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Berlinale Film Festival 2022 (Giant Massive Round-Up)

Against all odds, the 72nd Berlinale International Film Festival not only took place during a period of peak COVID case count, it seems like a pretty successful example of how such in-person events can operate under such conditions. After an odd two-part mix of online and outdoors in 2021, everything went back indoors, even thought the atmosphere around the Berlinale Palast in Potsdammer Platz felt more subdued than previous years. There were more schnelltest centers and COVID security checkpoints than food trucks and festivities. Most screenings also concluded with the odd experience of being shuttled down emergency exit stairways and being dumped onto the sidewalk with disoriented, blinking eyes. And of course, there’s the respiratory challenge of being able to sit through a marathon of movies with an FFP2 mask glued to your face. Still, it’s hard not to be impressed that it happened with so few discomforts. All the checkpoints, test centers, mask-wearing and reduced seating capacity did lend to a sense of low-risk. No doubt other festivals are keeping a close watch on this Berlinale with the hope that, even in the time of Omicron, there may be a way to keep the communal film festival experience alive.

Peter von Kant, dir. by François Ozon

So, what was on the menu this year? Let’s start with the opening night movie, PETER VON KANT (Competition section), the latest from frequent Berlinale guest Francois Ozon. Even though it may not be a favorite, it’s hard to imagine a more appropriate movie to launch this year’s edition. Ozon’s movie is not only a faithful adaptation of the legendary German auteur Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s THE BITTER TEARS OF PETRA VON KANT, it turns the central character into an overt stand-in for Fassbinder himself. Ozon’s decision to turn Petra the fashion designer into Peter the film director, works wonders in a fascinating hall-of-mirrors kind of way, at least for a while. The reason it works at all is thanks to Denis Menochet’s (INGLORIOUS BASTARDS) exuberant and spot-on performance. His Fassbinder is equal parts pathetic and sympathetic, which is perfect since this film, like the original, dives into the murky waters of codependence and the fragility of the artist’s ego.

What’s surprising is that Ozon and Menochet are able to wring a lot of uncomfortable comedy from the material, especially in the early acts. It takes some time before the fascination around how seamless Ozon’s Petra-Peter/Fassbinder merging is, and how well Menochet can highlight the humor, humanity, naughtiness and sadness in the character. Peter’s relationship with his silent assistant Karl (Stefan KCrepon), is funny and disturbing in equal measure, as is his passive aggressive relationship to Sidone (Isabelle Adjanie), a fading actress who got her big break thanks to one of Peter’s early films. these relationships are already a bit fragile, but when Sidone brings young, beautiful aspiring actor Amir (Khalil Ben Gharbia) over to Peter’s apartment, everything is tipped to its breaking point — the jealousies and insecurities that were simmering under the surface erupt, and that’s when the film settles into a more broad and less rewarding melodrama in its final acts. Still, there is a lot to admire in the performances, direction and writing of this adaptation, and for a Berlinale opening night movie, it’s quite solid.

Flux Gourmet, dir. by Peter Strickland

Speaking of fragile artistic egos, another Berlinale alumni, writer/director Peter Strickland, brought his newest to this year’s festival. It’s called FLUX GOURMET (Encounters section), and perhaps more than any other movie, this one was completely on my wavelength. It deals with the psycho-sexual tensions that are brewing between the artists, hosts and other interested parties at a month long artist residency. The artists are a sound art collective comprised of Fatma Mohamed, Asa Butterfield and Ariane Labed. The residency is taking place at the Sonic Catering Institute, which is run by a never better Gwendoline Christie. That’s right, it’s a food-centric sound art affair, and the journalist who’s been tapped to document this residency is a man named Stones (Makis Papadimitriou) who’s got some undiagnosed gastro-instestinal problems.

From the very start of FLUX GOURMET, I couldn’t stop smiling, cringing and laughing, but I understand that some of the humor on display here will be inscrutable to some. All I can say is, as someone who’s been part of a sound art collective, as well as the odd artist residency, I understood every discomforting beat all too well. I would also say that, even though the film is very specific in its subject matter, it’s probably Strickland’s most accessible film so far. This may be a double-edged sword, of sorts. I found two of his most acclaimed films BERBERIAN SOUND STUDIO (2012) and THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY (2014) to be the kind of movies I appreciate more than fully enjoy. There’s an iciness to Strickland’s formalism that can keep you at arm’s length. While there’s often been a humor to his films, it can easily get lost under the precision of his sound and vision. This isn’t the case in FLUX GOURMET. The setting and the subject matter not only opens the door for Strickland’s penchant for immaculate sound design (the food-related sound art compositions were created by Strickland’s own Sonic Catering Band), it’s also the perfect place to stage a full-on comedy that’s both absurdist and intellectual, silly and smart. After all, this is a film that turns a colonoscopy into performance art and features rival sound art collectives who are willing to resort to violence in order to resolve their disputes.

Early on we can tell that this sound art trio is already on uneasy terms with one another. And as each member sits down to be interviewed by Stones, the reasons for those internal conflicts are brought to the surface and the fate of the group becomes increasingly uncertain. Adding to the pressure is that with each performance during the residency, they all have to deal with the unmovable will of their host and benefactor, the show-stopping Gwendolyn Christie, whose make-up and wardrobe alone make this movie worth seeing. Christie has eyes in particular for Asa Butterfield, and their hilariously awkward fetish-indulging romance will stay with me for some time to come. This is a special film in my eyes, a one-of-a-kind movie in terms of sound, visuals, mood, and performance, that I don’t think any other director could make. Yet, as with Bertrand Bonello’s film COMA (which we’ll get to later), this was unexpected — a kind of comedy that I didn’t know the director had in him, which makes it even more special and rewarding at this point in time.

Fire, or Both Sides of the Blade (Avec amour et acharnement), dir. by Claire Denis

While French auteur Claire Denis has some transgressive and outré films to her credit (including 2018’s HIGH LIFE), her latest, BOTH SIDES OF THE BLADE (Competition section), also known as FIRE in some territories, is a more grounded relationship drama centered around the impressive talents of frequent collaborator Juliette Binoche and the recent co-star of TITANE, Vincent Lindon. These two have a seemingly idyllic relationship that is quickly put to the test when Binoche’s former lover reenters the picture as Lindon’s new business parter. Secrets and lies pile up, communications break down, and many tears are shed. Some fans might feel like this is a step backwards, especially considering the achievements Denis made in her last few films. But BOTH SIDES OF THE BLADE still packs an impressive emotional punch, and features two bring-down-the-house performances from Binoche and Lindon.

If for nothing else, this movie will be remembered as the one that earned Denis a long-overdue major award, with the M. Night Shyamalan’s Berlinale Competition jury handing her the Silver Bear for Best Director. It’s hard to argue with that, and it’s hard not to see Denis’s confident directorial hand all over the handheld stylings of BOTH SIDES OF THE BLADE. My only complaint is that even though Denis has always been a politically engaged filmmaker, her attempts at raising awareness about Lebanon and systemic racism in France aren’t very graceful this time around. But these are small complaints. In this film, Denis still proves a master a crafting tense scenes that crescendo with emotion and revelation. Her use of close-up shots on faces throughout the film is especially effective. So much in the movie is unsaid, and Denis proves as skillful as ever at getting inside the heads of her characters and peeling back the layers until they’re left exposed, sprawled out on the floor, begging for forgiveness.

Nobody’s Hero (Viens je t’emmène), dir. by Alain Guiraudie

Panorama and Forum sections of the Berlinale aren’t exactly well known for their laughs. Rather, this is where you can expect to find a healthy mix of the personal, political, ambitious, and sometimes downright experimental. Nevertheless, this year, one of the funniest movies at the festival, Alain Guiraudie’s NOBODY’S HERO, was given the honor of opening the Panorama section. It’s something of a French farce. A film that takes the deadly serious subjects of terrorism, racism, nationalism, and bourgeois indifference, and skewers them all in a wildly funny tale about a guy who just wants to spend time with his beloved prostitute but is hampered by a local bombing. Our guide into the fears and preoccupations of the French white male psyche is the character of Médéric Romand, a web designer who likes to jog around the city of Clermont-Ferrand and puff on his big vaping device. As the title suggests, Médéric is no one’s idea of a hero, but as played by Jean-Charles Clichet, he is so fully realized and such a fascinatingly original character that I did end up rooting for him against my better judgement. In fact, NOBODY’S HERO is all about messing with your prejudices and expectations, and it succeeds at every turn.

What’s really enjoyable about NOBODY’S HERO is that there are indeed many twists and turns along the way. Just when you think you may have figured out where the film is headed, it gets a steps up and becomes more heightened, more surreal, more absurdly funny. The real instigating event in the film is the moment when Médéric decides to let Selim, an Arab teenager, sleep in the hallway of the apartment building he lives in. Is this Arab boy one of the suspected terrorists who bombed the tow square during Christmas festivities? The presence of this boy triggers a range of mildly panicked reactions from both Médéric, who second-guesses his goodwill gesture, and his neighbors who also have their casually racist suspicions and doubts. But indeed, through a series of comedic circumstances, Médéric finds himself increasingly tied to Selim, even though he’d much rather be focusing all of his attention on Isadora, an older prostitute he’s fallen in love with, despite the continued threats coming from Isadora’s husband. At first glance, the weird romance between Médéric and Isadora defies all logic. Certainly it’s not something we usually see in movies. And yet, thanks to Jean-Charles Clichet performance, the relationship achieves an unexpected level of believability. I not only believed that Médéric was a real three-dimensional character, I wondered why we don’t see more oddballs like him. The same goes for many of the film’s characters. You think you have them pegged when they’re first introduced, but by the end of the movie, characters who at first seem either confounding or simplistic are made painfully and recognizably human.

Somewhere Over the Chemtrails (KDYBY RADŠI HORELO), dir. by Adam Rybanský

Quite a few films in the 2022 Berlinale lineup deal with nationalism and xenophobia, but no two films were quite as simpatico as NOBODY’S HERO and the wonderfully titled Czech film SOMEWHERE OVER THE CHEMTRAILS (KDYBY RADŠI HORELO) by Adam Rybanský. Like NOBODY’S HERO, this film was also in the Panorama section, and it also involves an incident of violence in the town square that is perceived by the locals as a terrorist attack. This time, the setting is a small Czech village, and the incident involves a white van crashing into an Easter celebration, wounding one of the townspeople. Immediately, and absurdly, the head of the volunteer fire department suspects that the runaway van was the work of foreign terrorists. A manhunt ensues. Lots of beers are imbibed. And while some villagers express their doubts at this terrorism theory, the voice of reason can only do so much against fear mongering and groupthink. It may not sound like the funniest of set-ups, but CHEMTRAILS is ultimately a sweet and kindhearted comedy that isn’t as edgy or progressive as NOBODY’S HERO but will likely put a smile on your face. In particular, a running gag involving the use of vinegar as an antidote against the effects of chemtrails reaches a surprisingly funny climax.

A Love Song, dir. by Max Walker-Silverman

Speaking of sweet, this year’s Berlinale doesn’t get much sweeter than A LOVE SONG, an American film that was also in the Panorama section and features two veteran character actors, Dale Dickey and Wes Studi. If their names don’t ring a bell, you’ll likely recognize their faces from 30 years worth of movies. Yet, throughout all those various movie roles, these two actors have never once kissed another actor on screen. Maybe that’s a spoiler, but really, this is a movie that can’t be spoiled. It’s a simple, thoughtful, and often humorous romantic tearjerker involving two wonderful actors of a certain age. In other words, it’s the kind of movie that you rarely see these days. As an added bonus, writer/director Max Walker-Silverman films the movie like a micro-budget Wes Anderson movie, with pleasingly symmetrical framing, lots of effective inserts, and a meaningful soundtrack. If you’re like me, A LOVE SONG will make you long for the 1990s when the US was still making these kind of small, offbeat independent movies on the regular.

Concerned Citizen, dir. by Idan Haguel

While NOBODY’S HERO touches on the modern day feelings of white, middle-class guilt when it comes to immigrants and race relations, the Israeli film CONCERNED CITIZEN (also found in the Panorama section) dives into this murky water head-on. The story, written and directed by Idan Haguel, is about a gay couple, Ben and Raz (Shlomi Bertonov and Ariel Wolf), who are looking to become parents. They’re also recently relocated to a new neighborhood in Tel Aviv, part of an early gentrification effort for a part of town that makes their friends nervous about visiting. When they first moved in, Ben planted a baby tree outside their apartment building. A couple years later, he calls the cops on a couple of African migrants who keep leaning on his tree. As a result, he witnesses the cops beating one of the men, and suddenly, everything changes. Ben no longer wants to be in the neighborhood, or even Israel for that matter, and is doubtful about wanting a child. Nothing feels right.

CONCERNED CITIZEN is surprisingly honest about the limits of liberal-minded good intentions, and it reveals some pretty interesting fascistic pitfalls in the average online process of finding a surrogate mother. Further emphasizing Ben’s existential crisis is his day job as a city planner, and spends his days designing a mock-up of a new city center plaza, picking and choosing the virtual people who are standing outside the plaza, what they look like, their skin color, who’s holding hands with who, and so on. As he moves people around, playing god on his computer, you feel his queasiness. It’s not all right.

I also had to applaud the film for it’s ending and giving Ben a way out of his dilemma that is realistic and yet not fully kosher. It’s both sad and funny, and in a world where virtue signaling is an everyday concern for some, it’s totally on point and makes perfect sense. Even when you think your heart and your actions are in the right place, you can still be part of the problem just by being part of the system. There’s no easy way out, and no shortcuts to doing the right thing. Part of the strength of CONCERNED CITIZEN is showing how trapped we can feel if we take a small step back to look at the bigger picture.

Convenience Store (Produkty 24), dir. by Michael Borodin

At every Berlinale, you’re bound to come across a few films that can only be described as bleak as fuck. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Far from it. In fact, in the age of streamers and the global Hollywoodization of cinema, I look forward to the Berlinale bummers. My only caveat is that a bummer needs to be balanced out with art. If your downbeat descent into misery is a bunch of shaky handheld footage and semi-improvized scenes that strives for an authentic look but just comes off like you gave zero thought to the technical aspects of your craft, then I’ll probably curse the experience of sitting through it.

Michael Borodin’s CONVENIENCE STORE tested my tolerance for misery at times, but I was also impressed with how well-executed the experience was. The movie offers a glimpse inside a 24-hour Moscow convenience store, staffed by immigrant workers from Uzbekistan. The workers are all at the mercy of Zhanna (Lyudmila Vasilyeva), the mother superior, and one of the most frightening characters I’ve seen in a while. There are a couple moments when CONVENIENCE STORE dips its toe into pure horror movie stuff, showing what happens when one of the workers disappoints Zhanna or tries to get outside help. The front door of the store is where the world ends for these unfortunate souls.

Many complications arise when one of the workers, Mukhabbat (Zukhara Sanzysbay), has a child but is then able to escape, finds a sympathetic lawyer and reunite with her mom in Uzbekistan. These complications ultimately came across as a little too much for me. Will Zhanna be able to lure Mukhabbat back into the fold? What will happen to Mukhabbat’s child? What will happen to her mom? Is there no good option in this woman’s life? What’s the point of it all? I will say, the last image of this movie is possibly strong enough to evoke a recommendation, but it was still a frustrating experience for me.

Happer’s Comet, dir. by Tyler Taormina

Let’s dip into the Forum section, starting with another up-and-comer in American independent cinema, writer/director Tyler Taormina, whose HAPPER’S COMET (in the Forum section) is a remarkable follow-up to his 2019 debut feature HAM ON RYE. Like that previous film, HAPPER’S COMET is a mysterious study of small town American rituals. The biggest difference this time, is that HAPPER’S COMET is completely dialogue-free, relying instead on a sound design worthy of David Lynch, and finding meaning and narrative in gestures, movements, stillness and various diegetic sounds. HAM ON RYE was promising, and HAPPER’S COMET offers a compelling argument that Taormina is quickly mastering the language of film and is a major talent to keep your eye on.

Nuclear Family, dir. by Erin Wilkerson and Travis Wilkerson

Also in the Forum section is the newest from Travis Wilkerson, a filmmaker that’s been making fascinating documentaries and video collages for over ten years now. With NUCLEAR FAMILY, he’s co-directing with his wife, Erin Wilkerson, in a very personal documentary about a family trip wherein Travis, Erin and their two children drive around and visit some of America’s nuclear missile launch sites. Amazingly enough, the Wilkersons neatly tie together the proliferation of nuclear weapons in the US with the genocide of Native Americans. As the tagline for the movie reads: "Seize the land by gun. Turn the land into a gun. Point the gun at everybody’s head.” It’s a bold and strong statement of a film, but it also has a current of dark and angry humor to it that keeps it lively, engaging, and never boring. As someone who shares Wilkerson’s nuclear fears, and agrees that this is an important subject that we need to keep alive, I loved every minute of this one.

The United States of America, dir. by James Benning

One of the most remarkable viewing experiences this year came from an American film called, fittingly enough, THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. This is the the kind of movie I tend to think of when talking about the Forum section of the Berlinale. It’s essentially 50 static shots, each about two minutes long, and each representing one of the 50 states of America. It’s all in alphabetic order, starting with Alabama and ending with Wyoming. Most of the shots are pretty effective and evocative of the state. Every once in a while, the director James Benning will drop in some audio, like a portion of an interview with Malcolm X, but for the most part, the only sound is diegetic and coming from the location being filmed. Some shots feel more meaningful than others, and occassionally your mind will just drift, thinking ahead to the next state in the alphabetic order and wondering what the shot will be. But then comes the end credits and your mind is blown in one of those THIS-CHANGES-EVERYTHING kind of ways. Ya got me, Benning. Ya got me good. It’s a jaw dropper, and yet the reveal seems to be so subtle that many viewers seem to have missed it completely. Even press and movie festival patrons have become too dismissive of end credits.

L’état et moi, dir. by Max Linz

Another unexpectedly winning comedy from the Forum section was Max Linz’s L’ÉTAT ET MOI, an energetic mix of anti-realist slapstick comedy and bookish intellectual jokes about the history of the European judicial system. It’s a short movie, at around 85 minutes, and it has at least three scenes that I found to be wildly hilarious, but it still felt long and awkwardly unfunny for stretches at a time. Still, if you like the idea of a wacky experimental political comedy wherein the plot hinges on the slight difference between the German words for “communist” and “composer,” this might be the film for you. The woman who played the security guard who has to testify about a statue coming to life has my vote for the best comedic performance of the festival.

The Middle Ages (La edad media), dir. by Alejo Moguillansky, Luciana Acuña

What was I saying about this Berlinale being chockablock with unexpected comedies? Fans of Argentine filmmaker Alejo Moguillansky (CASTRO, THE PARROT AND THE SWAN, THE GOLD BUG) will no doubt be unsurprised that he’s made another anarchic comedy staring himself and his wife (Luciana Acuña, also codirecting) and his daughter (a scene-stealing Cleo Moguillansky). But being somewhat unfamiliar with Moguillansky filmography I was surprised by how confident and effective THE MIDDLE AGES was, especially since it’s a homemade lockdown COVID movie — a recent genre that has proven to be less than rewarding. But the Moguillansky-Acuña clan make it work in a number of ways. It gets at the simultaneous working-at-home schooling-at-home tensions, the existential concerns about mortality and the future of a career in the performing arts, and the general reflective concern brought on by COVID of “what the hell have we been up to for the past few decades?”

There isn’t much of a plot to THE MIDDLE AGES, and that’s absolutely fine. It’s a joy to watch this family spiral down three different existential nightmare holes. But there is a pretty funny through-line involving the daughter’s efforts to buy a telescope. First she plays the parents off each other, getting some money from each one, until she begins to make dough by selling off items in the house, one-by-one to a guy on a motorcycle who shows up at the front door every day to see what’s next. The different ways in which the parents pivot from trying to keep it together and wondering what the fuck’s the point is both funny and poignant — which kind of sums up this charming movie altogether.

Coma, dir. by Bertrand Bonello

I promise this will be the last time I mention how odd it was to see so many comedies at this year’s Berlinale. But who knew that Bertrand Bonello was going to come out with one of those aforementioned homemade lockdown COVID movies and that it was going to be laugh-out-loud funny? Yes, this is the Bonello who’s made THE PORNOGRAPHER, NOCTURAMA, THE HOUSE OF TOLERANCE and ZOMBI CHILD — not exactly a purveyor of guffaws, and yet with COMA he’s crafted a uniquely surreal and humorous tale about the psychological toll of being a teenager in lockdown and the tenuous grasp on reality that a lot of us are experiencing these days.

Bonello reunites with ZOMBI CHILD lead Louise Labeque, who spends her time in quarantine Zooming with friends about serial killers and fantasizing some memorably bizarre soap opera-style scenarios for her dolls to act out. That’s when she’s not watching videos featuring an influencer by the name of Patricia Coma (Julia Faure), who delivers increasingly funny and distressing messages about life, pain, the weather, and the importance of buying her handheld electronic device, hilariously called the Revelator. With the Revelator, you can do no wrong.

It’s not all played for laughs, though. Dreams have started to get weird for Labeque during lockdown. She enters a world that looks a lot like the woods of Twin Peaks. Some people seem to be getting stuck there and every time Labeque returns, there’s a worry that she too may end up lost in the woods, unable to find her way back. Sure, it’s not exactly a subtle allegory, but it’s effective. Years from now, the homemade lockdown COVID movies will be dusted off and held up to the light for reinspection, and I have a feeling COMA will be one that has legs to continue to be relevant outside of our current situation.

Urest (Unrueh), dir. by Cyril Schäublin

Like FLUX GOURMET and COMA, the Swiss film UNREST was part of the Encounters section, a program that is relatively new to the Berlinale and has quickly built up a reputation for being a rival to the Competition in terms of both quality and big-name talent. UNREST doesn’t have the later but it was one of the more memorable and subtly powerful films that I caught this year.

The conceit is rather perfect and can be perhaps summed up in three words: Swiss anarchist watchmakers. UNREST is partly the story of the filmmaker’s grandmother, someone who worked at a watchmaking factory, setting a particular part of the watch, the balance wheel, otherwise known as the “Unrueh” or “unrest.” The time is 1877, a period in which there was a significant amount of political unrest in the area, due in large part to a burgeoning anarchist movement that was taking root among the factory workers and townspeople. This unrest was due in part to the odd way in which time was managed in this Swiss town. The town operated on three clocks: factory time, municipal time, and telegraph time. Meanwhile, pressure is high in the factory to be more efficient. Everything is timed, including how long it takes you to make your one part of the watch, and how long it takes you to walk from one part of the factory to the other. New, quicker routes are always being tested, and if you make the mistake of showing up to your shift at the factory on municipal time rather than factory time, you’ll end up being eight minutes late and it’ll cost you.

Entering this scene is the other part of the story, the cartographer Pyotr Kropotkin, whose memoirs also helped inspire the movie. Kropotkin not only falls in with the anarchists, he’s inspired to create anarchist maps — maps that reflect how the people see the region, the names and boundaries they follow, rather than the municipality’s names and boundaries. For this area of Switzerland, where the town is running on three different clocks and the spoken language can flow naturally between German, French, Italian, English and Russian, the idea of anarchy almost seems like common sense. But what UNREST really highlights is how inhuman all of this attention toward efficiency and productivity is, which makes it a highly relevant film for today’s audiences.

The City and the City (I Poli ke i Poli), dir. by Christos Passalis, Syllas Tzoumerkas

The last film I caught from the Encounters section was one that felt more like a Forum selection — a semi-experimental socio-political film that attempts to look at a horrific tragedy in the past in a sort of time-is-a-flat-circle kind of way. That film is THE CITY AND THE CITY, by Christos Passalis, Syllas Tzoumerkas, and it charts the modern history of Thessaloniki, a city in Greece that had been home to generations of Jewish families before the horrors of WWII.

The disturbing details of what happened to the city of Thessaloniki during and after the war will likely be eye-opening to a lot of viewers — it certainly was to me — and I admired the way the film moved through these events. The filmmakers restage historical events in the modern-day city. One event that took place in an old town square that is now a construction site, is staged in the construction site, with vehicles moving around as Nazi officers conduct their routine humiliations upon the townspeople. It’s a technique that’s both budget-conscious and effective.

THE CITY AND THE CITY can be rather disorienting and impenetrable at first. Like a lot of film festival entries these days, it tends to blur the line between drama and documentary and the way it breaks the story into chapters is less helpful than it is confusing. But as the film went on, the message became clearer and the filmmakers began to win me over. There is a lot I admired about THE CITY AND THE CITY, not the least of which is that we have yet to come to terms with the crimes, tragedies and injustices of the twentieth century. As the movie proves, we literally pave over some of the most important parts of our collective history. And until we take a long hard look at our past and learn from our mistakes, we’ll continue to make a mess of things, needlessly hurt more people, and unintentionally keep the door open for another disaster.

Incredible but True (Incroyable mais vrai), dir. by Quentin Dupieux

There were three films in the Berlinale Special section that I was trying to get tickets to this year: Dario Argento’s DARK GLASSES (a reported return-to-form from the old maestro), Andrew Dominik’s new Nick Cave documentary THIS MUCH I KNOW TO BE TRUE, and the newest absurdity from Quentin Dupieux, INCREDIBLE BUT TRUE. Alas, I only managed one of the three.

But it’s a pretty good one. INCREDIBLE BUT TRUE tells the tale of Alain and Marie (Alain Chaba and Léa Drucker), who buy a new home that comes with a warning from the real estate agent. If you don’t want to be spoiled on something that happens in the first ten minutes of the film, skip this review and just know that INCREDIBLE BUT TRUE is about what you’d expect would happen if Dupieux were ever given the chance to helm an episode of The Twilight Zone. The short summary is: there’s a door in the floor of the basement that leads to a duct, and if you go down the duct, you end up upstairs, in the same house, but you’ll emerge both twelve hours in the future and three days younger.

It’s an intriguing set-up and the reveal, delivered by the real estate agent, it perhaps the funniest bit of comedic timing in the whole film. The different ways in which Alain and Marie deal with the presence of the magical gateway in the basement fuel a lot of the intrigue and humor in the film. Less successful, but perhaps more relevant as social commentary, is the subplot about Alain’s boss and his new electronic penis. The penis is connected to a smartphone app, so that “you can steer it.” Alain’s boss becomes obsessed not so much with his new electronic penis, but with how Alain and Marie react to the news about his new penis. Are they suitably impressed? Shouldn’t they be more impressed? This storyline does have some solid laughs, and it does share some thematic connections to the ways in which Marie becomes obsessed with the hole in the basement, but like a lot of INCREDIBLE BUT TRUE, it doesn’t quite resolve itself in the manner I was hoping. The movie is only 74 minutes long, and that can feel like a blessing during a fortnight of non-stop movie watching, but in this case it also feels like Dupieux introduced some compelling ideas and didn’t really find a way to bring them to a satisfying conclusion. The movie is a lot of fun, don’t get me wrong, but by the end I was hoping for something more meaningful.

Beba, dir. by Rebeca Huntt

Another important section of the Berlinale is Generations. This is where you’ll find your coming-of-age movies as well as a wide range of films that will appeal to kids, teens and/or young adults. Rebeca Huntt’s film BEBA, is definitely one of those young adult movies from the Generations section. It’s a bold and confrontational film that could best be described as a docu-diary. Huntt is behind the camera as well as narrating, and for 80 minutes she doesn’t waste a moment in trying to get at some very personal and specific yet widely relatable truths around parents, siblings, generational trauma, trying to break unhealthy patterns and coming to terms with your upbringing.

I use the term docu-drama because watching BEBA feels at times like reading someone’s diary. There’s so much intimacy here that it becomes uncomfortable. In fact, no one on screen appears to feel comfortable when Huntt is talking to them. Yet this friction creates an energy and the movie feels more alive than most. There’s an aim towards enlightenment that is commendable here and you get the feeling that the only way Huntt can get to that truth is to be as open and intimate as she can be.

Sublime, dir. by Mariano Biasin

Who knew that teenage boys in Argentina are still playing indie rock with guitars, bass and drums? As someone who was into doing such things when I was a teenager, it was one of the heartening things I took away from Mariano Biasin’s tender coming-of-age film SUBLIME. Thankfully, there were no Sublime covers played by the band of best friends at the center of the movie. Instead, they’re impressively playing all originals, with their songs sounding endearingly like what you might expect a bunch of songs written by teenage boys to sound like. Except, in this case, they’re not half bad.

In fact, the band is preparing to play a birthday party. It is, of course, a big deal. But, as is the case in these situations, and in this kind of movie, there are some complications. The biggest bit of drama is that the guitarist Manuel (Martín Miller) is in love with the other guitarist and singer Felipe (Teo Inama Chiabrando). The drummer’s sister also drops in to further stir the pot of sexual tension in these kids’ lives. It’s all handled with an impressive amount of sincerity and delicate grace. Director Mariano Biasin knows all the little details, gestures and glances to focus on. The little things that mean everything. It’s all heading to one question: Can Manu confess his true feelings without breaking up the band? I’m not sure the result has the significance it should, but it’s a rather heartwarming tale, well told. I could picture this movie playing well (and perhaps better) at Sundance.

Leonora addio, dir. by Paolo Taviani

Let’s wrap this coverage up by getting back to the big Competition category. Last year’s at home, streaming version of the festival gave me the opportunity to watch all the Competition titles. This meant that I was able to break my streak of not seeing the movie that wins the Golden Bear, which I naturally resumed this year. So, while I didn’t see the grand prize winning ALCARRÀS, I did see LEONORA ADDIO, which was the only movie I felt tempted to walk out on this year.

But this too is something of a tradition. Every year there’s at least one movie in the Competition section that, for one reason or another, I just can’t stomach. Two years ago it was THE SALT OF TEARS, last year it was ALBATROS (DRIFT AWAY). This year, it was the Italian historical curio LEONORA ADDIO, by Paolo Taviani. Taviani has been making movies for sixty years now, having won the Golden Bear in 2012 for CAESAR MUST DIE (which is why, I’m guessing, this movie ended up in the Competition section). This new movie wants to tell a poetic story about the Nobel Prize-winning writer Luigi Pirandello, someone who often wrote poems and stories that fell into the category of tragic farce — and who’s own life story of championing fascism could call into that category as well. Alas, none of the four stories in LEONORA ADDIO do anything to shed new light on the author or make a case for themselves as being all that interesting. Even the black and white photography used for most of the stories feels inauthentic and purposeless. I won’t get into the last chapter of the movie, shot in color and meant to take place in Brooklyn. It’s a legit fiasco.

The Passengers of the Night (Les passagers de la nuit), dir. by Mikhaël Hers

I had a better time with Mikhaël Hers’s latest film, THE PASSENGERS IN THE NIGHT. The title comes from a 1980s late-night radio show, loosely based on the real Radio France radio program Les choses de la nuit. The movie starts with a little prologue, set on the night François Mitterrand won the presidency, on May 10th, 1981. We then proceed to move through much of the decade, following a newly single mom (played by the always compelling Charlotte Gainsbourg) as she gets a job at the radio station and tries to raise her two teenaged kids.

Let’s just say the movie is eighties to a fault. Mikhaël Hers was born in 1975, and while he may have been fascinated enough with the 1980s to want to relive it through this story, his conception of the decade is thoroughly cinematic and sentimental in nature and devoid of any reality. The movie is even shot to look like a movie from the 1980s — rather than the way things actually looked like in the 1980s. This would be fine if it weren’t a movie that was trying to be both a sensitive coming-of-age story and one that deals with a homeless heroin addict no less. Nothing anyone said or did in the movie felt honest, it felt like the kind of stuff only people in movies say and do. Which again, would be fine in the context of a different story told in a different way. I don’t need people in movies to look or talk like people in real life, but if we’re spending so much time concerned about a character who’s living on the streets hooked on smack, I don’t need her to look like she’s just stumbled out of a Givenchy after party when she’s supposed to look half-dead.

It’s not a bad movie, just a frustrating one. Perhaps I should see the choice of shooting an 80’s-set movie with the soft lighting style of 80’s movies as a sort of loving homage. And maybe I should see the choice in making all the characters seem like characters out of an 80s movie, rather than people that actually existed, as an interesting metatexual commentary of some sort. The same goes with making their problems and the plot twists they encounter be completely unreal — the kind of stuff that only happens in 1980s movies. Maybe this is all a loving ode to cinema and nothing else. But instead, I read it all as kind of phony and disappointing.

Everything Will Be Ok, dir. by Rithy Panh

A name that pops up frequently in Berlinale Competition line-ups is Rithy Panh, the Cambodian filmmaker working out of France, who’s been making powerful films that often blur the line between art installations and documentaries. His newest film, EVERYTHING WILL BE OK, might bring back memories of his 2013 film THE MISSING PICTURE, in that it uses handmade figures to help tell his story. Like most of Panh’s films, this story involves taking a difficult look back at our recent past. This time around, Panh evokes George Orwell's Animal Farm by creating a topsy-turvy world where humans are imprisoned by a group of animals that are quickly devolving into a quasi-authoritarian state. Once again, Panh pulls no punches in showing the worst and most hypocritical aspects of 20th century humanity. It’s not an easy watch, and it may be an endurance test for some. But if you’ve been on the fence about becoming vegetarian, this movie might be the final push you’ve been waiting for. I didn’t like it as much as I did 2020’s IRRADIATED, but it’s hard not be impressed by his artistry. You get why Panh’s films tend to win the Berlinale’s special artistic contribution award.

Robe of Gems, dir. by Natalia López

Some people were greatly impressed by Natalia López’s feature debut, the meditative Mexican crime picture ROBE OF GEMS. I can understand why. Few movies at this year’s Berlinale were as well composed as this one. If cinema is all about telling the story visually, ROBE OF GEMS is nearly perfect. Certainly, the jury thought so, awarding the film the Silver Bear Jury Prize. I wish I shared that enthusiasm. While I admired the framing and the meaning in every shot, I also found it meandering and largely devoid of the emotion and tension it seemed to be aiming for. If the point is all about mood, it’s got that in spades. You feel the corruption and the brutality. As a narrative, a story about a kidnapping and the ripple-effect consequences and the many people touched by such acts of violence, I had trouble getting engaged.

I actually want to take a mulligan on this one. I was seated in the front section of the CUBIX movie theater — in theater number nine, which has a screen about the size of a three story building. When you have to turn your head 45-degrees from side to side in order to admire the composition of a shot, you’re not sitting in a good seat. The immensity of the image in front of me was overwhelming, and made the movie all the more difficult to get into. I’m looking forward to seeing it again at some point.

That Kind of Summer (Un été comme ça), dir. by Denis Côté

After last year’s SOCIAL HYGIENE and this year’s THAT KIND OF SUMMER, French Canadian filmmaker Denis Côté is turning into a new favorite. The two movies are dramatically different though. Where SOCIAL HYGIENE was a witty comedy involving actors speaking to each other across the static shot of a landscape, THAT KIND OF SUMMER is a feverishly tense drama, with moments of harrowing revelation and people coming to painfully realized truths about the human condition. There are a few laughs here and there, but even these are rather uncomfortable.

It’s been a few weeks since I sat with this movie, and I’ve kind of been sitting with it since, and I still don’t know how to easily summarize the movie. It takes place at a sort of sexual rehab clinic, where three women (the amazing trio of Larissa Corriveau, Laure Giappiconi and Aude Mathieu) have volunteered to stay, knowing that they need help, or that people who care about them think they need help. Each woman has different ways in which their sexuality is, in some way, interfering or even taking over their lives. Although, for Aude Mathieu’s Geisha, as she see’s it, she just likes to fuck and that’s not necessarily a problem, even though her desires are getting her into more extreme scenarios with the potential for violence.

Nothing is straightforward though. The movie spends 137 minutes constantly shifting the framework of the discussion. There is deep sadness in the past of Larissa Corriveau’s Léonie, especially an experience she details in a haunting monologue that is one of the most dramatically charged moments of the entire festival. Yet, none of these women can easily fit the labels of victims or survivors. They’re simply human stories — the kind of taboo stories that movies often avoid getting into because they’re not easily addressed. Too often movies want to moralize about these issues instead of treating them as another facet of human nature.

Côté has not only made a movie that successfully avoids moralizing, he’s made a movie featuring no small amount of sexual acts being visualized and described and yet he’s never eroticizing, exploiting or leering at his characters or the subject matter. He’s asking, what are we about? Why do we act and think the way we do? It’s a small miracle of a movie. One of the best of the festival and certainly the year. It’s deeply uncomfortable at times, but that’s mostly due to the fact that we’ve been programmed to avoid these kind of questions.

A Piece of Sky (Drii Winter), by Michael Koch

I didn't catch all of the films in this year's Berlinale Competition section, but given the eight of them I did see, DRII WINTER (my preferred title) would have gotten my vote for Golden Bear. It wasn't my favorite, but it is a beautiful piece of work that so perfectly expresses its themes and concerns through visual composition and some unexpected storytelling flourishes straight out classical Greek theater.

What good is a man? In particular, what good is a man who's fallen ill, and who's only sense of purpose has been his strength in working with his hands. Marco is a quiet outsider who's fallen in love with a local barmaid. They get married, but a lot of the local villagers don't really trust Marco, even though he's a reliable, strong worker and farmhand. The thing is, Marco is beginning to realize something's wrong with him. He starts to empathize with the farm animals -- what's their value if they don't live up to the farmer's expectations? Well, they get put down or sent to the slaughterhouse. Is Marco any different? Are any of us? The whole idea of God as the farmer tending to his flock is made literal here, in a way, and it resonates perfectly well as Marco begins to feel resentment toward his employer.

A PIECE OF SKY is beautifully filmed in the Swiss mountains, where everything is at an angle. The landscape seems to defy the laws of physics at times. Bodies of water seem to float in the sky. Clouds merge with rocks. Director Michael Koch and cinematographer Armin Dierolf give the impression that this village is indeed one step away from a sort of heavenly ether. Townspeople even drop in from time to time like a choir of angels to punctuate the film's themes.

It is sometimes painful, sometimes deeply moving to watch Marco take that final step, but the movie avoids getting dragged down into misery -- it's more intellectually curious than that. Instead, we continue to wonder about our own place and purpose in this world. There but for the grace of god, and so forth. How far removed are we from beasts of burden? We're all heading in one direction, and how willing are we to take care of one another when we get there?

My only criticism is that it feels like the movie gets a little too distracted from time to time. It exceeds the two-hour mark and I got the sense that it could have been perhaps more effective with fifteen minutes shaved off. But it's a minor complaint for a movie that will stay with me for some time.

The Novelist’s Film (So-seol-ga-ui yeong-hwa), dir. by Hong Sangsoo

It’s not easy to continue coming up with reasons for why I love Hong Sangsoo movies. At this point he’s become extremely prolific, coming out with a new movie for the Berlinale three years in a row. This time, THE NOVELIST’S FILM allowed him to take home the Silver Bear Grand Jury Prize. And once again, I loved the movie, perhaps even more than last year’s excellent INTRODUCTION.

The reason I find it difficult to critique a Hong Sangsoo film is due to how precise a director he is. He shoots in a series of long, often static, takes. His compositions are clearly well thought out and meaningful, as is every line of dialogue. In fact, his dialogue is so considered that something someone says in an off-hand fashion at the start of the film will be made important by a revelation made later on. So, each scene deliberately builds on the last, slowly generating drama and creating a deeply rewarding experience.

With this level of craftsmanship, it feels wrong to try and suggest that something should have been done differently. These are precise movies that couldn’t be any other way than how they are. The scene in THE NOVELIST’S FILM, where the titular novelist is taught a phrase in sign language, and she repeats the phrase again and again — it couldn’t have been any other way. If she repeated the phrase one time fewer, or one time more, it wouldn’t be right. You can’t easily explain the reason for this, but when you watch it, you understand why.

This is the one film I was able to catch twice during the festival. I suppose it was my favorite, though if I was pushed I’d probably say THAT KIND OF SUMMER was the better film, though still, not my favorite. I adore just about every scene in THE NOVELIST’S FILM, and I believe that Hong Sangsoo and Lee Hye-young have created one of his most memorable characters with Jun-hee, the novelist who travels to visit an old colleague and ends up running into more characters from her past, as well as an actress who inspires her to make her first movie. Jun-hee is a truth teller. The kind of person who can’t bite her tongue for the sake of politeness, which in the mannered world of a Hong Sangsoo film makes her something of a tornado. But it also makes her someone who’s difficult to be around, no matter what cultural rules you’re navigating through. With her gloves, her wit and her drive to cut through the bullshit, Jun-hee is a fantastic character to watch, and while she may not be without her own flaws, she’s fun to root for.

I won’t go into too many details, even though I don’t think this is a movie you can spoil, but while the end of the movie is left somewhat open, I think we can see that Jun-hee’s quest for the truth has burned another bridge between her and the actress. It’s kind of a perfect ending to a perfect movie, told with the kind of delicacy that few other directors alive could pull off. My second viewing of THE NOVELIST’S FILM was the last screening of the festival, and the last movie I’ll write about here. If you got to this point, my hat’s off. Thanks for reading.

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[23] BAFICI (19 de Abril al 01 de Mayo de 2022)

Viens je t'emmène (Clausura)

La interrupción de los prejuicios

La película de clausura de este BAFICI no pudo ser más resplandeciente. En Viens je t'emmène (2022), Alain Guiraudie sorprende con una obra humanista, política y sexual en la que nerds, gays, prostitutas, inmigrantes árabes y varias minorías más están representadas no únicamente con respeto, sino también con humor, empatía, desprejuicio y sentimiento. Un universo fraternal donde lo marginal es bienvenido y que, como lo hacía la también espléndida The other side of hope (Kaurismaki, 2017), recurre al humor para escenificar un drama social profundo, en este caso de Francia pero también de todo el mundo. Vínculos de solidaridad, escenas comiquísimas (¡los coitus interruptus!), situaciones bizarras de enredos, personajes adorables, conforman así una amalgama única que, por fuera de cualquier postulado de solemnidad, suma luz y esperanza filantrópicas a un planeta en conflicto permanente.

Happer's comet (Competencia oficial internacional)

Belleza formalista por fuera de los significados

Es sin dudas incensurable la fotografía de un film como Happer's comet (Tyler Taormina, 2022): planos nocturnos pictóricos y oníricos (pocas obras audiovisuales pueden aludir tan cabalmente al genial Edward Hopper), música exigua pero penetrante, la naturaleza y los objetos como protagonistas, todo esto dispuesto con preciosismo, iluminación y delicadeza colosales que, sin embargo, jamás explicitan, cierran o siquiera sugieren significaciones. Una experiencia incomparable, exclusivamente visual, donde, entre los pocos personajes reconocibles, una mujer llama por teléfono sin lograr comunicarse o busca entre plantas algo que no encuentra: metáfora, quizás, del público que persigue algún sentido concreto en el film, algo que Hammer's comet no ofrece nunca pero que, no obstante, no por eso deja de representar una experiencia estética cautivante.

Small, slow but steady (Trayectorias)

¿Quién dijo que todo está perdido?

De la plétora de escenas hermosas que tiene Small, slow but steady (Sho Miyake, 2022) resultan por demás maravillosas aquellas en las que vemos a su joven protagonista conmoverse ante los gestos de humanidad, de sensibilidad, de respeto de su entorno. Keiko, una joven boxeadora japonesa con una discapacidad auditiva por la que padeció bullying de niña no deja de reconfortarse así ante el lado bueno del mundo y lo expresa sin tapujos con sonrisas híperexpresivas, reverencias de admiración u ojos lagrimeantes. Emotiva sin subrayados, mínima pero contundente, genuina en sus intenciones y en el retrato de su heroína, la película adora a sus personajes en general y a Keiko en particular, mostrando el estoicismo, la sensibilidad y la templanza de la joven en todos sus ámbitos, desde los intensos combates y entrenamientos de boxeo, hasta su trabajo meticuloso como staff en un hotel o comiendo tortas con amigas en un restaurante. El deporte como descarga y expresión del sufrimiento pasado, la lectura reveladora de un diario íntimo, la lealtad a sus profesores y rivales de combate, la tolerancia e integración como lenguaje que une, todo esto expone un film que, al igual que su protagonista, todavía se permite creer en una sociedad mejor.

Le prince (Competencia oficial internacional)

Apostar por el amor

Los 125 minutos de Le prince (Lisa Bierwirth, 2021) no sólo no tienen un plano de más sino que tampoco tienen ninguna escena que no deslumbre por su precisión, potencia y humanismo. A la idea original de contar la relación afectiva entre una curadora que busca aplicar como directora de una galería de arte en Frankfurt y un inmigrante congoleño indocumentado, la realizadora sumará un tratamiento sutil e inteligente del juego de confianza y desconfianza ente ellos y su entorno, todo respaldado, además, por obras de arte abstracto, música y comidas africanas, la esplendorosa ciudad alemana y escenas tan cálidas (los encuentros íntimos entre ambos, sus rostros comunicándose en primer plano) como sorprendentemente cómicas (la secuencia de la protagonista rompiendo los diamantes resulta sublime). Una obra que no emite juicio de valor sobre ninguno de sus personajes, sino que los acompaña y comprende, asombrando por su profundidad, actuaciones, guión y la siempre bienvenida apuesta a la complejidad (y a las historias de amor).

Descente, Transparent, I am; Our ark; Subserotic bulge y Shelter (Competencia oficial internacional)

De catarsis, distancias, crudezas, amor y simulacros

A lo largo de sus breves 11 minutos Descente (Mehdi Fikri, 2021) logra concientizar sobre el conflicto social, ético y humano que significó el estado de emergencia declarado en París durante 2015 a causa de los atentados terroristas. Una medida que dio libertad absoluta a las fuerzas policiales y, con ella, a las conocidas situaciones de excesos, peligrosidad y abusos de autoridad. Así, y a través de planos, desplazamientos de cámara y un blanco y negro inquietantes, el cortometraje logra construir un clima de tensión que plantea crudamente, pero sin declamar, una idea cabal sobre el riesgo de este tipo de medidas.

Por su parte, Transparent, I am (Yuri Muraokase, 2021) se introduce como un poema ilustrado en el que la catarsis, la oscuridad y la muy lograda experimentación animada están al servicio de expresar un trauma pasado que nunca termina de clarificarse del todo, volviendo a esta obra personalísima, también, bastante críptica.

Sobria, científica, futurista, hasta políticamente incorrecta Our ark (Deniz Tortum & Kathryn Hamilton, 2021) expone con potencia casi académica la tesis del mundo como simulacro a través de imágenes digitalizadas primero de animales en extinción pero luego de diversos rincones del planeta. Una obra que presenta con ascetismo este universo novedoso y además perturbador, en tanto, según su tesis, el mundo de los simulacros digitales podría reemplazar, si es que ya no lo hace, la realidad concreta que conocemos.

También catártica, también críptica, compuesta casi en su totalidad por planos fijos de fotos médicas, Subserotic bulge (Flis Holland, 2021) narra por medio de voz en off la historia de un padecimiento físico personal. Una experiencia que pese a su distanciamiento estético y formal, llega a transmitir el dolor y el mundo revolucionado, desconcertado, de su protagonista.

Por último, Shelter (Erika Kwok, 2022) se destaca como el cortometraje más narrativo, ficcional y clásico de esta selección. Un cuento hongkonés taciturno y lacónico sobre el amor, las lealtades, la admiración, la juventud local y hasta la explotación laboral. Mosaico emotivo y social que se luce en su recorrido por la ciudad, sus restaurantes precarios y calles nocturnas y que con su final angustiante culmina una historia con un fondo desanimado omnipresente.

La croisade (Competencia oficial internacional)

Utopía nouvellevaguiana

En La Crosidade (2021), así como en Amante fiel (2018), Louis Garrel vuelve a filmar con una cercanía, respeto y ternura descomunales a personajes preadolescentes, esta vez en una comedia utópica, urbana y conmovedora. Ya desde la graciosísima secuencia inicial (con el pequeño protagonista Joseph en modo Cleo de La edad media), la película desplegará un ritmo narrativo sumamente entretenido y dinámico para exhibir, con ingenio e inventiva, una fábula idealista y reflexiva desde su contenido, pero clásica y ligera desde sus formas. Hijos poniendo en cuestión las certezas de sus padres, una pareja adulta en crisis pero sincera en su emociones, París, sus calles y un bosque escondido, y hasta el desierto de Sahara en toda su frondosidad se conjugan en este film que, por sus maneras, su fluidez, su libertad y la prestancia de sus personajes remite a lo mejor de la siempre añorada Nouvelle Vague.

Lavandería Nancy Sport (Competencia oficial argentina)

Lo bizarro y lo absurdo en un policial de pueblo

Junín de los Andes es el escenario donde transcurre Lavandería Nancy Sport (Agu Grego, 2022), un policial de pueblo en el que la investigación de las causas de un siniestro será la excusa para desplegar numerosos personajes y situaciones delirantes, encabezados por Nancy, la dueña de un lavadero y ávida promotora de un jabón en polvo de dudosa calidad. Con la cuestión pueblerina como bandera tanto en la presentación de los escenarios como en el registro de los personajes, la película logra algunas secuencias cómicas que resultan originales y divertidas pero sin embargo parece desinflarse con cierta cadencia narrativa aletargada y sobre todo con una exacerbación de lo bizarro per se, proponiendo situaciones absurdas “voladas” que a veces quedan como signos aislados, sueltos, que no se perciben orgánicos ni logran construir ningún sentido. Más allá de esto, y volviendo a los aciertos, se lucen en el film todos sus actores, captando el tono desencajado, extraño, campechano que exige la película y también varios diálogos escatológico/delirantes que, probablemente, serán antológicos en esta edición del evento.

La Mif (Competencia oficial vanguardia y género)

Admirablemente humana

Difícil procesar la profundidad de una película como La Mif (Fred Baillif, 2021). Una historia que atraviesa y moviliza desde su trama, su construcción y sus actuaciones en las vivencias de un grupo de chicas adolescentes que residen en un centro de asistencia y también del grupo de profesionales que está a su cargo. Ex trabajador social durante una década y además documentalista, Baillif imprime su experiencia para construir con crudeza y cercanía una ficción anclada en numerosos elementos de la realidad (el lugar es efectivamente un centro asistencial, muchas de las jóvenes y trabajadores residen allí) que refleja los vínculos y los traumas familiares -muchas veces dolorosísimos- de estas jóvenes.

Dividido en episodios con los nombres de cada protagonista, el contenido angustiante del film será escoltado con un tratamiento formal sorprendente que incluye un montaje notable que cierra escenas para abrirlas posteriormente y una iluminación en claroscuros que acompañará los movimientos de opresión/catarsis que viven las chicas y los terapeutas.

Pero tratar un tema tan delicado y lograr esa entrega, esa confianza, esa intimidad por parte de los intérpretes, es, sin dudas, otro de los méritos excluyentes del realizador suizo, proeza a la que se suma poder plasmar, asimismo, dentro de esa oscuridad muchas veces virulenta e impulsiva -cruzada por cuestiones políticas, económicas y morales- momentos luminosos, misericordiosos, liberadores. El retrato de un grupo vulnerable que se presenta como una cofradía y que, a pesar de la ambivalencia o rechazos fluctuantes, viven la institución como un sostén reparador entre tanta hostilidad vivida. Una obra admirablemente humana y sensible.

Clementina (Competencia oficial internacional)

Sinigual y barroca

Así como La edad media, Clementina (Constanza Feldman, Agustín Mendilaharzu, 2022) es otra producción de El pampero cine sobre la cotidianeidad de una pareja durante la pandemia. También protagonizada por 2 novios en la vida real -esta vez sin presencia de niños- y también comedia, la película, sin embargo, se distingue por una forma diferente de hacer humor, menos arrolladora, más fantasiosa y más centrada en las sutilezas, los gags verbales y visuales y la circulación de varios personajes secundarios inmersos en situaciones pandémicas y ridículas. Un film donde el trabajo con el sonido, desde el inicio, ya anticipa el tono, el lenguaje singularísimo que tendrá la obra, secuencias iniciales que sorprenden y divierten además con un despliegue insólito y barroco de muñecos, objetos y figuras dignas de la Grey Gardens de los 70's. Con todos estos recursos, los directores van cimentando un microcosmos particular -y una heroína sumamente querible- en el que escenas como la de la sopa con jengibre, la sucesión interminable de tapas de discos de Violeta Parra o la aparición de la encargada de mudanzas "psicóloga" se destacan dentro de una propuesta en la que tampoco falta la mezcla con las otras artes (desde el arte románico hasta la música medieval pasando por Rohmer) y que se vuelve personal y sinigual a la vez.

(La repiten el Jueves 28, 20:50, en el CCSM1)

Proyecto fantasma (Competencia oficial internacional)

Comedia esotérica, actual y desprejuiciada

Además de ser una película amena y amigable, Proyecto fantasma (Roberto Doveris, 2022) tiene varios atributos originales: por un lado, la presencia de lo sobrenatural transitada sin alarmismo, tenebrosidad o desesperación en la figura misteriosa de espectro animado (¡y no binario!); por otro, una representación también despojada de la homosexualidad de su personaje principal, incorporada con naturalidad a la trama sin convertirse en una cuestión llamativa, conflictiva o dramática.

Una comedia esotérica, desprejuiciada y que también resulta actual al incluir en su historia grácilmente situaciones contemporáneas como la masividad de los youtubers e instagramers o el interés por la astrología. Un proyecto que, cuenta su director, se realizó mayormente una vez levantado en Chile el confinamiento obligatorio por la pandemia, espíritu de liberación y jocosidad que se percibe en los diálogos y las relaciones entre todos los personajes. Sólo una pequeña digresión: quizás con todavía un poco más de riesgo, de osadía en su tono cómico y/o de coming of age (siguiendo la línea, por ejemplo, de secuencias notables como la del inicio en el hospital durante la admisión para recibir preservativos gratis o la del encuentro sexual entre el protagonista y el espectro), el resultado hubiese sido aún más disfrutable.

Sean eternxs (Competencia oficial argentina)

Lo popular desde adentro

Entre los abundantes atractivos que exhibe la filmografía tan singular de Raúl Perrone sin dudas tiene un lugar especial el hecho de narrar y centralizar la realidad cotidiana de los jóvenes populares de su Ituzaingó natal desde adentro, sin manifestaciones de pintoresquismo o solemnidad. Un acto ético y político que Sean eternxs (2022), su nueva película, vuelve a ejercer con un registro documental personalísimo que le pone el hombro, la cámara, la escucha y la comprensión a estos chicos, sus valores, espacios, problemas y gustos. Así, una vez más, Perrone le confiere un trato de celebridad a sus protagonistas, invirtiendo, trastocando, como en el carnaval (presente en el film en una de tantas secuencias bellísimas), las jerarquías, el estereotipo de figuras, historias y escenarios preponderantes y dominantes en la mayoría de las producciones locales.

Una propuesta única que suma además un tratamiento, un acercamiento estético esplendoroso, hasta devoto, hacia los personajes, sus cuerpos y sus voces (las escenas subacuáticas son sublimes) y en la que la cita a la película Yo, un negro (1958) de Rouch reafirma este gesto, este interés decidido de encuadrar en primer plano, y de manera genuina, lo que muchas veces está fuera de campo o incluso en el margen del cine argentino.

(La película seguirá online 2 semanas en la web vivamoscultura)

The novelist’s film (Trayectorias)

Hong Sang-soo: lo eterno en lo efímero

The novelist's film (2022) es otra película de Hong Sang-soo donde dan ganas de quedarse a vivir. Con su habitual cadencia tranquila, sosegada, el maestro coreano presenta en su última producción un discurrir sensible de encuentros fortuitos, trayectos circulares, diálogos sinceros, borracheras compartidas y personajes que disfrutan lo efímero, siempre con la naturaleza como fondo de la historia. Reuniones en librerías, comidas en restaurantes, una niña que mira por la ventana o hasta el proyecto de filmar una película, todo en el film es retratado por Hong con un estilo que, no por tenue o etéreo, deja de volverse resplandeciente y potente. Una obra en la cual, además, el realizador vuelve a deslizar su visión de mundo sobre la vida y el cine (si es que en él pueden deslindarse): una existencia en la que hay que disfrutar del paseo antes de que se termine y un arte en el que el argumento no siempre es lo más importante.

En ese sentido, los conceptos de carisma, rentabilidad y popularidad serán cuestionados y hasta ridiculizados por las protagonistas: en efecto, las salas de cine que presenta Hong en pantalla siempre están vacías, ratificando que no todo en sus films gira en relación a ganar dinero o atraer intempestivamente al público. Así, y liberado de la esclavitud del argumento, Hong Sang-soo y su talento se permiten emocionar simplemente con una secuencia de su heroína armando un ramo de flores silvestres o mostrando a sus personajes recorriendo un parque solitario en otoño. Una exaltación, una celebración de la belleza fugaz que este autor renueva y supera con cada nuevo largometraje.

La edad media (Competencia oficial argentina)

Iluminar el abismo

Ya en La vendedora de fósforos (2018), Alejo Moguillansky había hecho de la cita literaria y cinéfila un recurso tan conmovedor como admirable. En La edad media (2022), junto a su pareja Luciana Acuña y su pequeña hija Cleo, esta intertextualidad vuelve a resultar central ahora para iluminar, para aliviar el abismo de angustia, encierro e incertidumbre que representó la cuarentena estricta durante la primera etapa de la pandemia. Así, la experiencia del confinamiento de esta familia desembocará creativamente en una película colmada, saturada de ingenio, gracia, absurdo y lucidez. Una historia que siempre redobla su apuesta cómica y que, a través de la voz de Tom Waits (en la hermosa Hold on), de la referencia a 2 obras de Beckett (Rockaby y Esperando a Godot) y también de un montaje brillante, se tiñe de una nostalgia y un existencialismo que la vuelven aún más especial, aún más única, aún más balsámica.

De este modo, y con determinación, la película responde vital y enfáticamente a un fuera de campo tenebroso signado por la crisis sanitaria y lo hace desplegando con perspicacia numerosas ideas y elementos que incluyen, además de las citas mencionadas, los chanchullos económicos e hilarantes de Cleo con un moto delivery, pasos de danza liberadores, un punching ball, clases virtuales fallidas, una perra adorable, un productor teatral frustrado, la luna real y también la luna de Méliès. Dentro de este relato encantador, resultan asimismo insoslayables las actuaciones de sus protagonistas -ni hablar de la extraordinaria niña-, quienes se lucen con sus gestos, su entrega, su soltura y sus movimientos alrededor de cada rincón de su casa. Un espacio doméstico de resistencia que, al igual que los personajes, se irá despojando de lo material para imaginar, para concebir, otra forma de transitar la vida. Efectos de un cambio subjetivo que, después de un momento crítico y más allá del humor (o junto con él), dejaría marcas en estos seres memorables.

(La repiten el Martes 26 a 19:00 en una función gratuita en el Parque Centenario)

El desierto rojo (Rescates/Homenajes)

Una mujer bajo influencia

"Me siento como si no hubiese piso", se desahoga Giuliana con Corrado en El desierto rojo (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1964). Una sensación que dará la clave formal y argumentativa de este clásico en el que una mujer, luego de un accidente del que no logra recobrarse del todo, se separa poco a poco de la realidad. Los ruidos perturbadores, los encuadres excéntricos y fragmentados, la neblina marina y las deambulaciones solitarias van construyendo y simbolizando de este modo el mundo interior endeble y perplejo de la protagonista, un distanciamiento con el entorno concreto que sólo la relación con su hijo, las conversaciones existencialistas con su amante, la evocación de una playa solitaria y paradisíaca o el deseo sexual parecen mitigar.

Otra obra colosal de Antonioni en donde el uso -o mejor dicho, el dominio- del technicolor (el azul, el rojo, el rosa como parte de la trama) y el cinemascope quedan dispuestos magistralmente al tratamiento del argumento edificando secuencias notables como la "orgía" en el cuarto próximo al mar o el cuento marítimo de Giuliana a su hijo. Así como Prisioneros de la tierra o La cifra impar (Antonioni, casualmente, también adaptaría un cuento de Cortázar para su genial Blow up del '66), El desierto rojo es un film que sigue vivo, que emociona y produce admiración muchas décadas después de su estreno.

(La repiten el Miércoles 27, 15:30 en el Gaumont 1)

La cifra impar (Rescates/Homenajes)

Antín: filmar, escribir y leer con la cámara

"Más que director de cine, soy escritor, y más que escritor, soy lector", expresó el célebre Manuel Antín en la proyección por los 60 años de La cifra impar (1962) en una Sala Lugones colmada. Confesión de un triple entrecruzamiento de roles que, lejos de limitar, potenció la filmografía de este autor en general y de esta película en particular. Basada en el cuento de Cortázar Las cartas de mamá (1959), La cifra impar sigue deslumbrando 6 décadas después con su despliegue soberbio del lenguaje cinematográfico en escenas y secuencias donde los movimientos y angulaciones de cámara, los encuadres, el montaje paralelo, la iluminación, los planos detalle y la voz en over no sólo muestran sino que también escriben, ritman, acompasan la historia. Un relato doliente (antecesor de Circe e Intimidad de los parques, otras adaptaciones cortazarianas) en el que además la música, los sonidos, la dirección de actores y el trabajo sobre los escenarios naturales (¡París!, ¡los trenes!) están al servicio de rubricar, de expresar formalmente este argumento sombrío digno del mejor film noir acerca de 2 hermanos enamorados de la misma mujer que el gran Antin supo filmar, escribir y leer con genialidad.

Corps social; Complet 6 pièces; Presque un siècle (Pascale Bodet)

Multifacética y singular

3 películas, 3 generaciones de mujeres representadas, 3 años de producción diferentes y, también, 3 concepciones diversas del cine. Todo esto puede pesquisarse en sólo una de las muestras de la retrospectiva de la directora francesa Pascale Bodet, presente en Buenos Aires para acompañar el festival.

El programa comenzó con Corps social (1992), cortometraje debut de la realizadora que en sus 6 minutos de duración entremezcla lo lúdico y lo rutinario dentro de una historia donde, con la estructura de un film mudo a color, se presenta a una protagonista risueña -y que hace sonreír- para subvertir la monotonía cotidiana de su pueblo.

Pero si el talante más experimental prevalecía en su primera obra, será lo cómico el aspecto que comande Complet 6 pièces (2012), relato episódico sutilmente irónico sobre la insatisfacción de las trabajadoras del mundo textil parisino en el que un sketch sobre un vestido azul polifuncional será especialmente hilarante y resplandeciente en el marco de una fábula que también cuestiona, incluso de manera grácil, las relaciones de poder.

Por último, la faceta documentalista, hasta retratista, de Bodet quedará plasmada esplendorosamente en Presque un siècle (2019), semblanza entrañable, detallista y luminosa de la abuela de 99 años de la realizadora y su día a día en un departamento de París. Los gestos, la voz, la relación con un vecino muy particular, sus vínculos familiares, sus acciones repetidas, su relación con la muerte (y con la vida), serán reflejados, y hasta resguardados, en esta manifestación de amor tan minimalista como verdadera y poderosa.

(Repiten el Miércoles 27, 11:30 en el CCSM 2)

Prisioneros de la tierra (Rescates)

Restauración de un clásico nacional inoxidable

Otro de los atractivos notables de este festival es la presentación de una copia restaurada de la obra cumbre local Prisioneros de la tierra (Mario Soffici, 1939), film celebrado por el mismísimo Borges por su originalidad y que representa una de las primeras superproducciones de las historia de nuestro cine. Una película basada en cuentos de Horacio Quiroga, protagonizada por los célebres Ángel Magaña y Francisco Petrone y que, a más de 80 años de su estreno, sigue deslumbrando como un retrato comprometido que representa y denuncia el drama de los peones yerbateros explotados en Misiones. Junto a esta temática social, Soffici se luce desplegando un ritmo narrativo ágil y escenas fulgurantes que van desde un primerísimo primer plano apasionado de un beso para abrir el relato hasta la agonía resignada de una joven atacada por su padre borracho pasando por una bellísima canción guaraní de los mensú en el barco que los lleva a los yerbatales. El agobiante calor misionero, el trato de esclavos que reciben los trabajadores, la venganza del héroe, el sacrificio por amor y los escenarios naturales que pone en pantalla el film siguen estableciéndolo, sin dudas, como una pieza insoslayable de nuestra filmografía.

Avec amour et acharnement (Trayectorias)

El amor, el miedo y las miradas

Qué película asombrosa Avec amour et acharnement (Claire Denis, 2021). La maestra francesa Denis sacude en su última obra con un desfile volcánico de miradas (presentes y ausentes), planos hiperexpresivos y personajes tan verdaderos como cínicos que padecen, de alguna u otra forma, un pasado acuciante. La combinación amor/miedo -la secuencia de Juliette Binoche conversando por teléfono y reencontrándose con su ex pareja es casi asfixiante de conmovedora- filmada, representada, de forma sublime e inserta además en un contexto social de pandemia y persistencia del racismo.

De esta forma, y dentro de este despliegue a la vez intenso y detallista, la directora articula con un estilo singularísimo los encuadres, la música, la sensualidad, los espacios, ¡y hasta los usos del tapabocas!, confirmando su destreza narrativa, siempre atenta, también, a los conflictos humanos de su territorio. Un discurrir dramático en el que, si bien sucinto, no falta tampoco el humor y en el que el desconcierto y la virulencia -especialmente en las secuencias finales- también están presentes. Un film abierto a una plétora de sensaciones profundas y variadas, características que se extienden a la filmografía ecléctica y excelsa de esta magnífica directora.

(La repiten el Miércoles 27, 22:35, en el Lorca 1)

Quisiera llegar pronto; Huesos de azúcar; Te mentí; El nacimiento de una mano; Una habitación simple; El aliento (Competencia argentina)

Entre lo experimental, lo cómico y lo filosófico

Casi siempre arriesgados y desestructurados, los cortos nacionales del BAFICI, incluidos desde el año pasado en la Competencia oficial argentina junto a los largometrajes, vuelven a irrumpir con ideas originales y novedosas que ayudan a descubrir otras formas de concebir el cine.

Así, apenas con un auto, un día de lluvia y relatos sobre personas y sus dobles que aparecen impresos debajo de la pantalla, Quisiera llegar pronto (Julieta Amalric, 2022) logra crear una atmósfera particular abriendo múltiples sentidos e interpretaciones sobre la mente y sus derivas imaginativas.

También muy singular es el breve episodio animado Huesos de azúcar (Florentina González, 2022), la presentación de dos seres indefinidos (¿cocodrilos?, ¿dinosaurios?) que lidian con vicisitudes físicas, con la naturaleza e incluso con problemas de conexión a internet. Dibujos, movimientos, volúmenes y una trama colmada de inventiva, extrañeza y desconcierto.

Más tradicional en su forma narrativa y con una trama ingeniosa y hasta filosófica que combina los encuentros fortuitos, el arte de engañar y teorías sobre el desgano en las relaciones amorosas, Te mentí (Rodrigo Caprotti, 2022) llama la atención con actuaciones y diálogos notables y también por cómo logra condensar la perspicacia de su argumento en sólo 10 minutos colmados de fuerza.

Y si hablábamos de originalidad, El nacimiento de una mano (Lucila Podestá, 2022) se vuelve un trance tan personal como libre e ingenioso en el que desfilan texturas, tipografías, recuerdos, radiografías y animaciones. Una composición graciosa, lúdica, sensible y resiliente que se dirige al público con ternura y transparencia construyendo un microcosmos inefable en el mejor de los sentidos.

Ya desde su comienzo Una habitación simple (Nicolás Dolensky, 2022) despierta risas y disfrute en la platea. Las carcajadas de su protagonista adorable (¿la actriz se tienta durante la escena?, ¿ese estallido es parte del guión?) anunciarán una historia pequeña y enorme a la vez sobre la exigencia de las apariencias, sobre el mandato de mostrarse exitoso, en este caso, dentro del mundo de la actuación. Irónica, absurda, empática, inteligente: una experiencia deleitable que sin dudas está para muchos más minutos y despliegue.

Por último, Aliento (Hernán Biasotti, Franco Cerana, Alejandro Magneres, 2022), atrapa con su habilidad creativa para exponer imágenes, sonidos y montajes inusuales en la fábula agreste de un espectro que deambula perdido y vengativo entre paisajes perturbadores y puntillistas y secuencias que se tildan, desdibujan o están fuera de tracking. Una excursión visual/formal sumamente lograda, al servicio de una trama igual de inquietante y alucinatoria que su forma.

(Las repiten el Sábado 23, 16:10, en el CCSM 2 y el Lunes 25, 15:45, en el Cosmos)

Marx può aspettare (Trayectorias)

Filmar, recordar y reconstruir

Las películas como catarsis y el cine como posibilidad de homenaje, reparación y reconstrucción: todo esto expone Marx può aspettare (2021), el film más reciente del legendario Marco Bellocchio donde el realizador italiano devela la historia dolorosa de su hermano mellizo Camilo. Retrato profundo y por demás personal en el que el autor reúne a toda su familia (con varios integrantes sencillamente entrañables) para recordar la vida de este personaje cuya existencia atravesó dramáticamente a su núcleo familiar. Un documental que, además de testimoniar el carácter autobiográfico de varias obras premiadas y reconocidas de Bellocchio, indaga con minuciosidad un caso de padecimiento subjetivo e intrafamiliar a través de confesiones emotivas, fotografías de infancia y videos de juventud que, irremediablemente, suscitan nostalgia y melancolía. Una sombra, una ausencia, que gravita constantemente a lo largo de la película y que da pie a un título sugerente cuyo significado será develado durante la proyección: a veces, incluso en el período revolucionario de finales de los 60's, hay cuestiones y sufrimientos íntimos que resultan más urgentes que la revolución o la ideología.

(La repiten en el Gaumont el Viernes 29 19:15 y el Sábado 30 19:30)

Deserto privado (Romances)

Verdades reveladas, identidades liberadas

Entre las primeras películas programadas para esta nueva edición del BAFICI está Deserto particular (Aly Muritiba, 2021), un melodrama brasileño/portugués digno de Manuel Puig que sorprende escena a escena. Un policía que responde a los estereotipos del típico macho, una mujer misteriosa y el clásico de Bonnie Tyler "Total eclipse of the heart" se entrelazan en una historia donde la revelación de la verdad -y de la identidad- emocionan a pura potencia, sensibilidad y franqueza. Un film lúcido que, sirviéndose de varios elementos típicos del género (casas y ambientes familiares opresivos, espejos, una sociedad -incluyendo la esfera religiosa- que se opone al deseo de los protagonistas), pone en escena la realidad homofóbica que aún persiste en la región -y en el mundo- y lo hace con escenas sentidas, tiernas, directas y también sumamente voluptuosas. Una historia tan intensa, inteligente y valiente como sus personajes principales.

(La repiten el Martes 26, 17:30, en el Multiplex Lavalle 4)

Por Gabriel Yurdurukian

#bafici

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