"heremakono" (sissako)
i did not think much of it while watching it, but it keeps growing on me, damnit.
i think at first it seemed a bit too contrived - the conscious peddling of exotica, the unhurried placement of grave iconic items (kid - check, old man - check, sand - check; then add ocean, light, death to taste) and then fumbling with them reluctantly to see if meaning emerges.
sissako has a tendency to do some pretty damn creative things with color, pace and composition (i was so uneasy during the old-man-with-light-walking episode, it seemed to artificial, but now i cannot shake it off - it is burned in my mind, and gets more and more striking each day). in this sense it reminded me of "daratt" (turns out sissako was a producer), where similar we-shall-steamroll-you-with-salty-truth-of-life attitude employed bread, guns, and fathers to imprint your mind with its imagery. sissako's saving grace is aesthetization of the camera's eye, and decision to intentionally relax the storytelling side of things. add some longing on top of that and you are addicted for days after.
now, don't get me wrong - exotica is good, but if one does not take his meds and runs rampant, we will end up with "opera jawa" and then everyone will be ashamed and feel awkward.
i wanted a bit more transgression though, a side-step into surreal, a touch of surprise, a brief encounter outside of the film fabric, a spark of meta-meta-meta-something. perhaps i am too spoiled, and i cannot take the straight observing gaze anymore; perhaps it is the outlandish exoticism that prevents one from taking it in as a humble realistic portrayal.
still, the colors (purples! yellows! light blues!), the faces, the boy's tight shirts, the ships, billowing fabrics - such richness, and yet presented sparingly and tastefully (even only if in retrospect).
i should have watched "bamako" at sfiff instead of boozing around; also note his r-r-r-russian connection.
i must say that moma's "age of chevalier" festival is kicking some ass; i am pretty damn impressed, although i am not sure how long i can last - the schedule is pretty intense.
the arte directa with pascal ferran and mista chevalier himself droned on and on at the opening last week. i dozed on and off, lulled by the frenchies and geezers that frequent these moma screenings (although geezers are a fixture, i take notice and prepare to turn into them - eat chips loudly, snore at times, and pull from the flask cursing at damn tourists. and smell, yes, i will work on that too). surprisingly most of these screenings sell out, go figure. good thing i can dart out during lunch and grab my free ticket.
i think at first it seemed a bit too contrived - the conscious peddling of exotica, the unhurried placement of grave iconic items (kid - check, old man - check, sand - check; then add ocean, light, death to taste) and then fumbling with them reluctantly to see if meaning emerges.
sissako has a tendency to do some pretty damn creative things with color, pace and composition (i was so uneasy during the old-man-with-light-walking episode, it seemed to artificial, but now i cannot shake it off - it is burned in my mind, and gets more and more striking each day). in this sense it reminded me of "daratt" (turns out sissako was a producer), where similar we-shall-steamroll-you-with-salty-truth-of-life attitude employed bread, guns, and fathers to imprint your mind with its imagery. sissako's saving grace is aesthetization of the camera's eye, and decision to intentionally relax the storytelling side of things. add some longing on top of that and you are addicted for days after.
now, don't get me wrong - exotica is good, but if one does not take his meds and runs rampant, we will end up with "opera jawa" and then everyone will be ashamed and feel awkward.
i wanted a bit more transgression though, a side-step into surreal, a touch of surprise, a brief encounter outside of the film fabric, a spark of meta-meta-meta-something. perhaps i am too spoiled, and i cannot take the straight observing gaze anymore; perhaps it is the outlandish exoticism that prevents one from taking it in as a humble realistic portrayal.
still, the colors (purples! yellows! light blues!), the faces, the boy's tight shirts, the ships, billowing fabrics - such richness, and yet presented sparingly and tastefully (even only if in retrospect).
i should have watched "bamako" at sfiff instead of boozing around; also note his r-r-r-russian connection.
i must say that moma's "age of chevalier" festival is kicking some ass; i am pretty damn impressed, although i am not sure how long i can last - the schedule is pretty intense.
the arte directa with pascal ferran and mista chevalier himself droned on and on at the opening last week. i dozed on and off, lulled by the frenchies and geezers that frequent these moma screenings (although geezers are a fixture, i take notice and prepare to turn into them - eat chips loudly, snore at times, and pull from the flask cursing at damn tourists. and smell, yes, i will work on that too). surprisingly most of these screenings sell out, go figure. good thing i can dart out during lunch and grab my free ticket.