Change Your Image
Upload An Image
Crop And Save
Most Recently Rated
ListsAn error has ocurred. Please try again
The Here and Now
The melting pot that is present day Europe should be an inspiration for more uplifting stories about the things that bind us as people. I would be hard pressed to find examples for this, the focus, both in the news and in cinema, being foremost on tension and conflict. It makes sense, conflict drives storytelling and keeps us engaged. Yet, here we are, in the world of Bas Devos, where human connection springs eternal from the most unexpected of sources.
This is a conflict-less story. Or, rather, a story that's not really about the conflict. My namesake Stefan, a Romanian construction worker living in Belgium, is about to travel back home, but needs to get his car fixed before leaving. He also needs to clear his fridge, so makes a big pot of soup out of whatever he finds.
This haphazardly concocted soup then proves a wonderous lubricant of the human spirit, it opens doors in a Balkanic tradition, but also forges moments of connection and intimacy, the way sharing food so often does. Per chance, in pre-departure to and fros, Stefan meets Shuxiu, a Belgian-Chinese woman who works on her doctorate about mosses, while also helping out one of her relatives who runs a small restaurant. It's the unlikeliest of connections, but perfectly in the spirit that Here inhabits.
At just 82 minutes, the movie is strikingly short. Especially if you get into its mood, it will lull you before you even realize it's ending. We are so used to our urban jungles, that nature takes on ever more mystical qualities. In the world of Here, nature provides, in all its delicate simplicity. Stefan Gota and Liyo Gong play their understated parts in this symphony and we feel immediately drawn to them, to join them. We are traveling back to the roots of our quintessential sense of connection, in an almost idealistic form of said conflict-less world. But it's not really a world without conflict, rather one where it has temporarily ceased and made room for tenderness.
Here is a moment in time, the proverbial here and now, which is the most blissful place to exist in. It's mischievously elusive, of course, but Bas Devos somehow manages to capture its essence in this movie, that has all the chances of growing on you and showing you true North. 8.
The Many Faces of Commitment
Ira Sachs wasn't a director I had firmly positioned in my mind, even though I'd seen and liked a couple of his previous movies: Love is Strange (2014) and Little Men (2016). In Passages, he explores a complicated and toxic story of love, belonging and self actualization, featuring three stand-out performances from its leads - Franz Rogowski, Ben Whishaw and Adèle Exarchopoulos. It is, as Rogowski himself put it after the Berlinale screening I attended, a movie about the existential importance of intimacy.
We meet Tomas (Rogowski) and Martin (Whishaw), who have been together for fifteen years and their relationship is wavering under the weight of time. After Tomas meets Agathe (Exarchopoulos), he falls for her, for the otherness of the experience, for the overwhelming feeling of infatuation. Not even Agathe's cautiousness gives Tomas pause to consider the meaning of his actions and his commitment to an ultimately shy, middle-class young woman, coming from a world that's completely different to his. Naturally, things prove difficult, as Martin distances himself and Tomas gets a crippling case of romantic FoMo, making for a very messy situation indeed.
This is definitely a story that cares a lot about its characters, they express themselves in all sorts of manners and are mirrored in their environments. It's not a rigidly structured film, as Sachs allowed the actors to explore their emotions within the framework of his vision for the sometimes undefinable nature of relationships. What works and what doesn't is not prescribed, but rather is a function of what we are willing to commit.
Having a character as deeply self-involved as Tomas can be a frustrating viewing experience, but Rogowski manages to humanize even some of his more destructive impulses. Many of us have been or will, at some point, be a bit of Tomas, the unleashed, purebred romantic, who is incapable of being otherwise. Similarly, we will be the Martins, the ones who should know better than to allow ourselves to return to an unreliable and ungenerous partner, or the Agathes, the young dreamers seduced by the effervescence of love.
The movie transcends type and finds the truth in its relationships, it dotes on and suffers with its protagonists in a manner that does feel intimate, both emotionally and physically. Sachs has congealed this inherently melodramatic story into one of stoic commitment to ourselves, of finding and cherishing our individuality, both within and outside of relationships.
Hope and Drama
The genre of medical movies is mostly populated with the struggles and romantic explorations of doctors and nurses, the two swathes of people we associate with it. Sages-femmes narrows that down to midwives and then applies a fairly stereotypical treatment to its story, but to very good effect. Léa Fehner's movie is an ode to the dedication of this mostly female staff, that rises above chronic underfunding, being overworked and managing complex situations, both professionally and personally.
We follow Sofia and Louise, friends and young midwives who are just starting out in their chosen careers. Their experiences differ wildly and soon create friction between the two, as Sofia eases into the role once given the chance, while Louise struggles. Things change after a difficult case where Sofia loses her self-confidence and their stories and travails are suddenly turned on their heads.
They are ultimately both victims to the wider environment, the underfunded and anxiously hectic hospital setting. It's a sadly never-ending tale, which we've recently seen, also on the labor ward, from a different angle in This Is Going to Hurt. To survive, you have to pick your fights and try to not let things get to you, which is a challenge that nobody should have to bear - particularly in life or death situations.
It's all fleshed out in the explosive first part of Sages Femmes, which is intense, fast-paced and mostly dire. The movie shifts at the halfway point and becomes more, let's say, humanistic, focusing on the fallout and the strength it takes to keep it all together.
To add to the veracity of its story, Sages Femmes captures a lot of the intimacy of childbirth, in a cvasi-documentarian fashion. Fehner filmed live births before re-enacting them with willing parents, making for an unusually naturalistic approach. It gets the most of these scenes, which are dramatic, beautiful, life-changing. Midwives witness them every day, many times over, and like all medical professionals, have to balance the roteness with the uniqueness these moments inhabit. The cast is exceptional at portraying this and even the characters that don't take up much screen time end up as established people in our minds.
This is ultimately a familiar, but well executed medical drama. Fehner indulges in dramatic excesses and only brushes against some of the endemic issues that are sadly common in the profession, which is another way of saying that this is a story that tries to find the silver lining(s). There's nothing wrong with that and Sages-femmes makes for spirited and hopeful cinema. 8.
More than a decade ago, Romania first took part in the football Homeless World Cup in Australia. Claudiu Mitcu documented the recruitment, training, travel and participation of the seven-men team - an experience that took them from surviving on the streets of various Romanian cities (including Timisoara) to far-away Melbourne.
It's not a movie that glorifies success, but one about the day-to-day wins of its protagonists, men of various ages that life has been less than generous with. At just 64 minutes, Mitcu only has the time to offer a window to a world that seems twice as foreign now than it would have done fifteen years ago. We see an honest portrayal of a handful of people who, in spite of struggling against the tides, still find some reward in life, with this trip an otherworldly expedition that quickly proves relatable.
The trick is that while you expect it all to be surreal, it really isn't - which does bring to mind how easily fate can push one way or the other. Tucked away on Romanian HBO Max, this one.
Heikos Welt (2021)
Futschi makes the man
This was one of those rare occurrences of going into the cinema and just watching a movie you know nothing about and that movie actually proving to be a heck of a ride. Heikos Welt is a very enjoyable story with low stakes and bubbly rewards, that deserves more word of mouth - and some English subtitles.
I was in Dortmund a few weeks ago and identified the old-school Schauburg cinema as a target destination, only to find out it was so old school, that all movies were screened in German. Watching anything dubbed is so far out of the question, that no reasonable person would ask it, so it was time to put my 12+ years of German education to good use and risk it with a complete unknown.
Heiko, our titular character, is your average man going about his life - i.e. Single and living with his mother. His days regularly end in the local bar, with the usual fauna and the familiar beverages. What's unusual about Heiko is that drinking a few beers does miracles to his coordination, which unearths an unknown talent in playing darts. When his mother's eyesight begins to deteriorate rapidly, he's got to find a way to pay for surgery - and, you guessed it, a darts competition offers just the required prize money.
You'd think the movie is set for a beaten path, but an enigmatic romantic interest, a daring heist and some German schalgers ensure your expectations will be surpassed. Director-writer Dominik Galizia has a steady hand and put together a well-tuned story about a likable lead, portrayed with flair by first-timer Martin Rhode. Rhode's charm is the key ingredient to the success of Heikos Welt, ensuring you have someone to root for, in a (properly old-school) feel-good fashion. But it sure helps that all the supporting cast provides authentic performances, starting with Leyla Roy and ending with Franz Rogowski's inspired cameo.
It's just so great to find real escapist experiences, movies that transport you to a safe haven, where you can just forget about those pesky, festering existential wounds. Heikos Welt is a great specimen in this regard, nothing more, nothing less, which also gifts a zippy original song from Rocco Vice.
I feel a bit bad about recommending a movie that is pretty much unwatchable outside of Germany at this time, but teasing the appetite is a good thing, isn't it?
A Cold Winter's Day
It's been half a decade since Cristian Mungiu's previous film, the excellent Bacalaureat/Graduation, and there's a bit of its thematic DNA in his most recent work. The movie goes beyond that though by exploring a real event which left its mark on Romanian society a few years ago, an event littered with prejudice and xenophobia. R. M. N. Is a bit messy and concludes in an unsatisfying fashion, but rewards the viewer with a layered experience.
From the get-go, there's a coldness to R. M. N. (Romanian abbreviation for Magnetic Resonance Imaging) that you can't shake - it's visual, it's seasonal and it's in the lead character, a monosyllabic bear of a man named Matthias. After an incident occurs while working abroad, he returns home, where more coldness awaits him, as he's met by a distant wife, an emotionally stifled child and a circumspect lover. His home village, set between mountains and forests, stands out by being multiethnic - predominantly Hungarians and Romanians, but also some Germans, like Matthias. The interaction between Mungiu's characters is fascinating to watch, as they transition seamlessly between languages, portraying a well-knit, burgeoning community. It is only after a couple of Sri-Lankan workers arrive to work at the local bakery that the the xenophobe's nest starts stirring.
The movie has a strong build-up, creating a tense atmosphere while setting all its pieces in place. Its characters are faced with more agency than one usual sees, working the underlying beliefs and attitudes onto the screen. And when things turn, they turn quickly and viscously, yet almost unexpectedly - feeding on a sense of unexpressed resentfulness, a feeling primed by our lead's emotional literacy. Similarly to another recent Romanian movie themed around prejudices, Radu Jude's Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn, R. M. N. Climaxes at a town meeting, where all the paper-thin-arguments you're friendly Facebook neighbour would have shared are laid bare.
To me, this is where the movie wavers. Even as Mungiu tries to maintain a less than judgmental distance from its subjects, there's something so banal and un-cinematic about this kind of stand-off, that it simply cannot carry the burden imposed by the narrative arc. The scene works in spite of this, it works because of the little details and the (un)expected escalation, but it's not a worthy pay-off to what preceded it. And the conclusion that follows it even less so, being close to the absurd in spite of striving for symbolism.
Still, R. M. N. Shouldn't leave you unimpressed. It tackles big themes with passionate interest and concern, which makes up for any shortcomings, thereby proving a worthy addition to Mungiu's impressive catalogue of films.
Les intranquilles (2021)
An Exploration of Mania
Joachim Lafosse has put together a movie that's not easy to endure - which is a compliment, in this case, but also means it's not for everyone.
Damien is an artist who lives together with his partner Leila and their young boy, Amin, a seemingly blissful family life. The problem - Damien is bipolar, suffering from overwhelming bouts of mania, followed by the lethargy of heavy medication. It's fiercely uncomfortable to watch, thanks to the performances of Leila Bekhti and Damien Bonnard, and has such deep rooted compassion for its characters that it's impossible to be left indifferent.
There's little lightness and not much hope for a reversal of fortunes in Les intranquilles, but Lafosse's commitment to the film's reality proves a winning formula. Not one that's easy to forget.
Harry Potter 20th Anniversary: Return to Hogwarts (2022)
Has it really been 20 years?
I remember the day my mother confiscated my keyboard, punishing me for one gaming excess or another. It was the day I first picked up the Harry Potter book I had received years before - and the next weeks were a blur, as every night was spent simply consuming the first four books, sleepwalking through school during the day. Harry Potter became a huge part of my teenage years, with hours on end spent on forums and make-believe Hogwarts role playing arenas, making many friends along the way.
The movies were mostly fun, if never as entrancing - inevitable, really, with such a burden of expectation. The only one I regularly rewatch is Prisoner of Azkaban, although I very much enjoyed the Goblet of Fire as well - and think the latter movies are perfectly serviceable, occasionally even heartbreaking, but I failed to really connect with them.
This documentary is quite the nostalgia rollercoaster, with most of the key players sharing some of their thoughts and experiences. Even after almost two hours of reminiscing, it felt like there was so much more left to be discussed and retread, but the documentary does stay focused on the bigger picture - how Harry Potter has been a part of so many lives, in such an amazing way.
And stepping back, it is indeed amazing that a cinematic series like HP has come about, carrying over so many characters and actors across a whole decade, while also giving life to a unique and beautiful world. Harry, Ron and Hermione are at the core of this story, roles that Dan, Rupert and Emma grew into so well, but it's the adult cast that immensely enhances the world they all inhabit, offering the nuance and complexity that ensures its timelessness.
Sure, the JKR debacle taints the proceedings a bit, irrespective of your feelings about it - but this just goes to show we'll never return to the simpler times of when Harry Potter was the center of our universe.
The Novice (2021)
The Endless Bounds of Ambition
Lauren Hadaway's debut feature is what you'd expect to see if you zoomed into those rowing scenes during The Social Network and applied the Black Swan treatment to them.
Inspired by Hadaway's own experiences as a rower, the movie tells the story of Alex Dall, a college student who is driven close to self-destruction by her boundless ambition to gain a spot on the varsity rowing team. There's only drips of who Alex is beyond her all-consuming desire for improvement, a frame of mind that leaves little room for social niceties and personal growth.
It's going to feel like your being beaten to a pulp, while traversing flurries of intense montages, frequently contrasted by sweet tunes of the 60s. Hadaway's experience in the sound department goes a long way to articulate the inner life of the movie and its lead, the latter so vicariously portrayed by Isabelle Fuhrman.
There is this ultimate sense that Alex is not fighting against herself, or even against her teammates, but rather against the whole world - one where however good you are, there's bound to be many, many people who are simply better. A fight you can (almost never) win.
Definitely one of the best debuts of the year.
A Personal Journey
Coming from Manish Pandey, writer and executive producer on Senna (2010), this latest documentary on the lives, careers and intertwined fates of five memorable racing drivers of the 80s, 90s and 2000s is memorable, yet tough to take.
Parts feel distinctly staged, insights could have been more revealing, but the movie does very, very well in capturing the protagonists' states of mind and the emotions going with them. For me, it was indeed terribly emotional, as beyond the stories of Hakkinen, Massa, Mouton and Kristensen lies that of Michael Schumacher, to whom I attach so many of the joys and tribulations of my youth.
Pandey might not have Asif Kapadia's flair, but he shares the sense for tragedy and loss, which underlies almost everything in Heroes. Mandatory viewing for enthusiasts.
Anelka: Misunderstood (2020)
The Redemption Story
I never followed Nicolas Anelka's career with a lot of attention, but he's the kind of player who was always on your radar if you cared about football during the 2000s. His reluctance to be a superstar is supposed to explain the drama he brought wherever he played, but a documentary that sides so definitively with its subject is bound to feel unsatisfying in the end.
The first half of the movie is a well structured presentation/self-portrait of Anelka the player and Anelka the man, a complicated character who can, indeed, be easily judged as flippant and arrogant. The second half becomes mired in director Eric Hannezo's efforts to stick to his "misunderstood" subtitle, at the cost of sacrificing the documentary's chronology. That's why more controversial events of Anelka's career are brought forward, time spent at various clubs is conspicuously compressed or wholly ignored, and the story concludes on France's scandalous 2010 representation at the World Cup, with Anelka in the limelight.
In many ways, it feels like Anelka is a version of Ibrahimovic that was disliked. The documentary offers little insight as to why that might be, beyond pointing fingers at the media and managers, with some of the better insights coming from former Arsenal honcho, Arsene Wenger. So while there are definitely interesting facets to Hannezo's docu, the numerous exculpations make for a less than engaging watch, leaving too much unsaid - or unasked.
Olympic Dreams (2019)
A Personal Twist to a Familiar Story
As far as sports romcoms go, this is an unusual movie, in that it's shot at the Olympic Village during the 2018 Winter Olympics in Pyeongchang. This very real backdrop is fleshed out in a bunch of scenes with equally real athletes, capturing an unfamiliar flavour.
Starring alongside the established Nick Kroll is the movie's co-writer, Alexi Pappas, former Olympian, just like Gus Kenworthy and Morgan Schild, who also have small roles to play. There's a bit of a Lost in Translation (in sports) feeling to Olympic Dreams, which unfortunately doesn't get the chance to really catch on, as the movie stumbles to its predictable finale. The good thing is Pappas and Kroll are both likable on screen, and Pappas captures a bit of the forlorn solitude of elite athletes and the harsh realities of the Olympic cycle.
Not in enough depth to really make the movie memorable, but sufficiently to put a personal twist to a familiar tale.
One and a Half Prince (2018)
One and a Half Movie
Incompleteness is an important theme to Ana Lungu's feature, a 'story' about three friends cohabiting with one another, featuring a selection of scenes from their lives. The ever so slight narrative circles around Iris, who is dealing with the sudden death of her boyfriend and looking to fill the void.
The boundaries between reality and fiction are blurred by the fact that the actors play themselves as characters. This generates a certain 'meta' feeling, particularly when it is actually discussed within the movie, but abstractly. A lot of the script plays as improvised, with unpolished dialogue and awkward silence abounding.
Unfortunately, this loose approach didn't work too well for me. The air of detachment surrounding Iris, the lead and also co-writer of the movie, sets her character somewhere in the distance, too far to be touched and emoted with. As a result, the movie failed to pull me in, playing as an almost random sequence of events with neutral people talking as people often do, boasting an aimless sense of philosophical enrichment. It might capture the particular joys and tribulations of actors, featuring nods and references to the likes of Mike Leigh and Daphne du Maurier, but what it succeeds at is framing them as people, in all their/our mundane glory.
The beautiful cinematography partly makes up for the lack of thrills or the incisiveness of its introspections. It is, however, not enough to make for a recommendation.
Set It Up (2018)
Zoey Deutch and Glen Powell reunite after the excellent Everybody Wants Some (2016) in this low frills, high-chemistry rom-com. There isn't much to dwell on here, as 'Set It Up' proves the ideal low-stakes Friday night Netflix watch.
Deutch and Powell play Harper and Charlie, two young and ambitious characters working for a very special brand of pushy, domineering bosses. When they realize their common predicament, they set out to...set up their bosses, in the hope that it will lead to quality of life improvements for themselves. In an ironic twist, the ones being pushed around leverage their insights into personal scheduling and personal preferences to ensure the mis-match ends up matching. As is usual for mischievous do-gooders, there will be fraternizing and moral conundruming. And it will be fun.
Any successful rom-com hinges on the compatibility of its leads. Luckily, that's not an issue here, with both potential couples gelling or not gelling just as intended. It's the energy of all four key characters that keeps the movie alive, thanks to the odd piece of witty writing or amusing situation. I think I only rolled my eyes once at some ultra-corny moment that could have been avoided, but beyond that, director Claire Scanlon works gently and fairly with her characters. Everybody learns an important life lesson by the end and, surprisingly, it's a lesson I relate to, although I've never had the issue of overworking myself in order to avoid pursuing my passions. There are other, more pleasureful ways of doing it.
Fotbal Infinit (2018)
The Flow of the Ideas and Being
Corneliu Porumboiu's most recent work is a 'documentary-essay' about - well, the human condition. The director likes to focus on the question of how one can be truly free within rules and norms, but that was not the strong point that made me appreciate this work. Instead, I was fascinated by how well 'Infinite Football' captures the manner in which life shapes the ideas we hold and how, with the passing of time, we have the tendency to create our own narratives almost regardless of whether those ideas align or not.
We follow Laurentiu Ginghina, a 50-something administrative clerk whose story starts when he was in his teens and had his fibula broken while playing football. He describes it later not as an act of malice or an error of judgment on the part of the players or himself, but rather a failure of the rules that govern the sport. It is the rules that facilitate, even require, this kind of physicality. A mere year after Laurentiu recovers from his broken fibula, which doesn't even heal correctly, his weakened shinbone crumbles on a wintery day in a red December, leaving the man to limp six kilometers all the way home.
So what's up with this adversity? It's what sets the man on a more existential path, emboldening him to search for purpose. The purpose of his life - a rather mundane one, in spite of the odd experience abroad - was to improve football. His ideas to improve the game start out with a few radical changes, like turning the pitch into an octagonal shape, removing the offside rule and subdividing the two teams by restricting their movement between specific lines. As his ideas percolate and fail to find acceptance, they are tweaked and adapted, to the point of becoming more impractical or even redundant, in what is to be Football 2.0. Or if that doesn't work, Football 2.1, or 2.9 or...infinite football.
But Porumboiu's film isn't really about football. "The ball is free, but we are not" is our protagonist's mantra, who simply fails to bridge the distance between theory and practice in a strained effort to matter. Doesn't almost everyone have his one idea they never managed to bring to fruition? That's what makes the movie truly relatable, especially in that Porumboiu treats Mr. Ginghina with interest and attention. Perhaps this is the best that we can all do, being gentle with each other and our ideas, starting with a certain age where everything tends to become more immutable. The meta-analysis of our being free within norms and rules is a perfunctory one, which works to some degree, but never enthralls by gathering a weight of relevance.
I'm definitely a fan of these Herzog-ian documentaries wherein some boundary-blurring occurs between the real and the surreal. Porumboiu, by inserting himself into the movie, encouraged this experience. It might be too close to the fringes of the absurd for some, but I think it's a philosophically fueled movie that trims it's audience based on compassion. And whether they think Messi is better than Ronaldo. 8/10
Planeta Petrila (2016)
Oh Petrila, My Sweet Chinchilla
Nobody can accuse Dascalescu's documentary of being without flair. I still recall, almost a decade ago, emerging from a forest road into Zlatna, a mining community some 200 km apart from Petrila: the picture perfect image of desolation was shocking. So to the extent that 'Planeta Petrila' celebrates the birth of some form of (artistic) life from such wreckage, it is a great success. However, it feels detached from the wider community of the town and in not taking an inquisitive stance on the viability of life in former coal mining 'colonies', it shies away from the bigger social and environmental questions.
Ion Barbu, ex-miner, or rather ex-mining topographer, current artist/activist/do-it-all is a veritable one man show. His distinctively spirited visual designs and Banksy-esque witticisms are plastered around Petrila, contrasting the dying pulsations of the coal mining industry. Alongside him - or rather, in a parallel universe - Catalin Cenusa leads one of the last mining teams to work the deep shafts of Petrila. The contrast between the two is stark and Dascalescu recognizes this, but never broaches the issue: Barbu is looking for Petrila's continuity beyond mining, while Cenusa is intent on working the coal for as long as possible. The latter's fight is a solitary one, with just one hundred people left of more than four thousand still earning their livelihoods from the Petrila mining exploitation.
The pressure to close the mines comes from the European Union, or rather the funds contracted by the government from the EU to 'green out' the area. It's somehow funny that in a documentary about mining, where the effect of mine closures are part of the focal point, I don't recall hearing the words 'environmental impact' or 'global warming' even once. If they were mentioned, it was more incidental. Instead there are clear indications as to what Dascalescu feels is the uninterested involvement of local and national authorities in the whole matter. Authorities are accused to have bypassed required consultations with communities of places like Petrila, in a desire to ensure European financing and, presumably, monetize some obscure vested interests in the greening and demolition process. The bigger issue though is not so much what the community wants to do, because the movie provides no sense of who the community is; it simply stays close to Barbu and to the involvement of out-of-town NGOs in preserving a cultural art space in some of the mine's historic buildings.
I have no idea what the artistic value of Barbu's work is, but it's soulful stuff. Planeta Petrila provides a melancholic frame for the bitingly ironic and rightfully frustrated artist, ramping his desire for cultural renewal to overdrive. Barbu's bubbling personality and sharp sense of humour lighten up the gray realities of the town. From colourful graffitis to underground theater festivals, it's all happening in Petrila for the first time in...perhaps ever. The strong attachment to the heritage of the place, its silent suffering and the inherent sadness when it is all about to end come into focus in the best moments of Dascalescu's movie. The footage from inside the mine shafts, where Cenusa (translation: "ashes") and his crew really shuffle off their mortal coils, strengthened by the satisfaction of their work and some self-deprecating humour, are a testament to the importance of purpose and of being good at your craft, albeit a tragically outdated one.
In all this, the documentary could have done with more focus, because it feels disjointed in its two protagonists and in its desire to establish itself as activist cinema. My main gripe with Planeta Petrila is that it propagates that against which it preaches: the imposition of foreign interests on socially impaired communities. The fact that Dascalescu does not portray a balanced view of events, with next to no input from political and administrative figureheads, is not an issue; a documentary need not be a factual debate. But a lot of the time it feels like the activism caught on camera is a cause in itself, a self high-five, if you will. Planeta Petrila never successfully makes the case it implicitly supports at the outset, as articulated by Barbu: art can be Petrila's redemption. It looks more like art can and is Barbu's redemption, whose stubborn persistence, supported by NGOs, ensures the creation of a cultural space to keep the once socially-defining mining heritage of the community alive. In terms of how the people of Petrila will go on, other than desert the place, there are no answers, because the question is not being asked. The community seems voiceless, with Barbu, whose son travels the world on a motorbike, too cosmopolitan a figure, and Cenusa too far in the background and too intent on ensuring his livelihood.
Perhaps my skepticism is getting the better of me here, but that's what I would have wanted to see more of, to elevate the movie beyond an expression of art for art's sake. For what it's worth, Planeta Petrila is distinctive and paints in beautiful colours against the grey backdrop that is (was) the mining industrial complex. It's the kind of place I would like to emerge into when next traveling the forests around Zlatna.
Ana, mon amour (2017)
The Relationship Hive Mind
Netzer's follow-up to the excellent Child's Pose (2013) shares some elements with its precursor, but takes a different angle to the emotional roots and psychological ties of family life. A complex and layered film, it is framed in the present, but plays with the chronology of events to suit its thematic anchors: how relationships shape their protagonists and create inherent tension, abiding by no morality punch- card. While pertinent and polished in its construction, I found it hard to stay connected emotionally, especially as the characters evolve elliptically and the change in their dynamic feels abrupt.
Our couple is Toma and Ana, two lovers who meet during university and, more than anything, fall into a relationship. They are both cultured individuals and complete each other well, as Ana suffers from anxiety attacks and Toma is seemingly always there to support her. The movie proceeds to take us through the usual familial meet and greets, which prove traumatic and lay the groundworks for all the ensuing/existing psychological trauma. Those scenes have a sense of caricature about them, with 'traditional' values of partner screening proving funny and harrowing at the same time. But they prove to be just pieces of an ambitious human puzzle, which ends up taking us down an exploratory route devoid of superfluous emotion.
As an aside, some people in the cinema were taken aback by the explicitness of a sex scene, which I would rather deem justified, due to the Freudian aspects of Netzer's approach - and a meaningful character- building moment.
The attention to detail in fleshing out Ana and Toma provides the characters with a lot of depth. They are, as one would say, profoundly human in their imperfections and the manner in which this comes to the surface as their relationship evolves feels very true. The movie puts psychoanalysis at its core, turning it into an indirect plot device, which sometimes looks like a black box. More important though is how Ana and Toma react to change, in particular to Ana's gradual self- empowerment (thanks to a mixture of religion and psychoanalysis), which fundamentally alters Toma's role as 'the saviour'. It all becomes a matter of identity, of shaping and losing it, as defined by relationship roles, rather than intrinsic traits. Quite interestingly, the first scene finds the protagonists discussing Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil - the subjugation of morality to Christian dogma and the idea that good and evil are not quite opposites. By the end of the film, the overwhelming sense of some moral misappropriation between Ana and Toma can and, perhaps, should be seen through this lens, with no clear distinctions at hand for who is in the right and who might have been wronged.
While all this is intense and fascinating stuff, the chronological structure creates a bridge I couldn't cross. On the one hand, the technical execution of the to and fro was handled well - it's impressive how different degrees of a receding hairline can create a sense of time. Although some nuances are lost, that ends up challenging the viewer and keeping him engaged. On the other hand, because of gaps in time, Ana is difficult to grasp. She becomes a completely different person, which goes so far as her accent changing, and due to the elliptical nature of the story, she also feels emotionally like a third character in the relationship. Whereas Toma is more consistent throughout, Ana is fractured, making her feel foreign and inauthentic.
This is part of the reason why the second half of the film lost some momentum. Upon its conclusion, which tries a little twist and then goes one mile too far by trying to explain it, I wasn't engaged any more. It's a shame, because there is so much pain and sacrifice in Ana, Mon Amour that it really makes love feel like penance and weaves an exquisite psychological pattern to justify the claim. For the exploration it undertakes in what drives the two lead characters, both so well portrayed by Postelnicu and Cavallioti, it is commendable.
No Intenso Agora (2017)
A Moment in Time
Brazilian director Joao Moreira Salles wrote and directed this documentary (English Title: In the Intense Now) wrapped around the years 1966-1968 and the intense revolutionary spirit that engulfed certain parts of the world: France, foremost, but also Czechoslovakia, China and Brazil. Although the movie is inherently political, it rises above politics to express the fleetingness of self-actualization, the kind moments of such a spiritual coming together catalyzes. Although a tad long and sometimes too explicitly ponderous, Salles's work provides a unique frame to a very particular moment in time which is exceptionally relevant in the present day climate, all around the world.
The starting point for this project, composed predominantly of amateur archival footage, was Salles stumbling across film recordings his mother had shot during her visit to China in 1966. It was the first year of the Cultural Revolution, but what's really striking is the almost transformative effect the experience had on his mother. Providing a somewhat pedantic observational narrative, brimming with suppositions about what certain scenes mean, or what protagonists recorded on video might be thinking and feeling, the director spends most of the movie in Paris, where he lived for a while around the same period. Then, in May 1968, protests broke out among students in France, against the class- driven hierarchization of society and sexual conservatism. The dispute between students, on the one side, and university administration and the government on the other, escalated quickly, as worker unions joined the protests. All of a sudden, France was paralyzed. And liberated, at the same time, as Salles observes.
The events of those months are about more than social discord though. Salles nuances the idealism which spread like brushfire, manifesting itself in certain leading characters of the otherwise leaderless 'revolution', like Daniel Cohn-Bendit – a student at the University of Nanterre, where the protests were ignited before reaching the Sorbonne and Paris. The shift in communication dynamics, from a stifling top-down approach rooted in centuries of class division, stood out in interviews of the time. Yet, more than anything else, the protests also developed a renewed sense of belonging and generated an artistic flurry of dissent, Banksy-esque almost, including:
Soyez réalistes, demandez l'impossible (Be realistic, ask the impossible)
Sous les paves, la plage (Under the paving stones, the beach)
It's hard not to feel something. And then, the movement slowly withered – in the approximate words of Jean-Paul Sartre, who personally interviewed Cohn-Bendit: Spring belongs to the students, but Summer belongs to the holidays. Moreso, the commercial potential became obvious and even Cohn-Bendit, exiled for a short while in Germany, ended up writing a memoir of the events for a quick buck and a publishing deal. The Revolution that never was, lead with spontaneity and not with political manifestos and lists of demands, then faded, resulting in minimal, percentage-sized improvements to worker wages. The divide persisted as well, even between the protesters, as the worker class and the student class never found the equal footing. In the wake of it, desolation set in for the idealists, even though the landscape for social and political movements had changed forever. Salles contrasts martyrdom across Paris, Prague (the Soviet occupation, after the Spring protests) and Rio (march against the military dictatorship), focusing on the familial textures as well as the wider social impact of these deaths, questioning whether they represent persistent hope or the effigy thereof.
What really hits hard is the sense that for many involved, especially among the students, those days of 1968 were the highlights of their lives, the purest form of ébouillant existence, living 'in the intense now'. There's a joy of camaraderie, of a mutual and subliminal understanding which stem from the joint struggle. One wonders whether the depth of those weeks of protests, of standstill, is something that can still be today, with the rhythm of life and the exhibitionist nature of social media. Although subverting the status quo should be easier, just by looking at the recent (and ongoing) protests in my home country, Romania, I'm left more with vague hope, than conviction. I don't dare draw further parallels, because these are not trifles; they are intricate manifestations of a shared design of what life should be, in spite of apparent similarities.
Salles stumbled across the perfect time frame per chance. His work on No Intenso Agora started in 2012, before the world went aflame – in his native Brazil, in Europe, in the United States. The choice of spanning over four different manifestations of revolt is overbearing and tentative at times, but one can sense an inner core holding them together. Perhaps what bothered me, if anything in particular, was some of the narration, coming across as professorial. Once purpose was established, more natural expression and feeling coming directly from the images could have enhanced their impact and their significance, not unlike something as eccentric as The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceausescu (2010).
Other than that though, this was the best movie I had the chance of watching at the Berlinale. It's a strange mix of analytical-poetic- social justice, that ultimately leaves a lingering sense of how fleeting and unique some of the most important moments of our lives can be. There is no recipe to it, but Salles clearly indicates that a tempestuously exhibited shared belief, with the deep tributaries of 1968, can change our perception of purpose and existence. I'm not sure I completely agree, but the thesis is compelling and No Intenso Agora is good at expressing it.
The Dinner (2017)
An Exciting Mess
Oren Moverman's latest movie is quite the challenge. It has difficult characters, discomforting dialogue, an intricate construction and spreads over two hours. Nobody can accuse The Dinner of being unambitious, but I would like to accuse it of being an ambitious mess. Thankfully, not an unbearable mess.
Although Richard Gere (Stan) headlines, it's Steve Coogan (Paul), playing his brother, who appears to lead at the beginning. In an unexpected American accent, he narrates with misanthropic cynicism, as preparations for a dinner event are underway. The narration stops at some point and comes back randomly throughout the movie - just one of several small incoherences that make everything feel unusual. Stan and Paul's relationship is strained, at best, while their wives Kate (Rebecca Hall) and Claire (Laura Linney) act as mediators. Some dark matter seems to have brought them together at an elitist restaurant boasting culinary lushness; a matter which unfolds at a slow pace, interlaced with Stan fighting to pass a bill in congress, Paul's Gettysburg obsessions, their children's suspect affairs, past personal traumas, all across several courses of an impressive sounding meal.
For a movie that desires to tackle the lofty theme of social divide, it starts out feeling very personal. As it progresses, it distances itself from Paul to focus on the bigger picture and gravitate around Stan. It's a difficult move to pull off, as some sense of alienation occurs in the viewer, who has to accept the deep flaws surfacing in the 'object of attachment'. I felt a bit stranded, which culminated in a subpar ending.
But it wasn't a complete shipwreck, as Stan, alongside Kathey and Claire, managed to wrestle my attention. Indeed, wrestle is the right word, in what turns out to be a less than peaceful digestif. The whole preachiness of the last thirty minutes or so is borderline crass, yet engaging, in a visceral kind of way. It's a decent payout after ninety minutes of fluctuating intensity.
Do the themes and motives really blend though? It's hard to find a 'red string' to carry you through, as Paul's Hobbesian worldview overlaps with discussions of mental illness, political maneuvering and familial discord. You get pushed into finding personal interpretations to allegorical content, which is fun and rewarding, yet the movie proves heavy- handed in framing its moral questions and imperatives. Next to its schizophrenic identity dilemma, this just works against itself in the final scenes.
I really liked the intensity, the grotesque and obscene affluence entailed by the dinner scenes, even some of the almost derivative monologues. The interpretative freedom made some of the drearier moments worthwhile, but more cohesion and restraint would have transformed The Dinner into something quite special all around. In spite of the backlash it's being served, Oren Moverman's film is a worthwhile exploration into how messy holding yourself consistent socially and philosophically can be.
A Solo Woman Facing the Void
'A solo woman facing the void' is the expression someone used during the film's Q&A, when describing herself. The tag applies equally to the leading character in Barrage, Catherine (Lolita Chammah), a woman in her thirties trying to reconnect with her daughter, who had been raised by her grandmother for most of her life. Seen from a wider perspective, it looks a lot like a movie about a single mother and the struggle to prevent family-inherent traumas. But it's just as much about the struggle with oneself.
Story-wise, there's very little to say: Catherine shows up and wants to spend time with her daughter, to the disapproval of her own mother, both on and off-screen, Elisabeth (Isabelle Huppert). A few hours turns into half a day which turns into a weekend, as the two struggle to feel at ease with one another. And then the movie ends.
A more cynical person than myself could claim that the whole experience represents what European films are denigrated for: almost two hours of nothing happening. But that assessment would only be partially true. Overlong at its current run time and with a heavy observational period that spans for about an hour in the middle, the movie tests your patience. But it also builds on the bony relationship of the mother- daughter couple, in real-to-life process that just is painfully slow. Wrought with tension due to the expectation of failure on Catherine's part, even as she does come short, there is no sense of artificial doom, only for it to be swapped by some deeper recognition in the last three scenes. Rather the movie sets up a finale that offers relevant insights into the further dynamic of the characters, the generationally conditioned aspects of who they are and where they will go from there.
Somehow, I find myself writing that it all works, in spite of its shortcomings. The gorgeous scenery, the restrained performances and some unexpected, but well-suited musical arrangements come together into a coherent experience. It's going to be an acquired taste, flying close to artistic pretension, because of the pacing. Perhaps what swayed me was the metaphorical use of tennis in framing the relationship of the three women, a sport that's recognized for the battle one wages not so much with his or her opponent, but with oneself.
It's not an exciting movie, in a sense. Yet there are moments where it manages to connect and resonate, which has the power to outdo mere excitement. So yes, there is some reward at the end of this particular winding road.
Great Music Alone
The opening film of the Berlinale competition is yet another take on the sufferings brought on by the second World War. In a mixture of biopic and historical drama, Django fails in standing out from the crowd, walking down the one- dimensional route of escape from Nazi persecution, while rendering its characters secondary.
Django Reinhardt, a guitarist of Romani ethnicity, is dazzling the crowds in Paris during the later days of the German occupation. The specter of deportation looms over his family, his band, yet he refuses to accept the idea that anyone would harm him, due to his positive notoriety. However, after declining to tour in Germany, a quick visit to a local police station makes him see the light, as he flees close to the Swiss border, awaiting transfer. There, he comes across a local Romani camp and they come together to perform music in the area, as a means for survival. That's pretty much the gist of the story, which is as bland as it sounds. After a great opening scene, followed by an equally impressive musical performance, the movie drifts into this grey area where not much happens. Reda Kateb's performance is strong enough to retain some interest, yet the production lingers without delving deeply into either Django's person, nor the plight of the Romani people. Whenever music starts playing, the film comes to life, but this is not sufficient to keep a rhythm.
It's a shame, really, because there are glances of why Reinhardt could have been a relevant leading figure. Being unable to read or write, and bearing a childhood injury on his playing hand,his performances come from a deeply rooted passion for music, seemingly instilled by his Romani heritage and culture. This generates the contrast of music from the heart and music from the head, which is not subtle, yet it plays well with how ridiculously rigurous and lifeless Nazi censorship was. The close knit relations with his family, band and the fellow survivors he meets at the Swiss camp are well shaded against Reinhardt's privileged position, and his sense of entitlement. Yet, there is no clear sense of inner conflict, although the movie does imply that his personal quest is to learn some self sacrifice, putting himself second.
This is part of the problem, that Django just can't set itself apart and come across without conviction. Supporting characters have little to no personality, and function as either plot enhancers, or easy to swap band members. Only the relationship between Reinhardt and his mother is distinguishing, even if it feels at times like comic relief. The generic portrayal of the Nazi oppressors doesn't help either, as is the case with some of the elliptical moments in the story. Even the name of the movie should have given pause for thought: how does one make something distinctive with such an overused title?
Django would have been a much better experience, had it stuck to its music, especially as some of the artist's work was lost, which is a cause for grief. As another survival movie from the war, it falls flat, especially compared to some of the previously released hard-hitting productions, be they grim or soulful representations of the horror.
A Simple Tradition
A South African film was on show for the opening night of the Berlinale. Directed by John Trengove, it's the story of Xolani, set against the backdrop of a local circumcision initiation ritual. Barely had I settled into my seat, that penises were being sliced up at the edge of a forest, in ad-hoc conditions. So, yeah, it caught my attention.
The whole story though finds itself at an interesting intersection between tradition, homosexuality and validation. For Xolani, who otherwise works in the city, it's the yearly return 'in the mountains', to meet Vija, the man he loves. For Kwanda, Xolani's initiate, it's the pressure to conform with alpha male stereotypes. For most of the other participants, it's a last stand in the face of modern turpitude, both a rite of passage into manhood and a rite of separation from the others.
The first half or so of the movie, which sets the scene and introduces the characters, is almost fascinating. With strong acting all around, it's easy to get sucked into the experience and what's even more impressive, is the manner in which Trengove infuses such sensibility in something that otherwise could count as butch. The contrasting personalities are wrought with tension, culminating in some beautiful moments of just being. It all comes to life thanks to commanding craftsmanship and an eye for strong visuals, which is one consistent feature throughout.
Unfortunately, the latter part of the film elects to go for a more traditional exposition and resolution, with uneven pacing. What's worse though is the characters losing some of their sharpness, especially in scenes where they are turned into mere rhetoric tools. By the time the finale came around, I felt waywardly uninvolved. It's like the need for relevance and clarity became overbearing.
All things considered, The Wound stands as a film that, at its best, conveys a unique poetic restraint. It might not shine all the way through, yet it provides insight into a corner of the world that's usually left in the dark, tackling some big themes on the way. I would never want to fault someone for being too ambitious, so The Wound gets my recommendation.
Camera Obscura (2016)
The Anachronistic Avantgard
The last year or so has seen several Romanian documentaries about cinematic heritage and the associated resistance against the communist dictatorship, with Chuck Norris vs. Communism (2015) and Cinema, mon amour (2015) at the forefront. Their desire to paint this picture of subversiveness is a stretch undermining some of the unique stories they present and Camera Obscura proves a perfect companion piece in this regard.
Starting with the sixties, many state owned companies (usually in the primary or manufacturing industries) decided to subsidize some form of cinema clubs, providing obsolete tools from before the war and facilities for those interested to partake, with the aim of fostering some sort of communal film-making endeavour. The objective was to produce mostly propagandistic material, document work procedures and provide some stock footage of day to day activities. However, a great temptation to go beyond this existed and was not rigorously discouraged, conditioned by strict monitoring and censorship.
Camera obscura is, for better and worse, a walk down memory lane. A series of talking heads are interspersed between archival footage ranging from the mundane to, honestly, the sublime. The discussion is not particularly focused, but the emphasis falls on the technical aspects conditioning production, as well as the comprehensive interest in cinematic aptitude - rather than cinematic art. It makes sense, as the people partaking in the cinema clubs mostly had a technical background. Yet, especially because of this, some of the best moments in the movie come to the fore: a sisyphic, anti-system short about a man pushing a nut with his nose; a Beckett-esque scene with three men sharing a metallic office closet; a metaphoric cartoon about going to the store and buying some (very rare) chicken wings; or a visual analysis/juxtaposition of drawings following the rhythm of a scene in traffic. In a way it's funny, because there's a lot of talk about a kind of experimental cinematic avantgard, when actually, due to existing limitations, most of the work looks like a rehash of the 1920s.
The filming constraints provide some perspective and they frame the idea of the amateur filmmaker - something that has since vanished, in that it has become ubiquitous. But the movie is too stuck in its reminiscences to look for such shifts, which makes it plod at times. This happens particularly in some of the lackluster anecdotes the protagonists retell, or when it offers (unnecessary) interpretation. The nostalgia effect becomes overwhelming, which in itself is not an issue. However, with better framing and contextualization, certain paradoxes and inherent compromises would have become more apparent to viewers. For example, the atmosphere described at the clubs is often romantic, with only regulators being indicated as constraints to the film-making freedom. Yet, it is an accepted truth that with the clubs organized under the unions, there would have been 'infiltrators' within them, ready to report on any ill-doings.
While these shortcomings could be overlooked due to the rather solid and coherent material put together by Gheorghe Preda, what I cannot abide by is the occasional lack of focus and the complete pivot made in the final scenes to connect the clubs to the 1989 Revolution. Within ten minutes, there's a (wannabe) amusing breaking-the-documentary-wall moment, when an interviewee calls his wife and asks her to take care of their dog barking incessantly, followed by fully explicit scenes of freshly dug up bodies of people killed during the Revolution. Talking of rhythm and story, this just doesn't work and it is not justified either, in the context of what the movie is about.
I would have loved to understand what the people involved in the film-making process ended up doing with their post-communist lives, whether all the precious time spent in understanding the process saw them practice it once they had the freedom to do so. Knowing what the landscape of Romanian cinema was like in the 90s, they probably did not, but this was something worth exploring in conclusion. It would have been more appropriate to the people who took part in this movie, mostly people who have not found artistic or, presumably, financial actualization post '89.
I do recommend Camera obscura, especially if you have an interest in film-making, because it provides some special moments along the way. It's just unfortunate that a certain unwillingness to prod deeper and a lack of visionary discipline undermine it over the long run.
Un peu, beaucoup, aveuglément! (2015)
A Wall Apart
Full disclosure, 2016 hasn't been a great romancing year for me, so I get easily irked by too much quirky stuff or unsubstantiated love kernels. And for the most part, easy-breezy romcoms tend to consist of a string of those. So it's at least partly my fault that Blind Date didn't stick.
Then again, it felt like all the creators were working with was a concept and a final scene: the former bordering on the absurd, the latter more romantic than I was set up to expect, by the look of things. Everything else was filled in with a competent, but cloggy and predictable plot and endearingly cardboard-y characters. OK, that's harsh. The leads have a tinge of something special about them, both reclusive introverts, passionate creatives - playfully nicknamed Machine and Machin. Separated by a thin and not at all soundproof wall, they get to organizing their lives around one another and ultimately fall for each other. The secret sauce lies in them not having seen each other and therefore being able to focus on the essence of what's being conveyed. At times, the two even have enough personality to be more than cardboard cut-outs.
Instead of spending more time with them, we're served with two second-hand supporting characters, the adulterous sister (or was it friend?) of 'Machine' and the overly supportive friend of 'Machin'. The problem with these two is that they bring nothing to the story. Instead, they are classic counter-points - the rebellious matron to the timid girl, the happy-go-lucky fellow to the misanthrope. This makes them superfluous, because no time is dedicated to truly fleshing them out enough for anything they do to even matter.
Coming back to our protagonists, their purpose is to free one another of what's tying them down, while also coming together. For one, it's a perfectionist obsession with the creation brain-teaser games; for the other, it's a perfectionist obsession with playing the piano. It fits, we do like fixing in others what we can't fix in ourselves. This takeaway, so common to romantic comedies, is the bane of my existence. To its defense, Blind Date tries to nuance the matter, as one might find motivation in another, but still needs to independently commit to change. Even so, there's just an excessive amount of wish fulfillment about the movie, as too much is left unexplored to really make it worthwhile. Luckily, the bits of Chopin scattered throughout help out.
People seem to like the flick, so with my disclaimer in mind, take what you will out of this review. Yet I cannot help being disappointed, because while it does feel authentic at points, it predominantly appears trite. Maybe I should just lower my pretentious romcom bar a notch or two.
Afacerea Est (2016)
That's How It's Done
I still recall Igor Cobileanski's first two shorts ("Cand se stinge lumina" and "Sasa, Grisa si Ion") with great fondness. It was the earlier days of the internet when someone recommended them to me and, to this day, every time conversations turn to movies from Moldova, I chuckle. After missing out on the first feature film directed by Cobileanski, quite different from the darkly humorous tone of his shorts, Afacerea Est promised to be more of, let's say it, his trademark style.
A meek and naive music teacher Marian ('intellectual') is forced to team up with a harsh, rudimentary, yet world-wise fellow Petro ('entrepreneur') in order to settle a bizarre business deal involving horseshoes. Their simple trip to complete the transaction is rocked by the theft of Marian's bag, which contained their documents and, more importantly, a wad of cash. So they're off the train and hustling to reach the final destination, making money however they can - playing guitar and singing for donations, enlisting as helpers to a local politician or conning farmers during the peak of an Avian flu outbreak. And all of this, of course, for love - so that Marian can afford to wed his beloved, Veronica.
It's a road trip/buddy comedy that works hard at portraying a reasonably faithful caricature of society in Moldova. Sometimes it's overbearing how hard. The timing of events seems set in the mid 00s, but while technology has shaped the way some things work, the undertones are not as different as they should be. Judging by how the story unfolds and the themes poked at, there isn't that much separating Romania from Moldova, only that the geopolitics exert different gravitational forces on the two.
The force holding the story of Marian and Petro together is that of deception. Everything almost everyone does is aimed at misleading someone in one way or another. What Cobileanski points out well is that we're not faced with good and bad characters - although one might be inclined to look at Marian for the weak but positive hero of the tale, in contrast to Petro. Yet, both of them engage in the deceits and Cobileanski's world is only segregated by size: small time crooks, big time crooks and very big time crooks. For all the hassle the protagonists go through, dealing with sums of money that appear significant, only upon meeting with their 'client' does scale begin to come into perspective.
The wild, wild East we're being shown was pretty much the transition phase after the end of communism. It's 'doubleplus' surreal set in Moldova, where the past and the present appear more intertwined. Cobileanski manages, at times, to really capture the irony and the foolishness of life in situational humour. Luckily, I was alone in the cinema and could laugh as hard as I felt like doing. However, there are also several scenes that come across quite flat or overly contrived, while language isn't used as skillfully as a tool for irony. And not to nitpick, but even a couple of fools like Marian and Petro didn't have to get off a train leading them to certain cash for a miserly stolen pouch.
All in all though, I'm glad that Afacerea Est is more of what Cobileanski promised with his first films. It's not perfect, yet it's good enough and presumably plays as a crazy adventure for someone not familiar with 'the way things are done' here.