After Lucia (Después de Lucía)
In cities across the world it seems that the troubles faced
by teenagers every day are largely the same, and one particularly difficult
hurdle is the task of fitting in at a new school. Alejandra (Tessa Ia) has
moved with her father (Hernán Mendoza) to Mexico City, where they hope to
rebuild their lives after the death of her mother in a car crash. She is
initially popular at her new school, but one stupid drunken mistake at a party
quickly tarnishes her reputation and makes her an outcast. From this point
onwards, After Lucia observes Alejandra's ongoing silent despair as she is
subjected to the most horrific bullying from her classmates, with Michael
Franco's long takes and fixed camera angles refusing to spare us any details of
her ordeal. Unable to open up to her grief-stricken father, Alejandra withdraws
and simply accepts her place at the bottom of the food chain, becoming almost catatonic as abuse upon abuse is
heaped on her. The cruelty of Alejandra's fellow teenagers sometimes feels a
little overplayed, both in the disgusting extremity of their attacks and the
complete lack of adult supervision or dissenting voices as the entire classroom
gangs up on her, but the power of Franco's film is impossible to deny. It
may be unbearable to watch in places, but the tender performances at its centre
from both Ia and Mendoza make it equally hard to look away, and the film becomes
particularly riveting during its extraordinarily tense final stretch, which builds to a
shocking climax. Franco's ultimate point, that violence begets violence, has
been very forcefully made.
Boy Eating the Bird's Food (To agori troi to fagito tou
pouliou)
While most of the films coming out of Greece in the past few
years have been marked by their absurdist, deadpan sense of humour, Boy Eating
the Bird's Food is a picture far more in tune with the harsh realities facing
Greeks today. Yorgos is a young man who appears to have suffered more than most
from the country's economic crisis, as we see him nibbling on his pet canary's
birdseed, rummaging for scraps in dustbins, stealing from his elderly neighbour
and resorting to extreme measures in one explicit scene that may be hard to
stomach (excuse the pun) for many viewers. Throughout all of this, Yannis
Papadopoulos delivers an intense and entirely committed
performance as a desperate man who is slowly falling apart. Director Ektoras Lygizos
keeps the camera inches away from him, creating an uncomfortable sense of
claustrophobia and refusing to flinch in the protagonist's most despairing
moments. Boy Eating the Bird's Food can be a little obvious in its allegorical
intent, and even at 80 minutes it sometimes feels slight. If some more effort had been put into fleshing out Yorgos' situation and relationships – particularly with
the girl he watches from afar – it could have added even greater resonance to his
sad inability or refusal to ask for help. Nevertheless, this troubling
character study certainly marks another impressive debut from a Greek
filmmaker.
+
The Capsule [a short film screening with Boy Eating the Bird's Food]
This 35-minute short from Attenberg director Athina Rachel
Tsangari had my attention from its arresting opening shot, and from that point
onwards it just kept topping itself with ever more bizarre and imaginative imagery. Set in a
remote convent-like building, we observe six young women as they crawl out of their
hiding places, get dressed, and participate in a series of rituals seemingly
designed by their impassive leader to groom them for tasks ahead. Tsangari's
interest in physical movement and the female form is again evident, and the
film's mostly silent sequences are hypnotic to watch while also managing to spring consistent surprises. It's a cryptic piece of work but also a beautiful and
haunting one, and a lovely rendition of America's A Horse With no Name is just
one of its many pleasures.
Clip (Klip)
Although it closes with a disclaimer that no underage
performers were involved in sexually explicit scenes, the knowledge that its
star was 14 years old at the time of shooting often makes Clip a very uncomfortable
viewing experience. First-time director Maja Miloš frequently risks falling into the trap of making a
cautionary tale about teenage sex that's also guilty of prurience, with some of
the lingering shots of lead actress Isidora Simijonović in her underwear
being reminiscent of Larry Clarke's excesses. She plays Jasna, a frustrated
Serbian teenager who indulges in sex, drugs and partying in an attempt to
escape the complications of her family life and the bleak future prospects that
she envisions for herself. She falls for older teen Djole and begins partaking
in a submissive sexual relationship with him, acceding to all of his demands in
the hope of winning his heart. Watching this pretty girl debase herself for a
boy who couldn't really give a damn about her is troubling and upsetting,
particularly as Simijonović's turn as the teen protagonist is so convincing. Although
she is sullen around the house and puts up a confident front for her friends,
Jasna has a couple of nicely played scenes in which this mask slips to reveal
the naïve and unsure girl underneath, which is often very affecting to witness. In fact,
I'd like to have seen a little more of that, as Clip's frequent scenes of Jasna
playing the role of sex doll for the brutish Djole become too repetitive to
retain their impact. Miloš directs with vigour and frankness and displays a good eye
for locations, but beyond using the prevalence of phone cameras to make its
story feel current, what exactly is Clip telling us that we haven't been told
many times already? It's ultimately a rather depressing experience, even if it provides a
fine showcase for a exceptional young performer.
Death of a Man in the Balkans (Smrt čoveka na Balkanu)
Death of a Man in the Balkans begins with the sight of a man
in tears facing the camera and then shooting himself in the head. At this
point you may be inclined to double-check your programme to make sure that this
film really is listed in the LFF's "Laugh" section, but Miroslav
Momčilović’s picture does reveal its comic side as more characters join in. The
deceased man's neighbours, alerted by the gunshot, turn up and wait in his
apartment for the police to arrive, and we watch their idle chatter as they
pass the time. Some of this dialogue is pretty funny ("I saw him carrying
a watermelon just yesterday...it was like he knew..."), and as they talk
the characters gradually reveal deeper prejudices and resentments: speculating
on the dead man's sexuality, complaining about the effect this will have on
house prices, coveting his possessions. As a comedy of manners and satire of the Balkan mentality, Death of a
Man in the Balkans is often sharp and observant, and as more characters bundle
through the door – from a venal undertaker to a couple of lazy cops – it sometimes looks like Momčilović may have the ingredients for a pitch-black farce. But
Death of a Man in the Balkans never quite takes off, and the reason for that has
a lot to do with the storytelling device the director has opted for. When the
suicidal man commits his act in the opening scene, he does so in front of his
computer webcam, and everything that follows is viewed from that vantage point
in one long, unbroken take. The director's blocking and staging of his single
location is impressive, but Death of a Man in the Balkans could have been elevated
by some tight editing and variety in its shooting. As it is, the film feels flat,
restricted and underpowered; the victim of a gimmicky and unnecessary approach
that cripples its potential.
Room 237
The Shining is film littered with inexplicable continuity
errors, which are surely the mark of a sloppy filmmaker – but wait! The
director in question is renowned perfectionist Stanley Kubrick, so surely these
random discrepancies aren't so random. As every single choice that Kubrick made
in his films was a deliberate one, surely we can therefore divine some
deeper meaning from exploring those choices. That's the starting point for Room
237, an endearingly eccentric documentary that allows a group of Shining devotees
to share the theories they have developed about the film in the three decades
since its release. Some of these are quite persuasive – there's no doubt that
The Shining is more than the mere horror film it was first taken as – but this picture is at its most entertaining when it explores the more crackpot theories.
Is The Shining a tacit admission by Kubrick of his involvement in faking the
moon landings? Is it all really about minotaurs? No matter how far-fetched
these notions may be, the interviewees make their case with utter conviction,
and it is fascinating to see just how deeply into the picture they have delved. Some have constructing detailed maps of the Overlook Hotel or examined every item
in the background of each shot, and one even projected the film backwards
on top of itself (some of the images this experiment conjures are very striking).
Room 237 doesn't seek to explain The Shining because director Rodney Ascher
presumably realises just how futile a task that is; instead, his film is a lighthearted tribute to a masterpiece that remains as eerily ambiguous as ever. The
structure is a little iffy in places, and I wish Ascher had used better
recording equipment for his participants, but the playful editing and judicious
use of footage makes it an enjoyable, occasionally very funny journey. No
matter how many times you've seen The Shining, Room 237 is guaranteed to ignite
your desire to watch it once again, this time with more attentive eyes than
ever.
