It seems every year at NZIFF, there will always be a few reliable staples within the programme: The Oscar-Bound Documentary Crowd-Pleaser; The Whimsical Sundance Dramedy; The Relentlessly Brutal Controversy; The Howlingly Fun Horror Movie.
One particular fixture that always seems to slip into my schedule is The Sayonara, Comfort Zone! entry, which usually consists of something either distressing in subject matter, unforgiving in execution or utterly disinterested in convention. This year, that title indubitably belongs to Aleksei German’s Hard To Be A God.
The premise surrounds a group of Russian scientists who travel to a parallel planet, identical to Earth, to observe its specimens. However, the planet is still stuck in its Middle Ages – literally – and one scientist (Leonid Yarmolnik), growing weary of the barbarity of the times, decides to help kick-start the Renaissance.
But all of that set-up is basically just background noise. This is a picture much less concerned with plot than it is with visceral experience, with all narrative ambition essentially dissolving into some of the most relentless, claustrophobic and filthy use of the frame ever. The reason I’ve only provided a brief plot synopsis is not for fear of spoilers, but because I actually couldn’t tell you what happened – I was so preoccupied with scanning the grimy textures and depths of every staggering shot, pausing to read the subtitles became a secondary concern.
One particularly memorable entry opens on a close-up of a horse’s genitals, gradually swinging aside to reveal a grinning peasant defecating. If you are still with me, you probably owe it to yourself to see this deranged work of genius
Virtually every frame is stuffed to oblivion with intrusive extras and animals (living and dead), stained armory and ornaments, bloody metals and broken flesh, the spray of bodily fluids and perpetual muck. I can’t think of an art department I’m more in awe of, but the effect of all this tight, hellish saturation can be both suffocating and rather tedious (which is probably the point).
For shot composition, blocking and technical mastery alone, this is one of the most towering works of cinema we can expect to be offered this year, but to say I enjoyed is perhaps a stretch. For a sample scene: one particularly memorable entry opens on a close-up of a horse’s genitals, gradually swinging aside to reveal a grinning peasant defecating. If you’re still with me, you probably owe it to yourself to see this deranged work of genius. But that’s as close to a recommendation as you’ll get from me.
But if you were hoping for something with more of my unreserved endorsement, look no further than Ruben Östlund’s Force Majeure. A tightly-coiled, blackly comic ravaging of masculinity, this Cannes breakout has immediately emerged among the most essential entries of the entire festival run. Östlund’s latest follows a handsome family vacationing in the French Alps, whose entire foundation unravels after a terrifying avalanche reveals the father’s selfish, cowardly instincts. Preserving the inherent drama of the family unit fracture but continually puncturing it with belly laughs, Östlund never lets up on the absurdity of male posturing, with a leading man (Johannes Bah Kuhnke) more than game to wear the target.
Whilst consistently funny, make no mistake: this is a comedy of discomfort. The chilly, austere aesthetic (reminiscent of Michael Haneke) proves a continually foreboding presence and Östlund’s pulse for the rhythm of couple arguments is painfully accurate, to the point of rendering every tense, protracted silence between giggles as one of uncomfortable recognition. But it’s this juxtaposition that Force Majeure wields so masterfully. To discuss any more might spoil the surprises, but from the immediate aftermath of its defining incident right through to the killer blow of its closing shot, this is superlative sociological satire not to be missed.
But regarding highly anticipated Cannes titles, none can come with loftier expectations than that of the Palme D’or Winner (in spite of how varied and arbitrarily selected the victors will so often be.) Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s Winter Sleep – the latest to receive the prestigious award – has already begun dividing critics and audiences alike. A long, languid look at the Turkish class divide by way of a long, languid character study, Winter Sleep may not be consistently riveting in the traditional sense, but it’s nevertheless a fiercely realized examination of morality, social disparity and the practice of our convictions. Employing the prism/metaphor of one despicable hotel owner (masterfully performed by Haluk Bilginer), Ceylan gradually but incisively unspools a vast spectrum of traits across which these ideas can be dissected and the result is undeniably impressive, however taxing the pace at which he does so may be.
Winter Sleep Photo: Unknown
Though Aydin’s hubris and high-mindedness bubbles to the surface, this is not a portrait of convenient demonization. Ceylan always seems to acknowledge the complexities of the human condition and its history behind every pestilent act. As his wife recognizes in one of the film’s most emotional exchanges, Aydin’s purest virtues inform his worst flaws – here lies the film’s most piercing indictment. When our convictions serve to alienate ourselves from others and discredit their character, it’s only a matter of time before that spiteful laughter will turn to vomit in our mouths.
Like Ceylan, American director Kelly Reichardt has a tradition of stringing political agendas over rich personal tapestries. Her latest – the eco-terrorism thriller Night Moves – is a worthy addition to her canon, exploring the implications of activism after three radical environmentalists attack a hydroelectric dam. While her previous feature – the stark, feminist western Meek’s Cutoff (NZIFF, 2011) – attracted her more critical acclaim, I think I admired the film more than I loved it. With Night Moves, I felt the opposite: while a tenser, more immediately gripping exercise in genre, it certainly required much less interrogation and digestion.
After an enthralling, masterfully-tuned first hour, Night Moves shifts course in its second to a more psychologically acute mounting of paranoid dread that its peak doesn’t live up to. Yet even in the film’s more contrived moments, Reichardt’s grip on suffocating suspense rarely slackens, rendering every approaching vehicle or mundane conversation fraught with peril – and Jesse Eisenberg manifests the atmosphere with arguably the performance of his career. He’s outrun his initial typecasting (remember the days where he competed with Michael Cera?) but it’s only recently become apparent that his indelible portrayal of Mark Zuckerberg was no fluke. After his terrifying, tragic turn here (and superlative work in Richard Ayoade’s The Double too), it’s clear he’s the real deal.
While on the topic of performance, I should probably now segue elegantly into waxing lyrical about Tom Hardy in Steven Knight’s Locke. An assured single-hander framed entirely from within a sheeny BMW driving down the motorway, Knight’s real-time thriller follows one man calmly trying to preserve the foundations of his existence as they quickly crumble beneath him. But this is all basically just a vehicle for Hardy to exercise his steely command over the screen without distraction: 85 taut, claustrophobic minutes of mesmerizing performance.
Locke is that rare film titled after its protagonist that doesn’t just feel like a lazy shrug. Of course, that Hardy’s frazzled construction manager Ivan Locke is the only flesh-and-blood screen presence we will see for the entire runtime could easily account for that decision. But as we progress, we understand that the name goes far beyond the man – rather, it’s a family line, a legacy, a history from which Ivan must reclaim his integrity. For him, the word Locke is everything.
But that the stakes are based on whether Locke keeps to his moral code means the tension of the story becomes a little arbitrary. Audiences will all be able to relate to the crises of losing a job or a relationship disintegrating, but since most of the film’s outcomes are locked in pretty early, the chief threat we are left with is whether or not our protagonist will cave on his convictions – which is slightly less gripping. But as a morality play, this is stellar stuff, and Hardy should account for the price of admission alone.
Closing out this week was some well-earned genre fare with the Cannes indie-horror breakout It Follows. Structured around a devilishly ingenious concept in which a teenager is plagued by a supernatural apparition contracted to her via intercourse, David Robert Mitchell’s evocative, artful approach to classic horror convention was precisely what I needed to wind down. Masterfully balanced between jump-scare requirements and creepy shot composition, It Follows seems to understand its most novel asset is unequivocally its premise and structures itself accordingly.
One of the concerns Adam addressed in a previous post was that this film would represent yet another example of horror cinema treating female sexuality as a source of anxiety and terror. Thankfully, after seeing the way this conceit plays out, I’m convinced it’s not gender-specific but more to do with general insecurities around sexuality in adolescence and the often-humiliating ways we attempt to alleviate them. But allegories be damned: this is a film that works best if you just succumb to its surface-level ambitions. Enjoy.
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