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The Swimmer (2021)
A meaningful art film, despite what others may say
I saw the film last week at TLVFest in a theatre packed with people. It's an art film from start to finish, and it announces itself as such with its beautiful, dissolving opening credits. And it's not merely art with no substance (although that's fine, too), as some other reviewers have claimed, as the narrative deals with homophobia and gender and sexuality in meaningful, subtle, and unexpected ways. Not everything is said, but implied. It's also worth noting the more fantastical elements, which truly shine and provide deeply cinematic images of sound and movement in the stunningly directed dance sequences, and especially in the non-conventional ending, each accompanied by great pop songs.
The film essentially fuses the somewhat trite genres of sports drama and a queer coming-of-age story in a novel manner, with the latter emphasized over the former throughout. My only complaint is that, while dealing explicitly with the male body and celebrating its beauty, and while it does so at times by brief moments of full frontal male nudity (and always against the backdrop of implicit and internalized homophobia), the masturbation scene(s) seemed a little hesitant or surprisingly shy to me. The protagonist's silhouette is softened, and the result is somewhat evasive.
Bergman Island (2021)
A profound meditation on love, artistic creation, and originality
I really enjoyed and loved this film, but I can also understand why others won't. I won't go over the synopsis because I assume most readers are already familiar with it/can easily do so. The pacing is very slow and the plot gets more convoluted as we go along, and there are many many references to Bergman, and so again, I can understand why this would be alienating and maybe even annoying to some, but these are some of the reasons why I liked this film so much. The tone and the way that every scene is directed and shot are also very different from other "serious" so-called arthouse films. The universal and perhaps timeless subject matter--love, relationships, artistic creation, loneliness (or solitude, depending), to name some--are indeed serious but are also treated in a casual, airy, even jovial manner (and not in the derogatory sense of these words), which was really refreshing and made me even reconsider my own preferences, cinematic or otherwise, and the way that I view Bergman in particular and artistic inspiration more generally. There's also a sort of dreamlike atmosphere that surrounds the film and the film within a film especially.
The first hour or so is a very careful and brilliantly written setup for the second hour in which doubles and doubling will appear - characters become narrators and also understudies for other characters, and virtually every sentence that they say can be interpreted metafictionally, as they are aware of being actors in a film (or in the film within a film, as well). It's indeed a film that interprets itself and its own mechanisms, especially its writing process, which is not new (Godard, for example), of course, but this is exactly where the director has shown originality and creativity. Hansen-Løve takes Bergman and his films (and his alter ego in the form of the beautiful, serene island of Fårö itself and also possibly her partner, another threatening male director that looms in the background or the foreground), and instead of merely referencing him for the sake of reference alone and sounding "smart", as a "formidable reference" as one character says, she plays with his myth, with his films. After all, the word "allusion" comes from the word "to play," and this is where the film really shines quite brilliantly. Ghosts become zombies in a horror film within the film, words become real, and the "power of fiction," as one character writes in their journal, dazzles. There's also an interesting discussion of human relationships, love, motherhood, what it means to love more than one person at the same time, especially when it comes from a woman. Women here as in Bergman's films are indeed the driving force both of the plot and of the actual film, dealing with the old issue of writer's block in a new perspective, truly. I think this is what originality really is now: you take an artwork or its creator which precedes you (and in film or any other medium, of course, you never operate solely on your own or in a vacuum, but are under an influence of tradition and an entire history that "haunts" you), and try to re-mold it, shape it into something new by using the same tools but in a different, singular way, using your own tone. Notice that the title of the film is "Bergman Island" and not "Bergman's Island". Bergman doesn't own the island nor can he monopolize it, as much as the industry born from his life there is very much alive. Every director, character, visitor, and film spectator shares the island and its impression via this film. I will say, though, that the ending did feel a bit rushed and maybe even underdeveloped, but it's still done masterfully, showing complete control of the medium of film.
I May Destroy You: Ego Death (2020)
Creative, provocative, thought provoking, visually stunning, and meta-fictional
"Your book is about consent, right?"
Before I review this episode, I feel that I should also briefly review what happens in the penultimate episode. In it, Arabella re-encounters Zain, who uses a female pseudonym for the novel that Arabella reads and loves, The Sundial (an intentional reversal of women using pseudonyms throughout history so as to gain literary "merit" and credibility from predominantly male, white publishers, moving from the Brontë sisters to J. K. Rowling). He has also "stealthed" (removed his condom without the partner's consent during sex) Arabella in an earlier episode. In order to aid her in finishing her debut novel, he gives her a "plot diagram for creative non-fiction," in which he (re)introduces her to the basic elements of a story: The set-back, where the internal logic (or rules) of the story-world are introduced and then disrupted, conflict, obstacles, characters - including the all-important antagonist (which, in Arabella's case, is her inner demons as much as it is an actual person). Perhaps most importantly, a story must have a resolution, but its form can take multiple (or circular) narratives. This is exactly what happens here. After eleven episodes of carefully crafted build-up, and after screaming at my television screen about Arabella's choices (which, after thinking about it, I've come to realize that I was actually screaming at, and recognizing, myself), we are presented with four potential resolutions, or rather with four endings-within-endings (in the style of a film's mise-en-abyme that looks like the disturbing lovechild of Michel Gondry and David Lynch). Arabella changes personas, wigs (having a short hair is as much a political declaration as having a platinum-blonde wig), and acting abilities. The quadruple conclusion is in line with the series' thematic concerns as a whole, as trauma repeats itself over and over in a person's mind, up to the point of emotional overload. I too have felt this overload, if only in a miniaturized, fictional scale, after watching an episode that lasts for approximately half an hour but that is very condensed. The first "ending" features a plot resolution that's typically found in American cinema/literature (e.g. Hemingway, Cormac McCarthy, Paul Thomas Anderson, Tarantino, and many others), that of revenge and redemption through violence and blood. But Arabella throws away the blood-stained note that features this stereotypical ending of black, feminine rage, dismissing it as reductive and unsatisfying. The second ending complicates the characterization of the predator/villain by humanizing him, giving him a personal history, and evoking sympathy and empathy from the viewer, as you realize that pure descriptors such as "good" and "evil" are never enough for a person in their true complexity. After all, "there are wars, there are people who are starving," Arabella/David say. The third ending is perhaps the most stylish, gender-bending, surrealist, and intriguing one. It is daytime, and the symbolically titled "Ego Death" bar is emptied of people except for Arabella, Terry, David, and his friend. David mimics Arabella's former insecurity when ordering gin and orange (sorry, uh... gin and tonic). Terry is no longer an object of an hetero-erotic male fantasy, as David's friend is the one dancing and objectifying/feminizing himself for Terry's pleasure, bringing the entire scenario into a state of absurdism. Meanwhile, Arabella and David engage in consensual sex in the women's/men's bathroom now having inverted gender signs. Gender roles (or sexual positions) are then reversed even further when they are teleported to her bedroom, her most intimate, private space. Arabella has finally gained control. Michaela has also gained control, of a different kind: BBC and HBO, unlike the heads of Netflix, have given her full creative control and ownership in a show that is as much about authors as it is about authority, and it shows--nothing in this show is incidental or half-formed, from the writing and direction, the chilling dreampop music, the beautiful cinematography, the excellent acting, and virtually any other element. Morning comes, and David--and the former imagining of him--must then "go," that is, leave her and her troubled psyche. The subsequent, fourth ending is the one that made "sense" to me the most, as emotional recovery and healing don't necessary entail returning to the physical scene of the crime. Arabella/Michaela herself as someone who experienced sexual assault, chooses to write down her fractured memories into a brilliant, original and timely narrative instead, a narrative about power dynamics between sexes, genders, and sexual orientations. She ultimately publishes her book/TV series with a cover-image that has been drawn in an earlier episode and that features no clear distinctions between "angel" and "demon," between "subject" and "object". You are (or can be) both.