Reflections on IFFK 2014

For all the controversies that marred the Adoor Gopalakrishnan Committee, delegates at this year's edition of the International Film Festival of Kerala were almost unanimous in their appreciation for the package presented this year. This time around, I had a lot more time in my hands, and feasted my eyes on more than a dozen movies, including some featured in the competition. So I do have a lot to write about, though I won't be writing about all of them; just the ones that made the best impression on me.

They are the dogs

Of the films I saw in the competition section, the one that impressed me the most was They are the Dogs, a Moroccan-French co-production written and directed by Hicham Lasri. Set in 2011 during the Arab Spring in Casablanca, the film revolves around a TV news reporter and his crew who stumble upon an old man out of prison after he was arrested in the 1981 Casablanca uprising. Thirty years on, the man has slightly lost his mental balance, can't remember his name (he identifies himself with the number 404), and wants to reunite with his wife and son. The reporter, who smells a good story, follows him along with his crew.

With much humour and irony, They are the Dogs, through the senile old man (played admirably by Hassan Badida), reflects on the harsh political conditions in Morocco, and we see the film as recorded by the TV news camera. The almost cinéma vérité approach makes the camera a participant in the narrative, and the object of people's ire as an unwanted intrusion; even the news reporter and his crew are subject to the same treatment. But the comically exaggerated reactions of people towards the camera brings home the truth that what we are watching is no documentary. By employing the cinema verite aesthetic to craft a work of conscious artifice, director Lasri subverts its very purpose.

Seven-year-old Matias (Sebastian Molinaro) and his pregnant mother Laura (Julieta Diaz) flee his abusive father in search of a safer abode in the Argentinian Refugiado, winner of the best film award. The Diego Lerman-directed drama follows the mother-son duo as they move from women's shelter to hotel and a brothel before finally arriving at Laura's childhood home, where her mother stays. Her husband, Fabian, is never seen in the film, but he remains a constant presence through his relentless phone calls.

Refugiado

Director Lerman presents the story as little Matias sees it, and it is mostly through his point of view that the story develops, giving several sequences a childlike naivete. Especially memorable is the episode where Matias befriends another little girl about his age in the women's shelter until he has to leave with his mother. But there are moments when the film shifts to Laura's point of view, especially when Matias locks himself up in the bathroom demanding that he take all his toys as they prepare to desert their home, with Fabian close on their heels. The film features gripping performances from the lead pair of mother and son, along with impressive cinematography by Wojciech Staron, and the final sequence of the boy running into the woods somehow seemed to remind me of Truffaut's 400 Blows.

Less impressed I was with the Japanese Summer, Kyoto, which won Hiroshi Toda the best direction prize. In it, an aging couple make their living by selling scented bags, until one evening the husband brings home a man he had found lying unconscious outside. The next morning, the stranger, feeling better, expresses his gratitude by offering to deliver the day's consignment of scented bags. But when he fails to turn up with the money after dusk, the couple grow anxious. If the film's theme seemed like a pretentious parable, its stylistics smacked of Ozu to me.

Hill of Freedom

Another film I found remarkable was Hill of Freedom by the South Korean director Hong Sang-soo, a romantic comedy featured in the World Cinema section. Kwon (Seo Young-hwa), a teacher at a language school in Seoul, receives a bunch of letters Mori (Ryo Kase), a Japanese teacher whose proposal she had rejected and who had come over to the capital city to meet her during her absence, and written a string of letters to her. The letters being undated and mixed up after they were dropped by Kwon, give us an account of Mori's stay in Seoul in non-chronological order, in the order in which Kwon reads them, and we come across such characters as Sangwon (Kim Eui-sung), his landlady's nephew, and Youngsun (Moon Sori), who runs a cafe that bears the film's title, and with whom Mori develops a relationship.

Being a cross-culture film, it seems only natural that most of the dialogues are in English. The director uses the opportunity to poke gentle fun at the superficial internationalism of present-day urban youth, which is in large part derived from American popular culture. Especially amusing are the conversations in English, which seldom go beyond fake pleasantries and the most banal of exchanges. While the fragmented narrative and single-take coverage of scenes are innovations that are as old as cinema itself, director Hong-sang Soo's cleverly written script gives the film its originality, backed by a brilliantly deadpan performance from lead actor Ryo Kase, who played the menacing boyfriend in Kiarostami's Like Someone in Love, which I had seen and written about two years back here.

Miklos Jancso

However, my discovery of 2014 was the Hungarian director Miklos Jancso, whose work was presented in a retrospective here. Having only read about the master, who died earlier this year, in film writings, I knew what to expect.

Paying not the slightest obeisance to the rules of narrative cinema, Jancso's films, often dealing with Hungarian history and politics, take the form of highly stylised ballets and are filmed in takes that go on for minutes without a cut, employing complex camera movements. In total, a Jancso feature, which could have a running time of anywhere between 70-90 minutes, may not have more than 30 shots. While I could not read into the elaborately choreographed ballets (given my ignorance of Hungarian history or her politics or ballet dancing), the qualities that struck me were his style. I had known and admired the work of several long-take masters like Renoir, Mizoguchi, and Welles, but Jancso's use of the long take seemed strikingly original.

I managed to catch Silence and Cry (1968) and Red Psalm (1971) in decent, occasionally scratchy, 35mm prints. The former film told the story of a revolutionary who goes into hiding in the country after the failed Hungarian uprising of 1919. While the film was a more straightforward narrative with no ballets or songs, it did feature his long takes. Red Psalm, on the other hand, dealt with a peasant uprising in 1890, featured the very qualities of Jancso's work mentioned above, and won the best direction prize at the 1972 Cannes Film Festival.  While the print of Red Psalm, shot in colour, had faded to pink, Silence and Cry, in black-and-white, were beautiful in the portions without scratches, more beautiful than any digital projection could dream of.

Buster Keaton

The other rewarding experience at this festival was the opportunity to watch Buster Keaton, also in retrospective. Though I had seen the great silent comedian's work on laptop and on TV, nothing really compares to the experience of watching silent comedy on a 25ft screen, in the dimensions they were originally designed to be seen. I couldn't watch The General (1927), arguably his greatest film, which was screened before I could make it there, though I would have given anything (except my job) to watch it on the big screen. But I did manage to catch the marvellous Sherlock Jr. (1924). While the celebrated sequence where Buster, working as movie projectionist, enters the movie screen remains its biggest eye-grabber, the other gags from the film were no less astounding, and was the film greeted with applause that could match that of any film presented this year. Not bad, for a film made nine decades earlier.

Seven Chances (1925), however, was a disappointment, not merely for its unremarkable plot, but more for its blatant racism towards African-Americans, and the gags directed at them seemed to me in poor taste, and especially unfortunate for an artist like Keaton. But this retrospective has had me looking forward to more opportunities to catch silent cinema, especially silent comedy, projected on a 25ft screen.

I ended my brief (but longer than usual) stay at this year's festival with Mohsen Makhmalbaf's President, made in Georgia. The Iranian director-in-exile, much affected by the Arab Spring and other uprisings against dictatorships, resorts to a political parable here, as a dictator of an unnamed country witnesses an revolution that topples his government. Generally referred to as President and addressed as Your Majesty by his grandson, the military also turns against him, forcing him and his grandson try to flee in disguise to the neighbouring country, where the rest of his family are. What begins as a lightly comic take gradually transforms into high-octane drama, as in their attempts to conceal their true identities, the dethroned ruler and his grandson find themselves witnesses to the suffering inflicted by his brutal regime, and the widespread turmoil that revolution has caused.

President

While it is a given that dictatorships are ruthless and uprisings were only to be expected, Makhmalbaf refuses to side with any group. While he lampoons the vanity of the dictator and his family, he is seldom demonised. While the suffering he inflicted on his subjects prior to the revolution is often referred to, Makhmalbaf reminds us of the general state of anarchy and opportunism that accompanies an uprising, and often questions the legitimacy of violent revolution. Towards the end, Makhmalbaf turns his camera away from what would seem like the film's tragic outcome to a shot of the dictator's grandson, as he erupts into a dance for democracy.

While the film risks seeming simplistic in its attempts to be universal, I still find it one of the most compelling films I've seen in a long time. Makhmalbaf narrates his story with such ease without the slightest self-conscious attempt at cinematic bravura, and the transition in tone from the comic to the dramatic so seamless, that you realise you are watching the work of one of the finest directors today.

So that's that for now. See you until my next post.

Ikiru (Akira Kurosawa - 1952)

Directed by Akira Kurosawa
Written by Akira Kurosawa, Hideo Oguni, Shinobu Hashimoto
Cinematography Asakazu Nakai 
Starring Takashi Shimura

Of the great Japanese directors (or at least those that I am aware of), Akira Kurosawa seems to have been the most preoccupied with moral dilemmas, of the spiritual fragility of humankind. Kurosawa's fixation with the darker side of human nature seemed to cover most of his oeuvre, and these themes percolated in his period pieces as well as dramas set in contemporary backdrops, and of the latter, Ikiru could very well be the finest. 

The film's premise of an aging government official diagnosed with a terminal illness and with hardly a year to live provided Kurosawa enough fodder for a critique of bureaucracy as well as the cynicism of modern society. But most of all, as the title Ikiru (which roughly translates as "to live") indicates, the film also asks what it means to live, which is not the same as merely existing.

When the film's protagonist Kenji Watanabe (Takashi Shimura), after 30 years in government service, realises that he has stomach cancer and has less than a year to live, he is faced with the bare truth that he has accomplished nothing all these years. Deciding to make the most of the time he has, the otherwise miserly Watanabe indulges in the city's nightlife and tries to flirt with a young woman from his office, but he soon tires of it. With his days coming to an end, he seeks truth, or simply put, a sense of purpose. And he very soon finds it during one of his evenings out with the young woman.

'Ikiru' is split neatly into two halves, the first depicting Watanabe's predicament and his search for meaning, and the second a memorial after his death, where his co-workers discuss his "legacy". Kurosawa opens the film by showing us an X-ray of Watanabe's cancer-afflicted tummy, followed by a dissolve into a shot of Watanabe, surrounded, even overwhelmed, by files all around him. Almost immediately, we are shown a group of women making a ruckus with the local municipals for taking so long to cover up stagnating water bodies in their area, giving us a glimpse into the rampant red-tapism in public sector bodies in Japan at the time. It would also prove to be a vital part of the narrative, later on. 

Throughout the remaining portion of the first half, Kurosawa tries to put the viewer on its protagonist's side, imploring us to empathise with the poor man's plight. To make sure that we do, Kurosawa makes use of every possible device in his cinematic arsenal - deep focus photography, montage sequences, wide-angle shots etc.. Especially moving are the montage sequences where he flips through memories of life with his son whose mother died when he was a kid (the son is now indifferent towards his father), the long shot showing Watanabe all alone in the clinic as he waits for the doctor's verdict, a desolate figure, and the close-up where Watanabe, looking straight into the camera, sings in a drunken stupor, "Life is short - fall in love, dear maiden", as his eyes brim with tears. When Watanabe, after finding his purpose, walks out of the restaurant when a birthday celebration is on in the background with the "Happy Birthday" refrain, it is hard to miss the allegory.

It is in the second half that Kurosawa's portrait of contemporary Japanese society becomes especially bleak. As Watanabe's co-workers gather at a memorial held after his death, what begins as a discussion on whether he was aware of his terminal illness soon delves into something less than mud-slinging, as they try to wring credit out of the departed bureaucrat for his parting gift to the world, which was to cover up the open sewer and turn it into a children's park. As they gulp cup after cup of sake, Kurosawa lets us note the irony with which the bureaucrats, who were all too eager to dump the women's request to the other department, are now desperate for the credit once the work has been completed.

But Kurosawa refuses to be cynical about humanity. As the film closes on a shot of the park with children gleefully playing in it, we are reminded, without any words spoken, that Watanabe's efforts, no matter how late in life, did not go in vain, and that the world could do with a few more of his ilk.

Kurosawa's flashy style when it came to telling his stories, which play upon the film's pacing too, are in marked contrast with the more nuanced styles of Ozu and Mizoguchi. One might even be tempted to call his style "brash", as many have, but does that really matter? He spoke from his heart, and was master of his craft, which alone accounts for his triumph as one of the cinema's formidable artists.

Close-Up (Abbas Kiarostami-1990)

Written, Directed & Edited by Abbas Kiarostami
Cinematography by Ali Reza Zarrindast

To the casual viewer, Close-Up may not seem to be much besides a crudely shot docu-drama about an impostor impersonating famous filmmaker Mohsen Makhmalbaf and his subsequent arrest and trial (as it seemed to me the first time I saw it at a college screening). Depending on one's level of tolerance - or the lack of it - the film could either put one to sleep, or cause a riot (the screening I mentioned was greeted with boos and catcalls).

But if one took the trouble to sit through the film not once, but twice or thrice, one begins to see just how deeply sophisticated and richly textured the film is. It reveals its beauty at its own pace, like a flower blooming, regardless of whether or not you have the time for it. And the more you watch it, the more you realise that everything in the movie, even its apparent crudity, has been put there by its director Kiarostami for a reason.

The central character in Close-Up is Hossein Sabzian, facing trial for posing as Makhmalbaf to the Ahankhahs, a middle-class household, and even promising to cast them in his next picture, which he intends to shoot at their home.

The heart of the film is the trial, where Sabzian, a divorcee and former employee at a print shop, admits to his guilt. He goes on to speak of his love for the arts when he was a youth, his indebtedness towards Makhmalbaf's films for his portrayal of the suffering of the underdog, his desire to work in films which he had not the means to pursue, and how, when he was mistaken for the famous director by a member of the Ahankhahs, he seized the chance to play a part he had always wanted to.

The picture that emerges is that of a character which may turn out to be one of the most enigmatic in all of cinema, because Hossein Sabzian is not your everyday criminal (What kind of con men would quote Tolstoy during a trial?). As he admits, this is the first time he has ever committed a crime. Like the title character in Monsieur Verdoux, he turns to crime not for personal gain, but to assuage the futility and monotony of his former existence. 

Kiarostami, who until then had been making short and feature length films for children (like the charming Where is the Friend's Home?), was intrigued by the story which he first encountered in a magazine piece. So, the story goes (As Kiarostami says), he obtained permission to film Sabzian's trial, recorded separate interviews with the principal (and a few not important but still relevant) characters in the episode, and even staged a few scenes of the encounter between Sabzian and the Ahankhahs, played by the same people.

Kiarostami also staged a prologue, where a journalist and two policemen are on their way to nab the impostor in a taxi, and a trademark Kiarostami sequence of a lengthy conversation in a cab follows. He finally wrapped up the film with a happy ending by having Makhmalbaf actually meet Sabzian upon his release from prison, and effect a reconciliation with the Ahankhahs.

Just when you thought that was all there is to the film, think again. By re-enacting several major episodes with the same cast and intercutting them in between scenes of the trial, Kiarostami blurs the line between truth and artifice. The occasional peeping microphone, the glaringly visible camera in the side window of a car and the frequent addresses of the interviewees to the director himself may seem like a cinema verite-inspired approach, but in fact in a film that is essentially about deception and camouflage, Kiarostami too seems to have joined the game, constantly deceiving us and forcing us to question the legitimacy of what we take as truth.

The film was revelatory to me in another way. Sabzian, to me, personifies the last vestiges of a civilization in which culture and the arts truly belonged to the people, unlike our present times, where philistinism is the order of the day, and anything that has to do with art is condemned 'elitist' or relegated to museums.

The Duo (Mani Ratnam- 1997)

Directed by Mani Ratnam
Written by Mani Ratnam, Suhasini
Cinematography Santosh Sivan
Starring Mohanlal, Prakash Raj, Aishwarya Rai

Mani Ratnam called Iruvar- the original title of the film- his best work (so far). As far his other films go, I remember watching only Nayakan, Anjali and Mouna Ragam, and my memory of these films are too distant to make any remark on them, having seen them at a time when I had not yet donned the 'cinephile' mantle. But I would not hesitate to call it one of his best, in spite of its shortcomings.

Set in Tamil Nadu in pre-independence India, The Duo charts the lives of the actor Anandan (Mohanlal) and the writer-cum-politician Tamilselvam (Prakash Raj) over a period of four decades. The two meet as ambitious young men who want to make it big in the world. Both become successful in their respective fields, each using the other for boosting mass appeal. But with time they become increasingly distant, giving way to jealousy, which is then transformed into political rivalry when Anandan makes his foray into politics, usurping his once-close friend as Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu. The film then concludes with Anandan's death while in office, and that is when the bond between the two protagonists is eventually reconciled. A major sub-plot of the film involves the private lives of the two friends, and how they shape the development of the protagonists' lives, and subsequently, the narrative.

As is very well known, the film is a slightly fictionalised account of the relationship between the legendary MG Ramachandran ('MGR' as he is popularly known) and DMK chief M Karunanidhi and attempts to examine the eerie relationship between cinema and politics in South India, especially Tamil Nadu. The narrative progresses in episodic fashion as it shifts between the lives of each of the protagonists as they move through each phase of their lives.

Unfortunately though, what was intended to be a fictional account of two of the most influential lives in the recent history of Tamil Nadu ends up looking something like a fictional biography of the actor Anandan, thanks to six song sequences devoted exclusively to him and a more-than-cursory emphasis on his private life, largely to boost the career of then débutante Aishwarya Rai. As director Ratnam himself admitted in the recent book Conversations with Mani Ratnam, a selection of interviews with critic Baradwaj Rangan, the fact that the film was set largely in tinsel town gave him an excuse to include a number of song sequences that, while being placed in films within the film, also underlines the development of events in the star's personal life, besides drawing the crowds to the cinemas (the film failed there, however).

While the idea is no doubt commendable, six songs put together constitutes significant screen time which could very well have been devoted to the film's core concern, which is all but overshadowed. As a result, the film not only loses its equilibrium but also risks seeming obscure to an outsider, who is likely to question the plausibility of a screen idol suddenly becoming Chief Minister of a state.

And yet, The Duo remains a remarkable movie for a number of reasons- a screenplay that contains several scenes of inspired brilliance, backed by equally inspired lead performances from Mohanlal and Prakash Raj. Mohanlal is especially memorable in this film, delivering probably one of the five best performances of his career. Undoubtedly, the effortless ease and spontaneity with which he is able to articulate otherwise complex states of mind purely through facial and bodily expression instead of dialogue, is some achievement, and something that is sorely missing from his work of the past decade and a half. And when I say that I decided to watch this film solely to watch his performance, I am not exaggerating.

Mani Ratnam's mise-en-scene here also deserves mention. As he revealed in the book, he sought a rapid departure in style, minimising editing and covering sequences in single takes in several instances. And this he seems to have pulled of remarkably; some of the film's sequence shots seem to be straight out of Mizoguchi (I'm not sure, however, if Ratnam was consciously emulating the great master). As always, he makes the best use of available lighting to create visuals which, while being beautiful in their own right, do not become obtrusive.

With all its virtues, a little more attention to the narrative could have made the film a genuine masterpiece. But Mani Ratnam still cannot shake himself of some of the banal conventions of our commercial cinema. He still had to have that scene where the hero waits until the train moves to say goodbye to his beloved wife.