The existential experiment The Beta Test feels like a revelation in today’s arthouse scene. In his exciting satire-dramedy-horror-thriller, Jim Cummings explores Hollywood’s underbelly and, as a modern-day Woody Allen on ketamine, raises the standard of neurotically eccentric acting to a whole new level. 

The films of Jim Cummings, not very well known in the Czech Republic, stand apart from Hollywood filmmaking for at least two reasons. The first one is Cummings’ unorthodox approach to film genres and the second is his extremely overwrought protagonist. He is frantic, unbearable and always on the verge of a nervous breakdown because who isn’t these days?

In short, Cummings focuses on the impact of social pressure on individuals, and he has created a universal protagonist for that purpose. And you don’t always need a nobody from a small town to succumb to social demands and one’s own demons, it can just as easily be a successful Hollywood agent with a perfectly manicured life.

Funerals, divorces and werewolves

Cummings introduced his neurotic character for the first time in the short film Thunder Road (2016) that won the Sundance Grand Jury Prize. The 12-minute continuously shot film follows the gradual, expressive breakdown of a young policeman while giving a eulogy at his mother’s funeral. This maniacal balancing act that shifts from extreme awkwardness to sympathy captivated not only festival jury members but a lot of fans who later helped Cummings and his team raise money to turn the short film into a feature. The eponymous Thunder Road (2018) starts at the funeral. The policeman and a divorced dad of a nine-year-old daughter struggles to keep his life together even as it is clearly coming apart. This sober social drama about family breakdown is unique for the erratic behavior of its protagonist that is not at all gratuitous but serves as one of the major catalysts for the entire story. The protagonist finds himself in a vicious cycle of breakdown because he is losing everything that he cares about but, at the same time, he is losing everything because of his manic behavior.

Cummings’ next film, The Wolf of Snow Hollow (2020), follows a very similar pattern. A dysfunctional small-town community, a divorced cop trying to salvage his relationship with a teenage daughter, and angry fits at the most inconvenient moments. And don’t forget aggressive werewolves! Cummings’ second feature is infused with his genre-busting joy. While absurd situations and choleric outbursts carry a lot of comedy potential, the background plot is more akin to a social drama and the main story is a crime thriller or horror with elements of fantasy. The main motif – a cop trying to convince his colleagues and community members that the brutal attacks in town are the work of people, not werewolves – also operates on a premise that is common in this genre, i.e., all protagonists accept the existence of supernatural beings with unnatural ease.  

Broken ego, illusions and teeth

Cummings’ latest offering, The Beta Test (2021), takes genre mixing even further. With the skill of an acrobat on speed, he jumps from violence to sentimentality, from stereotypes to social insight, without ever reassuring the viewer as to what is actually going on. 

The opening scene captures a husband and wife who are having dinner. Suddenly, a brutal murder takes place that feels as intense as trashy thrillers or as the opening scene in Lynch’s Wild at Heart (1990). The conflict involves a purple envelope with an invitation to a hotel room to enjoy casual sex with a secret admirer.

Later Jordan Hines receives the same envelope. He is a Hollywood agent with a perfect apartment, perfect teeth and life. He accepts this absurd invitation and, six weeks before his wedding, he gets into a frenzied whirlwind of investigation and Hollywood conspiracies, and with each new clue he is closer to total insanity. All carefully built illusions about his own life start breaking, not to mention his well-kept teeth. Between Jordan’s hilariously explosive monologues and his desperate efforts to save his career and his relationship, there seems to be little concern over other murders of cheating partners that follow.

Halfway through the film, Jordan’s best friend PJ reveals that the entire scenario is an intentional business plan based on the theft (or sophisticated reading) of personal data from social media. This current issue is not treated as a cheap way to promote safer online behavior but simply as one of common problems in the Western world. On the other hand, the stereotypical hacker does feel a bit lazy as a character. The pale loner hiding in a dark basement and making money off wealthy, cheating engaged couples is too formulaic and heavy-handed for this refined psychopathic puzzle.

In a subversively entertaining twist, the confrontation between the protagonist and the antagonists is not even the climax of the movie and unfolds in a very unrewarding way. Even though Jordan hits him over the head with a hammer, the evil hacker quickly recovers, humiliates Jordan and kicks him out of his dingy basement. Logically, the climax of the story coincides with the total breakdown of the protagonist.

The maniacal gushing of honesty that recounts the previous struggles of Jordan’s character (and all that is wrong with Western civilization) is being watched by Jordan’s fiancée who has tears in her eyes and a pair of garden shears in her hand. Instead of a brutal attack, we get forgiveness. Jordan’s distraught confession might be the only reason he was spared. That, or the fact that his fiancée gave into the purple envelope just like him.   

DIY Hollywood

The cynical happy ending illustrates Cummings’ desire to make films differently. He uses his protagonists as a mirror that in its own distorted way reflects back on fragmented society and Hollywood. In addition to its subversive approach to genre and cliché, the movie explores the very workings of the film industry’s largest hub. It is not entirely clear what exactly Jordan’s company does and why, which helps dismantle the façade of some agency concepts. Through the arrogant, chauvinist alpha male, Cummings takes on the issues of sexism and pervasive hypocrisy.

Fortunately, Cummings avoids the kind of hypocrisy that is often associated with critique of Hollywood. The Beta Test was made thanks to a massive crowdfunding campaign without the involvement of a major studio, Cummings received help from his friends and then edited the entire movie in his garage. Cummings is a truly independent filmmaker who can legitimately criticize Hollywood. Although his movies can be cynical at times, his process offers hope that with enough determination and enthusiasm, anybody can make their own film. While such declarations may feel exaggerated or suspect, Cummings actively promotes this message. Armed with real-life examples, he uses his Twitter account to motivate young filmmakers, attends workshops and webinars, and he even published a free manual on how to start making films from scratch (A Field Guide to Making Movies in 2018).

Despite the austere conditions mentioned above, The Beta Test is technically polished. In fact, it formally comes across as a standard American movie before gradually revealing its subversive potential. This could confuse some film fans who might expect a traditional horror movie but instead, they get a dose of existential insanity. The overwrought acting style, inconsistent logic in character behavior or the story narrated in straightforward hints and bold outlines does not have to suit every viewer. Simply The Beta Test according to its own set of rules. The viewer can either accept them and enjoy an uncommon experience or reject them and shake their head for days to follow.

Deranged visions to Czech cinema

Cummings is a filmmaker with a unique vision and style who wants to have complete creative control over his movies. Apart from acting, he is also involved with screenplays, directing and editing. He developed his style in a series of short films. His dramatic single-shot movies (Thunder Road, Robbery, 2016; The Mountains of Mourne; It’s All Right, It’s Ok; Hydrangea, 2017 – all legally accessible on Vimeo.com) share exploration of different social issues, hidden emotions and all of them have a strong ending that is often lacking in short films. 

Unlike in his previous films, Cummings is not the sole creative force behind The Beta Test. It was co-written and co-directed by PJ McCabe who also plays Cummings’ best friend in the movie. They are best friends in real life, and this might explain the electrifying chemistry between the protagonists and individual elements of the movie. Compared to Cummings’ other films, The Beta Test is also considerably more layered and complicated, and getting a creative partner on board was a sensible move. Collaboration with McCabe fits in with Cummings’ deranged visions. Since both filmmakers claim that they are currently working on an epic Victorian horror comedy, we can look forward to another obscure allegory that upends film stereotypes. Let’s hope that these rules of the game will be accepted by an increasingly larger number of viewers and industry players, including local distributors, and Jim Cummings’ films will finally find their way to Czech theaters.

THE BETA TEST
Directed by: Jim Cummings, PJ McCabe

93 minutes, USA / UK, 2021

One of the films that stood out for me at the 72nd Berlinale was New Zealand’s comedy-drama Millie Lies Low by the first-time director Michelle Savill, presented in the Generation 14plus section. The movie may at first feel like a fun flick for teenagers and it really has a certain narrative lightness, but it also explores deeper ideas.

The film’s main protagonist is Millie, a fresh architecture graduate who is getting ready to fly from New Zealand’s capital Wellington to New York to accept a prestigious internship position. Preparations are underway, billboards across the city promoting architecture studios are plastered with her face and everything seems to be going just fine. Yet shortly before departure, Millie has a panic attack on the plane and, at the last minute, cannot leave New Zealand. No one must find out about her failure! Millie starts quickly raising some money for some very expensive plane tickets and persuades all of her friends and social media followers that she has successfully made it to New York to start a new life there. The race is on to stay ahead of the truth and to salvage as much as she can.

Voice of the young generation

The situation described above makes it quite clear that Millie is ambiguous and flawed. In order to maintain her (online) image, she finds herself in questionable situations, which the viewer might find hard to comprehend. This creates some distance that allows the viewer to see her actions as entertaining and watch them from a slightly detached perspective. 

We might feel some disdain for her obsession with social media and self-presentation, especially when Millie smiles after receiving positive reactions to her fake photos from New York. It isn’t entirely clear if she is more pleased with the initial success of her scam or with popularity among followers. As if whatever happens online is more important than reality, which highlights a major issue of our time.

Viewers have little information about the background of Millie’s New York mission. Motivations are not really discussed, and we don’t know what drives Millie to hide the fact that she stayed behind in New Zealand from people around her, including her boyfriend, her mother and best friend. It is precisely because of these vague motivations – as opposed to other specific actions that increase distance – that Millie becomes a symbolic voice of the young generation, forced by society to focus on performance, while privately struggling with her insecurities and mental issues. She is an ideal character for identification, as supported by the cinematic language discussed below.

Millie Lies Low allows us not to feel sympathy (we probably wouldn’t get involved in such a poorly justified cover-up) and simultaneously feel sympathy with the protagonist (we can see that Millie struggles with her flaws). This tension then holds the movie together, generates laughter in comedic scenes, and evokes sympathy and other emotions in scenes that are more serious.

Naked reality

For this purpose, the movie’s realistic approach is also crucial. It means that humor is not set up using crazy comedic exaggeration or stylization of the fiction world. Everything is derived from the situations as they are, or from the juxtaposition of contrast, especially between the (un)fulfilled expectations regarding Millie’s “stardom” – or the anticipated absence in her native country – and her actual difficult circumstances. Besides natural acting style, realistic approach also relies on documentary techniques – perhaps due to a lower budget – and at times even follows the style of sober social drama. 

The viewer’s identification with the protagonist is developed from the very beginning of the movie, with a natural lightness using style. The opening minute-long shot serves as a good example of the entire method. It captures Millie having a panic attack on the plane. The plane is ready to take off, but Millie realizes that she must leave no matter what. She climbs over the person sitting next to her, sprints down the aisle right to the emergency exit, tries to open the door and then she is restrained by the flight attendants. The hand-held camera starts dynamically with a semi close-up of Millie’s anxious face, then gets up with her, heads for the exit and shows us a close-up of the altercation with the crew. 

The opening seconds capture quite an intense scene that unfolds while the other calmly seated passengers are also captured in the background, which helps create some contrast to the main story and sets up the tension between comedy and drama that is then maintained throughout the movie. The absence of editing, unstylized sound and close-ups of Millie’s face allow us to feel like we share in her experience. The viewer’s immersion in the story is generally boosted through limited perspective, i.e., the viewer is present only in scenes featuring Millie so that we do not possess any superior knowledge.

Double life

Juxtaposition of context that generates humor is used throughout the movie. Sometimes, it is achieved even in a single shot. For instance, right after Millie is taken off the plane, we watch her as she wonders anxiously at the departure gate what to do next, and then we see her with her hood on, sitting gloomily under a billboard promoting her smiling face. This gives us valuable information about her “schizophrenic” world that is split into two levels – higher-media and lower-reality. A similar contrast is then used when there is a cut from a close-up shot of Millie’s face – after a cheerily fake chat with a friend, in which she says that her New York trip is going just fine – to a grounding wide shot of Millie, frowning and snacking by some garbage cans in Wellington. 

The viewer is getting used to this narrative approach from the opening scene. The meaning of the contrast between the story and reality is shown using the protagonist’s social media presence that always resembles a war on two fronts. This recurring motif serves as another device that generates humor. 

As the entire cover-up unfolds and becomes increasingly messy, there are darker tones emerging from below. Millie must deal with a difficult relationship with her mother, the unprocessed loss of her father and later finds out that her boyfriend cheated on her with her best friend. These moments and Millie’s reactions make the protagonist more complex and, as opposed to the vague and universal lack of definition at the beginning, she gradually becomes a fully fleshed-out character who is able to accept responsibility and realize the value of one’s authenticity. Yet the director still keeps things a bit light and, like in real life, moments of depression are followed by moments of laughter and promising moments of improvement that all work together to preserve the movie’s narrative subtlety.

Less is more

Moreover, the story also fits perfectly with the natural quality of the style that amplifies the authenticity of representation. The mise-en-scène does not in any way draw attention to itself; both the environment and acting performances feel natural and do not point to “the crew behind the camera”. The story is set in regular reality that is no different from the real world. Not even other components of the film language distract the viewer too much. Static shots alternate with hand-held camera for a more documentary approach, following the main story that is still at the center of focus. The most used shot is the semi close-up that captures facial expressions of the protagonists and keeps them close for most of the time.

Millie does not arrive at a happy ending in the conventional sense of the word. Her scam didn’t work, and she is not going to New York. However, perhaps for the first time in her life, she is able to admit what she feels and arrives at some valuable insights regarding authenticity, self-discovery and freedom of life without pretense. As Millie gets closer to this state of mind, we also see fewer contrasts and their humorous juxtaposition. Millie stops fighting to save her own image, which means there is no longer nothing to clash with. 

Just as the movie opened with a long “identifying” shot, it ends in a similar way. The camera focuses in Millie’s face as she leaves the Wellington airport through a long dark underpass and, with a smile slowly emerging on her face, steps into the light, finally feeling at ease with herself. While she did not become a New York star, her life is far from over. In a way, she is now happier than ever before.  

Considering all the above, Michelle Savill’s debut is a prototype of quality mainstream cinema. It deftly combines hilarious and serious tone, it is broadly accessible and easy to understand, yet it is not merely entertaining because it has some overreaching meaning and an important message about our world. The movie’s value also lies in its modesty; the budget was not very large and there are no famous actors in the cast. Yet, thanks to a strong premise and the way it was thoroughly exploited, this is a solid movie that could also be made in the Czech Republic. 

Vojtěch Novotný

How to find peace after the loss of a loved one as a teenager still trying to find herself? My Night, the first feature by the French filmmaker Antoinette Boulat that premiered in the new section Orrizonti Extra at the 2021 Venice IFF explores the experience of a major loss in the life of 18-year-old Marion.

Boulat’s movie Ma Nuit (the Czech premiere took place at the 5th ELBE DOCK IFF under the English title My Night) captures a single day and night in the protagonist’s life. It marks the anniversary of her sister’s death, a loss that she and her mother have not yet come to terms with. We never find out the circumstances surrounding the girl’s death; the film focuses solely on the ways in which it has affected Marion’s life.

Marion at night, Marion in the morning

In the opening scenes, we see a conflict between Marion and her mother who invited the late daughter’s friends to remember the anniversary together. Marion objects to the situation, starts protesting and then leaves to meet her own friends. Each woman has a different way of dealing with the loss and it becomes apparent that Marion has nobody to talk to. Her mother transfers her own feelings of grief and pain onto her daughter. It is understandable; after all, she lost her child, which is one of the most difficult life events one can ever encounter. Yet from Marion’s point of view, as a teenager who is not allowed to process the situation, this context is hard to imagine, and so she focuses on her own grief.

The movie takes place on a hot day and night in Paris. After spending some time with her friends, Marion leaves the group and goes out into the night. Empty city streets highlight the sense of loneliness experienced by Marion.

The story continues when Marion meets a young stranger. Alex is an extroverted young man who noticed Marion when she left the party. He seems a little sketchy at first and Marion tries to ignore him, but he manages to persuade her that he means no harm. Alex becomes Marion’s guide and provides her with a sense of stability. Although he is an absolute stranger, Marion finds more connection with him than with her family and friends. Marion is initially guarded but Alex’s generous and adventurous spirit persuades her that the time she wanted to spend on her own would be better spent with somebody who is trying to understand her inner world and experience.

Charming lead Lou Lampros

Lou Lampros is visually magnetic, and it is easy to get carried away by her expressions and gestures. In her first lead role, she manages to convey Marion in all her complex, melancholic fragility. Lou Lampros works as a model and actress and her acting style combines girly softness with feminine confidence. The movie often shows a close-up of her face that is hard to read for any other secondary emotions that might be taking place inside her character. One can clearly detect her sadness, melancholy and the inability to imagine her own future or feel joy. Boulat has said that she had a different idea of what her lead should look like, but that Lampros’s wild and raw energy was so compelling that she simply wanted to make the film with her.

Considering the post-pandemic situation and the war conflict in Ukraine, these emotions and mental states seem to be universal among young people today, which makes the movie accessible even to viewers who might not have experienced the loss of a loved one. In both the screenplay and performance, Marion is well built and it is ideal for viewer observation. She embodies grief that one can feel for different reasons today, whether it be internal or social. Although Boulat probably did not consciously work with this concept, her intimate drama is able to engage a broader range of issues than she might have initially thought.

My Night could be labeled an intimate lyrical portrait. The story does not follow a traditional dramatic structure but instead focuses on the internal processes and mental states of the protagonist whom we see over a limited period of time.

Panta rhei

The Seine, one of the symbols of Paris, plays an important role in the movie and can be seen as the metaphor of Marion’s night as well as the metaphor of the famous quote panta rhei. The night is at once unique and elusive. It flows through the picture and changes at each stage of the film. Just as the Seine is different in all of its tributaries, Marion changes with each new environment. And it is not just her, we see that the seasons change as well but that is probably due to production issues and the need to reshoot some of the scenes later; it feels too out of place for it to have been creative intention.

At times, the fluidity of the movie is broken, for example, in the first part of their journey when Marion separates from Alex and meets two men who start harassing her. Alex comes back to help her. This is one of the few scenes in the film that stall the story, not only because of the aggressiveness of the men but also because the scene seems to have no purpose. It only highlights the fact that Alex plays the part of the protector. It makes an overly simplified, self-evident point that merely underscores well-known facts and overexplains the obvious. While it is true that young girls out and about the city at night become a frequent target for harassment or sexual assault, this kind of blatant commentary feels redundant for the overall impact of the movie.

Alex and Marion revisit the situation when Marion explains that Alex saved her life, which may as well be true, but it also feels a little exaggerated considering the way the scene with aggressive men unfolded. It could also point out the way Marion experiences interactions with other people and that she is not equipped to protect herself against external influences and events.

In a scene that follows, Alex tells Marion that she is too serious. Marion objects, “Not serious, just careful,” which poignantly describes the essence of Marion’s character. One might also add that she is reserved, which disconnects her not just from the external world but from her friends as well.

Tom Mercier (who appeared in, for instance, Synonyms by the Israeli filmmaker Nadav Lapid or in HBO’s series We Are Who We Are by the Italian filmmaker Luca Guadagnino) lends the character of Alex boyish charm. He makes Alex an amicable young man who is clear about his values and knows what is important in life. He is not lost like Marion, he brings some semblance of stability and connection into her life, as well as an unconventional attitude and original outlook on life. He provides Marion with a sense of safety, which then makes her feel more at ease and spontaneous. The film makes frequent references to the French new wave and Jean-Luc Godard’s early work, especially his 1960s films. It is apparent in scenes that capture carefree moments in the city yet, unlike Godard’s protagonists, Marion has to work quite hard to just be, without having to carefully overthink everything.

After strolling through the city, Marion agrees to take a hit from a joint and finds herself trapped inside her own anxiety. She gets injured and, while it looks like she is alone, Alex is soon back to save her again and take her to hospital. Alex is not calculating in any way and does not expect to be rewarded for his help. The ending implies that Alex will make Marion’s summer different from what she is used to and that she finally managed to find someone who is willing and able to offer her the emotional holding that she needs.  

Late directing debut of an A-list casting director

Alhough the movie is a debut, Antoinette Boulat is no newcomer in the film industry. Variety described her as a veteran in the French film industry. Boulat is a well-known casting director who has worked with a number of famous filmmakers, such as Sofia Coppola, Oliver Assayas, Wes Anderson, Leos Carax, Mia Hansen-Løve and Lars von Trier. Her own directing debut comes quite late in her life, but it may even be for the better. She has a lot of empathy toward her characters, and it is evident that she continues the French film tradition of philosophical dialogue.

Boulat used the 1:37:1 format for her movie, which corresponds with her intention to observe the protagonist’s close-up, without wide shots that would capture the environment around them. It provides a slightly different perspective of the city, without the typical crowds of people that usually fill the streets. Nighttime Paris further adds to the atmosphere and My Night is a reference to the city as well, with all of its beauty and dangers.

My Night is mainly a character study, an intimate account of Marion’s mental state and her inability to get out survival mode and fully deal with her life. There is enough space and time (with the running time of 87 minutes) to understand Marion and to immerse oneself in her experience. Rather than providing simple answers, the film opens deeper questions. That lies at the heart of its power, accessible to empathetic viewers who are willing to get curious and bypass explanations.

Zero Fucks Given, the first feature from the director team Marre and Lecoustre, is a psychological drama set inside a low-budget airline and, at the same time, a social critique of its inner workings.

The original title of the Belgian-French film Rien à foutre is difficult to translate into Slovak or Czech without it sounding too vulgar. The English title Zero Fucks Given is universally used and reflects the character of the main protagonist, Cassandra. 

At first glance, Cassandra is the embodiment of zero fucks given, that is, she does not care about the world just like she does not care about her life. She works as a flight attendant in a fictitious low-budget airline called Wing and spends all her free time in the final destination of her flight at parties, on Tinder or riding an electric scooter. She is seemingly carefree, unburdened by goals or dreams she would like to achieve, unlike some of her colleagues whose greatest goal in life is to work for Emirates, “the real airline”. Cassandra seems satisfied with her job and her place in life. Yet satisfaction is the last thing radiating from her face. It is rather sadness, routine, professional training, aloofness and internal emptiness that might look like contentment from the outside. 

Documentary in a drama

The way the camera focuses on Cassandra and the movie’s overall effect and atmosphere are reminiscent of a documentary approach. Yet the casting of Adèle Exarchopoulos (known for Blue Is the Warmest Colour) as Cassandra erases that notion and strongly underscores the fact that this is fiction. Exarchopoulos is the only professional actress on board of the plane and at the airport, and the remaining cast is made up of actual airline employees.

Cassandra’s behavior and perception of the world based on the carpe diem principle or YOLO (You only live once) probably stem from the loss of her mother who died in a car accident. Cassandra’s reaction to the fact that she should think about her future carries more weight than might seem at first. The sudden loss could make her believe that there is no point trying to achieve something since life is so short. At the same time, there is social pressure that requires individuals to take initiative, perform and achieve, both at a personal and professional level. 

Cassandra’s decision to become a flight attendant is probably tied to her desire to escape the pain, grief and lack of purpose after the loss, while trying to find her place in the world. With its clear rules, structure and, at the same time, rejection of deep personal relationships, the corporate space is a way for Cassandra to dissociate from her own unrewarding life. When talking to her colleagues, Cassandra realizes that she is Wing’s longest serving employee. To make sure she got the dates right, Cassandra checks her Instagram account that serves as a kind of visual diary marking her “life on the fly”. 

Zero Fucks Given is a feature debut by the director and screenwriter team Emmanuel Marre and Julie Lecoustre. It celebrated its world premiere as part of the International Critics’ Week at the 2021 Cannes IFF. Previously, Marre and Lecoustre worked together on the medium-length Castle to Castle (D’une chateau l’autre) that received the 2018 Pardino d’oro Prize in the Pardini di domani section of the Locarno IFF. In a broader context, Marre and Lecoustre are still largely unknown but Zero Fucks Given puts them firmly on the map, even if it is still just in the international festival circuit. Marre and Lecoustre decided that they would work with a small team and in an authentic environment. They agree that in their directing style, vulnerability that moves the viewer is more important than technical precision and control. 

Images of 21st-century young women 

Zero Fucks Given is not simply a voyeuristic examination of a flight attendant’s life but it is also a portrait of a young woman who, for various reasons, refuses to take responsibility for her own life.

In the way she views herself and her existence, Cassandra has something in common with Marion from My Night (Ma Nuit, dir. Antoinette Boulat, 2021) and with Julia from The Worst Person in the World (dir. Joachim Trier, 2021). All three share a certain sense of helplessness in navigating their life. Julia is captured in different periods of her life, while we only see a slice of life in Cassandra’s story that, according to available information and clues, spans quite a long time. The protagonist of Zero Fucks Given does not keep looking for new stimuli and jobs that would fulfill her and she does not approach her life as a project. Instead, she apathetically keeps the same job and the same hobbies without ever reflecting on her emotions. Cassandra does not seem unhappy or depressed; her attitude to life is rather to shrug, and to declare: “Whatever will be, will be.” We should remember, though, that Cassandra has no idea of what should be because she is stuck and does not believe that her life could take a different path.

In summer 2022, European airports had to deal with travel restrictions and the continuing impact of Covid 19, there was a lot of chaos and many flights were delayed or canceled due to staffing shortage at airports and in low-budget airlines. Zero Fucks Given can also be seen from a slightly different angle than before. In one scene, men on strike at the airport are trying to convince Cassandra and her colleagues that they should join the strike because they also deal with unsuitable work environment and conditions. Cassandra replies that she doesn’t believe in change and that she doesn’t care either way because she has no idea what tomorrow brings. It is one of the few scenes in which Cassandra speaks authentically as herself. In contrast, when she goes back home to Belgium, she presents an improved version of her hectic life. 

No personal life in the clouds

Marre and Lecoustre mount a clear-cut, even if subtle critique of the conditions at low-budget airlines. Using individual scenes and images, they capture a world where employees are not allowed to bring any emotions they might feel (especially those labeled as unhappy) and they become a smiling mascot for the company they represent. Differences between Cassandra’s work environment and personal life are highlighted by the camera work and color palette. Cassandra’s private life is shown in warmer hues, she has no makeup, and she is much more vulnerable than in the uniform that has a somewhat dehumanizing quality.

At the end of the film, Cassandra has a successful job interview and joins a private airline based in Dubai. The interview is conducted online and has all the stereotypes associated with work interviews. We can see Cassandra’s professional demeanor and her knowledge of the environment, especially in her replies that are very proactive and extremely customer oriented. In some respects, the interview seems to go too far, for instance, when Cassandra is asked to walk before the camera or when she tackles a hypothetical situation involving sexual harassment, and the airline manager corrects Cassandra that customers are, in fact, guests.

In the final scene, Cassandra along with other tourists is watching the famous Dubai Fountain, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pity. The new job does not make things better for Cassandra. On the contrary, now she has completely lost her essence and spark. All that is left is her smile, efficient problem solving for millionaires, Tinder and hotel rooms. Ultimately, it is this compelling portrayal of the protagonist’s mental state that makes Zero Fucks Given a remarkable first feature and that makes Marre and Lecoustre filmmakers worth watching.

A bored teenager dressed as a polar bear having his temperature checked on the subway in Thailand. Sick pigs at a fence somewhere between Denmark and Germany. A radical reeducation of young men under pink matriarchy. The body as a platform of traumatic experience. The joys and sorrows of growing up with an alcoholic mother. The selection of short films curated by the programmers of the Göteborg Film Festival is based around the theme section Focus: Disorder that explores the connections between order and disorder. Shorts from mostly young filmmakers from Thailand, Denmark, France, Finland and Norway also take a lighter look at some of the currently resonant social issues.

Disrupting the established order

The Göteborg Film Festival is a traditional event that showcases the latest European and international arthouse movies. As the largest event of its kind in Scandinavia, it puts a lot of focus on the industry program and market. As a result, there are very few special sidebar programs, much less parties for regular festivalgoers. Some festival atmosphere is present only in introductions prior to screenings or occasional debates with filmmakers. Focus: Disorder is one of the festival’s few original programs, which means it somewhat disrupts its order as well.

The section tackles issues around order and rules at the level of society, family and individuals, especially in light of our experience of the past few years. It explores the impact of the pandemic on the world and on cinema and asks how much order we actually need in our lives and what happens to those who consciously disturb it. Interestingly, it is Sweden of all places that is curious about this issue, a country that dealt with the pandemic with minimal restrictions. “We live in a time when many see order and structure as the answer to everything. At the same time, the last couple of years have, in a unique way, highlighted how order actually is maintained in different societies,” says creative director Jonas Holmberg about the idea behind the program. 

The feature part of the program included films, such as Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn (2021) by the Romanian director Radu Jude, Land of Dreams (2022) by the Iranian photographer Shirin Neshat, or the Taiwanese drama The Falls (2022) by Chung Mong-Hong. Since these films would likely be screened at the festival even without this section, we will turn our attention to the selected short films. 

New reality of collective experience

 Disorder Shorts poignantly opens with the film New Abnormal (2021) that both critically and humorously evaluates Thailand’s reaction to the pandemic. In carefully composed shots, it captures funny moments from everyday life in the time of Covid. For example, when you meet a friend in a public bathroom and have to shake their hand, even though you have just diligently yours. Then there’s a subway guard who takes temperature of a guy dressed up as a giant polar bear. But there are also darker undertones. A motorcyclist delivering food is hit by a car because he is trying to be in time for the curfew. A homeless man explains that the government is offering benefits for which you have to register online but he has no access to the internet. And finally, the government cynically issues regulations so that they are beneficial to itself.

Yet the film keeps things light throughout and all serious moments eventually turn into a joke that can be understood by citizens across the world. Most of all, Sorayos Prapapan’s film highlights the meaning of global collective experience we can all laugh at together after enough time has passed.

Borders between dreams and reality

The up-and-coming screenwriter and director Hilke Rönnfeldt, selected among the 2021 Berlinale Talents, was born in north Germany. With Danish and Icelandic background, she studied in Sweden and now lives in Copenhagen. She has been naturally crossing national borders her entire life and now focuses on one of them more closely. Fence (2021) involves an actual fence between north Germany and Denmark that was built to separate sick wild pigs from farm pigs. The controversial fence finds its way into the dreams of one of the film’s two protagonists. A strange dream forces Ebbu to think about real borders, borders of reality and relationship boundaries with her girlfriend. 

Footage of the relationship, captured in a very sober, natural way, alternates with dreamlike, grimly poetic and even symbolic scenes featuring pigs, mud, fences and frozen landscape. The entire situation is very specific and, though the movie would like to speak to universal emotions, the 11-minute piece does not offer much space to immerse oneself in the story. Moreover, the story is narrated in very nuanced and ambivalent hints. So nuanced, in fact, that it is difficult to estimate their impact on the viewer.  

Pink fascism as a messy reflection of patriarchy

The dark and ambiguous atmosphere of Fence is briskly replaced by the pink and didactic Hemale Education (2021). Young men in tight silver briefs, strict women in pink suits, just a few pieces of green peas a day, a donut as the ultimate punishment, and exercise, exercise, exercise. This extreme vision of a radical matriarchy by the young Norwegian filmmaker Frøydis Fossli Moe shows a disgusting dominance of one sex over another. It is extreme, absurd and torturous. However, it might not be so different from the oppression women commonly experience in the real world when they follow beauty standards and anxiously watch their weight or when they fear sexual harassment and watch their every move. Judging from interviews with the filmmaker, this at least seems to be the message the movie wanted to convey. There are more possibilities for interpretation and none of them is entirely satisfying. For example, pink fascism with broad smiles and sophisticated punishment feels like a very schematic reply to the commonly debated question, “What would it look like if women ruled the world?”

Inside a baroque chateau, we see rhythmically edited scenes of the same repetitive activities. The only story that has any kind of development is the platonic relationship of two young men that was the only thing providing some comfort. One of the men breaks down under the unbearable and absurd pressure, which makes the other one gradually sick as well. 

What comes across in the movie is that the power of friendship and love is boundless and that fascism in all its forms is evil. Considering its color scheme and composition, the film is almost pedantically polished. While it may contain other messages, all of them are likely to be just as superficial and unrefined. As a result, the film can be viewed as a somewhat immature pseudo-feminist pose that revels in a provocatively sweet aesthetic but is unable to offer any meaningful reflection of the issues at hand.

Harrowing manifesto against oppression

The genre diversity of the set is proven by the audiovisual work Scum Mutation (2020) by OV, a hybrid artist from France, that could easily be shown in a gallery space. This experimental animated documentary uses the expressive language of contemporary art to examine the issue of posttraumatic stress disorder, as well as personal and collective trauma. It is a desperate, aggressive and empowering cry against all forms of oppression, a thoroughly radical manifesto against the suffering of body and soul. And it is also an extremely unpleasant assault on all our senses.

Using a variety of devices, Scum Mutation tries to bring the viewer closer to understanding the topic and experience of PTSD. An over-the-top audiovisual collage layers audio recordings on top of one another, capturing sounds from protest events and arrests of protestors, subtitles on the screen include insensitive quotes from police officers, as well as encouraging manifestos of multiple men and women. The visuals keep on spewing and modifying what looks like remotely anthropomorphic mutated and tortured human shells. The camera takes on the movement and target sights from game consoles and, with an ever-louder noise-industrial score, intensifies the physical pain of the viewer experience.

Works employing the moving image medium and issues surrounding trauma have been a common occurrence at art galleries lately, which goes hand in hand with the progressive left-leaning discourse that promotes this kind of topics, even if this effort can feel misguided at times. However, there are few audiovisual works that are so inherently radical, uncompromising and gut-wrenchingly honest. That is why Scum Mutation can be a powerful experience for viewers, no matter their leanings.  

Intersection of obedience

A moment of visual calm is provided by The Human Torch (2022), a film by the Finnish director Risto-Pekka Blom that uses the bare minimum of film devices. This static six-minute film captures a crosswalk at night, in a lazy Finnish small town. It follows obedient locals who wait for the light to turn green even though the road is completely empty. 

This symbolic single-shot movie uses a simple intersection to launch a complex exploration of our perception of (unwritten) rules of politeness and civility. It points out that rules can sometimes be blindly followed, justifiably broken or ignored entirely. Mainly though, the film gives voice to that familiar feeling of frustration when we feel like rules don’t apply to everybody. The Human Torch touches on the issue of migrants living next to locals and outlines the development of some disturbing and even hateful ideas. Yet in the end, it may turn out that the biggest danger and disturbance might be our own doing.

One drunk girl to another

The set concludes with the vibrant movie Gym Party (2021) that follows the tradition of fine Scandinavian coming-of-age stories. The Danish filmmaker Sif Lina Lambæk has twenty-five minutes to play out a complex story about growing up with alcohol, magic realism, teenage angst and euphoric party vibes.

First parties, first love, first vomit onto one’s lap. Growing up can be very difficult as it is. Sally goes through the joys of puberty with the added stress of having an alcoholic mother. She definitely doesn’t want to end up like her. Yet to stay sober around other partying teenagers is a superhuman task for the 15-year-old (or for anybody else). Facing pressure from a charming boy and cheap alcohol, Sally really starts changing into her mother. The motif of mother/daughter swapping bodies – well known from several versions of Freaky Friday (1976, 1995 and 2003) – is more of a symbol in this case but it engages much darker issues than just being unhappy with one’s life.

Lambæk works very well with the young actors who deliver very natural performances. The viewer feels like she’s at the awkward local disco with them. However, Charlotte Fich does not do so well. First as the drunk mother and then as intoxicated Sally, she is too heavy-handed on the dance floor and water downs the film’s power.

Creative distance or naiveté?

Global pandemic, dysfunctional relationships, gender inequality, posttraumatic disorder, breaking of rules and the impact of addiction. And there’s more: humor, poetry, confident aesthetic and sincere engagement. The Disorder Shorts section holds up a mirror to the world with its own set of rules. It is not merely a generic list of burning issues but a fairly precise examination of the modes and intensity of social critique. For some, the defense mechanism against going insane is humor. Some people introspectively plunge into their own world. Some might test various sneaky ways to point out the issue, but they suck at it and end up offending somebody in the process. And others desperately shout and raise the alarm. Overall, the movies capture different individual and social reactions to crisis and different possibilities of its cinematic representation. Just like societies, filmmakers don’t always get it right. Everybody has their own perspective that they are trying to convey. Some are able to communicate their ideas more clearly than others; sometimes, their distance is more akin to naiveté and immaturity, but their ideas are never sloppy. 

Above all, Disorder Shorts and the entire section show that there are filmmakers who are not afraid to address very current topics, which is something that, up until recently, Czech filmmakers were hesitant to do. Creative efforts to reflect complex issues on the go are valuable and the occasional misstep or technical glitch can be easily overlooked. Festival programmers also prove that it is possible to put together a set of short films about current problems without taking it all too seriously. (Pay attention, fine art curators.) 

DISORDER SHORTS

New Abnormal

Directed by: Sorayos Prapapan, 15 minutes, Thailand, South Korea, Singapore, 2021

Fence

Directed by: Hilke Rönnfeldt, 12 minutes, Denmark, 2021

Hemale Education

Directed by: Frøydis Fossli Moe, 18 minutes, Norway, 2021

Scum Mutation 

Directed by: Ov, 10 minutes, France, 2021

The Human Torch

Directed by: Risto-Pekka Blom, 6 minutes, Finland, 2022

Gym Party

Directed by: Sif Lina Lambæk, 26 minutes, Denmark, 2021

Trying to promote a movie about resentful and unbearable retirees is no easy task. Yet this low-key social-anthropological documentary Welcome to Luxor (2022) is worth the effort. It explores the fragile world of expat women who have made new lives in the Egyptian city of Luxor, capturing their everyday conflicts. Conflicts that arise in relation to their environment, local customs, with one another and, especially, within themselves. At the same time, the film examines important issues tied to post-colonialism, sex tourism and the imposition of one’s own ideas. Gradually, we uncover much more than petty troubles of argumentative busybodies.

A sensitive insight into worlds on the fringes

A fad involving beaver hats, mobile home slalom race, minigolf, or men who play with toy trains. In her documentaries, the Swedish filmmaker Malin Skjöld often shines light on phenomena and communities that are easily overlooked by others. Like Werner Herzog or the photographer Martin Parr, she is able to capture the specifics of marginal human interests without explicitly deriding them. And like Herzog and Parr, Skjöld might give us a tongue-in-cheek wink but allows the viewer to arrive at her own conclusions. The same applies to Welcome to Luxor. Skjöld just lets the ornery women keep on talking, layering their statements on top of one another, to paint a complicated yet cohesive insight into the female expat community in today’s Egypt.  

Sitting and gossiping about those who sit and gossip

Welcome to Luxor follows several different groups of women. At first glance, it might seem they have most things in common. They are all aging women with a wealthy Western pedigree, they are white and want to spend their old age in sunny Egypt. If asked, the women would probably say that this assessment could not be further from the truth. Each of them came to Egypt for a different reason, from different backgrounds and countries. Each has a different taste, education and ideas of how to spend their free time. While one group of women visits lectures on ancient pharaohs, another frequents an entertainment show with a disco where locals are dressed up as leprechauns. One group tries to fill their days with designing their own dresses, while another lounges at the pool. All of them keep on griping.

One group talks trash about another one, while contradicting their own words, which is then mined by Skjöld for its understated comedic potential. The women’s annoyed statements are sometimes heard only as voiceover and the comedic effect is amplified by the fact that we are not always sure about the speaker’s identity. The editing composition seems loose and almost random, yet in fact each situation is carefully tied to the next to build the overall picture.

Talking to Egyptian men? Why in the hell would I do that?

Whenever the protagonists start complaining about conditions in the country and about the locals, the film takes on a more pressing tone and confronts the West with some hard-hitting questions. Are we able to respect different cultures? Are we able and willing to understand different traditions and customs? Or do we tend to replant and impose our own ideas on others?

Judging by the behavior of the protagonists, the answer would be clear. The way the expats comment on especially Egyptian men is almost appalling. Condescending judgements, contempt, lack of understanding. While a viewer without any local insight cannot tell whether their critical views are based on fact, one feels that the expats in no way try to understand the locals and prefer to guard their own bubble. In between lines, we can sense their deeply entrenched, knee-jerk rejection of difference and otherness that also underlies the way societies often handle migration. The situation in the film is the exact opposite. The new arrivals are now the expats and their patronizing manners resemble those of expansive colonizers.

This comparison may seem exaggerated, and the documentary refuses any categorical conclusions. In a less harsh view, the film might invite us to examine some of the issues surrounding mass tourism. They say that travel helps to expand one’s horizons and understanding of other cultures. It is questionable to what extent this is ever the case if they view the tourist destination as an exotic theme park full of “dirty locals”.

The bittersweet phenomenon of sugar mamas

However, not even the contempt often expressed towards local men is as clear-cut as it may seem. In fact, some of the women are very close to young Egyptians. The film broaches the underdiscussed issue of female sex tourism. While Thailand has built an almost separate industry around male sex tourism, Western women’s trips to Tunisia, Kenya or Egypt to pursue erotic adventures are not so often talked about in the public domain. One of the few cinematic excursions into the subject, Paradise: Love (2012) by the Austrian filmmaker Ulrich Seidl is an excellent feature drama that takes a remarkably complex view of the issue. The phenomenon of so-called sugar mamas, i.e., aging well-off women who provide financial support to younger men from poorer backgrounds in exchange for sex and care may seem emancipating, yet in the case of inappropriate emotional investment it may have very unpleasant repercussions. If there is one thing that is barred from this kind of exchange, it is indeed true love. 

Welcome to Luxor follows several stories like that from as many as three different angles. Understandably, the one that features derisively gossiping women is the least sensitive. With an air of disgust, they start questioning the age gap and the amount of money spent, serving as a kind of proxy to conservative points of view. In one unfortunate case, they even supply the stereotypical comment, “Is she stupid? It’s her own fault!” Quick judgement and the inability to extend empathy toward ambivalent protagonists is a common phenomenon. In a recent example, the victims who appeared in the documentary film Tinder Swindler (2022) have not garnered much sympathy due to their “gold-digging” disposition. Sadly, our society does not tend to acknowledge the issue of vulnerability.

In contrast to the jaded gossips, the film also shows a sincere story of one of the expats who really happened to fall in love and later had to face the harsh reality of an empty wallet and a broken heart. Seeing the events in retrospect, she herself finds it hard to understand how she ever got in a situation like that. We can only guess what personal struggles compelled her to blow the transactional affair out of proportion.

The third angle may be the most sober reflection on the issue. This is a group of women who want to enjoy life while they can and, at the same time, they are fully aware of all the benefits and pitfalls of the relationships, and they are able to provide cynical commentary while lounging indulgently at the pool.  

Final resting place

The film is peppered with abstract cutaways to different colors being dissolved in water that should probably evoke the lazy vibe of hot days slowly going by. However, without having any clear purpose, these shots seem hollow, as if the abstract footage should grant the otherwise sparsely shot film a higher aesthetic value. 

Featured at the beginning of the movie, the story of the archaeologist Francesca seems a bit out of place. While backroom intrigue and archaeological discoveries are also rife with conflict and are closely tied to the environment of the film, they do not fit in with the overall effect because they have little in common with the other motifs. Perhaps the director wanted to present a broad range of protagonists, or the story seemed sufficiently enticing to be included. In either case, the story might have worked better had it appeared later in the movie instead of the beginning.

Francesca’s story also follows right after the opening shot with a statement informing the viewer that Luxor used to be a famous burial place for kings but today people come here for slightly different reasons. This pithy hint that involves historical context and the importance of the city could have been exploited in a better way. The contrast could have either generated some humor or it could have been used to explore themes around aging and the fear of death.

Expat microworld as a litmus test for the West

The first, complicated story told by the archaeologist is a bit heavy-handed and the movie might not initially draw you in. But after that it will keep you hooked. This is partly due to the pleasant running time of sixty minutes but also due to the strange appeal of the stories. A similar principle might even apply to tabloids or the general popularity of gossip in our society. The electrifying impact of gossip is sometimes hard to resist. The director does not in any way promote sensationalism so though it may be present, it comes solely through the attitude of the protagonists.

It is also important to note that the movie is not explicitly preachy. Skjöld does not confront the protagonists, overanalyze their actions or attempt to pigeonhole them into her own worldview. There is no historical context, views from talking heads or infographics with specific data. She “only” observes and allows any critical thoughts to percolate around individual statements. The result is a remarkably effective and approachable investigation of multiple issues. 

Although Skjöld focuses on the microworld of one community, she also very astutely pinpoints several universal problems. Arrogance, inflexibility, inability to listen to others and, above all, the tendency to gripe are symptoms that should be reflected upon in any part of the world. 

WELCOME TO LUXOR
Directed by: Malin Skjöld

62 minutes, Sweden, 2022

Documentary

Of the short films screened in the Berlinale Shorts section at the 2022 Berlinale, the most remarkable were two seemingly very disparate films. Haulout, a documentary film examining different modes of research in Siberia, by the sibling team Evgenia Arbugaeva and Maxim Arbugaev, and the Jury Prize winner, the psychological drama Sunday Morning by Bruno Ribeiro that will be discussed in a separate text. 

Chukotka adventure

Siblings and filmmakers Evgenia Arbugaeva and Maxim Arbugaev come from Tiksi, a small Yakut town with a population of 5000, located more than 4300 kilometers from Moscow in the Arctic region, i.e., north of the Arctic Circle. The territory also includes parts of the Chukchi peninsula, the location of their first movie.

Their affinity with the environment is obvious and, as a result, the movie looks very attractive. Conscious of the charm of their native land, the Arbugaevs capture breath-taking nature scenery in a carefully planned narrative structure that is close to fiction storytelling. This is the case especially in tension building and viewer expectations, development of identification with a vaguely unspecified protagonist, and the final climax that in retrospect colors everything that happened up to that point.

The movie also involves a strong element of surprise, which is quite unusual in documentary films. Regardless of the narrative style, the filmmakers put even more emphasis on the mystery by revealing just the bare minimum of information about their film, whether it be a poster, film stills, a trailer or a brief synopsis, such as: “Follows a man waiting in his hut in the desolate expanse of the Russian Arctic. He is holding out in order to observe a natural event that occurs here, every year, but ocean warming is taking its toll.”

Without revealing the surprise, it is unfortunately impossible to write anything more substantial about the film so let me say that before reading the following text, you should definitely watch Haulout first.

Documentary or drama?

People don’t seem to belong here: coast without vegetation, a rusty abandoned shipwreck, miserable weather, howling wind and the loud roaring of the icy sea. The intense atmosphere of an inhospitable place introduced as “Chukotka, the Siberian Arctic.” A man suddenly appears from behind the shipwreck. Framed in wide shots, he looks tiny in contrast to the scenery around; this also hints at the main theme of the movie, being versus nature.

An unknown man wanders through the desolate landscape with no apparent goal.  Then he records the following voice message: “September 7. Dense fog, I can't see them yet.” This seemingly inconspicuous moment quickly grabs the viewer’s attention and, because of the (non-)events up to this point, raises viewer expectations. What’s he waiting for? A classic narrative hook that fuels our interest in what comes next. And since almost all the shots are flawlessly composed (directed), the movie looks almost like fiction. 

Even though documentary film has long since moved past the format of a report filled with talking heads, Haulout makes it hard to define any boundaries. In addition to the visual precision mentioned above, the difficulty lies in the way the filmmakers treat the protagonist. He is neither a portrait subject nor a guide presenting information. Rather, he is a lonely romantic wandering the Siberian wilderness, waiting for someone or something, taking refuge from the harsh climate in an old dingy cabin in the middle of nowhere. Since he is the only human character, from the first moment, we are invited to share in his experience.

Alone with one hundred thousand others

The film reveals its turning point at the fifth minute mark (relatively corresponds to the average turning point in feature films). The man wakes up in the middle of the night, hearing ominous and mysterious noises from the outside. He gets out of bed and walks to the door. The hand-held camera is now very dynamic, unlike before when it was always static, which works together with the narrative hook to build the tension to its peak, almost as in genre film. We see the man walk through the cabin in real time, the editing is absent and since it is dark, we find it hard to find our way in the environment, which only increases our identification with the protagonist. Finally, there is the stunning surprise. Through one of the doors, we can see along with the man an endless pack of groaning saber-tusk walruses that surround the building.

The following, two-minute shot is rather exceptional for its maximum fulfilment (exceeding) of expectations. The carefully built tension breaks down into an awe-inspiring image. At the same time, we keep thinking about what we are actually watching. This powerful moment of documentary “objectivity” was carefully orchestrated using the stylized form. For instance, the sound of the groaning walruses was there from the first moment we started approaching the cabin, but the sounds are more clearly identifiable when we see the animals closeup, otherwise it feels like vaguely horror-like (non-)diegetic sound design.

We are also given more information about the mysterious protagonist. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of the animals surrounding him. On the contrary, he goes closer and looks utterly fascinated. This is a man who is familiar with the situation and decided to investigate the walrus nesting grounds. This insight may sound obvious, but the movie does not reveal the protagonist’s background. By controlling the supply of information, the filmmakers also hold the viewer’s attention.

Next day, we see another unforgettable image. A drone shot that captures the landscape around the cabin from a sufficient height to allow us to see as much of the walrus population as possible. Simultaneously, we hear the man’s commentary as he records a message again and finally takes on the part of a voice-over narrator. “The coast is full. About 95 000 walruses, and another 6000 in the water. The sea is completely free of ice.” Here, the film assumes its documentary function.

This function is quickly replaced again as the movie pivots to showing “dead time” instead of giving us new information. A man is trying to pick specks of tobacco from old cigarette butts stored in a large glass container to roll a fresh cigarette. This continuous shot stretches for almost one minute, yet we cannot discern any clear message. It serves again as a way to identify with the protagonist, to experience his sense of boredom, waiting with nothing to do, while the walruses outside the windows keep on roaring. These moments become increasingly frequent in the second half of the film (e.g., the man is captured sleeping, having dinner) and the viewer starts questioning again what it is we are actually watching.

Everybody’s business

Suddenly, the animals are again in the background, and we feel man’s loneliness. In another scene, we get a sense of the extreme weather conditions when we see the bluish hue on his skin. Our mental identification with the protagonist is enriched again (the only human in the film, POV shot from binoculars, voice-over recordings) with a kind of primal human identification on a universal level involving basic experiences (e.g., cold, boredom, hunger, loneliness). There is also a tear falling down the man’s face – maybe it’s the wind, maybe it’s his grief over the dire state of the environment. Global warming leads to the loss of ice in the region so that migrating walruses cannot rest on the ice and often make it to shore in poor health. Once stressed out, they injure one another, and some may even die. 

After our identification with the man, the film unexpectedly shifts to identification with the animals. The man is asleep in his bed and the camera follows his folded hands, then cuts to walrus flippers folded in a similar way, which results in a sense of mutuality. In another scene, the man finds a solitary walrus cub in the cabin. The two beings look at one another, while the camera captures their encounter as one of complete equality in the shot-countershot style. As the camera works to highlight the sense of kinship, it seems to convey the message that global warming is really an issue that involves all residents of our planet. The feeling of grief then intensifies as the camera examines dead animals left on the coast after the animal hordes leave. The man then uses anthropomorphic language and calls another walrus cub “orphan”.

Documentary epilogue

The cabin is covered by snow at the end of the movie and, just like the animals, the man also leaves. Judging by his occasional recordings, we can guess that he stayed in the area for roughly two months. The protagonist moves through the landscape again, passing walrus bodies and then finds himself alone again. The film ends the same way it started. A wide shot of one man passing through. Tiny creature(s) versus mighty nature. 

As a symbolic documentary epilogue, a text appears over the visuals to convey important facts about what we have just seen. The nameless protagonist was Maxim Chakilev, a marine biologist studying walrus migration for many years. We find out that the huge number of walruses is actually one of the negative consequences of climate change. The loss of ice forces the animals to stay longer on land where they become dangerous to one another. In 2020 when the film was made, over 600 animals died, the highest recorded number to date. The film that relied most on purely cinematic narrative and on the power of images, in the end delivers its final appeal as a knock-out punch with dry facts to maximize its emotional impact.

The Arbugaevs made an unconventional film that employs devices typical for fiction film (e.g., identification, tension building, deliberate and signifying film language) that can be reminiscent of Werner Herzog’s work. They don’t overwhelm the viewer with information. Instead, emotions are conveyed using compelling images and identification with the protagonist to really understand their situation. The power of natural phenomena is utilized to point out a major threat we face today, and the result stays with the viewer long after the film is over. Thanks to its style and subject matter, Haulout can succeed both at an environmental conference and with fans of narrative film. 

Vojtěch Novotný

In my previous text, I discussed the film Haulout by the sibling duo Evgenia Arbugaeva and Maxim Arbugaev, one of the two most striking short films at the Berlinale Festival. This text focuses on the Brazilian movie Sunday Morning by Bruno Ribeiro who also received the prestigious Silver Lion – Jury Prize in the Berlinale Shorts section. 

An adventure within

Gabriela, a young Black pianist, is getting ready for an important recital, which brings a lot of self-doubt. It is also the first anniversary of her mother’s death. In this mentally challenging period, various memories, desires and insecurities come to the surface. The present blends with the past, dreams interfere with reality, and Gabriele sits at the piano and keeps on playing.

The story outline makes it clear that the problems Ribeiro portrays might not be fully visible at first, and hence viewer openness, and even engagement is required. Rather than telling a coherent story, the film is a sensitive probe into the inner world of the protagonist, which allows us to access our own emotional reaction. 

This unconventional concept is immediately obvious. After the opening credits, it is hearing, not sight that takes over as the dominant sense. Following after the production company logos and the film title, we already hear the diegetic sounds of a person sitting at the piano and then the initial notes. There is no picture but another twenty seconds of black screen, accompanied by live piano music. It is a kind of hint that points out that music will play a significant role in the movie. It will be an integral part of the observed world, which is then confirmed in the anticipated first shot. It stretches for almost three and a half minutes, with three minutes being a static full shot, capturing the protagonist with her back turned to us and playing the piano in her room. It is almost like documentary observation that shows naked (visually not too attractive) reality. 

When Gabriela stops playing, there is a surprise. “Are you okay?” a stranger calls out outside the frame. Someone has been there all along. Tenuously, we could compare this moment to the vulnerable revelation of the walruses in Haulout. The gradually controlled supply of information, the slow start and pared down form work together to make room for the surprise. Gabriela gets up and walks over to her nude partner on the couch. After the three-minute static shot, the camera pans with her. As long as she was playing the piano, she was in her own “ecstatic” world. Yet as soon as the music died down, there is space for other people as well and the camera confirms this shift. From the very start, the film world is represented as an almost impenetrable inner space that is connected to music and which the viewer must properly attune to.

Gabriela tells the man her dream about her mother and her quiet house, and then she explains that it is the first anniversary of her mother’s death the next day. It feels like this is still an unprocessed wound. This mention of a dream legitimates “shifts” in the narrative; unclear boundaries are a unifying element in the film. At the end of their conversation, we find out about the upcoming piano recital and Gabriela’s fear of failure. These premises – music, mother, dream and the recital (that does not take place in the story) – are subject to free play with no clear message, and individual layers, emotions and scenes are layered on top of one another as we join the protagonist in a special, subjective time. 

Alone with herself

In the next scene, the world seems to expand on the outside as we see the protagonist during a piano lesson. However, the scene ends with Gabriela shutting down again and underscoring the previous scene. This is achieved using the formal style – we see Gabriela standing over the student in a full shot from behind as in the opening scene. The story also follows suit – after the student finishes playing, both he and Gabriela look somewhere outside the frame. Once again, there is somebody in the room, this time it is the boy’s mother who is also a reminder of Gabriela’s late mother. Unlike the previous shots that could be tens of seconds long, this one is very short and serves as the symbol of motherhood.

A night-time scene, with the protagonist swimming alone in the pool. The rhythm continues the transformation – this action is also in a short shot and could imply a shift toward a more conventional narrative. As if time beyond piano has a “normal” flow. This time, Ribeiro destabilizes the viewer in a different, unexpected way. The protagonist gets out of the pool and stares somewhere to the other side. This is followed by her point-of-view shot that shows a mysterious Black woman staring back in her direction; we can also hear non-diegetic rumbling sound that, along with the mystery, generates horror tension (like Haulout just before the arrival of walruses). The mysterious woman is never seen again. The viewer is left alone with their own sense of uncertainty but can get curious about the meaning. Was it just in Gabriela’s head? Does the woman have anything to do with the late mother? The grim atmosphere of the scene would certainly fit the bill.

The vague nature of the narrative is then intensified using a dissolve (which allows us to interpret the action that follows as a dream) and transition to a scene that is even more ambiguous. We find ourselves in a darkened room and Gabriela sits down and starts playing. The shot is static and over three minutes long. After the protagonist stops playing, she looks outside the frame. The method used in real life gets repeated in the dream. This time, there is an older Black lady (not the same one as in the previous scene) who – without any kind of reaction and with a stern look – gets up and leaves. The other chairs are empty. 

Filling in the gaps

Considering the information that we don’t have available; we have no choice but to try to tackle the scene cognitively and come up with our own interpretation. Is it the protagonist’s anxiety materialized in a dream about the upcoming recital? Is the woman who left the room her mother, whom Gabriela could never make happy, even though her playing was perfect (as seen just now)? Was it her idea that Gabriela should start playing? Does she play music because of her, thinking of her every time she plays, even though it has been a year since she died? Did her mother ever clap for her?

If we start filling in the gaps and participate in the game, the result is greater viewer immersion. Understandably, not everyone is interested in this kind of process. With the constant need to guess and interpret because we have no other choice (this is not a film that would be captivating for its attractive packaging or dramatic storyline), we are forced to become part of the action and find ourselves in Gabriela’s shoes.

The next day – on the anniversary of her mother’s death – the protagonist arrives in a quiet seaside town. After a walk through the streets, she comes to one of the houses, takes the keys from the flowerpot, unlocks the door and goes inside. She walks through the house, after a while stops and looks into another room. In a point-of-view shot, we see a little girl at the table who does not appear again for the rest of the movie. Is this the childhood home that was mentioned in the introduction as part of the dream? Is the girl Gabriela?

The protagonist then comes to an old piano and starts playing. Compared to the previous static, wide shots, we now observe a close-up of her face. The experience and being in one’s own world have more urgency this time. When the protagonist finishes, we expect from our previous experience that somebody is again waiting outside the frame. Gabriela listens to the fading notes and looks up at the light falling on her face through the window. Is she looking at her mother in heaven? Can she handle the important recital without her support? While the “nightmare” scene with the strict woman leaving the hall hinted at something unhealthy in their relationship, the last shot radiates reconciliation, gratitude and positive emotions.

The film does not answer any of the questions. It is an open form that invites the viewer to think. Due to this almost mathematical motif (i.e., a long scene of piano playing and then looking outside the frame), Sunday Morning can also function as a kind of empty formula for inserting one’s own values, which is reminiscent of Robert Bresson’s work. Music can be connected to the mother’s death in many ways. The frustrating control of information is somewhat surprisingly the film’s greatest asset because it engages the viewer in the game and forces us to step into the protagonist’s mental state between reality and dream and helps to awaken our empathy.

Similarities with Haulout

Using “close reading” of the short films that were the most compelling at the Berlinale IFF, I was able to uncover some similarities and some of the reasons for my own fascination. Apart from the specific similarities in the text already mentioned (surprise, horror scene enhancing the subjective experience of the main character), we can also talk about the slow tempo, the gradual and sometimes frustrating control of information or documentary scenes (e.g., objectively recorded piano compositions). However, all of this goes to the central point of both films – to the main character and, above all, to allow for focused immersion in their situation.

In Haulout, it is a more primary deep dive that revolves around universally shared experiences (isolation, basic human needs), while Sunday Morning works the other way around. We have to read into it a lot more, search for stories behind the images and build a picture of Gabriela’s world from vague mental stimuli. As a reward for our intense focus on one protagonist, we also receive strong emotions, either directly or through our empathy. For their ability to convey emotions and touch viewers, I see both films as short epics.

Vojtěch Novotný

This dystopian portrayal of Brazilian society is not far from its lived present. In Medusa, a masked street gang made up of young female fanatics attacks other women.

The gang targets women who, according to their beliefs, have gone astray and chose the path of sin and immoral life. They follow their victims through dark streets, willing to use physical violence and, in the end, force them to confess their sins in a public video that will be shared on social media.

Anita Rocha Da Silveira’s second feature combines different genres, mixing horror with neon musical, satire and occasionally even parody. It corresponds with the acting style of the protagonists that would otherwise seem unnatural and overwrought. In Medusa, they manage to capture the bizarre aspects of their lives, which is funny at first but feels bitterly real at the end. Viewers with some knowledge of Brazil’s political situation – that keeps escalating under President Jair Bolsonaro – know that the things Rocha Da Silveira portrays in her film are already happening in Brazil, with tensions getting higher. 

Who is Medusa?

The title takes its inspiration from Greek mythology. Medusa and Poseidon allegedly had sexual intercourse. Athena decided to punish Medusa for losing her innocence, though the act probably was not consensual on her part. Apparently, Athena did not take that into account and turned Medusa into a monster with snakes in her hair. From then on, whoever looked into her eyes would turn to stone. Medusa had its world premiere in the Quinzaine des Réalisateurs section at the 2021 Cannes IFF and it is currently available on HBO Max. 

21-year-old Mariana is a member of a religious group and a gang that was founded as an offshoot of the cult. She lives in a superficial, fake world that tries to come across as a picture of purity and perfection. Mariana does not question any of the cult’s ideas and she is a very loyal follower. After being attacked by a woman who was harassed by the gang, she loses her job at a plastic surgery clinic, which she humbly accepts. Having suffered an injury to her face, she would give the clinic a bad name. Apparently, it is not just the cult members who overlook real issues and idolize appearance over what actually goes on in society and inside people. 

Trying to find Melissa – an actress who was assaulted many years ago and fell into a coma, which made her into a kind of urban legend – Mariana gets a job at a clinic for long-term coma patients. She befriends a colleague who represents moderate views and, in the language of the cult, tries to lead her astray. Mariana gives in to her desires and starts seeing her life from a different perspective. She clashes with her best friend Michele who also faces a personal crisis; she comes to realize that she is not willing to sacrifice her life for a man who is a model cult member but does not shy away from physical violence. 

The movie concludes with a surprising rebellion and physical clash between the male and female members of Father Guilhermo’s cult. In the last minutes of Medusa, there is a lot of shrieking, often discussed as a symptom of hysteria, which feels like an act of liberation, rejection of stereotypes and misogyny that surrounded them. Their movement and cries express unease as it becomes an instrument to present their power and worth. 

Acknowledged horror inspiration

Anita Rocha da Silveira does not hide the fact that Medusa was inspired mainly by Brian de Palma and Dario Argento. Specifically, she mentions Carrie (1976) and Suspiria (1977) as main inspiration sources. Yet she also mentions David Lynch. Medusa goes back and forth between these references and a women’s account of Brazil’s status quo. The movie also has a lot in common with Brazil’s recent festival hit Bacurau (dir. Kleber Mendonça Filho, Juliano Dornelles, Jury Prize at the 2019 Cannes IFF). Both films capture a gloomy future that alternates with the present, using a quite unusual – at least in a European context – visual language and storyline. In its overall effect, Bacurau is bolder and more original than Medusa. When it comes to the subject matter and visual style, for instance, its distinct use of neon lights, the movie resembles Divine Love (dir. Gabriel Mascaro, 2019). The main difference between these two films is that, according to Rocha Da Silveira, Medusa is set in a parallel universe of the present; Divine Love takes place in 2027. In a way, Medusa anticipates Divine Love as it captures preparations for radical social transformation in the name of Jesus. Both films reject Christian fanaticism and politics, currently represented by Jair Bolsonaro.

Medusa includes many metaphors and symbols and presents ideas that might not be new. Yet in this compressed 127-minute format and with its topical relevance, it paints a picture of Brazil today, not very well known in our part of the world. At the same time, it is not the type of film that would identify just local Brazilian problems, phenomena and issues. Case in point, the current situation in Slovakia. A deadly cocktail of fanaticism and so-called traditional Christian values and nationalism has escalated to the point that members of the self-proclaimed “dove nation” physically assault and murder people who, based on this ideology, are viewed as enemies who disrupt happy life in “our” country. Medusa’s key message becomes universal across different continents and historical experiences because the alleged threat to traditional values and lifestyle exists almost everywhere.