Lista - Avgust 2025.

 

Ukupno pogledano: 40 (34 dugometražna, 6 kratkometražnih)

Prvi put pogledano: 40 (34 dugometražna, 6 kratkometražnih)

Najbolji utisak (prvi put pogledano): The Mastermind (dugometražni), Slet 1988 (kratkometražni)

Najlošiji utisak: Rosemead

*ponovno gledanje

**kratkometražni

***srednjemetražni

**(*)kratkometražni, ponovno gledanje

kritike objavljene na webu su aktivni linkovi

datum izvor English Title / Originalni naslov (Reditelj, godina) - ocena/10

01.08. festival Broken Voices / Sbormistr (Ondrej Provaznik, 2025) - 5/10
**07.08. festival Randaghi (Enrico Motti, Emanuele Motti, 2025) - 6/10
**07.08. festival Hysterical Fit of Laughter / Histerični napad smeha (Matija Gluščević, Dušan Zorić, 2025) - 8/10
07.08. festival Two Prosecutors / Zwei Staatsanwälte (Sergey Loznitsa, 2025) - 8/10
07.08. festival Mirros No. 3 (Christian Petzold, 2025) - 6/10
08.08. festival Fantasy (Kukla, 2025) - 7/10
08.08. festival God Will Not Help / Bog neće pomoći (Hana Jušić, 2025) - 7/10
09.08. festival Sorry, Baby (Eva Victor, 2025) - 6/10
**10.08. festival Boa (Alexandre Dostie, 2025) - 8/10
11.08. festival Nova '78 (Aaron Brookner, Rodrigo Aerias, 2025) - 8/10
11.08. festival Donkey Days (Rosanne Pel, 2025) - 6/10
11.08. festival The Fin (Park Sye-young, 2025) - 8/10
12.08. festival Judas' Gospel / Il vangelo di Giuda (Giulio Base, 2025) - 5/10
12.08. festival Sweetheart / Gioia mia (Margherita Spampinato, 2025) - 6/10
12.08. festival Follies / Folichonneries (Éric K. Boulianne, 2025) - 7/10
13.08. festival Mektoub, My Love: Canto Due (Abdellatif Kechiche, 2025) - 5/10
**13.08. festival Goats! / Koze! (Tonći Gaćina, 2025) - 7/10
14.08. festival Dracula (Radu Jude, 2025) - 6/10
14.08. festival Construction Site / Le Chantier (Jean-Stéphane Bron, 2025) - 7/10
14.08. festival Sorella di clausura (Ivana Mladenović, 2025) - 7/10
14.08. festival Irkalla: Gilgamesh's Dream / Irkalla Hulm Jijiljamish (Mohamed Jabarah Al-Daradji, 2025) - 6/10
**14.08. festival Slet 1988 (Marta Popivoda, 2025) - 9/10
14.08. festival Rosemead (Eric Lin, 2025) - 3/10
**15.08. festival The Uniformed / Die Uniformierten (Timon Ott, 2025) - 7/10
15.08. festival Yakushima's Illusion (Naomi Kawasw, 2025) - 5/10
18.08. festival Dead of Winter (Brian Kirk, 2025) - 7/10
18.08. festival The Mastermind (Kelly Reichardt, 2025) - 9/10
18.08. festival White Snail (Elsa Kremser, Levin Peter, 2025) - 6/10
18.08. festival Stars of Little Importance / Minden csilag (Renátó Olasz, 2025) - 5/10
19.08. festival The Pavilion / Paviljon (Dino Mustafić, 2025) - 5/10
19.08. festival Otter / Vidra (Srđan Vuletić, 2025) - 5/10
19.08. festival Thrid World / Treći svijet (Arsen Oremović, 2025) - 7/10
21.08. festival Radio Rambo Amadeus (Dušan Varda, 2025) - 6/10
21.08. festival It Was Just an Accident / Yek tasadef sadeh (Jafar Panahi, 2025) - 8/10
21.08. festival Romería (Carla Simón, 2025) - 8/10
23.08. festival DJ Ahmet (Giorgi M. Unkovski, 2025) - 5/10
23.08. festival Yugo Florida (Vladimir Tagić, 2025) - 8/10
25.08. festival Whites Wash at Ninety / Belo se pere na devetdeset (Marko Naberšnik, 2025) - 5/10
28.08. kino Dracula: A Love Tale (Luc Besson, 2025) - 4/10
28.08. kino Nobody 2 (Timo Tjahjanto, 2025) - 5/10

A Film a Week - Sweetheart / Gioia mia

 previously published on Cineuropa

Movies can sometimes make us hope that we will learn our lessons, overcome our differences and make the world come together. That seems to be the mission of Margherita Spampinato’s debut feature Sweetheart, which premiered in Locarno’s Cineasti del presente competition.

Nico (Marco Fiore) is on the verge of puberty and still struggling to accept the departure of his beloved babysitter Violetta (Camille Dugay, in a brief appearance), who is leaving her job in order to get married. Since the school is out for summer, Nico is being sent from Milan to his great aunt Gela's (veteran actress Aurora Quattrocchi) in Sicily. However, for Nico, the change of environment is not remotely as hard as the change in terms of time, as two of them come from different centuries and therefore live different, almost incompatible lifestyles.

Gela is religious and passionate about getting together with her neighbours, while Nico’s only passion seems to be his sadness over Violetta and the video games he plays on his cell phone. Gela cooks traditional food, but Nico wants something more “normal”. She insists on order in the house and following routines, while he is accustomed of being left alone and taken care of. 

Nico's first encounter with the neighbourhood kids who are also staying with their grandmothers in the same building ends in embarrassment for him. But with time, Nico and Gela start bridging their differences and, thanks to the bond he forms with the only girl in the neighbourhood, Rosa (Martina Ziami), he gets accepted into the kids gang. But what will happen when some carefully kept secrets and placed lies come to the surface?

Powered by strong performances from young actors who already have some credits under their belts, with the help of the always great Aurora Quattrocchi, and heightened by some interesting artistic choices, such as the chiaroscuro contrasts of lighting in Claudio Cofrancesco’s largely hand-held camerawork, Sweetheart is a sweet, warm piece of work that achieves a certain intimate and cosy feeling. The question is, however, whether the three-act structure, as well as the music, which starts in a tense mode but soon deflates tension, end up making the film too predictable. Additionally, while some exaggerations in the differences between Nico and Gela are clearly played for laughs, they also set a tone that is way too naive to be taken at face value. 

Ultimately, the world Spampinato has created with Sweetheart is too unlikely in today’s reality and looks more like a diffuse memory of her own childhood, rather than a truthful representation of the rift between generations today. The point she tries to make is not exactly new, but it stands firmly whether we side with one protagonist’s point of view or the other's: technology cannot replace human contact, just as time cannot be frozen out of regret or sadness, so this gap between young and elderly should be overcome through compromise and joint efforts. We should also keep in mind that the middle generation, which should serve as a mediator, is completely left out from the film, and probably for good reason. Ultimately, however, Sweetheart reveals that a film made from the seemingly typical template of the contrasts between children and old people can offer many more layers for reflection.

A Film a Week - Judas' Gospel / Il Vangelo di Giuda

 previously published on Cineuropa

The story of Jesus Christ, his life, times and dying for the sins of the whole of humanity is hardly a new and unfamiliar one. We know it from the gospels in the Bible, from other works of literature, as well as from the movies. With the latter, however, the story has been told from different points of view, yet nobody had yet bothered to tell it from the side of Judas Iscariot, the one who betrayed his teacher and messiah.

That was until Giulio Base, renaissance man, doctor of literature, philosophy and theology, actor and filmmaker with tens of credits to his name,  decided to do just that. His second film this year, Judas’ Gospel, just premiered out of competition in Locarno.

Base opens the film with the passion of Christ (Vincenzo Galluzzo), but swiftly shifts his focus to another man who also died that day, Christ’s follower and traitor, Judas (voiced by Giancarlo Giannini), who hanged himself as an act of solidarity and redemption for his deeds. Assuming the role of the narrator, Judas goes back to tell the story from his own point of view.

He, the half-brother of Mary Magdalene, was born in a brothel to a prostitute mother and an unknown father. His first “crime” was his birth, since both his mother and his twin did not survive it. As a boy, he killed the brothel owner who abused him and his sidekick and took over the business of trading people’s bodies. He became a wealthy, unscrupulous man, until his half-sister fell for the teachings of the new prophet. He, too, got interested in them, to the point that he renounced his life and wealth.

However, after that promising first third of the movie, depicting an atmosphere of decadence and debauchery and done with some cheek and sleaze, the story falls back into the tracks of what we already know from cultural history. Although it is now completely told from Judas’ perspective (quite literally so, as his is the only speaking part in the film), viewers will have few new insights into the well known tale. Paradoxically, there is not enough of Judas and his personality in Judas’ Gospel.

Although international stars such as Rupert Everett (playing the role of the priest Caiaphas), Paz Vega (as Mary), John Savage (Joseph) or filmmaker Abel Ferrara (who plays Herod) successfully overcome the challenge of limited means of expression, Base’s approach fails on the whole, revealing itself to be just a schlocky trick. The same goes for the decision never to reveal Judas’ face (always shot from the back, it might as well be the filmmaker himself), and the opposition between our hero and the rest of the characters feels artificially constructed.

As the story and its telling wear off following an encouraging beginning, so does the filmmaking style. The slick camerawork by Giuseppe Riccobene goes into a chaotic hand-held mode, while the music by Checco Pallone moves from a “blasphemous”, hard and heavy sound on the opening credits to stereotypical-sounding ethno music, the generic kind usually employed to suggest a Middle Eastern setting. On the other hand, Judas’ Gospel can find some saving grace in its rich references to works of literature, philosophy, theology and art, woven both into the narrative and the visual fabric of the movie, and in the tight editing by Natascia Di Vitto, which makes it watchable and intriguing. In the end, Judas' Gospel might not be an essential watch, but it showcases both the ambition and the shortcomings of Giulio Base’s approach to an intriguing topic.

Radio Rambo Amadeus

 kritika objavljena u dodatku Objektiv dnevnog lista Pobjeda

U poslednjih nekoliko godina, Sarajevo Film Festival je postao plodno tlo za dokumentarce o muzičarima iz bivše Jugoslavije, njihovim karijerama i poduhvatima. Imali smo tako Seju Seksona i Zabranjeno pušenje u Svetlima Sarajeva, Srđana Jevđevića i Kultur Shock u filmu Grandpa Guru, ili Zorana Predina i sastav Lačni Franz, kao i njegovu karijeru kantautora posle toga prošle godine u filmu Praslovan.

Ove godine premijeru imaju dva „Yu-rokumentarca“: Treći svijet Arsena Oremovića o grupi Haustor, naslovnoj ploči i kreativnoj energiji Darka Rundeka i Srđana Sachera, te Radio Rambo Amadeus Dušana Varde o „svjetskom mega caru“ i njegovom projektu 24/7 radija. Prvi se uvrstio u zvaničnu dokumentarnu konkurenciju, dok je drugi imao premijeru na otvorenoj pozornici preko puta Vijećnice, van konkurencije.

Za početak, pokušajmo da definišemo ko je i šta je Rambo Amadeus. Muzičar i multi-instrumentalista svakako. Revolucionar koji je izbrisao strogo definisane granice između žanrova. Kreativac, hedonista i humorista. Ekološki aktivista i „filozof-amater“. Jedriličar i „jadranski moreplovac“. Javna ličnost, propagandista i samoreklamer. Ali pre svega performer i „šoumen“. Jer će Rambo izvoditi svoju predstavu, skriptiranu ili ne, kad god za to ima priliku, odnosno publiku, pa makar u njoj bio jedan čovek ili, pak, samo kamera.

Raditi dokumentarac o takvoj ličnosti je svakako zabavno, ali može biti i teško i nepredvidljivo u smislu strukturiranja svega toga u koncizno delo koje ima „glavu i rep“. Svako ko se tako nečega dohvati izlaže se riziku da mu Rambo preotme projekat i zavrti ga u nekom svom nepredvidljivom pravcu, ili čak više pravaca. Dušan Varda je pokušao, ali...

Okosnicu filma čini Rambov projekat pokretanja sopstvene radio-stanice. Navodno je za vreme korone shvatio da je, iako „svetski mega car“, ipak smrtan, pa da ima poriv da za sobom ostavi neko nasleđe, pa se radio s njegovom muzikom, razgovorima s gostima i uključenjima (malobrojnih) slušalaca činio kao dobra ideja. Konkurencija za tako nešto nije velika: jedan je Rambo Amadeus i teško da bi se neko drugi takvog nečeg dosetio. Plan je da radio sa „striminga“ na internetu ode i u „fizički“ etar putem dve male, lokalne radio-stanice u brdima iznad Boke. Jer, ma koliko radio kao medij patio od krize ideja i bio zatrpan lošim vestima i često lošom muzikom, on je ipak preživeo konkurenciju televizije, pa će opstati i u doba interneta i sadržaja na zahtev.

Avantura sa radijom koja još uvek traje (makar i po inerciji, jer Rambo Amadeus svakako nije naročito uporan i konzistentan tip koji bi nešto gurao na silu ako mu ne ide) nije jedino što protagonista i režiser propagiraju u filmu. Tu su još i ideje o muzici, hedonizmu, jedrenju, odgovornoj propagandi korisnih stvari i ispravnih ideja, ekologiji i održivosti razvoja, kako ličnog, tako i društvenog, te o ostavljanju nečeg svog i autentičnog u nasleđe budućim generacijama. U tom smislu, imamo i isečke i kratke analize Rambovih kultnih pesama, snimke nastupa novijeg datuma, i to ne samo muzičkih, već i u pozorištu i na tribinama i konferencijama, svedočanstva Rambovih saradnika, prijatelja i poklonika i njegove „solo-tačke slobodnog stila“.

Rekosmo, takvu ličnost je teško obuzdavati i usmeravati, pa Rambo zapravo preuzima film i od njega pravi svoj šou. A kako se ne drži teme uvek i po svaku cenu, već intuitivno ubacuje gegove i kratke štoseve, nekakvu konzistenciju je teško tražiti. Čini se da mu režiser Varda nije dorastao, već da se oko toga, u montaži Branislava Godića, sklapa od obilja materijala koji im sam Rambo servira gotovo serijski. Takav materijal ne može biti konzistentan po pitanju kvaliteta, ali fore su uglavnom smešne, a zrnca mudrosti uglavnom na mestu.

Srećom, ni film ne traje preterano dugo, tek nešto preko 70 minuta, pa je u suštini zabavan, čime se servisira publika koja Ramba Amadeusa voli, ceni i gotivi, ali neku novu teško da će privući. Neće ni nekim novim klincima objasniti Rambov fenomen, stvaralački ili društveno angažovani. Za tako nešto je ipak potrebno nešto više strukture.

A Film a Week - The Fin

 previously published on Cineuropa

When it comes to imagining the horrors of the future, our imagination often proves to be limitless. However, the real terror does not stem from the inventions we have fabricated, but rather from their connection to the situations and occurrences we observe in the real world and in our immediate environment. That also goes for Syeyoung Park’s newest dystopian horror feature, The Fin, which has premiered in Locarno’s Filmmakers of the Present competition.

After environmental collapse, the Korean peninsula is unified as one state that sports all the hi-tech advancements of the South along with all the propaganda apparatus of the North, but the devastation has created a new division. While most folks live almost normally, albeit under some restrictions (for instance, being dirty is seen as an act of patriotism, since it saves water), the mutated Omega people are being held in captivity beyond the boundary of the Great Korean Wall and are being used as slave labour to clean up pollution. The state propaganda marks them out as enemies, and invites others to join the civil service that combats and catches the runaway Omegas.

One of them (Goh-woo) goes missing from one of the colonies. It turns out that he is on a mission to find Mia (Yeon Ye-ji), also an Omega, but who lives in hiding and works at an eerie fishing shop that actually sells the nostalgia of the “Old World ways” to its customers. At the same time, Su-jin (Kim Pur-eum), a new agent in the Korean Freedom Youth Civil Service, sets out on a mission to capture the Omegas in hiding, including Mia, but as she gets more involved with her work, she starts questioning the official propaganda.

It’s not hard to spot details from our own world in this bleak vision of the future, from national and class divisions to the toxicity of propaganda and the obsession with our own safety, ever in jeopardy because of others. But connecting The Fin to specific things like the division of Korea, the refugee crisis, the exploitation of foreign migrant workers and both of Donald Trump’s terms in office would be superficial. That’s because Park creates a universe of his own, and does so from scratch and in depth, presenting it carefully and with a great sense of restraint while developing the characters and the plot in his script.

However, the greatest thing about The Fin is its execution, which is partly the product of budgetary limitations and partly the filmmaker’s usual modus operandi, as we saw in his previous feature The Fifth Thoracic Vertebra (2022). There are some cinema-vérité ingredients, as Park, his cast and his crew sometimes filmed in uncontrollable conditions. Although the colours of the sky, the land and the water are quite unnatural, as per the script requirements, in Park’s own cinematography, the imagery seems almost palpable owing to the visuals resembling those of 16 mm works, complete with the inherent graininess. While the years-long editing process steered by Park, Han Ji-yoon and Clémentine Decremps also demanded some re-shoots, it was always less about the plotting, and more about the atmosphere and vibe. In that regard, one should commend the actors for their dedicated work, especially in the micro-acting department once Park opts for close-ups, as well as main composer Haam Seok-young, whose piano-driven score induces the right amount of melancholy. In this way, The Fin becomes a stellar example of an elevated genre piece that could prove to be a genuine discovery on this year’s festival circuit.

A Film a Week - Donkey Days

 previously published on Cineuropa

Family dynamics are always tricky to negotiate, so it should come as no surprise that the relations between family members are often at the centre of the literary and cinematic works. This is certainly the case with Donkey Days, the sophomore feature written and directed by Rosanne Pel, so far best known for her Toronto-premiered debut, Light as Feathers (2018), in which she examined how an abusive relationship between a teenager and his mother can spill over to the outside world. Donkey Days has premiered in the main competition of Locarno.

This time, we have two adult sisters, Anna (Jil Krammer, in her first screen role) and Charlotte (German actress Susanne Wolff, recently glimpsed in Köln ’75), who have always fought for their mother’s attention. The mum, Ines (veteran actress Hildegard Schmahl), is quite a piece of work herself. At first, one might think that she is trying to balance out the dynamics between her daughters, but she actually fuels their rivalry. The question is whether she does so willingly, for the sake of manipulation, or unwittingly, simply by making questionable choices.

The sisters have adopted different coping mechanisms to deal with the mother. While schoolteacher Anna reacts impulsively, through sulking and childish tantrums, Charlotte tries to present herself as a highly organised person. Their tactics, however, take different tolls on their lives, since Anna manages to sabotage the relationship with her partner Noe (Amke Wegner), and Charlotte always comes across as cold and distant. Ines’s advancing age and her secrets, which Anna and Charlotte come to discover, such as a “mystery urn” and her love of donkeys, present new challenges for them and their already troubled relationship.

The structure of the movie, in which the first two-thirds of the running time can be seen as a prolonged exposition, does not make watching Donkey Days a very pleasant experience. However, it places the viewers directly into the minds of the sisters, particularly Anna, and makes them feel the emotional turmoil the two have to grapple with when dealing with their mother. Viewers may also get a bit lost and confused owing to the fact that, at least during the exposition part, the plot might (or might not) be presented chronologically, while the filmmaker also introduces a kind of “alternative reality” where the sisters meet their mother as a young person of about their age. The sense of unnerving disorientation is further underlined by the use of unsteady, handheld camerawork with numerous horizontal pans by cinematographer Aafke Beernink as well as by Xander Nijsten’s seemingly rough editing, while the atonal music score by Ella van der Woude also plays a part.

The actresses and their work are among the chief saving graces of the movie. Hildegard Schmahl has a strong, commanding screen presence, while the chemistry between Susanne Wolff and Jil Krammer is palpable. The latter is also paired well with another non-professional, Amke Wegner, and thanks to Rosanne Pel’s work with them, their lack of formal experience never shows. As a bonus, Carla Juri shines in a few flashbacks as the young Ines.

In the end, Donkey Days is less about the story and making some kind of point than it is about the vibe. This kind of approach could be classed as risky, but it is obvious that this time, it is a deliberate choice, and it consequently bears a strong auteur-driven hallmark.

Dracula

 kritika objavljena u dodatku Objektiv dnevnog lista Pobjeda

„Ja sam Drakula, a vi svi možete da mi popušite kurac.“ Ovom rečenicom, ponovljenom nekih 15-20 puta od strane različitih verzija najpoznatijeg rumunskog i svetskog vampira Radu Žude započinje svoj film Dracula, verovatno najzvučniju svetsku premijeru na festivalu u Lokarnu. Te verzije, međutim, nisu glumci nego likovi generisani pomoću veštačke inteligencije.

Drakulu kao filmski lik ne treba posebno predstavljati, posebno ne u periodu od poslednjih godinu dana, u kojima se Žude smestio između Roberta Egersa i njegove kniževne kritike / disertacije maskirane u film (Nosferatu) i Lika Besona i njegovog predstojećeg verovatno preskupog „treša“ Dracula: A Love Tale. Štos je, međutim, u tome što Drakula nije naročit predmet interesa internacionalno najuspešnijem rumunskom filmskom stvaraocu. Naprotiv, kruži priča da je projekat Dracula nametnut Žudeu, a on je, pak, činio sve što je u njegovoj mogućnosti ne bi li ga sabotirao. Čak je i autor sam izjavio, upravo na premijeri u Lokarnu, da je sebi postavio zadatak da napravi glup, neozbiljan „treš“ film.

Uostalom, ako smo pratili Žudeov rad u poslednje vreme, a i inače, mora nam biti jasno da je u pitanju autor koji se nikada nije držao konvencija i koji zapravo sam sebi postavlja pravila igre. Nije on tip koji će, kao njegove kolege i ispisnici, servisirati festivale servirajući im mizerabilizam, niti će ići niz dlaku nacionalnoj mitomaniji, niti će se držati pravila dobrog ukusa. Žude ima svoju poetiku i politiku, a kome se ne sviđa može da mu... ma znate već. Nije da nismo upozoreni odmah na početku.

To upozorenje, međutim, ne znači da ćemo moći da se pripremimo na ono što ćemo pod maskom Drakule dobiti. U pitanju je zapravo „Frankenštajn“ od filma sačinjen od možda dve glavne priče i gomile digresija koje s Drakulom i adaptacijama istog možda imaju veze, a možda i ne. Usput će Žude gledati da koliko god može potkači domaću i svetsku politiku, nacionalnu istoriju i klasike nacionalne književnosti, kapitalizam kao takav i njegovu primenu u Rumuniji i, zapravo, sve što mu padne na pamet.

Prvi, glavni okvir je priča o reditelju (Adonis Tanca) koji je ostao bez inspiracije, pa u pomoć mora da priziva AI program Žudeks2000 verzija 0.0 koji ga onda hrani idejama i pomaže mu da svoj projekat ekranizacije Drakule za globalno tržište učini primamljivim svima. Treba mu, dakle, seks, melodrama, spektakl, emocije, komercijalna isplativost i šta sve ne. Ali jedno je kada na tome radi ljudi, a drugo kada to čini veštačka inteligencija. Rezultati potonje su, hm, urnebesni.

Drugi okvir je njegov film koji zapravo počinje kao kabaretska predstava za domaće i strane posetioce, sa sve pevanjem (Tanca je ovde voditelj kabarea), simuliranim seksom između Drakule (Gabriel Spahiu) i Vampire koja igra Minu (Oana Maria Zaharia), aukcijskom prostitucijom njih oboje u pauzi i simuliranim lovom na njih od strane posetilaca ulicama Drakulinog rodnog grada Sigišoare. Jednom kada dvoje propalih glumaca shvate da su zapravo eksploatisani, na pamet im pada da pokušaju da pobegnu zapravo, ali onda lov na njih postaje stvaran i – predmet aukcije.

(U ovoj priči zanimljivo je videti i svog kolegu iz zadnjih redova bioskopskih dvorana koji se ovom prilikom oprobao i ispred kamere. U pitanju je britanski filmski kritičar Nil Jang kao jedan od turista i posetilaca kabarea uvek spreman da baci neku filmsku ili literarnu referencu, od Serđa Leonea, preko Vernera Hercoga do Agate Kristi.)

Između su, dakle, digresije i umeci, i to tona njih, tako da Dracula traje skoro tri sata. Kroz njih ćemo videti adaptaciju soc-realističke romanse, adaptaciju rumunske vampirske novele iz 30-ih kroz koju se čuju odjeci fašizma, Drakulu kao nacionalnog heroja u spektaklu iz socijalističkih vremena, Drakulu danas u poseti rodnoj kući pretvorenoj u muzej, parafrazu klasične pripovetke u kojoj su seljaku-psovaču rodili falusi umesto kukuruza, priču o klinici stvarne gerontologinje Ane Aslan koja je sad pretvorena u prevarantsku shemu koja bogatašima nudi besmrtnost, AI-orgiju na temu Kopolinog filma Bram Stoker‘s Dracula, Murnauovog Nosferatua priređenog u reklame za pornografiju i fašističke skupove, Drakulu kao kapitalistu koji sisa krv modernim radnicima i na njih pošalje zombije ako se oni pobune, Tik-Tok verziju Drakule kao populističkog političara, jedan lažni nemi film i verovatno još ponešto. Usput, čućemo i citate i parafraze od Marksa do Vitgenštajna, saznaćemo za verovatno najbezobrazniju koruptivnu shemu u Rumuniji gde je država namenski opljačkala svoje građane nudeći im obveznice za nikada dovršeni Drakula Park koji je zamišljen kao „Diznilend Istočne Evrope“, a sve uz obilje psovki.

Glumci i glumice, među kojima Ilinka Manolaće (zvezda filma Don‘t Expect Too Much from the End of the World), Alina Šerban, Šerban Pavlu, Ester Tompa, Ana Dumitrasku i drugi, uglavnom igraju po više uloga u različitim pričama i digresijama. Sve to izgleda ružno i „trešerski“, direktor fotografije Marius Panduru je snimao „ajfonom“, i to bez posebnih objektiva, a CGI efekti su jeftiniji od najjeftinijih i stalno „pucaju“, dok je „upliv“ AI-ja vidljiv na svim poljima, i to ne na dobar način. Zapravo, Žude i montažer Katalin Kristuću to čak i namerno potenciraju.

Rezultat je, dakle, „Žude bez filtera“, onaj koji izjavljuje i radi ono što mu padne na pamet, bez ičije mogućnosti da ga zaustavi ili makar moderira. Opet, ako ćemo tražiti nekakve potporne tačke, naći ćemo ih – tu su svakako američki treš-filmadžija Ed Vud (Žude ga je u intervjuima citirao kao inspiraciju), te apsurdno-humorni skečevi grupe Monti Pajton s dodatkom „slepstika“ iz humorističkih emisija Benija Hila. Razlika je, međutim, u tome što navedeni nisu radili sve od toga u isto vreme i što ih je zapravo bilo više briga za granice gledalačke percepcije. Niko od njih se nije usuđivao da publiku „zatrpava“ onako kako to čini Žude.

Međutim, za razliku od Žudeovog prethodnog filma „bez filtera“, Don‘t Expect Too Much from the End of the World kojeg je teško bilo uhvatiti i za glavu i za rep, ovde ipak postoje neki aspekti koji služe kao kičma filma i provlače se kroz svih tri sata trajanja. Na narativnom planu, tu su svakako okviri kojima se vraćamo, a na izvedbenom – AI, odnosno nade lenjih i strahovi opreznih šta će nam dotični napraviti od filmova, umetnosti, kulture i života.

Ništa od toga, međutim, nije Drakula koji Žudea zapravo ne zanima dalje od toga da bi se sprdao s njime. I taj nedostatak fokusa je jedan od problema „Žudea bez filtera“ i filmova koje on na taj način radi. Drugi je, pak, upravo nedostatak tog „filtera“. Jer da je Dracula upola kraći, a njegove digresije pročišćenije ili veštije poturene, bio bi to dosta, dosta bolji film.

A Film a Week - Nova '78

 previously published on Cineuropa

The Nova Convention was a three-day event that took place from 30 November-2 December 1978 in New York. It was produced by writer and book editor James Grauerholz, poet and performer John Giorno, and literary critic and cultural theorist Sylvère Lotringer in order to celebrate writer William S Burroughs, and his ideas, influence and legacy. Late filmmaker Howard Brookner (1954-1989) and his core crew documented the whole event, but the material was considered lost until it was unearthed in 2012. The largely previously unseen material was progressively restored up until 2024, and Howard’s nephew Aaron Brookner and his Portuguese colleague Rodrigo Areias composed a documentary called Nova ’78 out of it, which has now premiered at the 2025 edition of Locarno, out of competition.

While most of the previous paragraph could be read in the opening title cards of Nova ’78, there is more of a backstory here that did not end up in Brookner and Areias’ documentary. Maybe the reason for this is the fact that some of the material was also used for the 2014 updated version of Howard Brookner’s Borroughs (1983), and that Aaron Brookner explained the life and the work of his uncle, and his ties to him, in his 2016 documentary Uncle Howard. For those acquainted with those two docs, it should not come as a surprise that Tom DiCillo and Jim Jarmusch were signed up as the cinematographer and the sound recordist, respectively, on Nova ’78, as they were part of the original Burroughs crew.

Nova ‘78 is pretty much focused on the very event, from the last backstage arrangements the day before the convention to numerous panel discussions, dance, theatrical and musical performances, readings, and expressions of gratitude for the inspiration that Burroughs provided to all of them. Regarding the speakers and performers, the list is long and varied: Philip Glass, John Cage, Laurie Anderson, Patti Smith, Timothy Leary, Allen Ginsberg, Brion Gysin and many more. Some of the initially announced guests did not appear, like Susan Sontag and Keith Richards, but those who did surprised many with their openhearted confessions. For instance, Frank Zappa, who was never much of a reader, deeply admired Burroughs for writing and publishing Naked Lunch. The rest of the conversations revolved around the future and the fear of it for reasons that still stand today, like wars, the environment and the persecution of minorities, while one conversation between Burroughs and Ginsberg on the topic of the turmoil in Iran just before the revolution sounds prophetic from such a distance.

Howard Brookner set the style somewhere between a fly-on-the-wall kind of observation and a reportage that aims to be as factual as possible, and Aaron Brookner and Rodrigo Areias maintain it for the better part of the film, as they stay at the convention and in its immediate surroundings. However, they both know that they have to relax the atmosphere a little and also show the hero of the story, Burroughs, in some other settings, so they take us away from the convention and into his world of long walks and road trips where every source of inspiration can be turned into a work of art through a process of mental training. The almost abstract imagery is accompanied perfectly by a psychedelic guitar- and synth-heavy soundtrack by Paulo Furtado (aka The Legendary Tigerman), while the precise editing by Aaron Bruckner and Tomás Baltazar keeps the running time of this dense documentary at a pleasant 80 minutes.

The convention it portrays proved to be a uniquely influential event. As a documentary, Nova ‘78 deserves the same outcome.

A Film a Week - Fantasy

 previously published on Cineuropa

Right from the opening shots of Fantasy, the feature debut by Slovenian musician and filmmaker Kukla, premiering in Locarno’s Filmmakers of the Present competition, the first association will become very apparent: French filmmaker Céline Sciamma and her earlier to mid-career works like Tomboy and Girlhood. It might not be a deliberate reference, but rather a product of the simple fact that coming of age takes longer than it used to and that it is never easy, especially for young women in a world structured to follow certain patriarchal traditions. The resemblance between the Parisian banlieu and the housing-estate buildings on the outskirts of Ljubljana does not go unnoticed either.

The story follows three “besties” in their early twenties who, at the start, all sport a uniform, tomboy attitude and speak the same local dialect that mixes Slovenian with other southern Slavic languages, but there are some differences between them to be observed. Sina (Mina Milovanović) is into sports, especially boxing, and wants to embark on a career as a coach. Jasna (Mia Skrbinac) is the most ambitious of the gang: she stays quiet and wants to keep the group together, but she also dreams of making something of her life elsewhere. Mihrije (Sarah Al Saleh) seems like the youngest one, and her primary goal is to avoid getting married to a man whom she does not know and who would be chosen by her parents. They are all of foreign ancestry and have to endure both the patriarchal rules of their neighbourhood and the low-key, systemic racism from Slovenian civil servants.

Their individual lives change once they meet a seemingly liberated, even slightly unhinged, transgender woman named Fantasy (Alina Juhart), to whom they all react differently. Mihrije falls for her hard – so hard that she even runs away from home to follow her on a trip to North Macedonia, where Fantasy has to introduce herself under her male given name, Filip. While the two are away, Sina falls for her married coach, Boris (Denis Porčič), and starts exploring her more feminine side, and Jasna decides to leave her passive-aggressive mother (Silvija Jovanović) behind and find work abroad. Can their friendship withstand such temptations?

Kukla’s screenwriting might seem classical, so a certain drop in tempo occurs in the second act, as expected, but she manages to accomplish the primary task she gave herself: she effectively implants us in the minds of young women on the brink of adulthood, creating a sense of empathy for the troubles her characters are dealing with, and she does so with style.

The slight movements in Lazar Bogdanović’s camerawork, paired with Lukas Miheljak’s rhythmic editing, Relja Čupić’s moody electronic score and Julij Zornik’s perfectly calibrated sound design, create a unique, dream-like atmosphere. Kukla’s directing style, especially when introducing lengthy sequences that resemble music videos of a peculiar genre (vocoder-heavy trap
mixed with “turbofolk” from the Balkans), might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but bearing her background in such music in mind, it’s to be expected that the filmmaker would also manage to capture the vibe of this world.

Kukla’s work with the largely non-professional actors is one of Fantasy’s strong points, as they dive deep into their characters and convey their every state and emotion compellingly and with conviction. This should not come as a surprise, since Kukla already “tested” them all in her award-winning short Sisters (2020). But with Fantasy, she manages to achieve a rare feat: to expand a short movie into an even more impressive feature.

Mirrors No. 3

 kritika objavljena u dodatku Objektiv dnevnog lista Pobjeda

U filmografiji Kristijana Pecolda, Transit (2018) je svakako bio „tranzitni“ film u kojem je autor zamenio svoju muzu Ninu Hos sa kojom je snimao prethodne filmove novom, Paulom Ber, pa još uparenom s Francom Rogovskim. Tema je ostala na liniji onoga što je Pecold do tada radio – prošlost koja nikako da umre i koja se ponavlja u sadašnjosti.

Nakon toga je Pecold postao više filozofičan, posebno u svetlu života, prilika i neprilika uglavnom mladih ljudi, ali sa dozom ezoterije koja ih okružuje. Navodno, on svoje novije filmove slaže ciklički, na temu elemenata. Undine (2020), opet sa Ber i Rogovskim u glavnim ulogama, očito je bila o vodi koja svugde prodire, a Afire (2023), ovog puta sa Ber bez Rogovskog, o vatri spremnoj da sve pred sobom proguta.

Pred nama je novi Pecoldov film Mirrors No. 3 gde Paula Ber igra protagonistkinju koja nam je i fokalna tačka i jedini pružalac perspektive, iako se tu verovatno radi o nepouzdanoj osobi. Nakon premijere u Kanu, šaka nam je pao na Paliću. Naslov dolazi od Debisijeve klavirske kompozicije, čućemo je na „saundtreku“, a čućemo i ponešto od druge klavirske klasike. Upravo taj tip muzike prožima ceo film i smešta ga u planiranu „elementarnu“ tetralogiju. Jer – šta je muzika i uopšte zvuk? Vazduh koji na određeni način vibrira. Ovo je, dakle, film o vazduhu, ponekad o muzici, a ponekad i o kovitlacu emocija.

„Vazdušasta“ je i naša protagonistkinja Laura koju upoznajemo u kolima s dečkom Jakobom (Filip Froason) i njegovim prijateljima na putu prema moru. Iako niko prema njoj nije neprijateljski nastrojen, Laura je nekomunikativna, neodređeno tužna i deluje isključeno iz dešavanja. Jednom kad stignu na odredište, nešto u njoj se prelomi tako da ne želi dalje, pa Jakob uzima na sebe da je vrati do obližnje stanice javnog prevoza kako bi se vratila nazad u Berlin.

Na putu, međutim, čim vide tužnu i naoko čudnu ženu srednjih godina, njih dvoje imaju nesreću u kojoj Jakob gine, a Laura se izvlači samo s jednom posekotinom. Nije slučaj za bolnicu, a žena, Beti (Barbara Auer) nudi joj smeštaj u svojoj kući dok se ne oporavi. Iz razloga koji možemo pretpostaviti, naročito kada Beti Lauru pogrešno oslovi imenom Jelena, ona ima sve što joj treba: odeću, bicikl koji, doduše, treba malo popraviti, čak i praznu mladalačku sobu na tavanu kuće.

Njihovo druženje poprima dimenzije terapije za obe, jer i Laura pati zbog toga što nije tužna na onaj način na koji bi to od sebe očekivala. Ali nečiji, verovatno Jelenin, duh lebdi nad njima, a stvari će postati dodatno komplikovanije kada se u priču uključe Betin muž Rihard (Matijas Brant) i sin Maks (Eno Trebs) koji se čine kao ogrubeli, nekomunikativni „majstorski“ tipovi, ali im je to možda i maska...

Pitanje svih pitanja ovde je: „Mogu li oštećeni ljudi jedni drugima poslužiti kao terapija ili neka vrsta surogata, zamene za gubitak?“ Znajući Kristijana Pecolda i njegov opus, odgovor će biti neodređen, s tendencijom ka negativnom. Jesu li onda makar njihovi gubici kompatibilni da bi se mogli sabirati ili poništavati? To je pitanje koje reditelj postavlja i svojim likovima, ali i nama u publici.

Kao i likovi, kako oni živi, tako i oni koji kao duhovi lebde nad događajima ili kao sablasti posmatraju izdaleka, i Mirrors No. 3 je pomalo „vazdušast“ film. Možda u njemu nij teško locirati zaplet, ali je zato teško zamisliti da bi se od tog „kostura“ koji se pritom pomalo lenjo vuče kao letnje popodne, mogao složiti dugometražni film umesto kratkometražnog. Ali Pecold nam u poslednje vreme s lakoćom „prodaje“ taj „filozofski“ fazon.

Ne samo da nam neće puno smetati u formatu od ispod 90 minuta, već će nas reditelj uljuljkati muzikom i vedutama u fotografiji Hansa Froma. Pažnju će nam držati i Paula Ber, jedna od izuzetnih glumica mlađe generacije kojoj skoro savršeno stoje uloge ranjivih i ranjenih mladih žena. Na kraju, Pecold i kada je po formatu manji i iznutra „vazdušastiji“ nego što je s njim obično slučaj, poseduje tu neku magiju kojom će nas vezati za svoje filmove.

Two Prosecutors / Zwei Staatsanwälte

 kritika objavljena u dodatku Objektiv dnevnog lista Pobjeda

Iako je najpoznatiji kao dokumentarista, ukrajinski filmski autor Sergej Loznica snima i igrane filmove. Njegov izbor tema se najčešće, ali ne ekskluzivno, vrti oko sovjetskih nepočinstava i nasleđa koje se ogleda i u sadašnjem trenutku, posebno u svetlu rusko-ukrajinskih odnosa, ali i unutrašnjih relacija u obe zemlje. Lozničin naj noviji igrani film Two Prosecutors, nastao u koprodukciji šest evropskih zemalja, premijerno je prikazan u glavnom takmičarskom programu Kana, da bi se posle uputio na turneju koja je uključivala i Karlove Vari i Palić.

Brajansk, Rusija, Sovjetski Savez, 1937. godine. Staljinističke čistke su na vrhuncu, zatvori pretrpani političkim zatvorenicima, tretman njih je izuzetno nehuman. Kako se praktično sve odvija u tajnosti i mimo zakona, njihova pisma u „spoljni svet“, pa makar i samom Staljinu, po nalogu upravnika zatvora se spaljuju. Sa sekvencom u kojoj jedan stariji zatvorenik spaljuje pisma film i počinje.

Jedno od tih pisama iz punog teškog džaka preživljava i postaje nepokretni pokretač radnje. Njega je napisao Stepanjak, politički zatvorenik iz „specijalnog“ bloka, krvlju i na tvrdom kartonu. Pismo će prizvati mladog inspektora u tužilaštvu, Kornjeva (Aleksandar Kuznjecov), zaduženog da procesi protiču po zakonu, da ga poseti i ispita na šta bi u tretmanu on imao da se požali. Da bi do njega došao, mora da prođe preko nekoliko instanci gde odluke donose pripadnici tajne policije NKVD, oni ga tretiraju kao naivca i pokušavaju da ga spreče u naumu.

Međutim, sada izmučeni i gotovo na samrti Stepanjak (Aleksandar Filipenko) bio je tužilac u Brajansku i profesor mladom tužiocu tokom studija i inspirisao ga da bude pošten boljševik. Zatvorenik ima prilično validnu teoriju da su karijeristi iz NKVD-a preuzeli „revolucionarnu pravdu“ i da trenutno „čiste“ stare partijce po lažnim optužnicama.

Gotovo naivno, stari tužilac koji više nema šta da izgubi, šalje mladog u Moskvu da dospe do nekog visoko pozicioniranog u Centralnom Komitetu. Međutim, verujući u pravdu i institucije, Kornjev želi da dobije vanrednu audijenciju kod glavnog državnog tužioca Višinskog (Anatolij Belij). Koliko tako nešto može uticati u državi kojom vlada paranoja, a komanduju razbojnici?

Lozničin režijski postupak je rigidan kao što je to bio period vremena u kojem je radnja smeštena: slika je u Akademijinom 4:3 formatu, a boje su isprane i gravitiraju memljivim smeđe-sivima. Kadrovi su dugi i statični, fantastično komponovani od strane direktora fotografije Olega Mutua koji kroz njih plastično prikazuje svu „neveselost“ sovjetskog života, od zatvora, preko vagona treće klase, pa do čekaonica u partijskim zgradama.

Ali, u tim dugim scenama i sekvencama gde dosta vremena otpada na čekanje (sasvim logično, takav je bio tretman ljudi koji su hteli nešto pošteno i po zakonu, a nisu imali formalnu moć u svojim rukama) glavna stvar su dijalozi. A oni su mračni, cinični, ali čak mogu biti duhoviti kada ih se sluša s razumevanjem, odnosno s poznavanjam i shvatanjem govora u pasivno-agresivnim ili otvoreno pretećim šiframa. Već kroz način obraćanja mogu se osetiti odnosi moći, što formalni, što stvarni, kao i generalni sovjetski način života i tamošnji proklamovani ideali kada se primene u svakodnevnoj praksi.

Iako se mogu prepoznati uticaji iz literature, od ruskih (i ukrajinskih) klasika kao što su Gogolj sa svojim satiričnim realizmom ili Dostojevski sa psihologizacijom, preko Kafke do „samizdat“ disidentske literature. Potonje nikako ne treba da čudi, budući da je autor izvornog predloška disidentski pisac Georgi Demidov koji je prošao politički progon, logore i gulage.

Two Prosecutors ni u kojem slučaju nije lagan i prijatan film. Nijedan Lozničin ikada to nije bio. Ali takav šamar realnosti koji nas mori dok ga gledamo, a i kasnije kada ga se setimo, nam je ponekad potreban. Ovaj film dokazuje da je nagrada za životno delo Aleksandar Lifka na Paliću otišla u prave ruke, jer Sergej Loznica je zaista jedan od najvećih autora trenutno.

A Film a Week - Comatogen

 previoulsy published on Cineuropa

It would seem that a mosaic structure driven by the perspectives of multiple characters is something of a trend in contemporary Romanian cinema. Recently, it served to portray the historical moment of the 1989 Revolution from different points of view, like in Tudor Giurgiu’s Freedom (2023), or the prologue to it, like in Bogdan Mureşanu’s The New Year That Never Came (2024). Igor Cobileanski’s Comatogen stands slightly apart since the Moldavia-born Romanian filmmaker aims to capture a piece of ordinary, contemporary life. The film premiered at the Transylvania International Film Festival and was screened recently at the European Film Festival Palić in its Parallels and Encounters section.

Forty-something-year-old nurse Alina (Daniela Nane, glimpsed in Ana Maria Comanescu’s Horia) gets a job offer she cannot refuse: she will take extra care for the comatose patient Klaus (veteran actor Gheorghe Visu) for the extra money paid by his daughter Mihaela (Ada Lupu, in her second collaboration with Cobileanski). On the home front, she still supports her twenty-something-year-old son Radu (Theodor Soptelea) who seems to be down on his luck regarding job opportunities. Novelty comes on the level of her private life, as she reconnects with her high school friend Pavel (Andrei Aradits) and starts a relationship with him. That also serves as an opportunity to take care of Radu, as Pavel has a real estate agency that might need a new recruit and Radu seems fit for the job. However, a case of stolen envelope reveals a not-so-carefully kept secret and leads to more and more grave ethical dilemmas, as we learn that the world, after, revolves around money as well as personal agendas powered by “the things people want to hear” – in other words, lies.

In the first and longest part which serves as exposition, we see events from Alina’s perspective. Those of others – Radu, Pavel and Mihaela – come in the subsequent, shorter chapters. Whatever information the viewers glean constantly gets challenged and updated by new findings and revelations. The result is a perpetually shifting perspective, requiring the viewer's attention and an investment that keeps the ethical apparatus ready to pass and overturn judgements. This approach might recall Akira Kurosawa’s classic Rashomon (1950), but in the script written by the filmmaker together with Alin Boeru, and in Cobileanski’s interpretation of it, it turns out to be more akin to Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown (1997), flavoured with some specifically Romanian social realism and the Romanian New Wave poetics of long takes that are either static or executed in a hand-held mode by cinematographer Cristian Gugu.

In the end, although Comatogen might not be as groundbreaking or deep as its synopsis suggested, it certainly packs a punch. Its main strength remains the filmmaker’s finely calibrated work with his actors who are, depending on the chapter, pulled into the spotlight or sent to the background, having to play their characters differently in different sections of the movie. With this approach, Cobileanski achieves an “everyman” effect for each of the key characters and creates the feeling that we recognise them and can identify with them and the situations they get into. If catching and keeping our attention and engagement were Igor Cobileanski’s primary goals with Comatogen, he certainly reached them.

Materialists

 kritika objavljena u dodatku Objektiv dnevnog lista Pobjeda

Pre dve godine, u Karlovim Varima dopao nam je šaka film Past Lives, debitantski uradak Selin Song. Bio je to jedan od najboljih filmova te 2023. i jedna od ozbiljnijih, dubljih i inteligentnijih romantičnih drama koja je doticala brojne životne aspekte, ne striktno vezane za predstave o ljubavi i vezama. Više od svega, bio je to potpuno iskren film koji je mogla da snimi samo osoba poput Selin Song.

Očekivanja su zato bila prilično velika i od njenog sledećeg filma Materialists koji polako ulazi u bioskope, ali je i na festivalskoj turneji, između ostalih mesta i u Karlovim Varima i u Puli. Ovog puta Song je imala ozbiljnu produkcijsku kuću (A24) i ozbiljniji budžet (20 miliona dolara) iza sebe, a velike zvezde poput Dakote Džonson, Krisa Evansa i Pedra Paskala ispred kamere. Bazne žanrovske odrednice drame i romanse su ostale iste, a u miks je ubačena i komedija i satira. Ali, kao da je nedostajalo ličnog naboja, pa moramo da se pripremimo na razočaranje.

Lusi (Džonson) radi u agenciji za sređivanje romantičnih sastanaka za ekskluzivnu klijentelu koja nema vremena da se bavi svojim ljubavnim životom bilo analogno, bilo digitalno. Dobra je u svom poslu i, kada je upoznamo, šefica joj priređuje kancelarijsku zabavu za proslavu devetog braka između njenih klijenata. Njen pristup je matematički precizan: svi klijenti joj dolaze s nerealnim, preteranim očekivanjima koja ona mora da pobije ili makar spusti, pa da onda nađe najbolju kompromisnu opciju za oboje. Jer sklapanje braka ili makar veze u svetu u kojem zapravo nemamo vremena za sebe je poput sklapanja posla, kupovine kuće ili sređivanja osiguranja.

Zaplet zapravo počinje na svadbi tih njenih klijenata. Dok je jedan od konobara na njoj njen bivši dečko Džon (Evans), inače pozorišni glumac koji se nije probio, Lusi se udvara mladoženjin brat Hari (Paskal). Ona isprva ne razume njegovu računicu: u njegovom svetu, ona je siromašna, nije više toliko mlada, niti je njeno poreklo visoko kao njegovo, ali zašto ne bi probala da pređe u višu klasu, naročito zato što je on tretira s poštovanjem i iskrenim interesom, a pritom ceni njenu inteligenciju.

Međutim, kada se jedan sastanak između njenih klijenata okrene naopako i potencijalno opasno za nju, ona počinje da se preispituje i da preispituje svoju ulogu u industriji koja opstaje na materijalizmu i perpetuira ga dalje. Šefica Vi (Malin Ajrlend) pokušava da je zaštiti ponekad i od sebe same, ali jedini koji zapravo može da je razume i pruži joj pravu podršku je Džon.

U prvoj polovini filma, makar postoji jedna doza ironičnog odmaka, čak sarkazma, koji se dodaje na osnovu romantične komedije i otvara put prema satiri modernog, materijalističkog načina života gde je sve na kantaru. Naravno, nije film neka sreća ni pre toga: Song jaše na talasima klišea koje navodno preispituje, na silu svaku scenu pokriva muzikom i pokušava režijske akrobacije nadajući se da će tako produbiti svoj ne baš naročito inspirativan scenario. Doduše, za neke štoseve poput intervjua s klijentima nalik na one koje je Džejson Rajtman ubacio u Up in the Air, ili za onu jednu parafrazu scene u baru iz Past Lives, treba joj odati priznanje.

Tonalni preokret koji dolazi na sredini smo mogli da očekujemo ako imamo već neku kilometražu pogledanih filmova iza sebe. Jasno je da Song želi dati neki ozbiljan komentar na stanje stvari, a da nije dovoljno vešta i sigurna u sebe da to izvede u laganijem tonu. Međutim, kada se ton okrene, ona se upušta u popovanje i ono malo radosti isparava iz filma.

Ali, zapravo, Materialists nikada i nije imao šansi da bude dobar film i to se ogleda u izboru glumačke postave. Pedro Paskal još i dobro prolazi u kliše-ulozi bogatog i markantnog frajera, a Krisu Evansu solidno stoji taj utišani gnev pristojnog čoveka koji uvek izvisi. Problem je što nijedan od njih dvojice nema nimalo hemije s Dakotom Džonson. Ona je, pak, priča za sebe, potpuno isprazna na nivou uloge koja ju je proslavila (50 Shades trilogija), gotovo anesteziranog izraza lica (da li je lokalna, kao kod zubara, ili totalna, kao za operaciju, varira od scene do scene) i kao takvu nema nikakve šanse da nas ubedi u to da njen lik zapravo ima ikakvu ličnost. Nema tu hleba, Materialists jednostavno ne valja.

How Come It's All Green Out Here? / Kako je ovde tako zeleno?

 kritika objavljena u dodatku Objektiv dnevnog lista Pobjeda

Mnogi su se pitali gde je Nikola Ležaić nestao nakon uspeha s revolucionarnim dugometražnim prvencem Tilva Roš (2010) u kojem je spojio naturščike, supkulturu, socijalu i art u dubokoj, deindustrijalizovanoj provinciji Bora. Makar deo odgovora ćemo dobiti u njegovom novom dugometražnom filmu Kako je ovde tako zeleno koji se nakon svetske premijere u sekciji Proksima na filmskom festivalu u Karlovim Varima uputio na regionalnu premijeru u Puli.

Kako je ovde sve tako zeleno je, naime, polu-autobiografski i još više od toga introspektivni film. Reditelj Nikola (Filip Đurić) već dugo nije snimio film jer nikako da dobije sredstva za svoj sledeći ekstremno ambiciozni projekat, ali sasvim dobro zarađuje snimajući reklame. Taj posao ga, međutim, ne ispunjava, pa izlaz nalazi u ispunjavanju fantazije da kupi stari kamper kojim će sa svojom suprugom Aleksandrom (Milica Gojković) i ćerkom koju očekuju putovati okolo.

Pre toga, međutim, Nikola mora na jedan drugi put s nekim drugim društvom i nekim drugim povodom. Put ga vodi u zavičaj njegovih predaka, selo Djeverske kod Kistanja u dalmatinskom zaleđu, društvo su mu otac Mirko (Izudin Bajrović), stric Branko (Stojan Matavulj) i dalja tetka Jovanka (Snježana Sinovčić), a povod je „druga“ sahrana pokojne baba-Pere u njenom rodnom kraju i pored njenog muža. Baba je, naime, kao i Branko i Jovanka, izbegla u Srbiju s Olujom 1995. godine i nikada se nije navikla na život daleko od svog doma.

S njima u drugom autu, odnosno kombiju koji prevozi sanduk s pokojnicom, putuju rođak-prevoznik Neven (Leon Lučev) i zemljak Boćo, a u selu ih čeka rođaka Dara (Rada Mrkšić) koja će ih ugostiti, budući da je babina kuća u stanju propadanja. Tamo je i druga rodbina koju sačinjavaju povremeni ili stalni povratnici u opustela sela oko kojih je zemlja škrta. Nikolu, međutim, more filozofska pitanja identiteta i memorije: čega se on iz svojih poseta tokom detinjstva seća, šta je krivo zapamtio, a šta se zapravo u tih 25 ili više godina promenilo.

Jasno, u pitanju je izrazito ličan film i on svom autoru svakako ima smisla. Pitanje je, doduše, koliko film nama ima smisla, budući da je, objektivno govoreći, usporen, meandrirajući i nabijen „slepim kolosecima“ u smislu nekoliko podzapleta koji ne služe ničemu bitnom i otkrivaju tek sporedne detalje likova. Takođe, ako očekujemo ne znam kako impresivan razvojni luk likova ili ne znam kakvu veliku spoznaju, možemo se duboko razočarati.

To bi, međutim, bila šteta, budući da je „vožnja“ prijatna, naročito u društvu ekstremno raspoloženih glumaca. Stojan Matavulj je apsolutno u svom elementu kao Branko, samo što još i manje ima potrebu da glumi. Leon Lučev i Snježana Sinovčić uspevaju biti upečatljivi i sa relativno malo prostora i sa pozadinskim likovima koje igraju. Izudin Bajrović briljira kao Mirko, a Filip Đurić svojom izvedbom Nikole podvlači Ležaićevu hrabrost da se autorski ogoli, pa makar zbog toga delovao kao distancirani, pomalo blazirani hipster koji nema prečih problema u životu od toga što je zauzet na poslu i što pokušava da pronađe zajednički jezik sa svojim precima i rođacima.

Kada se tome doda i evokativna fotografija Aleksandra Pavlovića u kojoj se smenjuju sivilo i zelenilo, prizori impresivno lepe prirode i zapuštenosti usled odsustva ljudi ili nemoći onih koji su prisutni, te meditativna i odmerena montaža Jana Klemšea, film počinje da nas uvlači u svoj svet, odnosno unutrašnji svet svoga autora. Na kraju, nije ni bitno ima li Kako je ovde sve zeleno smisla gledaocima sa strane jer ga oni svakako mogu pronaći, bilo da ga traže kao studiju života prognanika i povratnika, ili kao put spoznaje protagoniste. Bitno je da je to film s nepogrešivim autorskim potpisom Nikole Ležaića: on ga je snimio za sebe, a mi smo tu samo gosti.

A Film a Week - The Lost Dream Team / Izgubljeni Dream Team

 previously published on Cineuropa

Sports are often the source of national pride and unity: the whole nation tends to come together and stay behind an individual or a national team. But in the former Yugoslavia and the countries that succeeded it, fandom for an individual sportsperson or a national team is raised to the level of mythic adoration. National sports-powered “mythos” sometimes even gets epic proportions in an “alternative history” imagination. Some say that the collapse of Yugoslavia became possible after the unfortunate loss of the football national team against Argentina in the quarter-finals of the 1990 World Cup in Italy. Others harbour a conspiracy theory that the Americans were so frustrated with their college basketball players losing to Yugoslav teams that they forced the International Olympic Committee to change the rules regarding the professionals competing and created their own dream team of the best NBA players.

After a fantastic career in the short format crowned with the 2015 EFA award for Picnic and his fiction-feature debut Mater (2019), Croatian filmmaker Jure Pavlović has decided to try a new format – the feature-length documentary combining sports and the political drama of the Yugoslav basketball national team’s last hurrah at the European Championships in Rome in 1991. The premiere of The Lost Dream Team closed the 72nd edition of the Pula Film Festival. Judging by these events’ place in the collective memory all over the West Balkans, and by the rather universal angle Pavlović takes to accommodate international audiences, the film should have a healthy festival run, a theatrical release in several countries, and a prolonged exposure on television afterwards.

Throughout the 1980s, the Yugoslav men’s basketball national team became a powerhouse at continental and world championships, as well as at the Olympics, with players like Dražen Petrović, Vlade Divac, Toni Kukoč, Dino Rađa, Saša Đorđević, Predrag Danilović amongst others. The match in the finals of the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona never took place because Yugoslavia ceased to exist a year before, and the dissolution was followed by a bloody war. It was in fact during the very week of the European basketball championship in Rome that Slovenia and Croatia seceded from Yugoslavia and the short-lasting war in Slovenia broke out. After winning the championship, the national representatives did not have a country to return to.

Jure Pavlović interviews all the players from the national team as well as their head coach Dušan Duda Ivković and the team manager, but the focal point is Jurij Zdovc, the only Slovenian on the team, who was called by the government of his “new country” to leave the national team (and his comrades and friends) because of the Yugoslav aggression on Slovenia. Zdovc was also the focal point of a newspaper article written by Croatian journalist and novelist Boris Dežulović that actually inspired Pavlović to take a dive into the topic and the memory from his own childhood.

The result is a finely made classical documentary mixing sports and politics, to cathartic effect for the audience that remembers the events, and creating curiosity in younger spectators. Pavlović's approach, combining national television and private archives as well as newly shot interviews with the players and staff members, functions well thanks to the slickness in Dario Hacek’s camerawork, Julij Zornik’s masterful sound design and Ivan Vasić’s editing which turns the talking heads mode into something more artistic. The Lost Dream Team might seem like a simple piece of nostalgia, but it is also a deeply moving piece of cinema.