Reviews

My first film by Eugenio Martin, and I am deeply moved. Nagisa Oshima once wrote that all filmmakers want to film sex and death the most. I always understood the first part, never the second. I think, now I do. The moment when Tomas Milian's character lies on the ground, dying, his face covered with dirt, and we see only half of it, as the camera shows us an extreme close-up, with a lonely tear rolling down his cheeks as he exhales his last breaths that stir the dust of the soil to lift itself up from the ground a few more times.

The relentlessness of the view. The relentlessness of the camera watching. That's been something which I've been pondering a lot ever since I started falling in love with cinema. Looking, not wanting to let go, and at last having to, at some point in time – because everything has to end. That is death. Everything is death. We die a thousand times each day.

Those looks, those insisting eyes Martin keeps us showing and showing, paired with the melancholy tunes of master composer Stelvio Cipriani are the heart and soul of the whole movie. Which is a melodrama at its core, a subdued, forlorn melodrama. A film of the past, looking upon it. Once upon a time in the West.

The editing is also top-notch always putting people side by side, giving everyone at least a little attention and thus creating an ensemble piece of people, connected like beads on a string. Everyone is important in this film. Because everyone is human.

The dying – in the end we all have to die. I would like to think that at the end of the movie, the protagonist, a Bounty Killer, doesn't collect the bounty for Milian's character but lets the townspeople bury one of their own, one who used to belong. He is still a part of them.

Anyways, the film is a statement, a demonstration, an elegy, wonderfully executed up until the end-titles which must have been some of the first in film history created in this now dominant way. 1966: After the credits have rolled, the image turns black and we remain to hear a wailing trumpet and finally the last strings of a soothing guitar. Maybe it's not what you see before you die, but what you hear. The last sounds of this world.

Peter van Eyck is one of the great actors of his generation. He can do almost everything. He is on the same level like Peter Lorre or Marlon Brando. But he is pretty unknown. This should change. Like the similarly underrated (though internationally much more renowned) screen presence of Herbert Lom, he commands automatic attention in every frame he appears, every glance he makes is haunting, his screen presence almost three-dimensional. Contrary to the previous year's masterpiece by Alfred Vohrer "An Alibi for Death" (Austria, 1963 - coincidentally scripted by the same screenwriter), he is truly the star in this film, and he doesn't portray a villain, but a remarkable hero, a kind of Zen-like figure, Eastwood's Man with No Name paired with Rossellini's St. Francis - though he'll get killed in the end because people believe he's a wolf in sheep's clothing.

This film is about war. Truly about war, in a manner Terrence Malick would depict in The Thin Red Line or Bertrand Tavernier would study in Laissez-passer (Safe Conduct, 2002). Not about fighting, but about living. What it means to live during war as a human being. It is profound, transcendental, hopeful, nihilistic, whatever you want it to be. But more importantly the film feels in the context of German post-war cinema simply like a revelation. Jugert, who was a long time assistant director of German master Helmut Käutner, is today primarily known for his debut "Film Without Title" (1947) and not much else. And though Kennwort... Reiher did win some German film awards after its release (unbelievable but true: a deserved win for best film of the year) it has seldom been shown on TV in recent times, and as far as I know cannot be obtained on home video. I was lucky to catch it on TV by chance. What is so outstanding about this film, is that a German filmmaker considered of the past in 1964 (Jugert could have started directing films in the late 30s/early 40s), during a time of great crisis in the German film industry (that some would say had already collapsed) made a film that feels modern and honest, and is a unique hybrid of genre formula and modernist(ic) tendencies. In a way, the film recalls Miklos Jancso's portrait of Hungarian society in "Cantata" (1963) and the ending (and the last shot) is truly mind-boggling. But before that, a lot of the film could be a clichéd reactionary war-drama like the ones which were produced by the dozens during the 50s.

Scriptwriter Herbert Reinecker was the main scriptwriting force in German postwar cinema and postwar TV (over 100 cinema scripts and over three times as many scripts for TV movies/series, e.g. the complete 281 episodes of "Derrick" (which ran from 1974 till 1998)), as well as an infamous old conservative, who continued many reactionary and controversial tendencies that were already on display in his work during the Nari rule (e.g. "The Star of Africa" (1957)), but was nevertheless also responsible for the scripts of some daring and innovative German-language films (e.g. "Angels with Burnt Wings" (Zbynek Brynych, 1970) or the film I'm writing about here). A commercial force but also an undeniable talent. No matter Reinecker's political agenda, Jugert makes the film something completely his own. The mostly naturalistic photography is contrasted with bursts of abstract Eisensteinian close-ups in rapid editing, or the intrusion of subversive Bunuelian moments à la "The Young One" (1960).

A further standout is the character depicted by Marie Versini, an actress who is today (at least In German cinema) usually associated with commercial "trash"-fare, but who in this film plays a sensitive and beautiful intellectual that implicitly displays the hopes of a new generation which might be able to build a different society after the war, and becomes a potential love interest for van Eyck's lyrical character. The way the camera shapes and utilizes her face and body language is totally Antonioniesque and in the vein of the French New Wave (think for example Anna Karina crossed with Jeanne Moreau) and brings an at that time completely atypical lyricism to German cinema, that I for one haven't encountered yet in the films of that period (though maybe Wolfgnag Staudte could be credited as an influence, if one looks at films like "Escape from Sahara" (1957) and "The Fair" (1960)).

Whatever Jugert and his crew had in mind, this film is truly unique, and must be experienced to be believed. It's light hand and sensitive touch clearly point into the future, to people like Dominik Graf, or the (New) Berlin School and the observational sensibilities of someone like Angela Schanelec. I was always eager to see something by Jugert, but would have never expected THIS! Maybe it was an introduction to one of the rather invisible and more or less forgotten masters of cinema, as Jugert's could potentially be a rich and diverse oeuvre. He has been compared to Max Ophüls by some, because of his long and similarly spaced camera movements. I can't yet confirm if this is an apt comparison and these kinship patterns really fit. But after watching Kennwort... Reiher, I definitely get the idea.

Another one at the cinema, in a wonderfully crisp 35mm print. The sound wasn't excellent throughout, but the film was. This is part of a small Otto Gebühr retrospective, and I hope to catch more films starring Gebühr, as he is equally excellent in this pic as in Der große König (1942), which I saw a couple of days ago. Here he plays the father of three daughters in a family comedy of manners and he is very restrained throughout, giving the estranged old but wise man who knows more than anybody else, but doesn't want to force anything from anybody, underplaying in every scene and almost upstaging all other actors. Almost, as director Kirchhoff has been wise enough to pair him with other greats, like Henny Porten as his wife, a grand dame of German cinema, who had by 1943 had as much acting experience at the cinema as Gebühr and who seems here, at 52(!) more radiant and beautiful than in earlier roles from the 20s like Ernst Lubitsch's Kohlhiesels Töchter (1920) or Ewald André Dupont's masterpiece Die Geier-Wally (1921). The young cast is also used perfectly, with the most outstanding being the trigger-happy René Deltgen ad the seductive Marina Ried.

Nevertheless most of this and the whole quality of the film is probably due to the directing by Frith Kirchhoff who is the real discovery here. I've never seen any film by Kirchhoff before, nor heard him mentioned anywhere (at least not that I remember), but he is one director to look out for!The fluent, observant, elegant camera-work is a true highlight full of nuances and as perfectly timed as the editing, giving the film at once a stately feel as well as being always to the point. The style of Kirchhoffs fascinating direction seems to be a perfect blend of the highest virtues of the late silent era à la Sweden or France (think for example of Carl Theodor Dreyer's pastoral films from the 20s) with the fast paced early 40s style of American cinema à la Raoul Walsh's They Drive by Night (1940). Wenn der junge Wein blüht is a film as over the top as it is solemn, a combination perfectly exemplified in the opening sequence, when we find the three daughters singing opera-style in their house while doing an early proto-musical number, while the father slowly approaches from the outside listening quietly near the windows. All three windows open, but in the end we remain, with the man outside, in a shot that frames him isolated on the right edge while the rest of the frame on the left is filled by the huge manor. Nevertheless he is still the center of our attention, his determination, energy and wisdom simply cannot be denied. Seemingly through sheer presence he is able to balance and finally overcome the forces that are trying to overpower him. In contrast to the fierce Friedrich that fails in Harlan's Der große König, the inconspicuous character Gebühr plays here is the designated winner from the start.

What can I say. I went into this film expecting a rather bland "Heimat"-film (the title roughly translates to "When the young vine is blossoming again") and was in for a huge surprise. After 2 minutes I already knew this was going to be an excellent piece of filmmaking. Hopefully the direction of some other films by Kirchhoff is equally precise. If so, he belongs to the many shamefully neglected unsung heroes of German film history.

Another film with Romy Schneider at the cinema. The 35mm print looked like it had just been struck, with rich, vibrating colors and a clear depth of field – a true delight. The film itself, a work of one of the better and more interesting German directors of its time is actually Austrian. I'm not familiar with Austrian film history at all, and I kept watching it, as though it was a film from West Germany. It did feel more frivolous though, more vulgar, and more direct in its depiction of sexuality, than I remembered from similar West German productions. But this may simply be due to Rolf Thiele, probably one of the big erotomaniacs of film history. Nevertheless I found the film not free-spirited at all. It isn't the total failure some Thiele-experts seem to take it for, but it also isn't much to be proud of. The problem is this: the film starts as a funny and open-minded depiction of a rather unconventional family of artists. The parents, still rather conservative, write (the father) and make music (the mother), the children are an artist (the youngest son), a painter (the youngest daughter) and a poet (Romy). The truly free spirits are the two youngest children. And Romy is caught somewhere in between. At the end of this slightly screwball-y comedy of manners, she marries the sleazy douchebag of an excuse for a male protagonist (or rather antagonist), and the old morals (marry and reproduce) are seemingly confirmed. Of course none of it is that easy in a Thiele film, and he manages to get in some totally bizarre and over the top imagery and situations – but nowhere enough. His inventiveness shows in the sometimes nouvelle-vague-inspired camera-work and his formal playfulness, be it the editing or the phenomenal art direction. But still, the screenplay leaves the film a rather unfulfilling mess, which Thiele doesn't want (or isn't allowed) to make into a film of his won. The longer it goes on the more conventional it becomes. Thiele himself allegedly later apologized for the film, and said he was contractually obligated to make it.

Still, it is an interesting failure (or if you are a morally conservative person it may even be a success), and though I found it at times hideously repulsive in its inhibited eroticism and its constrained play with perversion (give me Tinto Brass anytime over such a hypocritical treatment), the film is a good depiction of its time and the way people thought and behaved – and as I said, definitely not without its merits. Romy Schneider is at times enchanting, and the film is a delight to look at from start to finish. The film is a must if you are interested in the time period, are a fan of Romy Schneider, are a Rolf Thiele completist, or don't care about a films politics as long as its gorgeous to look at.

I'll spare you with the what if's (though I need to say this could have been a masterpiece had Thiele had a free reign). It's definitely one of its kind, a curious mixture of social study, satire, romance and comedy, and it definitely left a lasting impression – even though much of it feels like a bitter taste in my mouth.

And yet another Romy Schneider movie, but more importantly my 6th film by Helmut Käutner, one of the world's best directors. Saw this as a part of a small ongoing Romy Schneider homage at my cinema of choice in a good 35mm print with most of the color-palette still intact. The film is completely dazzling, and as some say this is Käutner's biggest coup de main, though I'm not so sure myself, I definitely cannot disagree. Monpti left me a bit dumbfounded, gasping for air, as it's as fast as seemingly innocent while going through the motions in a nether-land somewhere between Andrzej Zulawski's Possession (1981) and Ernst Marischka's Sissi (1955). Definitely one-of-its-kind, this is a testament to the 50s as a disjointed decade stuck between the 40s and 60s, on a planet of its own.

Currently the film is difficult to pin down or accurately describe for me, and I hope to see it a second time on the big screen today. All I can say is: magnificent, enchanting, disturbing, full of surprises and definitely a film that is as iconic for Romy Schneider as any other she ever made. I am clearly running out of fitting adjectives to describe this exuberance of a film that is successfully masquerading as yet another German 50s romantic comedy. Käutner seems the personified understatement.

This is a film from the 70s, and from Eastern Europe and in a then very much en-vogue introspective realist style that I often have problems with. It seems that after the glorious 60s, the Svoiet block was all about quite despair, personal tragedies, and the intellectual's angst in the face of a failure to secure more freedom in those countries. The GDR was no different, and Addio, piccola mia belongs for me in that crowd of melancholy and somewhat depressing films, filmed on film-stock with desaturated colors, reminiscent of something like Ilya Averbakh's Monologue (1973), or all of Tarkovsky's 70s work. A bit experimental and a BIG part 'naturalist" this is a cinema of contemplation while trying to retain some of the playfulness and inventiveness that has come in the decade before. Hand-held camera is the style of choice, and actors muttering their lines, looking away from the camera, a highly stylized direct cinema touch, and professional actors being mixed with amateurs or purposefully being used like ones.

Addio piccola mia is certainly an interesting film, my first by Lothar Warneke, a story about the last three years of German icon Georg Büchner, a poet who died of typhus at the age of 23, and who is here used somewhat to reflect upon the times in the GDR in the late 70s. He is a revolutionary who wants to change society through an uprise of the masses, the poor peasants who are his only hope for a true revolution. Yet after the defeat of Napoleon in the early 19th century, Europe is in a situation of reconstruction and forced stability, with a lot of similarities to the cold war period. Everything seems in deadlock, a perpetuate hell where nothing can happen. At the end there is no prospect of freedom, none of hope, only death. A bleak way of looking at history, considering the fact that the GDR saw itself as a society that had brought about the long-sought freedom that had been denied to the people throughout the previous centuries, and all films in the GDR were funded and produced by the state and had to get its approval. It would be interesting to know, how the film was received in its day, especially in the GDR. Not a bad film, but this is only for people who don't mind having a meandering one hour plot stretched to two hours with a lot of self-doubt and anguish going on. Very much a film of its time.

Ah yes, saw it at the cinema, but bad projection (or whatever the cause) led to it being shown in the wrong aspect ratio, and the print was only in decent shape, so the 35mm experience was really nothing to write home about. Oh, and there are some stunning, floating, hand-held and vibrating, Malick-like close-up shots (using only natural light, of course) of the faces of two lovers that will make the heart of most cineastes beat faster.

Another Veit Harlan film seen on the big screen from a fine 35mm print, and I am more and more in awe of Harlan's cinematic sensibilities. His films seem made for the cinema and he is an incredibly visceral visual artist. Of course it helps having one of the best cameramen of your time at your disposal. Bruno Mondi's cinematography produces many special moments that had me in their grip from the beginning. If he shows close-ups of faces (think Hollywood of the 30s combined with Eisenstein) or makes one of his tremendous tracking shots (equally effective in enhancing the dynamics on the battle field or zooming in on people). His super-impositions, montage-sequences or the combination of both, like in the incredible closing images of Friedrich's eyes over a rotating windmill. Mondi can't go wrong, and enhances every acting performance – he must have been loved by his actors. Harlan shows his prowess in the combination of different modes of realism and abstraction (for example the Soviet-style montage-sequences) and his vision is never less than monumental while never forgetting that it's the monumentality of moments of human emotions that are at the center of his art. Lots of the scenes are goose-bump inducing, similar to the finale of Jud Süß (1940) when Ferdinand Marian's character gets punished by the evil townsfolk.

As for propaganda: it clearly shows that the film had been made under the Nazi dictatorship, in particular during some brief moments in speeches or dialog by Friedrich the Great. BUT - and this is a huge but - I would argue that the film includes much less war-mongering than could be expected, and one could hardly find a film as ambivalent or dialectical made with propaganda ideas in the (political) background, coming from the Soviet Union, England or the United States in 1942. The film as a whole is in my opinion not a piece of Nazi or militarist propaganda, but could actually also be said to have an anti-war message. At least I think it lets the audience decide what to make of the events and the people depicted.

What I took from it were horrible and cruel depictions of the evil that is war, focusing on an embittered, isolated and deeply flawed monarch who remains a controversial figure until the end. Otto Gebühr who played King Friedrich II. in over a dozen films from the early 20s onwards, culminating in this film, gives a masterful performance as the titular anti-hero, who can only let his true emotions come into play when he is alone. Positioned between what he sees as the duty to his people and the duty to his ideals, he loses everything he loves in the sacrifice for the Prussian nation. A tragic fate. In the end the film is an honest and depressing tale in the vein of old Shakespearean drama, where good and evil, right and wrong are often difficult to unravel.

Surely one of the best films of the decade from one of the best directors. Pompous, self-indulgent, melodramatic, operatic and therefore full of many condensed truths of life, Harlan depicts male characters that are ambivalent to the core. Maybe a forerunner of sorts of masculine angst-fueled films like Gibson's Braveheart, "The Great King" is an existentialist depiction of historical events that directly relates to the times when it was made. In the middle of all the shenanigans, Kristina Söderbaum, Harlan's wife, placed as a seemingly unnecessary addendum, but clearly showing the torment women had to go through in a society that left little space for them. Much could and should be written about such a film (and similar works), but this is only a short commentary born out of the moment.

For a glimpse into Harlan's aesthetics I recommend the first minutes of the film uploaded on YouTube where it isn't essential to understand the dialog.

I just watched Le vieux fusil by Robert Enrico in 35mm at the cinema (unfortunately dubbed into German) and it was a hell of a strange film. Philippe Noiret is great in the lead role, though totally unbelievable. First he marries Romy Schneider, and then he kills a dozen trained German soldiers one after the other single-handedly. The whole film basically knows only one sombre mood, and doesn't really add any (melo)drama to what is happening. Incredibly, this film won a César for best French film of the year (what the heck!? - in a year where Zulawski's L'important c'est d'aimer was eligible!!!) and was nominated for numerous more. While it was an interesting and worthwhile film, I can't possibly see why this Rambo-type revenge story was considered so great/important at the time it was made. At least I might have become a Noiret-fan through this. The film is all about Noiret, and Romy is only there as eye-candy or to explain the emotional turmoil of the lead character. She has to play her usual „slutty" role of a person with bipolar disorder and I can't help but wonder why she regularly chose those similar roles. Despite being a great actress, Enrico really doesn't give her much to work with (he is clearly no Zulawski...) but maybe she was eager to do a more light-hearted role after her phenomenal (and deservingly) César-winning performance in L'important c'est d'aimer. I watched the edited version that was released to German theaters in the 70s and was missing at least the full scene of Romy's death. Will I watch more Enrico? Possibly. Am I intrigued? Yes. But is this really a remarkable film? I don't quite think so. Nevertheless very much worth seeing because of its utterly peculiar and bizarre vibe.

Yet another of the newer German films that try to depict current everyday reality through the use of amateur actors and a seemingly "under-dramatized" approach to the narrative structure. In "Lucy", the second feature-length film by Henner Winckler, we are presented with an extract from the life of a few German adolescents living in Berlin, centering around 17 year old Maggy and her daughter Lucy that gave the film its title. Maggy is a disoriented youth torn between her wish for a steady relationship and taking responsibility for her own life, and her desire to be just an ordinary teenager, going out with her friends and enjoying life without the burden of being a mother.

Strong performances, and a presentation that tries to avoid all the cliché's we are usually offered, make for a difficult viewing that doesn't fall prey to a simplification or explanation of the characters, posing questions at the viewer he must answer himself. It is also noteworthy that Winckler avoids a bleak vision of teenage life, but lets all characters keep their dignity and also their ambiguities, which aren't resolved.

If one can believe IMDb, this is only the fifth feature-length film by director Joel Farges since 1979, who seems to be better known for his production work (producer of "Le chignon d'Olga" (2002), and co-producer of "Zhantai" (2000)). While he may have won some awards for his short films in the 80s, I must say that "Serko" isn't a testament to his skills as a filmmaker.

The film is a fairy-tale set in 19th century Russia, featuring a young Cossack who starts on a journey to the czar after his tribe has been unfairly treated by some functionaries of the Russian army. On his 10000 kilometers long journey through the Russian Empire, he meets many people and faces many dangers, after which the timid boy will have become a man as well as a national celebrity.

This is basically the plot in a nutshell of a film which is at 98 minutes clearly too short for an epic saga of such proportions, but still feels often too long. Meant as a film primarily for children, I can't exactly imagine them to grasp the rather complex topic. The film has many shortcomings, most notably with the direction, which often feels arbitrary in its choice of scenes, and at worst totally pointless, when you sometimes start to doubt that there was any focused directorial involvement at all. Farges rarely knows how to dramatize the material, which leads to a film with acute pacing problems. He is also often merely photographing the exotic landscape and its people, making the viewer feel like he is watching a rehearsal and a travelogue rather than a narrative feature. The main actor is rather dull and uninvolving and often looks pale in comparison with some of the supporting actors. And having made the film with a digital camera doesn't help to achieve a cinematic effect either (at which the cinematography desperately seems to aim). But besides the many shortcomings, there is at least an overall feel of Farges' enthusiasm with the material and there are some occasional strong moments in which the film comes alive. And the screenplay, which is underdeveloped, nevertheless features some inspiring scenes where you get the idea of what the film could have become in the right hands.

In the end, I was a bit moved by the humanist intentions of the movie, and felt that I had at least been slightly entertained. Well...

This film was shown as a double feature alongside the newest film by renowned Romanian director Lucian Pintilie (Next Stop Paradise) at the Berlin Film festival 2006, but to me seemed more interesting and technically accomplished than the work of the "grand old man".

It presents a glimpse of the life of Liviu, a twenty-something who is trying to make a living in present-day Romania. It is clear that this isn't exactly easy in a country that seems to be in a moral and economical crisis, but the thing that actually stands in the way of Liviu's future is he himself. Left without orientation after the downfall of the communist dictatorship, he hasn't learned to take responsibility for his actions. In the dream he is having throughout the film, and which is a powerful conclusion to the director's statement - and also one of the most beautiful and poignant endings I have ever seen - Liviu is finally forced to face his own fear of life.

After the screening, I just had to compliment the director for this effort, and tell him that I'd love to see a feature-length film as soon as possible. Thankfully his career has since developed in an admirable way.

The newest film by maverick director Pen-ek Ratanaruang is a moody existential thriller that doesn't have to avoid comparison with the classics of film noir. The stoic main character (played elegantly understated by Japanese superstar Tadanobu Asano) has to go through many kafkaesque and comical situations (recalling silent slapstick comedians like Keaton and Chaplin) until he arrives at an already predestined end. Contrasting the usually dominant nihilism in this genre is a feeling of otherworldliness, an almost transcendent atmosphere, impressively created through the assistance of cameraman Christopher Doyle.

Maria del Pilar is an older woman living in Mexico with a disturbing past. Having lived in a cloister for a long time, where she had been taught to despise her body, she later discovered her homosexuality and began to free herself through sexual liberation and the discovery of her body.

Sexuality and religion, body and soul, and how to bring them all together into a unified appreciation of life is what the fast paced documentary is about. In the end it is very simple: you have to know yourself and love yourself. But the road to this can be very bumpy, especially in a society with countless contradictions.

South Africa. A young man is trying to cope with the change that has taken place in his country after the Apartheid regime has been overthrown. Life is going on as usual, as if nothing had happened and no one is responsible for the past. In the midst of his existential ponderings, he encounters a refugee woman, and decides to write a book about her life, after having had one conversation with her. But finding her again in Johannesburg seems an almost impossible task. On this journey he encounters lots of refugees and foreigners living in South Africa, and trying to cope with the loss of home while living in exile.

The film is a rather crude mixture between fictional and documentary that initially didn't really work for me. The director was mostly improvising the film as he was shooting and lots of the weaknesses of the "script" become obvious. But as the film strays from its initial path, the loose structure turns into an advantage as we are offered glimpses into the street life of Johannesburg, and we encounter - along with the unprepared protagonist - numerous interesting people.

The most engaging parts of the film are exactly the filmed streets where nothing seems to be happening at first glance, and the short interviews with the mixed inhabitants. What is the meaning of home, or where does a person belong to if his background isn't clearly defined, are some of the questions posed and answered. Variations on this topic are offered throughout. At the end, the film becomes a rich portrayal of a global(ized) community that can only be unified through humanity.

"Conversations on a Sunday Afternoon" won the prize of the ecumenical jury at the Berlin Film Festival in 2006.

Another Iranian film that tries to deal critically with the difficult situation in 2005, and reflects on the importance of belief in a different way than one would have expected.

Mahmoud is a railroad engineer who has to stay away from his wife Pari and her daughter for extended periods of time. But Pari isn't satisfied with her simple role as a housewife, always waiting for her husband, and she is also under constant medication, due to depressions that may stem from her position as an Iranian woman (this is later hinted at). At one point she mysteriously disappears, and Mahmoud who loves his wife very much, has to cope with the situation during a 48 hour leave permit he has been granted by his employer. During this time, he gets to experience the disdain of the Iranian society - in Iran it is a dishonor if your wife leaves you - in countless ways. Being unable to find out any helpful information about the disappearance of his wife, he is devastated when he is informed of a corpse who's description could fit his wife...

There are many more twists and surprises waiting for the viewer in this very compressed film, that deals with faith and the power of compassion, in a highly original way. After everything is over Mahmoud - and with him the (male) viewer - will have to decide how to deal with the whole event. And the positive outcome of the film may offer a ray of hope in relationships that often seem to stand in front of an abyss.

If you have seen some of Sabu's previous films, this one may be a bit startling. Though there are still many coincidences and it basically remains a road movie, the trademark laconic humor is missing. What we have is a very oddball social drama, and the first film by Sabu he has adapted from a novel.

And this may be its biggest problem, as - even judging solely on the thematic range of the film - the novel must be quite a big and complex effort in telling one persons life story. To compress such a book into a 2 hour film is a difficult task which Sabu doesn't always manage successfully. Between extended contemplative periods, there are disproportionately fast episodes with numerous twists and turns. Either he should have used at least 4 hours to tell his epic story, or shortened the overall occurrences into a coherent whole. As it is, the film often appears a mess, with moods changing swiftly, and introducing shocking scenes into the overall melancholia that seem out of context. At times Sabu seems to be copying some of his contemporaries like Takashi Miike, Shunji Iwai and Sion Sono, rather than creating anything personal. But after a bumpy ride I was nevertheless released from the film with a "completed" frame of mind, and the feeling that this may be a transitional (and important) phase for Sabu to brake free of his image.

In the end he succeeded in creating a highly fascinating film, that will surely trigger further rewards with repeated viewings. And the eclectic mix of originality and banality regarding his stylistics seemed oddly satisfying. Somehow he managed to walk the line between trash and art, and emerge with something truthful. In this regard the film could be a good companion piece with Sono Sion's "Strange Circus" which stumbled while performing the same task. Also fine acting by the fascinating Hanae Kan, whom I still have a fond memory of from her difficult role in Koreeda's "Nobody Knows".

A film that feels like it was made by Aki Kaurismäki, with the difference that it takes place in contemporary Iran.

We have a protagonist that doesn't speak a single word throughout a fascinating array of episodes that confront the viewer with almost casual scenes of everyday life in Iran which is usually being suppressed in films from this country: marital infidelity, drug-abuse, political persecution and censorship, and urban alienation amongst others. After the initial death of his beloved wife, the protagonist becomes more and more isolated from a society that is presented in a deep crisis.

I cannot possibly imagine how Nasser Refaie could be able to keep making such films in the Iran of today, as I felt the protagonist in the movie was an alter ego of Refaie. Watching events on which he has no influence, (inner) exile seems the only solution. Hopefully his career as a filmmaker won't become a tragic one.

An autobiographical rampage through film history, crime novels, and the mysteries of the flesh, Guy Maddins new film is said to bear many resemblances to his own experiences during his childhood. At least that's what Mr. Maddin was telling us unsuspecting victims before the screening commenced. If that is indeed the truth, Maddin must have started abusing LSD at a very tender age, which must have in succession lead to a severe personality disorder. But what is truth in the filmic universe of Guy Maddin, and what is fiction? So far, his films have been located somewhere in the vast space between dream and reality, a reality that is either part of someone's dream, or a fairy-tale that is situated in a grim reality. "Brand upon the Brain!" tends toward the latter, with a good dose of children's nightmares thrown into the mix. Young Guy is raised with his sister on a mysterious island by a possessive mother and an absent father. The only company he has are the kids from his parents' orphanage who also live in the lighthouse that serves as the mythical center of his everyday life between nightmare and fantasy. But when one day Guy falls in love with his childhood heroes, two siblings working as undercover detectives who suddenly appear on the island, the real problems of adolescence have just begun. What follows is a mix between the trashy horror films and the grand melodramas of longing and unfulfilled desire which were churned out by Hollywood en masse during the 1930s, and a bunch of sexual irritations that could have proved too complicated even for the young John Waters. Maddin's recycling of cinematic conventions continues, and it seems that he has been further inspired by avant-garde films like Austrian Martin Arnold's take on representation and identity in old Hollywood in his extraordinary "Alone. Life Wastes Andy Hardy" (1997). Sounds like something you shouldn't miss? Ever since his groundbreaking first feature "Tales from the Gimli Hospital" (1988), Maddin has given us one delightful work after another, pairing a WWI drama with his silent aesthetics in "Archangel" (1990) or trying his hand at a comedy set during the great depression in "The Saddest Music in the World" (2003). Even his reinterpretation of Fritz Lang's "Metropolis" (1926) in his short film "The Heart of the World" (2000) was not only a crazy homage to the old master's visionary work, but in its incredibly inventive, witty and self-assured sampling and restructuring of events, a gift for every cinéaste and a landmark of its own. "Brand upon the Brain!" didn't work nearly as well for me as most of his other work, with a convoluted plot and a flashy and surreal editing and camera-work that was an unhealthy mix of MTV-born style without substance, paired with a lot of special effects that were used for no apparent reason. I constantly felt dislocated, perplexed, and at my wits' end, in a film that didn't make any sense while shuffling my senses. Of course this isn't a bad thing in itself, and maybe it was Maddin's intention to put a brand on our brains, and yes, childhood can be at times gruesome and without any sense. But the reminiscences presented in this film resemble a kid either raised by Count Dracula and The Wolf Man, or inextricably caught up in a web of his own imagination. Is the film unhealthy? Yes. Is it fascinating and funny? Only occasionally. Maybe it would have proved the best solution if Maddin had assembled the numerous vignettes into a set of short films that could have thematically complemented each other. Before the screening Maddin also explained that he wasn't sure if the film worked on its own. Planned and constructed as a live event, its festival premiere was at the "Berliner Staatsoper", where one could experience the film as Maddin had intended it to be seen: accompanied by a live orchestra, a SFX crew and the voice and presence of Isabella Rossellinni who serves as a kind of narrator to the story. Unfortunately, everybody wasn't able to witness it in this form, and as a screening alone, the presentation wasn't engaging enough to be able to demand my full attention. Two minutes before the end of the film I had to leave the theater for the bathroom. At least that served for a bit of release and satisfaction. Maddin's proposition that one could hunt him down personally afterwards if one didn't like the film, would have probably meant too great a loss of an artist whose spirit is nevertheless still very much needed.

Angela Schanelec's new film is loosely based on Anton Chekhov's play "The Seagull". Some years ago I tried reading one of his plays but wasn't able to finish it. The conflicted characters seemed hopelessly depressing and uninteresting to me, and the way the play would end already predetermined, so that I quit reading halfway into it. The literary quality of Chekhov's dialog didn't elude me completely, but I'm not exactly a fan of the Russian school of social criticism in which the characters are trapped in their own world, endlessly circling around themselves and their petty problems, unable to grasp the reality that lies beyond. When compassion is needed, I am more taken with Henrik Ibsen's studies in which the character's are often able to free themselves to a certain extent from their former illusions and delusions, no matter how difficult the circumstances might be. If Chekhov portrays a world in deadlock, an upper class caught in its own rituals that has already become obsolete, Ibsen shows the dynamics at the end of the 19th century, depicting a society in flux, with the decadence of former moral and social standards crumbling. I'm not saying that one of these positions is preferable to the other, when in fact both have much more in common than might be apparent at first glance. It's just that the fiery temperament and optimism of a teenager is probably more suited to the confrontations at display in Ibsen's work than the fine modulations of Chekhov. In my case this was clearly so.

At the 57th Berlinale, some years and a bit of experience later, I was giving him another chance via the latest film by German director Angela Schanelec. Being already a huge fan of her work I was of course a bit biased before the film, and (I hate to admit it) had also temporarily forgotten her fondness of Chekhov and his influence on this particular film. Hers isn't exactly an adaptation of the play though, as the dialog was completely rewritten and only parts of the atmosphere and the constellation of the characters remain. The setting is present day Berlin, upper middle class, a family and their friends at a house by a lake. The main conflict between mother and son has lost some of its importance, while other characters have been given bigger roles. I would call the film more of an ensemble piece, with the main conflict still intact, but now balanced and reflected through the actions of another character who was for me also the main attraction of the film. Agnes (very good portrayal by Miriam Horwitz) is the neighbor's daughter and former friend and lover of Konstantin (Jirka Zett) who is struggling to become a writer. He lives alone with his grandpa, and when his mother (played by Angela Schanelec herself) visits the former family home with her new lover, old conflicts resurface. Although the director is never making a direct statement through the characters themselves, and her standpoint can only be felt through the staging as and the interactions of people in the environment in which they are placed, the character of Agnes seemed to me to approximate the directorial gaze. She is always observing, attentive but not judgmental, trying to articulate the problems that beset her and the others. In contrast to their enclosed and egocentric perspective she is open and approachable (only the mother's lover is presented as a possible soul mate). While everybody else wants to get hold of the others because of something they don't possess themselves, she is trying to create it in herself through interaction with the world. As the catastrophe unfolds she naturally has no place in it.

Besides Ulrich Köhler, Angela Schanelec is for me currently the most talented of the dozens of young filmmakers who have emerged during the last ten years and made Germany once again one of the most interesting and innovative film countries in the world. Her approach to filmmaking is quite unique, though her work with the actors could be somewhat compared to the methods of Jacques Doillon. Exactly written out in advance of the shooting, the precise dialog has to be interpreted by the actors on the set. Improvisation and creativity meet in the choreography of the actors' bodies in the space that surrounds them, and a lot of the film's strength depends on the particular intonation of the written lines. It is a cinema that highlights a specific mood and atmosphere more than the story, which is presented only in fragments and never really explained. Things happen on the fringes of life, and in conversations it is more important for the camera to remain on a character's face than to cut to another person. Omissions are the most important structural element, as a lot of events often happen either outside of the frame or get shown in a casual way. Schanelec forces us to reconsider the question of what is actually important. Every scene and movement, every facial expression and line of dialog have a power and relevance in themselves. Because something is shown, because it has happened and is part of the characters' lives. If you look at the film in retrospect, lots of its magic lies in the fact that each moment is treated equally, nothing is given precedence over anything else. What is of importance is the reaction to a certain event, not necessarily the event itself. Because only we can give the moments in our lives a specific weight, the impression they will make on us depends on our reactions to them. If people are struggling, searching for a place in life, nature itself seems ignorant to this struggle. For the beauty we give is the beauty we receive. That is the greatest gift of Schanelec's cinema. Learning that you are responsible yourself, and that what happens around us is also happening because of us. A cinema of reflection which makes it possible to experience yourself through others.

Germany, soccer World Cup 2006. One of the biggest sports events on earth with over one billion spectators glued to the screen or live at the stadiums. In the final, Italy beats France, while Zinedine Zidane is responsible for the biggest scandal of the championship. Afterwards, more people seem to be talking about this incident than about the World Cup itself. In Fred Poulet's film Substitute, none of these events play a dominant role. Although his film at first glance seems to be about the competition and one man's experience with it, it is in fact much more than simply an account of a story the public is already aware of. But it is also not an investigation into the secret machinations that go on in the background of such a big event, it doesn't postulate to enlighten and reveal to us the secret scheme of things. Although there are plenty of revelations, there won't be any explanations, and no easy answers to be found. What this film achieves on a minor level is maybe of more importance. In the style of a personal essay of say a Chris Marker, the inner and the outer world meet through the eyes of a protagonist who is struggling to stay in touch with the life around him and trying to make sense of it through the use of his camera. Vikash Dhorasoo, an important pillar of the french team during the qualifications for the championship, was on the pitch for just 16 minutes during the entire tournament. As a substitute, he filmed the moments that seemed important to him, and if he felt like talking about the circumstances and contemplating his fate the camera was often chosen as his dialog partner. In one scene Dhorasoo is talking about his fate looking into a mirror and filming himself - one of many attempts to grasp a reality that is beyond him. This concept of filming was established before the beginning of the World Cup by artistic director Fred Poulet who offered Dhorasoo the possibility of making a film about his life during the upcoming weeks. None of them knew what would happen beforehand, and the often improvised shootings underline the honest approach to a personal report. The movie begins and ends with Dhorasoo at his home. At first he - and thus also the viewer - is introduced to the super 8 camera and the way it operates. We see him how he sees us, and the look through the objective as the modus vivendi is established. What follows are hotel rooms, airports, soccer fields, and a talk with the neighbors by Poulet who has also filmed a small part of the material that was finally used (much more was actually shot). After the journey Dhorasoo and the viewer have become a bit older and wiser, exhausted from the experience and disappointed with the course of events. Although there has been a difference between the expectant protagonist and the viewer who already knows the outcome of the game, the shared experience of the film unites them. What remains is the film itself, and the unpredictability of life, which will continue.

Despite being a part of the film's main focus, one could complain about the over indulgence with the main character's problem of self-esteem or the many repetitions throughout the film. But what prevails is the richness of the material, a sense of wonder and increasing excitement as the camera replaces the ball and reveals a world outside of the soccer field in a system that opens up spaces of thought and experience rather than closing them of. Although it denies the viewer many of the usual pleasures of a narrative based documentary, the chosen substitute more than makes up for it. The film is about Vikash Dhorasoo as well as told from his perspective, and the movie he is making proves to be an important emotional support in the face of the exclusion from the soccer matches and the search for an adequate feeling of sense and belonging. But the title of the film offers yet another reading. For me the actual hero of the film and the main attraction were the super 8 camera and the film material itself. The grainy stock with the washed-out colors and the impossibility of keeping anything in focus was approached with a welcome carelessness and an attitude of exploration mixed with an attention to detail and a patient perseverance in the observation. The innovative editing counterpointed moments of contemplation and stasis with a a swift montage of "attractions" and the use of ellipses as a dominant principle in the narrative, creating an experimental poem of shadow and light in an exchange of rhythm and sound that was reminiscent of a number of avant-garde movements from the 20th century to which it owes a lot. The long traveling shot at the end of the film, when Dhorasoo keeps moving through a seemingly endless corridor after the last match of the competition, is exemplary of this approach to filmmaking that defies the external circumstances which bind us in our everyday reality, and emphasizes man's creative expression through art, and the possibility of achieving a different reality of our own. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.