Faroe Islands: Dreams by the Sea

(2017; director: Sakaris Stórá; writer: Marjun Syderbø Kjelnæs; language: Faroese; co-production with Denmark; original title: Dreymar við havið)

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Dreams by the Sea is the first ever truly Faroese feature film, shot entirely on location with predominantly local talent. It tells a simple story of adolescence in the isolated island territory. Teenage Ester (Juliet Nattestad), like Disney’s Belle and many other village girls before her, wants much more than her provincial life. When rebellious Ragna (Helena Heðinsdóttir) with her dysfunctional family moves to the island, Ester is instantly attracted and a friendship develops. Each provides what the other lacks – excitement for Ester, and stability for Ragna. Together, they dream of leaving the island and taking on the world.

Although culturally and linguistically discrete, the Faroe Islands are not currently a country in their own right (they’re an autonomous territory within the Kingdom of Denmark), meaning they don’t fit the criteria I set myself of watching a film from every UN-recognised soverign nation-state. But those criteria are mainly set for expediency, and I’m not going to pass up the chance to include films from self-governing nations only a referendum away from independence. Well, at least not when they cross my path, like when Dreams by the Sea turned up in my local film festival.

The film centres on 16-year-old Ester, bored by her mundane life in a small Faroese village by the ocean. Her mother, like all the mothers in the village, is an enthusiastic knitter (the film features plenty of examples of the gorgeous Faroese patterned jumpers made famous to foreigners through the Danish TV-series The Killing). Her father leads Sunday School prayer sessions and tinkers with model planes. Her former best friend landed a modelling contract and moved away, and Ester is sick with envy, stuck on the island with her boring life: “it’s like everything is set in stone, nothing ever changes.”

Enter Ragna, who instantly stands out with her thick black eyeliner and surly attitude. Ester is instantly drawn to Ragna’s difference and apparent independence, and starts following her around the island – to her work in a kiosk, and to her home in “the Shed”, the cheapest ramshackle accommodation on the island. Ragna is initially a bit weirded out, asking “are you stalking me?”, but eventually she accepts Ester’s friendship.

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It becomes clear that Ragna’s independence and tough exterior has been formed over years of neglect by her alcoholic, unemployed and hard-partying mother (who is played with surprising pathos by an actress whose name I can’t find anywhere). For the naive Ester, even this is exciting new territory, and she enthusiastically embraces the world of alcohol and lack of parental oversight that Ragna is visibly tiring of. Ragna, on the other hand, longs for a stable father figure like Ester’s.

Although both discuss wanting to leave the island and make a life of their own, there is a difference in what each girl wants to leave behind. What Ester sees as freedom in Ragna’s life is its own form of confinement, with Ragna forced into caring for her mother and younger brother, and is less exciting than wearing and mundane in its own way. Each girl exoticises the other, Ester with a naked hunger and Ragna with a more mature, subdued wistfulness. As it turns out, Ragna does leave the island at the end of the film, but not under happy circumstances, nor her own steam. Her mother almost dies of an overdose, and Ragna is forced to seek other solutions for care of her younger brother, with her own future uncertain. Meanwhile Ester is left in her boring, stable, protected life, hopefully a little wiser as to where the grass is greener.

The film is entirely in Faroese, filmed on the island of Sandoy (population 1200) with a Faroese director, scriptwriter, stars and the majority of the crew, and has been celebrated as the start of a film industry in the islands. And it’s an astonishingly competent start, particularly given that only the editor (Amalie Westerlin Tjellesen) and the cinematographer (Virginie Surdej) had ever worked on a feature film before (both women, something you seldom see in e.g. Hollywood productions). The leads are excellent, with Helena Heðinsdóttir giving a mature and layered performance as Ragna and Juliet Nattestad offering one of the most honest portrayals of unabashed adolescent desire I have seen from a female perspective.

Some reviews have criticised the film’s pacing, with extended shots and sequences focusing on fairly mundane day to day interactions. While I agree that the film didn’t reach the level of drama that it perhaps aspired to, I don’t think that the pacing was a problem. Shot largely in a realist style, it is the everyday – both Ragna’s and Ester’s – that is the focus of the film. (One notable realist departure is that mobile phones are not to be seen. While I can understand the desire for a ‘timeless’ film that won’t be dated by incorporation of fast-evolving technology, this did seem a bit jarring given the ubiquity of phones in teen culture.)

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In my view, the editing supports the cinematography, which is one of the strengths of the film. Together, they let scenes breathe, so the viewer can soak into the atmosphere – both physical and psychological. The opening shot is like a watercolour of grey clouds with land, green, barely visible. The viewer is instantly struck by the beauty of the place, but also a sense of having reached the end of civilisation. An early close-up on Ester’s mother’s hands, knitting, confirms this. Wide frames of beautiful but washed-out island scenery reinforce the sense of isolation while close ups and point of view shots put us in Ester’s head and emphasizes the intimacy between the girls.

Where I did feel that the film faltered a little was the writing. Marjun Syderbø Kjelnæs is a respected Faroese writer, with some young adult publications under her belt, so I don’t doubt she knows what she’s doing. But the story of a sheltered girl idolising and forming an intense friendship with a tougher peer with problems of her own is far from a new one, and it made it difficult to watch Dreams by the Sea without comparing it to texts that have done a little bit more with the idea (e.g. Jacqueline Wilson’s children’s novel Bad Girls or Metin Hüseyin’s film adaptation of Meera Syal’s Anita and Me).

A key issue is that there weren’t really any consequences for the characters as a result of the central friendship, unlike in e.g. Bad Girls and Anita and Me. Ragna’s mother’s overdose was not causally related (as far as I could tell) to their friendship, and I’m not sure if Ester did learn anything from Ragna’s experiences – when she looks longingly at Ragna leaving the island for the last time, is it her friend she misses or does she still wish she was in Ragna’s place? Ragna  just gets yet another opportunity for stability snatched from her.

Nor did the film really develop the implied sexual tension between the leads. The camera’s framing of Ragna, coupled with Juliet Nattestad’s Ester looking at her like she wants to eat her with her eyes, added a level of ambiguity as to what it is Ester desires from her. The two were also fairly physical in their affection, and were often filmed in intimate settings. But here again I’m not sure if there actually was a lesbian subtext or if I was looking for it based on other films, such as Fucking Åmål (Show Me Love) or Heavenly Creatures, which also feature a stifled brunette becoming enamoured with a less supervised blonde and the attractions of a life beyond their unglamorous environs.

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Like these two films, Dreams by the Sea includes a scene where the intimate and insular relationship between the girls is disrupted by a heterosexual experiment (which is also the only overtly sexual encounter in each film), where the young man is aligned with the parochial context the protagonists want to flee, and is therefore explicitly or implicitly found wanting. In the case of Dreams by the Sea, despite the visual beauty of a tryst by mirror-like lagoons in the blue-grey Nordic twilight, the boys involved are the local louts whose main topic of conversation is who had the biggest ram last year.

And yet Dreams by the Sea neither goes all in on the lesbianism, as in Fucking Åmål, where their newfound romantic relationship makes the boring town survivable for the protagonists, nor does it hint as strongly at lesbian desire as Heavenly Creatures, where it is a component of a dangerously intense relationship that results in violence. Both of these other films link a desire for something different with homosexual desire, and pursue the consequences of both to a point of significant change in the protagonist’s character and situation. In Dreams by the Sea, neither the nature nor the consequences of the two girls’ desire for one another is fully developed, which lessens its dramatic impact and makes me wonder what the lesbian subtext was doing there (if I didn’t imagine it in the first place).

On the other hand, a familiar and generic story with broad appeal is perhaps a good canvas for the first Faroese feature film, that is perhaps more about the country itself than Ester and Ragna. The two girls do work as handy symbols of the contradictions of Faroese life – insular, parochial and dull, or a haven of sorts for those at odds with the mainland. This universality seems to be what director Stórá is going for; in his words:

“We all know either an Ester or a Ragna. They represent much of what we see in lots of people. They represent different sides of the Faroe Islands, and if we don’t recognise them, then it’s because we have been them ourselves.”

And, perhaps overt lesbianism is a bit much to expect from the first feature film in the Faroes, a highly Christian country that has traditionally not looked too favourably on homosexuals (although things are apparently changing).

Narrative discussions aside, one of the central pleasures the film offers for an international audience is the detailed portrayal of an isolated environment and culture. The gorgeous green islands against the salt-bleached colours of the cottages, and the cold grey and steel-blue of the sea and sky. The cry of the gulls and the gossip in knitting circles. The unusual amount of freckles, a legacy perhaps of the Celtic ancestry many Faroese have.

Director Stórá filmed in his hometown on Sandoy, promising a degree of authenticity that comes with familiarity. At a Q&A after the festival screening, the director said that the film offers a fairly honest portrayal of the island, particularly with regard to high degree of religiosity and the role that Christianity plays in the village. Even alcoholism and neglect, while not always discussed, are apparently not uncommon on the islands. However, Stórá joked that people sensibly never believe him when he claims that mobile phones haven’t made it to the Faroes.

And it wasn’t only foreign audiences that enjoyed seeing the Faroes on film. According to Stórá, Faroese are among the top consumers of films (per capita) in the Nordic region, but had never had a Faroese feature to watch. Dreams by the Sea apparently sold more tickets at home than Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Based on the talent displayed in this first feature, I certainly hope for many more. Hopefully the recently established Faroese Film Institute will help the local industry to ride the momentum of Dreams by the Sea‘s achievements.

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Moldova: Anishoara

(2016; writer/director: Ana Felicia Scutelnicu; language: Romanian; co-production with Germany; original title: Anişoara)

Ostensibly a coming-of-age film, Anishoara documents a year in the life of the titular 15 year old, as she finds first love and eventually forges a path towards independence and adulthood. But while the girl Anishoara is the visual and narrative focus of the film, it feels instead like a chronicle of a way of life, a time capsule of rural Moldova as yet forgotten by the march of modernity.

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Moldova is another entry on the list of countries which are not exactly renowned for their cinematic output. The Soviet era did see the production of well-received films such as Emil Loteanu’s 1972 romance Lăutarii, but when Anishoara was listed in my local film festival the choice of Moldovan film for the blog was an easy one; the film is beautifully shot and confidently produced, with an ethnographic perspective that offers a rich window into village life in one of Europe’s most neglected corners.

The plot, as such, is minimal. The film opens with the telling of a folk tale about a beautiful princess who fell in love with the sun, forgoing all other suitors. Mortally burned by her lover’s embrace, she regenerates into a starling, forever trying to reach the sun before falling to earth again. Enter Anishoara (Anishoara Morari), possessed of an unselfconscious beauty and a quiet but palpable presence. The film follows her through four seasons of her teenage life in a small Moldovan village, with each season culminating in a proposal and a rejection, before she gains the means to strike off on her own. The folk tale is thus more of a thematic frame than a literal metaphor: Anishoara, like the starling-princess, is a beautiful girl who rejects all suitors in search of an (unattainable?) ideal, a girl who wants to fly.

While the shifting of the seasons and Anishoara’s coming of age offer the semblance of a linear narrative, the film is more concerned with capturing a fixed time and place. Director Scutelnicu is openly captivated with the raw, self-contained beauty of both Anishoara and her village, having featured both in her previous short feature Panihida. A testimony to Scutelnicu’s enthrallment, the film is immersed in sensory details of the village life: the sounds as Anishoara uses hands and feet to apply mud to her home’s walls. The texture of mist, of cigarette smoke, of the steam from a horse. Anishoara’s grandfather’s wizened, toothless face. The ripple and rattle of wind through a field of bobbing sunflower heads. The sounds of birds, of frogs, of insects. The processing of corn by hand.

And yet, although richly evocative, the camera’s intense gaze is also impassive, keeping the viewer at a psychological remove. We may be offered a window into Anishoara’s life, but little is revealed about the inner workings of her mind or the emotional currents of the village. It is as though the fleeting moment director Scutelnicu seeks to capture – a girl on the brink of adulthood, a way of life in a remove village – has been cast in amber, preserved and observable, but temporally sealed off.

This temporal displacement is discernible in Scutelnicu‘s intention to “[share] with the public an almost silent and introvert sight on the human ages, the passing of time and the importance of moving out of the weight of existence.” And while time may pass in the film, it is a pre-modern time, governed by the rhythms of the seasons and the cyclical logic of folk-tales (such as that of the starling-princess, ever rising and falling). Anishoara acts to mythologise the present as though it is already long past.

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The film presents a world rooted in the old, on the cusp of the new. Tractors, motorbikes and buses have not entirely taken over from bicycles, horses and pony-carts. Traditional costumes are worn at Easter, and young people still turn out for village celebrations with traditional folk dance and songs. There are no televisions. The carousel at the funfair is rickety, and Anishoara is the only passenger. Church spires are the sole vertical challenge to the vast empty landscapes.

And yet this is not a world outside of our own – modernity exists simultaneously, just elsewhere. Why, otherwise, are there no working age people in the village? Have they disappeared to jobs in the city, or to larger farms as demanded by the march of industry? A jarring intrusion of the modern into the village occurs when a German tourist (William Menne) sets his sights on Anishoara. His visit to a salon to get his grey dyed a synthetic black, wearing a leopard-print hairdressers cape, could have been anywhere in today’s Europe, and is a reminder of both Anishoara and her village’s vulnerability.

The film’s almost documentary-like quality does raise questions about the reality of the way of life portrayed. While some of the actors are professionals, many are non-professionals from the village, whose ‘characters’ share their actual names. Scutelnicu describes the screenplay as “an open form… developed while shooting and reacting to the real life happening in front and behind the camera. The editing was also long and special, as the film had to be recreated and found new out of the material.” This certainly suggests a degree of genuineness to the culture and practices depicted, rather than an attempt to exaggerate a bygone pastoral simplicity for romantic effect.

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Indeed, the impassivity of the film’s gaze has been praised for neither romtanticising nor debasing Anishoara or her village. Moldova has the lowest GDP of any country in Europe, and is the only European country ranked below ‘high human development’ in the Human Development Index, and it shows. Anishoara and her family are poor. But they are not abject. The shops have little in them, but the village and surrounding countryside is beautiful. Anishoara seems to take pleasure in many aspects of her life and culture.

On the other hand, Scutelnicu does not shy away from hinting at some grimmer undercurrents to the girl’s life, particularly at the hands of men. Her grandfather threatens to “thrash her little bum”, and his drinking buddies joke about forcing themselves on her while she listens, rigidly upright in her bed in the next room. German visitor Mr. Schmidt leeringly places a wedding veil on her head, and even boyfriend Dragos (Dragos Scutelnicu) turns out to have a wife and kids back home in the next village. But despite the lingering threat of assault, it never occurs. As Variety‘s Jessica Kiang writes,

“more often than not the dramatic thing does not happen, merely the truthful one. And the truth here is that these lives are neither ennobled nor impoverished by the lack of werewithal; they simply are, as they have always been.”

This lack of drama could easily have made for a dull film, particularly as the film’s removed and observational quality means very little is actually revealed about Anishoara’s thoughts and emotions. There is minimal dialogue, and such as there is is desultory, as meaningful as silence. And yet Scutelnicu nevertheless achieves a charged atmosphere. Glances, environments, and even non-events come to take on a deeper significance: Dragos takes her on a trip to the ocean for the first time (Moldova is landlocked), but the chilly desolation of the wintry beach and the boredom of simply hanging out undercuts the romance. A visit to a cliff-side with ancient carvings while clouds speed in the blue sky overhead is an echo of the dreamy, mystical peril of Peter Weir’s Picnic at Hanging Rock. And even if none of the men’s threats actually eventuate in assault, the matter-of-factness of their existence would itself be enough to understand Anishoara’s decision, at the end of the film, to get into a yellow bus and drive it off into the sunrise.

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The film reminds me of a style I associate with Sofia Coppola – luminous, visually rich but with a firm emotional separation between viewer and characters. In Anishoara as in The Virgin Suicides or Marie Antionette there is a similar impression of surface beauty and implied threat, where the viewer can neither touch nor intervene; there are hints of an interior life that can be guessed at but never fully known. (Are there films like this about men? Or is it always women, young women, who are beautiful, ephemeral, vulnerable with their penetrable bodies but sphinx-like with their impenetrable minds? A stray thought, I digress…)

Scutelnicu has created a beautiful, subtle film in which her gaze is a presence almost as tangible as those it observes. She shares with the viewer a young girl’s confrontation with her surroundings, without drama or explanation, offering witness to a way of life and a youthful innocence that is on the brink of being lost. The film was a great way to learn about Moldova – “a regional film without kitsch” (as Scutelnicu’s previous film was described), with detailed and dignified depictions of folk customs, agricultural practices, and what young people do (or don’t do) for fun. It was a particular privilege to see, in such detail, the beautiful Moldovan landscape throughout all four seasons – the clusters of run down houses in rocky valleys, the buttery sun on rolling fields in the steppes, the thick layers of snow in the winter.

But I can’t help wishing that the viewer was allowed more access to Anishoara’s inner life. What does she dream of? What makes her happy? Who is she really? Who are any of the villagers, when you scratch the surface? In this sense I don’t feel like I really got to know Moldova – I know what it looks like now, but not what makes its people tick.

eSwatini: Liyana

(2017; directors: Aaron Kopp and Amanda Kopp; language: English and Swati; co-production with USA and Qatar)

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Liyana takes an interesting twist on the film within a film device by merging hard-hitting development documentary with a vibrantly animated children’s story. The film is partly the story of the a girl who departs on an epic hero’s journey to find and reclaim her two brothers from brutal kidnappers. It is also a live-action documentary about a group of children at the Likhaya Lemphilo Lensha orphanage in rural eSwatini*, who are creating and telling Liyana’s story as a way to process and discuss the traumas in their backgrounds.

* As part of his recent 50th birthday celebrations, King Mswati III decreed that the Kingdom of Swaziland would be renamed eSwatini. While I’m normally all for linguistic decolonisation, the lack of democracy in one of the world’s few remaining absolute monarchies does give me pause as to the legitimacy of the name change. But for lack of any argument as to why ‘Swaziland’ is better, I’ll go with the new one.

While various local film initiatives do seem to be in the works in the tiny, poverty-stricken kingdom, there aren’t a great many Swazi films to choose from as a foreign audience, even including foreign productions set and filmed there. Richard E Grant’s semi-autobiographical Wah-Wah is a notable exception, but with a solidly colonial perspective that is probably rather out of step with the average Swazi’s reality. Nor is Liyana an entirely local film, directed by Americans (although director Aaron Kopp grew up in Swaziland), Kickstarted, McArthur-granted, Abigail Disney and Thandie Newton among its executive producers, and with (the apparently ubiquitous) postproduction funding from Qatar. But Liyana is committed to showcasing Swazi stories, told (literally) by Swazis, making it the kind of film that this blog is all about.

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eSwatini has the highest rate of HIV-infection in the world, and consequently one of the lowest average life-expectancies. 200,000 children are left as orphans (in a country with a little over a million people), often with nowhere to turn for economic support or protection from abuse. The Likhaya Lemphilo Lensha orphanage is one safe harbour, established and run by the director Aaron Kopp’s family.

This set up could easily have led to a self-aggrandising development documentary about the Kopp family’s mission, but that clearly wasn’t the film that the duo wanted to make:

“Aaron: I knew we wanted to make a film about these kids. There are a lot of films about African kids that are exploitative and they profit from the suffering and the poverty. These kids were our friends and we wanted to make a film that didn’t make them feel vulnerable, embarrassed or any way shameful. We wanted to tell their story in a way that wouldn’t expose them.

Amanda: It’s about them.

Aaron: We wanted to put them in the driving seat because we knew they would take us on a wild ride.”

By structuring the film around a storytelling workshop, the subjects of the documentary are able to retain a level of ownership over how their stories are told. With some exceptions, it is generally the narrative choices the children make that bear witness to their experiences, allowing for a safe distancing between the traumas implied and any individual child’s background. It also allows a certain self-affirmation from the kids themselves, with storytelling becoming a metaphor for self-determination. In the words of the one of the kids: “Sometimes it’s more difficult to live your life than writing a story. But I am the storyteller, I want my story to end well.”

Under the guidance of the legendary Gcina Mhlope (South African activist, story-teller, writer and director), a narrative takes form. Mhlope leads them through the process of creating the character Liyana and her story, choosing the gender, name and look of the character (using cuttings from magazines to piece together her face), and building the story together. Nigerian-born artist Shofela Coker’s minimally animated stills illustrate the children’s lively and engaging narration, occasionally cutting to live action footage of the children’s hammy gestures and enthusiastic sound effects as they narrate a scene.

Indeed, this interplay is one of the film’s key strengths. Aaron Kopp explains, “as the children in the film tell the story, they’re energetic and charismatic, so we found that limiting the motion in the animation kept it from competing with the documentary footage of the kids.” Instead Coker created “breathing paintings”, a series of vibrantly coloured images that faithfully depict the varied Southern African landscape, and weave together the fantastical aspects of the story with mundane features of the children’s day to day lives.

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The story sees Liyana embark on a quest to recover her brothers from brutal kidnappers, proudly bearing her grandmother’s lihiya (Swazi traditional shawl) and accompanied by a white bull (the animated version of a real life bull belonging to the orphanage). Tracking the her stolen brothers across the varied Southern African terrain, the two companions traverse grassy mountains like the ones around the rural orphanage, escape crocodiles and hyenas, survive exhaustion and despair in the desert-like lowveld, and feast on mangoes in the forest. Her brave quest ends in triumph, freeing not only her brothers but all the other children kidnapped by the robbers, as well as the captive monster used to terrorise them (a move which seals the doom of the robbers when the unchained beast turns on them).

The fact that it is the children’s own story renders powerful aspects of the narrative that could otherwise seem overdone. As one of the kids puts it, “not everything is ok in Liyana’s family”, and this is putting it mildly. Even before her adventure begins, pre-teen Liyana has suffered poverty (her clay and stick hut with its thatched roof is described as “a poor house”), abusive alcoholism and paternal neglect, her parents dying of HIV, and rape. If told from a outsider’s view, this could come off as lip-service to a shopping list of “African problems” like that in B’ella, but coming from the children it instead bears a poignant witness to their collective backgrounds.

Significantly, this is however background, a fact of life, but not defining of Liyana nor integral to her hero’s journey. Once her circumstances are established, Liyana’s quest becomes one of perseverance, care, and community building as she returns home with all the rescued orphans to form a new family. The message, in the children’s words, is: “overcome fear, hold on to hope. Keep going.” Again, what could have been a trite cliché instead “reverberates with the hard-won celebratory ring of firsthand experience,” as reviewer Sheri Lynden puts it.

The children are also responsible for the moments of occasional wackyness in Liyana’s story. I particularly liked a detour where Liyana sees the sea for the first time (eSwatini being landlocked), and her bull snorts in disgust upon discovering that seawater tastes like “salty armpits”. The kids then imagine up a kind of meta sequence where Liyana imagines an undersea realm ruled by a king and queen whose wealth and majesty are evidenced by the nice clothes they wear and the good food they eat (is this a conscious reference to the disparity between King Mswati and his impoverished populace?).

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The conceit of the children’s narrative as a metaphor for their real experiences was hammered home by inter-cutting with documentary footage from their daily life at the orphanage. Where it worked was in showing the relationship between the children’s lives and their creative process, like when a monster constructed by one of the children was shown to be a prototype for the animated one in Liyana’s story, or where Liyana’s feasting on mangoes is shown to be a favourite pastime of the children as well. But transitions via e.g. a sunset to extended footage of the children playing football or having dinner together did feel a bit forced. The sequences themselves, while underscoring the theme of home and community as vital for healing, were somewhat overlong and felt at times like padding. (I did like getting to look around the rural landscape with green and craggy hills that reminded me of my native country, but I’m not sure I needed to watch the kids go swimming, beautiful as the scenery was).

In addition to being occasionally disjointed, the documentary footage also ran the risk of undermining the wise choice to let the children’s speak for themselves about their experiences via their constructed narrative. At one point the film follows the children to an HIV-clinic where they receive their medicine, and one young boy, Thulani, is being tested. The kindly doctor asks him where he lives, to which the frightened boy responds “Home”. It’s a nail-biting sequence waiting for the results, and an undeniably cute and thematic answer from the child, but did seem to me like the film had strayed into the kind of exposure that the film-makers claimed to want to avoid (even if the test results did come back negative).

On balance, however, I think the film-makers succeeded in creating an engaging and beautiful film. Its hybrid animation-documentary format puts the warmth and self-determination of its subjects at the centre without pulling any punches about the acute situation for many Swazi children. The film doesn’t have anything directly to say about the adult world in eSwatini, rife with extreme inequality and human rights abuses, but they are arguably present in some sense as an underlying cause of the children’s situation. Instead, the film is firmly from the children’s perspective – children who have already borne a lifetime of suffering, but who still find pleasure and hope in the world.

Comoros: Kwassa Kwassa

(2015; director: Tuan Andrew Nguyen; writer: Tuan Andrew Nguyen/SUPERFLEX; language: Comoronian; production of Denmark and Vietnam)

Comprising a series of islands in the Indian Ocean, between Mozambique and Madagascar, Comoros is one of the smallest (and poorest) African nations. It is also a country I despaired of ever finding a film from. Diaspora film-makers such as Hachimiya Ahamada (Ashes of Dreams, The Ylang-Ylang Residence) and Ouméma Mamadali (Baco) have pioneered film-making in the country, but these are difficult to find (especially with English subtitles) now that their debut on the festival circuit is past. So when I saw Kwassa Kwassa listed in my local film festival, I thought – well, close enough. Kwassa Kwassa fails almost all the criteria I have for this blog: it’s a short film (19 mins), a documentary, and produced entirely by foreigners – helmed by Vietnamese director Nguyen and Danish art collective SUPERFLEX. And yet I include it here because it is perhaps the only film I will ever get to see that is filmed in and about Comoros.

The film opens with a boat alone in a blue sea, and a voice that says (in Comoronian): “you will listen to our voice, our voice will take you to the edge of Europe, and beyond. Two islands, same people, one European, and one not…”

‘Kwassa kwassa’ is the local word for the small open fishing boats used to ferry passengers from the Union of Comoros islands to Mayotte, a French territory in the Comoros archipelago and the farthest outpost of the European Union. The journey from Anjouan (where the film takes place) to Mayotte is only 70km, and yet this span of sea is the border between Africa and Europe, and (according to the film, at least) between penury and wealth, between despair and a future. Although only a short journey between two Comoronian islands, it is a journey forbidden by migration law and thus fraught with danger. The film states that more than 10,000 people have died trying to cross.

Against this background, the film focuses on the Anjouan-based makers of the kwassa kwassa boats. Exquisitely detailed montages of the boat-building process are overlaid with narration (by Soumette Ahmed – a local, one hopes?) detailing the geopolitical situation (historical and present), the dangers faced on the crossing and the reasons for attempting it, as well as ruminating on the mythical and incongruous nature of borders, nations, and Europe itself.

An art-film at heart, Kwassa Kwassa is beautifully shot. Detailed close-ups and snappy editing render the messy labour of manually crafting the fiberglass vessels into a work of art, simultaneously showing up the boat-makers’ craft and helping the viewer to experience the process on a tactile level. I was captivated. Also stunning are the aerial shots of Anjouan and the surrounding ocean, both visually effective and a testament to the artistic potential of drone-based camerawork. The clear turquoise of the Indian Ocean as it nears the shore, the glittering indigo of the deep open sea, and the run-down concrete bunkers of the settlement on Anjouan, studded with green explosions of palms.

However, I was less taken with how the film delivered its political and philosophical content – a desperately relevant challenge to conceptions of what and who is ‘Europe’ and the material violence necessary to uphold the demarcation between European and Other. But I felt that the film, in exploring the short and deadly journey between ‘African’ Anjouan and ‘European’ Mayotte, got that message across vividly without the slightly hammy disembodied whisper of the narrator pointing this out, or recounting the myth of Zeus and Europa (the point that Europa herself was an immigrant carried across the Mediterranean was also made, perhaps better, in Elfriede Jelinek’s The Supplicants).

For me, the comparison with the myth was a distraction, and served to focus the film on Europe and its aura of hope and security, bolstered further by the narrator’s description of Mayotte as “a sleeping beauty surrounded by thorns”. Both of these metaphors draw on a European fabular lexicon and make Mayotte out to be a prize, without dwelling on the stories and contexts of Anjouans who are willing to risk everything to claim it. For the film-makers, apparently, kwassa kwassa are not merely a literal means of conducting a dangerous and life-altering journey, they are also symbols of “a carrier of dreams of reaching a better life on the other shore”.

I would have preferred a little less symbol and a bit more detail about the lives of the non-Europeans – the Comoronians and others (the film shows a Vietnamese family also making the journey in the kwassa kwassa), and perhaps the legacies of colonialism and imperialism that have prompted them to take to the boats. Hints are dropped: there have apparently been 20+ coups in Comoros since independence from the French (many, according to the film, orchestrated by the French government); and poverty and injustice – “you can’t eat identity, but identity will always eat you, like the ocean”.

Nor do we get much insight into the motivations of the passeurs – those who ‘traffick’ the emigrants to Mayotte. Are they exploiting their desperate passengers, or are their charges fair compensation for the risks involved? If they have the capability to take themselves to Mayotte, why don’t they remain? And what indeed happens to those passengers that make it to Mayotte? I understand that as a short art film these details might have distracted from the concentrated motifs and parable that the film is going for, but I can’t help wondering if a film more grounded in the lives of the people it depicts would have provided more nuance and insight.

Despite these qualms the film is still powerful, partly through its shared intelligibility with the horrors currently unfolding on the shores of mainland Europe – a comparison the film makes overtly. Effective also is the stunning cinematography, and the contrast between the beauty of the Indian Ocean and its deadly potential. But really, the power is in the harrowing journey the passengers must undergo, and the film wisely gives its last few minutes over to this. The emigrants board the boat and it sets off. The only sound is the waves, the passengers are silent, intent. And then we see the boat alone, white and bullet shaped, on a dark blue sea.

In conclusion, though visually stunning, philosophically it’s an elevated and unsubtle film, with a European focus and little detail about the lives of everyday Comorians.  However, as an example of the incongruous violence that colonialism and current inequalities entail it is a powerful film, and one that makes me want to learn more about what leads a country to divide itself so harshly.

Uzbekistan: 40 Days of Silence

(2014; writer/director: Saodat Ismailova; language: Uzbek; original title: Chilla; co-production with Tajikistan, the Netherlands, Germany and France)

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Teenage Bibicha (Rushana Sadikova) undertakes a vow of silence – the titular chilla for a 40 day period. She moves in with her grandmother Bibi Soadat (Saodat Rahminova) in Bibi’s isolated mountain home, along with her worldly aunt Khamida (Barohad Shukurova) newly returned from ‘the city’, and Khamida’s illegitimate young daughter Sharifa (Farida Olimova). Through the subtle interactions between these characters, and meditative sound and imagery, the film examines the lives and choices of the three generations of Uzbek women as they negotiate the forces of tradition and gendered power structures.

My brief research into the Uzbek film industry turned up a decent number of well-received films from the Soviet era, and more modern hits such as Abdullajon (a science fiction comedy film which looks kind of fun), but unfortunately both the Soviet era classics and the post-independence productions are difficult to access with English subtitles. So, as is increasingly becoming the case, I let availability dictate and went with the Uzbek entry in my local film festival. As I’m also keen to include films helmed by women, and those with a clear focus on women’s lives, 40 Days of Silence seemed like a great choice for the blog. I was therefore a little disappointed to learn as the closing credits rolled that it was actually filmed in neighbouring Tajikistan (more photogenic? Cheaper? who knows…). But culturally and narratively the film seems solidly Uzbek, so I’m still going to use it here.

The film starts in a redly-lit basement with an oppressive metallic soundtrack. A stressed-looking Bibicha is surrounded by ghost-like apparitions of her family members, who debate whether or not she will survive her chilla. It is unclear why Bibicha is undergoing this ordeal, nor in what sense is poses a danger, but her undertaking is met with grave respect. (My initial thought was that she was pregnant, but this proved not to be). After this dramatic beginning, the rest of the film then resolves into a state of apparent calm, albeit one charged with tension and unease. The homely comforts of the women’s remote peasant life are overlaid with something unspoken and hard to pinpoint, a chronic and stifling atmosphere of oppression that bears relentlessly down on them.

40 Days of Silence is very much a festival film; it’s poetic, exploratory, and without much narrative drive or tension. In a lot of ways it felt like a film that wanted neither to show nor tell, but to use all the devices available to the medium to evoke a sense of the women’s lives and psyches on an almost tangible level. Some of these devices were more effective and well-executed than others – I personally was not a fan of the swirling blurred visuals used at one point, symbolic as they may be. Much more effective was the sensitive interplay between sound and image throughout the film. The central protagonist’s silence is most obvious aspect of this – her lack of dialogue forces the viewer to broaden their sensory awareness, taking in visual and auditory clues that combine to create a visceral experience of atmosphere, as opposed to plot or verbal forms of sense-making.

I’ve seen other films about vows of silence, and these tend to get their drama from instances where the protagonist really needs to talk. Few have captured the yawning stretch of isolation and dull introspection that such a vow might entail, a form of self-imposed solitary confinement. 40 Days of Silence conveys this through heightened attention to the mundane details of life at Bibi Saodat’s home – the fizz of rain leaking through the roof and landing on the heated hearth. The cacophony of goats going at the bare branches of the winter trees. The obscene guzzling of one bold goat who climbs onto the table to consume leftovers from the women’s dinner. The rasp of Bibi Saodat’s hands stroking those of her granddaughter. In contrast, the discordant tones of Aunt Khamida’s constant cell phone use become an unbearable agony, a comment perhaps on encroaching modernisation? And subtly invading these moments of quiet and stillness was a murky and disturbing soundtrack, like a white noise inside Bibicha’s head, charging the apparent normalcy with a lingering threat.

Reviewer Patrick Gamble put all this more concisely and poetically: “Dark, haunting scenes of personal reflection are accompanied by the throbbing, ominous vacuum of nothingness, and from the onset the audience find themselves in a nightmarish landscape where the pain and suffering of the past coexists with the present. By positioning us within the subjectivity of Bibicha, all other senses are sharpened. Ismailova utilises dense layers of sound, overlaid visuals and extreme close-ups to give a poetically tragic edge to what is, for Bibicha at least, already a sombre existence.”

Even Bibicha’s characterisation must largely be intuited from sensory cues – while Sadikova gives an impressive performance in what must have been a challenging role, her face is often partially or entirely concealed. The symbolism is understandable given the themes of women’s oppression and limitation, and in the context of debates (verbalised at one point in the film) over whether or Uzbek women should engage in the (as I understand it, non-traditional) practice of wearing a veil – a signal of the tensions around the meaning of Islam in an independent Uzbekistan. But even if symbolic, I kept feeling that if I couldn’t hear the actress speak, I at least wanted to see her. I was unwillingly distracted throughout much of the film by boredom stemming from not knowing what was going on, who was feeling what, or why. I put this down not to any of the performances but rather to the film’s experimental nature and its preference for layers of symbolism over anchoring these to narrative or characterisation.

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At times the camera broke away from the purely domestic, revealing wide vistas of Bibicha’s mountainous surroundings. But where shots such as these are often associated with freedom or the space to ‘find oneself’, in Ismailova’s film they do the opposite, intensifying – rather than relieving – the atmosphere of suffocation and confinement. We watch painfully as a barefoot Bibicha climbs a looming mountain of sharp shale; a cluster of buildings is an island in a looming veil of clouds; a forest of black twigs brings to mind the impenetrable isolation of the Sleeping Beauty; a blizzard rages. Outside her grandmother’s home, or in, Bibicha is hemmed in by the weight of her limited opportunities.

Although the source of Bibicha’s oppression are not explicitly stated, they are hinted at: poverty, isolation and an uncertain future, yes, but also gender and tradition. (This is perhaps unsurprising, given Uzbekistan’s record of women’s rights abuses). No men are seen on screen, but their presence is felt. At one point a radio interview plays, a woman twice a child-bride discussing the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her husband. Bibi Saodat groans, I know this so well. And yet she too is a bearer of tradition – her rhythmic voice extolling the iron will of the way of things. ‘The ghosts in your past define your present,’ Bibicha is told. At a party Bibi Saodat makes a toast to the fulfillment of the younger generation’s dreams, and I wonder what these could be. What were Bibi Saodat’s dreams, and what does she wish for her grandchildren? The film left me yearning to know more – what do women dream of in contemporary Uzbekistan, and how likely is it that those dreams are fulfilled? 40 Days of Silence made palpable rural Uzbek women’s oppression, but did not actually reveal much about their inner lives. I would have liked to know more about how Bibicha came to undertake her chilla and what it means for her – is it atonement or redemption, or is it a way to exert her will?

Director Ismailova states that40 Days of Silence is a story about women confronting crucial decisions: motherhood, the weight of tradition, homeland, sexuality, emotional expression, religion or self-destruction in modern society. The characters are inspired from situations lived by those who are close to me. Aside from women’s issues, I would like to explore an idea of lost identity, of living a complex re-evaluation and transformation of human values in a society deeply rooted in Islam, a society that was reshaped by communism and has recently become independent. How does this transformation ‘echo’ in women’s destinies, and in the way they perceive and confront their lives? The film is an experiment in approaching and beginning to unveil the blood-and-guts realities of Uzbek women’s intimate relations.”

And while much of this ambition is present in the film, particularly the notion of echoes of the past, I’m not sure that all of it was successfully realised – at least for a viewer like me with little to no prior knowledge of the country. The picture of Uzbekistan I got from the film – beyond the fact that it looks like Tajikistan – is one of a country undergoing changes, but where layers of historic trauma weigh heavily. Women’s existence seems to be one of little joy, little hope, and little room for change. While Ismailova’s film is admittedly experimental, and was at times very successful in evoking a sense of its characters’ psychological, cultural and geographical environs, I couldn’t help feeling it might have gone deeper into certain issues – particularly the role of women in independent Uzbekistan, and how this intersects for instance with nationhood and religion.

This article from Human Rights Watch, although somewhat dated now, offers an interesting introduction to some of the issues that the film appears to take up, but which I could never fully grasp while watching it.

Uzbekistan, which became independent in 1991, is a young state with claims to an ancient past. The desire to reanimate and reinvent national tradition, and thus to solidify the newly independent state’s claims to nationhood, has complicated women’s exercise of their human rights in the post-Soviet era… As in many post-communist societies, attitudes regarding women’s roles in society and the workforce, and the structure of family, grew more conservative during the turmoil that followed the break-up of the Soviet bloc. Social scientists have noted that ‘one of the more fully elaborated and vigorously promulgated components of Uzbekistan’s new national ideology is an imagined pre-revolutionary past in which the restriction of women to the private sphere supposedly enriched the lives of women and the entire nation.’ … This position is further complicated by the government’s contradictory stance toward Islam, which it also promotes as a facet of national culture and identity, but suppresses when it challenges state authority. Statements by government officials portray Islam on the whole as an encroaching threat to women’s exercise of their rights, ignoring facets of the region’s own Islamic heritage, such as the jadid movement, supportive of female emancipation.

Shoutout: Zulfiya

director’s short film about the dried up Aral Sea. Glimpse of similar rhythmic film-making, interaction between a largely silent female protagonist and her harsh surroundings, the danger of men, and tragedies of Uzbekistan’s history and present.

Malawi: B’ella

(2014; writer/director: Tawonga Taddja Nkhonjera; language: English)

Malawi is ranked among the world’s least developed countries, and nurturing a local film industry doesn’t seem to have been a priority. Apart from Charles Shemu Joyah’s The Last Fishing Boat and Seasons of a Life, there aren’t a whole lot of Malawian feature films out there. I’d like to check out Joyah’s films too, but when I saw B’ella listed in the local film festival line-up, I leapt at the chance – especially as director Nkhonjera was holding a Q&A afterward. Nkhonjera spoke positively about a growing interest in film-making in Malawi (although funding is still an issue), so hopefully more films will come!

Perhaps because Malawian feature films are such a rarity, B’ella is a film that tries to do everything. The blurb on the film’s website states that the film “covers issues such first love, friendships, school bullying, peer pressure, self-confidence, the importance of education, gradual loss of traditional values, teacher-student relationship, stigma connected to HIV and more,” and they’re not exaggerating. B’ella (Vinjeru Kamanga) is a 17-year old Malawian girl with a lot on her plate. Her best friend is sick with AIDS after selling sex to provide for her family, the school bitch Kalilole (Chimwemwe Mkwezalamba) is flirting with the guy she likes, her parents have high expectations of her as their eldest daughter, her maths teacher (Tony Khoza) keeps telling her she needs extra lessons, and she’s also just trying to find her place in the world as the adult she is on the brink of becoming. But B’ella’s strength and leadership are really allowed to shine when said maths teacher gropes her and proposes marriage, and B’ella leads the charge to make sure this kind of exploitation will no longer be tolerated. Throw in the build-up to an epic high school music concert (that never eventuates), the forging of a friendship with a chastised Kalilole, death in the family, and even a rumination on the acceptability of the word mzungu, and you’ve got… well, you’ve got the film B’ella.

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It’s definitely a roller coaster of a film. The film’s NGO-sponsors claim they wanted to show “that a Malawian girl is just like any other girl in the universe, growing up and looking for her identity in the jungle of every day life”. While B’ella’s jungle might be more intense than that of the average teen, maneuvering through the emotional turbulence of adolescence is something most can probably identify with. From this perspective, even the film’s abrupt tonal shifts make more sense – who else but a teen can go from mourning the death of a loved one to taking a carefree leap off a waterfall with their new best friend/former enemy? But I do feel like the film might have been more powerful had it not attempted to cram in so many issues, allowing the impact of presumably life-changing events to be explored in greater depth. As it is the film often strayed over into preachiness, with its catalogue of teen issues and the just slightly too perfect B’ella clearly set up as a role model: the perfect friend, the perfect daughter, the perfect love interest, the perfect mediator, the perfect sister and the perfect advocate. (This perhaps, is a consequence of the film being sponsored by an NGO – boNGO Worldwide – who list it under their ‘Youth and Adult Education / Awareness Raising Films’ section). In fact it is a major credit to Kamanga’s performance that the superwoman B’ella is anything other than insufferable. Instead, Kamanga gives B’ella an aura of groundedness and genuine warmth.

Screenshot 2015-08-29 22.27.09If B’ella was too much of a saint, her foil Kalilole was too much the stereotypical Alpha Bitch. Sure, the character shows how class differences can manifest even in the poorest places, but her story did nothing to vary the well-worn narrative of redemption through the humble protagonist’s innate goodness. (And why oh why are women’s emotional transformations so often signified by a change in hairstyle? In this case, a reformed Kalilole removes her weave and adopts a shorter style with her natural hair, like B’ella). And of course she and B’ella like the same guy, who is in the end put off by Kalilole’s shallowness and drawn to the obviously perfect B’ella. However, even if the Mean Girls aspects of the film were a bit uninspired, B’ella’s crammed running time offered plenty more in the drama department.

As an educational film clearly intending to offer young Malawians a female role model, it is perhaps unsurprising that it includes such a broad assortment of calamities. Malawi is burdened by a low average life expectancy, HIV/AIDS, and child-headed households, and has one of the highest rates of child marriage in the world (contributing in turn to the country’s devastatingly high maternal mortality rate). If the film offers young people tools to cope with the issues, or perhaps even combat them, then it would assuredly be a force for good. As an international viewer, I was less captivated by the helter skelter ride through Malawi’s development issues than I was by the small moments where the film was allowed to breathe and dwell on more banal interactions between its cast. The director mentioned at the Q&A, for example, that (no) hugging between friends is a taboo that the film challenges. Is this reflective of a change in Malawian culture around expressing intimacy? I also appreciated the moments when the action strayed over to a group of boys from B’ella’s neighbourhood, who frankly and sympathetically helped each other explore norms of masculinity and sexual (dis)interest – definitely not something one normally finds in your average American teen flick. I liked the space made for boys too to question the roles provided for them, in a film that was otherwise so determinedly focussed on inciting girl power that it risked becoming a slogan (in the style of a certain shoe company that shall remain nameless).

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Although eventful, and helped along by a confident and vibrant score by local artist Muhanya, the film is somewhat let down by its production values and a lack of polish. It is predominantly the performances of Kamanga and Mkwezalamba that carry the film, providing it with a luster and professionalism that is rather lacking from some of the supporting cast, many of whom were sourced from a local high school. Khoza – a radio personality – also does an excellent job of his film debut in the role of the maths teacher, endowing him with the perfect mixture of banal self-righteousness and sleaze. But complaining about poor production values hardly feels appropriate for the product of a vastly under-resourced film industry, and I imagine that director Nkhonjera has every right to proud of what he managed to achieve with the presumably low budget he had to work with.

In fact, hearing him talk at the Q&A made all too clear the challenges involved in the production process, and gave answer to some of the niggles I’d had watching the film. For instance, the school concert finale that never eventuated turned out to have been beset by filming difficulties. I was also confused by the European woman who wandered through the film at several points, contributing nothing but a distracting white presence, as though to remind the viewer that no African story is complete without a white filter – be it a coloniser or an aid worker. Finding out that she is the director of the NGO sponsoring the film made her on-screen involvement more understandable, if not narratively excusable. Overall, I got the impression that Nkhonjera was working with what he had, which wasn’t a lot, and was trying to make a film for a range of audiences and purposes. That the film even made sense is an achievement, and the fact that it is engaging, warm and at times genuinely stirring is a testament to the skill and energy of its director and leads.

Indeed, I think that the film’s unevenness can be ascribed more to the clash of purposes than any lack of talent or production values. It is at once a creative endeavour to show Malawi to Malawians, an educational film designed to fit an NGO’s purposes, and also a film directed at international audiences. With that brief, it could hardly be anything but choppy. Especially as the picture of Malawi intended for international audiences was somewhat at odds with the film’s educational focus on Malawi’s hardships. The film’s sponsors state “we want to break the cliché of showing Malawi, and other African countries, as poverty-stricken places, but show the reality – Malawi being a beautiful place in which people have difficulties and joys just like anywhere else in the world.” It is difficult to both break the stereotype of the impoverished sub-Saharan African nation and delve into the country’s poverty-related issues, but B’ella certainly gives it its best shot. And the enthusiastic showing off of the upsides of Malawian life is definitely another of the film’s successes. Shot (and set) in semi-rural Chazunda, a community on the outskirts of Malawi’s commercial city Blantyre, the film glories in Malawi’s dusty reddish earth, cloud-muted rolling hills, green forests and rocky waterfalls. Viewers are treated to colourful markets, and both traditional and modern performing arts. I’m not sure if all this balances out the dramatic deaths and sexual abuse that much of the film focusses on, but it certainly reveals a side of sub-Saharan Africa that rarely makes it onto Western screens; people going about their lives with purpose, vigour, enjoyment, ambition, and all the rest of the activities and emotions that can be said to characterise humans

In the end, the sense of Malawi that B’ella left me with was of people doing their thing, enjoying the good parts and doing their best with the bad parts. And while the film was uneven in pretty much every way a film can be uneven, I’m going to apply that philosophy to my viewing of the film: enjoy the good parts, and make the best of the rest. With the enthusiasm and emerging talent highlighted in B’ella, I certainly hope the Malawian film industry continues to bloom.

Georgia: Line of Credit

(2014; dir/writer: Salomé Alexi; language: Georgian; original title: Kreditis Limiti)

Line of Credit is a case study of economics and class in struggling post-independence Georgia. The film follows forty-something Nino: a child of the Soviet-era bourgeoisie, she is now drowning in escalating spirals of debt as she attempts to maintain her failing business and former lifestyle in the Georgian capital city, Tbilisi. The choice of this film was partly based on availability (I saw it at my local film festival), but I was also intrigued by the subject matter, and by its status as the feature debut from a third generation of Georgian women film-makers. I’d love to check out her mother Lana Gogoberidze and grandmother Noutsa Gogoberidze’s work too.

Georgian cinema has a long and illustrious history, famously praised by Fellini in the following terms: “Georgian film is a strange phenomenon. It is special, philosophically bright, sophisticated and at the same time childishly pure and innocent. There is everything in it that can make me cry and I have to say that it is not easy to make me cry.” I don’t know if Fellini would consider Line of Credit consistent with the tradition he describes, and I don’t know if I would either – certainly it didn’t make me cry. However, a ‘strange phenomenon’ it is, with its subtle yet arresting interplay of contradictions: it is film both shallow and moving, drama and farce, timeless and bitingly contemporary.

The tone of the film is one such contradiction. Given its serious subject matter – the film could have been a long grind of a drama about debt-traps and despair. But what makes Line of Credit so unique, is it’s lens of wry humour where the viewer is treated to a comedy of manners so bitter that the laughs stick in the throat. This tone is expertly fueled by the look and feel of the film. Emotional connection with the characters is undermined by an absence of close ups; instead the cinematography favours overtly staged and too-perfectly framed medium and wide shots that produce a subtle denaturalising and distancing effect. This emotional shallowness is complemented by a bright colour palette and chirpy soundtrack, evoking at times a sense of comedic joie de vivre.

As a comedy of manners, the film is about a system rather than an individual woman’s plight. Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, like many other post-Soviet states Georgia fell into a severe economic depression with the transition to a capitalist market economy. Civil war and military conflicts in South Ossetia and Abkhazia further aggravated the crisis, with many faring even worse than Nino and her family. The film’s post-script states that 14% of the Georgian population lost their homes between 2009 and 2013, as a consequence of high-interest loans. This is all relevant stuff, and the film shows us how the effects of these crises play out, but its real focus is on the behaviour that the transition to a capitalist economy encourages.

Nino’s life embodies the economic system – every social interaction takes the form of a financial exchange. She pumps her more financially stable friends for loans, manipulates the elderly blind co-owner of her house into gifting his ownership rights to her, and attempts to conceal from her mother the fact that she is selling and pawning most of their possessions (unsuccessfully on the latter count; as Nino furtively takes glasses out of a cabinet, her mother calls from the next room, “those glasses have no value, try the tea set!”). When her grandmother winds up in a coma, Nino seems more distressed about the 500 lari per day it costs to keep her on life support, and the unwillingness of the medical staff to take granny off it. While Nino isn’t all take, and repeatedly gives away some of her hard-loaned money to struggling friends and acquaintances, these feel more like largess doled out to reinforce the bourgeois status to which Nino clings, rather than a desire to help out of genuine emotional closeness. Giving financial support is one of the luxuries she can no longer afford, and yet she continues to do so, in turn landing many of her more financially stable friends in dire consequences as she bleeds them for credit.

The film occasionally strays over into moments of pure farce, such as the milking of a confused but easy-going French tourist for all he’s worth, or a stiffly hilarious scene where a skeptical but desperate Nino brings in a priest to bless the house. But the real farce is Nino’s naiveté, her willingness to accept obscene levels of interest, her self-delusion in her ability to pay off her loans, and her continued spending on the trappings of the life she is accustomed to as opposed to the one she is currently living. All this makes it harder to feel sorry for her, especially given the hints that the wealth she inherited hadn’t come to the family honestly. But the film doesn’t lay the blame on Nino, as the film isn’t really even about her, instead her predicament is used to show how capitalism makes assholes of us all. Nino’s employee comes to her aid with money she’d stolen from Nino in the first place, and Nino is obliged to drink champagne to ‘celebrate’ mortgaging her house. As Nino’s life falls apart (like Georgia’s newly capitalist economy), loan sharks, pawn shops, and greedy bankers rake in the profits.

Like fashion-plate Nino, struggling to sustain the trappings of former grandeur, the film presents Tbilsi itself as a city once replete with stately European splendour now descending into a particularly ugly morass of shabby pawn stalls and grotty loan-brokers; each a grasping symbol of a rat race with more losers than winners. It feels beneath not only Nino, but the rest of the country. Especially because it’s not only the former bourgeoisie who are in trouble – a carer working for Nino’s neighbour complains about her long commute to the job in Tbilisi and back to her farm, and the further full day’s work of caring from home, children and animals that awaits her there.

On a final note, I found it interesting that the economic actors of the film were almost entirely women. From the carer, loan-brokers, Nino’s employee, to Nino herself, women were the ones making and pursuing money. Men, on the other hand, tended to be portrayed as black holes – hardly present in the film and contributing little, and even getting in the way sometimes (such as when Nino’s plan to sell a valuable painting is ruined when her son admits its a fake – he’d already sold the original and frittered away the proceeds). Whether or not it is representative of Georgian society, it was certainly refreshing to see women taking an unquestioned and dominant role in various economic activities, and that they can be just as susceptible to human foibles and assholery when they do so.

The picture the film gave me of Georgia was one of a country in transition, and not necessarily towards a brighter future. The past reeks of corruption and entrenched class stratification, while the present is driven by an every-woman/man-for-themselves attitude where only (a select few of) the selfish succeed. Tbilisi looked like a city once beautiful, but now kind of run-down and depressing. I suspect much of Line of Credit is a familiar story for other post-Soviet countries in Eastern Europe, but perhaps – if Fellini is to be believed – it takes a Georgian film-maker to tell it like this.