Capriciously related to the plot of Alfred Hitchcock´s Vertigo, Guy Maddin and brothers Evan & Galen Johnson´s The Green Fog is a parodical Frankenstein assembled from pieces from movies and television shows set in San Francisco. As it was commissioned by the San Francisco Film Society to be premiered at the close of the 60th San Francisco International Film Festival on April 16, 2017, the film has been easily classified as a tribute or homage, even a remake. Maddin himself has employed terms such as «emotional geography» and «rhapsody on Vertigo» when asked about this lecture on creative stealing and film scholarship with plenty of funny (sometimes sombre) echoes of a romantic thriller.

In some way The Green Fog invite us to forget Hitchcock and play with the idea of how ridiculous can be a film and/or some ways to watch it. Radical subtractions and humorous additions become tools to construct a weird artefact to prove that authorship survives any attempt to supplant its genuineness; it doesn´t matter who is implied, if Mr. Ed Wood or Sir Orson Welles. At the same time, Maddin and his witty henchmen emerge clear winners from this unsafe zone where Vertigo is a stimulating absence. Its exercise of style consists of unpicking the seam of this classic of suspense and replacing it with an anthology of homeless shots and guillotined conversations.

In this deliciously campy Atlas Mnemosyne of Frisco portrayed by cinema and TV, Maddin & the Johnson Brothers tie the tongues of some characters, launch a Hamletian, contemplative Chuck Norris, and reduce its main referent to a fragment of the stairs seen in the rooftop chase. Throughout this process what was a detective movie turns into a comedy, seriousness gives way to cunning frivolity. If it’s true that there’s always something of burlesque in films that supplant the mood of an original story by strained gravity sthen in The Green Fog any operation is permeated by a disquieting and typically maddinesque malice. The awareness of dealing with shots that have lost their natural hors-champs increases the strangeness of this creature begotten by cinephilia and an acute sense of the uncanny. Ceci n'est pas Hitchcock.

The Green Fog | Film | Guy Maddin, Evan Johnson, Galen Johnson | USA 2017 | 63’

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Screenings in Swiss cinema theatres

Filming the largest electronic waste dump in the world at Agbogbloshie, Accra in Ghana – revealingly named “Sodom” – Florian Weigensamer and Christian Krönes provide us with astonishing images: a toxic landscape of gifted waste that is constantly laboured upon by free workers of all ages who recycle the valuable and worthwhile metals and burn the useless plastics. There is an apocalyptic beauty in these appalling images of waste and fire, which actually constitute only the framework for the variety of peoples and activities on which the filmmakers focus. Besides the work and the little businesses, we also discover a lively society where music and dance attempt to dispel the hellish miasma of death. A confused preacher with a newspaper for a microphone reminds of the punishment for Sodom and Gomorrah, while two quiet workers play golf on the carpet of waste and charred plastic. The women – often children – sell “pure” water and candies, an improvised cart shows off a Mercedes emblem, a gay Jewish worker reads Shakespeare and Chaucer…

Yet, the visual beauty and the curious diversions in Welcome to Sodom do not act as relief for us, but almost as sarcastic touches of desperate irony. The basic elements are subverted: the ground moves like rubber on swampy earth, fire produces black clouds of smoke, water is wasted to cool the metals – this is the hidden face of our technology consumerism. Some people still find this hell an attractive place: the risks notwithstanding, the opportunity for small businesses remains interesting and, moreover, Sodom is seen as a place of freedom, a no man’s land. When the price of freedom looks like this nightmare, and with Ghana still considered one of the fastest-growing economies in the world, one cannot but deduce a catastrophic situation concerning the distribution of wealth.

If the Sakawa voodoo rituals inform us of the levels of despair of people for whom death is an occasional outcome of money games, the documentary still gathers pearls of hope from this ocean of trash, insofar as it collects the wishes and imagination of the people living in Sodom: migrating, becoming an astronaut, finding a tolerant place for homosexuals, learning languages. For this, the use of the voice-over creates a crucial distance, like a safe bubble for witnesses in the middle of a panorama without horizons. In this same vein, the exceptional music played by the locals emerges equally as a decisive layer of Welcome to Sodom, and transmits a contagious positive energy. Thus, the last word of the film is spoken by a powerful song, which is placed at its end as a very long coda, as if seeking deliverance. (GDS)

Welcome to Sodom | Film | Florian Weigensamer, Christian Krönes | AT-GHA 2018 | 92’ | Zurich Film Festival 2018

Special Mention at the Zurich Film Festival 2018

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Rien que l’Europe tout entière, son histoire — jusqu’à ses sources mythologiques —, son présent, sa variété, ses défis : voilà le sujet de l’essai filmique de Felix Tissi. Élément de restriction de la focale : Europe, la déesse grecque, parle en voix off avec Dieu de sa situation, ses plaisirs, ses malaises, elle se plaint de son absence, ou de sa présence trop multiforme. Une belle idée, sur le papier ; mais nous avons l’impression que le thème religieux de l’Europe est plus une occasion saisie qu’un véritable sujet d’approfondissement. Aussi parce que plusieurs chapitres se suivent dans la structure de Gottlos Abendland, touchant d’autres thèmes comme la migration, l’exploitation des ressources, la bureaucratie, les grandes différences de coutumes, etc. Une liste réfléchie, certainement bien choisie, mais qui pour chaque chapitre ne réussit qu’à effleurer le début d’un approfondissement, exactement comme pour la relation « occasionnelle » d’Europe à Dieu. Gottlos Abendland est un film plein d’occasions, comme un livre réduit à sa table de matière et à sa préface. Oui, « occasion » et « occident » partagent la même racine, mais puisque le trait caractéristique de l’Europe est certainement sa complexité, Felix Tissi lui fait-il justice avec son approche panoramique ?

« Panorama », voilà une autre invention européenne, qui après l’encyclopédisme a su se développer jusqu’à ce qu’on appelle aujourd’hui « globalisation ». Mais l’obsession si européenne pour le global, pour le catalogue, pour l’inventaire, une fois résumée dans le temps d’un long-métrage, s’apparente plus au délire qu’à l’analyse ou à l’originalité. Par contre, du côté des images — dont un panorama ne peut se passer —, le voyage filmique que nous faisons avec Gottlos Abendland est riche et impressionnant. Pierre Reicher à la caméra sera le dépositaire de mes principales louanges pour une œuvre qui aurait pu dire, exprimer davantage en accordant la centralité aux images plutôt qu’aux mots de la voix off. On aurait peut-être perdu le fil quelquefois, en l’absence d’informations, et on se serait peut-être posé plus de questions que l’on aurait reçu de réponses — et n’est-ce pas là justement une des essences de l’Europe ? La piste sonore signée par Fred Frith est également assez suggestive : elle semble rester toujours sur une tonalité de mystère, ce qui finalement sert à contrebalancer le registre déclaratif et démonstratif du contenu verbal du film.

Gottlos Abendland nous promène un peu partout sans vouloir défendre une véritable thèse, préférant une approche critique très généraliste. Le chemin filmique vaudra le parcours, peut-être plus pour ce que chacun de nous peut cogiter par soi-même, particulièrement en réaction à la piste visuelle. En ce qui concerne le « gottlos » du titre (un adverbe ?) il restera un choix peu crédible, bien que notre Europe demeure dans les faits encore bien sécularisée — et j’ajouterai : Dieu merci !  

Gottlos Abendland | Film | Felix Tissi | CH 2019 | 71'

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und als der prinz mit dem kutscher tanzte, waren sie so schön, daß der ganze hof in ohnmacht fiel: this is the fairy tale title of Ronald M. Schernikau’s novel (1982), a celebration of freedom in the legendary Eighties in West Berlin. This novel is the main inspiration of Jessie Jeffrey Dunn Rovinelli’s So Pretty, whose story reflects the legacy of the text, which is also the object of translation in the film. The text openly refers to a filmic plot, and So Pretty refers to the text, stages the text, and in a way absorbs the text: it is certainly not a question of philology but of performative embodiment, which is doubled by the making-of of this performance itself.

In the intertwining of text, film and performance, it is not easy to follow the line of a story that is made of daily life gestures and calm discussions, but I think that the slippery understanding of the plot of So Pretty is part of its intentions, as it echoes the hybridity and polyvalence of the main characters’ roles. Tonia, Franz, Paul, Erika, and Helmuth are nothing but mobile poles of tension in an apparently undramatic chain of minor events, be they domestic, performative (the reading of the translation of the text) or public (a demonstration in the streets of New York). Their sexual and gender identity remain open or, even better, open to change. They exemplify the opposite of the multiplication of definitions and categories for the LGTBIQ identities. What seems to me to be an interesting predicament of So Pretty is the idea that the relationship makes the gender (and the identity), and it is not the gender that makes clear the range of possibilities of relationships. In this way, one should interpret the notion of “trans” in terms of (constant) fluidity and change.

Now, in Dunn Rovinelli’s world – and partly in Schernikau’s one too – this liquid style of life goes together with a certain coolness. Coolness in the undramatic dramaturgy and in the aesthetic of the film. Through wonderful framings – so pretty… – and slow movements of the camera that imply many hors-champs, our gaze is kept at a distance and in a contemplative mood towards the characters. It is as if we would need a certain amount of static in order to see the fluid and smooth aspects of their world. Does queerness really need coolness? The question remains open, and our experience in So Pretty is both open and special.

So Pretty | Film | Jessie Jeffrey Dunn Rovinelli | USA-FR 2019 | 83’ | Luststreifen Film Festival Basel 2019

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A renowned, white, male Austrian music composer contracts with an American, black, female performer to dispose of her time and body as a possession. All the marks of Western colonialism and macho patriarchalism seem to be summed up in a story that has been revealed in the press. But the intentions of Beatrice Behn and René Gebhardt’s documentary have rather been to accompany and extend Georg Friedrich Haas’ outing of his kinky identity, of which Mollena Williams is sort of an icon in the States, as she is mostly known as a stand-up comic and BDSM educator. That a love relationship can take the form of domination-submission, with a certain degree of consensual violence, is certainly a stumbling block for the politically correct and open-minded common opinion on racial and gender issues. Is violence, even if consented to, still a reproachable deed? Can we accept the free assumption of reactionary patterns that have made and still cause to suffer plenty of people?

The Artist and the Pervert has the intelligence of answering these delicate questions through the direct example of a couple of artists that let the camera visit their intimacy. There is never voyeurism in this filmic operation, insofar as their will to express, communicate, and explain is always perceptible and the answer is unavoidably multifaceted and complex – as is always the case when our gaze becomes less superficial and more personal – and will involve the difficult biographies of the two artists, whose past traumas find both solution and sublimation in this only apparently unbalanced relationship.

Then, Behn & Gebhardt’s film experiences a sort of shift. What seems the hesitant architecture of the film reveals itself to be the form of an evolution. The focus swings from the erotic habits of Georg and Mollena’s relationship to their activities as artists and, more in particular, to their first collaboration. In this respect, both figures assume fully independent personalities: the play between them as artists will definitely seem to be more balanced than their play as lovers. Moreover, Mollena’s straightforward clarity on political issues will profile her as a dominant debater. Now we see how the choice for a domination/submission relationship is possible as long as it is done from a fair position of reciprocity that implies nothing but respect. In a way, for the interesting questioning of violence that cracks the certainties of the open-minded and politically correct milieu, this shift results in a watering down of poignancy, but the humanist thread that animates The Artist and the Pervert will get its final crescendo in the form of a love story.

The Artist and the Pervert | Film | Beatrice Behn, René Gebhardt | DE 2018 | 96’ | Luststreifen Film Festival Basel 2019

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Scheme Birds is a difficult contemplation on reality. Grey, isolated lives that duplicate inter-generational hardship are stacked within one of the government housing towers (or “schemes”) that dot an even greyer landscape with brutalist absurdity. Motherwell, Scotland, is a former steel producer for the Empire. “Steelopolis” now lies in socio-economic ruin due to Thatcher’s strategy to make Britain great again, at the expense of its neighbouring kingdoms.

Our teenage protagonist Gemma is born in the year that the steelworks are blown up. The camera intimately buries its lens into the daily life of this young woman and her community as they invariably fall victim to the system: «If you stay here, you either get locked up or knocked up». With no work and little opportunity, the children fight. Cultural pugilism starts at an early age: toddlers pummel soft furnishings as a celebrated milestone; Gemma trains with her fists in the local boxing gym run by her grandfather; scraps between other teenagers go viral on social media, spilling onto the streets and landing them in jail or hospital. The illusion of respect from incarceration and violent brawling culminates in both tragedy and transformation, but through exchanges of hardened love and hope for tiny lives we are directed by filmmakers Ellen Fiske (UK) and Ellinor Hallin (Sweden) towards Gemma’s strength and bravery when mobilising her and her son’s freedom from this template of existence.  

The filmmakers treat actuality with self-effaced sensitivity. Motherwell’s story is told mostly through Gemma’s narration over montage and filmed action. Small lapses of time demonstrate the duration of the filmmakers’ interest in her world as we watch a feisty girl, happy to live her whole life in the scheme, peel away from juvenility into a caring mother and friend. Time in its synchronic slicing and diachronic unfolding are visually engaged through slow-motion grabs of intense emotions set against the vocal thump of Scottish artist and author Loki the Rapper. Scenes that dwell inordinately on everyday actions express the grip of “mundane being” over any transcending purpose. 

One cannot overlook the simple yet apposite metaphoric relation between the teens and the homing pigeons - the pride of their community. Seen as pestilent “rats with wings” in most affluent cities of the world, we track their haphazard murmuration, swirling around the towers; the potential to break free from the flock can occur at any moment. While most return to what they know, some «fly the nest».

Fiske and Hallin’s collaboration brings concrete social truths to light with story-telling and cinematic finesse that fictional working-class realist cinema simulates in representation, but ultimately removes us from.

Scheme Birds | Film | Ellen Fiske, Ellinor Hallin | SWE-UK 2019 | 87’ | Zurich Film Festival 2019

Best Documentary Feature at Tribeca Film Festival 2019

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Doris, a young woman of the Wayuu people in the Guajira desert, is going to exhume her cousin in order to give her a second burial. This is the ritual that Lapü describes. This ethnographic approach will never abandon the narrative line of Juan Pablo Polanco and César Alejandro Jaimes’ first feature, and the result would be an exclusively informative documentary if the filmmakers hadn’t made some interesting choices for the camera and the sound. Constantly playing with darkness, the focus of the camera is Doris’ memories, her imaginings, expectations and dreams. The intangibility of this individual matter seems to shape the photography of the film, in dialogue, sometimes contrasting, with the outdoor bright images of the Wayuu community. Doris’ inner world is never actually separated from the common spirituality that she embodies and there is a perfect continuity between the dead and the living.

The delusions of darkness and a cinematic language made of allusions take their full meaning through the absolute centrality of the sound layer, which certainly constitutes Lapü’s structure and soul. Yesid Vasquez for the sound and Antonio Ponce for the sound design – together with the foley team – deserve more than a mention for this film. Some sequences with the completely dark screen invite the viewer to close their eyes, sometimes, to create another continuity, between the film and our own memories, imaginings, expectations and dreams. In this both fictional and real world, far from the Colombian desert and from the ethnological gaze, another film can flourish… 

Lapü | Film | Juan Pablo Polanco, César Alejandro Jaimes | COL 2019 | 75’ | Zurich Film Festival 2019

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C’est l’histoire de deux solitudes : celle d’une main, oui, une main coupée, se promenant toute seule sur ses doigts ; et celle de Naoufel, enfant puis adolescent, entre famille perdue et futur très incertain. Si la figure de Naoufel, par sa malchance quelquefois un peu forcée, embrasse la société des perdants, des faibles, des maltraités par la société — et ne peut que nous faire penser au Rémi d’Hector Malot en version contemporaine —, les aventures de la main qui s’échappe d’un laboratoire médical constituent certainement l’élément d’intérêt et d’originalité qui marque la dramaturgie autrement trop mélodramatique de J’ai perdu mon corps. La construction de l’entrelacs entre les deux histoires se fait avec lenteur, par un montage convaincant (car) assez ouvert.

Les films d’animation nous ont habitués à jouir de la liberté d’espace et mouvement, ici bien exploitée par Jérémy Clain dans le périple improbable de la main, contrairement au parcours plus réaliste de Naoufel. Mais c’est la liberté de mouvement dans le temps qui marque le récit filmique de J’ai perdu mon corps : nous nous retrouvons souvent à perdre plutôt les coordonnées temporelles, entre les flash-back — ou flash-forward ? — de Naoufel enfant/adolescent et une main qui se révélera plongée dans un futur destiné à se souder au présent de la partie finale du film. Dans ce puzzle temporel bien intrigant, c’est l’identité de la personne et de son caractère qui émerge avec encore plus de décision. Naoufel est fidèle à lui-même, à son corps ; l’histoire de ses malchances et de ses hésitations ne fait que mettre à l’épreuve et donc souligner l’intégrité de son âme, qui est également celle de son corps.

Ce n’est pas seulement par la beauté souvent romantique des dessins que J’ai perdu mon corps explore le registre de la sensualité. La main et sa perspective inhabituelle en sont aussi un vecteur, mais moins que le choix de cadrer les scènes depuis des points de vue improbables, avec une préférence pour les détails et donc pour la profondeur de l’image. Une si belle saga esthétique et une architecture cinématographique si importante ne feront alors que nous laisser un peu déçus face à la maigre qualité de l’histoire racontée, tachée de misérabilisme et soutenue par une histoire d’amour un peu conventionnelle. 

J’ai perdu mon corps | Film | Jérémy Clapin | FR 2019 | 82’ | Zurich Film Festival 2019

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