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The festival was off to a satisfying, bloody start, but none of the films had been THAT amazing so far and I sadly did miss another opportunity at socially-acceptable porn-going: the 1920's sexual almanac of The Good Old Naughty Days. I had a chance to see the surprisingly free-spirited and explicit collection of 20's skin flicks in the London Film Festival and it was a damn fun time at the theatre (a theatre, I might add, that was absolutely PACKED...and not just with old men in raincoats). That disappointment aside, the Festival continued...
A cinematic exercise that deserves some credit for the effort, but not as much for the execution, Tolbukhin is an attempt to combine archival documentary photography, re-enactments, and new footage with the goal of weaving together a killer's mind. We learn about the Hungarian Tolbukhin, imprisoned and eventually executed for the brutal burning alive of seven people in a Guatemalan rescue hospital, and slowly we begin to craft a method to his madness. The movie never takes a clear stand on why Tolbukhin committed the murders, instead leaving the judgments to the audience. What makes the film intriguing is how it plays with the various layers of fiction. We are never sure of entirely what is true in Tolbukhin's life, and though we see re-enactment footage ostensibly recounting the "truth," it is a "truth" based out of interviews and facts which may be misleading at the very least. The information we receive in the film is indelibly marked by the sender and the film does an excellent job of balancing everything without leaving the audience too clueless or bored. However, the slow pacing keeps the audience from being too engaged in the events and, though the mixing of layers of fiction is interesting to watch and discuss, the fact of the matter is that we're still simply talking about "layers of fiction." The film just needed a little more meat to reach past the point of being a somewhat slight intellectual exercise and, though it kept my attention while showing, it left me with a somewhat hollow taste.
I walked in barely knowing a single thing about the film. I walked out just having seen one of my favorite films from the Festival. The film is a melodramatic soap opera that shines in its Spanish (and Argentinian) flare, and Antonio Hernandez wisely directs the film with propelling aplumb and a highly-stylized look rarely seen in typical films of the genre. His camera swirls and prowls around the hospital corridors, as much a part of the action as the characters. It all acts to keep the audience tightly held within the movie, enhancing its characters and story. As the many years of lies and deception begin to unravel in the film, Hernandez never loses the audience, giving us just the amount of information to keep us going, but only revealing everything when the time is right. After the more oneiric and ambiguous films I had seen for the Festival, City was a pleasant relief as the story flowed together logically and satisfyingly.
Another major success of the film is its perfect casting. The film features a familiar cast of young and old Spanish and Argentinian actors, each more than holding their own. Leonardo Sbaraglia is excellent as Victor, our guide through the puzzle of the story. We learn each new development as he does and our connection with Victor is a strong part of the film's overall success. Fernando Fernan Gomez retains a proper air of senility and secrecy as the dying father looking to atone for past sins. Finally, Geraldine Chaplin plays an icy air of dominance into her role of the matriarch who attempt to cover up the pain inflicting the family. Her bitter standoff with Sbaraglia late in the film is an utter joy to watch and is almost worth the price of admission alone. Those I've only mentioned these three, the rest of the cast is first-rate as well and makes the material come alive. Some may argue that we've seen this type of story before, but there's no denying the film's magnetic charisma and Hernandez's electric direction at least takes a familiar story and makes it feel fresh and inspired.
Another film that I needed to see simply before knowing anything more than the director. Takashi Miike, one of the leaders of modern Japanese cinema (particularly horror cinema), was responsible for two of the best Festival films I've seen in the past two years, 2001's Dead or Alive and 2002's Happiness of the Katakuris. Miike also is one of the most prolific directors working today, producing two or more films a year, if not even more. His other films include modern classic Audition and two more Dead or Alive installments. This year, Miike turns in a much more subdued, character-driven piece and, though not quite as staggeringly original as his other films, it is still a well-made and powerful movie. A remake of a 1975 Kinji Fukasaku (director of Battle Royale) film, the movie is a unflinchingly brutal gangster story of a young yakuza's rise to power and violent decline. Though the surreal, over-the-top elements of Miike's other films have been toned down, Miike's penchant for violence remains untouched as his film features a few scenes of particularly explicit lashing out (Ishimatsu's regulation with the lead pipe was probably my favorite). Ishimatsu's need for violence and destruction soon envelopes his life, leading to an slide of depravity and heroin addiction that proves as harrowing to watch as the film's explosions of brutality. Gender conflict also takes the stage in part of Miike's film, with Ishimatsu's frequent abuse of his wife tempered by their symbiotic downslide and his emotional need for her. It's a familiar genre piece for Miike, but he still infuses enough creativity and skill to make the film engrossing from start to finish. Miike is one of the best directors working today and I have yet to see a film of his that wasn't exciting and invigorating to watch.
In the introduction before the film (by someone who's name I unfortunately cannot remember), the word "sublime" was used and I think it's a nicely fitting way to describe this documentary. Babcock and Hadaegh give a sober, non-judgmental look at what happens to people who die without next of kin and the documentary resonates in its simplicity. We follow three cases, watch the investigations, learn about the victims, and slowly create a picture of each person in our minds. The significant success of the film is that it shows how much we are represented by our possessions, how these little parts of our world sometimes are all that can describe and define that world. For the people in the film, there were no connections remaining, no one left to confide and share in. Snapshots of memories and dusty furniture were our only avenues into these people's lives. Our only conception of their lives is the one we artificially have created. There is an air of unreality over the entire film and it results in a dryly macabre tone that lightens up the film at points. The case workers deal with these victims every day and have accustomed themselves to the reality in front of them. It's an unsettling look at how little we really leave behind with our deaths. The final moments of the film, the crematory and the mass grave, are surprisingly unnerving, but undeniably powerful. Babcock and Hadeagh do not spoil the well-crafted atmosphere with any preaching and in the end create a marvellous chamber piece, perfect in its specficity (though also perhaps flawed by its specificity). It is, nonetheless, highly recommended viewing.
Philadelphia Film Festival
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