Phantom-Carriage

O delicado documentário de Natara Ney me encontrou num momento muito único de minha vida: estou a alguns meses trabalhando numa clínica estética. Tudo que falo, escrevo, filmo e edito agora gira em torno dos mitos da beleza - e a corrida inglória contra o relógio, as "técnicas" do corpo jovem, os "métodos" de rejuvenescimento, os "tratamentos" contra a velhice.

Eu, que mal me olhava no espelho, tenho passado a reparar em tudo - negativo - que compõe o meu corpo e, portanto, minha história. Minha testa tem uma linha horizontal muito fina, porém visível em repouso, porque gosto de levantar as sobrancelhas para me expressar. E há um vinco verticak que se aprofunda cada vez mais entre elas porque, ansiosa como sou, estou sempre preocupada. E há também um início de pés-de-galinha, e as olheiras profundas do sonambulismo, e as bochechas caídas por causa da obesidade...

Eu sei porque sou assim. Eu estava aqui, bem aqui, em todos os momentos que estas linhas e marcas e manchas se formaram - e as que já nasceram comigo. Eu sei.

Minha tarefa diária é tentar deixar todo o eufemismo e as "mentirinhas brancas" (?) lá no espaço de trabalho, dentro da gaveta mofada que lhe pertence, e voltar para a casa pensando em tudo que me vale, em que acredito.

Portanto ao ver na tela tantos rostos flácidos, marcados, cheios de sinais - de vida! - me emocionou muito. Pessoas velhas preenchendo todo o campo de visão. Suas manchinhas, rugas, orgulhosamente contando histórias. O ritmo desacelerado da fala, o brilho no olhar, a emoção fluindo enquanto liam as cartas de amor de Lúcia e Osvaldo. A nostalgia não é empoeirada e fedendo a naftalina, como (as revistas e a TV e o cinema e o mercado de trabalho e os produtos de beleza e) me disseram: saudade e nostalgia brilham, emocionam e fazem o peito vibrar. Dá vontade de viver.

Eu não quero mais ter medo de envelhecer. Eu não quero ter medo de ser uma mulher velha.

"Tudo termina no lixo, a verdade é essa", disse o vendedor da feira de antiguidades que entregou as 180 cartas para a diretora realizar este filme. Lixo é o que sobra, o que resta, o que não cabe no ciclo natural da vida neste planeta. E eu preciso me lembrar que deste meu corpo (e, caso alguém mais esteja lendo isso, do seu corpo também:) nada sobra, nada falta. Não há excesso e não há ausência que uma cânula esterelizada possa retirar ou colocar.

(e, se um belo dia eu resolver deitar naquela maca e ter o corpo retocado como uma máquina, que seja por um bom motivo. de consciência tranquila, sem medo, sem excesso e sem ausência).

Obrigada pelo toque, Ney e equipe. Belo trabalho. O cinema documentário tem estes caminhos imprevisíveis e, quando desembocam no espectador, causam efeitos mil. Daqui do meu lugar, só tenho a agradecer e louvar.

Curitiba, três de junho de dois mil e vinte e dois.

Espero que Esta te Encontre e que Estejas Bem

Dir.: Natara Ney

Brasil, 2022

Paula sonha com uma grande piscina para seus filhos na casa de praia. Mas a grana está apertada, a praia é feia e ela está cansada.

Ondas de felicidade e melancolia se alternam e se sobrepõem à medida que os problemas aparecem: os pedreiros estão enrolando para terminar a obra, o pai das crianças não tá ajudando com o valor combinado da piscina, um cara estranho fica entrando todo dia na casa pra pescar no riacho da propriedade. Guto quer fazer amigos. Gabi quer descobrir a praia. Faltam braços para Paula gerenciar e cuidar de tudo, mesmo que sua mãe esteja ali para lhe ajudar.

O peso destas pequenas coisas acaba ofuscando a tal felicidade e plenitude das férias de verão. Sempre lhe escapa algo, mas a vida continua acontecendo e os dias ali no litoral estão acabando - não há muito o que fazer, Paula. A vontade é de entrar na tela e abraçar essa mãe, tentar fazê-la parar um pouco e cuidar de si mesma, aliás, cuidar também do bebê que está em sua barriga. A filha que vem, ainda sem nome, simboliza um futuro próximo em que o estado mental e o estresse da protagonista não vão se resolver ou se acalmar: a pressão da maternidade é permanente.

No litoral paulista, a modesta casa abriga as diferentes fases de vida da família, o que torna o filme delicado e compreensível a uma grande diversidade de públicos. Há a leveza da infância de Gabi, inocente e curiosa; a pré-adolescância que Guto encara, o estranho e conturbado coming-of-age, na ausência da figura paterna; o morno papel da avó das crianças, mediadora de conflitos, como se apenas observasse a filha se tornar mãe. Em todas as personagens há certo tédio, uma melancolia que não permite ver a "felicidade" das coisas, tão distante.

A moldura da piscina, com aquele tom de azul-céu, é uma grande e opressora promessa vazia. Lembra os famosos billboards que vendiam o sonho americano no auge da Grande Depressão. O "American Way of Life" aqui é o desejo da classe média brasileira, desde a propriedade privada até o medo do outro.

A Felicidade das Coisas

Dir.: Thais Fujinaga

MIRADOR conta a história de Maycon, um boxeador que treina para voltar aos ringues. Sua vida é revirada quando, sem aviso, passa a ter que cuidar sozinho da filha pequena. Entre a dura rotina de treinos e bicos para sobreviver, Maycon deve encarar uma luta ainda maior: tornar-se pai. Incerteza e algum rancor passam a sombrear o rosto de Maycon quando ele se vê sozinho com sua filha. É a inocência e fragilidade que emanam não apenas da pequena garota, mas também um aspecto da própria vida difícil e solitária do homem: ele se reconhece fraco. A pouca grana vai ter que sustentar, agora, duas pessoas. Ao lado da cama de solteiro agora tem um berço, e a panela do feijão leva um pouco mais de água. Decisões pesam muito neste país de abismos sociais. A responsabilidade de ser pai é pesada e traz escolhas difíceis - o mínimo para sobreviver é, muitas vezes, um pão amargo. "Os filhos abandonados da pátria que os pariu"¹, acabam por encarar constantemente o limite e a exaustão do corpo, reféns de trabalhos miseráveis e bicos humilhantes. Espelho de um papel que mais de 11 milhões de mulheres exercem no Brasil², a sobrecarga e as lutas invisíveis da paternidade solo é descrita no roteiro de William Biagioli e direção de Bruno Costa de maneira crua, sem romance ou vitória. Maycon não é um pai perfeito, e nem poderia ser, sem rede de apoio e sem poder econômico. A desigualdade é como um um ruído permanente no fundo da cabeça, invencível e, ainda assim há de se encontrar forças para não enlouquecer. É especialmente emocionante a cena em que vemos o pai trazer um presente para a filha: um nebulizador, para aliviar seu congestionamento nasal. O reconhecimento das necessidads dela, sobrepondo o desejo egoísta dele.Também na cena em que cuida dos cachinhos crespos de Malu e, sabendo da importância do cabelo na estética e auto-estima da mulher negra, me peguei pensando no futuro daquela pequena família. Me lembrei de meu pai tentando pentear meu cabelo numa ocasião em que minha mãe não estava em casa, e eu precisava ir para a aulinha de balé. Quanta dificuldade! Amassou completamente meus cachos, mas ele tentou, é isso que importa... É preciso primeiro amar para poder cuidar de alguém. Quem sabe, assim, não sobrem migalhas de amor para filhos e filhas de pais ausentes. ¹Monstro é Aquele que Não Sabe Amar (Os Filhos Abandonados da Pátria Que Os Pariu), samba-enredo da Beija-Flor de Nilópolis no carnaval de 2018. ²Fonte: https://brasil.elpais.com/brasil/2021-03-17/os-estragos-invisiveis-da-pandemia-para-as-maes-solo.html Mirador

Dir. Bruno Costa

[seen @ 10th OLHAR DE CINEMA INT'L FILM FESTIVAL - Mirada Paranaense, Curitiba - PR, Brasil] I’m sure the feature “Bia Plus One” (2020), directed by Wellington Sari and his local production studios, O Quadro, doesn’t quite matches the checklist my professor made to delineate what he called “conversational films”. Some of the pre-requisite were: 1. conversations must be just conversations; 2. the movie shouldn’t have much than just talking, so no big plot twist are allowed, 3. no big genre. Right, uh? Simple rules, but the thing is that most movies tend to lead conversations somewhere. Dialogues usually solve problems and plot holes, so a great bunch of the movies where the characters keep talking and talking those words do have a narrative hanging onto them for a closure to be found at the end of those 90 minutes or so. 

Still, “Bia Plus One” was such an irresistible movie to write about, even though I’m so out of words, that I tried writing my essay for this last semester about it. Breaking rule number 3, it fits in the big genre teen flicks + the subgenre of early pregnancy. Also within the expectations of the teen movie drama, we don’t have a very talkative teen protagonist. She doesn’t talk away all her angst, well we know maybe that would turn things around in that narrative. Bia, the protagonist, appreciates silence and that makes every dialogue interesting - and necessary. 

By the way the narrative is very simple and straightforward: Bia is young and she is pregnant. The absence of a father doesn’t matter, that is not the question here. The question here is the fear of facing mom and dad. The question is the now zero bond she has with her old friends in town. The question is she feels supportless. The question is… it is what it is, the concrete fact of the pregnancy and all the uncertain, non-concrete things that revolve around this weird “being”; being young, being a woman, being a mother, being single, being lonely. Besides the baby that will also come to be. Those “things” and those “questions”, with all the weight due to those words, form a feature film that is light and expectant of those uncertainties of life.

The theme of the rencontre, the causality and coincidence, is the way Bia and Jean emerge as a pair of strangers: a forgotten phone on a bar table. The starting point of small talk. Few things in common, another thousand differences are suggested. It is a sweet and pleasant relationship of those, specially when Sari, screenwriter and director, draws Bia an art lover and Jean a basketball player - and it doesn’t end as an impossible dichotomy, but separate worlds that complement and compensate each other. She learns something; he learns a lot with her. Conversations are cut by silence when sometimes they dive into themselves an their own questions, their uncertainties - they show physical discomfort, turning on and off the phone, tapping their feet, turning away their faces. But this double silence also has its positive side: there’s confidence growing among them, when words lack and distress take over. The silence before the “big” pregnancy announcement is calm and caring - it was comfortable to be around each other then and there. The silence after, in the other way, is cut by broken words and weird “uhs” and “ahs” and suddenly Bia transforms into the stranger she once was in his life. Jean doesn’t really know how to deal with her pregnant girlfriend (by another guy), or the very fact that she is a woman. He steps back. 

Like in that scene when Bia listens to a podcast or a lecture on her favorite Renaissance painting and, now expecting a baby, she finds herself afraid of impregnating all things with motherhood - things she admires so much and what she used to say were her, her personality. Her shoegaze and her Renaissance art, her peace of mind, in all this she’ll now have company. Bia plus one. Almost as an unexpected rencontre, the company of the baby will change her way - but this is still a long way to go. The belly’s not grown yet, her parents still don’t know - the baby’s still an acquaintance that crossed her existence, and her memory (and time) will still build a face and establish contact. Right now, both the future and her baby are only pixels on a screen. But, they will come to be. What about loose words, do they make into dialogues?  

DEGRADATION

A cold, colourless room full of petrified human figures. Standing still, passionately suffering.

Well, that is a way you could explain a department of greek and roman sculptures in the Louvre Museum, France. And it will not be a matter of ignorance or lack of art education; alienation and aggressiveness would be the key words on this analysis. I will choose to be (and stay, even if warned afterwards) blind. Critically frozen and misled, I will not see the full picture, just the small chip of marble that looks weird. 

When Polanski decides to put Picquart as our guide on this filmed view on the Dreyfus Affair, he puts us through a man’s changing point of view, first as an anti-semitic ordinary man to one whose life would be severely thorn by defending a Jew’s honour. That we follow Picquart ascension of consciousness as he realizes the military has put on him black-and-white lenses of the Good and Evil, is a director’s way of saying he wants to go beyond the historical affair. Maybe he’s trying to say, “beware, there are more of these old men out there - right here, right now”. 

With an intention of telling a sober story of a past not to be turned into future again, “J’Accuse” goes straight into the point: a Jewish military man is accused of treason and loses his freedom for it. When Alfred Dreyfus says “you’re accusing an innocent man” we can hear a crowd roaring “liar, traitor!”, that and the sneer of his higher officers. The ritual of undressing a once respectable man is quick and geometrical, brief enough for the audience to understand something may not be fair. But the visual throughout the movie tells it all; the square is grey and mortified by rain and ice. Officers stand repeated and mimetical. The fine work of colour correction makes uniforms stand, shining in gold, red and black. The opening scene (or, to be honest, most part of the film) could be read in a Foucault-like mind: institutional-tempered bodies ready to discipline and punish.

When it becomes clear that colonel Picquart will fight for justice, his uniform suits becomes more frequently worn with a greyish light-blue shade. He is not fully under the Military’s scope of protection anymore, but he never ceases to abide by it. As well as Dreyfus; both respect orders and hierarchy and believe it can (and will) save them from harm. Turns out it is almost impossible because, as colonel Henry conveniently says, “the mind of an officer holds secrets that even his own kepi must not know about”. The result is that prejudices are justified to contour mistakes; docile bodies choose to keep their sick attitude in order to maintain a status quo. Set in 1894, Dreyfus’ trial should have been an eye-opener on how institutions fail constantly - and how anti-semitism was already triomphant in this grey world. 

Blood-red uniforms and hypocrysis mingle in a sad, cold and worrisome end of a century. "Laisser tomber", even if generations ahead still collect the ruins of such tarnished moral. 

J'ACCUSE

I'm uncertain If I enjoyed the formal aspects of this movie. While the narrative choices, frames, art production and color were magnificent, I felt a certain disconnection between the movie's pace and the way audiences may perceive it. Music doesn't guide us, except for punctual transition scenes: so It is only there to wrap up a feeling (anxiety, sadness) and move on with the storyline. Though that's an aspect of commercial/ hollywoodian movies, here it is not enough to dictate a profound emotion audiences should feel. It got me thinking maybe Polanski didn't want music at all but was convinced by producers to at least put some. "J'Accuse" runs for two hours and fifteen minutes, written and spoken in French (we know that is an issue for audiences used to Hollywood-language), with no amount of visual acrobatics for a lazy audience to enjoy. It is a sober movie despite the terrible "cloudy" transition fades (those made me laugh) and Jean Dujardin's charming prince expressions. Don't get me wrong, he acted fiercely, but I can't help but smiling when he raises an eyebrow. On the sordid insertion of a feminino character, that depends on rapid and expressionless cuts to gain some more screen running time, I will say no more. Each one of us will know how to read the director's choices over the feminine body. With all that said, I hope I bite my tongue and "J'Accuse" reaches great and diverse audience; the racism, anti-semitism and blind obedience themes are always, unfortunately, heated.  

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DEGRADAÇÃO

Uma sala fria e desbotada, cheia de figuras humanas petrificadas. Imóveis, sofrendo violentamente. 

Bem, essa é uma maneira de se explicar o departamento de esculturas greco-romanas no Museu do Louvre, na França. E não seria uma questão de ignorância, de falta de educação em Artes; alienação e agressividade seriam as palavras-chave nesta análise. Eu escolho ser (e ficar para sempre, mesmo que posteriormente avisada) cega. Criticamente congelada e enganada, eu não vou ver o todo, só a lasquinha de mármore que me parece estranha. 

Quando Polanski decide colocar Picquart como nosso guia neste olhar filmado sobre o Caso Dreyfus, ele nos coloca na mudança de ponto-de-vista de um homem, antes como um anti-semita qualquer e então como um homem cuja vida seria profundamente magoada ao defender a honra de um judeu. Que nós sigamos a ascensão de consciência de Picquart quando ele entende que a vida militar lhe botou um óculos preto-e-branco do Bem e do Mal, é a maneira do diretor dizer que quer o filme além das questões históricas. Talvez tentando dizer: “atenção, existem muitos desses velhos homens por aí - aqui e agora”. 

Com a intenção de contar uma história sóbria de um passado que não se deve tornar futuro novamente, "O Oficial e o Espião" vai direto ao ponto: um capitão judeu é acusado de traição e perde sua liberdade por isso. Quando Alfred Dreyfus diz "vocês estão acusando um homem inocente", ouvimos o rugido da multidão gritando "mentiroso, traidor!", isso e o sorriso discretamente sarcástico de seus superiores. O ritual de despir um homem até então honrado é rápido e geométrico, breve o suficiente para o público entender que algo ali talvez não seja justo. Mas o visual de todo o filme aponta isso; a praça é cinza, mortificada por gelo e chuva. Soldados em posição são repetidos e miméticos. O ótimo trabalho da correção de cor faz os uniformes brilharem seus detalhes de ouro, vermelho e preto. A cena de abertura (ou, sinceramente, a maior parte do filme) poderia ser lida de modo foucaultiano: corpos institucionais prontos para vigiar e punir.

Quando se torna claro que o coronel Picquart procurará justiça, seu uniforme se torna mais frequentemente usado em tons de azul-claro acinzentado. Ele não está mais completamente protegido sob a guarda do Exército, mas nunca cessa de obedecê-la e seguir suas regras. Assim como Dreyfus; ambos respeitam ordens e hierarquias e crêem que essas podem (e vão) salvá-los. Acontece que isso é praticamente impossível porque, como coronel Henry diz convenientemente, "a mente de um soldado tem segredos que nem mesmo seu quepe poderá conhecer". O resultado é que preconceitos são justificados para se contornar erros; corpos dóceis escolhem manter seus fazeres doentios a fim de que se mantenha o status quo. Em 1894, o julgamento de Dreyfus deveria ter sido um sinal de alerta para a constante falha das instituições - e de como o anti-semitismo já era triunfante naquele mundo cinzento. 

Uniformes cor-de-sangue e hipocrisias se misturam em um frio, triste e aterrador fim de século. "Laisser tomber", mesmo que gerações posteriores ainda recolham as ruínas de uma moral tão destruída. 

EU ACUSO

Não tenho certeza se gostei dos aspectos formais deste filme. Enquanto as escolhas narrativas, direção de arte e cor são magníficas, senti certa disconexão entre o ritmo do filme e a maneira com que o público talvez o perceba. A música não nos guia, exceto por pontuais transições de cena: então ela está lá só pra finalizar um sentimento (ansiedade, tristeza) e seguir com a linha do tempo do história. Mesmo que isso seja um aspecto de filmes comerciais/hollywoodianos, aqui ele não é suficiente para ditar uma profunda emoção que o público deveria sentir. Fiquei pensando que talvez Polanski nem quisesse música mas foi convencido pelos produtores a ter pelo menos um pouco. 

"O Oficial e o Espião" tem duas horas e quinze minutos de duração, escrito e falado em francês (sabemos que isso é um problema para públicos acostumados com o idioma Hollywood), sem acrobacias o suficiente para o gosto de um público preguiçoso. É um filme sóbrio apesar de suas terríveis transições de fade "em nuvem" (eu ri) e o rostinho de príncipe encantado de Jean Dujardin. Não me leve a mal, a atuação dele é forte, mas não consigo deixar de sorrir quando ele levanta uma sobrancelha só. Sobre a inserção desprezível de uma personagem feminina, que precisa do auxílio dos cortes campo-contracampo para ter mais tempo de tela, nada mais direi. Cada uma de nós saberá como ler as escolhas do diretor sobre o corpo feminino. Dito tudo isto, espero que eu morda minha língua e que "O Oficial e o Espião" chegue num grande e diverso público; o racismo, anti-semitismo e a obediência cega são temas sempre quentes, infelizmente. 

The Officer and the Spy (J’Accuse)

The subtitle settles us in Buenos Aires, 1971.

We are introduced to a figure that walks in the right side of the screen, the side reserved to the wicked. Curly blond hair forms an aura of splendour in a peach-fussed face. Oblique lips, light feet and feline eyes betray this Angel right before the voice-over starts: it is one of the Fallen. 

Indigo blue and yellow cashmere, pouring from a sensual chaos from that Angel, reminds me of a sunny day with rain; or, even better, a summer storm. The Angel, sun bathed, bringing along heavy lead-blue clouds. The color yellow reminds us of insanity and, to that man, the indigo becomes an inescapable torrent. “Does anyone thinks about freedom? Is everyone crazy?”, he asks himself, he, the man who killed 11 people between 1971-1972, raped two women and robbed at gun-point 17 times. 

If art director all over the world could make a public plead, they’d certainly cry in unison: let us tell stories! We are, too, capable of telling without words, they’d say. In a matter of seconds, the art department already allocated us in time through the combo jeans + turtle neck cashmere. High waist pants with frontal buttons, for sure. That, along with that angelical-diabolical baby face that was already mentioned, would dismiss those explanations about destiny and disdain over private property. We can see. 

Primary colors tell the tale written and directed by Luis Ortega, turning a real story into a aesthetic and captivating movie. Piles up layers: at first, innocence, that should be no more than an anti-moralist boredom on a young Argetine boy in the peak of the Military Dictatorship. What follows is a crescendo of surreal crimes, each time more violent. The colors now show cruelty, banality. Each robbery turns into a little unimportant game; and we have a third meaning to the primary colors: life itself is a game, a fun tetric play of stealing, fucking, killing and dying. 

[seen @ 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA INT'L FILM FESTIVAL - Classics, Curitiba - PR, Brasil]

When a man takes the microphone to talk about feminine issues, feminists put on alert mode to carefully (...there's controversy on that...) listen to what he'll say. I do not consider myself a feminist, but I often I have been putting myself on those shoes as a POV exercise. And AOpção fails monstruosly, both in my "feminist" and my "filmmaking" side - please let us consider none of those are fully ready to leave the quotation marks. This is, right from the start, an unilateral piece: women are victims and men are cruel animals. No in between. Questions and subjetcs that could be profoundly discussed, as the title suggests imagery of the life of prostitutes that are so conflitant: the OPTION to become a sex worker, or is it an option? And the "road roses", a subtle nod to femininity and what is lost on the roadside of this harsh life. But it all ends up in a failed attempt to flow poetically on the highway, showing a manicheist world of miserable women who see themselves forced to sex (while working in the fields is also seen as an utter fail, also a type of slavery), and even those who one would deem satisfied, are also shown as not being able to make the choice: optionless, either way. To be forced, to be happy and to fetch corn... by the side of the road, Candeias says women cannot be happy. And that men put them in this condition, those vile pigs who mistreat each one of them. Couldn't you be at least a little less one-sided? Yes, we're in the 80s here, but discussions could be held. The option to carry an almost silent movie, and this is brilliant, but wordful or less, without a view of the other side this movie comes to us as the last nail on the coffin. No chance of life for women, not even when you set yourself to show how misery comes to be. Well... Again.

The Option (AOpção ou as Rosas da Estrada)

Dir.: Ozualdo Ribeiro Candeias

Brazil, 1981

06/10

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The short film Sr. Pauer, by Candeias, was also exhibited in the same session. I'm not sure why I held high expectations on this one - guess it was because the Festival sold them like a precious rarity on the director's filmography. Not please by a bit. Sterile humour of an attempt to reach deep society problems. Exploration by the rich men and the burgeois, while on a public transportation strike... very recent topics, they do touch the flesh today (almost 30 years after!). But extremely senseless, joke's on the attempt to bring some clarity on the problem. Brings some cringe-worthy chills down your spine. Could also be a teenage laugh, puddle-deep.

Sr. Pauer

Dir.: Ozualdo Ribeiro Candeias

Brazil, 1989

[seen @ 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA INT'L FILM FESTIVAL - Retrospective, Curitiba - PR, Brasil]

No wonder finding out "adventure" does not exist. It is no surprise that a teenager finds no beauty in the world, if she has no purpose in life whatsoever. Why, if adventure is escapism, is running away... from what? Oh, she has nothing! What does a spoiled teenager has is this world! And a teenager who's already fled from basic responsibilities - the lycée, their home. Our days of youth are made to truth and dare, to right and wrong... but not only that. Those are the days when we slowly delineate our minds, throw away the prejudices and start building concepts of what we are and what we believe in. Slowly, but firmly. The lack of a point, an objective helps building the sandcastle that dazzle the children while they exist. A sandcastle does not belong in a world of hard truths and concrete realities. A child does not comprehend time, preparation, organization... and consequence. That is the last word for me. The lack of conscience on the consequence of her actions makes me lose my breath with the character of Nadine, my desperation comes rushing when I see her disappointment on the supposed "flatness" of life around her... This culture made possible the spectacle of colonization, of a boredom that will eventually destroy. All succumbs to ignorance, to a thirst for more fireworks, more adrenaline, more intoxication. Fake. Thing is this movie disturbs me, in my pretentious mature-for-my-age mind. I'm not one to jump on the unknown, to wonder aimlessly in parisian streets, to let myself flow in the wind... am I being too harsh on the teens? Am I being bitter and maybe even envious of those "free" spirits that roam around? I just wanna touch the ground and be sure it is real under my feet.

The Punishment (La Punition ou les Fausses Rencontres)

Dir.: Jean Rouch

France, 1962

[seen @ 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA INT'L FILM FESTIVAL - Retrospective, Curitiba - PR, Brasil]

Debates on youth and and youth's culture are always bubbly, fire-driven and sometimes, even, contraditory. As youth itself is. To dip into the puddle of feelings or to dive deep into the sea of hormones is always a curious experience, because it may lead you into a teen movie on the highest of the clichés (and, marketing bound, get you lots of money! behold). Or you can choose the crazy roller-coaster that compounds youth, as we believe it in modern days (oh yes, the 60's are modern in Jean Rouch's hands). Teenagers are well into music and flirting and dancing, and worried about not failing school, and feeling dammned pressured about their future career. Should they be discussing society and their role in it? Rouch says yes, and plus, he puts his experience in the hands of a class of teenagers to resolve plurality and race. It gets a little boring to see some of them so blatantly obsessed with flirts and sex, when the main subject should be a racial tension amongst two groups. I'm not sure you could shout "racist!" on those kids, as most of them flow almost naturally between groups - by emphasizing "almost", I need to point out that it is super comprehensible to not feel comfortable around a group of people you don't know. Independent on their skin color, it was set from the very start that the groups didn't mingle, and they already existed before we started watching their actions. So it's foolish to watch the Pyramid with a scientific hunger, as you will be surely starving by the end. As a flick of "reflexive kids" it may amuse.

The Human Pyramid (La Pyramide Humaine)

Dir.: Jean Rouch

France/Côte d'Ivoire, 1961

07/10 ---

The short film Contras'city, first one by senegalese director Mambéty, was also exhibited in the same session. I don't feel I have info enough about neither context of location nor Mambéty's filming process, so it's better for me to just leave you there curious to look for this short on the internet! :)

Contras'city

Dir.: Djibril Diop Mambéty

[seen @ 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA INT'L FILM FESTIVAL - Mirada Paranaense, Curitiba - PR, Brasil]

My heart sank when the first frames of this movie caught the big screen. I went to it with expectation, with an almost child-like curiosity: the director is a professor in my film school. I'm his student, and I love to accompany his love for movies. Severo is an experimental filmmaker since the 80's and is always renewing his passion. This time, he chose the documentary format. And failed. Not carefully written, not carefully filmed, not even carefully post-treated upon the editing isle. The story of this boy with indigenous descent is interesting, and though not so strong, could be handled with more attentive eyes to details that would bound togheter 76 minutes of a nice biographical documentary. It becomes almost boring to the see repetitive speeches, filled with clichés that should make the doc emotional - and, by its lack of depth, only makes is... cliché. Euller Miller touches the academia and its prejudices, he touches religions and their hipocrisy, he touches sexuality, he touches youth and their needs in a urban nowadays town. And yet, none of those subjects is evolved enough. There's not enough of this nor that world. That said, I come back to the technical aspects: it is far from being the highest high of the talents of this crew. Severo is a great teacher and a great filmmaker, but here it is not good. The production company, a local one: O Quadro, also does not meet the expectations their name carry. And it doensn't seem fair to the subject they set out to talk about: the very Euller Miller, this boy whose life is turned into story. To be very honest, from the very first green grass with a horrendous tone of colour and fake lens flare, I doubted this film should be edited to the festival.

Euller Miller between Two Worlds (Euller Miller entre Dois Mundos)

Dir.: Fernando Severo

Brazil, 2018

[seen @ 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA INT'L FILM FESTIVAL - Other Views, Curitiba - PR, Brasil]

"Oh filthy and delicious world, to whom we wish a better health." This is a doc-fiction that I wish had the double of its length, and we all know "festival movie"-types are usually the contrary. Some are so void of sincerity that we applaud our own shame. The case on this House, this Island of Wind and Rain, is of an immense feeling... soaked with childhood, soaked with longing, with tender love and also a firm hand of a filmmaker. Does it sound contradictory? It is not. Letícia's long study on the life of the poet and activist Dalcído Jurandir and the archipelago of Marajó, in the northern state of Pará, is what made this visual poetry possible. Her entwine with editing and music - that essentialy "follows the river", embroidery of arts - pays homage to a forgotten artist. Life wasn't so kind to him, and he was not kind to her either: Dalcídio was a whole human being with ups and downs. His epistle-like writing for his loved ones (newborn son & dearly beloved wife) show a man who gathers strength to survive with docility. Strength to come back. No heroism while admitting fadigue, bad humour, humiliation and misery... the lack of money and lack of trust, those everyday defeats. Still, the heroism to survive it all and pay every penny of this endless purgatory he found himself in. The story of this man that swims upstream is not black and white, it is mainly gray - he hates money and he needs it; he is not comfortable with his working pal and he understands him; he is miles from home and he devouts all his attention to it. It dubious and tortuos, like the very waters that design the archipelago, as life in misery always is. Beauty-full movie.

The House is an Island Made of Wind and Rain (O Chalé é uma Ilha Batida de Vento e Chuva)

Dir.: Letícia Simões

Brazil, 2018

[seen @ 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA INT'L FILM FESTIVAL - Special Exibhitions, Curitiba - PR, Brasil]

It was impossible for me to detach this movie from a previous one that I'd seen on the festival, which is my last post (Camocim). Here are the paths of three women, whose lives where stained in different levels. Lives respectfully exposed on camera, and as in Camocim, politics are the tying knot: they are ragdolls thrown around in the cells of decaying state institutions. Prison, adult public school, orphanage (not quite the exact word - but a temporary residence for a minor who chose to flee its house). Their poor condition and poor education is the trade currency in the hands of corruption in this country. But here in this picture there is a petit and shy stream of CHANGE. That is the people's power. First, because we see the 1st woman, a mother who is injustly incarcerated, trying to read and understand and un-weave the brazilian Constitution. To grab a right that is her, but made so difficult and so unreachable that is used against her. Her will to study is her eagerness for the truth and that is BEAUTIFUL. Second, because with see a lawyer (also a woman), who choses to work humanly for humans - without getting rid of the numbers and long words that form the mechanism... but wearing those lenses, still being able to see the character as a being whose dignity is vanishing. Thirdly, the way of the education. Teachers are shown in the way they need to be shown again: with autority AND passion. With hopes that all will be better after class. Here I praise immensely the choices of Maria Carolina and Igor, the directors, for this living breath out of ignorance.

Class Diary (Diários de Classe)

Dir.: Maria Carolina da Silva e Igor Souza

Brazil, 2017

[seen @ 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA INT'L FILM FESTIVAL - Special Exibhitions, Curitiba - PR, Brasil]

Though very respectful to both sides of the political spectrum on the not-so-famous-and-not-that-relevant city of Camocim, the doc storms in rage and circus when it shows the procedures of The Machine in this country. Yes, this country, because it is impossible to disassociate Camocim and the northern state of Pernambuco to the rest of Brazil, as even here in this supposed European-like republique of Curitiba we are ruled by families and old foxes. The red and the blue are supposed to turn purple through the hands of this young girl Mayara, the character we follow throughout the city. She tries to convey some knowledge on the mechanism for the youth surrounding her, with a kind smile and determined actions. A firm voice of a decision visibly made for the benefit of the group. But it is not enough. Not only because we see a great example of the medium brazilian citizen in the character of Hegon - "I know, I know", while she BEGS to explain why voting more consciously COULD truly make a difference - but because after watching a debate with her and Delaroche, the director, I heard coming out of her mouth words of someone who was lead to believe in a very particular side of the podium. Nor the red or the blue of this very unique Camocim, but surely some side made up by those rats that make it rot from the inside. Not the purple, once again. As I wish not to rate a movie by aspects others than those I saw onscreen (my Phantom Carriage does not work that way), I mantain it is a NECESSARY, powerful movie, specially for the youth who are so desperate for hope.

Camocim

Dir.: Quentin Delaroche

Brazil/France, 2017

7th Olhar de Cinema - Curitiba Int’l Film Festival For nine days in a row my home was a dark room where my eyes were giant window-screens for a whole wide world and my ass was comfortably sitting in leather (sometimes velvet) couches. I had the immense pleasure to be part of press team for the 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA International Film Festival, held here in my city: a pleasant, bubbly and curiously conservative capital in the south of Brazil. My next reviews will be about those movies, and they were classics, shorts and features, docs, fictions and mixed medias - I’ll share a bit of all I lent my eyes to. I’m excited to begin this journey of thought processing after all those long minutes passed by... It will be fun! All posts will be marked as participant of the 7th OLHAR DE CINEMA IFF.  6-14 june 2018  Curitiba - PR, Brasil @ Espaço Itaú de Cinema - Shopping Crystal @ Cineplex Novo Batel - Shopping Novo Batel

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Olhar de Cinema – Curitiba Int’l Film Festival began its activities as an independent film festival. Since 2012 the festival has already taken more than 100,000 people to theaters and has exhibited more than 500 films from around the world.