View and re-view: some thoughts on The Sun in a Net

Posted on by harrietwarman

Fayolo (Marián Bielik) is, much like other examples of the cinematic photographer (Blow Up’s David Hemmings springs to mind) introduced as being somewhat distanced from the world around him. Seen in the company of the beautiful Bela (Jana Beláková) he admonishes her, as though her expression of personality runs contrary to the image of her he has created. Like all sensible fifteen year olds who have bigger problems than self-absorbed boys, Bela quickly splits from Fayolo, leaving him to dabble in both physical labour and the arms of the welcoming Jana (Ol’ga Ŝalagová). bscap0025je5Thus is a simple, teen-movie interpretation of The Sun in a Net’s (1962) plot – one omitting to mention the naturalistic portrayal of rural and urban life, family melodrama and expressionistic use of sound and music. Director Štefan Uher was a graduate of the Prague Film School (FAMU) in the mid 1950’s, and his subsequent work is considered key within the Czechoslovak New Wave, primarily The Sun in a Net – his second feature. Here Uher combines a formal vigour and innovative use of sound that is truly remarkable, with the question of what is seen and unseen of vital importance. Not only does the film present a central character who mediates the world through the lens of a camera, but the opening scenes use the drama of an eclipse to frame the initial characterisation – with characters seen using blacked-out glass through which to view the event – whilst Bela’s mother (Stana) – played with sensitivity by Eliška Nosálová – is also blind, relying on a descriptive interpretation of her surroundings, provided by her son and daughter. As the film makes clear, Bela’s mother is rendered doubly blind – both due to her impaired vision, and the modified versions of her environment that her children provide. Mirrors are also key, with both Stana and Bela framed within their reflections, suggesting the distorted image to be more primary than their actual selves.  Alongside this, the rhythmic, almost a-tonal music by Ilja Zeljenka punctuates Uher’s compositions, and a rock and pop soundtrack has a presence in scenes largely via radio transmissions, yet another instance of the medium being just as – (if not more) powerful as that which is heard. bscap0031ei4This focus on what are essentially forms of communication, gives depth and poignancy to a simple tale of teen passions, a tragic marriage and the concerns of the social and working lives of the Slovak people. By giving such prominence to media – the television aerials, the radio, even (to an extent) the narrative of working life Fayolo provides in written form to Bela – Uher presents a distinctly post-modern vision of Slovak life, and one which was clearly too provocative for the authorities at the time, who judged it unsuitable.

Once again Second Run DVD have brought another previously unreleased, yet vital cinematic work to our attention – and might I suggest that it be viewed as a double bill with Andrzej Wajda’s Innocent Sorcerers, made two years earlier in Poland, with no less an infectious and charismatic portrayal of youth, jazz and sex.

Review: Mania Akbari’s One. Two. One

Posted on by harrietwarman

phpThumb_generated_thumbnailjpgAt Edinburgh Film Festival in 2012 I had the pleasure of meeting director Mania Akbari ahead of the European premiere of her film, One. Two. One (Yek. Do. Yek). Mania was polite, charming and possessed of a fiercely intelligent wit – as her beautifully accomplished films demonstrate. During her introduction to One. Two. One, Mania described her fascination with micro expressions – that the smallest facial movement or hair falling across the face could reveal so much about the inner feeling of the character. That One. Two. One is composed of mainly close-ups and two shots attests to this fascination, showing the full extent of each impressive performance, most notably Neda Amiri as central character, Ava. 121sos-300x167
Beginning in a skin therapy clinic where Ava is being treated for facial scars inflicted as the result of an acid attack, the film then consists of a series of conversations between people connected with her and the incident, including her friends, family, lovers, and the man responsible for the attack. Shots are still, with camera movement limited to panning back and forth between characters, oscillating between two points of view that gives gesture central prominence. Ava’s physical disfigurement is not the only damage that has been inflicted on her, as she feels deeply the pressure to hide her imperfection from a society that places a high value on a woman’s beauty. In the clinic her treatment is accompanied by advice and comments from friends, whilst visits to the Psychiatrist and fortune-teller focus on the anxiety of Ava’s dreams. ONE-TWO-ONE_3

In Akbari’s From Tehran to London, another character (also called Ava and played by Neda Amiri) is seen with her husband getting ready in the bathroom, the repetitive gestures of grooming emphasised using close-up in the mirrors’ reflection. Both Ava and her husband, in this scene, tease and taunt each other in a playful prelude to the dramatic fall-out that awaits them. Here, Akbari focuses on female beauty in a film that uses the construct of marriage to examine gender inequalities in Iran. With One. Two. One gender is again explored, but the tone – established by the tightly composed framing and still shots – is more sombre, exploring deeply the psychological implication of attempting to conform to acceptable standards of beauty whilst hiding half of one’s face.

Now exiled from Iran following the making of From Tehran to London (the director fled in fear when members of her crew were arrested), Mania Akbari is the subject of a BFI retrospective that seeks to celebrate the outstanding accomplishments of this most courageous filmmaker. One. Two. One is unexpected pleasure, a moving, considered and important work, that benefits from repeat viewings.

DVD Review: The Confrontation by Miklós Jancsó

Posted on by harrietwarman


 Confrontation Watching Miklós Jancsó’s The Confrontation (Fényes szelek, 1968) one can’t help but think of famous US melodramas about troubled youth and the struggle against hypocrisy such as Rebel Without a Cause or West Side Story. In his first foray into colour film, Jancsó proves himself as much a master of a striking palette – costuming his actors in symbolic red, for example – as he had demonstrated himself capable of building tension through a careful choreography of individuals such as in The Round Up or The Red and the White. Rather than the personal traumas of such US classics, with their focus on racial, familial or romantic power struggles, The Confrontation uses music and dance to muse upon and dissect the political ideology of students, in the wake of newly founded Communist rule in 1947 Hungary. Clearly reflecting the events of the time – student riots in Paris – Jancsó’s vitality as a director is perfectly attuned to balancing weighty, philosophical dialogue and the inner squabbles of the student group, with striking visual flair.

At the start we see a group of students stop military cars on the road in a pacifist demonstration, blocking their way and lying on the ground when provoked to move on. Gradually some of the soldiers join them in dancing, but their actions are watched at all times by the police officer, Kozma (András Kozak, of The Red and the White) who’s offering of advice or criticism seems to provide the audience perspective as the actions of the group escalate. Entering a monastery in order to challenge the pupils there regarding their ideas of democracy, free education and the use of power; the leader, Laci (Lajos Balázsovics) becoThe-Confrontation-33820_5mes challenged himself when another of the group, Jutka (Andrea Drahota) deems his non-violent negotiation and debate-based tactics too weak to accomplish their goals of imposing Marxist teachings.

Using somewhat underhanded tactics to topple him from leadership – she claims a majority decision has been made but no evidence is shown to back up her pronouncement – Jutka then proposes more aggressive modes of persuasion. The notion of the group as terrorists hangs over the action of the film – and is demonstrable by their humiliation of non-conforming pupils via tactics that veer dangerously close to those of Nazi concentration camp officers. That hair-shaving doesn’t take place, but vandalism does; ultimately becomes controversial enough for Jutka’s power play to be disciplined thus proving that within political parties, the consensus regarding objectives – such as imposing Marxist ideology – is subject to the same internal (and essential) diversionary ethical debates regarding methodology.

Typical of Jancsó, the action is shot using long, fluid takes; camera movement following individual conversations, then slowly zooming out to focus on the group singing, then pausing on specific confrontations. It’s gorgeously rendered and choreographed, the brightly dressed students contrasted with those of the monastery in their grey uniforms enhancing the way the film uses musical genre conventions and their expectation of melodramatic subject matter to incongruous effect. Accompanying this fantastic restoration by Second Run DVD is a detailed and fascinating essay about Jancsó’s career by author Graham Petrie, which provides insight to the great director’s political and aesthetic filmmaking trajectory.