Jasper Sharp : Thessaloniki

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This is just a very quick post following on from the last, to go through with my earlier promise of putting some information up on the programme for the retrospective I curated with the Era New Horizons Festival in Wroclaw, Poland, to coincide with the Polish edition of Behind the Pink Curtain. For those who are interested, you can follow this link here. Just to give a quick teaser though, this is one of the fullest pink/Roman Porno retros I’ve ever curated, and aside from a lot of the usual films I’ve shown at other similar retros I’ve curated to tie in with the book (at the BFI in 2008, Nippon Connection, Montreal’s Fantasia and Thessaloniki in 2009 etc), including the beautiful new prints of Blue Film Woman and Gushing Prayer that got done up originally for Austin Fantastic Fest and which have been doing the rounds recently, we’ve got some new stuff too.

Assault! Jack the Ripper, one of the treats in store for visitors to Poland's Era New Horizon festival

On the Roman Porno front, I’m most excited we’re screening Yasuharu Hasebe’s quite bonkers Assault! Jack the Ripper. On the pink side, there’s a whole load of treats, but am particularly pleased that women directors are being well-represented, with two films by Yumi Yoshiyuki, who will be there to introduce them, and one by the wonderful Sachi Hamano.

Anyway, the festival’s already been running a few days, so I’ll be arriving in the thick of things and am really looking forward to seeing what the Polish audiences are making of it all. Hope to post either from Poland with my news, or at least not too long after I get back home.

Era New Horizons Festival’s Behind the Pink Curtain retrospective full programme

Leonid Bichevin as the morphine-addicted country doctor Mikhail Alexeivitch Poliakov

Leonid Bichevin as the morphine-addicted country doctor Mikhail Alexeivitch Poliakov

I had hoped to have completed my series of reports on the standout films I caught at Thessaloniki some time ago, but have been otherwise occupied with work, illness, hangovers and various other commitments for the past fortnight. Anyway, for my last posting I want to return to the final film I saw, the Russian film Morphia. Now, anyone who has seen any of director Aleksei Balabanov’s previous works might well appreciate that it would be difficult to describe this particular title as ending the festival on a high note. His previous film, Cargo 200 (Gruz 200), a morbidly disquieting look at the mistrust and insecurity of the pre-Perestroika Soviet Union set against the backdrop of the invasion of Afghanistan, must surely lay claim to ranking amongst the top 10 feel-bad films of all time, while Of Freaks and Men (Pro Urodov I Lyudej, 1998), probably his best known title in the West, was a startlingly original, sepia-toned tale of a wealthy aristocratic household in St Petersberg at the turn of the 20th century as it is infiltrated by the corrupting influence of a pair of low-life pornographers who immediately take a shine to the pair of Siamese Twins who live there. Words like ‘subversion’ or ‘abjection’ don’t even begin to cover Balabanov’s darker work, so I knew there wouldn’t be too many people filing out of the Olympion by the end of Morphia with huge grins spread across their faces – in fact, one audience member had to be carried out, not even halfway through proceedings. I, however, have rather a soft spot in my dark heart for Balabanov’s grim vision, and was certainly not disappointed with this latest title.

Burn the bourgeoisie! Balabanov's Morphia

Burn the Bourgeoisie! Balabanov's Morphia

The basic through-line of Morphia is simple: a young doctor, Mikhail Alexeivitch Poliakov (Leonid Bichevin) is posted to a ramshackle hospital in a godforsaken ice-bound provincial village, where he begins his miserable decent into morphine addiction as the events of the October Revolution of 1917 gradually make their impact across the country. As in Of Freaks and Men, the various scenes are broken up with intertitles, like a silent film, to cue you up for what is to come. An early example the “The First Injection”, signposts the beginning of Poliakov’s secret habit, after an allergic reaction to the dyptheria vaccine he takes following a failed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a local patient dying of the disease.

Ingeborga Dapkunaite as Nurse Anna

Ingeborga Dapkunaite as Nurse Anna

It quickly becomes clear that Poliakov is not a particularly accomplished doctor, dashing upstairs to consult his medical texts when expected to deliver a breech birth, giving the excuse to his nurses that he is going to fetch his cigarettes – Morphia, it should be mentioned, is often quite comic, in a particularly black sort of fashion. It was about ten minutes after the “The First Amputation” intertitle that a desperate, audible gasping was heard from the back of the auditorium, the lights came up and the film was stopped for about ten minutes, as the viewer who had fainted was escorted out of the screening, I think the first time I’ve ever witnessed such a thing. Depicted in unflinching detail, the amputation scene primed everyone for the worst for the rest of the film, so much so that after the “The Tracheotomy” title came up, I spent the next ten minutes gazing at my hands, shaking. I haven’t seen an audience so traumatised since Miike’s Audition at Rotterdam Film Festival all those years ago.

Poliakov entertained by his aristocratic neighbours.

Poliakov entertained by his aristocratic neighbours

Grim as it may be, there’s more to Morphia than just a shocking parade of gruesome surgery sequences punctuated by Poliakov’s increasingly desperate drug taking. While deceptively simply staged, the film is beautifully shot in dingy washed-out greys and greens, with a great eye for the period. A night-time sleigh-ride as the doctor is lost in a blizzard, pursued closely by wolves, is one of the most memorable pieces of cinema I’ve witnessed in a long time.

The revolution arrives in town.

The revolution arrives in town

Morphia is based on the semi-autobiographical stories of Mikhail Bulgakov, adapted by Sergei Bodrov Jr., who acted in several of Balabanov’s earlier films including Brother and War, and who had planned to make the film himself before his death in a rockslide in 2002. Some more blasé critics have dismissed it as “just another addiction film”, but I really loved the mood Balabanov creates here, like in his previous films, conjuring up a particularly grim and unappealing vision of Russia and its past. I was chatting to a Variety journalist a few days before the screening who told me that Balabanov has quite a cult following among young audiences in his own country. Personally I’d love to see a full retrospective of his work over here, because I’ve been mightily impressed with what I’ve seen so far.

Family Fortunes: Romania's The Happiest Girl in the World

Family Fortunes: Romania's The Happiest Girl in the World

One of the notable strands of Thessaloniki is its Balkan Survey section, which this year featured 15 films from countries including Albania, Bulgaria, Croatia, Slovenia and Turkey, often co-productions with other European industries such as France, Germany, the Netherlands and Switzerland (and in the case of one, Katalin Varga, with a British director at the helm, Peter Strickland), as well as a focus on Serbian director Goran Paskaljevic (Time of Miracles). It’s an area I know next to nothing about, so I was really looking forward to exploring its cinema, but at the end of the day, regrettably, I only caught one film, which is a double shame, because Romanian director Radu Jude’s The Happiest Girl in the World (Cea mai fericita fata din lume) was perhaps the freshest, most memorable work I saw during the festival.

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Radu Jude’s The Happiest Girl in the World (Cea mai fericita fata din lume)

Now, cynics might argue that with substantial funding from the Netherlands, films such as The Happiest Girl in the World, like the European-financed Iranian titles that we get to see in the West, do not perhaps give the truest portrait of life in the country where they are filmed, nor reflect local viewing habits, but instead skew their reality to fit the tastes of foreign festival or arthouse audiences (Just a quick note following on from the comment  posted below by the film’s producer; at 10% of the budget, the funding from the Netherlands can’t really be considered that ‘substantial’ – I stand corrected). There might be something in this, but there’s a couple of points that are worth bearing in mind. Firstly, with the relatively small populations of most of the countries in the Balkan region (although with 21 million people living within its borders, Romania is considerably larger than others in the area, with Bucharest the sixth largest city in the European Union), many of the local industries face considerable difficulties maintaining their share of the local market and are reliant on such co-production deals. Secondly, while this particular film offers a critique of the rampant consumerism of a country in which free-market economics is still a relatively new phenomenon, the predicament of Delia Fratila, the unlikely heroine of The Happiest Girl in the World, shouldn’t be too difficult for most viewers to identify with.

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Vasile Muraru delivers some fatherly advice to Andreea Bosneag

The film naturalistically documents a particular traumatic day in the life of its 18-year-old protagonist, a day which, by rights, should be cause for celebration. Delia has just won a car in a national competition held by a refreshments company after sending in three juice-bottle labels, and arrives in Bucharest with her parents in tow from the small rural town where they live. Like the other winners she gets to star in the company’s new advertising campaign, appearing alongside her prize while glugging from a bottle of orange juice while delivering the lines “I’m the happiest, luckiest girl in the world.” As soon as she arrives on set however, she starts bickering with her parents, who wish to sell the car and invest the profits in a guest house.

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Violeta Haret and Andreea Bosneag

This is basically all there is to the film, which unfolds virtually in real time, as Delia is not only subjected to the haranguing of her domineering mother and father, but as the fading light ups the pressure to wrap the shoot, the director of the advertisement, who in turn is struggling to get his job done under the watchful and often disruptive gaze of the marketing agents that commissioned the campaign.It might sound like a slender premise, but the performances, particularly Andreea Bosneag’s beleaguered central turn, make for surprisingly compelling and often laugh-out-loud-funny viewing, as Delia is forced to perform take after take after failing to deliver her lines with the necessary gusto or fluffing them completely under the stress. Halfway through, someone notices that the orange juice drink doesn’t look suitably, well, ‘orange’, and so the insipid-looking tartrazine-yellow liquid is adulterated with a dash of Coca Cola for the cameras.

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The glamorous life of Delia Fratila (Andreea Bosneag)

It’s the basic simplicity of the idea and the mise-en-scene that really impressed me, with most of the action unfolding on the shooting set in the heart of town; one assumes that  most of the people milling around in the background must have thought that a genuine commercial was being shot, not a dramatic feature. For me, this is one of the must-see films of the year. It has already played a number of festivals across the world since its premier at Berlin in February – yes, Toronto again, but also London Film Festival and Bristol’s Encounters, about the same time as Thessaloniki, which shows that there’s a print in the UK at the moment, and its undoubtedly gearing up for a bigger release over here. Ok, so Romanian films might not exactly be everyone’s idea of mainstream entertainment, but anyone with a genuine interest in cinema and its numerous possibilities will most certainly want to check this out.

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The Happiest Girl in the World

Interest parties can watch the trailer on youtube and read an interview with the director from its Toronto screening on IndieWIRE.