31st 08 - 2017 | no comment »

The Aura (El Aura, 2005)

Director/Coscreenwriter: Fabián Bielinsky

By Marilyn Ferdinand

For the ninth iteration of Noir City Chicago, the Film Noir Foundation (FNF) put together a program of heist films that included some classic favorites, like The Asphalt Jungle (1950), Kansas City Confidential (1952), and Classe Tous Risque (1960). There was one heist film of uncharacteristically recent vintage, however, that was as revelatory as it was unexpected. The Aura is the second and final feature by Argentinian director Fabián Bielinsky, whose life was cut short at age 47 when he died of a heart attack shortly after completing this film. For noir and crime film fans, “what might have been” is particularly distressing: The Aura and his premiere feature about two con artists peddling counterfeit stamps, Nine Queens (2000), show Bielinsky had a rare and original gift for depicting society’s underbelly.

Our host for the evening’s screening, FNF President Eddie Muller, explained that Bielinsky’s small, but significant output was the result of the long apprenticeships directors serve in Argentina. The polish of Bielinsky’s script and film reveals the benefits of this system; there is a literary quality to the way Bielinsky creates his characters, chooses his settings, and resolves his plot.

The film’s unnamed protagonist (Ricardo Darín) is a taxidermist. With Vivaldi playing on his radio, the camera focuses on his hands as they work on the figure of a fox, preparing the eye sockets with clay, carefully straightening and draping the skin, choosing from a drawerful of glass eyes for the correct pair and sticking them in place. We see the silhouette of a woman who is yelling and banging on the frosted glass of his locked studio door. In response, he reaches over to his radio and cranks the volume.

When he is finished, he brings the figure to the museum that hired him and meets fellow taxidermist Sontag (Alejandro Awada). As the two men wait in the payroll office to be paid, our man indulges his penchant for imagining robberies. He walks Sontag through his plan for the payroll office, with Bielinsky’s camera visualizing the hypothetical blood-free robbery for us. Sontag seems to feel little but contempt for the taxidermist, but nonetheless, asks him to go hunting in place of a friend of his who backed out at the last minute. Our man shrinks from killing animals, but when he goes home and finds that his wife has left him, he calls Sontag and agrees to the trip.

The two men find that Sontag’s regular hotel is completely booked—the belligerent Sontag complains to the hotel manager (Guido D’Albo), “I never needed a reservation before.” To placate his repeat customer, the manager sends him to a remote property of rustic cabins for serious hunters run by a man named Dietrich (Manuel Rodal). When they arrive, a surly teenager named Julio (Nahuel Pérez Biscayart) tells them there’s nothing for rent. He is soon contradicted by Diana (Dolores Fonzi), his sister and Dietrich’s much-younger wife. Once ensconced in their cabin, Sontag has our man equipped with a rifle and both get ready for the hunt. What follows is our man’s stark confrontation with what it means to be fully alive.

Like the dead animals he makes over into lifelike mannequins, our man seems to exist at a slight remove from life. His work is isolating, he ignores his wife, and in a macho culture that conflates masculinity with violence, he abhors killing animals or people; his fantasies reflect an intellectual, carefully humane violence.

But he has moments when he feels really alive—his occasional epileptic fits. Epilepsy has long been linked, perhaps erroneously, to religious ecstasy, and the ingenious film The Fits (2015) posits an outbreak of seizures among some teenage girls as a rite of passage into individuality and womanhood. While our man’s epilepsy plays a very crucial role in a climactic scene in The Aura, it’s more than a plot device. When Diana asks him what it’s like, we really understand how the pre-seizure aura and the heightening of all of his senses are delicious and incredibly important to him. This scene gives Darín his longest, most sustained bit of dialogue; it actually feels too long given his abundance of verbal reticence, and the sense that we’d rather not hear all he has to say—there’s something unsettling about how he communicates—is a credit to the masterful creation of this character by a man Muller feels is the greatest actor working today.

Bielinsky matches his shooting style to his main character’s personality. He favors tight framing that refuses us a view of actions that occur off the edges of the screen, and elegantly shorthands information in a single moment. For example, our man calls out to his wife when he returns home from the museum and, not receiving an answer, goes into the bedroom, where we see a closet full of empty hangers. He questions a little girl at a middle-of-nowhere establishment called El Eden; when she says something about her mother and the little rooms, we know instantly that El Eden is a brothel. In two related scenes, our man witnesses in long shot Diana arguing with a man in a pick-up truck. She tells him that the man has accused Dietrich’s dog of killing his sheep. “Does he?” our man asks, but gets no answer. Much later, our man, stumbling in the dark with a flashlight, briefly illuminates the dog; its face is covered with blood.

Bielinsky provides subliminal clues about our man’s essence, why such a seemingly ordinary, even sweet man makes us uneasy. It’s not his fantasy life as an armed robber, not even his neglect of his wife—he has a very unpleasant exchange with Sontag over the latter’s physical and emotional abuse of his own wife. It’s the fact that the dog, after earlier growling at him, adopts him when Dietrich fails to return from wherever he’s gone. Our man has crossed a line into a real-life adventure that he is so loathe to give up that he is willing to risk the lives of others to achieve it. Of course, the seminal moment that put him on this path was a blood letting, and every moment after this event is one of our man living by his wits and finally listening to his instincts to survive.

I’m not familiar with Ricardo Darín’s previous work, but I’m inclined to agree with Muller about this man’s talents. There is one scene in which his character is caught having to improvise his way out of a life-threatening situation. Bielinsky moves in on his face, and observes his eyes darting quickly around trying to think his way to a solution. I’ve never seen an actor concentrate so much information into a short series of eye movements. His supporting cast, particularly Pérez Biscayart and Fonzi, provide full-blooded characters with whom he interacts believably; even two stereotypical thugs create a relationship with each other that feels real.

The last scene echoes the first. Our man stuffs a small mammal with a cottony material as the camera shifts to the nameless dog sitting in a corner and closes in on its inscrutable, wild face, the perfect avatar for our man, and by extension, for what’s wild in all of us.

The film can be seen in its entirety here:


2nd 10 - 2015 | no comment »

CIFF 2015: How to Win Enemies (2014)

Director/Screenwriter: Gabriel Lichtmann

2015 Chicago International Film Festival

Enemies 1

By Marilyn Ferdinand

Is Gabriel Lichtmann the Woody Allen of Argentina? Although Lichtmann has only made two feature films in 10 years, both deal with his Jewish identity in his big-city hometown of Buenos Aires, both are written and directed by him, and at least one—How to Win Enemies—has an intellectual, sexually bumbling nerd as its main protagonist. How to Win Enemies is, like his own description of his feature debut, Jews in Space or Why Is this Night Different from All Other Nights? (2005), also a sad comedy, and though rather predictable, it is still a well-executed film that holds one’s attention and sympathy for its duration.

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Like Jews in Space, How to Win Enemies begins during one of the more important rituals of Jewish life—a wedding. Max Abadi (Javier Drolas), an attorney in practice with his brother Lucas (Martín Slipak), is marrying another attorney in their firm, Paula (Eugenia Capizzano). We come in right before the end of the wedding ceremony and get to watch Max smash the wine glass underfoot as the guests yell “Mazeltov!” The film cuts to the wedding reception. A nervous Paula asks Lucas whether he can tell that there is a rip in her dress, and he assures her she looks fine and is too good for his brother. He delivers Paula and Max’s speech, which he has written, to the head table, and Max opens the envelope containing the speech, unfolds it, and says the first two lines: “How do you win enemies? By telling the truth.” Then the film flips back to two days before the wedding, when a series of misadventures turns Lucas, an Agatha Christie fan who has written a mystery novel, into an amateur detective.

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The film takes its time moving into the mystery portion of the film with a languorous introduction phase meant to acquaint us with likely suspects to a theft Lucas will find himself investigating. This phase does not proceed as it does in many mysteries I’ve seen because it doesn’t present these characters as having obvious axes to grind or hidden agendas. In fact, most of the suspects seem unequivocally innocent and delightful. The real pleasure of this film is not in solving a mystery, but rather in the perfect vignettes of the talented cast that reveal different aspects of life in Argentina’s capital.

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The mystery involves a set-up in which Lucas is the target. That he feels he was specifically marked and not just some random victim of an opportunistic thief comes from his instincts, not from anything the plot reveals. As he starts weaving the threads of information together from Facebook, to a library, to a seedy part of town, and then closer to home, we meet a very resourceful woman (Inés Palombo) with some muscle to back her up, a sarcastic librarian (Carla Quevedo) who may turn out to be the woman of Lucas’ dreams, and a professional criminal (Ezequiel Rodríguez) who seems to think Lucas isn’t entitled to enter a conference room in his own law firm.

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Lichtmann peppers the film with realistic vignettes that are sometimes comical, but really aren’t all that funny. For example, Lucas is trying to help a woman get an order of protection against her abusive husband, but his witness backs out of testifying. He goes to “Pelícano,” (Sangrado Sebakis) a large, curly-haired fixer to be his witness for hire. Pelícano asks for $3,000, Lucas counters with $600, and the deal is quickly struck—a little larceny in service to a good cause that plays with all the comedic humanity I’m sure Lichtmann intended. We also travel with Lucas through the streets of the city as he follows an attractive woman, very likely a hooker, to an elementary school to pick up her son and bring him back to an apartment complex with burglar bars over the windows. Yes, this is Buenos Aires, too.

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Max’s bachelor party is loaded with attractive hookers and a porn movie blares in the background, but this scene made me feel rather sad for Paula and for Lucas as well. Lucas seems disgusted with the throwback machismo Max displays with entitled ease, and we get the feeling that Paula will be turning to Lucas almost immediately after the ink on her marriage license dries, and that Lucas knows it.

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Most of all, we see Lucas and Max bickering and looking out for each other in equal measure. Lucas puts up with Max’s hooker-strewn bachelor party, while Max indulges Lucas’ reminiscing in their childhood home left vacant by the recent death of their mother. The latter is a scene to which many middle-aged people will relate, revealing an inventory of outdated furniture and decors, shelves of family photos, a kitchen crammed with a lifetime’s worth of gadgets and tableware, forgotten card collections and treasures crammed in the boys’ desk and dresser drawers. These moments of unity appeal to Lucas’ romantic side, while Max has little use for anything that doesn’t matter in the here and now.

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It doesn’t take Lucas long to figure out who Mr. or Ms. Big is—but I was way ahead of him. No matter. When we return to where the film began, the wedding reception, there will be a payoff and a payout. It’s not as satisfying a conclusion as I would have liked—I’m more vengeful, I suppose—but in a movie about Jews, it provides the Old Testament eye for an eye that is not only appropriate, but also inevitable. If Lichtmann is the Argentine Woody Allen—and this is a rather lightweight, conventionally made film in the Allen mold—he is nonetheless graced with a bigger heart and a better eye for the absurdity of human existence.

How to Win Enemies screens Wednesday, October 21 at 5:45 p.m., Thursday, October 22 at 9:30 p.m., and Monday, October 26 at 2:45 p.m. at the AMC River East 21, 322 E. Illinois St.

Previous coverage

Women He’s Undressed: Renowned director Gillian Armstrong offers an entertaining, partially dramatized documentary about Australian costume designer Orry-Kelly, who dressed some of the biggest stars in Hollywood. (Australia)


13th 11 - 2013 | no comment »

The Headless Woman (La mujer sin cabeza, 2008)

Director/Screenwriter: Lucrecia Martel

Capture

By Marilyn Ferdinand

A little over a week ago, I reviewed the feature film Hannah Arendt (2012), about the famous German-Jewish philosopher during the period when she observed the trial of Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann and wrote a series of articles and a book about it. Arendt coined the phrase “banality of evil” to suggest that Eichmann was an efficient bureaucrat who had literally lost the ability to think for himself, that his fiendish crimes became normalized for him to the point that there seemed to be no moral imperative surrounding his actions at all. Hannah Arendt centers around an observer of evil, and even though it includes some of the actual footage of Eichmann testifying during the trial, we, like Arendt, remain on the outside looking in.

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As scary as it sounds, what would happen if we could actually experience the world as Eichmann did, from inside his head? What we would learn? Argentinian director/screenwriter Lucrecia Martel takes on just such an improbable mission with her intriguing and somewhat exasperating film The Headless Woman. The film concerns itself with a hit-and-run accident that occurs on an isolated road when the driver, Verónica (María Onetto), takes her eyes off the road for a moment to answer her cellphone. The bulk of the film actually tries to put us inside Veró’s head as she tries to process the fact that she may have killed someone.

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The opening scene of three boys and a dog running along and across the road, jumping into and climbing out of an empty viaduct, and generally playing around is shot in the clear, sunny day with a sharpness that emphasizes their youthful vitality. The scene shifts to a group of women moving to their cars in a parking lot, with snatches of conversation that resemble Robert Altman’s overlapping dialogue, though in this case, we are brought into a dialogue that has been ongoing for weeks and must hunt for meaning. One woman compliments Veró on her blonde coiffure, and Veró responds that the chlorine is making it fade.

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Another cut reveals Veró driving alone, listening to the radio. When her cellphone goes off, her head turns toward us and then down. The car is jostled as we hear one and then another loud bump. Veró eventually stops, visibly shaken, and sits catching her breath for several long moments. She looks in her rearview and sideview mirrors. We see what looks like a dog laying by the side of the road, but the car is distant enough to make identification difficult for us. Eventually, Veró puts the car in gear and drives off. She continues to monitor her car mirrors with worried confusion.

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The next time we see her is at a hospital. She has a small bandage on her forehead, and is admitted for x-rays. A man (Daniel Genoud) comes to see her, and she embraces him to be comforted with sex. Who is he? We won’t find out for some time, but when Veró returns home, we learn that he’s not her husband Marcos (César Bordón). Much of what we learn about her comes indirectly from the people around her who are carrying on as usual—Veró herself says almost nothing for days, moving like a stunned animal through her home, her dental practice, and her social engagements. Eventually, however, she moves out of the shock of denial and shares with Marcos her fear that she killed someone on the road.

The Headless Woman

The terrible burden of moral culpability is what is on display in The Headless Woman. Martel tries to put us inside Veró’s head, conjuring a sensory experience that is both heightened and disoriented. The bright, sharp look of the opening scene gives way to a darker, more diffuse look that communicates a world gone out of focus, leeched of recognizable detail and simple joy. Martel trains her camera intently on Veró, tightly shooting her face at the edge of the frame, often with actions occurring behind her. Onetto often looks as though her thoughts are painfully fragmented, that she is “headless” in the aftermath of the accident. The withholding of information, the shards of relationships glimpsed in passing, all serve to draw us into Veró’s emotional universe.

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They say that naming the problem is the first psychological step to solving it, and for Veró, sharing her secret not only relieves some of the pressure, but also allows others to intervene on her behalf. It is here that the film moves out of its almost experimental phase and progresses as a slightly more traditional narrative, or at least one that fills in a lot of the blanks. The threads of what were just images now come into focus—these are Veró’s aunt and cousins, this is the volunteer work she does at a school, here is confirmation that she has two daughters. And significantly, here are the employer, friends, and family of the boy she killed, completely unaware of who she is.

headless-woman

Martel is so intent that we virtually experience Veró’s trauma that despite her cuts that compress the week or so during which this narrative takes place, we seem to experience it in real time. Onetto has a huge job, on camera for nearly the entire running time, a camera peering into her face looking for Veró’s soul. She is never less than compelling to look at, but Martel has set up what I think is an impossible task. Just as Hannah Arendt tried, and actually failed, to divine the mystery of Eichmann’s soul, we cannot simply look at Veró’s face, even one that communicates emotion and trauma, and feel inside her. Indeed, we can’t do that in face-to-face interactions.

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A secondary commentary arises after Veró shares her secret, that of class entitlement. Veró is from the professional class, and as her shock wears off, so does her moral quandary, a fading that becomes all the more easy as her husband “takes care of” her problem by erasing any traces of her actions. In some ways, it was comforting to see a more conventional resolution to the movie, with Veró washing that dead boy right out of her hair by going back to her natural brown color—though she hastens to add to her friend that her hair has probably gone grey under the serial dye jobs. It’s frustrating trying to feel something it’s impossible to feel unless you’ve actually had the experience of killing someone accidentally. But some of us can relate to someone taking care of our problems for us, and we can all relate to recovering from a trauma and finding ways to go on with our lives that often involve willful forgetting. Is that what Hannah Arendt meant when she said that Eichmann had lost the capacity to think? For The Headless Woman, the answer appears to be “yes.”


14th 10 - 2010 | 8 comments »

CIFF 2010: Asleep in the Sun (Dormir al Sol, 2010)

Director/Screenwriter: Alejandro Chomski

2010 Chicago International Film Festival

By Marilyn Ferdinand

I really like when films creep up on me—tell me I’m going one way and then take a sharp detour to an unexpected destination. Asleep in the Sun is a charming, unnerving film whose picture-postcard, 1950s setting lulls viewers into a sweet dream of nostalgia, only to turn a character’s moderate neurosis into a nightmare for all those in her circle.

Lucio (Luis Machín) is a watchmaker who works out of the boyhood home he inherited from his parents when they died in an accident. He lives with his adored, but troubled wife Diana (Esther Goris), who is fixated on dogs and attached to Prof. Standle (Enrique Piñeyro), who runs a dog clinic. Diana visits his clinic frequently to play with the dogs, and hopes one day to get herself a bitch puppy—females make the best watchdogs, says Standle. One day, the professor comes to Lucio and observes that it is not normal for a person to be so indecisive about choosing a dog. Intuiting that Diana has mental problems, he suggests a “phrenopathic” clinic that will cure her in a matter of mere days, not years of expensive psychoanalysis. Lucio, who has endured separation from Diana before while she pursued cures at other mental hospitals, resists. Eventually, however, he agrees to let Diana try to get well at the clinic. “We must trust the professor,” Diana says.

Bad idea. Lucio is denied access to his wife, something that never happened at the other hospitals. When Diana is released after what the imperious head of the clinic, Dr. Samaniego (Carlos Belloso), says is a complete cure, she doesn’t seem the same. She suddenly likes to take walks and perform fellatio, and she doesn’t recognize her nephews or make her corn pie using her usual recipe. Lucio’s housekeeper, Cerefina (Vilma Ferrán), finds a photo of a woman among Diana’s belongings and thinks there is some connection. When Lucio confronts Dr. Samaniego about the disturbing alteration in his wife’s personality, he puts everyone in his household in danger.

As the movie unfolds, it’s not hard to guess what has happened to Diana, but the journey is so enjoyable and the dawning realization that we’re in a science-fiction horror movie is so surprising that I fell for this movie hard. Visually, it is a complete treat—the vintage cars with windshields that open, the kitschy wallpaper inside Diana and Lucio’s home so bizarre I kept trying to decide what it depicted (I settled on a golfer), the decorative prints on the walls so in keeping with the 50s aesthetic of artificial nature. I loved the cash-register-sized phone in Dr. Samaniego’s office, looking the world like a hotline to hell, and the full-length tile walls in places other than the bathroom, their turquoise glaze giving the room inhabitants a queasy look.

Chomski’s inventive opening—a rapid-moving steadicam at ground level with a slightly hazy focus depicting a dog’s point of view—had me at hello. A dreamy interlude of a dog laying on a raft and drifting on water under a warm sun intrudes at key moments; only slowly do we come to understand what this image signifies and put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Chomski attended the screening, only the second of this film anywhere in the world. He told of the genesis of the film, which arose from his friendship with Argentine writer Adolfo Bioy Casares and his admiration for his novel Asleep in the Sun. The pair talked about adapting the book for the cinema, and when Casares died, Chomski decided to push on. He retained the spirit of the book, though many plot points had to be added—for example, an explanation of what had happened to Diana was devised based on quack-science research Chomski conducted—to render the story coherent. And he decided to film it as a period piece, as originally written, instead of updating it to the present because he felt the story was too delicate to stand up to today’s information-soaked scrutiny. This was, indeed, a great choice.

The actors appearing in the film, great in their quietly comic sincerity, with faces straight out of a Coen brothers film, are well known in Argentina. Chomski said he is very curious to see whether familiarity with these actors will affect how Argentinians will receive the film, and he was gratified to see how we reacted without this baggage to mitigate our perceptions of what was on the screen.

Chomski added a very slight political agenda to the film by showing that people often are powerless to stop bad things from happening in their countries and communities. He used the examples of Americans who opposed the invasion of Iraq and Argentinians who did not want a military dictatorship who had these things foisted upon them with no recourse. Of course, history catches up with every event. I wonder how it will catch up with Lucio and Diana. I heartily recommend that festival goers check out this engaging, sly film.

Asleep in the Sun screens Thursday, October 14, 9:15 p.m., and Monday October 18, 1:30 p.m. The director will be present to take questions. All screenings take place at the AMC River East 21 Theatres, 322 E. Illinois St.

Previous CIFF coverage

Tuesday, After Christmas: A beautifully photographed story of adultery poses a potent metaphor for Romania in its new prosperity. (Romania)

On Tour: A French TV producer returns from “exile” in America with a troupe of burlesque dancers to try to get back on top in this amiable, improvisational comedy. (France)

Circus Kids: The St. Louis Arches youth circus travels to Israel to join forces with the Galilee Circus to help bridge the gap between Arabs and Jews in this optimistic documentary. (Israel/USA)

The Matchmaker: Magical coming-of-age drama in which a teenage boy learns a message of love and tolerance from a Holocaust survivor. (Israel)

Ten Winters: Love will find a way, but it takes its time in this wise, realistic story of a young man and woman whose mutual attraction and friendship take some interesting turns over 10 years. (Italy)

Certified Copy: Elliptical tale of seduction by renowned director Abbas Kiarostami in which two strangers pretend to be a married couple in crisis. (Iran/Italy/France)

The Princess of Montpensier: The French Catholic persecution of Protestants forms the backdrop for this period drama about the travails suffered by a beautiful noblewoman desired by four men. (France/Germany)

Cameraman: The Life and Work of Jack Cardiff: Legendary British cinematographer Jack Cardiff and others who knew him discuss his career, including such highlights as The Red Shoes and Black Narcissus. (UK)

Waste Land: A moving examination of the positive transformation of workers in Brazil’s largest landfill when artist Vik Muniz comes to photograph them. (Brazil/USA)

Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives: This 2010 Palme d’Or winner chronicles the final days of Boonmee using magic realism and experimental techniques to explore universal myths and symbols. (Thailand)

The Last Report on Anna: A dreamy, romantic film centering on Anna Kéthly, real-life Hungarian minister in exile, and a spy’s attempt to silence her by seducing her into returning to their communist-controlled country. (Hungary)

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