A Film a Week - A Report for Minerva 2 / Zpráva pro Minervu 2

 previously published on Cineuropa

What does a small provincial hotel need? Some staff and some guests. The more, the better – though their characters have to be balanced too. If the characters and types turn out too ordinary, they risk being boring; if they're too weird, they risk seeming outlandish. Of course, one can always spice things up with, say, ghosts haunting the grounds, or aliens paying a visit. And, voilà – here is the blueprint for a bulletproof hotel comedy.

Czech stage actors, directors and playwrights Miroslav Krobot and Lubomír Smékal did exactly that, and then some, for their A Report for Minerva 2 project. It began as a stage production by the amateur troupe Divadelní spolek 23, credited here as one of the producers, before morphing into a film that retained the entire cast from the original show. It premiered at the 60th Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, as one of the Special Screenings.

Of the two receptionists, one is grumpy because her acting career has ended, while the other is emotional, expecting to give birth any day. The Ukrainian cleaning lady is also grumpy and prone to lashing out at guests, burdened as she is by both work and prejudice. The house painter idles at work, musing on various topics. And one chambermaid keeps appearing, disappearing and teleporting, as though she'd wandered in from a different, more romantic time. A takeover by new management looms, and two "solid" gentlemen (played by the filmmakers themselves) appear – though they act rather strangely.

The guests can be pieces of work too. There's a health-obsessed bore with a touch of OCD, forever pestering his wife, fellow guests and the hotel staff about what's right and what's wrong. A virginal, nerdy loner tries to strike up conversations with women, as does a sex-obsessed slacker, though both chicken out at the crucial moment. A tourist from Slovakia finds herself discriminated against, made to wait for a room to clear despite having a reservation, while a clarinettist is chased from one place to another for "disturbing the guests," even though nobody has actually complained. A beautiful young woman draws the eyes of every man in the room, though all she wants is a sincere conversation. And, finally, there's an alien who must report back to his homeworld, Minerva 2, while still getting to grips with human ways, and the spirit of a Nokia 3310 ("an older model," she notes), lying on the floor in the corner, its battery slowly draining.

Yes, it sounds like an endearingly bizarre ordeal, and its lean 68-minute runtime seems appealing enough. On stage, it might well sustain a longer running time. On screen, though, the translation from one medium to the other is far from smooth. The amateur actors struggle with line delivery more than they would on stage, and the directing duo – of whom only Krobot has any prior filmmaking experience – throw every trick in the book at making the space and the interplay between actors and setting feel livelier and less theatrical, but without much consistency or method behind the individual craft choices. The biggest offender, though, may be the monologues: every character, human, spirit or alien, is given one to voice their inner thoughts, and while these might sit comfortably in a theatre, on screen they feel entirely artificial. In the end, A Report for Minerva 2 comes across as a sincere, honest, but not entirely successful effort; one likely to appeal mainly to existing fans of the stage show.

Animol

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Možete li da pretpostavite u kojim sredinama homoseksualne (muške) veze najbolje „uspevaju“? U pozorištu među baletanima? Ne, oni su zapravo akrobate i sportisti, a i nema ih puno. Među dizajnerima po firmama? Firme su male, a fluktuacija velika da bi se održale. A krojači-modisti, možda oni? Oni su skoro izumrli, oni preostali figuriraju kao relikt prošlosti.

Ne, u pitanju su dve izuzetno „muževne“ institucije – vojska (posebno za vreme ratova) i zatvor. Razlog je prost: uglavno sve sami muškarci, ili čak isključivo muškarci, provode dane i noći zajedno u zatvorenoj sredini. U slučaju zatvora, jasno je da se radi pre o životinjskoj potrebi i porivu za dominacijom nego o iskrenoj privlačnosti. U vojsci, pak, sve izvire iz nekog drugarstva i zajedništva koje prerasta u partnerstvo.

Dva filma s gej-romansom kao integralnim delom svog zapleta prikazana su i u preglednom delu Horizonti festivala u Karlovim Varima. U pitanju su naslovi Coward Lukasa Donta i Animol Ešlija Voltersa koji su premijere imali u Kanu, odnosno u Berlinu.

Drugi deo jednačine i zatvor imamo u filmu Animol, autorskom prvencu inače televizijskog glumca Ešlija Voltersa (serija Adolescence, među ostalima). Mladi Troj (Tut Njuot) biva uhapšen još pre nego što se ekran upali i u redu za prijem u istražni zatvor čeka zajedno s naivnim poljskim provalnikom Kristijanom (Vladislav Baliuk) i prekaljenim kriminalcem Dionom (Seku Diabi) koji ima plan da postane lider iza rešetaka. Troj se postavlja kao jedan od Dionovih pobočnika koji za njega ispunjava zadatke, ali i štiti Kristijana, posebno od svog ludog cimera Mejsona (Rajan Din). Između Troja i Kristijana se razvija i romansa, što Mejson vidi i kreće da koristi kao polugu za pritisak na Troja da uđe u sukob s Dionom.

U pitanju je, dakle, prilično klasična zatvorska drama čiji je jedini novitet taj da homoseksualni odnos nije plod prisile i silovanja, kako to obično po klišeima biva. Opet, i taj ugao je u priču uveden naprečac i pomalo veštački, s jasnom dramaturškom svrhom u scenariju Nika Lava (The Football Factory), a da sam taj odnos zapravo ostaje tek površno prikazan. Možda nam neku utehu pruži izvrsno raspoloženi Stiven Grejem u ulozi nekonvencionalnog zatvorskog psihologa Klejpula, što je verovatno i jedini koliko-toliko uspeli i inovativni aspekt filma.

Coward

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Možete li da pretpostavite u kojim sredinama homoseksualne (muške) veze najbolje „uspevaju“? U pozorištu među baletanima? Ne, oni su zapravo akrobate i sportisti, a i nema ih puno. Među dizajnerima po firmama? Firme su male, a fluktuacija velika da bi se održale. A krojači-modisti, možda oni? Oni su skoro izumrli, oni preostali figuriraju kao relikt prošlosti.

Ne, u pitanju su dve izuzetno „muževne“ institucije – vojska (posebno za vreme ratova) i zatvor. Razlog je prost: uglavno sve sami muškarci, ili čak isključivo muškarci, provode dane i noći zajedno u zatvorenoj sredini. U slučaju zatvora, jasno je da se radi pre o životinjskoj potrebi i porivu za dominacijom nego o iskrenoj privlačnosti. U vojsci, pak, sve izvire iz nekog drugarstva i zajedništva koje prerasta u partnerstvo.

Dva filma s gej-romansom kao integralnim delom svog zapleta prikazana su i u preglednom delu Horizonti festivala u Karlovim Varima. U pitanju su naslovi Coward Lukasa Donta i Animol Ešlija Voltersa koji su premijere imali u Kanu, odnosno u Berlinu.

Dontov film svakako je višeg profila i više funkcioniše kao nastavak tematske linije kojom se autor bavio u svojim prethodnim filmovima Girl (2018) i Close (2022). U prvom smo imali transrodnost kod tinejdžera, u drugom, pak, dečačku bliskost koja može (a ne mora) biti signal (buduće) homoseksualnosti. U Coward, pak, po prvi put kod Donta kao protagoniste imamo odrasle muškarce koji otkrivaju svoju seksualnost, i to u vojsci.

Godina je 1916. i Prvi svetski rat kipti punom parom. U belgijskoj vojsci na snazi su rotacije vojnika između rovova na frontu i pozadinskih zaduženja transporta municije, sahranjivanja leševa u masovne grobnice ili skupljanja polu-mrtvih ranjenika s ničije zemlje. Ko ima sreće da ga to dopadne, ili, pak, nema sreće jer je ranjen, pa ne može da radi fizički, biva „prekomandovan“ na dužnosti zabave za vojnike na frontu.

A ta zabava se po pravilu ne svodi da neka momčina uz harmoniku peva borbene i patriotske pesme, već na imitaciju kabarea gde muškarci silom prilika igraju (i) ženske uloge. Ko se seća četvrte sezone satirične serije The Black Adder, zna tačno o čemu se tu radi.

Bilo kako bilo, mladi i naivni mobilizovani seljak Pjer (Emanuel Makija) na dužnosti zabavljanja svojih drugova upoznaje malo starijeg i dosta prefinjenijeg gradskog krojača Fransisa (Valentin Kampanj) koji služi kao neformalni vođa trupe. Prosto, Fransis je u životu bio u kabareu, video plesačice dovoljno puta da svojim „podređenima“ može objasniti kako se pleše kan-kan, a i zna da svira klavir. Pjeru je sve to fascinantno dovoljno da volontira prvo kao scenski radnik, a kasnije i kao jedan od glumaca, pa čak i da se namerno rani kako bi se pridružio trupi na duži rok, ma koliko ta forma „mekog“ dezerterstva sa sobom nosila rizik da ga proglase kukavicom i eventualno streljaju.

U trupi, njih dvojica otpočinju skrivenu vezu. Interesantno, muževniji Pjer je u nju više i romantičnije investiran, dok naoko feminizirani Fransis racionalno shvata da su njihove eskapade kratkog daha i moguće jedino u specifičnom ratnom okruženju. Koliko tako nešto može potrajati pre nego što ih okolnosti rastave?

Dont zapravo udara po samim opštim mestima, što zabranjene muške ljubavi, što Prvog svetskog rata. Da, znamo da je Prvi svetski rat bio krvav i blatnjav, kao što znamo i da onovremeno društvo nije baš tolerisalo različitost tog tipa. Međutim, autor nam sve to servira kao da otkriva nešto novo i po prvi puta hrabro progovara na tu temu, a to pritom čini u vrlo konvencionalnom stilu, uz dozu razvlačenja. Zapravo, jedino što se može proglasiti za autentično je belgijska vojna muzika, ali sumnjam da će većini to biti neka uteha.

Family Movie

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Možda je stvar jednostavnija kada se radi o snimanju treš-filma u porodičnoj radinosti jer je to ipak prirodno okruženje za tako nešto. Ali, familija Bejkon-Sedžvik, dakle poznati glumci Kevin i Kira, zajedno sa svojom decom Trevisom i Sosi, pokušavaju da to nije baš tako s filmom Family Movie. Film je u Karlovim Varima imao evropsku premijeru, a njegova glumačka postava je gostovala na festivalu.

Ko-reditelji Kevin Bejkon i Kira Sedžvik igraju bračni par Džeka i Elen Smit. Džek je autor ultra-niskobudžetnih horora, a Elen je njegova muza i često glavna glumica. U posao su uključena i deca, Ula (Sosi) kao glumica, a Trent (Trevis) kao tonac, mada bi želeo da bude i kamerman. Oni trenutno oko svoje kuće snimaju film Blood Moon na temu ritualnih ubistava i žrtvovanja, budžet im iznosi oko 10.000 dolara koje je lokalni gangster donirao kako bi njegova kći Maja (Liza Koši) snimila dokumentarac o snimanju filma.

Snimanje u tim uslovima je ekstremno stresno i nepredvidljivo. Glavni glumac se povredio i pitanje je hoće li se vratiti. Komšija ih zeza i proizvodi buku. Ula i Trent bi voleli da ispitaju i neke druge karijerne mogućnosti – Ula kao glumica u pravoj televizijskoj seriji u kojoj je dobila pristojnu ulogu, a Trent bilo kao pevač metal benda, bilo kao kikbokser koji planira da se veštini uči na Tajlandu. To sve unosi razdor u porodicu kojoj još veći problem može da predstavlja to što je majka i zaštitnica Elen zapravo serijski ubica.

Zvuči uvrnuto i blesavo, što i jeste, posebno uzevši u obzir da su Bejkonovi na ovu ideju došli u doba korone i karantina, ali je njihov „kućni projekat“ privukao pažnju još nekih koji su ga podržali. Zato u sporednim ulogama možemo da vidimo, primera radi Džona Kerola Linča, Skuta Meknerija i horor-legendu Džekija Erla Hejlija, između ostalih, i svi oni dodaju na faktor zabave. Roditelji proždiru scenario, pri čemu je Kevin pouzdan, a Kira nesputana i briljantna u preterivanju, dok podmladak ipak malo kaska za njima.

U suštini, Family Movie nije naročito originalan, reference na koje se hvata su providne – Votersov film Serial Mom je možda najočitija, ali tu imamo još i gomilu treš-filmova, a i polu-parodični ton fingira odjeke stila braće Koen. Čini se da je najozbiljniji rad ipak uložen u rekreiranje inserata iz filmova unutar filma koji su pravi primer treš-horora. Opet, Family Movie je čista zabava koju nijednog trenutka ne treba uzimati preterano ozbiljno.

The Beloved / El ser querido

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Zamislite reditelja s velikim egom koji se pretvara u diktatora (Kopola je izjavio da se reditelji i diktatori savršeno razumeju jer su isti tip ličnosti). I zamislite da vam je reditelj član porodice, recimo otac. Jer, kako bi Efraim Kišon rekao, kod kuće je najteže.

Premisa filma The Beloved Rodriga Sorogojena, premijerno prikazanog u Kanu, a uhvaćenog u Karlovim Varima, je upravo takva, ali još za nijansu pojačana. Naime, veliki španski reditelj Esteban Martinez (Havijer Bardem) je glavnu žensku ulogu u svom novom kolonijalno-pustinjskom epu dodelio svojoj kćeri Emiliji (Viktorija Luengo). Prvi mogući problem s time je što Emilija nije neka poznata i velika glumica, već je uglavnom nepoznata i neproverena, što podiže sumnje u nepotizam.

Drugi, za ovaj film esencijalni problem sastoji se u tome da je Esteban bio uglavnom odsutan iz Emilijinog života (nju je podigla majka, i sama bivša glumica nižeg ešalona koju je Esteban izmaltretirao na snimanju filma s kojim se probio), a i kada je bio prisutan, uglavnom je stvarao haos, često podgrejan alkoholom. Stvar je, dakle, emocionalnog bagaža zbog kojeg se snimanje može pretvoriti u igru raščišćavanja računa ne samo između reditelja i glumice, već pre svega između oca i kćeri.

Ljudi iz ekipe kažu da se Esteban smirio i da ne divlja više kao ranije, pa tako i snimanje počinje u opuštenom tonu. Čini se da se reditelj i glumica savršeno razumeju, a da otac i kći polako počinju da grade odnos. Međutim, rekosmo, na snimanju stvari često ne idu po planu, a u ovom slučaju će sve kulminirati na jednoj zahtevnoj sceni koja uključuje obrok pod šatorom dok izvan njega šiba vetar jači nego što je to scenario predvideo...

Rodrigo Sorogojen je autor u čijim filmovima su neizbežni elementi psihologija i međuljudski odnosi, bilo da se tu radi o vezama (Stockholm, 2013), lovu na serijskog ubicu (May God Save Us, 2016), političkoj korupciji (The Candidate, 2018), potrazi majke za izgubljenim detetom (Mother, 2019) ili odnosima stranih došljaka s netrpeljivim domaćinima (The Beasts, 2022). Svi su oni, osim poslednjeg, imali neku inherentnu manu, nedorečenost ili su patili od pogrešnih autorskih odluka zbog čega su dobacivali do proseka ili tek blago iznad.

To je slučaj i sada, ali posvetimo se prvo pozitivnijim aspektima. Recimo, posle dugo vremena, Havijer Bardem ima priliku da igra lik koji podseća na čoveka s vrlinama i manama, a ne karikaturu. Zapravo, on ovde glumi umesto da šmira, i to je odlična vest. Odlična vest je takođe da ga Viktorija Luengo i ostatak postave u tim aspiracijama odlično prate. Još jedan bitan aspekt je i to da nas Sorogojen i ko-scenaristkinja mu Izabel Penja vode iza scene filmskog snimanja i to čine bez neke nepotrebne ili naivne romantizacije.

Pređimo sad na neke manje dobre aspekte filma. Prvo, predugo traje: od dva sata i 15 minuta, ima tu bar 45 minuta čistog viška, uključujući i kompletan prolog u kojem otac i kći raspravljaju o istoriji svog odnosa, što će sve ponoviti i kasnije, ali i pasaže s insertima iz „Estebanovih starijih filmova“ ili filma koji snimaju. Posebno su iritantni prelasci na crno-belu fotografiju bez ikakve dramaturške potpore, čime Sorogojen još jednom pokazuje koliko je sklon brljanju. Šteta, jer je The Beloved imao potencijala da bude vrlo dobar film.

A Film a Week - City of Fathers / Mesto otcu

 previously published on Cineuropa

It has been thirteen years since the veteran Czech filmmaker Zdeněk Tyc directed a feature film, the latest until now being Like Never Before. The filmmaker behind Seize the Day (1996) and El Paso (2009), among other titles, is now back with another easily accessible and audience-friendly piece. City of Fathers has just premiered at the 60^th Karlovy Vary International Film Festival as part of the Special Screenings section.

Father and son don't seem to have much in common, except for a shared first name (Richard) and the modest flat in a socialist-era housing block in a small Czech city they call home. Richard Jr, nicknamed Ríša (Tomáš Vravník, glimpsed in the 2020 thriller Scumbag), is in fact a gentle factory worker who hides behind the mask of a tough guy, listening to punk rock and keeping his "part-time" girlfriend, Lenka (Pavlína Štorková) – who raises her son, Miša, alone – at arm's length. Richard Sr (Vladimír Javorský, most recently seen in Agnieszka Holland's Franz) is a neat, well-mannered retired teacher who prefers operatic arias and Ingmar Bergman's films. The two men have lived alone ever since Ríša's alcoholic mother, Renata, left them, and Ríša has spent much of his life trying, unsuccessfully, to re-establish contact with her: he knew she lived on the streets as a beggar and gave her change whenever he encountered her, but she never once engaged him in a proper conversation.

When Renata suddenly dies, and Ríša learns from her drinking buddies that his real father might be one of the members of Kokoti (meaning "The Dicks"), an old communist-era punk rock band, he sets off on a journey of investigation – first online, then in person, in the nearby city of Ostrava. As he tracks down the three "candidates" – a family man and fresh grandfather, a trashy horror film director, and a violent drunk – in order to collect swabs from them for DNA testing, he risks falling off the wagon of sobriety himself, but also learns a thing or two about who he really is.

Yes, the story at the heart of City of Fathers is almost as old as cinema itself, told and retold endlessly, yet it still serves different geographical and political contexts equally well. That said, this type of film is better suited to general theatrical release – and even Sunday-afternoon TV slots – than to the festival circuit. The reason might lie in Tyc's directorial approach, which is serviceable and efficient, but also somewhat textbook.

That said, it would be unfair to call the film entirely flavourless: Roman Vojkůvka's script delivers plenty of the typically Czech dry humour, in situations that are somewhat predictable yet still play out in an entertaining way. The camerawork by Tomáš Kresta, meanwhile, captures a contemporary small-town Czechia rarely seen on the big screen, while the soundtrack – drawing on songs from both older and newer local punk rock bands – works effectively as commentary on the characters, their actions, and the environment they inhabit.

The true heroes of the film's success, however, are its actors. The chemistry between the two leads is excellent and so is their comedic timing. As a bonus, the supporting cast of character actors is also on top of its game, following the leads with real awareness, and the director puts the ensemble to good use, wringing out both laughs and moments of genuine emotional resonance. In the end, City of Fathers is a passable, even pleasant watch that doesn't demand much of the viewer.

A Film a Week - Paris Paris

 previously published on Cineuropa

Big, metropolitan cities have been attracting people – from the same country and beyond – for centuries, if not millennia, and countless stories have been told on the subject. They usually begin with a kind of fascination rooted in romanticised illusions, before the whole thing curdles into hardship, struggle and, more often than not, disappointment. Over the past couple of centuries, Paris in particular has become synonymous with such stories: many arrive harbouring illusions about the City of Light drawn from books, films and art, only for few to glimpse its underbelly before becoming part of it themselves.

Premiering in the Proxima competition at the 60th Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, Isabelle Tollenaere’s debut fiction feature Paris Paris tells one such story, set in the milieu of migrants and refugees searching for their own slice of happiness in the French metropolis. Coming from a background in documentaries such as Battles and Victoria, Tollenaere sets out to tell a true story, but by somewhat different means.

The central stage for this story – or, more accurately, this collection of short stories driven by three characters – is a squat in a soon-to-be-demolished building in La Défense. Yi-En (Chen Yi-En) claims to have been born and raised in Paris, yet he doesn't speak a word of French, and so he enrols in a language course, where he meets others in a position similar to his own. One of them is the Palestinian refugee Hamzah (Mahmoud Beshtawi), who claims to be a poet but has to support himself by selling cheap toys on the streets. The two strike up a friendship, and Hamzah moves into the flat Yi-En shares with a Congolese construction worker, Junior (David Mutamba).

Each of the three men has his own story to tell. For Hamzah, it is the war and the destruction it has brought upon him, his neighbours and his compatriots. For Junior, it is the city of Lubumbashi, which has changed so much he can no longer recognise it. And for Yi-En, it is his actual home town – a film-set-like replica of Paris built in China as a real-estate gimmick. Yi-En also keeps losing things (knives, shoelaces, even his wallet), yet keeps "finding" living creatures, both animals and people in need, while his eventual disappearance might signal the disappearance of the improvised "world" the three of them built for themselves from the leftovers of the decaying world around them.

Tollenaere opens her film in a slightly, artistically polished docu-fiction style, with non-professional actors playing variations on the types of characters they naturally embody. A trained eye and ear can spot that the whole thing is scripted, yet it still rings completely true and real – perhaps thanks to Thomas Verijke's strictly static camerawork in a boxy 4:3 ratio, and the filmmaker's own precise editing, which frames the story with a sense of gravity.

However, Tollenaere is aware that this approach can only take her so far, and she intervenes to shift things – first at the script level, then in execution, as the camera begins slowly moving around the characters. A warm, slightly absurdist humour starts to emerge, and the echoes of Wim Wenders' urban travelogues and Jim Jarmusch's stories of friendship on the margins – as the only way of surviving life there – become clearer. The film's initial message isn't exactly betrayed, but it doesn't come across quite so easily either. Nevertheless, Paris Paris radiates a certain warm-heartedness, even if the stories it tells are far from heart-warming.