aka LA ISLA MINIMA
(Alberto Rodriguez, 2014)
Set in the political twilight between the death of Franco and the coming of democracy in early '80s Spain, Marshland is an extremely intense, emotionally charged thriller. When two girls disappear in rural Andalucia, a pair of detectives are dispatched to find them. When they do find them, the girls have been raped, tortured and killed. During their investigation, the detectives find themselves stonewalled by small-town Spain, where distrust and secretiveness are seemingly everywhere. Their own differences reflect the divides in Spanish society during that era; the younger Pedro (Raúl Arévalo) believes in democracy, talks angrily of Fascists, and was angling for a career in Madrid before a letter to a newspaper landed him in trouble with the government. The older Raul (Javier Gutiérrez) has a shadowed past working for the regime, medical problems (he urinates blood and pops pills) and a cynical attitude to the job of getting results. Together they stumble through an investigation that gets knottier and more complex by the day. Again, Rodriguez suggests that this reflects Spain itself; people protecting the powerful, a general sense of fear and suspicion, secrets and lies beneath the sun.
It is beautifully made. Rodriguez favours a series of lovely birds eye view shots of his marshes and the mighty river around which his action takes place, and they eerily contextualise the action. These human stories, however important they seem, are pitiful and minute compared to the nature surrounding them. Those shots do much of the work creating atmosphere; this little claustrophobic town is powerfully evoked, all smoky bars and sweaty car lots, as is life on the river and marshes, the abandoned hunting lodges and houses set around the bleak countryside which the detectives find themselves searching. The two leads are well-cast; they have great faces - Arévalo handsome in a cruel way, Gutiérrez kind and friendly-looking, which helps complicate their characters and relationship.
The whole thing is terrifically textured and visceral so that when the action starts in the last act, it has real impact - a couple of brilliantly intimate car chases and a shootout are utterly engrossing, and the film has a satisfyingly cynical ending. It is a superior piece of genre entertainment aimed squarely at grown-ups.
Showing posts with label Spanish Cinema. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spanish Cinema. Show all posts
Friday, 7 August 2015
Saturday, 31 August 2013
LA MORTE ROUGE
(Victor Erice, 2006)
The film essay as tone poem, Erice working his obsessions into a lovely contemplation of the power of art, memory and time, cinema and imagination.
It recalls Chris Marker in places as the filmmaker whispers his narration, sad and wise, over lovely black and white photographs of San Sebastian in the 1940s. We can just perceive Arvo Pärt on the soundtrack, and Erice's elegant mastery is obvious in how poetically he fits it all together; his voiceover, these tableau and the music eloquently, expressively suggest the themes he addresses.
The subject is his first encounter with cinema. In 1946, at the age of five, he saw Sherlock Holmes and the Scarlet Claw in a now-vanished palatial cinema near the beach in San Sebastian. He was terrified but enraptured, and he reflects on how time has treated that experience, what happened to the filmmakers, why that film was so resonant in a destroyed post-Civil War Spain, and how his memory has nurtured the whole experience.
It is a gently beautiful film, fascinating and moving; Erice is a master.
The film essay as tone poem, Erice working his obsessions into a lovely contemplation of the power of art, memory and time, cinema and imagination.
It recalls Chris Marker in places as the filmmaker whispers his narration, sad and wise, over lovely black and white photographs of San Sebastian in the 1940s. We can just perceive Arvo Pärt on the soundtrack, and Erice's elegant mastery is obvious in how poetically he fits it all together; his voiceover, these tableau and the music eloquently, expressively suggest the themes he addresses.
The subject is his first encounter with cinema. In 1946, at the age of five, he saw Sherlock Holmes and the Scarlet Claw in a now-vanished palatial cinema near the beach in San Sebastian. He was terrified but enraptured, and he reflects on how time has treated that experience, what happened to the filmmakers, why that film was so resonant in a destroyed post-Civil War Spain, and how his memory has nurtured the whole experience.
It is a gently beautiful film, fascinating and moving; Erice is a master.
Friday, 11 May 2012
THE SOUTH
Aka EL SUR
(Victor Erice, 1983)
El Sur may well be the single most beautiful Film of the 1980s. Erice's use of natural light and, more particularly, of darkness, is spectacular, and worthy of comparison with Caravaggio and Vermeer. The opening scene is a perfect example. The titles appear over a black screen, then lightness enters the frame almost imperceptibly, until we can make out a window in the corner. Slowly light illuminates a room; a bed, some ornately detailed wallpaper. Someone is sleeping in the bed, and as the scene progresses - the narrative handled almost entirely through offscreen dialogue, telling us that a man has gone missing, his wife frantically ringing around in search of him - we watch that someone wake and rise.
She is Estrella (Sonsoles Aranguren), and she narrates the story as an older woman, reflecting on a pivotal part of her life, when she lived in Northern Spain with her parents, before her fathers suicide. The majority of the film involves her investigation of her memories of her father, and his mysterious past in pre-Civil War Southern Spain.
Erice has his favourite themes - childhood, myth, memory - and this story allows him to tackle all of them. But he tends towards the elliptical and enigmatic, necessitating some effort on the part of the audience. That effect is exaggerated here by the flashback structure, and only the voiceover narration clarifies some of the more obscure plot points. But the themes are always prominent as Estrella seeks to understand her own idea of her father as an almost mythic figure with magical abilities (he divines water and studies hypnosis) and the connection of that with her mythologisation of the South itself.
That makes El Sur sound dry, but it never is. Erice has far too poetic and nuanced a sensibility, and this film is far richer in humanity than The Spirit of the Beehive, his superb debut. Here Estrella's life is complicated by her family, her ruminations and fantasies lent an edge by the realities and implications of Spanish National (and her fathers) history. Scene by scene this is an extraordinary piece of cinema, beautifully shot and toned, and filled with lovely acting.
The circumstances of its production - only half of Erice's script was shot, after a producer pulled financing - suggest it should feel far less complete and coherent than it actually does, and though it ends without any real narrative closure, that ending is moving and in keeping with the lyrical mysteries characterising the rest of the film.
Not only the most beautiful film of the 80s, then, but one of the very best films from that decade.
(Victor Erice, 1983)
El Sur may well be the single most beautiful Film of the 1980s. Erice's use of natural light and, more particularly, of darkness, is spectacular, and worthy of comparison with Caravaggio and Vermeer. The opening scene is a perfect example. The titles appear over a black screen, then lightness enters the frame almost imperceptibly, until we can make out a window in the corner. Slowly light illuminates a room; a bed, some ornately detailed wallpaper. Someone is sleeping in the bed, and as the scene progresses - the narrative handled almost entirely through offscreen dialogue, telling us that a man has gone missing, his wife frantically ringing around in search of him - we watch that someone wake and rise.
She is Estrella (Sonsoles Aranguren), and she narrates the story as an older woman, reflecting on a pivotal part of her life, when she lived in Northern Spain with her parents, before her fathers suicide. The majority of the film involves her investigation of her memories of her father, and his mysterious past in pre-Civil War Southern Spain.
Erice has his favourite themes - childhood, myth, memory - and this story allows him to tackle all of them. But he tends towards the elliptical and enigmatic, necessitating some effort on the part of the audience. That effect is exaggerated here by the flashback structure, and only the voiceover narration clarifies some of the more obscure plot points. But the themes are always prominent as Estrella seeks to understand her own idea of her father as an almost mythic figure with magical abilities (he divines water and studies hypnosis) and the connection of that with her mythologisation of the South itself.
That makes El Sur sound dry, but it never is. Erice has far too poetic and nuanced a sensibility, and this film is far richer in humanity than The Spirit of the Beehive, his superb debut. Here Estrella's life is complicated by her family, her ruminations and fantasies lent an edge by the realities and implications of Spanish National (and her fathers) history. Scene by scene this is an extraordinary piece of cinema, beautifully shot and toned, and filled with lovely acting.
The circumstances of its production - only half of Erice's script was shot, after a producer pulled financing - suggest it should feel far less complete and coherent than it actually does, and though it ends without any real narrative closure, that ending is moving and in keeping with the lyrical mysteries characterising the rest of the film.
Not only the most beautiful film of the 80s, then, but one of the very best films from that decade.
Friday, 4 February 2011
CELL 211
(Daniel Monzon, 2009)
Spain has turned out a handful of superior genre films over the last few years. The likes of King of the Hill and Time Crimes were well written and made a virtue of their budgetary restrictions. Taut and economical, both would seem ripe for the Hollywood remake treatment. A Cell 211 remake is already in the works, which is partly a reflection on the films massive success in Spain, where it made back its budget three times over at the Box Office and triumphed at the Goyas - the Spanish equivalent of the Oscars - winning Best Film, Director and Actor.
Strange to discover then that it is a solid B-Movie with an appealing high concept at its core: a Prison Guard is caught up in a riot on his first day in the job and to survive he pretends he is an inmate. From this director Monzon spins a gripping yarn of suspicion and tension which features a handful of great suspenseful moments as his protagonist risks discovery or nears escape, and is always expertly made.
But it is a manipulative little thrill-ride, elevated mainly by the performance of Luis Tosar, terrifying, complex and ever- believable as leader of the rioting prisoners, Malamadre. His performance alone is worth the price of admission.
Which is just as well, because other than that, Cell 211 is no better than an average episode of the terrific HBO show OZ.
Spain has turned out a handful of superior genre films over the last few years. The likes of King of the Hill and Time Crimes were well written and made a virtue of their budgetary restrictions. Taut and economical, both would seem ripe for the Hollywood remake treatment. A Cell 211 remake is already in the works, which is partly a reflection on the films massive success in Spain, where it made back its budget three times over at the Box Office and triumphed at the Goyas - the Spanish equivalent of the Oscars - winning Best Film, Director and Actor.
Strange to discover then that it is a solid B-Movie with an appealing high concept at its core: a Prison Guard is caught up in a riot on his first day in the job and to survive he pretends he is an inmate. From this director Monzon spins a gripping yarn of suspicion and tension which features a handful of great suspenseful moments as his protagonist risks discovery or nears escape, and is always expertly made.
But it is a manipulative little thrill-ride, elevated mainly by the performance of Luis Tosar, terrifying, complex and ever- believable as leader of the rioting prisoners, Malamadre. His performance alone is worth the price of admission.
Which is just as well, because other than that, Cell 211 is no better than an average episode of the terrific HBO show OZ.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
BIUTIFUL
(Alejandro Gonzalez Inarittu, 2010)
Javier Bardem is extraordinary, as usual. As Uxbal, a terminally ill single father mixed up in the frequently criminal exploitation of illegal immigrants in Barcelona, he has a lot to convey. His ex-wife is a bipolar party girl with substance issues who is sleeping with his wheeler-dealer brother and cannot be trusted with their two children. He is a necromancer, able to speak to the dead in the brief instant after they have passed, and is abused by people who think this is a con and troubled by the visions this power induces. He has problems with the African immigrants he supplies with pirate DVDs and fake designer bags, but also with the Chinese suppliers of this merchandise and the policeman he pays to turn a blind eye. And, of course, he is dying of cancer.
This is the films problem: everything is too much. Inarittu piles on the story strands, each of them heavy and serious, relevant and soulful, and as the film strains harder and harder for profundity it becomes suffocatingly intense. Inarittu's style doesn't help; that immersively jittery camera and a visceral, almost painful sound mix gives the viewer little space in the film as the characters pain and the grimness of the milieu press on you. He cannot resist adding more detail, either, filling in the characters of a Senegalese couple involved with Uxbal and giving a few scenes to the gay affair between the married Chinese boss and his Lieutenant.
Worse is that, as in previous films Babel and 21 Grams his conclusions are so trite and disappointing. From a film that takes itself so immensely seriously, I would expect more insight and ambiguity. At least Inarittu's gifts as a visual director are still sharp. Biutiful is filled with unexpected moments of startling beauty and striking images : mainly of Barcelona's urban sprawl in Winter, and for all it's other flaws, is always engrossing. This is chiefly down to Bardem, reasserting himself as both a great, magnetic movie star and an incredible actor. He is moving, believable, always human. All that in a mullet and tracksuit.
Javier Bardem is extraordinary, as usual. As Uxbal, a terminally ill single father mixed up in the frequently criminal exploitation of illegal immigrants in Barcelona, he has a lot to convey. His ex-wife is a bipolar party girl with substance issues who is sleeping with his wheeler-dealer brother and cannot be trusted with their two children. He is a necromancer, able to speak to the dead in the brief instant after they have passed, and is abused by people who think this is a con and troubled by the visions this power induces. He has problems with the African immigrants he supplies with pirate DVDs and fake designer bags, but also with the Chinese suppliers of this merchandise and the policeman he pays to turn a blind eye. And, of course, he is dying of cancer.
This is the films problem: everything is too much. Inarittu piles on the story strands, each of them heavy and serious, relevant and soulful, and as the film strains harder and harder for profundity it becomes suffocatingly intense. Inarittu's style doesn't help; that immersively jittery camera and a visceral, almost painful sound mix gives the viewer little space in the film as the characters pain and the grimness of the milieu press on you. He cannot resist adding more detail, either, filling in the characters of a Senegalese couple involved with Uxbal and giving a few scenes to the gay affair between the married Chinese boss and his Lieutenant.
Worse is that, as in previous films Babel and 21 Grams his conclusions are so trite and disappointing. From a film that takes itself so immensely seriously, I would expect more insight and ambiguity. At least Inarittu's gifts as a visual director are still sharp. Biutiful is filled with unexpected moments of startling beauty and striking images : mainly of Barcelona's urban sprawl in Winter, and for all it's other flaws, is always engrossing. This is chiefly down to Bardem, reasserting himself as both a great, magnetic movie star and an incredible actor. He is moving, believable, always human. All that in a mullet and tracksuit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)