Vérité - June 2013

ISSUE #4

V é r i t é JUNE 2013 EDITION

FILM CRITICISM & CINEMATIC DISCUSSION

UPSTREAM C O L O U R

And the Shane Carruth Enigma

also...

Cannes 2013 / Like Someone in Love / Onur Ünlü / Tabu / reviews / and more...

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Editor’s Letter

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t maybe happens once every few years; a film appears that resonates with such haunting poetic beauty it shakes you to the core and invigorates its audience with a labyrinthine structure and unique outlook. Shane Carruth’s first effort, Primer, was one of those films and now, nine years later with his second Upstream Colour, he’s captured lightening in a bottle once again. Utterly engrossing and endlessly captivating, Carruth’s inventive visual and narrative style delivers a film a powerhouse of mind-blowing, rhythmic precision.

Ambitious and emotional, it’s a sensory experience that needs to be witnessed, making it a perfect centrepiece for this June issue. It deserves to be applauded and discussed and we’re very happy we have the opportunity to do that within the pages of this edition. To give a platform to such unique talent is why this magazine exists in the first place.

But that’s not all, last month we found ourselves rubbing shoulders with the cinematic elite on the rainy (and occasionally sun-kissed) promenades of the 65th Cannes Film Festival, where we caught some of the most anticipated releases of the year. Find out what we thought of this years’ festival over on page 14.

Continuing this theme, we have coverage of this year’s Terracotta and SERET film festivals. It’s a guiding principle of the magazine to introduce you to filmmakers you might be unaware of and our feature on Onur Ünlü, the subject of our regular director’s profile, shines a light on another talent ripe for wider discovery.

As we strive to bring you more, delve deeper and highlight the kind of cinema we find inspiring, we hope you continue to enjoy reading about these great talents as much as we do writing about them.

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Thanks for reading, Jordan McGrath & David Hall

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“Give them pleasure. The same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.”

Alfred Hitchcock

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Contents Features Swimming Against the Tide - p8

Evrim Ersoy takes us down the rabbit hole of Shane Carruth’s latest, Upstream Colour, whilst also looking at his career to-date.

Columns

Reviews

Arabesque a la Turca - p40

Behind the Candelabra - p50

Evrim Ersoy continues his stellar insight into the filmmakers that exist off the mainstream radar. This month’s subject - Onur Ünlü

Paradise: Love - p51 Like Someone in Love- p52 Play - p53

Romance & Reality- p14

David Hall chronicles his experiences at this year’s Cannes Film Festival, telling us what he managed to catch at the prestigious event.

Masters of Cinema - p44

Robert Makin discusses the new Masters of Cinema release of F.W Murnau’s final feature film,Tabu.

The Bling Ring - p54 Before Midnight - p55 Eden - p56

I’ll Be Your Mirror - p22

In Defence... - p48

James Rocarols argues why Abbas Kiarostami’s Like Someone in Love is not one of the filmmakers weaker films.

It’s Kelsey Eichhorn’s turn to tell you about another missunderstood masterpiece as she gazes into the soul of Kubick’s Eyes Wide Shut.

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The Deep - p57 Upstream Colour - p58

Join the Conversation

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SWIMMING AGAINST THE TIDE As the polymath creator of Primer returns to cinema after an eight-year absence with the dizzying Upstream Colour, Evrim Ersoy marvels at the truly original voice and vision of Shane Carruth

words by Evrim Ersoy

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hane Carruth should not exist.

In a cinematic landscape where the audience has been gradually weaned off intelligent cinema, a visual storyteller who refuses to hand out simple answers should not succeed. He should not succeed by making films about time-travel and co-dependency between parasites, people and pigs; filled to the brim with scientific jargon, bursting at the seams with long sequences free of dialogue – communicating with the audience in languages anew.

And yet he is here.

When Primer went on to win the Grand Prize and the Alfred P. Sloan award at Sundance in 2004, the film world blinked. Who was Shane Carruth? Who was this former software engineer, softly spoken and gentle, stepping into the arena of filmmaking with a $7000 budgeted science-fiction film that would confuse many a doctor or professor.

Where had he come from? What did he want?

The answer seems simple now: Shane Carruth wanted to tell stories.

Carruth is very hard to categorize: his films do not fit the genre-labelling system the money-men love. Like the films of Zal Batmanglij,

Sean Durkin or even Kim-Ki Duk, Carruth does not favour linear storytelling that doles out ample information along the way for each step taken.

Take Primer – the story of two engineers who build a time-machine by accident in a garage and slowly fall apart because of their egos, greed and the destructive element of human nature. Carruth’s film does not exist to make the audience feel smart: unlike say Nolan’s ‘Inception’, few emerge from Primer thinking about how they ‘understand’ the film.

Instead Primer, and Carruth, challenges the audience to keep up.

Take the opening – a phone rings on a dark screen – then someone picks it up. We hear a voice: ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m gonna read this, and you’re gonna listen, and you’re gonna stay on the line. And you’re not gonna interrupt, and you’re not gonna speak for any reason.

Some of this you know. I’m gonna start at the top of the page. Meticulous, yes. Methodical, educated; they were these things. Nothing extreme. Like anyone, they varied. There were days of mistakes and laziness and in-fighting, and there were days, good days, when by anyone’s judgment they would have to be considered clever. No one would

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say that what they were doing was complicated. It wouldn’t even be considered new, except for maybe in the geological sense. They took from their surroundings what was needed and made of it something more.’

The film then begins – four engineers researching inventions, hoping they’ll stumble on an idea that will make them money. The dialogue is thick, fast, overlapping and filled with scientific jargon designed to alienate the audience. The film looks low-rent, the shots are static, the lighting harsh.

But Carruth’s world persistently engages – he has in his leads two characters that are, as he puts it, ‘scientifically advanced but ethically morons’. The two leads represent the everyman we can all relate to.

When they accidentally stumble upon a time-machine, their instant reaction is to cut out their fellow engineers. They immediately start using the machine to make money, promising to adhere to a basic list of rules so as not to upset the structure of time. There are no special effects in ‘Primer’ – the time-travel machine is a foldable box which they store in a self-storage facility.

By keeping the science-fiction down to Earth, Carruth creates a mystery which is impossible to ignore: Aaron

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and Abe continuously make mistakes, slipping further and further into fulfilling their own egoistical dreams.

Carruth is ingenious with his handling of exposition. Primer seems to revel in rewarding audience members who pay attention to seemingly innocuous details; a name dropped in the middle of a conversation, a sentence stuck somewhere in a monologue or even a sideways glance – it’s like the world’s first independently-moving Rubik’s cube where you can only solve the puzzle by observing the patterns. It’s no wonder the editing process took Carruth almost two years – considering the careful nature of every cut and every scene.

The film builds to an incredible crescendo – worthy of the writing of Philip K. Dick – and the climax makes the viewer want to immediately revisit the whole thing again. And unlike other pseudo-smart pictures; Primer genuinely rewards multiple-viewings. It’s an obsessive’s wet dream, a film that demands deep scrutiny and investigation.

Carruth is a genuine polymath – he writes, edits, composes the music and even takes one of the two leading roles. True much of this is down to necessity – with no real financing, no real crew and little knowledge of

the filming process, Carruth seemingly invents his own method.

The reaction at Sundance is a mere silhouette of the effect the film has when it goes on general release.

The audience and the critics are divided. Some see the film as a genius masterpiece, others hate it vehemently.

Shane Carruth becomes the hot ticket overnight: Steven Sodebergh and David Fincher two of his most famous cheerleaders. From this point on, the sky should be the limit.

But here we are now – 2013. Nine years have passed since Primer and in that time the name of Shane Carruth has been all but forgotten.

If not for Upstream Colour, his would be another name to add to the list of one-hit wonders.

But Carruth has not been resting on his laurels – that much becomes apparent. First there’s his follow-up project to Primer; A Topiary. It sounds like another complex exploration of human emotions through a science-fiction mantle: the plot sounds crazy, with star patterns repeated in traffic grid lights and children creating creatures to fight for them out of everyday objects.

It sounds like something Jodorowsky would’ve scribbled down on the back of a napkin.

But what’s even more amazing is how much effort Carruth has put into the film: writing it, pitching it and trying to raise the finance – all these are expected. But Carruth goes ten steps further: he learns enough CGI

so he can start working on the special effects, hiring out cloud computers and visiting special effects houses so he can observe what they do.

The fact that A Topiary dies a slow death on the production line is not unexpected: what is genuinely shocking is seeing Carruth’s dream slowly die, too. This is not just a pitch package to him – listen to any interviews and you get the sense that with the death of A Topiary he lost something he genuinely loved and believed it: the antithesis of the system’s attitude.

But this is all hearsay; facts gathered from interviews, Q & A’s and stories on the festival circuit. What we do know is this. Rian Johnson asks Carruth to help him with the time-travel effects in Looper. And a short while after Carruth appears back on the scene with his own film – the mysterious Upstream Colour.

The shadows surrounding Upstream Colour are intriguing: in this day and age where the internet vultures’ fight each other off every second for supposed exclusives, Carruth’s production remains off the grid, except perhaps for one or two very persistent followers and the local newspaper in Dallas which manages to track him down on set. When Carruth appears with the finished film, the online machine goes into over-drive.

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The DVD release of Primer has not been a pleasant experience for Carruth – it’s possible to track the trail of crumbs he’s left through little notes or posts or quotes on the internet. So with Upstream Colour he takes total control: the film is self-distributed in the USA and Carruth keeps the festival circuit appearances to a select few places.

It’s no surprise the film plays Sundance – a place that must feel like a spiritual home to Carruth. The European Premiere is at the prestigious Berlin Festival – and periodically the film pops up across Europe. The reaction everywhere is almost as divisive as Primer – some hail the film a masterpiece, others label Carruth a deliberately obtuse director who actively dislikes his audience.

It’s hard to see how anyone could find Upstream Colour obtuse: admittedly the director does not favour a traditional structure: there’s a play of thirds active in the film – each segment vastly different than the previous.

What comes across is the evolution of the visual language Carruth used in Primer – he releases information in a way that no other medium other than cinema can do – long sequences free-of dialogue leave no doubt to the characters motivations: emotions swell through gestures, through looks – but not for a second does he ignore the language either. Repetitive patterns occur within the dialogue, the characters overlap– a sing-song rhythm gives more meaning to a select few words than a thousand pages of dialogue can.

Carruth describes the film as ‘worm-pig-orchid life cycle’ – a decidedly odd and not catchy description.

However even with this simple label, Carruth is playing with the audience: an invite and a dare rolled into one.

‘My world’ he says ‘my rules.’ And anyone who dares to

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follow him gets amply rewarded.

What is Upstream Colour then? Is it a science-fiction nightmare about thieves who use a worm parasite to control other people’s lives? A love story of two broken people discovering each other? A lonely and destitute man’s attempts to connect and feel? Or perhaps it’s Thoreau and Walden and the desire to re-connect with nature?

It seems that all the possibilities exist in an inter-connected manner – each one true but not completely the truth. Carruth seems to have mastered the art of storytelling far beyond what we’ve seen in Primer. Carruth has constructed a film that is not simply open to interpretation. He connects with the audience on a primal level: emotions, sounds and even dialogue. It’s as if he has entered into a private conversation with each and every one of his viewers and the attempt to shoehorn this into FAQ’ or guides will simply not work.

Carruth’s acting also deserves a mention. When someone like Tarantino cameos in his own films, it’s a response somewhere between acceptance and tolerance

“Shane Carruth is an oddity: an inexplicable force

which exists despite its hostile environment. As long as his heart forces him to tell stories, the audience will find it in itself to listen.”

with which we react. Not so with Carruth – he makes it feel as if no-one else could’ve pulled the part off with such careful consideration. Amy Seimetz is the perfect foil – her Kris co-exists with Carruth’s Jeff and yet they remain independent of each other. Her completely nonviolent and yet frightfully brutal invasion in the first third of the film constitutes some of the most frightening imagery we’ve seen in film ever. She keeps it real, making the audience believe in her character and the situation itself.

Carruth’s polymath role continues on this film: acting, composing, directing and even distributing – perhaps the only difference is that editing duties are shared with David Lower – who is causing waves on the festival circuit with his intriguing-sounding Ain’t Them Bodies Saints.

Upstream Colour is a visual experience that resonates emotionally: the broken-up structure allows it to try different methods of communicating its story.

Carruth’s obsession with ethics and the influence of them on humanity, the idea of self-justification even it means generating a lie – these all factor heavily in a story that is painted with personal tones.

But most importantly of all Upstream Colour is a stark reminder of the necessity of independent cinema, of having singular directors like Carruth who carry their vision forward. It’s a step aside from the anaemic product that haunts our multiplexes – a discourse into human nature which will be worthwhile a hundred millennia from now when we may cease to exist, and it’s a form of communication between the artist and the audience which works both ways.

Shane Carruth is an oddity: an inexplicable force which exists despite its hostile environment. As long as his heart forces him to tell stories, the audience will find it in itself to listen. For this is an artist who speaks the language of humanity which is hidden somewhere within us all.

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ROMANCE & REALITY First time Cannes attendee David Hall on the magic and the madness of the festival experience words by David Hall

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érité’s first Cannes was also my own. I’ve always wanted to go but have never been in a position personally – or professionally – for it to be remotely feasible. This year, with Vérité launched, accreditation secured (thank you Nadine) and the extreme good fortune of having well-connected industry pals with access to a beautiful (and most importantly nearby) apartment, all the ducks were lined up. My first Cannes was one facilitated with a little (actually a lot of ) help from my friends and, having survived six days (and nights) of movie madness, I’m very glad that was the case. For this is a town where, as a newcomer, you need to know people and get as much good guidance and advice from veterans as you can (as well as access to the best parties). Make no mistake, Cannes is not just the biggest film festival in the world it is also a kind of cinematic empire, fortress and roman court rolled into one. Only the strongest and best

connected survive here.

Because most of my friends in Cannes were industry people rather than journalists I led very much a double life on the croisette. Naturally I wanted to see as many films as possible and I soon realised most industry barely go to any of the in-competition films at all (unless they are red carpet affairs). Marketing and sales is a different beast altogether. The market screenings are largely offlimits to press unless, again, you know the right people (I got access to two). Audiences for these screenings do not observe any movie etiquette whatsoever; coming in and out as they please, fiddling on phones and tablets, taking calls mid-way. The Marche Du Film was actually one of my slight disappointments. I had always imagined a sweaty, heaving den of exploitation hucksters shucking cheap slasher movies and gonzo monster flicks.

From my 2013 experience it seems horror is on the wane somewhat, with most of the films being touted either

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wholesome family fare with talking dogs or wonder horses, or 3D animation spectaculars from across the globe.

Old war horses Troma were in force, but largely as part of a noisy collective waving placards and chanting outside the Debussey screen which, along with the incessant rain, succeeded in mostly annoying people.

THE YELLOW PASS

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or the journalists the challenge (and it is a challenge) is seeing as many of the incompetition, un certain regard and sidebar films as possible. I managed twelve in five days and looking back I can scarcely believe I managed even that. Why? Well, the biggest obstacle is not that some screenings require a hustle across town to access, nor is it that show times bump up against each other with scant time to get from one to another.

No, for the first timer, the biggest obstacle is the rigorous colour-coded badging system, which separates the welcome (hello Guardian!) to the barely tolerated (bloggers, independent press). Before I left I asked a few people for advice, particularly on how to get the most out of the screenings. Damon Wise of Empire was blunt: “You’ll be fine…as long as you don’t have the disastrous yellow pass”. As I waited excitedly in the press accreditation room to pick up my welcome pack, the young lady handed me my collateral, the canary-golden hue of my pass almost blinding me. I swear there was a look of pity in her eyes.

The yellow pass roughly translates as ‘inconsequential hack, fortunate to be here’. There’s no ‘first up, first in’ here, oh no; individual queues and lines must be heeded and respected before you are even getting to the point of locating a seat inside. However, once you understand each screening must be approached an hour before kickoff, you get into a groove of sorts. Besides, I met some of the most interesting people and had some of the best conversations with journos from all over the world in those queues – nothing like a lowly pass to bring harmony to the world’s blogging fraternity.

Besides, who cares, you are in Cannes! Even standing in the incessant rain couldn’t dampen my excitement of being at the foot of those famous Palais steps, even as I watched while more important people jigged up them to ascend to movie heaven. The buzz at getting in the first screening was so immense it wasn’t until I was inside that I realised I was trying to sit in various VIP seats, much to everyone’s collective irritation. But everyone must observe the rules and there’s something democratic about seeing some pompous twerp get bounced back by a burly security guard because they’ve incorrectly assumed

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“Even standing in the incessant rain couldn’t dampen my excitement of being at the foot of those famous Palais steps, even as I watched while more important people jigged up them to ascend to movie heaven.” they can access wherever they want. The festival is run rigorously and tightly and if you don’t have the right pass or your name isn’t listed you are simply not coming in.

After a couple of days, acceptance of the Cannes caste system becomes part and parcel of the experience.

In the evenings I took every opportunity to attend the parties I was fortunate enough to get a plus one for (I was the plus one, mostly). According to many I spoke to, Cannes parties aren’t what they used to be (austerity even hitting the croisette it seems) but I still had a blast at most. It’s at these events that the romance and reality really collides. Practically everyone I met at screenings was a passionate filmgoer, there for the pure love of film.

At the parties it was less ‘what have you seen?’ and much more ‘what do you do?’ The more lavish the party, the less talk about art, unsurprisingly. Very few Farhadi based conversations to be had here.

The best parties tended to be the ones with less pomp and more fun. A rabbit themed party for an animated

flick was fantastic whereas some of the more opulent functions were a bit staid. In The Carlton Hotel, I saw the untouchably high-end side of Cannes, where success is measured entirely in weight (fat man/skinny woman = rich). I saw a translucent, vampish model who was so attractive she was practically supernatural. Then I saw her legs, which were thinner than tracing paper. Corpulent, reptilian man beasts wearing rap-game attire (neckties, pastel) shuffled about squiring twiglet-limbed starlets with skins of pure teak. A beer was 25 euros. I think I ate some complimentary cashews and stole a glass of rose.

The Petit Majestic, a fun pubby type hangout frequented by the UK industry, proved a more fun (and wallet friendly) hangout for when the free canapĂŠs and Moet dried up.

I have very few names to drop; I exchanged what I thought was a meaningful smile with Rooney Mara (no mean feat apparently), saw a tired looking Brian De Palma being helped along the drizzly seafront, glimpsed

Spielberg in a cap (naturally) and made a drunken arse of myself in front of Ben Wheatley. I spent most of the my days in a daze, running from screening to screening, chugging free nespressos, darting in and out of the press room to tweet or write up a mini review. After six days I was deranged and demented, practically foaming at the mouth. It was at the BFI party on my penultimate night I realised where I had gone wrong though. Every writer I spoke to had seen more films and been to only a couple of parties. And the glamour cats and kittens I kept seeing at the posh palaces had barely seen a film the whole time. So Cannes you have it all? Al I know is next year I’ll do more movies, a few less parties and maybe have a day of sleep. When we landed back in the UK I boarded the train to East Croydon (the glamour) and practically collapsed. Six days prior I had arrived at an opening gala party accompanied by two actresses, now I was heading home to a flat with a leaking roof and an empty fridge.

Romance and reality indeed.

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The Past

THE FILMS

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ex and excess were top of the bill at Cannes this year. Excess came in the form of opening film The Great Gatsby, Italian director Paolo Sorrentino’s Fellini-esque La Grande Bellaza and Sofia Coppola’s The Bling Ring – all of which dealt, in very different ways, with lifestyles of the rich and famous and moneyed ennui. But when the awards finally came round it was sex, and gay sex predominantly, that dominated the conversation, chiming perfectly with France’s gay marriage vote. Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue is the Warmest Color, a frank portrayal of an intense lesbian affair, scooped the main prize, while Alain Guiraudie’s Stranger by the Lake (L’Inconnu du lac) a strikingly explicit, chilly, Ripley-esque thriller, dominated early Cannes conversation. UK viewers will get to find out what the fuss is about when both films open later this year.

Luhrmann’s Gatsby was, for me, a brutal disappointment rather than an outright disaster, but I suspect time will be as unkind to this misfire as it has been to the 1974 version. A charismatic Di Caprio tries very hard in the lead, although this is the most neurotic and emo-ish

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Gatsby we’ve seen on screen. Luhrmann’s visual fireworks never really take flight, and a talented cast never really connect with their roles. It’s all well-intentioned (with surprising fidelity to the text for this most visual of directors) but it feels like at best Lurhmann has only really connected with the most superficial elements of the book or, at worst, misunderstood it completely. If Baz really does adore the book, and there is no doubting he does, this is a prime example of killing the thing you love.

Home favourite Francois Ozon’s Young and Beautiful divided the critics. Most agreed it was minor Ozon but this wispy, playful tale of precocious youthful sexuality playing out through the seasons is still crisp, cryptic and intelligent fare. I actually welcomed the lighter touch and found it more digestible than his previous film, In the House. Ingénue Marine Vacth delivers Olympianlevel hotness in the lead too. Continuing the lighter theme, Coppola’s The Bling Ring seemed to underwhelm the critics also, many seeing it as failure of nerve and – seeking a caustic morality tale undercut with satirical sideswipes – came away nonplussed and bored. I enjoyed it (see review on page 54) and saw it as a further

The Bling Ring Stranger by the Lake

“Stranger by the Lake was one of the big surprises of Cannes, in all kinds of ways. This glacially paced anti-thriller has a Haneke-like atmosphere and takes in sexual obsession, murder and cottaging on a secluded beach setting.” refinement of what is turning out to be a flawed but fascinating career.

I heard so many great things about Sundance winner Fruitvale Station (one UK writer who I was in line with was seeing it a second time) but, terrific lead performance from The Wire’s Michael B. Jordan aside, I found Ryan Couglar’s true-life tale of the final tragic day in the life of a victim of horrendous police brutality disappointingly simplistic. No doubting the commitment on show but the directorial decision to cast Jordan as a latter day saint severely undercuts the films power.

Two heavy hitters didn’t quite get the ringing endorsements expected at Cannes. I really liked Asghar Farhadi’s hugely anticipated Le Passé; another elegant, measured work where Frahadi’s remarkable ability to shoot domestic drama as if it were a police procedural is once again to the fore. It’s not quite as devastating as A Separation, feeling a tiny bit more engineered, and flirts dangerously with farce in one sub-plot too many, but the performances of Bérénice Bejo and Ali Mosaffa as an estranged couple working through a labyrinthine web of deceit, betrayal and are nothing short of outstanding. Kore-eda’s

Like Father, Like Son was marked out as potential Jury catnip (mostly due to the lazy assumption that Spielberg would give the prize to a film about children). A cute conceit where a filmily learn their son was switched at birth and they’ve been raising another family’s child leads to some typically subtle, delicate and gentle fun but somehow this film doesn’t resonate like the director’s previous films have.

Stranger by the Lake was one of the big surprises of Cannes, in all kinds of ways. This glacially paced antithriller has a Haneke-like atmosphere and takes in sexual obsession, murder and cottaging on a secluded beach setting. Highly explicit in sexual content, with undercurrents of jet-black humour and a strangely ambivalent Cruising-esque attitude toward its protagonist’s moral compass, this was one of the finds of the fest – hypnotic and chilling, even in its (many) sedate moments.

Matt Wolf ’s patchwork-quilt Teenage was the only documentary I saw at Cannes. A mixture of incredible archive footage and a quartet of filmed segments, this is a mesmeric mosaic piece and a must for any fans of pop cultural history. If there is a fault line in Teenage it’s

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Ain’t Them Bodies Saints

that, for a film about teen culture and reckless abandon, it is surprisingly sedate and lacking in edge. Sticking with youthful concerns, Clio Barnard’s The Selfish Giant was rapturously received (especially in the British press). I enjoyed it without being blown away. It is more straightforward and less formally daring work than her remarkable debut The Arbor but the reinvention of Oscar Wilde’s story in a British social realist context is an inspired one and went down very well here.

I missed most of the big American films, either through circumstance (unable to get in to the Coens, THE hot ticket along with Only God Forgives) or because they screened after I had gone. I did catch David Lowery’s Ain’t Them Bodies Saints in the director’s fortnight. Rooney Mara and Casey Affleck give intense, committed (and teary-eyed) performances in this incredibly familiar Badlands-ish tale of Texas outlaws and love on the run, shot through with an arresting, poetic and woozy lyricism. Soderbergh’s swansong Behind the Candelabra is tackled by Stuart Barr on page 50. I found it oddly moving in a Mommie Dearest-ish way and Damon and Douglas are wonderful, even if the film’s flat visual style keeps it firmly TV in origins.

Many thought Sorentinio’s epic Italian banquet would scoop him best director but that went Amat

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Escalante’s Heli, a woundingly intense, ultra-violent picture that won’t be endorsed by the Mexican tourist board anytime soon. The less said about Benicio Del Toro and Mathieu Amalric in Arnaud Desplechin’s dreadful Jimmy P the better but it managed to unite almost everyone in agreeing on its awfulness.

The surprise movie for me of the whole festival though, was Anurag Kashyap’s Ugly. After Vérité’s own Evrim Ersoy put me on to this director with his feature in last month’s issue I’ve been playing catch-up. In a festival where the big genre heavy hitters came up short (both Takeshi Miike’s Shield of Straw and Johnny To’s Blind Detective were damp squibs) Kashyap’s intense and pacy procedural delivered on all fronts. This superb thriller about a child kidnapping shines the light on the dark side of Mumbai, has moments of gripping action and potent drama and deserves a wider audience, so let’s hope an enterprising British distributor is on the case.

An incredibly varied and rich Cannes line up, of which we managed only a handful, and proof that this oldest and most revered of festivals continues to challenge, provoke inspire and surprise (not least with the Jury’s choices which flew in the face of many predictions). Here’s to next year.

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ll’I eB ruoY rorriM

I’ll Be Your Mirror

Kiarostami’s latest has received a disappointing, muted response from critics since its Cannes debut last year. James Rocarols argues the case for Like Someone In Love

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words by James Rocarols

omewhere along the way it has become accepted wisdom that Like Someone In Love is in some way a minor work in the Kiarostami canon; or even something of a disappointment. The film debuted in Cannes this time last year to lukewarm reviews and caused little stir in its subsequent festival appearances. In many ways it may have been the artistic strength and success of Kiarostami’s previous film Certified Copy that contributed to the sense of disappointment in its follow-up. Certified Copy wasn’t just a masterful return to narrative form from Kiarostami and – for me – one of the films of the decade; it also possessed star power in Juliette Binoche, a relatively accessible romantic scenario and the art-market appeal of its French language.

However, ahead of Like Someone In Love’s belated release in the UK, I’d like to use this piece to counter any expectations that the film is in some way a lesser work. The new film continues

and evolves the thematic preoccupations of its direct predecessor and others from further back in Kiarostami’s fimography. It’s therefore a valuable film to examine from a purely auterist perspective; but it’s also a fascinating and subtly intelligent film in its own right.

In structural terms the film is as pure and controlled as one would expect from an experienced master like Kiarostami. The film is composed of seven extended sequences, all shot with signature precision, economy and poise. Recounting them in schematic terms gives an idea of the simplicity of the plot. In a bar, escort girl Akiko is convinced to visit a client against her wishes. During the car journey to the client’s flat she attempts to track down her visiting grandmother at the train station. The client turns out to be a gentle, retired professor (Takashi) who offers to chaperone her to college the following morning, only to be mistaken for Akiko’s grandfather by her jealous, waiting boyfriend. After the young couple argues,

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Akiko shelters at Takashi’s flat leading to the interference of Takashi’s curtain-twitching neighbour.

That’s really it, but each of these seven scenes is far more than the sum of its parts: crammed with ideas, rich with meaning and exquisitely portrayed.

Stylistically the film continues Kiarostami’s longstanding experiments with fixed-gaze camerawork and facial reactions; ideas taken to Kuleshovian extremes in Shirin, but here expressed in similar terms to the car-centric, world-within-a-world of Ten. Arguably no director in history has been more obsessed with the interiors of motorcars, and these humble surroundings are again mined for all their POV potentialities. Car passengers, like Shirin’s moviegoers, are sitting ducks, strapped-in like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. And this is just how Kiarostami likes his characters, unable to obfuscate or escape, their faces completely captured by the camera so every moment of tension or drama can reveal any telling disparity with spoken dialogue, any inherent betrayal of emotion.

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As the title suggests, Like Someone In Love continues the central idea of Certified Copy: that of exploring the unconscious roles we all play in our everyday lives. The Jimmy Van Heusen song from which the film takes its title is obviously pertinent, as Johnny Burke’s lyrics are written from the perspective of a character who describes their love-struck daze as ‘like’ being in love, when it’s obvious that in fact they well-and-truly are, and are perhaps in denial of the fact. (While the Ella Fitzgerald version of the song plays over the final credits, Kiarostami might instead have chosen Björk’s version – itself an ersatz, modern approximation of the traditional jazz standard – to enhance the suggestion of ironic distance and imitation.)

Similarly the characters in the film are often in denial about the roles they play, or perhaps completely unaware in the first place. Akiko’s second life as an escort is kept completely hidden from both her possessive boyfriend and her family back in the suburbs. Both Akiko and her boyfriend also

“Perhaps the BFI should try and tempt him over in the same way Woody Allen was enticed, and we can see what perspectives Kiarostami might offer on the British personality.” seem to be going through the motions of being in love when it’s clear they make for a doomed and unsuitable couple. Takashi then assumes the role of Akiko’s grandfather and seems to revel in his new role.

This idea about people playing double roles, unaware of their own duplicity, is in some ways a direct continuance from Certified Copy, in which a couple dissect their roles as husband and wife from both within and without, as if they are exterior to their own personalities. But it’s also a theme that recurs throughout Kiarostami’s filmography, perhaps most notably in his most heralded film, Close-Up. This much has been noted by most critics, but what hasn’t been stressed so often is just how cleverly and intricately Kiarostami reinforces these ideas throughout the film. The entire film is peppered with references and allusions to doubles, both in terms of characters mirroring other characters, and also characters presenting opposing facets to different audiences.

Akiko’s duplicity is represented visually, so that throughout the film whenever we see her reflection in various surfaces like TV screens and car bonnets it’s always distorted and unrecognisable.

But it’s the script that really augments the argument, with almost every line of dialogue echoing these ideas about role-playing, doubling and duplicity. For the purposes of this piece I’ll just examine one short exchange to illustrate how thoroughly these ideas are explored, a short sequence which we could playfully term ‘the parrot sketch’.

When Akiko arrives at Takashi’s flat she notices a painting on his wall that she recognises from her childhood. It was given to her by an uncle who pretended that he painted it, basing it on her likeness. Only later did Akiko discover that uncle was joking and the painting was in fact a wellknown work from 1900. (In reality it seems to be Kiarostami’s own invention although he may have based it on similar works by the likes of Kiyokata Kaburagi). So not only is the painting posited as

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a double for Akiko, but it’s also a duplicitous double because the Uncle was lying and it wasn’t really based on Akiko. The painting was playing the role of a double, as it were, but unknowingly (in the same way that Takashi’s role of grandfather is later thrust on him).

In fact because the painting turns out to be older than Akiko, we could say that she’s the one playing the double, a notion subsequently reinforced when Akiko explains that her grandmother was so taken with the resemblance that she dressed up Akiko in similar 19th-century garb so that she could further resemble her lookalike.

When Takashi explains the painting’s title as ‘Training The Parrot’ it prompts Akiko to remember a further anecdote, that her grandmother believed the painting showed the parrot educating the girl rather than the other way around – a reversal of roles within the painting. (And perhaps even betraying a suggestion that the painter themselves could have harboured subversively duplicitous intentions.)

The title of the painting is also significant to Ta-

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kashi because he now works as freelance a translator, repeating and reformulating language. Earlier we’ve witnessed Takashi in his work role – passionlessly regurgitating bland niceties with all the forethought of an avian imitator.

As the conversation progresses Akiko decides that she also looks like Takashi’s wife and daughter, which hints that Takashi may have an ideal feminine image that’s being reinforced by the painting and Akiko. Where Akiko’s grandmother was inspired by the painting to project a timeworn, innocent, chaste image onto Akiko, the very same painting later inspires Takashi’s less wholesome desires towards Akiko. (This notion that Takashi and the absent grandmother represent contrasting mirror images is re-emphasised in a later line of dialogue which posits Takashi as a possible double for the grandmother as well as the grandfather!)

Finally Takashi explains that the painting represents a significant moment in Japanese art history, when Japanese art stopped imitating Western styles and began developing its own style. So in fact the

painting portrays imitation but signifies originality. It signifies Japan’s emergence from its own duplicitous role-playing.

Just from this brief section of dialogue we can see how densely infused the film is with allusions to Kiarostami’s themes of doubling and duplicity, to the point where the themes themselves begin to intersect and intertwine with each other, as we can see above.

The film is so densely and intricately packed with these insinuations, signs and possible readings that it would take a much longer and more involved piece to unweave them all. But needless to say, the film offers a bounty to any intrepid analysts out there.

If that’s not evidence enough of the film’s significance, then we must also factor in Kiarostami’s extraordinary ability to mount projects in languages outside of his native Farsi.

A great many exiled directors have found sympathetic homes in the capitals of Europe (usually Paris) – Kieslowski, Oshima and Tarkovsky among them – but Kiarostami has now filmed in Italy, France and Japan, and the resulting films are all credible transla-

tions. What’s commendable is that while Kiarostami transports his thematic obsessions over to their new milieu in almost unadulterated form, he simultaneously goes to great lengths to make his new protagonists distinct from their Iranian forerunners, endowing them with the recognisable character traits, mannerisms and lingual quirks associated with their respective cultures. (At least so it seems to me; my limited canvassing on the issue confirms as much so far.)

Perhaps the BFI should try and tempt him over in the same way Woody Allen was enticed, and we can see what perspectives Kiarostami might offer on the British personality. In the meantime let’s savour this highly significant work from a major filmmaker. It may be easy to take the quality of such a talented filmmaker for granted, but when so many of his peers who similarly rose to celebration in the 1990s have fallen by the wayside it would be careless to dismiss Kiarostami’s steadfast consistency of output.

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Vérité’s Top 5 Fictional Music Movies* *That aren’t This is Spinal Tap

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5.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Fabulous Stains!

1982 When The Runaways hit screens a couple of years back, I couldn’t help being reminded of this terrifically grotty, obscure little number which stars a 15 year old Diane Lane (before her 80s Outsiders/Rumblefish/Cotton Club Coppola triplewhammy) It’s a pretty canny distillation of the transient nature of the punk-pop game, which is understandable given director Lou Adler was a noted music producer and entrepreneur. Despite years of success in the industry he couldn’t save his own flick from sinking into obscurity immediately, but its memory has been fondly kept alive by cult aficionados over the years and it often bubbles up to the surface on various occasions when the zeitgeist chimes with its ramshackle tale of girl rockers in a rock n’ roll rut. It was a bit of a riot grrl touchstone if I remember correctly. Bizarre cast too, with a very young Ray Winstone, even younger Laura Dern, some of the Sex Pistols and other assorted hangers on. DH

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4.

Leningrad Cowboys Go America 1989 Finnish director Aki Kaurismäki’s sketch-like, laid-back road movie follows bizarre (and terrible) local rock band The Leningrad Cowboys as they leave the bleak, gunmetal grey skies of their hometown to try their chances in New York where - a local promoter assures them - people will ‘swallow any kind of shit’. Picking up a Cadillac from smooth-talking salesman ( Jim Jarmusch) they head from venue to venue only to discover that wherever they end up playing always reminds them of the place they left behind.

Kaurismäki was a huge indie deal in the late 80s and 90s, seen as the Finnish conduit between Wim Wenders and Jarmusch (there are clear links between this and Jarmusch’s debut Stranger than Paradise). Engaging and always generous to its freakish central characters (the band carries a coffin from gig to gig containing their frozen bass guitarist), this is admittedly thin material but its deadpan charms are a good introduction to Kaurismäki’s unique worldview. And though an invention for the film, the Cowboys rocked on as a real-life band. DH

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3.

The Idolmaker 1980 Taylor Hackford’s forgotten debut (based on the real-life promoter who discovered Frankie Avalon) came out at the very point when 70s pessimism gear-shifted into fable-like 80s optimism and that tension shows in this flawed but fascinating film. A young Peter Gallagher is Cesare, nascent pop idol and the next big teen sensation. Ray Sharkey is his manager Vinnie Vaccari, a talented and prodigious songwriter who knows he will never be the star so settles for being an idol maker instead. Hackford is good on the emotional dynamics between star and Svengali, the need for image control versus the necessary ego to be a great star, less so on the thrill of rock and roll (the songs rarely sound like the decade they are supposed to evoke; late 50s/early 60s). Sharkey, a tragic, hugely troubled figure who died in 1993 is absolutely magnificent and reason to see the film alone, even when the script falters. A remake has been long mooted but no one will capture his energy, aggression and passion. DH

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“A good-looking new digital film magazine” Mark Kermode

Vérité Vérité is a new digital monthly magazine dedicated to offbeat, independent and foreign-language cinema.

ISSUE #1

ISSUE #2

V é r i t é

V é r i t é

MARCH 2013 EDITION

APRIL 2013 EDITION

FILM CRITICISM & CINEMATIC DISCUSSION

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And Korea’s Hollywood Pressure

FILM CRITICISM & CINEMATIC DISCUSSION

Our motivation is simple - to provide a platform for interesting, provocative film criticism and discussion of films and filmmakers that excite and inspire us.

S PRI NG BREAKE R S

And the Return of the American Indie Kings

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Hal Hartley / Richard Linklater / SXSW / Xavier Dolan / Bakumatsu taiyô-den / reviews / and more...

steven soderbergh / death waltz records’ top soundtracks / claude chabrol / reviews / and more...

Vérité digs a little deeper; covering world cinema in a passionate, critical and celebratory way. The magazine carries regular retrospective content as well as features on new talent and contemporary reviews.

So far we have introduced readers to the work of Indonesian director Joko Anwar and French-Canadian fan-favourite Xavier Dolan, profiled the enigmatic Harmony Korine and taken the temperature of the Korean film industry.

And we have carried exclusive interviews with filmmakers such as Hal Hartley, Cate Shortland and Jeff Nichols.

Vérité carries original writing from fresh and dynamic voices on cinema combined with stylish design and layout.

With an international focus – and writers based in Hong Kong, the United States, Europe and the UK – Vérité already has global reach and our audience is growing. With only two issues published our circulation sits at an average of 4000 per issue.

We want to spread the word further and build a loyal audience hungry for new and exciting film comment and content eager to read about filmmakers other publications don’t always shine a spotlight on.

And we have big plans for 2013, including an expanded website and extensive festival coverage.

Our current media partners include Eureka Entertainment, The Works, Metrodome and Artificial Eye. Vérité is seeking partnerships and new opportunities for collaboration from media partners. We also have competitive rates for advertising throughout the magazine (rate of £75 per full page ad).

For more info, interviews and media opportunities contact: jordanmcgrath@veritefilmmag.com davidhall@veritefilmmag.com

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2.

The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash 1978 This is a bit of a cheat really but technically The Rutles: Dirk, Nasty, Stig and Barry (the ‘pre-fab four’) are a fictional band, even though quite clearly based on a moderately successful beat combo from Liverpool.

Enjoyment of this Saturday Night Live produced mockumentary depends very much on both knowledge of – and fondness for – The Beatles and Monty Python (or at least Eric Idle). Although this project was Idle’s baby, it is the song writing genius of his partner in crime Neil Innes that provides most of the joy here, with his inspired pastiches of Beatles’ songs (Cheese and Onions) and hilarious portrayal of Rutle’s member Ron Nasty. There are a raft of celebrity cameos to look out for and some early Bill Murray genius.

Visual inventive and frequently inspired, The Rutles makes a surprisingly good companion piece to the knockabout Dick Lester Beatles films. And if you needed any more convincing, apparently Paul McCartney absolutely hates it. DH

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1.

Grace of My Heart 1996 While I understand why this film didn’t hit big, it’s still a travesty that more people aren’t aware of it. Alison Anders’ deeply felt Brill Building valentine follows songwriter Denise Waverly (a terrific, steely Illeana Douglas) and the part she plays in the creation of a majestic period for twentieth century American pop music; from the early 60s perfect girl group zingers, through the indulgence and psychedelic excess of the ‘Smile’ era up to the sophisticated songwriter period of the early 70s.

A starry cast essay sketches of various pop icons ( John Tuturro as a Phil Spector-ish producer) but what elevates this film is the outstanding soundtrack, full of original compositions that could easily have been hits of their time. ( Joni Mitchell’s Man from Mars is especially amazing). This is a film with an unshakeable love of music at its core and one that understands the cruel conundrum of turning personal heartbreak and devastation into timeless, beautiful melodies. A lost classic with a devoted fan base who hold it as dear as a rare bootleg. DH

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T H FESTIVAL G E A N D A words by Evrim Ersoy & Stuart Barr

lthough the improvement in weather means less audience for the multiplexes, the festival scene continues to thrive with a sold-out opening for the ever-evolving Terracotta Film Festival.

Now in its fifth year, the festival has taken the idea of growth to heart and this year screened 27 features spread over two venues. The Terror Cotta Horror All-Nighter also returned, presented in association with the most prestigious genre event in the UK, Film4 Frightfest.

The festival saw its busiest year in terms of attending guests as directors, actors and producers – not only introducing their films but also holding Masterclasses on various aspects of filmmaking.

Although there were a plethora of titles to choose from at this year’s Terracotta including blockbusters from Hong Kong, South Korea, Mainland China and Taiwan, hidden within the program were gems of particular interest to Vérité readers.

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Top Three Picks Belenggu Postcards From the Zoo Drug War director Upi Avianto

Imagine the atmosphere of Twin Peaks with the psychological complexities of Lost Highway filtered through Indonesian sensibilities and you begin to get a vague sense of the experience of watching Belenggu. It is the story of Elang, a lonely man working as a bartender in a night club who seems to be continually haunted by the dream of a murderer in a white bunny suit riding in a car with him. To reveal anymore would be a disservice to the intricate sensibilities of director Upi, who proves a talent to watch.

director Edwin

Hot from the competition at the 62nd Berlin Film Festival, this lyrical study of an abandoned girl slowly discovering life outside of her confines is very different from the director’s previous 2006 offering Blind Pig Who Wants to Fly. Where that film was a repressive gauntlet thrown at the audience, Postcards from the Zoo uses the zoo setting to create an otherworldy atmosphere with the animals getting in their fair share of screen exposure.

Establishing a quirky, broken rhythm Edwin explores the change in the girl’s life encountering a street magician at the zoo and stepping outside of what has been her home up until this point. Overall the film does suffer from what feels like forced subplots which seem to be there for the sake of shock or outrage – and yet the powerful ambiance created remains until the very end.

director Johnnie To

Johnny To is one of the few directors working in Hong Kong who can lay claim to being an auteur. Although until recently his work was dismissed by some of the mainstream critics, any self-respecting cinemagoer can recognise the skill and craft involved in the elaborate tales he constructs for the film. Each new Johnny To film is a cause for celebration and Drug War proves to be no different. Visceral, violent and uneven, Drug War tells the story of Inspector Zhang who heads the Jin Hai anti-drug squad. His determination to bring down the bigger names in the drug trade brings him face to face with Timmy Choi – a mid-level dealer. Timmy needs to save his own skin seeing as the penalty for drug manufacturing in China is death and agrees to be a snitch for Zhang. What follows is a mesmerising series of set-pieces all accentuated by the tight drama played between the two men.

Louis Koo gives his performance since Soi Cheang’s Accident as Timmy Choi and Sun Honglei is more than a perfect match for him as hard-nosed and intelligent Zhang. Using the usual To visual flourishes as well as the admirable handiwork of long-time collaborator Wai Ka-Fai, Drug War is Johnny To at his best. Even shooting out of his comfort zone of Hong Kong cannot stop the director from delivering top notch work.

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E

ntering its second year, SERET promotes the output of the Israeli film and television industry. Recently Ari Folman’s Waltz with Bashir (2008), and Samuel Maoz’ Lebanon (2009) have been among the few Israeli films to make a significant impact outside of the festival circuit, so this festival is an opportunity to sample work from a nation not well represented on UK screens. The Israeli television industry would seem an even rarer prospect, save for the fact that two recent high profile American shows have been remakes of Israeli originals, In Treatment (2008) was adapted from the series BeTipul (2005-2008), and the blockbuster Homeland (2011- ) has its source in Hatufim (2010- ).

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Top Three Picks Dr. Pomerantz director Assi Dayan Dayan is one of Israel’s most celebrated filmmakers, and starred as the psychiatrist in BeTipul. Here he plays another mental health ‘professional’, the dishevelled, overweight, chain smoking Dr. Pomerantz. The doctor is a miserable wretch, living alone wife his Asperger’s afflicted grown up son. After being sacked from his job counselling suicides Pomerantz starts taking a less preventative approach to treatment, helping patients kill themselves for a fee.

Like the bastard offspring of Mike Leigh and Todd Solondz, Dr. Pomerantz is a comedy of Stygian hue. Dayan shambles around looking uncannily like Paul Verhoeven gone to seed, and sample dialogue includes “The Holocaust? What a bitch that was.” A line delivered over the corpse of an elderly suicide.

A spiky, deliberately alienating character study.

Ananda Ana and her boyfriend/fiancé are about to embark on a holiday to India, but due to a mishap she ends up flying to Delhi alone.

Having a terrible time in the city, she heads into the hills and ends up stranded somewhere near the Pakistan border. Falling in with a couple of charming but shady Arab Israelis the somewhat brittle woman finds unexpected romance.

SERET showed the first few episodes of this TV series, which may sound like Shirley Valentine but is a good deal darker. Dana Modan is excellent as the not-entirely sympathetic Ana (it is entirely possible the wayward fiancé engineered the situation to get rid of her). Modan also wrote the series.

Joe + Belle director Veronica Kedar Film festivals are all about seeking out and showcasing new talent; Joe + Belle is the impressive debut feature of 28 year old director/ writer/actor Veronica Kedar. The film is being hailed as a lesbian Thelma & Louise, and there is some element of truth in the description, indeed it is openly acknowledged at one point in the film. However this is a more punk rock and modestly resourced film than Ridley Scott’s quasi-feminist blockbuster.

Joe was born in America before being brought to Tel Aviv as a child and has grown up thoroughly alienated, earning money as a drug mule. Belle is just out of a mental institution after a suicide attempt brought on by a bad break up. On hearing her dog has run away during her incarceration she climbs into Joe’s flat through a skylight intending to kill herself (well so she says, but as her method is a disposable plastic razor one may doubt her sincerity).

What follows is a dark comedy/romance, very well lensed, fizzing with energy and winning performances by Levy and Kedar. It can’t quite sustain its momentum meandering in its final third, but despite this the film is an interesting glimpse of an emerging talent. Also what is it with first time lesbian romances and blue hair dye at the cinema this year?

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A Trip into the World of Onur Ünlü

In this month’s profile of cinematic talent from across the globe, Evrim Ersoy looks at the prolific and versatile output of a resolutely Turkish director, screenwriter and poet words by Evrim Ersoy

T

he profile of Turkish cinema has been rising steadily over the last ten years with appearances at Cannes, Berlin, and the London Film Festival by directors such as Fatih Akın and Nuri Bilge Ceylan, acclaimed worldwide for The Edge of Heaven and Once Upon a Time in Anatolia respectively.

Amidst these larger stars in the sky is a director whose work has not yet shone beyond Turkey’s borders. A retired poet named Onur Ünlü, whose lyrical, absurd and resolutely Turkish films dazzle local audiences time and time again.

Blending the technical and visual aspects of European, Russian and Asian cinema with a palette of local colour, Ünlü creates a surreal, self-contained world in which his films exist – lyrical, unevenly toned poems that resonate with, and from the very core of, the Turkish people.

In getting familiar with Ünlü’s oeuvre, one has to first understand the effect of his obsession with Arabesk culture on his work. Wholly different from its English counterpart ‘Arabesque,’ Arabesk is a musical emergence from the late 70’s, a marriage between Arabic melodies and heavy, melodramatic lyrics. Often classified as the music of the lower classes, the songs mainly feature heartbreak and an objection to fate, which nevertheless cannot be avoided.

In time the term Arabesk has come to define any piece of art that features heavy-handed melodrama and machismo stereotypes; the films consist of excessive tales of everyday misery punctuated with over-the-top acting. Ünlü loves the concept of Arabesk without irony. A playful, didactic approach sees him deconstruct tropes that his audience is used to seeing on screen. Take his first film, 2007’s Polis, for example – a cross between a Takashi Kitano film and

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the melodrama of Yesilcam (Turkish Cinema’s Hollywood).

Legendary police officer Musa Rami discovers he has cancer and only two months to live. As Musa’s world descends into chaos, his obsessions with taking out the local mafia blend with hallucinations. Ünlü treats the audience to a kaleidoscope of imagery which befuddles, surprises and pleases.

As a first feature, Polis is refreshingly brash and intelligent.

Musa Rami’s forcing of Aylin to declare her love for him, and then his rejection of it by calling her a liar, is a recreation of a classic scene from Arabesk era cinema. However, Ünlü plays with the boundaries of recreation: he stages the scene sans irony yet uses the device to communicate to the audience his understanding of the absurdity of it. Ünlü recreates the same scene again in a later film, 2008’s Güneşin Oğlu, using the same actor but in a slightly altered setting – it’s as if he’s playing variations of a familiar tune, destroying and re-creating the scene at the same time. An obsession with death is a notably major thread throughout his work – this pre-occupation, a carryover from his poetry, manifests itself in the form of characters that seem too close or too afraid of death. Rami’s gung-go character in Polis hides a man who fears dying alone whilst the judicial judge in Aziz Tan is so outraged by the idea that he will sell his ideals to leave a good name behind.

Whilst Ünlü’s next film, 2008’s Çocuk, cannot be marked as successful it’s impossible to deny its charm; colourful, filled with his signature jump cuts and editing, it was also one of the first attempts to create a resolutely local product for Turkish kids, making it worthy of applause. Güneşin Oğlu, on the other hand, is a fantastic comedy – a body-swapping science-fiction tale shot on a shoestring budget. With its

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complex structure (events are replayed on a loop as the audience becomes privy to the mechanisms of each body-swap) and singular obsession with old Turkish cinema, the film reads as a love-letter to Turkish B-movies of yesteryear. The cast, mainly comprised of stage actors, plays the whole thing straight, finding terrific humour within the dialogue. Ünlü’s next credit is for a film he did not direct but instead wrote – 2009’s Aci Ask, the debut of A. Taner Elhan who had worked as a producer on both Polis and Güneşin Oğlu.

It’s worth mentioning Aci Ask here because the film belongs very much to the Ünlü stable. Without discrediting Elhan, who is a capable and talented director, the dialogue, the characters and the set-ups carry Ünlü’s trademark black humour – even the incoherence of the plot reminds the audience of his involvement.

Aci Ask plays as a take on the traditional Yesilcam love triangle – it’s the story of a man torn between three women – but the specifics are different to what might be expected.

Orhan is a literature professor, not an honest working-class man, and the women he’s involved with are no mere receptacles of his love and lust. As the tone of the story turns darker and darker, Ünlü twists clichés until they become unrecognisable. The language he uses may be familiar but in no way comparable to anything we have ever seen before in Turkish cinema.

2010’s Beş Şehir marks the beginning of Ünlü’s most creative period. It’s not a surprise that the film is also his most accomplished. It’s a story of five people with five very different stories that somehow end up affecting each other.

It’s a dance of death and loneliness, a story of absurd humour with philosophers and talking cats, a portrayal of a country

“As mystifying as his films, Ünlü remains a prolific character within Turkey.

His interviews cut right to the bone: honest and brutal answers full of colloquialism blast against the expected questions from the media.” isolated from itself. Ünlü’s use of musical montage is particularly effective in Beş Şehir with the use of revolutionary singer Ahmet Kaya’s Beni Vur. Ünlü creates powerful images: A protest being brutally broken up by the police, a row of schoolchildren dancing or even the simple sight of a girl in hospital whites walking down train tracks. As Kaya begs his lover to shoot him rather than hand him to the authorities, Ünlü fixes his gaze on his subjects unflinchingly.

An oddity in Ünlü’s filmography, 2011’s Celal Tan ve Ailesinin Aşırı Acıklı Hikayesi plays as a vibrant attack on liberal stereotypes and lifestyles. While Islamic conservatism is on the up and up, it seems odd that Ünlü turns his guns on the other side of the political coin. Despite moments of vicious and spot-on humor, the film quickly descends into a drag – the archetypal characters grate and the talented cast struggle to keep the pace going.

If Celal Tan taught Ünlü anything, it is the resolution to stick to his vision. 2013’s Sen Aydınlatırsın Geceyi (‘Thou Gild’st the Even’) is proof of that. Blending an intimate, suffocating character drama reminiscent of Bergman, Tarkovsky (and the early works of his own colleague Nuri Bilge Ceylan) with superhero films, Ünlü asks a question which yields some unusual answers; would our worries, our everyday depressions be any different if we were all somehow gifted with superpowers?

Focusing on a young barber named Cemal in the small town of Akhisar near Manisa in the Aegean region, the film depicts a world all at once familiar and foreign to the Turkish audience. The setting is no different than a hundred towns seen across the region yet we know by the two moons in the sky this is an altered vision of reality. The characters are as recognisable as the landscape, but each has a superpower twist: the barber is depressed and suffocated by the world but he can also walk through solid objects while the town’s doctor is an oracle of sorts exiled to this backwater by the authorities. The powers become another element factoring in man’s misery, no longer superhuman gifts but incidental catalysts for the human drama to unfold more fantastically.

While the film is one of Ünlü’s funniest, it is also his bleakest with an overall understanding that seems to echo Pinter; man hands misery to man/it deepens like a coastal shell. For Ünlü, as man is created from anxiety (a quote by Eurpidies, which opens the film) the end result is always catastrophic.

The addition of superpowers only serves to highlight a tendency towards self-destruction. An unusual milestone in Turkish cinema, Sen Aydınlatırsın Geceyi also represents an incredible experiment for Ünlü. Refusing to distribute the film through normal channels, he’s only screening it at one-off events across the country. Frustrated by the lacklustre attention his previous film received, he’s using the opportunity to see whether he can drum up further interest this way, as well as potentially paving the way for a new exhibition system in Turkey.

Examining Ünlü’s filmography begs mention of his TV work as well. Through his company Ünlü produces two shows for the local official channel TRT. Leyla ile Mecnun is a comedy which has achieved a level of success beyond anything imagined. Effectively a twist on a traditional Turkish story about two star-struck lovers named Leyla and Mecnun, Ünlü’s sitcom rewrites the book about television comedy within Turkish standards; owing as much to surreal comedy as to traditional sitcom, the show combines dream sequences with tragedy, slapstick with complicated verbal jokes, and has created superstars out of its modest cast. It’s also worth noting that his latest film was shot entirely using the cast members from Leyla ve Mecnun, which gives further insight into his working methods.

His other show, Şubat, is a semi-apocalyptic sciencefictionesque tale – something that had yet not to been seen on Turkish television. Focusing on a group of underground dwellers in near-future Istanbul, Şubat is a tale of government conspiracies, inter-gang fights, impossible love affairs, but most of all, very effective blending of music into the TV format, with songs punctuating the action, interwoven very much into the fabric of its existence. While the pace is undeniably slow and the show suffers from the usual Turkish curse of each episode being long over the odds, there is a hypnotic quality to seeing each episode unravel on the small screen. Ünlü applies cinematic principles to television creating an oddly brilliant show in the process.

As mystifying as his films, Ünlü remains a prolific character within Turkey. His interviews cut right to the bone: honest and brutal answers full of colloquialism blast against the expected questions from the media. He remains a fascinating character – a philosopher-poet with a death fixation whose unflinching gaze remains one of the best lenses through which to view Turkey. If there’s anything his latest film proves it is the fact that it is now time for the rest of the world to discover him.

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Masters of Cinema

Tabu Robert Makin uncovers the exotic, erotic charms of F.W Murnau’s last film words by Robert Makin

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abu is the mythical and deeply tragic tale of Polynesian natives Matahi and Rari and their doomed primal love. On the idyllic island of Bora Bora, fisherman Matahi begins an innocent courtship with the young and vivacious Rari. But their Tahitian paradise untouched by civilisation is about to be disrupted by the arrival of a schooner from a neighbouring island.

On board is respected elder Hatu, the chief representative of another tribe’s powerful leader and the story’s harbinger of doom. With a completely expressionless stone face devoid of emotion, Hatu appears and disappears throughout the film like a negative supernatural force. Even when he isn’t on screen you still feel his ominous presence hovering over the protagonist’s destiny, an unstoppable, illustrative figure of inescapable traditions and patriarchal law. He’s also one of the most dislikeable and unnerving antagonists I’ve seen in a film for a very long while, managing to conjure up

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feelings of unease and fear without even making the slightest attempt towards physical movement.

Once arriving on the island, Hatu informs its inhabitants that the sacred virgin of Fanuma, his homeland, has passed away and a successor has been chosen. Unfortunately for Matahi that successor is Rari who is suddenly deemed ‘tabu’. No man can touch her or cast eyes of desire upon her and to break this tabu will result in imminent death.

Understandably Matahi is wrought with despair and decides to rescue Rari from Hatu’s boat. Despite the possible consequences the two young lovers set forth over the seas in search of safer shores. But what they find instead as they’re washed up upon an island famed for its pearl trade, is a corrupt new world where the old gods have been replaced by the ruthless machinations of capitalism.

Due to his skills as a fisherman and his ability to dive inhuman depths, Matahi soon gains a reputation as one of the best pearl divers on the island while at the same time

immediately being exploited by the unmerciful and scheming local tradesmen, who make sure he is permanently indebted to them and unable to leave the island.

Hatu isn’t far behind and having tracked down Rari he warns her that if she refuses to join him and take on the sacred role bestowed upon her that it will result in the death of Matahi. Concerned for her lover’s welfare and hoping to avoid any conflict between the islands, Rari agrees to leave with Hatu. Desperately swimming after them, Matahi’s fate is finally sealed as Hatu effortlessly orchestrates his sudden demise in a gripping, devastating and unforgettable climax that’s directed with bleak precision.

It’s definitely a testament to the lasting power of cinema when you come across a silent film from 1931 that’s as engrossing, enjoyable and effective as anything remotely contemporary. In fact I was completely taken back at how tightly woven and pacy Murnau’s final film really is.

Especially when you consider the troubled and sporadic circumstances involved in its production. As well as his semi-improvised approach to its direction, he refused to use trained actors and insisted only native South Sea islanders be cast. A technique later adopted by another great German filmmaker, Werner Herzog.

There isn’t one single frame within Tabu you feel shouldn’t be there. And there’s only one scene that reveals its limited budget, which involves Matahi knife fighting an out-of-focus rubber shark under water. But despite its unintentional humour it’s still a gripping moment that’s expertly shot and become one of my favourite scenes. As ridiculous as it is, it has a certain inspiring charm that warrants its own entertainment value and, like the rest of the film, just has to be seen.

Of all the essays and analysis you’ll come across in regards to Tabu you’ll be lucky to find anything that mentions the rubber shark, which is a shame as I think it’s just as important as anything else in the film and in a strange way reflects Murnau’s daring approach to directing.

Especially when you take into consideration that the entire film was shot on location, including the underwater scenes which would normally be filmed in a studio water tank. Why did he choose to show the shark in the first place knowing what it must have involved? How did they film it exactly? And in 1930, on the remote Polynesian island of Bora Bora, where would a German filmmaker find such a weird prop?

These are the things that keep me awake at night.

Tabu in all its exotic majesty still isn’t as revered as Murnau’s earlier films such as the expressionist horror classic Nosferatu (1922),

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his big budget epic adaptation of Faust (1926) and the seminal Sunrise (1927). This is mainly due to the fact that the inferior version that most modern audiences are used to seeing is actually sourced from a 1948 re-release where all the scenes of nudity have been removed, rendering the film’s narrative almost incomprehensible.

It’s not entirely surprising that such scenes would get censors and studio executives hot under the collar considering the time it was made, but removing the naked flesh from Tabu is like removing the noodles from Tampopo (1985).

Completely bewitched by his new surroundings and its free-spirited inhabitants, Murnau’s masterpiece is highly charged with feverish erotic energy as his camera joyously celebrates the sensual landscape of the human body, with the same regard towards both male and female subjects.

Thankfully the Masters of Cinema release is the full uncensored and Murnau approved definitive version, and I don’t think I’ve seen a film of that era so sumptuously restored and astonishingly pristine.

There’s a long cinematic history of treacherous film shoots involving crews following directors to exotic and remote

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locations so they can realise their vision, then facing adverse conditions and going slightly over the edge. Tabu is of no exception. What could have been a turning point in Murnau’s career unfortunately became his last film when he tragically died in a car crash before it was officially released.

After turning his back on what he saw as an artistically redundant Hollywood, alienated by its vapid phoniness, he decided to venture towards something more authentic.

Having bought a boat he headed towards Polynesia with the idea of collaborating with American documentary pioneer Robert Flaherty, director of the ground-breaking Nanook of the North (1922) and utilising his skill for filming indigenous peoples.

Flaherty in the meantime was having trouble matching the success of Nanook, which follows the trials and tribulations of an Inuit family surviving in the Canadian arctic, while also facing severe criticism that he’d staged a lot of the footage. His next film Moana (1926) was a visually stunning box-office flop that attempted to capture a year in the life of a Samoan village. His planned documentary on Native Americans – Acoma the Sky City – was shut down

“It’s definitely a testament to the lasting power of cinema when you come across a silent film from 1931 that’s as engrossing, enjoyable and effective as anything remotely contemporary.”

halfway through production. Equally disillusioned by the Hollywood dream factory he joined Murnau in Tahiti.

The first story they worked on was Turia, the tale of a native pearl diver who can dive further than anyone else on his island, but then naively finds himself burdened with gambling debts and loses his life attempting to retrieve pearls from impossible depths. Although the idea shares the same fatalist tone and themes of western civilisation corrupting paradise as Tabu, from reading the original treatment (as featured in the MoC booklet) it feels very sparse in narrative drive and not as dramatically satisfying. Their attempts to film the story were halted when the production company failed on their obligation to provide the budget.

Flaherty and Murnau decided to abort Turia and began to work on a new story called Tabu with the film being selffinanced by Murnau. But their creative partnership would quickly dissolve as they grew to hate each other. Flaherty saw Murnau as being an inhibited director with too much of a romanticised aesthetic who couldn’t work without someone else giving him a story structure. Murnau saw Flaherty as being technically inept and incapable of directing

even the simplest of scenes. Murnau would end up directing the entire film whereas Flaherty’s main contribution was to the story. By the end of the shoot Flaherty’s only responsibility was a badly-paid position looking after the rushes.

But despite their obvious differences they were both on that island in a shared quest for cinematic authenticity, and maybe the tension between the struggling forces of Flaherty’s simplistic optimism and Murnau’s poetic fatalism that pulls at the narrative fabric of the film are part of the many mysterious elements that make Tabu such a lyrical experience.

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Tabu is available on June 24th courtesy of Eureka Entertainment. www.eurekavideo.co.uk

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In Defence...

The Persistence of Memory: Eyes Wide Shut

words by Kelsey Eichhorn

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ike so many of Stanley Kubrick’s other films, Eyes Wide Shut was met with palpable disappointment upon its release in 1999. Highly anticipated and excessively publicized, the film largely fell victim to misguided advertising that focused on the star power and gossip surrounding the lead duo of then husband and wife Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. In the tabloid frenzy, Eyes Wide Shut suffered an identity crisis between the stringently distinguished Hollywood entertainment formula and the more complex and interpretative form of intellectual art cinema. But Eyes Wide Shut is not a simple film. The complexity of perspective and the intrinsically entwined aesthetic and narrative decisions demand more than one viewing to disclose the many layers of meaning and the ingenious cinematic

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techniques employed.

Towards the end of the film there is a scene between the main character Dr. Bill Harford (Tom Cruise) and a supporting character, millionaire Victor Ziegler (Sydney Pollock). As the two men warily circle each other around a pool table in the centre of the room, struggling to maintain a certain façade of congeniality, Ziegler essentially recounts the plot of the entire film to Bill. After chastising Bill for his night of adventure, he pontificates on how Bill learned of the decadent private party and comments that, since he had Bill followed, he knows of his investigations into the events of that evening. He also references the holiday party at his home, which initiated the unusual events of the evening, as well as Bill’s first encounter with Mandy ( Julienne Davis) in an attempt to explain away her death. Victor

also indirectly references Bill’s experience with Domino, the student-turned-prostitute, when talking about Mandy’s occupation as a hooker.

Everything is there, a succinct synopsis in a neat little package, the events of 48 hours condensed into a roughly twelve-minute conversation. And yet to hear the proceedings recounted, they do not seem nearly as mysterious or surreal as the incidents depicted on the screen during the past two hours. Fashioning ‘reality’ to suit his own agenda, even going so far as to claim the events of the previous night were staged, the manner in which Ziegler recounts the events of the film places the entire plot quite succinctly within the realm of reality. Conversely, when the events are observed unfolding from Bill’s perspective throughout the majority of the film, in a structure Kubrick dictated and with the cinematic style he devised, the line between real and imaginary is blurred and wrought with ambiguity. In his reiteration, Ziegler consistently asserts he is telling Bill the truth. Yet with each re-affirmation, one more fervent than the last, his assertions bring into question the validity of all that came before. Ziegler’s account raises questions when it is supposed to provide answers. And so we come to the ultimate question of the film: what can be trusted as real, and what is false? And what happens when the two collide?

The intricacies of dream theory are discussions perhaps better left to psychiatrists than film critics, but it is sufficient to acknowledge here that, when we dream our subconscious makes narrative connections between often-disparate events.

Dreams, like film, are fundamentally visual experiences, where patterns and repetitions experienced in ‘reality’ enter our subconscious to create subliminal and often unintentional connections and significance.

Eyes Wide Shut functions on much the same level. The languid scenes at Victor Ziegler’s holiday party drift along with implied sensuality while the orgy at Somerton Mansion is a mysterious visual masterpiece with its gruesome, carnal masks and explicit, yet detached, erotica. Every scene is painstakingly constructed and the constantly moving, circular motions of the camera perpetuate a sense of bewilderment and an ethereal experience that disorients. The various techniques of moving cameras within scenes also facilitate an editing pattern of longer takes with minimal cuts within sequences. While Kubrick’s film is certainly not an exercise in montage strategies, neither are we able to point to a particularly carefully constructed mise-en-scene as the film’s source of meaning.

Instead, the film perpetuates a sense of continuity in its narrative structure as we see Bill steadily digressing into what amounts to New York City’s elite underworld. As tension builds in the narrative there is an impression of progression, a situation developing and a movement toward

“The story does not exist purely in the text and visuals. It is created by the audience’s interaction with the film. It grows and develops independently with each viewing.” some unknown climax that lends itself to a sense of narrative stability and cohesion. Alternately, the film creates a sense of discontinuity in the disjointed and episodic structures of events as well as the manner in which links between locations and spaces are created. While many aspects of the film’s world and the events Bill experiences are consistent with a realist story, there is an ambiguity to the structure and style of the film that suggests a possible alternate interpretation.

It is entirely too simplistic to write off Eyes Wide Shut as poorly acted, awkward and thus emotionally devoid.

While the somewhat taboo topics of sexual desire and sexual stereotypes presented in the film have been criticized as antiquated and unrealistic, experienced aesthetically throughout the film the content acquires a level of ambiguity and poignancy that creates universality to the film’s topics and imbues it with striking significance and power. The film functions almost entirely on the visual, emotional and visceral levels, and thus is not particularly driven by the plot.

Instead, Eyes Wide Shut finds meaning in the stylized assembly of the narrative and the carefully constructed world of the film.

Consciously not structured in the manner of classical narrative, linear or otherwise, Eyes Wide Shut, like many Kubrick films, is long and sometimes frustratingly slow. It is exasperatingly ambiguous in its acknowledgement of reality; Kubrick doesn’t create much distinction between the real and the surreal, freely mixing both into his narrative. In his many cinematic explorations of subconscious and psychological ‘truths’ in Eyes Wide Shut, even more than in the rest of Kubrick’s canon, (and, perhaps, more than in any other film outside the experimental surrealist genre), the story does not exist purely in the text and visuals. It is created by the audience’s interaction with the film. It grows and develops independently with each viewing, out of the individual spectator’s sense of either continuity or discontinuity. The ambiguity Kubrick develops between the two is what creates a powerful, visceral, dream-like story.

So rather than become frustrated by the ambiguities, I’d urge you to embrace them. They are the product of a master at work as Kubrick artfully mirrors for his audience the confusion and uncertainty that plagues his protagonist. We are not simply watching Eyes Wide Shut, we are experiencing it. And truthfully, what can be considered a more consummate cinematic experience?

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Behind the Candelabra

cert (15)

director Steven Soderbergh writer Richard LaGravenese starring Michael Douglas, Matt Damon, Dan Akroyd, Scott Bakula

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Review by Stuart Barr

release date 7th June

Behind the Candelabra depicts the relationship between consummate showman Liberace and companion, chauffeur, friend, lover and adopted son Scott Thorson. Opening in 1976 when the pair first meet, the bulk of the film runs through to the early eighties, a turbulent period in gay culture due to the emergence of the global AIDS pandemic.

Liberace was one of the progenitors of a postwar American camp that allowed gay men and women to exist hidden in plain sight in the mainstream of culture. Incredibly flamboyant, Liberace was openly gay in his private life but publicly closeted. In hindsight it is barely comprehensible that his fan base was ignorant of his sexuality.

The point is made when Thorson first attends a Liberace show in Vegas. Surrounded by elderly, predominantly female fans, Thorson remarks: ‘I’m surprised this crowd would go for something this gay!’ His older, more worldly companion laughs: ‘they have no idea he’s gay.’

Produced under the aegis of cable television network HBO – because the subject matter was ‘too gay’ for Hollywood according to the director – Soderbergh and screenwriter Richard LaGravenese adapt Thorson’s book into a surprisingly conventional showbiz biopic. A young naive character meets an old hand, is groomed for success, peaks early and then declines into drug addiction and personal chaos. The only real twist is that the film is Thorson’s story not Liberace’s. As much as Liberace is intimate with Thorson, the film keeps him at a distance. There is little to no examination of the star’s ‘difficult’ status in American gay culture, his refusal to have anything to do with the gay rights movement and arguable perpetuation of a negative stereotype. On the other hand, Thorson is bisexual, a ‘top’, and looks like Matt Damon, making him a natural and unthreatening identification figure for a straight audience.

Despite this, the film is extremely entertaining and is elevated by superb performances. Michael Douglas, long the screen definition of intelligent straight masculinity, immerses himself in the role of Liberace and has clearly found a connection that goes far deeper than a set of camp gestures.

Damon plays Thorson as naive but far from dim.

There is no doubt that what is shown between these two characters is a genuine relationship.

Among the supporting cast Dan Aykroyd is largely invisible, Scott Bakula rocks a magnificent ‘tache but it is Rob Lowe in a scene-stealing cameo as a grotesquely lupine plastic surgeon who grabs the attention.

Considering Soderbergh’s statement that he is now retired, this seems a curious choice as his last film. Although efficiently shot, with sumptuous production values (I do hope the furs were fake) there is little directorial daring on display. It is tempting to think of what a director more attuned to gay politics and culture (such as Todd Haynes) might have done with the material, but also worrying that such an unthreatening and commercial mid-budget production with stars attached had such difficulty raising finance. A chilling sign of how risk averse the studios have become.

Paradise: Love cert (18)

release date 14th June

Review by Jordan McGrath

The first instalment of filmmaker Ulrich Seidl’s Paradise trilogy, Paradise: Love sketches a touching picture of emotional loneliness glossed over with a cheeky sense of humour and a slight judgemental gaze. Concerned with exploring the very basic, authentic need for human connection, Siedl’s eye is both that of sympathiser and castigator, seemingly – through bare-boned realistic vigour – questioning the audience as to where their empathy lies.

Set in the very real world of ‘sugar mama’ sex tourism, where middle-aged white European women travel to beautiful African resorts to elicit sexual pleasures from the young black male natives, Paradise: Love follows single mother Teresa (Margarete Tiesel), dealing with an uncommunicative pubescent daughter Teresa and struggling with the stresses of her day job, she travels to Kenya with a friend to see what delights she can discover. Experimenting with a number of ‘beach boys’ it becomes incessantly obvious that Teresa is not only looking for something physical but for a deeper connection that doesn’t exist.

Attempting to tie-down Paradise: Love to a single genre seems to be an impossible task. The nearest description I could muster is a ‘melancholic sex comedy’. Wonderfully charming and subtly tragic, Teresa’s yearning for love, her naivety, and blissful ignorance takes you on a heavy personal journey of self-reflection. The film strips Teresa, literally and metaphorically, bare. Alongside this personally tragic portrait, Siedl never forgets to cynically expose the gullibility of these aging women who go on to pay for, emotionally as well as financially, their teenage-like guilelessness.

The director’s style, off-the-cuff and realistically raw, renders the characters in utterly convincing terms. Teresa is presented at her most vulnerable – old, overweight, self-conscious, sad, lonely.

And Tiesel’s genuine performance sells it as she’s willing to believe the adoration and charm to buy into the verses of love and beauty these young men serenade her with. As she goes from boy to boy, finding herself increasingly out-of-pocket and disappointed, you start to think about who is actually doing the exploiting.

Siedl’s choice to keep the camera reined back allows the audience to judge each scene themselves, to let them choose to empathise of not. He breaks his characters down and builds them back in bastardised versions of themselves. Teresa goes from shyly discussing the boys’ chiselled bodies to forcefully demanding a resort barman to sleep with her.

However, the director doesn’t camouflage or hide the strangely sensationalist angle of the story, placing it front and centre; gleefully juggling Teresa’s weighty character arc against some honestly funny and salacious interactions with her friends and fellow ‘sugar mamas’.

It may confront boundaries and push past them a little bluntly but it’s rather bracing to see a film that uses its explicit tendencies equally for each gender. It will undoubtedly be uncomfortable viewing for some and even with its risqué outlook, offer little that is revelatory but for the most part Paradise: Love is a refreshingly invigorating piece of cinema.

director Ulrich Seidl writers Ulrich Seidl, Veronika Franz starring Margarete Tiesel, Peter Kazungu, Inge Maux

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Review by James Marsh

Like Someone in Love

release date 21st June

cert (12a)

director Abbas Kiarostami writer Abbas Kiarostami starring Tadashi Okuno, Rin Takanashi, Ryo Kase 52

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Abbas Kiarostami continues his filmmaking sabbatical away from his Iranian homeland, which began in Tuscany with Certified Copy and now moves to Tokyo. As with many of the director’s films, we are introduced to seemingly ordinary characters through extended sequences that play out in real time. His narratives are driven not by life-changing adventures but by the drama of everyday life. Kiarostami avails us the opportunity of spending time with his characters, just long enough to see the cracks in the veneer, to catch a glimpse of their internal struggles that would normally remain hidden to casual onlookers. As he did in Taste of Cherry and Ten, the director again uses the confinement and forced intimacy of the automobile to insist his characters interact, expose themselves and connect.

Like Someone in Love charts a single night and morning in the life of young prostitute, Akiko (Rin Takanashi) through a series of lengthy, almost theatrical encounters. First she must negotiate an evening away from her overbearing boyfriend (Ryo Kase), before her pimp (Denden) sends her into the suburbs to visit a respected client at his home. Through a series of voice messages we learn Akiko’s grandmother has journeyed to town to meet her, and that Akiko has stood her up. Arriving at her client’s home very late at night, she discovers he is an elderly academic, Watanabe (Tadashi Okuno), eager to engage in sophisticated discussion, for which Akiko is woefully ill-equipped. However, as the film unfolds this unlikely pair does find common ground, especially when Akiko’s boyfriend re-enters the picture.

The result is a gentle yet absorbing film that reveals itself slowly and proves incredibly engaging from start to finish. We feel genuine sympathy for Akiko, while also acknowledging her failings. At the same time we are predisposed to view her boyfriend Noriaki as the villain of the piece, although our opinion of him is also challenged as events unfold. We must attempt to understand Watanabe, a man of great intellect, wit and education, who has been sidelined by a society that has largely left him behind. Introduced as something of a pervert or reprobate – ordering out for a young companion in the dead of night - by the end of the film, he has morphed into a figure of honour and decency, something which ironically leaves him all-themore vulnerable.

Despite note-perfect performances, naturalistic writing and finely paced direction, there remains something inconsequential about Like Someone in Love. There is little doubt this is the work of a master filmmaker, but the relatively minor issues addressed by these characters inevitably demote the film to a minor entry in the oeuvre of someone capable, and often willing, of saying so much more. Kiarostami displays a keen understanding of Japanese sensibilities here, but ultimately the film mirrors its heroine and her colleagues, offering only fleeting gratification while in the moment, yet leaving us hungry for more substantial, emotionally-charged intercourse.

Review by Jordan McGrath

From the very first frame of Play, Swedish director Ruben Östlund’s third film, we’re inside the filmmaker’s unique vision. The camera follows two young white boys from afar as we hear them discussing their day’s events. As we hear the conversation the camera drifts to the left where, on the other side of the mall, a group of five black boys, a little older than the other two, linger awaiting to make their move.

Play is inspired by true events that happened in Gothenburg between 2006 and 2008, where a group of youths between 12 and 14 committed a series of robberies using a sophisticated roleplaying scheme known simply as the ‘little brother number’. This involves the gang approaching two victims and accusing them of stealing a mobile phone from their little brother who was mugged the week prior. In an attempt to solve the situation they ask the accosted (now joined by their Asian friend) to follow them to said brother, who will confirm if it’s in fact his stolen phone. Östlund’s insouciant style plays as much an important part in the overall experience of the film as the actual content depicted on screen. A masterclass in human behaviour and rhetoric, the director’s voyeuristic set-up delivers a full, unadulterated perspective of this crime. Like a moral CCTV camera, the audience is a passer-by in the mall or a fellow traveller on the bus, with each scene captured from afar and uninterrupted by cuts – or in most cases, any camera movement whatsoever. Examining how people act and react when put up against an oppressive force, the film also provides a catalyst for conversations about racial stereotypes, manipulation and political correctness.

Some may feel Play’s lack of customary narrative misplaced but the director’s message is up on the screen for all to see, firmly at the centre in big bold capital letters: ‘What’s your thoughts?’ The director questions the audience’s ideals, especially in his coda where two fathers of previous victims confront one of the young gang members about their stealing, leading to a physical action where one of the adults overpowers the child and takes his phone all in front of the astonished and shocked faces of onlookers passing-by. And it may seem like the film trips itself up with its complicated argument of ‘Who’s the victim?’. As a lady approaches, disgusted by the actions of the adults, claiming that ‘you can’t do that to an immigrant’, the father replies: ‘What does his race have to do it, he’s a thief ’, adding something about ‘anti-racism’. It’s muddled and confusing but only because the situation is in fact muddled and confusing and totally down to that single individual’s perception of events.

There are no story or character arcs, no revelation of wrong-doing, this is the real world with real people, where real shit happens and Östlund presents it as such. Imperfections and all. Play is one of the most engrossing cinematic experiences I’ve had all year. It may miss with a few swings regarding its sub plots but when it hits, it goes right out of the park.

Play

release date 12th July

cert (TBC)

director Ruben Östlund writer Erik Hemmendorff, Ruben Östlund starring Anas Abdirahman, Sebastien Blyckert, Yannick Diakite

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The Bling Ring release date 5th July

cert (15)

writer Sofia Coppola starring Katie Chang, Israel Broussard, Emma Watson

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Review by David Hall

director Sofia Coppola

Is a film that so beautifully and perfectly nails transience and superficiality itself transient and superficial? Sofia Coppola’s fifth film – a ‘true-life’ portrait of a bunch of LA teens who burgled the palatial palaces of various celebrities (Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan among them) walks a fine line between critique and collusion. Structurally repetitive (the teens track the celebs online, get their address, break in, party a bit, steal stuff, repeat) and with a near-anthropological view of its protagonists, this is another clinically realised work from Coppola, although it is unlikely to sway those who consider her a purveyor of toothless, ingratiating vanity fare.

The late, brilliant cinematographer Harris Savides (Somewhere, Zodiac) shoots the LA larceny, teenage pranksterism and preening narcissism with precise and eerie detachment; like a TMZera Bresson (there’s an unmistakable nod to Paul Schrader’s Bresson-influenced American Gigolo).

And the soundtrack is supremely judged and evocative, elevating the material from its expected TV origins (there is an existing made for TV movie and its trailer suggests a low-rent dry run for this more opulent rendition).

The potential stunt casting of Emma Watson proves entirely successful. As Nicki , the English actress essays a note perfect air of LA detachment, deadpanning funny and appalling (but true) lines like: “I think that my journey on this planet is to be a leader. I see myself being like Angelina Jolie but even stronger, pushing even harder for the universe and for peace and for the health of the planet.” The central pairing of Katie Chang as Becca and Israel Broussard as Marc is excellent, their desire to amass and possess glitzy tat of their fave celebs taking on a junkie-like need. Leslie Mann, the mom of two of the gang, obsessed with spirituality and self-help as a way of attaining wealth and success, provides some moments of welcome, brittle comedy.

When Becca and her friends break into Paris Hilton’s house there is a weird sense that what they are doing is less thievery and simply prize claiming (the key is, incredibly, under the doormat), transferring free swag from palace to suburban bedroom. Can anyone possibly give a shit about this amount of stuff ? There is also a weird sense that, in documenting every aspect of their own lives, the celebs in question invited this mild criminality on themselves and in some cases used the scenario to elongate their own narratives, perpetuating their own celebrity oxygen. When Nicki goes to jail it’s the same prison where both Paris and Lindsey did some time of their own.

Mutual material desire connects both perpetrator and victim.

This Mobius-strip like quality was taken to further extremes when the film played Cannes. A series of celebrity ‘burglaries’ occurred during the festival (an evident, inspired marketing ploy) and Paris Hilton was in attendance at the screening.

In Coppola’s weirdly compelling movie the Bling Ring binds us all; maintaining a firm grip on our understanding of – and identification with – the illusory, empty strangeness of celebrity.

Before Midnight release date 21st June

cert (15)

director Richard Linklater Review by Tom Gore

Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy reunite with Director Richard Linklater for this eagerly anticipated third instalment in the much-lauded/loved series of romantic travelogues that began 18 years previously with Before Sunrise (1995). The 2004 sequel Before Sunset ended on something of a cliff-hanger with Jesse (Hawke) an American novelist in Paris on a European book tour pondering whether to catch his flight back to his faltering marriage/ wife and son in America or stay and pursue his improbable second chance at romance with Céline (Delpy), the Frenchwoman he first encountered as a callow, drifting twenty-something on a train to Vienna nine years earlier, and spent an unforgettable night with touring the Austrian Capital.

Before Midnight picks up the action another nine years hence (at this rate expect the fourth film sometime in 2022), and is essentially concerned with what happened next, after the thrill of a kismet-like reconciliation inevitably subsides somewhat into everyday familiarity. For we quickly discover Jesse opted for Céline back in 2004: a fateful decision rooted in the spontaneity which underpinned the first two films but, as we find out this time round, one not without consequences. At the outset all seems well with the two protagonists, who we find on a summer holiday in the Peloponnese region of Greece. Jesse is still a successful author who has penned more wellreceived novels. They are living in Paris and have twin daughters and, even though Céline’s career is at something of an unfulfilling crossroads, what began as a holiday tryst has seemingly stood the test of time and blossomed into something more enduring. As the narrative progresses however, the latent fractures and petit frustrations that have festered under the surface in their relationship for years gradually reveal themselves, resulting in a dramatic and emotionally-charged final act. One of the central issues in this regard are Jesse’s pangs of regret at having missed his son (Henry, now 14, who Jesse sees off at the airport in the opening scene) growing up on the other side of the Atlantic with his resentful ex-wife, and what Céline regards as his surreptitious plans to remedy this situation by relocating their family from France to the United States (something she is adamantly opposed to).

As with the first two films, Before Midnight tends to ebb and flow in regard to interest, with compelling moments and insightful verbal exchanges (all against a picturesque backdrop) interspersed with digressive lulls and occasionally exasperating asides. Ultimately however, like its predecessors, the film succeeds on its merits: a perfectly judged and evocative use of locale seamlessly meshed with the chemistry of the two leads.

Of particular note regarding Linklater’s use of place and the effect of environment upon character is Céline’s reference to Rossellini’s seminal travelogue Viaggio in Italia (1954), where a similarly imperilled relationship is brought back from the brink in a moment of unrestrained Mediterranean emotion. Much like Truffaut’s recurring generational muse Antoine Doinel, one senses Jesse and Céline may return for further cinematic outings.

writers Julie Delpy, Ethan Hawke, Richard Linklater starring Julie Delpy, Ethan Hawke

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Review by Stuart Barr

Eden

release date 19th July

cert (TBC)

director Megan Griffiths writers Megan Griffiths, Chong Kim, Rick Phillips Jr. starring Jamie Chung, Scott Mechlowicz, Beau Bridges 56

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Set in the mid-nineties, Eden tells the harrowing story of Chong Kim – a young Korean/American schoolgirl abducted and forced in sexual slavery.

Kim (played by Jamie Chung, best known for The Hangover Part II and Sucker Punch) is renamed Eden by her captors, and forced to spend most of her days in what amounts to a human livestock facility in cramped conditions with many other teenage girls. The girls are rented out to clients, usually for prostitution, sometimes for porn. To prevent them escaping they are each fitted with an electronic tag and they are always escorted to clients by hired heavies.

All this takes place in Nevada, somewhere outside of Las Vegas. The facility stays under the radar of authorities because the boss, Bob Gault (Beau Bridges) has extensive connections in the law enforcement community. Noting that one of the girls has gained special privileges and aware that once the other girls hit 20 they seem to disappear, Chong Kim begins to make herself indispensable to Gault’s stoner foreman.

This is clearly a well-intentioned film based on a disturbing true story, but it is one that is deeply problematic. Most seriously, it seems scarcely plausible. The criminal organisation is seen largely from the victim’s point of view and is remarkably well resourced and connected. At one point, when there is a hint of unwanted attention from authorities, they appear to be about to relocate to Dubai.

At times it seems almost like the shadowy villains of the odious Hostel films are behind everything.

It’s all very well to be based upon a true story, and everything in Eden may well have happened, but a film has to convince you it’s true. As a film about human trafficking and sex slavery in the United States it has to convince you that there are people who would be able to do this. Sadly Eden fails to convince. Part of the reason why is that, perhaps for reasons of taste, director Megan Griffiths and writer Richard B. Phillips choose not to show what the girls are being forced to do in any detail. There is no nudity in the film and the abuse happens off camera. On the one hand this is a relief, as the story is extremely grim already (and who wants to see that?), however it makes Eden less sympathetic in her actions when we don’t really see what she is trying to escape.

Throughout the film plot threads are introduced and then either left hanging, as with the sudden disappearance of a girl who becomes pregnant, or dropped entirely in the case of a halfhearted criminal investigation sub-plot.

If you walk into any branch of WH Smiths, you may find a section of cheap paperbacks called real-life tragedy (or less charitably misery porn).

Survivor’s stories of abuse and neglect packaged as a literary genre. Eden is perilously close to being a filmic version and is too glossy by half.

Review by David Hall

Brilliantly shot in monochromatic hues of darkest blues and greys, with a masterfully oppressive and evocative sound design, this miraculous story of true-life survival has, in its first half at least, a rough-hewn, bare-bones physical intensity in the manner of Wolfgang Petersen’s Das Boot. A chilly tale of a shipwreck survivor dealing with the aftermath of being a ‘hero’, Baltasar Kormakur’s The Deep impresses most in its early scenes, as the fishermen prepare to go to sea unaware of the fate that waits them, and in its devastatingly direct and cruel portrayal of nature’s brutality. It’s when the film comes ashore for the second half that the drama wanes somewhat, but a likeable, honest and open central performance keeps this low-key drama very watchable.

Guðlaugur Friðþórsson or ‘Gulli’ (Olafur Darri Olafsson) was an experienced fisherman whose crew got caught out in stormy waters off the coast of Iceland back in 1984. What Gulli managed to do in the face of such a disaster was, and is, inexplicable (defying science and medicine) yet this straightforward character downplayed the remarkable feat on his return.

I don’t know anything about the shooting conditions for The Deep, but I can’t imagine they were too much fun. From what is portrayed onscreen they must’ve represented a major undertaking of planning and execution. These sequences are truly impressive; a marvel of physical and practical shooting and benefitted by a rattling sound design that puts the viewer right at the heart of the unforgiving elements Gulli had to survive. Director Kormakur, a veteran of Icelandic cinema, and his crew deliver impressive action sequences, mercifully free of CGI Ultimately though, this is a simple tale of unlikely heroism. Gulli is no superhero even though his feats of survival clearly were. In line with all the best anti-heroes, and simple men who do extraordinary things, he is the classic quiet man.

Indeed there is something cheering in the fact that the films hero is not a man of granite, in great physical shape but an overweight, physically unhealthy drinker and heavy smoker (as the doctors in the film point out, his excess body weight is pointed out as a factor that kept him alive).

An open and honest portrayal of a guy who struggled to equate personal heroics with a normal existence, The Deep is overall a quietly impressive piece of cinema but it’s the first half that truly resonates.

The Deep

release date 12th July

cert (12a)

director Baltasar Kormakur writers Jón Atli Jónasson, Baltasar Kormákur starring Ólafur Darri Ólafsson, Jóhann G. Jóhannsson, Þorbjörg Helga Þorgilsdóttir

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Upstream Colour director Shane Carruth writer Shane Carruth starring Amy Seimetz, Shane Carruth, Andrew Sensenig

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cert (15)

Review by Evrim Ersoy

release date 30th August

As an opening statement of intent Shane Carruth’s Primer was a bold move – a singular, eccentric story told with confidence, signalling the arrival of a major talent. The follow up is another unique take on the science-fiction genre; a brilliant, mesmerising film, equally baffling and enchanting, which further solidifies Carruth as a polymath of cinema.

Upstream Colour tells the story of Kris (Amy Seimetz delivering a quietly devastating performance) who finds her life almost destroyed when infected with a complex parasite by a character only known as the Thief (Thiago Martins) who uses it to control her and another man Jeff (Shane Carruth) who finds himself drawn to Kris.

If that sounds vague, that’s because it’s very hard to summarise the film without unravelling the whole story: while Carruth keeps the plot relatively simple, he builds a complex world using his characters and their emotional reactions. If the world of Primer is akin to the realisation of a Philip K. Dick story – with logic and reason coming up and failing against human foibles – then Upstream Colour paints a picture entirely defined with human emotions.

The film is almost reminiscent of a symphony – with each element layered to create an overall harmony. Perhaps the best example of this is the opening thirty minutes: a largely dialogue-free sequence in which Kris gets infected and then manipulated by the Thief. While the film features very little on-screen violence, the intrusive behaviour of the Thief and his sure-fire manner exudes a menace a thousand villains could not muster.

Carruth’s decision to force the audience to identify with Kris’s point-of-view tightens the sense of helplessness surrounding her situation. The editing, which might seem hectic at points, is designed to allow each frame to deliver the requisite information to the overall story arc – an astonishing feat and a great way to open a movie.

Despite the use of an imaginary parasite which can allow people to be controlled, Carruth is not really interested in exploring high science-fiction elements. Instead he uses the idea of addiction and withdrawal – the survival from an abusive relationship with any substance, to explore how two people might connect.

Jeff is less than perfect. It’s clear that he suffers from the same condition as Kris and it’s never made clear how aware he is of his own situation.

Their desperation at their inability to articulate what has happened frustrates the couple – and the withdrawal into a primal state accentuates their need for each other. Emotionally harrowing but at the same absolutely honest, Carruth exposes the strange nature of relationships of dependence with quiet confidence.

Upstream Color is not an easy film – but anyone who claims that it is indecipherable clearly has missed the point. Carruth’s script is not obtuse or hard to understand; the only demand it makes is that the audience use their empathy and intelligence. An oddity in modern cinema perhaps but an act to be admired; it also shows Carruth to be maturing into one of the finest filmmakers of his generation.

In the Frame: Akira (1988) “The thing about Akira’s power is it exists within everyone, but when that power is awakened inside it is important to wisely choose how to use it. When the time comes you might not know it, let alone be prepared for it.’

- Kiyoko (Number 25)

words by Robert Makin

A

s I’m sure you can imagine being a fat teenager with long greasy hair who liked cheap cigars, vodka, comics, horror movies and De La Soul, my high school years weren’t exactly a breeze. For five days a week I found myself subjected to an insular world of ignorant, failed adults and malicious juveniles who dressed like members of Bros.

But the thing I resented the most is how achingly dull and boring it all was. Despite my thirst for knowledge there wasn’t any part of my formal education I found remotely engrossing. Thankfully the twisted gods of cultural serendipity would occasionally throw a splash of colour in my direction.

These epochal moments were like secret messages of hope from an outside world, the real world. Like the time I chanced upon the first issue of Katshiro Otomo’s Akira as it fell out of another pupil’s rucksack and onto my desk. I was immediately transfixed by the odd title in bold lettering and the cover illustration of an anguished teen surrounded by urban decay. Otomo’s epic comic was my first experience of reading Japanese manga. And the feature film adaptation would become my first experience of watching anime after I’d purchased a video copy from the back pages of the NME. The film opens with a retina-burning scene of nuclear devastation, followed by over two

hours of mind-blowing visceral imagery that’s dripping with weird symbolism. Police get their heads blown off in sewers, young children with old faces communicate with telekinesis, motor cycle accidents are framed with gruesome fluidity, a giant teddy bear comes alive and secretes rivers of milk, and the overwhelming angst of a high school student evolves into a humongous physical manifestation during the film’s bizarre climax and one of the most extreme examples of cinematic body horror.

But for me the most important image is a simple one and it’s within the first few minutes before the story even begins to unfold.

Down a dark alley above the entrance to a squalid basement bar a square electric sign

that reads Harukiya B 1 flickers and buzzes into life, leaking rust and dispersing sudden shadows onto the cracked concrete wall that it’s bolted onto.

The first time I watched Akira I couldn’t believe how vivid and real that light was. I thought it was astounding that such attention to detail and adept artistry had been applied to something so brief and without any narrative significance. That faulty illumination ignited my obsession with Japanese popular culture, and I’m sure there are many other members of my generation that could say exactly the same thing. It really was the enticing light at the end of a very dismal tunnel and I don’t think I’ve ever looked back.

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Jordan McGrath

David Hall

Founder / Editor-in-Chief / Designer

Managing Editor

jordanmcgrath@veritefilmmag.com

davidhall@veritefilmmag.com

thanks: Contributors Evrim Ersoy Robert Makin Kelsey Eichhorn James Marsh Stuart Barr James Rocarols Tom Gore

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Image credits: Metrodome/Erbp Films - 1,8,10,11,12,13,57,58,61 / Cannes Film Festival - 14, 17 / Memento Films - 18 / StudioCanal 19,50, 54, 55 / Peccadillo Pictures - 19 / IFC Films - 20 / New Wave Films - 22, 24, 25, 26, 27, 52 / Eureka Entertainment - 44, 45, 46, 47 / Warner Bros. - 48 / Soda Pictures - 51, 53 / Clear Vision - 56

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