in cinematic technique

[10 February 2003]

Jorge Aguileros' Seres Humanos is a highly stylized examination of the disintegration of a family after the accidental death of their little girl. Derek, the father, retreats into mute psychosis. The surviving sibling, Damian, becomes increasingly, dangerously removed from all emotional connections. The mother, ` Dulce,' a celebrity darling of voyeuristic television pop culture ascends to the frenetic zenith of her career at the same time that her family reaches the nadir of its desperate descent into agonizing guilt and delusion. Aguileros attempts to use the artificiality, exploitation and cruelty behind the glitz of mass culture to question the nature of the `reality' that constitutes the family and the society of which it is a part. Which is more destructive and delusional, the smoke and mirrors of technology, or the ineluctable madness of memory? Unfortunately, despite its interesting premise, Seres Humanos is overblown in cinematic technique and comes up short in the writing. The characters are static and lacking in depth. No amount of montage, hand-held camera, and carefully composed shots can disguise the fact that these people are devices; they never come to life. We watch them with the same voyeuristic detachment with which Dulce's audience peers into the lives of the guests on her show. Finally, Aguileros imposes, rather than develops an ending. The resolution of Seres Humanos is contrived and artificial, leaving us with a feeling of relief, perhaps, but not of catharsis.

Clown in Kabul (2002)

A sentimentalized Jung

[10 February 2003]

A sentimentalized Jung, this documentary uses all the recent war in Afghanistan cliches. We have the wounded children, the burka-clad women, the sad-eyed amputees, all topped with an oversized dollop of Patch Adams' 60's style anti-war rhetoric. It's an interesting humanitarian concept- sending clowns to a war ravaged country to cheer the suffering inhabitants, but this film coverage teeters into sentiment and leaves the viewer with a vaguely uneasy feeling that the subject is being exploited.

La espera (2002)

Aldo Garay's exquisitely crafted short feature film is a noteworthy piece of artistry.

[10 February 2003]

Sylvia is still a young woman. She works in a clothing factory and each evening returns home to care for her bedridden mother. Her life is as confined and oppressive as the small apartment in which they have lived for years, since before her father died, since Sylvia was a child. Their neighbor and longtime family friend, Modesto, is always there to help in small ways - and in very big ones, as well. He, too, sits alone in his rooms. Their lives are closely intertwined, yet each is separate, isolated, waiting. Aldo Garay's exquisitely crafted short feature film is a noteworthy piece of artistry. Shot in beautifully textured, saturated color, each frame speaks more eloquently than pages of dialogue. The characters develop, and the narrative grows from the rich accretion of visual images. La Espera is the cinematic equivalent of a fine short story: Nothing is wasted. Nothing is overstated. The language is rich in implication, yet concise and perfectly accessible. At the end, we understand quite well who these people are, and what has driven them to shape their lives as we have witnessed; yet all has been conveyed with remarkable economy and unforgettable visual resonance

Une part du ciel (2002)

A story that promises more than it delivers

[10 February 2003]

Une part du ciel is a socially committed work. The protagonist, Joanna, is in prison for an unspecified act of violence related to union problems at the factory at which she was employed. The depiction of her dehumanized existence in prison is paralleled by the portrayal of the regimentation on the factory assembly line where her female friends are prisoners of yet another system that degrades and exploits women. Severine Caneele's performance as the prisoner is strong and sensitive. She lends an essential humanity to the social commentary in which the film is rooted. Une part du ciel, however, is a disturbingly uneven work. The characters and scenes that are directly related to the film's political agenda are developed to the point of being heavy- handed and didactic, while secondary characters and events are presented in a cursory, at times puzzling, manner. The visual syntax is also inconsistent. Shots are extended or truncated for no discernable reason. Camera angles seem arbitrary. The editing often obscures, rather than enhances the character development. Ultimately, the viewer is left moved, but vaguely dissatisfied, as if having been told pieces of a story that promises more than it delivers.

Caja negra (2002)

Ultimately, Caja Negra is an exercise in less is less.

[10 February 2003]

Caja Negra, the debut film of Luis Ortega, son of filmmaker Palito Ortega, portrays the relationships among a dysfunctional family. Dorotea, a girl in her teens, works in a laundry and takes care of the aged grandmother with whom she lives. Her father, Eduardo, is released from prison. Indigent and stricken with Parkinsons, he lives in a Salvation Army shelter and panhandles from passing motorists. Dorotea becomes his caregiver as well. Caja Negra is Ortega's stated attempt at minimalist cinema: less is more. Dialogue is limited. The narrative can be recapitulated in a single sentence. The film is only 81 minutes long. The obvious does not merit examination, so Ortega tries to create images that suggest more than they show. The problem, however, is that unless an artist has great technical skill and a talent for nuance, minimalism is not for the neophyte. Ortega misses the emotional target by failing to choose the truly telling details, the subtly eloquent visual language with which a masterful director engages the viewer emotionally. His numerous, lingering shots of decrepitude, coupled with his rather cliched camera technique, ultimately make Caja Negra an exercise in less is less.

Tussenland (2002 TV Movie)

Majok must remain far from home in exile, in Tussenland.

[10 February 2003]

Veteran documentarian Eugenie Jansen's remarkable first feature film, Tussenland, has rather arbitrarily been given the English title Sleeping Rough. On the surface, this is a touching tale of an encounter between a young Sudanese refugee in Holland and a lonely old man who finds the boy sleeping in his back yard. But the literal translation of the Dutch title as `intermediate land' or `between country, ' and attention to the director's framing device, provide an even richer, more emotive cinematic experience. Tussenland is framed by the voice-over narration of an African folk tale in which an orphaned boy leaves his grandfather's home and is adopted by the Sun in a far-off place. Majok, too, is an orphan who has left his beloved homeland. He now lives among strangers, yearning ceaselessly for his life in Sudan. Also in this `intermediate land' lives Jakob, an aged, cantankerous widower who has not seen his own son in 20 years. Jakob, veteran of the Dutch colonial wars in Indonesia, still harbors rancor against Holland for the treatment of its soldiers. He, too, lives among strangers in a country to which he feels no connection. Director Jansen, using a carefully paced, quasi-documentary style, skillfully reveals to us the aching, profound emotional isolation of the protagonists, as they wander in seemingly perpetual displacement. Ultimately, Jakob's tentative connection with Majok triggers a move towards reconciliation with his friends, his family, and his past. Majok, however, does not fare as well. The framing narration ends with the Sun allowing only the grieving grandfather to see the lost child once a day as he passes over the sky. Majok, like the lonely child in the tale, must remain far from home in exile, in Tussenland.

Everyone Loves Alice (2002)

A moving, yet ironic comment on a social malaise

[10 February 2003]

The effect of divorce on children is such a well-tilled field that one approaches Richard Holbert's film with some trepidation. The acoustic guitar soundtrack at the opening, and the Raggedy Ann - faced protagonist seem to warn of yet another sentimental cinema cliche; but Everyone Loves Alice neatly sidesteps the predictable and develops into a moving, yet ironic comment on a social malaise. Told entirely from the twelve-year old's perspective, we see Alice's world as one inhabited by loving, self-absorbed, unreliable adults. No one is all good or all bad. In fact, the entire society seems riddled with instability produced by the epidemic of failed marriages. Even the hopefulness of Alice's budding adolescent romance is undercut when juxtaposed with her parent's chaotic emotional warfare. Director Holbert maintains tight control of his material. The competent editing and camera work, coupled with the remarkably strong performances, make viewing Everyone Loves Alice a fresh, evocative experience

Kiss the Bride (2002)

Another Italo-American crowd pleaser

[10 February 2003]

In case you've been wondering what Burt Young and Talia Shire have been doing lately, Kiss the Bride will let you rest assured that they are still churning out roles in Italo-American crowd pleasers. If you aren't particularly interested in what Burt Young and Talia Shire have been doing lately, then there's absolutely no reason to watch this film. Director Vanessa Parise's Kiss the Bride, is a shamelessly derivative, utterly superfluous contribution to the current inundation of ethnic wedding films. It should be coming soon to your nearest cable station. That's where it belongs.

Absolut Warhola (2001)

Absolut Warhola is a quirky but touching documentary.

[7/10 · 13 January 2002]

Absolute Warhola is a wry but affectionate look at the village in Slovakia where Andy Warhol's parents were born and which proudly claims the artist as its native son. This is not a purist's documentary. The seasons shift inexplicably. The pace feels a bit aimless. It contains no useful information about Warhol nor his work. Instead of cinematic orthodoxy, however, Absolut Warhola offers the quirky poignancy of a documentary on the Cargo Cult, combined with a bizarre juxtaposition that perhaps would be found in a Lawrence Welk special on Abstract Expressionism. The filmmakers visit Warhol's cousin who recalls, at one point, how Andy sent them a pack of drawings and paintings which they didn't much care for, so they rolled some up to use as paper cones and pitched the others into the water after the house was flooded. The curator of the Warhola Museum explains how he chose the works to be included in the collection primarily on the basis of their relevance to the local community: cows, butterflies, Lenin, and Ingrid Bergman as a nun. The touching absurdity of his discourse is rivaled only by David St. Hubbins' explanation in Spinal Tap as to why the amplifier whose dial goes up to eleven is better than the ones that only go to ten. Absolut Warhola may not be a textbook work of documentary filmmaking, but it presents a consistent vision of people whose lives under the shadow of Chernobyl are somehow brightened by the memory of a man they never knew nor remotely understood.

Ribelli per caso (2001)

Ribelli per caso puts a new spin on the Food Film.

[7/10 · 12 January 2002]

There is no shortage of films in which the plot revolves around a meal. In La Grande Bouffe, the dinner is a form of suicide. Food in Like Water for Chocolate is a means of seduction. Ribelli per caso is a deft comedy in which dining becomes rebellion against the medical establishment. The plot of any Food Film of necessity must be driven by two elements: the preparation and consumption of The Meal, and the interaction among the several characters involved in the process. Ribelli is set in a hospital ward. The patients are men of a variety of ages, occupations and social classes. They bond. As a gesture of defiance against the dietary restrictions of the gastrointestinal unit and the arrogance of the medical staff, they lock themselves in the ward and prepare and eat a huge dinner while family, physicians and police frantically attempt to stop them. This film could have been one more gastronomic cliche, but director/writer Vincenzo Terracciano neatly sidesteps all the inherent traps. With a light touch and a skilled ensemble of actors, he presents us with a bittersweet comedy about the assertion of one's humanity in the most de-humanizing of today's institutions: the hospital. Ribelli per caso puts a clever spin on a cinematic formula and invests this tired genre with an unexpected freshness.

Inch'Allah dimanche (2001)

Inch'Allah Dimanche is a crowd pleaser.

[5/10 · 12 January 2002]

This one should be a real crowd pleaser. It's a women's film that evokes both laughter and tears. It's got a sympathetic Muslim protagonist, Zoina, who evolves into a feminist icon. The musical sound track is emotional dynamite, even though the lyrics are largely untranslated and may, one suspects, contain information that would illuminate the narrative. There are lots of fascinating cross-cultural devices. All this and a happy ending too. The only problem with Inch Allah Dimanche is that it's artistically spurious. The most glaring deficiency is character development. There is no explanation, for example, as to how this Algerian woman came to be such a cultural anomaly. We can see her growing anger and rebellion under the rain of abuse from her mother-in-law and husband, but where is the wellspring of prior experience? And, even more troublesome, how do we explain the sudden transformation of her heretofore stereotypical Arab husband in the final scene? Audiences, however, are likely love this film in spite of its obvious flaws.

Hi, Tereska (2001)

Czesc Tereska is a disturbing but hollow depiction.

[12 January 2002]

This Polish kitchen sink film, shot in grainy black and white, is a grim portrait of a young girl who is robbed of the hope of redemption by the violence and emotional bleakness of life in her working class neighborhood. It's a skillfully executed film. The stark cinematography emphasizes the grimy day to day existence that confronts the young protagonist. Actress Aleksandra Gietner's portrayal of the teenage Tereska's fall from grace is impeccable and moving. However, Czesc Tereska is a genre film which has its counterparts in just about every country's cinematic repertory. We've already seen numerous depictions of violence in the slums, drunken, unemployed, physically abusive fathers, sexually voracious peers, dehumanizing educational systems. We've seen how young people self-destruct under the insurmountable accumulating burden of these elements. Czesc Tereska, however poignant, fails to contribute any new insights into the familiar, dreadful progression from purity and hopefulness to depravity and destruction. More troubling is the device that director/writer Robert Glinski inserts into his story in the character of Edek, the paraplegic who lusts after Tereska and becomes her victim. Actor Zbigniew Zamachowski turns in a typically masterful performance in this role, but the interactions between the depraved cripple and the pubescent Tereska somehow remain outside the organic development of the narrative. The lack of clear motivation in the evolution of this perverse relationship makes suspect its violent culmination, and the device which may have been intended to differentiate Czesc Tereska from its multiple cinematic counterparts ultimately causes an otherwise disturbingly realistic depiction to ring hollow.

All the Knowledge in the World (2001)

Tutta la conoscenza del mondo skewers the New Age zeitgeist.

[8/10 · 12 January 2002]

Tutta la conoscenza del mondo is a charming, goofy send-up of New Age icons and obsessions. Although set in Italy, this film transcends its cultural source and neatly skewers the New Age zeitgeist at its quasi-philosophical, global core. The writing and performances are deft, the central characters developed and engaging. We laugh, but at the same time experience a twinge of empathy: who has never been seduced (intellectually or sexually) by the promise of connection with the Other? Surreal special effects and carefully choreographed camera work keep this fast-paced comedy bouncing along as we become increasingly caught up in the protagonists' frenzied quests for enlightenment; through the philoso-babble of the university professor who simultaneously seduces and stupefies his pretty female students; into the world of the hapless rock band, created and utterly controlled by marketing strategists; past the New Age (yet somehow Pythonesque) guru who performs a miraculous `levitation of the arms' to the film's rather touching conclusion. Ultimately, Tutta la conoscenza del mondo leaves us with the satisfied sensation of having seen a `feel good' film which is at the same time pointed social satire. (Warning: followers of New Age ideology will not get this one at all.)

Sole negli occhi (2001)

La luce negli occhi explores the banality of evil.

[10/10 · 12 January 2002]

Every so often there comes a film that reminds us what can be achieved when the filmmaker trusts his medium. La luce negli occhi explores the darkest impulses of the human psyche without resorting to special effects, gratuitous bloodshed, or the ubiquitous voiceover. This disturbing, unforgettable work leads us through the labyrinthine psychological complexities of patricide, relying almost entirely on the evocative power of the visual image. The film opens with the glinting steel blade of the carving knife being bought in a shopping mall by a young man, Marco (Fabrizio Gifuni). He is dark, disheveled, feverish. The violence that soon follows is implicit in that initial visual juxtaposition. The murder of Marco's father is not the climax of the film but its impetus. As we are drawn into his tortured emotional struggle with the reality of his crime, the growing tension derives not from the question of whether Marco will confess, but whether he will be destroyed by his torment before he can do so. Fabrizio Gifuni's performance as the protagonist is quite extraordinary. On screen almost the entire length of the film, he subtly communicates the powerful, inexplicable conflict just below Marco's almost emotionless exterior: the obsessive, juvenile motivation buried beneath years of repressed feelings and memories. La luce negli occhi, like Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, lays bare the incomprehensible banality of evil.

Placido Rizzotto (2000)

Placido Rizzotto is visually and emotionally intense.

[10/10 · 12 January 2002]

There is a growing sub-genre in Italian cinema comprised of films that treat the oppression of the Sicilian proletariat by the Mafia. Such films as Placido Rizzotto, I Cento Passi, and Il Guidice Raggazino are disturbing representations of the violent struggle between the poor laborers, descendants of the peasants who worked the stubborn Sicilian soil since time immemorial, and their newest overlords, the seemingly omnipotent local Mafia families. Placido Rizzotto, based on historical fact, is a particularly memorable contribution to this sub-genre, and to contemporary Italian cinema in general, not only because of the strength of its social comment, but because it unfolds its tightly written narrative against a backdrop of remarkable visual intensity. The contrasts of the Sicilian sky and earth, the forests and crags, the crumbling ruins, the leaning houses create a tension that carries a silent subtext of violence past and violence yet to come. When we first see the young Placido, his father is being carried off their small plot of dry red earth by the carabinieri. Time telescopes. It is the end of the German Occupation and the now Partisan Placido is racing through dense green woods in a futile attempt to save the lives of four peasants being hanged by German soldiers who are enjoying the lovely forest by combining the execution with a picnic. Placido returns to his village when the war ends and becomes the leader of a growing rebellion against the local Mafia landowners. Now it is the narrow, twisted streets of the town that reiterate the convoluted conspiracy that results in Placido's assassination. The facts of the murder gradually emerge under the persistent investigation by the local police Captain. Sentences are passed, but for Placido's death there is no closure. He is never memorialized by the town. His remains are never buried. This film is his cenotaph. Superbly acted and deftly scored, Placido Rizzotto presents a tragedy that is neither easy to watch nor easy to forget.

Obeti a vrazi (2000)

Victims and Murderers is an archetypal tragedy set in the Czech Republic.

[10/10 · 12 January 2002]

Victims and Murderers is the directorial debut of editor/actress/writer Andrea Sedlackova, and an impressive debut it is. Sedlackova's experience as an editor and writer may, in part, explain the noteworthy skill displayed in this meticulously crafted film. The writing is tight yet revealing. The flashbacks, essential to the development of the story, are so deftly inserted as to deserve particular mention. Visually, Sedlackova's palette and composition manage to transcend even the limitations of the small, grainy screener videotape and become, like the soundtrack, one of the subtextual informing elements in the unfolding tragedy. Victims and Murderers is the story of the incestuous relationship between half-siblings, a relationship which leads inexorably to their destruction. Actor Karel Roden's performance as the ensnared, doomed brother stands out in its remarkable portrayal of repressed rage and vulnerability. This archetypal story resonates of classical Greek tragedy, yet its setting, a small village in the contemporary Czech Republic, grounds it in a familiarity which makes the downfall of the protagonists particularly wrenching.

Maangamizi: The Ancient One (2001)

Maangamizi: A failed allegory.

[12 January 2002]

Maangamizi is a colorful but cliche-ridden attempt at that most difficult of genres, allegory. The film tells the story of Samehe ( Swahili for `forgiveness') an African women who is a patient in a mental institution. She comes under the care of an African-American psychiatrist named Asira (Swahili for `anger'). Both women are enlightened and ultimately united by the mentoring spirit of Maangamizi (Swahili for `destruction'). Allegory is a particularly difficult construct in any artistic medium because it almost always requires the sacrifice of psychological verisimilitude in order to represent fully its abstractions. In film, the lack of depth and complexity in the portrayal of allegorical characters can often be overridden by the skillful use of visual techniques ( i.e. Kurosawa's Dreams ). Maangamizi, however, seems to be a film put together by a committee; although filled with stunning images, the work lacks a unifying vision, veering from the mystical to the didactic and back again without synthesis. There are significant gaps in exposition and plot as the writing moves from predictable to hackneyed to cliché. There are puzzling inconsistencies in the quality of the cinematography, and all too frequently the filmmaker resorts to a trite flashback tease to create the tension that a more skilled director would develop with imaginative camera work and solid written material. Maangamizi may have audience appeal because of its cultural and feminist concerns, but suffers from a fundamental lack of creativity and artistic control.

Resin (2001)

The first American Dogme 95 film is an exceptional piece of work.

[10/10 · 5 January 2002]

The stated purpose of the Dogme 95 manifesto is to strip the art of filmmaking of its decadent trappings and to return it to the purity that resides behind movie illusion. Theoretically, the Dogme Vow of Chastity should force the filmmaker and, therefore, the viewer, to confront the essentials presented on the screen without intervention or amelioration. Resin, the first American Dogme film is an example of the movement at its best. The work has an explicit political agenda, and if the film is read simply as polemic, it is successful in making clear the tragic absurdities in the California penal code. However, Resin transcends its politics and renders an unforgettable portrait of a human being caught in the dispassionate machinery of a society which first alienates then destroys him. The camera's unrelenting eye, stripped of artifice, binds us to Zeke in his struggle with a system in which he clearly never had a chance and forces us to confront his vulnerability, the inarticulate youthfulness which is helpless against the slick maneuverings of the forces marshaled against him: the public defenders, the narcs, the prosecuting attorneys. In Resin, the Dogme technique of apparent cinematic artlessness, paradoxically, has itself become art, while the practices employed in the destruction of movie illusion have created a far more complex illusion: the sense that we have somehow come to know and to lament as real, a young man who exists only on film.