Author: Ray Lobo

As a film reviewer, aesthetic rapture rarely overtakes me.  When it does, it is usually because a filmmaker has birthed an artwork wherein everything functions, each element coheres with the other no matter how disparate these elements may be.  The craftsmanship of co-directors Alessio Rigo de Righi and Matteo Zoppis is on resplendent display in The Tale of King Crab.  I do not use the word “craftsmanship” arbitrarily.  The Tale of King Crab has an aura of craftsmanship.

Screenplay, cinematography, acting, setting, mood, and above all a kind of authorial eccentricity all coalesce in making a non-generic work of art.  Hollywood’s assembly line mentality when it comes to film–or as they see it, visual commodities–could never produce a film such as The Tale of King Crab.  The film reminds one of Aguirre, the Wrath of God.  In fact, I dare say, King Crab surpasses Herzog’s Aguirre.  King Crab is a stew cooked with the choicest ingredients of Herzog, Pasolini, and a more recent Italian director who just like de Righi and Zoppis incorporates lyrical and magical realist elements, Alice Rohrwacher. 

King Crab is structured in such a manner that one tale contains another tale.  The film opens with a shot of murky water reminiscent of Tarkovsky.  A hand reaches into the water and seizes what appears to be a gold amulet.  This “gold fever” becomes a central plot point in King Crab’s second half.  But initially, our protagonist seems to be the antithesis of anyone willing to die for gold or treasure.  We come to know our protagonist, Luciano (Gabriele Silli), by way of the stories of some Italian hunters gathered to share a meal.  Did Luciano exist in the 1800s or is he the stuff of pure fancy? 

We are not sure.  Luciano, as described by the hunters, is the ultimate underdog.  He is the son of a doctor, yet a bastard child.  He is the village drunkard; however, one is drawn to his independent streak, his willingness to challenge authority.  Luciano is irritated by a wooden door erected in the village on the prince’s orders that prevents the local shepherds a shortcut through which to navigate their flocks.  Luciano forcibly breaks through the door.  As expected, the prince’s goons come looking for him to rough him up.  Luciano does not back down.  He tells the goons, “You’re just pawns.”  

Luciano is romantically interested in a local peasant woman, Emma (Maria Alexandra Lungu).  When he sees Emma at the prince’s castle during the celebration of the village’s patron saint, Luciano’s discontent with the hierarchical structure of his village reaches an apex.  Luciano sets fire to both the prince’s door and his castle.  His fate is certainly sealed.  Prison awaits him.  But thanks to his father’s influence, Luciano is extradited to Argentina’s Tierra del Fuego.  

Once the film’s setting changes to Tierra del Fuego in the second half, we are in a different setting both literally and metaphorically.  We are introduced to a new tale, one based on the journal entries of one Father Antonio Maria de la Vera.  The journal entries give instructions as to how to find a lost treasure.  The drunkard Luciano, the same man who referred to himself as a “ghost” and an “empty” entity in the first half of the film is now dressed in a priest’s frock sporting a Nietzschean-like moustache and spouting meditative proclamations.  Luciano gets embroiled with a gang of mercenaries trying to find the treasure.  And what does Luciano add to this mix of roughnecks?  His spirituality and the insight that a king crab will act as a compass leading to the treasure.  If Luciano finds the treasure, it will pay for his trip back home to Italy.

Did Luciano truly become a priest?  Will the king crab reliably lead the way to the treasure?  If such questions seem preposterous, they are.  But every bit of preposterousness in King Crab works thanks to de Righi and Zoppis’ direction and screenplay (Tomasso Bertani also gets a screenwriting credit).  It is a credit to the screenwriters that a movie told in two halves–one half told in Italian, the other in Spanish–somehow coheres.  Luciano goes from drunkard to priest without the viewer feeling any less captivated by him.  Themes revolving around religion, greed, and love are all woven together.  And even the notion of The Americas as a place of opportunity–with all the hazards that brings–and a place wherein one can recreate oneself, is a theme explored in King Crab.      

King Crab accomplishes a difficult feat.  It captures the feel of the meandering stories of grandparents.  Meandering storytelling may be a bad thing; or it may not.  If the story anchors you on the protagonist’s plight, then the many twists and turns of the meandering journey become pleasurable–The Odyssey is a prime example.  And there is a Homeric quality to King Crab that I cannot fail to mention.  Up until the very end we are not sure if Luciano simply desires riches or riches as a means to regaining a lost love waiting for him, somewhere, out there, beyond Tierra del Fuego.  I implore you to join Luciano on his journey.  You will be enchanted.             

You know that feeling when responsibilities and expectations press down on you, not allowing you room to breathe, task building upon additional task, each one yet another brick reinforcing your containment?  There comes a point when, understandably so, you begin losing your mind.  Such is the situation Artemis (Sofia Kokkali) finds herself in when she returns to Athens to take care of her father, Paris (Lazaros Georgakopoulos).  Paris is suffering from multiple sclerosis.  

Director Jacqueline Lentzou brilliantly captures the often-fraught relationship between daughter and father in Moon, 66 Questions. We can gather that tensions between Artemis and Paris have festered over time.  Artemis’ mother is distant and no longer a couple to her father.  Artemis’ family members assume that she, the only adult daughter Paris has, must be the one to undertake the role of live-in caretaker.  And so, she does.  She realizes that her young adulthood has reached a point of fracture.  But what can she do?  Someone must take care of her ailing father.  Not surprisingly, Artemis’ mental health begins to unravel.

Lentzou both directed and wrote Moon, 66 Questions.  She adeptly integrates the narrative’s themes into her visuals.  For instance, bodies are on display everywhere in Moon, 66 Questions. Bodies in flowing motion are contrasted against a body struggling to stand upright and take a step forward. We see legs exercising underwater, Artemis running on a treadmill, dancing, basketball players sprinting up and down a court on television, all the while Paris cannot bring enough control to his limbs so as to do the most basic of tasks.  Life can be mercilessly cruel.  

Kokkali’s performance is outstanding.  Her face communicates resignation, a look that conveys, “OK, this is my life now.”  Georgakopoulos, for his part, displays a rather impressive range.  At times he is lucid, at other times distant, his voice and thoughts trapped by a debilitating disease.  If there is a minor quibble with Moon, it involves the somewhat confusing visual of tarot cards used in several scenes throughout the film.  These visuals could have been omitted without hurting the film in any way. 

But again, I must emphasize, minor quibble.  Overall, the universal themes conveyed by Moon elevate the film.  The sense of duty—oftentimes unfairly forced upon women instead of men—to play the role of caretaker for a parent is a dilemma spanning the globe.  We feel for Artemis.  We, as much as she, know that her young adulthood is over.  She is trapped.  Then again, one’s heart breaks seeing how disease has trapped Paris.  In the end, we come to a sobering realization:  both culture and our own bodies impose limitations upon our freedom.  Such is the human condition.        

Moon, 66 Questions hits cinemas nationwide on 24th June.

The spectral is everywhere in Céline Sciamma’s Petite Maman. Sciamma (Portrait of a Lady on Fire) places death front and center in the opening scenes.  Nelly (Joséphine Sanz) has just lost her grandmother. Nelly’s parents take her to her mother’s childhood home to clear out the place.  Once there, childhood memories echo through the rooms and shadows emanating from tree branches outside remind Nelly’s mother (Nina Meurisse) of her name for such shadows—The Black Panther. 

Given the freshness of her grief, it is all too much for Nelly’s mother.  She abruptly leaves her childhood home, leaving Nelly and her father behind to finish up the clearing of the place.  For the next few days, Nelly explores the magnificent woods surrounding the house. 

One day, something curious catches Nelly’s eye.  A little girl, with a striking resemblance to her, is moving a large branch through the forest.  The little girl introduces herself as Marion (Gabrielle Sanz).  Marion reveals that Nelly is also the name of her own recently deceased grandmother.  Marion invites Nelly back to her place.  Once there, Nelly notices that Marion’s place is eerily similar to Nelly’s mother’s childhood home.  In addition, Marion acts as though she were older than her age.  It is as if an older person were inhabiting Marion’s child body.  Nelly can no longer deny what she senses to be obvious—Marion is her mother in childhood form. 

Petite Maman boasts of two amazingperformances in the form of real-life sisters Joséphine and Gabrielle Sanz.  Their performances bring to life their bond, a very particular and special girlhood bond.  One also cannot fail to praise Sciamma’s talents.  You will be hard pressed to find a director capable of creating maximal moods with tools as traditional as story, music, and lighting. 

And my goodness, is the lighting in Petite Maman extraordinary.  Everything from the lighting of rooms during the day, to the shadows in those same rooms at night, to the candles on a birthday cake, and even the dappled light created by the sun as it hits treetops in a forest create a glorious childhood universe.  Couple that lighting in the forest with a wind moving through the trees, giving the forest a rustling life of its own, and you can appreciate how Sciamma creates mood by mere lighting and sound.  Speaking of sound, Petite Maman is devoid of background music for most of its runtime. 

The one time Sciamma uses music, it bursts in a rich cacophony that works beautifully in the context of the scene.  Petite Maman clocks in at less than 90 minutes.  If there is one gripe to be had, it is that even that runtime feels a bit too long for what is a film with a very specific and narrow narrative. 

All in all, Petite Maman is absolutely worth experiencing if for the mere reasons of taking in mood and lighting.  We witness several transformations occurring in the film.  Nelly’s mother transforms into Marion, Nelly and Marion transform a bunch of branches into a hut, shadows transform into recognizable shapes, and even Nelly’s father transforms when he shaves his beard.  Death and absence, Petite Maman seems to be indicating to us, are not absolute.  They may just be transformations.

I came to know director Ramin Bahrani by his early dramas—Man Push Cart, Chop Shop, and Goodbye Solo.  Those films had immigrant characters trying to find their niche in an America that marginalized them as they worked and struggled to eke out a living.  Bahrani’s documentary, 2nd Chance, is a departure from those early dramas.  With 2nd Chance we still get Bahrani’s fascination with America; however, this time he chooses a documentary format to tell a very American story.  Another major shift involves who Bahrani chooses as the focal point of his documentary—Richard Davis.  

Davis is a businessman, an entrepreneur, the inventor of the concealable bulletproof vest, and as if that were not enough, a showman filmmaker.  His journey in pursuit of “The American Dream” began fifty years ago when he opened a pizza shop.  An employee in his pizza shop was the victim of an armed robbery while making a delivery.  Shortly thereafter, Davis confronted the armed robbers which led to a shootout.  That confrontation, and the catching on fire of his pizza shop—a rather murky event, one must add—led Davis to tinker and develop a concealable bulletproof vest.  Davis’ life, as Bahrani beautifully puts it, is a metaphor for the United States— “absurd and frightening.”  Davis inventively designed a catalogue promoting his vests using female models.  He called the catalogue “Sex and Violence.”  He then produced hyperkinetic shootout videos that were shown to police departments across the United States in an effort to promote the vests.  Police departments bought the vests; hook, line, and sinker.  That led Davis to open a vest factory in a small Michigan town wherein he became the town’s most influential figure.  Eighty percent of the town worked for Davis. 

Davis became famous for shooting himself 192 times in his videos so as to show the effectiveness and authenticity of his vests.  His personality exudes a type of unadorned honesty, a real American—if I am allowed the pun—straightshooter.  As 2nd Chance develops, we begin to realize that Davis is anything but a straightshooter.  It would be too revealing to go into the particulars, but Davis is involved in sordid affairs.  They range from paying off individuals in order to avoid criminal charges to privileging profits over the lives of those who use his vests.

Bahrani channels great documentarians such as Errol Morris and Werner Herzog.  As with Morris and Herzog, Bahrani presents us with an eccentric figure who is both obsessive and flawed.  It is as if Davis’ flaws drive his obsessions.  In Davis’ case, the tragic flaw is a narcissism that comes through and through his life story and his interviews with Bahrani.  Bahrani quite effectively captures a subtext of American masculinity and gun fetishization through the figure of Davis.  

In the end one comes to a startling realization.  Davis was not just selling vests to police departments, the military, or even American presidents.  He was selling himself in his promotional vest videos, a vision of himself, a vision of a Dirty Harry-esque/vigilante justice America.  Davis’ videos with plots involving cop-killing hippies and subversive types had a certain allure for those who bought his vests.  These visions of “American Carnage” have long been around.  Bahrani’s 2nd Chance gives us yet another example of an individual profiting from this dark American narrative.

“Hello world, how do you plan on fucking with me today?” With that line, delivered within the opening ten minutes of Straighten Up and Fly Right, we are instantly drawn into the character and world of Kristen (Kristen Abate).  Kristen suffers from Ankylosing Spondylitiswhich severely reduces her mobility, gives her a hunched posture, and causes her pain and psychical distress.  She lives alone and is estranged from the world around her.

Her drug dealer is one of her few points of social contact.  She not only buys drugs from him; she also pays him for sex.  She is served an eviction notice.  People in the street stare at her as she earns a living walking dogs.  As if the stares were not degrading enough, her condition makes the picking up of dog poop an unusually straining exertion.  In short, her life is quite dispiriting. 

And then one day Kristen is contacted by a man in need of her dog-walking services.  When he opens the door, Kristen notices that the man has her same condition.  Steven (Steven Tanenbaum) understands Kristen’s frustrations; he himself has experienced many of them. Steven allows Kristen to stay with him.

And, slowly but surely, he starts drawing Kristen out of her isolation.  Steven encourages Kristen to meet his friends—a group of artistic types who are very welcoming—and to continue developing her writing.  Her sense of community and her own confidence coalesce when she reads a piece of spoken word poetry for Steven’s friends.  Kristen’s love life; however, that is different story.  

Straighten Up and Fly Right works on several levels.  The touches of cinema verité as Kristen walks dogs along New York City’s streets are done masterfully.  Kristen’s narration on everything from the behavior of birds to her genealogical history of how disabled people have been perceived is very insightful.  And then of course there are the scenes that focus on Kristen’s body.

We become aware of the difficulty involved in everything from showering to picking something up from the ground.  Abate and Tanenbaum pull off an outstanding feat:  their acting performances are superb as is their co-direction of the film.  The only place wherein Straighten Up and Fly Right falters is in its ending.  It feels too tidy.  That is a shame because for most of its runtime the film is smart, snappy, and willing to dwell within a world that is far from neat. 

There are some very poignant insights offered by Abate’s character.  Disabled folks can feel people’s stares.  Dogs, on the other hand, “are punk rock,” according to Abate.  They will take a poop in front of anyone, and they do not care who stares.  This is perhaps a call for us to care less about stares but also to stare less at others.

Maybe we would all stare less if we realized that the disabled are just like us; or better said, we are all “disabled.”  As we age, we come closer and closer to the day when we will also be disabled.  Maybe we should see disability as less of a condition and more of as a stage of life we all enter—some of us sooner, some us later, but all of us eventually.