faust de alexander sokurov@Thessaloniki INternational Film Festival 2011

    In notele sale de regie la acest film, Sokurov a notat ca nu intentioneaza o transcriere cinematografica a Faust –ului  lui Goethe, ci doar o lectura a ceea ce exista printre randuri : «ce culoare are vindecarea ? Ce miros are ? »…

Sokurov intra deci in viscerele mitului literar (cu atat mai mult cu cat  una dintre primele scene este o vivisectie de corp uman) asa cum doctor Faust isi afunda mainile pana la cot in interiorul uman pentru a gasi un raspuns la foamea sa de a cunoaste !

Sokurov  ilustreaza, in maniera sa trans-poetica, mitul civilizatiei occidentale, mitul liberului-cugetator, conspirator, visator, pus in miscare de o infinita sete de cunoastere, si calauzit de instincte simple precum foamea, dorinta de bani, poftele trupesti…Un om, insa, care este constant in cautarea secundei absolute si infinite in care va putea trai frumusetea absoluta !!!!

Practic, pana la a ajunge la esenta filmului, spectatorul trebuie sa subscrie unui pact cu Diavolul, trebuie sa-si piarda ochii si simturile, trebuie sa ramana complet dezorientat. Pentru a putea apoi accepta armamentul mefistofelic de care se serveste Sokurov, si anume lentile deformante, unghiulatie extrema, planuri oblice, imagini virate in diverse tonuri…

Si senzatia este ca si cum am fi intrat intr-un tablou de Brueghel, alunecand pe porii panzei pana la a ne sufoca in proximitatea corpurilor, in cavalcada vocilor si a sunetelor unei orgii flamande dintr-un film nemtesc.

Ultim capitol in trilogia lui Sokurov despre Putere si Nefericire, « Faust »  gloseaza pe fraza din carte care spune ca «Adoratia cuvintelor in care oamenii cred cu atata usurinta este o patologica nefericire a existentei cotidiene».

Dar nu numai despre asta e vorba, intrucat in joc este sufletul facut bucati, vandut de catre acest nou Ulisse al constiintei. Intr-un final epic, dupa ce il lapideaza pe demon si rupe contractul, Faust se va simti atat de liber incat sa-si poata continua cautarea mai departe, si mai departe…

 Dar ce suflet anume si-a vandut ? Ce diavol s-ar mai bucura astazi de sufletul unui om ? Mai exista suflet, de-altfel ?

Acestea sunt intrebarile pe care si le pune SOKUROV in aceasta dificila capodopera, infricosatoare si magica, care se termina printre geyserele islandeze…sfarsitul lumii…. Si care nu din intamplare incepe cu o imagine aeriana a orasului german din filmul echivalent al lui Murnau.  Dupa ce din cer cade un soi de ochi dumnezeiesc care scruteaza lumea intr-o oglinda…

In filmul rusului Margherita este plasata in plan secund, si devine doar o fugara, ultra-intensa, extraordinara imagine (in ralenti)…   Obiectul unei viziuni subiective si onirice, de-altfel unicele momente in care filmul ia o pauza de la ritmul sau diabolic..

Secventele sunt astfel montate incat spectatorul sa nu aiba o secunda de relaxare, sa calatoreasca continuu dintr-un loc intr-altul, dintr-o situatie intr-alta, uneori atat de rapid incat e chiar dezorientat, totul accentuat de incadraturi adesea suprasaturate, de un pitoresc « murdar »…O realitate pre-moderna, cu miros medieval, aceea din care Faust simte ca este dator sa fuga, sa gaseasca raspunsuri in alt timp si in alt spatiu.

Prezentul nu exista aici, astfel cum nu exista salvare, intrucat intreaga umanitate este murdara, avida, vulgara.  Faust reprezinta constiinta auto-destructiva a omului modern, fata de care nici macar cinematograful nu are forta de a-l reprezenta exact in acest uragan intern.

La Sokurov Diavolul este extrem de tentant, dar si Faust este mai mult decat oricand deschis tentatiei; nu fuge de ea, ba chiar ii este necesara pentru a respira si pentru a pune in actiune acel Streben, acel impuls dat vietii si constiintei, care altfel nu i-ar fi fost acordat.  Impreuna cei doi vor divaga prin oras cautand expediente pentru supravietuire, cu un Faust doritor de bani si un diavol nedeclarat, care se preface ca nu-l aude, doar pentru a-l impregna si mai mult de incertitudine si asteptare.

Sokurov povesteste toate acestea in stilul sau magistral, in ciuda bugetului redus, cu actori semiprofesionisti si filmari restranse. Abea dupa o ora si trei sferturi de discutii si de tentatii Sokurov ne plaseaza vestita scena a vanzarii sufelui: un mare curaj artistic! Faust isi vinde sufletul camatarului in schimbul unei nopti de dragste cu Margarethe. Pura si angelica fecioara ar putea sa-l salveze, poate...Sa-l extraga din tornada al carei sclav este...  

In unica scena de nesperata liniste, Faust contempla frumusetea Margarethei (dupa una dintre cele mai voluptoase scene de dragoste vazute vreodata pe ecrane!).

 Insa intr-o fractiune de minut intelege ca nu se poate opri aici, ca nu s-ar putea multumi, pe termen lung, cu doar atat, ca destinul lui este sa mearga mai departe...

  Personajele nu se opresc nici-o secunda din miscarea lor, traiesc intr-un ambient marsav si sufocant, intre murdarie si dezordine prafuita, incercand constant sa se pozitioneze unii desaupra celorlalti, si asta in primul rand in contactele lor fizice, fara odihna. Si aparatul de filmat danseaza dement pe urmele acestei miscari neancetate a protagonistilor. Culorile dominante sunt tonuri de gri, de verde, de maro, in incadraturi distorsionate si pe un montaj rapid, cu jocuri de sharf si de unsharf, cu dialoguri extrem de stranse. Scenariul original a fost scris la trei mani de Sokurov, de Marina Koreneva si de Yuri Arabov, si nu ezita sa citeze unele maxime ale marilor scriitori (“persoanele nefericite sunt periculoase").

O data cu genericul de final ne simtim storsi, epuizati dar febrili, aproape transpirati de oboseala.

Ne ramane doar sa speram ca inca multi altii vor veni sa se umple, sa se goleasca de acest Faust zgomotos, infometat, stangace, luxuriant, criminal, negativ si claustrofob, dar in cautarea unei iluminari spirituale si a aerului pur…In cautarea gheturilor necontaminate si a energiilor secrete (poate samanice)…Faustul lui Alexander Sokurov.

Acestea sunt pacatele mortale ale contemporaneitatii, macerate intr-un soi de iluminism post-socialist, intrupate de acest Faust (jucat in transa de Johannes Zieller), viitor tiran, pe care Sokurov l-a conceput si l-a creat, ca un socratic intarziat, l-a de-construit si l-a pedepsit, in 134 de minute…

 giulia dobre

februarie, 19, 2012

where the wild things are-engl

 With a minimal plot and a lush menagerie of monsters, this odd and famous children book absorbs adult readers and child listeners.

But this is not an action movie.  Nor, in the conventional sense, an adventure picture. In fact, it’s not really even a children’s film. And, while there’s astounding tricks in most scenes, you won’t even notice they’re there.

Where The Wild Things Are is, instead, a plotless, bittersweet piece that laments the inevitable passing of childhood. It is the delicate story of a solitary child, liberated by his imagination.

Jonze has managed to reproduce Sendak’s story as a personalised chamber-piece, where his own genetic material is indistinguishable from that of Sendak’s Max.

Max is a storm without warning, throwing himself into the story while chasing the family dog down the stairs, shot with a handheld camera that can barely contain the boy’s image inside the frame. Thus the boy, played with naturalism by new discovery Max Records, becomes the product of a broken marriage, standing on the verge of adolescence, but afraid to jump.  As if childhood is protecting him from a world where the love of his parents has decayed, where his elder sister is now cold and distant, and in which, as one of his teachers puts it, everything eventually dies — including the sun.




The world is cruel, children too, lessons that Max absorbs through tears and hurt. The wound doesn’t heal. Max clomps and then stomps and then erupts: he roars at his mother. She roars back. Therefore, Max conjures up the Wild Things. And, then, like everyone else, he sails into the world, adrift and alone.

It doesn’t take Freud to spot that each of these “monsters” represent aspects of Max’s personality at a time when he’s starting to realise the universe does not revolve around him.

Carol is Max’s creative passion; KW, of course, is Max’s love for his mother and sister, the people who make his world, and who he fears will abandon him. Judith is his cynical side, Ira is his calm side; Alexander portrays his insecurity, Douglas his reason, and the nameless bull - his sadness. Paradoxically, the Wild Things are deeply human, up to their mundane names.

You never question the creatures’ physical reality or emotions, thanks firstly to great work on the part of the voice cast, the cream of Indie talents, and to a knockout work of the Jim Henson Creature Shop on costuming and digital subtle face-work.

Yet it’s a different kind of physical reality. The Wild Things are large, but light, and nimble, like oversized cuddly toys. Or, indeed, like children.

Much is left unexplained in Jonze’s adaptation, including Max’s melancholia, which hangs over him, his family and his wild things, like a gathering storm. But childhood has its secrets, mysteries, small and large terrors…


Jonze’s movie it is not, however, all gloomy. It is also a celebration of childhood. A proper childhood, with dirty, rough outdoor play, where you get grit under your fingernails, where you build forts out of branches, play bundle and throw snow at each other’s heads, running, screaming, howling, without a care in the world.

Jonze keeps the colour palette and lighting natural. Nothing feels manufactured, even though the seasons on Wild Thing island are of a lyrical nonsense (blossoms spring by one moment, snow falls another). The wonderfully overwhelming sense you get is that the Wild Things’ world exists at the end of a summer holiday, where every second of play is desperately, sweetly savoured.

Jonze's regular cinematographer, Lance Acord, shoots fantasy with the simplicity of a home movie, with occasional shakes and beautiful accidents. Jonze’s shows the big picture in a wide angle here, as we do inside our heads.

But when, for example, the view abruptly shifts to an overhead shot, you see that Max’s boat is simply a dot amid an overwhelming vastness.


This is the human condition, in two eloquent images.


giulia d
14 febr 2012

SHAME

There is nothing “scandalous” in “Shame”. Nothing prude, no audiovisual Viagra of any kind.

As “Shame” talks about Thanatos, rather than about Eros.
It does not follow love, it does vow death.  
And it shows just how much wish for death does exist in that obsession of love (and of sex, of flesh, of climax, of pleasure…)…., in the wishes and obsessions that dominate our society.

The title is to remind us the biblical meaning of sex - as shame, in the process of losing one’s innocence.
The one for which its progenitors – according to the catholic faith- will be kicked out of the Terrestrial Paradise.

Steve McQueen, the Director, has defined the film as an enquiry on the sex addiction.  




Brandon – in his thirties, rich and gorgeous- is the prisoner of his own sexual compulsion.  He is an elegant professional in a perfect physical shape.

Yet underneath this perfect picture he nests a compulsive and solitary sex addict. He lives for sex.
He is not a joyful Don Giovanni, though: stimulated by cheap porn that fills up his computer or by chance encounters,   Brandon practices a sort of mortuary sex, consumed without joy.
For him, sex is an action to effectuate with maximum efficiency.





It is efficiency that has turned him into a very successful professional;   efficiency is what turned his apartment into a very well oiled machine, where everything functions, where nothing is misplaced, and where his sexual behavior must also be extremely efficient.

During his sex acts his partners are just objects to be paid, as they execute well aimed orders.
Or then there is just someone who agrees for a quickie after dinner, in a dark corner of the city streets.  
It is a behavior that comes from far…

Would it be from an exaggerated fear of confronting women? We do not know.
Brandon disappears at the bathroom masturbating even during working hours. Or he incessantly follows erotic chats (with the help of technique, masturbation has become even virtual).

Giving pleasure has become to him unbearable. He unleashes himself into exaggerated nocturnal trips, in order to tire up and avoid to  think about it.
McQueen offers also an artful threesome sex scene where the effects of vagueness are preventing it from looking vulgar.

If we consider “Shame” to be a documentary, we have to recognize its high formal achievement and the very sharp choice of the main actor, a handsome and striking Fassbender in a state of grace, with a body that rules over the sex scenes.

But “Shame” is rather a sort of prison movie.
Just that here prison exists in Brandon’s head and it is filled with sex, naked bodies, out of control impulses and ferociously chasen coituses.


The climax never offers him the requited pleasure, though. He lives those moments at the border of a terrible pain, a nameless and solitary suffering that plunges him nearer to Death than to Love.
A broken evolution that intertwines with the broken body and soul of his sister.

Her character, Sissy,  played by Carey Mulligan, is a sort of singer with high sensibility, reinventing in a blues version “New York, New York” (in fact the only moment of authentic seduction in this film).
How could she be so blind as to look for help near a person so bluntly insensitive?
And especially how could she be as deluded by her unfortunate choice as to cut her veins?
The vivid red of her blood shines a light of death over the imperial grey of the film…


The very dangerous border between fraternal behavior and the shadows of incest is never really explained, but repeatedly whispered...
It is violently suggested, though, here and then, as the tip of an iceberg, by several looks, or gestures, or through the framing of the two, often filmed from behind, or by very intense fragments of dialogue such as: “..We aren’t really bad, we just come from a very uggly place”...

The void of significants makes us believe it is all about the tragedy of the relationships between men and women. Would then the sexphobia of the Bible be triumphing after two thousand years?...

 

And what about the other women? Young women who excite him in the subway; sex workers that come home during the short lapses of time between two masturbations…

 The only woman that is really drown to him, moved by a genuine interest in his persona, a work colleague, will have to bear the lack of success of a bad sex and the shame of disappearing as fast as possible.  
Ashamed by an aborted sex act that is instead appreciated by the spectator, given that Brandon had made an effort with her, to the point of caring for her too much as to get violent…

With a painfull, desperate and sublime New York as a background,  McQueen directs a sort of pain that has the smell and the taste of sex, a realistic kind of sex that becomes narrative, meaningfull and able to tell the story of the encounter between  Eros and Thanatos. The two forces of Life, that explode on the face of Fassbender, deformed by orgasm, at the border of life and death, of pain and pleasure.

Giulia DOBRE

February 2012/July 2012