‘The Painted Bird‘ (2019) by Czech director Václav Marhoul is a very difficult film to evaluate. On the one hand, from a cinematic point of view, it is one of the remarkable performances we have seen in recent years – impeccably technical, with many interesting innovations that serve the narrative and messages of the film. It is a film about the Holocaust, an inexhaustible historical and human theme, and more precisely about the destiny of a child in those terrible times – so a story of those with which viewers identify emotionally. Here, however, the issue of this construction also appears. The series of horrors that pervade the screen hardly coexists with the inevitable sensitivity of the spectators when it comes to children’s fates on screen. The film is an indictment against a war-torn dehumanised Europe, cruel or at best indifferent to the fate of children separated from their parents by the brutality of war, witnesses and often even victims of the most terrible torture and abuse. There is a complicated history around the film, which adds complexity to the whole edifice and makes it even more difficult to appreciate this film which is both difficult to watch and impossible to ignore as cinematic value and message.
Joska, the main hero, is a Jewish boy on the verge of adolescence, maybe 10-11 years old, who is sent by his parents to an aunt living in a distant place to be saved from deportation. The aunt dies suddenly and the boy embarks alone on a journey home through war-torn Central Europe. On the way he will meet different people, traumatised and impoverished by war. Few will help him, most will exploit, hit, humiliate him. The horrors he will witness and the trials this boy goes through are extreme – from violence and slavery to torture, rape and sexual perversions. Almost the entire repertoire of human cruelty is present in this film. Under these conditions, the boy is in danger to lose his humanity, his sense of good and evil, his appreciation of the value of life, and his identity. Is it still possible for him to recover and return to a normal life after individual traumas of such intensity and proportions? The elliptically beautiful final leaves this question open.
The Europe described by Václav Marhoul contains enough historical hints that allow to locate the story in the film in time in 1944-1945, the last years of World War II, but at the same time many of the scenes take place in a rural setting that could belong to any of the historical periods when Europe was torn apart by wars from the Middle Ages to the present day. Geographical area is treated similarly. The novel that inspired the film is written (in English) by the Polish Jerzy Kosinski, but the producers of ‘The Painted Bird‘ made efforts to avoid a precise location, up to inventing a hybrid language that is used by the villagers in the film, language which combines Czech, Slovak and Polish spoken in central Europe. The cinematography signed by Vladimír Smutný is remarkable, using aesthetically and expressively black and white and the widescreen format of some of Ingmar Bergman‘s famous films. Much of the film’s burden lies on the shoulders of child actor Petr Kotlár, who does not say a word throughout the film, but whose eyes are witnesses to the horrors outside and the suffering inside. The rest of the cast includes a consistent series of portraits, very well made, with realism and naturalism, and played mostly by Czech actors whom we do not know, but also with a few exceptions of celebrities such as Stellan Skarsgård or Harvey Keitel, excellently integrated. As in the masters’ films, ‘The Painted Bird‘ is divided into episodes, each bearing the names of some of the human or inhuman people that Joska encounters on his way. Kosinski‘s novel aroused controversy similar to that now aroused by the film, due to the accumulation of extreme scenes of violence and sex, but also because what was originally presented and promoted as an autobiographical story proved to be rather a synthesis of stories, gathered disparately from the testimonies of several survivors who lived the Holocaust in childhood. In a world where direct witnesses are almost non-existent and where deniers are making their voices heard louder and louder, even works of fiction such as the book and film ‘The Painted Bird‘ must be credible. It is not the description of the extremes that seems problematic to me, but rather their gathering in a single biography. Lack of credibility also harms the emotional involvement of viewers. The temporal and geographical generalisation introduced in the film solves, I think, only partially this problem.
The story in ‘Corpus Christi‘ (2020), the film by Polish director Jan Komasa, takes place in contemporary Poland. It belongs to a category of films coming from the former communist states in Eastern Europe, which portray in various forms the religious renaissance and the growing role that national churches play in people’s lives and in the social and spiritual structure of post-communist societies in these countries. At the same time, the film discusses universal issues about people’s ability to forgive, about the social reintegration and spiritual recovery of those who have served their sentences for past crimes, and about those who are or may be the spiritual leaders of communities. It is a film about faith and atonement, but at the same time a brutal and quite pessimistic film. In any case, in my opinion, the cinematic experience is worth a try.
The hero of the film is a character descended as if from Dostoevsky’s novels. In him are gathered simultaneously good and evil, God and the Devil, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the juvenile delinquent Daniel and Father Thomas. Being released from the toxic environment of the prison where he still had time to study theology and to watch if not to officiate religious services, the young Daniel (the extraordinary Bartosz Bielenia) is assigned to a remote village in Poland but instead of working in the factory of timber he was sent to, he ends up, more or less by chance, being confused with a young priest, a recent graduate of the theological seminary. He had dreamed of becoming a priest, he had the vocation and the charisma, but he had not been able to achieve his goal due to his criminal record. He does not refuse the opportunity to assume the role of the priest at the pulpit when the local priest asks him to take his place while he treats his illness. Soon the young and unconventional ‘priest’ becomes the spiritual leader of a small rural community facing the specific problems of the transition period in Eastern Europe (lack of interest and especially lack of faith from the parishioners, disoriented and futureless youth seeking refuge in alcohol and drugs) but also confronted with the trauma of a car accident in which seven inhabitants of the village perished in an instant, an accident that traumatised the families and segmented the community that ostracises the widow of the alleged culprit. Gradually gaining the trust of the villagers, ‘Father Thomas’ enters in conflict with the local baron, the holder of the political power (he is also mayor of the village) and of the economic power (as owner of the sawmill). The threat is twofold. Thomas is bitten by his own doubts, and knows that sooner or later what in the eyes of the authorities (church, legal) is an imposture will be discovered. Will the call and good done in the name of the Lord be enough to save him?
Not being a religious person or a good connoisseur of Catholic rites, it is difficult for me to appreciate how credible the details of this story are, although I am reading that it has its origin in various real facts. Beyond the so-called technical aspects, the film asks some valid questions in any other beliefs or moral systems. Can a sinner, a murderer become a source of good, a leader or mentor of a community? Can good deeds absolve those who committed grave mistakes (sins) in the past? Does the cassock make the priest or his deeds and the way he inspires his parishioners? If there is one message to resume this film that at times manages to be sublime and emotional, and at other times pessimistic and brutal, it would be that the answers given to these questions by the legal system according to the scale of social values and even by the institution of the church are different than those that inspire faith in the hearts of those who believe. The film is very well written and produced, the story has rhythm and fluency, the cinematography is expressive. The success of ‘Corpus Christi‘ in places where it has been seen so far is largely due to the exceptional performance of Bartosz Bielenia, an actor of great talent and intensity, who manages to render the whole complexity of the character, with his contradictions and internal fires. The merit of director Jan Komasa is that he manages to ask important questions and lets us judge and answer ourselves, the spectators. ‘Corpus Christi‘ is full of details about church life but you don’t have to be a Catholic or a believer to resonate with the dilemmas and feelings of its hero. Same as Father Thomas’s sermons and words which are addressed to all the villagers, believers or not, Jan Komasa‘s film is addressed to all audiences.
While watching ‘Never Rarely Sometimes Always‘, Eliza Hittman‘s film, another production that after the premiere (and award) at the Sundance Film Festival in early 2020 had the misfortune that its launch on screens was postponed for who knows how long as the pandemic lasts, I couldn’t help but wonder if the American director and screenwriter knew ‘4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days‘, the film that brought to Cristian Mungiu the ‘Palme d’Or’ award at the Cannes Film Festival in 2007. The two movies are similar not only because the topic of abortions is at their center. They take place decades away in very different political contexts but they nevertheless belong to the same debate about abortion, with moral and social impact, a debate that has been going on for more than half a century and is far from being decided. ‘Never Rarely Sometimes Always‘ and ‘4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days‘ have ome more thing in common: in their narrative structure both films juxtapose the issue of abortions with the theme of the solidarity between two young women, who face an adverse world alone, and who are ready to make enormous sacrifices to help each other in extreme situations. Both films are also films about social pressure, dilemmas and traumas related to abortions, but especially films about friendship and the sacrifices made in its name.
The story. Autumn (Sidney Flanigan) is a 17-year-old girl from a small town in Pennsylvania, who works with her friend Skyler (Talia Ryder) as a cashier at a supermarket. Autumn’s family is apparently normative, with an apparently normatively indifferent father. As her name suggests, Autumn is a melancholic, who keeps inside her feelings and insecurity, experienced enough to have started her sexual life at the age of 14, and hesitant enough not to know how to deal with the fact that she is pregnant. The girl does not want to keep the baby, the reasons are not clear and do not need to be explained, maybe she is too young to face motherhood or maybe the reason is related to the person of the father who we never learn who he is (I have a suspicion, but no I will share it). The clinics in her city are quite poorly equipped and they can’t help her anyway, because in Pennsylvania, being a minor, she can’t have an abortion without her parents’ consent. The two friends leave for New York, where abortion is possible, but their journey is unexpectedly prolonged, they run out of money and live three days and two nights of insecurity, unwanted adventures and not the most pleasant experiences in the big city. It’s a film about a completely different journey than the ones we are accustomed with in the films with provincials who come to New York, it’s a film about the coming of age of two young women, it’s a film about friendship.
The issue of abortions is always present without screenwriter and director Eliza Hittman taking an explicit position to impose on viewers. I believe that what differentiates ‘Never Rarely Sometimes Always‘ from other films with similar themes is the feminist perspective. The film is written and directed by a woman, the main characters and most of the supporting ones are women, and the feelings of the young girls at the beginning of life being the main theme, they are approached with a sensitivity coming from real life experiences. That is why I believe that this film should be seen by as many men and boys as the age of the teenage heroines, in order to understand their feelings, hesitations and pains. The interpretations of the two actresses in the main roles are superb and truthful. The scene that gives the film its name is anthological. New York is filmed very differently than in other movies, with its crushing subway stations, the indifferent, hurried and not very polite human universe that populates the metropolis. The minimalist style, the attention to detail, the story told from the point of view of the heroes also reminded me of Mungiu‘s films. But maybe Eliza Hittman didn’t even see them. However, her film stands alone as a mature and sensitive creation, a proof that good films have been released in this year 2020 as well.
Cu aproape trei ani în urmă, când planeta noastră era mult mai mică, am făcut una dintre acele călătorii visate din totdeauna, din care, de obicei, reușim să punem în aplicare într-o viață mult mai puține decât planificăm, în care am vizitat relativ pe îndelete Australia și Noua Zeelandă. Am petrecut cu această ocazie patru zile în Sydney, metropola antipozilor, oraș care este și legat de istoria familiei mele, și care oferă multe repere semnificative, locuri și obiective memorabile. Am avut atunci parte și de o experiență neașteptată și destul de neliniștitoare, care s-a adăugat listei amintirilor de neuitat. Era începutul lui martie, ceea ce înseamnă sfârșitul verii în emisfera sudică. La orele amurgului, pomii din Sydney și mai ales cei din parcurile vaste ale orașului deveneau negri, iar aerul se umplea de țipete care nouă ni se păreau apocaliptice. Erau sute, mii, zeci de mii de lilieci, care stăteau agățați parca în ciorchini de crengile copacilor la sfârșiturile de zi și își luau zborul în stoluri amenințătoare odată cu căderea nopții. În mijlocul peisajului urban al unuia dintre cele mai civilizate orașe ale lumii, la câteva săptămâni după ce intrasem în ritmul bunăvoinței politicoase și nonșalante a vieții în emisfera mai puțin lovită de probleme (cel puțin aparent) a Pământului, trăiam un sentiment de spaimă.
Spaima în natură nu este un fenomen unic și nu este rezervat speciei umane. Animalele se tem și ele, este vorba despre instinctul de conservare, rezultat al evoluției, care le previne în legătură cu pericolele, și care este o trăsătură dobândită, dar și transmisă genetic. Aceste este și subiectul cărții recent apărute ‘The Nature of Fear: Survival Lessons from the Wild’ al cărei autor este Daniel T. Blumstein, profesor la Departamentul de Ecologie și Biologie Evolutivă, precum și profesor la Institutul de Mediu și Durabilitate, la Universitatea California din Los Angeles. ‘The Nature of Fear’ ar putea fi tradus ca ‘natura fricii’, în sensul originii și mecanismelor fricii, dar și ‘Natura fricii’ adică un studiu al fricii ca fundament al comportării animalelor și a oamenilor și ca motivație a acțiunilor acestora în natură și în societate. Blumstein explică argumentat și demonstrează cu exemple faptul că frica acționează ca un catalizator al acțiunilor de legitimă apărare ale animalelor și că mecanismele chimice și electrice, precum și reflexele musculare sunt similare unor categorii vaste de organisme, de la cele mai simple până la cele mai complexe, inclusiv oamenii. De la un prag încolo însă, frica devine un impediment comportamental care dăunează acelorași ființe. În limbaj popular spunem că ‘frica paralizează’.
Ce facem însă când sentimentul de panică cuprinde comunități omenești întregi, sau la extrem, întreaga planetă? În cazul oamenilor, teama este generată de multe ori de ignoranță, dar în ceea ce privește pandemia cu virusul SARS-CoV-2 nu informațiile au lipsit, ci informații complete și exacte. Se știe, de exemplu, că virusul care provoacă COVID-19 este un virus zoonotic, adică un virus care a contaminat oamenii în urma contactului cu animalele. S-a spus, și informația a fost amplificată de mediile de informare, că acest virus este un descendent al unui alt tip de virus al cărui purtători erau liliecii. Ceea ce nu s-a spus, sau dacă s-a spus a fost ignorat de multă lume, este că doar strămoșii acestor viruși, cu multe generații în urmă, erau purtați de lilieci, că între timp au fost preluați de alte animale în lanțurile de contaminare, că au suferit mutații, iar contaminarea cu ceea ce numim popular Corona a avut ca intermediari alte animale. În fapt, nicio analiză efectuată în ultimul an, și au fost făcute multe, nu a indicat că liliecii ar fi purtători ai vreunui virus care infectează oamenii. Asta n-a împiedicat comunități întregi și chiar și autorități din țări aflate în zone diferite ale lumii, cum ar fi Indonezia, Ruanda sau Cuba, să declare liliecii ca potențiale surse de contaminare și să-i neutralizeze până la exterminare sistematică.
De ce liliecii? Frica față de aceste animale sau imaginea negativă pe care și-au câștigat-o în mod nejustificat datează din culturile antichității. Ei apar deja într-o conotație sumbră în ‘Odiseea’ lui Homer, unde sufletele convocate de Hermes ‘scârțâie ca niște lilieci’, în timp ce în ‘Pasările’ lui Aristofan liliacul se întorcea din iad pentru a suge sângele muritorilor. În Vechiul Testament, liliecii sunt definiți ca animale impure. Teologii creștinismului timpuriu (Basil din Caesarea de exemplu) amplifică imaginea negativă și asociază liliecii cu demonii. În ‘Divina Comedie’, Dante îl descrie pe Satan ca având șase aripi ‘ca ale unui liliac’ dar mult mai mari, de dimensiunile pânzelor de corăbii. Reprezentările picturale abundă în Renaștere, de la fresca ‘Triumful morții’ pictată de Buonamico Buffalmacco, între 1336 și 1341, care se afla la Pisa și până la ilustrațiile tratatelor alchimiștilor.
Asimilarea negativă a liliecilor cu întunericul și cu forțele răului a fost fără îndoială amplificată de asocierea liliecilor cu vampirii. Trebuie observat că acest fenomen cultural foarte răspândit astăzi este relativ nou, el avându-și originea în informațiile care încep să circule în secolul 16, în perioada marilor descoperiri geografice, despre specii necunoscute până atunci de lilieci, trăitoare în America de Sud și în Extremul Orient, care ar fi supt sânge uman. Acestea erau diferite de relativ inofensivele varietăți de ‘vespertilionidae‘ din Europa, mai mici ca dimensiuni și hrănindu-se mai ales cu insecte. Carl Linnaeus avea să amplifice componenta de ‘fake news’, incluzând în cataloagele sale celebre ‘liliecii vampiri’ pe care, de altfel, îi confunda cu o specie descoperita în Malaezia (Pteropus vampyrus) care în realitate se hrănea cu fructe. Charles Darwin avea să corecteze și această eroare istorică a naturaliștilor care l-au precedat, descoperind, observând și descriind un adevărat liliac vampir (Desmodus rotundus) care se hrănea într-adevăr cu sânge. Este drept, nu era sânge omenesc, dar era prea târziu. Cultura populară adoptase deja stereotipul. Somnul rațiunii lui Goya este populat de lilieci vampiri. Alexandre Dumas scria în 1851 piesa ‘Le Vampire’, iar în 1863 William Kingston asocia în povestirea ‘The Vampire’ caracteristicile prădătorilor nocturni cu trăsăturile feminine. Celebritatea universală a vampirilor este legată de Transilvania după ce Bram Stoker publica în 1897 romanul ‘Dracula’, bazat pe interpretarea unor surse folclorice ajunse în spațiul vorbitor de engleză datorita antologiilor transilvănene ale scriitoarei scoțiene Jane Emily Gerard și a eseului ei „Transylvania Superstitions”, publicat în 1885. Dramaturgia română însă adoptase deja termenul, vampirul (cf. Tipătescu) sau bampirul (cf. Pristanda) apărând în replicile care deschid ‘O scrisoare pierdută’, piesa a cărei premieră avusese loc în noiembrie 1884.
După cum am văzut, frica de lilieci este o combinație între frica transmisă genetic și cea dobândită cultural. În definitiv, foarte puțini dintre noi au avut experiențe directe cu lilieci, și acestea nu au fost neapărat negative. Pe de alta parte, asocierea cu vampirii este suficientă pentru a fi creat sub-genuri literare și cinematografice ale domeniului ‘horror’. Când m-au speriat stolurile de mii de lilieci care înnegreau copacii din Sydney și mai ales țipetele acestora, nu mă gândisem deloc la filmele cu Dracula, ci răspundeam mai degrabă unor temeri dobândite fără știrea mea. De multe ori, ne sperie simbolurile, în alte cazuri fenomene pe care nu le percepem sau care contrazic direct percepția imediată. Este cazul orientării nocturne a liliecilor, a viziunii lor de noapte care a fost observată din vechime, dar și-a găsit doar recent o explicație, legată și de undele sonore emise de aceștia, unele în gama sensibilă oamenilor, altele în afara acesteia. Generalizând, pericolele legate de pandemii sunt cauzate de virusuri ale căror dimensiuni sunt mult sub limita vizuală, și a căror structură a fost doar recent descoperită și explicată. Majoritatea dintre noi nu aveam habar de aceste detalii la începutul lui 2020 și probabil că nu ne-ar fi interesat vreodată dacă nu lovea pandemia. Cei care am înțeles măcar o parte dintre mecanismele bolii avem șanse mai bune de a ne confrunta cu ea. Sursele fricii se află în necunoaștere și aceasta este amplificată de dezinformație. Pandemia informatică este la fel de periculoasă ca și cea produsă de virusuri, și împotriva ei lupta se duce nu cu vaccinuri și cu tratamente medicale, ci prin cunoaștere, explicații, informații exacte.
(Articolul a apărut iniţial in revista culturală ‘Literatura de Azi’ – http://literaturadeazi.ro/)
‘Palm Springs‘ directed by Max Barbakow (incredibly at his first feature film) is for me the good surprise of the end of this strange cinematic year 2020. It is also a film that proves once again, if necessary, to skeptics and cynics that there are entertainment films and romantic comedies that do not insult the intelligence of viewers, and that ‘feel good’ movies can contain a dose of fantastic (and even references to quantum mechanics). The premiere of ‘Palm Springs‘ took place at the Sundance Film Festival, after which the movie was supposed to be screened in theaters, but then the world froze and same as many other productions Barbakow‘s film had to find a streaming platform as its main broadcast channel. I’m so sorry for their missed opportunity, because this funny movie would have had good chances to be the big surprise and maybe even one of the blockbusters of the summer of 2020. Unfortunately, COVID-19 had other plans.
The film begins with the awakening of Nyles (Andy Samberg), on a sunny morning in a resort in the middle of the desert, where he accompanies his (not very committed) girlfriend to the wedding where she is the bridesmaid. Nyles, a rather non-conformist guy, almost ruins the party with an impromptu speech influenced by intense drinking at the bar, and later in the nighr he he meets Sarah (Cristin Milioti), the bride’s sister and the family’s ‘black sheep’. The two seem to have a ‘click’ that will take them to the desert at night where the beginning of a sexual encounter is interrupted by an event … and here I stop telling more about the story so as to avoid falling into the sin of spoiling.
What happens next is a combination of crazy and romantic, fantasy and clever comedy. Many comments on the film mention that the inspiration comes from ‘Groundhog Day‘, a film I have not seen. What I can say is that I did not find any logical flaw in the script written by Andy Siara, who manages to give credibility to the pretext and substance of the characters, makes us viewers care about them, and even adds a touch of science with which the heroes will come out from a complicated situation. I didn’t know the two lead actors or I don’t remember them from other movies, but they both manage to win our empathy. J.K. Simmons, an actor we know from countless television series, is distributed here in a very different and original role. ‘Palm Springs‘ is one of the best entertainments of the year, a kind and smart movie that I warmly recommend. It’s fun.
‘Babette’s Feast‘, a film written (after a story by Karen Blixen) and directed by Gabriel Axel, was a huge international hit in 1987 when it hit the screens, winning the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film that year. I saw it now, 33 years later. I can understand many of the reasons for which the film was successful then, I also found in it many beautiful moments and messages about life and art that are valid today as much as in the year of production. At the same time, I can’t help but notice that the passage of time is, in the case of this film, painfully felt. ‘Babette’s Feast‘ approaches its topics in a cinematic style that even in the ’80s left too little freedom to the actors and channeled the story towards a moralising and conformist conclusion. If this film was today, it would have looked completely different.
The story captures three moments in time in a seaside village in the remote Jutland province of Denmark. A Protestant pastor established a Puritan community in the first half of the 19th century, leading a simple life close to the faith and its moral values. However, his own family is sacrificed on the altar of community life. His two beautiful daughters, coveted by all the young people in the village but also by the occasional visitors are discouraged from getting married. ‘Do you want me to renounce my left hand or my right hand?’ tells the pastor to one of the suitors. One of the girls has a beautiful voice and a talent that could make her one of the great opera singers in the world, but her path is also blocked. Not by force, not explicitly, but by education and mentality. Time passes, we are in 1871, the father died, the girls remained unmarried and their life is filled by good deeds. Among them is the sheltering of Babette (Stéphane Audran), a refugee from France in revolution and war. Another 14 years later, the community is reduced in numbers to about 10-12 parishioners, all old. Babette asks to prepare a festive French-style meal to honour the memory of the pastor born 100 years ago and now regarded as a saint. The feast will not only highlight the conflict between the Danish Puritan and the French Epicurean mentalities, but it will bring back memories in the characters’ minds and souls that will make them reflect on the meaning of going through life.
There are many beautiful ideas and interesting things to discuss about this story. Stéphane Audran‘s character retains a touch of mystery for most of the duration of the film. There will be a revelation about her in the end, but it cannot be said that it is unexpected. The other characters are even more transparent, and what happens to them is about what we predicted from the beginning. One of the problems I had watching ‘Babette’s Feast‘ was the fact that the acting style is theatrical and distant, and it was hard for me to empathise with the characters, even if that was the director’s intention. The cinematography and the sets are beautiful, nature seems hostile almost all the time, even when the sun shines we can feel the wind, the cold or the threat of rain that will not be late in coming. And the food – the dishes that are prepared and eaten on screen are beautiful and refined, which makes the film be cited in almost all the rankings that gather the movies dedicated to food. For me, however, watching this film was like eating at a feast where the food got a little cold.
‘The Killing of Two Lovers‘ (2020) directed by Robert Machoian is another one of those films whose fate has been changed by the pandemic. The premiere took place at the Sundance festival in January 2020. I’m not sure if and how much it got to be seen in cinema halls, but certainly the business plans were seriously disrupted. Throughout the year, the film was presented at several festivals, it was quite well received, but very few people from what we call the ‘general public’ came, I think, to see it. I confess I’m not sure how it was received. In my opinion, the film starts from an interesting idea, and is well done, with many beautiful moments of cinema. But there is also, I believe, a weaker or at best debatable part, related to the way in which the idea of the film is developed on the screen and transformed into a cinematic narrative.
The story takes place in a small town in the center of America. David (Clayne Crawford) and Nikki (Sepideh Moafi) are a couple in crisis. Married very young following a love story since high school or college, have four children – a teenage girl and three boys, and their marriage is probably routinely gnawed. They decide to try separation without breaking off the marriage. David moves into his sick father’s house, a few hundred yards away. Nikki meets another man (Chris Coy) who starts spending the nights in their house, where the children also live. David finds it difficult to bear the situation, he would like to return to ‘normative’ family relations, but Nikki does not seem convinced, and for David his temperament, his (lack of) emotional intelligence, and especially his husband macho pride are not good advisers.
What I liked. The cinematography is excellent. Choosing a ‘classic’ screen format to film many outdoor scenes in natural light, using long frames and relating the characters to the nature and houses of rural America, director Robert Machoian and cinematographer Oscar Ignacio Jiménez achieve an effect of psychological pressure added to what is happening on the screen. Acting is very good, both of the actors in the lead roles and also of the actors in the supporting roles and of the extras. The film has an air of authenticity, we can almost feel the cold winter air from the screen. What I liked less. The film starts from an interesting idea and questions about love and family, but the way it develops seemed to me linear and less captivating. I was more curious to understand how the crisis of the couple David – Nikki evolved before making the decision to separate temporarily, and how they came to this solution, which opened the Pandora’s box with the problems presented in the film. There is an imbalance in the relationship between the two spouses as shown on the screen, and it is perhaps due to the fact that David’s character is much better defined than that of Nikki, whose attitudes and decisions seem less justified. Robert Machoian is a screenwriter and director whose interests seem to be focused on the genre of films that describe personal and family relationships. I would be curious to see him evolve into other genres, he deserves to be watched.
When do wars end? When cease-fires are signed? Maybe when peace treaties are signed? The TV series ‘Shaat Neila‘ (Closing Hour, alluding to the prayer that concludes the Yom Kippur ceremonies in synagogues) or ‘Valley of Tears‘ once again demonstrates that wars continue to accompany those who took part as soldiers or whose lives were affected long after diplomatic actions led to the cessation of hostilities. The political consequences are long-lasting, even peace is sometimes apparent, and for those who participated as soldiers, who witnessed or were victims of violence, wars never end. Thus is one of the messages of these series produced by the Israeli public television station CAN 11, a spectacular and relatively expensive production (23 million shekels), for Israel in any case, which deals with the events of the 1973 Yom Kippur War. 47 years passed since this war, a controversial and problematic war in the saga of Israel. It was the first time Israel was caught by surprise in a coordinated attack by Egyptian and Syrian forces, it was a war in which more than 2,600 Israeli soldiers lost their lives, and thousands more were wounded, a war that produced or perhaps only accentuated a deep political and social crisis that led to large-scale protests, the resignation of Golda Meir as Israel’s prime minister, and a few years later the political changes that brought the right wing to political leadership for the first time in this country in 1977. Soldiers, wounded, prisoners of war 47 years ago, those who survived the traumas of the battlefields and the suffering, who keep the memories of their fallen colleagues of generation and comrades-in-arms, have now relived their traumas when reviewing these series. Every evening, after the broadcast of the weekly episode, there were debates on television, which continued in the night on the public radio station. It is clear that for these veterans the Yom Kippur War is not over. And probably neither for us, the rest of Israeli society.
The action of the series takes place on the northern front of the war, where Syrian forces surprised the Israeli army and occupied in the early days of the war part of the territory of the Golan Heights that had been conquered by Israel in the 1967 Six-Day War. During the ten episodes (the first and last being double) the spectators were able to follow the soldiers from three military units: a command center where the activity of the fighters was coordinated, an intelligence unit located on a mountain top that was captured and conquered by Syrians and from which only two soldiers survived, and a tank unit that, after suffering heavy losses in the early hours of the war, managed to regroup and block out enemy forces that were overwhelmingly superior numerically, and eventually turn the fate of the war on this front. For the most part, the facts correspond to the historical truth, but there are also many inconsistencies and more or less plausible elements of fiction, as it resulted from the many comments and discussions arising from the series in Israel. This is not a documentary, and not even a docu-drama, because the characters are imaginary. The perennial discussion about how faithful a historical reconstruction on screens must be and what freedoms are allowed in adaptations is valid and open in this case as well. My impression is that the authors of the script made reasonable choices, but that does not mean that there was no room for more boldness and originality. The roots of the war are not discussed and the question whether the war could have been avoided is not asked. The film is about the low rank officers and the soldiers caught in the middle of a bloody conflict. There are some personal emotional stories – that of the father who went to the front in search of the estranged son, or a love story interrupted by the war. Other threads of the story have political connotations. Some of the soldiers come from Sephardic Jews families who considered themselves socially discriminated against and participated in Black Panther protest movements, and ethnic tensions are not completely eradicated by the military service, at least until the start of the war. From the various gallery of characters, I noticed two: that of Meni Ben-Dror (Lior Ashkenazi, the only established actor in the cast), a famous journalist and writer in search of his son, and that of the young nerdy young man in the intelligence service (played by Shahar Tavoch), the only character who seems to understand what is happening and who tries to prevent his superiors. Both start as pacifists and become war heroes in the whirlwind of events.
Unlike other war series and docu-dramas (with the notable exception of Amos Gitai‘s ‘Kippur‘ from 2000), the heroes are not in the ‘Valley of Tears‘ politicians or generals, but officers and soldiers from front. The quality of the series consists in the fact that it accurately and realistically reproduces the surprise and the lack of material and moral readiness of the soldiers in the first days of the war, the violent chaos of the situations in which they are placed, but also the resources of heroism that they find in themselves to resist and turn the situation around. The producers have invested heavily in reconstituing the battles and the atmosphere in bunkers and commands, in the trenches and on the battlefields. The results are spectacular, we are immersed in an extremely realistic war action. Spectators are not spared of watching violent scenes on the battlefield, in bunkers, or in the prisons and interrogation rooms where those who have fallen prisoners end up. Human stories manage to create interest and emotion, although some are a bit prolonged, somewhat inevitably in a series of such magnitude. We can see some clues about the consequences of the war, but they are not very consistent. The story ends at the point when the fate of the war is reversed at the cost of immense sacrifices. A speech by one of the commanders promises a better world and a fairer society after the war, but the rhetorical words sound empty, especially since we know what followed. The series are distributed internationally by HBO and it will be interesting to watch how it will be received and understood by the international public, perhaps less informed and certainly less involved than the Israeli audiences with the Yom Kippur war, another war that has not ended.
‘Ziua a șaptea’, originalul roman al scriitorului chinez Yu Hua, apărut în 2013 și publicat în 2020 de Editura Humanitas-fiction în colecția ‘Raftul Denisei’ în traducerea impecabilă a Luminiței Bălan, începe cu moartea lui Yang Fei, eroul cărții. ‘Atunci am înțeles că era o zi importanta: întâia zi în care murisem.‘ Este și prima dintre cele șapte zile pe care eroul le va petrece suspendat într-un fel de purgatoriu între o viață trăită și întreruptă brusc și incinerarea urmată de înmormântare, care va semnala adevărata odihnă veșnică. În acest interval de timp, care poate dura foarte puțin pentru unii și se poate prelungi până la eternitate pentru alții, adică pentru cei fără mormânt, decăderea fizica își urmează cursul, dar amintirile sunt toate vii, la fel și sentimentele și trăirile. Decedații a căror moarte nu a fost desăvârșită continua să vadă lumea celor vii, să o străbată în căutarea amintirilor, dar și a unor răspunsuri legate de viețile pe care le-au trăit. Comunicarea este senzorială dar mai ales afectivă. Și, desigur, unidirecțională:
‘Treptat, căsuța s-a îndepărtat și cele două șine de tren au dispărut, plutind spre depărtări. Eu zăboveam în continuare pe urmele mele și, simțindu-mă obosit, m-am așezat pe o piatra. Trupul meu era precum un arbore tăcut, iar memoria mea alerga ușurel, ca la maraton, în lumea aceea pe care o părăsisem.’ (pag. 94)
Cele șapte zile în care se desfășoară povestea din carte sunt desigur o replică în oglindă a celor șapte zile ale Genezei, fapt confirmat de motto-ul cărții, dar nu este vorba despre zile ale Creației ci despre zile ale distrugerii, ale desăvârșirii morții, ale încheierii de conturi în scopul împăcării și dobândirii odihnei veșnice. Cuvântul suflet nu apare în carte, conceptul fiind diferit de cel din filosofia și religiile occidentale. O prietenă îmi amintește că șapte sunt și zilele de doliu din religia iudaică, asociere la care eu nu mă gândisem, dar care este și ea foarte potrivita în context. Personajele cărții, cei care populează această lume suspendată intre viață și neant, par să caute închiderea conturilor înainte de a se lăsa mistuite de ultimul foc, și deciziile și mijloacele de dobândire ale liniștii sunt personale, pe măsura vieții trăite de fiecare. Notabilă pentru ilustrarea ideii este și coperta cărții, frumoasă și simbolică, creată de Angela Rotaru.
Yang Fei, eroul cărții, a trăit o viață oarecum obișnuită, presărată de suferințe și zbateri într-o lume strivitor de materialistă, dar în care nu a fost ocolit de dragoste, la fel ca și de dezamăgirile ei. Născut într-un WC de tren și căzut intre șine, este descoperit de Yang Jinbiao, un modest lucrător la căile ferate, care își dedică din acel moment viața creșterii sale, renunțând la întemeierea unei familii proprii și la orice altă ambiție în viață. Prietenii lui Jimbao sunt Li Yuezhen și Hao Qiangsheng, care sunt pentru el un al doilea cuplu de părinți adoptivi. Când apar părinții naturali, țărani dintr-un sat îndepărtat, Yang Fei este deja un tânăr format, pe cale de a trai prima și marea sa iubire. Doar că poveștile de dragoste din acest roman, cel puțin cele ale generației lui, sunt nefericite. Cuplurile se afla permanent sub presiune economică și socială, îngrădiți de condițiile de trai, de tentațiile unei societăți capitaliste economic în care concurența este feroce, și de tradiții și legislații care strivesc personalitățile și deformează caracterele.
Personajul cel mai luminos al cărții este Yang Jinbioao, tatăl adoptiv, un simbol al omului de rând dintr-o Chină în fiebere, un cetățean care își face datoria în societate și un bărbat care este capabil să radieze prietenie și dragoste pentru cei din jur și mai ales pentru copilul pe care destinul i l-a pus în brațe. Când se îmbolnăvește de o boală fatală tatăl adoptiv alege să dispară din viața fiului, pentru a nu-l împovăra cu îngrijirea unui părinte muribund. O parte din peregrinările celor șapte zile includ căutările fiului, dornic să-și regăsească tatăl macar pentru o scurtă vreme înainte de plecarea spre neant.
Iată scena despărțirii la plecarea fiului în căutarea unei slujbe mai bune, așa cum el și-o amintește în zilele de după marea trecere:
‘Când trenul s-a pus în mișcare, el a rămas acolo, pe peron, fluturând-și mâna în urma trenului care se îndepărta. Desi era o mare agitație pe peron, cu oameni care umblau care încotro, mie mi se părea că rămăsese cumplit de singur acolo.
Mai târziu, după ce el a început să dispară, în tăcere, din viața mea, adeseori îmi aminteam cu tristețe imaginea aceea de peron, într-o dimineață de vară. Eu mă năpustisem în viața lui pe neașteptate, atunci când avea douăzeci și unu de ani, îi umplusem existența într-atât, încât nu mai rămăsese pic de loc liber pentru fericirea ce i s-ar fi cuvenit. Bineînțeles că indurase toate suferințele ca să mă poată crește, iar eu pe nesimțite îl părăsisem pe un peron de gară.’ (pag. 103)
Tabloul societății chineze contemporane este prezentat în mod cât se poate de critic și fară menajamente, cu puține înflorituri alegorice. Este o lume egoistă și coruptă, în care societatea ierarhizată este dominată de politicul urmat de cei înavuțiți în ultimii 40 de ani și de o mare masă de oameni simpli și dezorientați. Yu Hua s-a născut în 1960 și copilăria sa a fost marcată de Revoluția Culturala, urmata de schimbarea orientării economice și trecerea la un capitalism feroce combinat cu control ideologic în stil comunist. Viziunea să reflectă epoca prin care a trecut. Faptul că acest roman a putut fi publicat în China de astăzi m-a surprins și într-un fel m-a bucurat. Trebuie curaj pentru a scrie o asemenea carte dar și pentru a o face să apară. Cititorii români vor recunoaște în carte multe dintre aspectele trăite și la noi în timpul tranziției perpetue în care pare să se afle și societatea noastră, amplificate însă în proporții la dimensiunile uriașe ale Chinei: generații de tineri fară perspective și speranțe, clădiri demolate în timp ce locatarii se afla încă înăuntru, violența poliției, nou-născuți abandonați, crimă organizată, prostituție și trafic de organe, o presă de senzație care însă nu previne mușamalizarea unor grave afaceri de corupție, sau ascunderea gravitații unor accidente soldate cu victime omenești. Asemănarea cu evenimente recente este desigur pur întâmplătoare:
‘… pe internet au apărut știri diferite. Unii spuneau că numărul morților depășise cincizeci, ba unii vorbeau chiar de o sută de persoane. Mulți criticau guvernul în mediul online pentru că ascundea numărul persoanelor decedate, ba unii chiar căutau definițiile date de Comitetul pentru Securitatea Muncii accidentelor soldate cu morți, și astfel au aflat că un accident cu trei până la nouă morți era considerat “de gravitate medie”, un accident cu peste zece morți era considerat “grav”, în timp ce unul cu peste treizeci de morți era “foarte grav”. Pe internet unii criticau guvernul pentru că încerca să diminueze consecințele situației, stabilind că ar fi vorba doar de șapte persoane decedate. Chiar dacă ar fi murit și celelalte două persoane cu răni grave, tot ar fi fost cu totul doar nouă victime, ceea ce impunea încadrarea incidentului drept unul de gravitate medie, nimic mai mult. Iar această încadrare era cât se poate de potrivită, căci nu afecta poziția primarului, a secretarului de partid și a celorlalți ștabi.’ (pag. 117-118)
Cititorii români vor fi familiari și cu sentimentele povestitorului confruntat cu transformările ecologice și depopularea satelor:
‘Când într-un final am ajuns în satul tatălui meu, am băgat de seamă că nu mai era câtuși de puțin satul unde fusesem eu în copilărie. Satul acela avea pădure și pâlcuri de bambus, ba chiar și câteva heleșteie. Odinioară, împreună cu câțiva veri mai mari ochisem vrăbii prin pădure cu arcul, sau mă băgasem în heleșteu, cu pantalonii suflecați, ca să prind raci. Îmi aduc aminte că lanurile de rapiță străluceau pe ogoarele înșiruite unele după altele și răsunau de voci și zgomote care mai de care – voci de bărbați, de femei, de copii sau bătrâni, însoțite de ciripitul pasărilor, de mugetul vacilor. Mai mult decât atât, țin minte că erau acolo și niste scroafe care umblau prin canalele despărțitoare dintre câmpuri. Acum, satul era ca amorțit, ogoarele părăsite, iar păduricea și pâlcul de bambuși fuseseră de mult tăiate. Nici heleșteiele nu se mai zăreau. Toți tinerii din sat își găsiseră de lucru la oraș, ceea ce explica de ce am întâlnit doar câțiva bătrâni care stăteau în fata porții și câțiva copilași care se apropiau de mine șovăielnic.’ (pag. 120-121)
Yu Hua este un maestru al narațiunii și lectura acestui roman (prima dintre cărțile sale pe care o citesc) nu mi-a lăsat nicio îndoială că mă aflu în prezența unuia dintre marii scriitori contemporani ai lumii. Talentul său de povestitor combină realismul cotidian, de multe ori crud și senzaționalist, cu fantezia și cu satira care frizează absurdul. Dar este și o carte poetică și profund omenească, în care se întrețes nu una ci mai multe povești de dragoste, sensibile, patetice, de obicei terminate tragic. Poate părea straniu, dar în ciuda grozăviilor descrise care se petrec în lumea noastră și a inevitabilității sfârșitului, mesajul mi s-a părut optimist. În universul creat de Yu Hua vii și morții interacționează și mai exista o șansă de împăcare și de liniște. Daca acceptăm premiza cărții după care moartea este doar un început, atunci există și speranță.
Books and bookstore lovers will find many things they will like in ‘The Bookshop‘, the film made in 2017 by Isabel Coixet. It is a film about books and how they can change people’s lives, about people who love books and dedicate their lives to them. ‘The Bookshop‘ and is a very British film although Isabel Coixet was born in Spain (but with enough international productions in her filmography). The film is British not only because the story takes place in England, but also in its style, characters and narrative approach. In the end, this excess of Britishness proves to be one of the main problems of the film.
The story. We are in 1959, in a small and picturesque town on the coast of England. Florence Greene (Emily Mortimer) is a war widow whose only passion in life is books. We are not told, but we can guess that she remained alone very young, what we see from a flashback is that her short period of happiness with her husband who fell in the war was also related to books. They had met in a bookshop. Maybe that’s why she decides to open a bookshop in the seaside town, in an old building, on the edge of living conditions. He plans opposed by the city’s rich and strong, led by the evil Violet Gamart (Patricia Clarkson), the owner of a sumptuous residence, belonging to a family with strong enough ties in London to influence the enactment of a law to expropriate buildings such as Florence’s bookstore with the scope of opening there dubious art clubs. The local inhabitants are in favor of the heroine, among them the recluse Mr. Brundish (Bill Nighy) who shares her passion for good literature and a girl in her teens who is her employee and who will play a key role in the story. The bookshop opens, but will it withstand the pressures and prejudices?
What I liked. I share the passion for books and bookstores, and not only I vibrated at the scenes in the bookshop but I could feel the smell of books in my nostrils. Ray Bradbury and Nabokov (or rather their books) play an important role in the story. Emily Mortimer is exceptional in the lead role, one of those female roles that radiate beauty and goodness, and that can’t help but conquer. The description of the atmosphere of the place with the social hierarchy and the differences of class and status is well served by the rest of the acting interpretations that are OK, at the level of good English productions. The cinematography is refined and delicate, the scenes from the bookshops, in the mansions of the rich, and especially the outdoors ones contribute to the visual quality of the film. What I liked less. The script is thin. There is a surprise in the end that widens and even changes the perspective of the story, but it comes too late to erase the impression of predictable storytelling, something like a Disney production made in the BBC studios, or to balance the effect of the excessive use of off-screen comments which, as usual, do not help the story and do not add quality of a visual arts production. ‘The Bookshop‘ has a beautiful idea to start from and many visual and cinematic qualities, but the lack of consistency of the plot makes this production largely miss its target.
