Well, well, well. Where to start? We actually had a really nice day. Venice treated us with a beautiful sunshine, several prosecchi, good food and a quite fun Ai Wei Wei exhibition on San Giorgio.
Whilst we were relaxing very much on the farniente side of life, thousands of teenagers were busy gathering (apparently from 08:00) in front of the Palazzo del Cinema on the Lido. The reason holds in one name: Timothée Chalamet. I have to say it was quite an experience from a sociological point of view, which led me somewhere between bewilderment and a light fear for the future of humanity.
So whilst the kids were sitting on the concrete and frying in the sun, we entered the Excelsior hotel (the festival “headquarters”) from its beach side and treated ourselves with a bellini at the bar – being an adult definitely has many pros. We observed the buzzing cinema world (as well as the very much out of focus and slightly too high on god knows what waiter) from our little bar chairs, sipping slowly from our peachy bubbles – forget about the bottled bellini you can get in supermarkets, people! A real Bellini is made out of fresh peach juice. Even when the waiter struggles with pouring it straight into your glass, definitely worth the (quite long) wait.
As the screening time approached, we moved towards the Excelsior entrance. That is indeed where the movie delegations leave from to head towards the Palazzo del Cinema in nice Lexus cars… for a max 100 meters drive. And this is exactly when the outside kids got impressively out of control. A Lexus with tainted windows appeared from a side street. And hundreds, maybe thousands of kids started running after it, mobile phones in their hands, shouting “Timothyyyyyyyyyy, Timothyyyyyyyy, Timothyyyyyyyy”, some shaking uncontrollably, some crying pretty hysterically.
I don’t believe any one knew who actually WAS in that car. According to me, definitely not the Timothyyyyyy, as he appeared way later on the red carpet (and nope, I did not see a millimeter of his person). But the crowd started moving as one. Me don’t likey crowd movements. But we had a festival buddy wanting a picture situation. Hence, solidarity I showed and off we followed the movement.
Observing this mass hysteria left me quite sceptical. I could not help thinking that yes, the guy is a talented actor and yes, pretty he is. But damn, he is only 25 and only human after all (I suppose; Because seeing these kids’ reaction made me second guess this statement for a moment). And then, I kept wondering why no one follows me and my team to work in the morning. I mean. We are also doing a good job. Maybe we would as well deserve applauses and cheers sometimes, just to help us make it through the day.
But well, Timothée finally made it to the red carpet in his as red little outfit. And the outfit left me with as many questions as the movie I saw in the evening. I’m still unable to say what I exactly thought about it (the movie, I mean… well, the outfit as well, but not as essential an opinion I would say… though the kids would certainly disagree with me).
Guadagnino and I have a love/hate relationship. Love: “Io sono l’Amore” and “Call me by your name”. Hate (very deep, the hate, I must say): “A bigger splash” and “Suspiria”. As we were supposed to watch a cannibal related story, I was betting on the hate side for this one.
As usual, the Mostra surprises you and decides otherwise.
So apparently, my relationship with Guadagnino has evolved in a triangular one from now on: love, hate and, in the middle absolutely nothing, neutral, no love, no hate, basically nothing to say.
It was a pleasant watch. One of these standard American (though Italian in this case, if you see what I mean) road movies with nice sceneries and excellent actors indeed. What did the canibal element bring to it? Honestly, I have no clue. I am still searching for the metaphore behind it but struggle to make sense out of it. Blank my head remains – maybe I am just too relaxed… or too old for this.
I was definitely not bored. But definitely not charmed, surprised nor enchanted either. Hence, in this case, I will have to leave it to you to decide if it’s worth a watch and if there is a meaning behind all this that I was unable to grasp – feel free to enlighten me.
I DID feel slightly sorry though for the kids outside who waited for hours to see most probably nothing of Timothée and his red outfit, when the entire film crew came to say hi to us at the end of the screening. Mission accomplished, a Timothée picture we have.
To be honest, I woke up in the morning in a very unusual mood. I did not have the best night in my life. Loads of unpleasant and agitated dreams. I seemed to still be very much bothered by the opening movie screening. So much violence, so much noise. Train crashes, explosions, car accidents, broken little pieces of human bodies – all this not much counterbalanced by humour or at least some kind of lightness. If you add to this the fact that an acquaintance of ours killed himself and half of his family in a car crash earlier this week, the last thing you actually want to see is broken cars and dead people. Even worse, when all this is making no sense at all.
So to summarize, I woke up angry and fulminating. I spent the first half of the day thinking that, given the current context of inflation and hardship for many, maybe 150 million EUR could have served to a better purpose than to spoil my night. Level of grumpiness 500 reached.
My evaluation of the situation was shared with my movie buddies as follows : I do not need more agitation and disturbance. What I need right now is enchantment.
It seems that the gods of cinema heard me.
It required a bit of fighting to enter the movie theater. My bad vibes seemed to have an impact on the ticket screening machine. It indeed said that I had already entered the room. An absurd 10 minutes of negotiation with the controller, during which I had to prove that I am I and that, as I was standing beside him, I was obviously not inside the movie theater, followed. Final result: Klara 1 – machine 0. That victory against the machine saved my festival.
Again, as on day 1, two names could potentially appear like a guarantee of success: Kazuo Ishiguro and Bill Nighy. But I took my lesson and remained cautious this time. For those who do not know him, Kazuo Ishiguro (who wrote the screenplay and produced the film we were about to see) is 2017 Nobel Price of Literature and wrote a masterpiece that everyone should read at least once in his/her life: “The Remains of the Day”. Bill Nighy, I assume I do not need to introduce.
Bill Nighy at the screening
The film was presented out of competition for the simple reason that Kazuo Ishiguro is actually a jury member in the official competition (my professional self was very happy to see that conflict of interest is somehow dealt with at the Mostra).
“Living” was introduced as a remake of Kurosawa’s “Ikiru” which, I have to confess, I did not see (this shall be corrected soon). And “Living” ended up being the beautiful enchantment I was desperately in need of.
First, because Bill Nighy is once and for all the winner of Klara’s heart award (sadly he won’t get a price this year as, as explained, he is not competing). Second, because the entire film ends up being as delicate, discrete and subtle as Bill Nighy is. Something that only Brits know how to do. We laughed (thanks as well to a great performance by Aimee Lou Wood, who is as adorable as in “Sex Education”) and we cried spontaneously over the destiny of this condemned man trying, in his own way, to trigger a last little spark of life around him.
Beautiful visuals (guaranteed 100% car crash free), subtle dialogues and complex and sensitive characters seal the deal.
A must see. I am happy to announce that I am officially reconciled with the 2022 Mostra.
So here we finally are. Another year has passed and let’s face it, it’s been a rough one. When I arrived, I could not assess if, according to my understanding, this year had been very long or extremely short. It indeed felt like not so long ago, we were here watching movies in this exact same spot. It as well felt like it was in another life. So many beloved ones have left. So many friends vanished. Sadly, a friend in need is not necessarily a friend indeed. It almost feels like a miracle that me and my festival buddies are still standing. A bit damaged, not as straight as a year ago, but standing.
But here we are with our little 79 festival bags ready to be used. Though these ones will only start their career next year – as you need to show that you are part of the regular crowd, you dig out your 78 bag (see pic ^) and promenade proudly around the Lido with it.
COVID has left the Mostra. No more wall in front of the red carpet, the crowds are back, allowed to gather and fight for a picture or an autograph. Weirdly masks are still compulsory in public transports but not in the massive Palabiennale movie hall (it hardly makes sense but it is a relief to all of us).
The opening ceremony is quite the standard one although this year’s Mostra actively claims its support to the Ukrainian people. We are thus addressed by Vladimir Zelensky, reminding us that what is happening in Ukraine will not end in 2 hours as the screening we are going to see (a bit of an easy one, according to me, but criticism does not have its place in this context). We are as well confronted on the screen with a black on white list of the names of all the children who have lost their lives since the beginning of the conflict. I’ve hardly seen the Palabiennale as silent as this. The list seems to be never-ending.
It takes a few minutes to accept the shift to the usual screening routine after this. This year’s opening movie holds all the promises in two names: Noah Baumbach and Adam Driver. As a reminder, a few years ago Noah Baumbach directed « Marriage Story » staring Adam Driver together with Scarlett Johansson as the main cast.
By now, after 20 years of Mostra, I should have learned my lesson and known that two names should never be considered as a guarantee. But my opening-day-excited-self was rather sure that this combination could only lead to success.
The published synopsis DID seem strange, if not worrying, to me (apparently the movie is based on a book that I did and – now I know – will not read).
Let me share it with you as this was basically the only thing I knew about what we were about to see: « At once hilarious and horrifying, lyrical and absurd, ordinary and apocalyptic, White Noise dramatises a contemporary American family’s attempts to deal with the mundane conflicts of everyday life while grappling with the universal mysteries of love, death and the possibility of happiness in an uncertain world ».
Right, right, right. Let me now rephrase it for you AFTER having seen the movie: « At once not so hilarious and very much horrifying (in many ways), absolutely not lyrical and slightly too absurd, I still don’t know where the ordinary fits in here but apocalyptic it is a bit though eventually not so much but then I am not sure because I did not fully understand, White Noise is about nothing much ». As always #verypersonnalopinionalert.
It definitely gave me a headache that not even the, as usual excellent, Adam Driver could prevent from happening. Too much noise, too many visuals, too many directions. Basically too much of everything and eventually not enough of anything.
The only thought that constantly came to my mind during the 2 hours of screening was: Good lord, how much could that whole production have cost? I got my answer digging into the daily venetian rumours: it seems that the initial foreseen budget was 80 million EUR. It apparently ended up closer to something between 100 and 150 million EUR.
And that’s when you somehow can’t help thinking that Netflix productions can lead to the best and the worst – some people obviously deal better than others with being granted all the means they could wish for to express their creativity. This was a waste of money according to me.
But as always with cinema, I am sure it will find its public who will have the exact opposite opinion to mine – people who saw something that I did not see. That’s the beauty of cinema and art in general, after all.
It has been a while. And this time it will not be about cinema.
Words are usually spinning in my head with a pressing urge to go down on paper. In the past three months I have however been struck only by silence. I call it the “contemplating the disaster” phase. This one has required quite some contemplation.
Only now that I am stuck at home with COVID do I hear a little voice inside of me telling me “this needs to get out”. So people, get ready for astronomic levels of grief and anger… but as well for an outburst of unlimited love.
I still cannot believe that I am writing this but it seems that during the past three months, I have lost my two besties. My cat and my Godma. My wild, independent, loving and freethinking ladies have left the building… and have left me totally speechless.
Ironically, the cat started letting me down when I was on my last visit to see Godma in Frankfurt. Whilst I was contemplating the disaster of Godma’s senile dementia, I was getting phone calls from the vet telling me how things were not taking a good turn with my kitty.
Ironically as well, we got (and shared) very good news about my papa’s at least “stabilized” health on the day I had to put my cat to sleep. Hence, whilst I was drinking schnapps with colleagues at work in order to get ready to say adieu to my feline bestie, I was getting dozens of e-mails saying “great news!”, “so glad to hear!”, and “so happy for you!” (Accompanied by many cheerful smilies)…
So yeah. My kitty left for good on 24 March 2022. Pancreatic cancer (which is another of my life’s ironies that I will not dwell upon in here).
I do not expect people who are not animal lovers to understand. However, the emptiness that she left had the impact of a huge swallowing black hole on me. Even more so, that it came unexpected. She was there, stealing as usual food from my table on the evening before I left to Frankfurt. Five days later, she did not exist anymore.
For those who are cat lovers, I will just tell you how this one was a very special one to me.
She was an extremely talkative cat (she shouted at me on a regular basis, especially when she disagreed with my injunctions). She was the most sociable cat I ever had. She came to say hi to all invitees that came to visit (with a noticeable preference for men). She was a bighter and a scratcher. The bights were however mostly (slightly too expressive) loving ones. Same for the scratches actually. Let’s say that she was “passionate”. She made my flat a very tidy one. She indeed had a tendency to smash to the floor anything that would resemble a cup, a bottle or a glass. She was famous at work for her Zoom appearances as a special guest. She loved to use me as a ladder to reach out to the summits. The sky was the limit to her. She would first jump. Then think. She had for sure more than nine lives. She lost at least fifteen of them right in front of my eyes. Eventually, she was just the most beautiful loving and cuddling presence in my house. She made my flat a home.
Cat using owner as a ladderCat attending a Zoom meeting
I was just getting the top of my head out of my kitty-triggered black hole, when Godma decided it was time to go for her as well. This, on the contrary, came well expected and almost as a relief. The follow-up however, was a big punch into the middle of my face.
There is so much to say about Godma. It is definitely not an exaggeration to start with the fact that she was the most extraordinary person in my life. She was there for me literally from day one and she greatly contributed to who I am today.
It is impossible to summarize Godma in one page but I will at least try to give you a hint of what this lady meant to me.
Godma was a stubborn perfectionist. Everything she made had to be perfect. The cakes, the knitting, the Christmas cookies. She ironed and piled up the towels in her shelves in the most symmetrical way I have ever seen. Which as well means that whatever was not perfect, went directly to the bin (including deliciously looking cakes that did not look delicious enough to her). Which also means that, though she learned French for almost forty years, she never pronounced more than five words of French in front of anyone (these words being “oui”, “non”, “bonjour”, “au revoir” and “merci”). Indeed, by the time the perfect sentence that she was preparing in her head was ready to be pronounced, the conversation had already moved to a totally different subject. She was very shy but not with me. She was the funniest person I knew. I had to kick her out of my hospital room when I was 9 years old. I had just gotten my appendicitis removed. She made me laugh so much that the stitches were too painful to bear. 30 years later, she still made me laugh in the same way. She made me feel like the queen of the universe. Starting with the gingerbread house that she would bake every Christmas for me. Which resulted in me being the most popular kid at school at least one day per year. Let’s face it, she was as well very sensitive and stubborn. Which lead to some relationship crises. Including that day when she decided to run back to Germany (on her feet) from a tiny Flemish village close to Leuven. The reason being that “I did not love her”. My parents and I had to chase her by car. Because by the time (approximately 5mins) that I needed to alert my parents about the crisis, she had almost reached the next village.
She was there when I was ill. She was there when I was sad. She was there when my parents divorced. She was there when Nicole died. She was there when my grandparents died. She was there when I defended my PhD. She was there at every single exam session of mine.
The one thing she never quite understood were my cats. She was actually quite jealous of them.
I believe that to her I was perfect. She was perfect to me. I believe I was the love of her life. She was definitely the love of mine.
I was fully ready for her to go. She was about to turn 98 years old and she was miserable in her care home – not understanding where she was and why she was there. Until the end, she was a free spirit. Though she could not walk anymore, the nurses told us how she would discretely roll on her wheelchair towards the lift and await for the possibility to escape. The last present she made me was to recognize me when I came to visit her back in March.
Last visit at Godma’s – March 2022
What I was not ready for, was for the German authorities to spoil her departure for everyone.
I did not mention earlier that, although Godma held my mom as a baby, took care of her for years, and did the same for me, Godma was not officially a family member. I obviously considered her as my closest family. Papers did not.
As, since a few months her senile dementia had taken over, she had an administrator in charge of taking all the decisions for her. We were in touch with this “lady” on a regular basis to get as much updates as possible.
Godma passed away on Sunday on 05 June 2022 at 12:20. This is apparently as much information as we will ever get. We do not know if she was alone, if she was awake or sleeping. I received the information about Godma’s passing away on Wednesday 08 June 2022 at 18:00. Because no one thought it necessary to inform us before that. A day off in Germany on the Monday prevented the “lady” from knowing/informing us. Speechless level 1 reached.
We tried to reach out to the care home in Offenbach through our local contacts, in order to get basic information about the funeral. Answer: no family, no info to be shared. Speechless level 2 reached.
We then called the “lady” to make her understand how important it was to us to know and to be there, if possible. The “lady” answered that it was not “in her hands” anymore, that it was “the responsibility of the city of Offenbach”. Speechless level 3 reached.
Following our expression of dissatisfaction (mom sounded almost scary when angry in German), the “lady” agreed to try to get some information on the topic for us.
On the following Monday, we got informed that Godma had been anonymously cremated (not to mention the fact that we had mentioned to the “lady” several times that Godma did not wish to be cremated). Black anger level 1 reached.
In an ultimate effort to obtain some information on what happened to Godma and her remains, mom got hold of the funeral home’s number. A nice chap in there told her that she was at the wrong place as, as it says in “crema”tion, the “crema”torium would be the right place to contact. Sensing that my mom was by then at the edge of a nervous breakdown (I was already deep into it), he agreed to call his colleagues at the crematorium and find out if we could get hold of the ashes for us at least.
I reached black anger level 1000 when I received the copy of the following e-mail (attached to it, a price offer):
Allow me to summarize: the chap claims that he managed to stop the cremation right on time (a lucky chap he is). He follows up with a price offer for an anonymous grave with only grass on it, no gravestone and no flowers (I suppose that based on his best guess, this is what he thought we would go for).
That is exactly the moment we (mom and I) decided to let Godma go without putting on another fight. She would not have wanted us to throw out thousands into the pockets of such miserable persons. As a good catholic, she would have surely told me to pity them.
I do not believe in god. However, pity is exactly what I feel for the “lady” and all the “chaps” who “took care” of Godma after her death.
To all of them I would like to say that should they have had the chance to meet the real person Godma was when she was still with us, they would have become better persons. For that, I feel sorry for them.
To the chap who sent us the anonymous grave price offer I would like to say that he should have gone for the highest price offer in his catalogue. The gold, the diamonds, the marble statues, I would have paid for all of them had it been my Godma’s wish and had he treated us with at least a bit of humanity and decency.
What Godma would have wanted would have been a discrete (but well organized and well maintained) little flower patch, maybe under a tree (but not one that would make her little flower patch too untidy) so that birds would come close to her. She loved birds, though she was a terrible whistler. Perhaps a wooden cross with her name written on it as discretely as possible would have been OK with her as well.
She will get none of this. However, people at least deserve to know that there was once an extraordinary person named Karla Kasparkova, born on 09 June 1924 in Czechoslovakia, who was a very dedicated and well appreciated nurse in the Offenbach am Main hospital and who was like a mom to my mom and like a grandma to me. She was my best friend.
She did not really like cats. And the end of the story says that most probably she is now stuck somewhere with a hysterical red-haired kitty climbing on her back. I can almost see them both arguing and looking after me together at the same time.
In Memory of Karla Kasparkova 09/06/1924-05/06/2022In memory of Mici 01/06/2012 – 24/03/2022
Spoiler alert. This is going to be an official love declaration to Joaquin Phoenix.
For those who know me, you must have heard my story of the screening of “Joker” at the Venice Film Festival a hundred times. I am going to repeat it once again. Because this is and always will be one of the strongest moments cinema gave to me.
First the context. One of the good things of a festival is that, unless you do your little research on the net, you know almost nothing about what you are going to watch. What you have available is the name of the Director, the main cast, the name of the movie and a 2 sentences short summary of the plot (that usually leaves you with more questions than answers).
Second thing is that, in Venice, in a non-COVID context, you usually have the opportunity to get an “abonamento” that allows you to see most of the official selection in 10 days (at a quite democratic price). Meaning that for 10 days, your evenings are rhythmed by two screenings in a row starting from around 8pm until whenever the second movie ends. When the second movie happens to be a 3-4 hours long one (which occurred a few times), it can be a long evening.
“Joker” was the second movie screened during one of our September 2019 festival evenings. Now, from my earlier posts you might have understood that I am not a Batman (or any kind of superhero) girl. You might thus guess that I was more than suspicious about what I was going to see on the screen (by my own festival principles, I had not done any research on the topic). The presence of Joaquin Phoenix in the cast raised some doubts, though – in my Cartesian head, it did not fit with at all this “Batman shit”. I could therefore describe my state of mind as extremely doubtful and confused.
The funny part of the story says that, after 15 minutes of normal screening, the sound system went down in the movie hall (a huge temporary construction, built just for the festival). For an additional 15 minutes, the audience contemplated the screen whilst dialogues were almost inaudible. At first, everyone was convinced this was a part of the movie effects. That Arthur’s unsettled nature showed in the weird sounds that were coming out of the screen. Until someone finally concluded that, something was obviously wrong. The entire movie hall started shouting and clapping. The screening stopped, the lights turned on.
By that time, it must have been around 11:30pm or midnight. On a usual festival evening, such an event would have meant that half of the hall would get up and leave the screening – keeping the energy up for the next days. In this specific case, at least 95% of it remained seated. Because, by that time, after 15 minutes of screening with sound, and 15 minutes of screening without, everyone had already understood that what we were looking at was an absolute masterpiece. My eyes were wide opened, and the only thing I could say was “oh my god”.
It took about another 20 minutes to get the festival crew to fix the technical issues. During this time everyone kept on waiting, absolutely determined to see the rest of the movie from which we had only gotten a sneak peak. The screening finally restarted, almost from the beginning. Except for one Italian guy, shouting angrily “but we have already seen this!”, no one seemed to mind re watching.
The rest is history, the 9 minutes of standing ovation in the Sala Grande, the Golden Lion, and the Oscar. And me who kept on repeating “oh my god” for at least two additional days.
Before seeing “Joker”, I was already convinced Joaquin Phoenix was one of the best actors of his generation. After that day, the only conclusion I could come up with was that he was at least very close to Daniel Day Lewis’ genius (which on my personal ladder is the equivalent of the Holy Grail). He had officially entered my very selective “Cinema Pantheon”.
This explains why, when “C’mon C’mon” started screening in Brussels on Wednesday, I immediately disregarded all my “support small cinemas” principles, grabbed my movie-buddie Evghenia, and run to the UGC.
You know that situation when you already love the movie before you have even seen it? That was exactly the state of mind I was in yesterday. My smile was broad, waiting for it to start. All my movie chakras were opened and fully receptive. Maybe this is exactly why I went through an anti-climax (the exact anti-thesis of my “Joker” experience).
As it is often the case, too much expectation ends up killing the excitement.
Do not take me wrong. Joaquin was beyond perfect as usual. As solar as he was dark in “Joker”. I do not think I have ever seen him as radiant as this – troubled only in an average human way, generally well balanced, loving and kind. The chemistry he has with that kid is something coming from outer space. There is nothing artificial or sounding false about it. God knows I have a very performant radar for cheesy adult/kids story. My degree of tolerance is usually close to zero for those.
So yes, I really loved all the family-related part of the picture – the love between the brother and the sister (shaken only by life circumstances), the mom’s infinite tolerance for her son’s more than strong and original personality, the way Joaquin puts words on the challenges that he is facing while interacting with this tough little human. It feels so true. So real that it is hard to believe that, in the end, all this comes down to outstanding acting performances.
My frustration came from the fact that I did not get enough of the above. Long shots of black and white American cities and highways disturbed my pleasure – quite aesthetic indeed; but why do I have to watch those when they are taking my mind away from theses beautifully human scenes I have just witnessed? Even the interviews with American teenagers, illustrating Phoenix’s job in the movie, triggered impatience and frustration in me.
I kept on thinking that it was so close to being the movie I was hoping to see. That without all these unnecessary ornaments it would have been so much more.
Beware that my current state of mind might have something to do with my mixed feelings about what I saw. My movie-buddy, who is usually way less tolerant than me to slowness and aesthetics, did not have the same reservations as mine. She loved it. As a majority of journalists/film experts did. I can only say that the moments offered by Joaquin Phoenix, Gaby Hoffman and Woody Norman are worth a million. For the rest, I leave you to judge (and maybe let me know 😉 )
I admit it. This place is becoming my living room extension. These are the perks of living in the city centre. You don’t even have the excuse of being lazy and having to take a crowded metro. You just have to put on a coat, grab your shoes and walk 10 minutes to your movie seat. And YES, you even have many seats to pick from.
Let’s assume that, by default, you pass by the UGC without even looking at it. Besides what your posh “I am better than all this commercial crap” self considers as a mediocre programming – no, no I swear it wasn’t me you saw at the first UGC James Bond screening last September, you MUST be mistaken – your grumpy old Sunday self doesn’t like teenagers with huge popcorn bowls and active mobile phone screens.
Even though you still have the Galeries and the Palace to choose from, you always end up in the Aventure lately. There are several reasons to that: a) first, you have to balance equally your support to small cinemas. Since you spent your summer/autumn season almost exclusively at the Palace and the Galeries, it seems only fair that the Aventure gets its share b) let’s face it, their programming is really nice lately and c) I honestly wonder who is the genius who invented these reclining seats in room 3. That person deserves a Nobel price.
Based on the fact that since the beginning of 2022, you have injected your cat 42 times with insulin, attempted (unsuccessfully) at least 15 times at getting a drop of blood from her ear and paid over 250 EUR of veterinary fees (just for a preliminary/stabilizing treatment), the fact that your Sunday screening of “Riders of Justice” is actually scheduled in room 3 feels like winning at the lottery.
Your friends stare at you with a mix of compassion and worry when you display with excitement how to recline your genius seat up and down and up and down and up and down. Maybe it’s indeed been slightly too much for you, lately. Any case, you are unable to take that childish grin off your face.
Believe me, that grin is not going anywhere once the movie starts.
Of course, first you have to accept the fact that Mads Mikkelsen does not look like Mads Mikkelsen. Seen from your perspective, it is a disappointment. Given the level of failure experienced in the past months, Mads Mikkelsen dancing in the final scene of “Drunk” remains one of the sexiest things you had the opportunity to see in 2021.
Mads’ pretty cheekbones will however not show up on the screen for you this time (because there is a big – criminal #verypersonalopinionagain – hairy beard hiding them). You will therefore have to rely on a hopefully decent level of Danish dark humour to compensate for their (very tragic) absence. However, as your entire life has recently turned into one big cynical joke, you are not an easy one to get in terms of dark jokes. For a while, you remain suspicious. Is it going to end up in too big a caricature?
It takes about 10 minutes for your first laugh to burst out. From then on, it never stops. The recipe is not totally innovative or unseen though. We have witnessed these lost souls’ gatherings in many movies (starting with Jeff Lebowski and his bowling buddies). Nevertheless, it still works. At least for me, it is hard to resist to this specific batch of losers. Because of the Danish phlegm that they keep, even in the most violent situations. Because of their often-unexpected reactions and replicas (I am still laughing at that Ukrainian tale with no point at all); and because of the deep humanity and fragility that stems from each single one them – despite the fact that, let’s face it, they are absolute barbarians.
But then again, who is the biggest barbarian? Is it the seemingly feeling-less soldier with anger-management issues who (literally) breaks everyone’s nose before there is any chance to even start a conversation? Is it the data obsessed geek aggressively shouting as well as hyperventilating whenever something doesn’t go his way? Or is it the rest of the humanity, the one that strikes you by its growing indifference and intolerance?
At least these broken guys stick together and accept their wounded selves without any judgement and with way more love given than so many so-called “civilized” individuals would give. And believe me, it feels heart-warming to watch.
Yeah Yeah, I know a week ago I was very much into avoiding anything too dramatic for the sake of my own sanity. It lasted for 8 days . The longing was too strong to resist. Off I grabbed pre-8th chemo papa and headed out for a little session of MacBeth – a classical and crunchy mixture of treason, murder, madness, you name it.
Now, you might wonder why I very regularly grab pre/post chemo papa to accompany me to the movie theater. Let’s say that cinema is the one big passion we share (despite his active attempts at making tennis another one – resulting in an epic failure). And let’s add that it became a common passion thanks to his numerous endeavours in the early 90s at making me watch something slightly more subtle than “Forever Young” .
I remember exactly what movie did the trick and where it happened. It was Ken Loach’s “Ladybird, Ladybird” at the Arenberg (now the Galeries).
This movie was definitely a revelation. It made me realize that cinema does not only have to be a tool allowing you to escape from reality. As a down to earth person, I actually LIKE reality – although I do not deny it is sometimes (often) frustrating, hopeless and even heart breaking. “Ladybird, Ladybird” made me understand that cinema can as well be a powerful denouncing tool, a way to make people think, discuss and discover realities they would have never even thought about otherwise. It could even become a means to make people want to change or act on these realities.
Believe me, when you understand this at 14, it feels life changing. Especially when it means that Mel Gibson loses, from one day to the other, most of the significance he has had for you until then. Let’s call it growing.
Now, let us set things straight. I am not a robot. I am only human after all. Sometimes, what one needs is a simple escape from the reality. Spaceships, aliens or superheroes never really worked for me (I seem to be too down to earth for that). What DOES seem to work for me is a Coen brothers’ movie. I can’t help it. These guys just make me laugh to tears. I am perfectly aware that this is not the case for everyone. I do have that memory of me and my friend Dina watching “A Serious Man” together. Me laughing wholeheartedly. Her, just not reacting at all. Looking at me as if we were on two different planets.
That was actually another revelation. Cynical humour is not universal. Apparently, not everyone would laugh like me when my boss tells me “I would suggest one simple injection that would solve your cat’s diabetes problem for good”. I love my cat. However, to me, when one is joking about the challenges he/she is facing (even in the darkest possible way), these challenges stop looking as insurmountable as they did a while ago. Lately it feels like a vast part of the planet would tend to disagree with me. My best bet is that it would either be utterly shocked at my boss’ joke or, even better, sue him for it.
So back to the Coen brothers. “Coen” was eventually the only word that convinced me to give “The Tragedy of Macbeth” a chance. I think it is obvious (at least from my latest post) that I am currently more on “escape” mode than on the “let’s rethink the meaning of humanity” one. Therefore, if you say Shakespeare, I say no thank you. If you say Macbeth, I would insist further that no, not exactly what I need at this stage. Only when someone smart mentioned the name Joel Coen did curiosity win over: Joel Coen? Like the one from Joel and Ethan Coen? Like the fathers of the Dude? But why and how on earth would he go for Macbeth?
And that’s how, a week later, you find yourself sitting once again in your comfy Aventure seat. The queue for tickets was bigger than a week ago. Seems like “Licorice Pizza” is a pretty big and unexpected success. Somehow, you find this fact very comforting.
I have to admit that it takes a bit of time (at least in my personal case) to accept what is on offer on the screen. At first, it seems like a quite austere production. A not very dynamic black and white square. A limited setting that does not allow for much distraction. The focus is meant to be on the actors. For the next fifteen minutes, you enter into a discussion with yourself: is there an added value to this? Why make a movie out of it, if it feels like watching a theatre play?
But then, slowly, it’s hard to explain how, it grows on you. The fact that the focus is not on any actor but on fantastic actors (Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand, as Lord and Lady Macbeth) does definitely help a lot. The words pronounced, though you heard them hundreds of time (at least in parts and, let’s admit it, without really understanding them), seem to gain a new meaning, to make much more sense than before. Additionally, what you initially saw as an austere and restrictive framing turns into a limitless space for creative expression. That little black and white square, it is just incredible what you can do with it in terms of light, atmosphere and angles!
Conclusion is: it won me over, and that was honestly quite a surprise to me. Don’t expect Coen cynicism and humour though. Expect the dark Shakespearian tragedy it is – but with additional seasoning that definitely makes the difference (at least for me): stunning acting performances and that little Coen je ne sais quoi that makes something you thought you had seen many times, look unexpectedly different and original.
You know that year that, besides the traditional hangover, starts with your dad’s seventh chemo and an urgent visit at the vet’s (as your cat looks weird since a week)? That moment when the vet announces his diagnosis? Those 5 minutes when, sitting on your chair (still at the vet’s) you are considering how on earth you will be able to inject twice per day, at regular intervals, your (quite “active”) tiger with insulin? These few seconds when the vet showcases how to get a drop of blood from your cat’s ear to measure with a glucometer her sugar levels (because yes, apparently, you are expected to repeat this exercise twice per day from now on)?
That is when everything goes blank in your head.
So there you are, still sitting on the vet’s chair, contemplating your cat – who, unlike you, looks pretty relaxed and is happily purring on the medical table. You, on the other hand, are unable to move or say anything because your brain is desperately trying to process the information: “how is this possibly going to work out? It HAS to work out! Yes, but HOW can it work out? And, any case, WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE CAT HAS DIABETES?!”
The above explains why, by the 4th of January 2022, you are convinced that your year is basically screwed. Fatalism has caught up with you. Oh well, I mean, we’ve survived 2020 and 2021. We can as well do with a fucked up 2022. Nothing new… You’re just not sure how your liver will cope with the (regularly increasing) quantity of alcohol needed to keep the spirits up. Wha’ever, we’ll deal with that in 2023… or 2024.
And then comes Wednesday. Wednesdays, in Belgium, usually mean new movie releases (aka, a potential tiny little light in the middle of the very dark tunnel).
Unless, of course, the Belgian government decides to close cinemas from one day to another. Because, you know, something has to be done against COVID. And, as it’s not so cool to close shopping malls or bars, we might as well just close cinemas and theatres. Luckily for you, that governmental attempt happened a week ago. It failed. The Belgian Conseil d’Etat (who basically blocked the government’s not so legal and fair move) is since then your new bestie. Thanks to that, you can at least envisage hiding your miserable self in the dark room by the big screen.
Given the circumstances, the aim is to avoid anything too dark. You’re usually not really good at it. Thinking about the last movies you saw, you might want to reconsider your strategy: if possible, let’s avoid senile dementia, bipolarity, cancer, alcoholism and autism. Problem is, you’re not really into fantasy, romantic comedies or super-heroes. This limits the options.
Luckily for you, that is exactly when you remember the trailer you saw a couple of days ago. Smiling teenagers, nice music and a weird looking Bradley Cooper explaining how to pronounce “Barbara Streisand” correctly. Additionally, the title of the movie, “Licorice Pizza”, sounds as light as could be. The name of the Director is also a quality insurance. Paul Thomas Anderson. Hello my friends “There Will be Blood” and “The Master” (among others), I liked you very much. This should do.
So, off you grab your post-7th-chemo papa and your post-cat-diabetes-diagnosis-traumatized self and head to the Aventure, one of your favourite little movie theater in town. Unexpectedly there is quite a queue. It seems like many others got irritated with the Belgian government in the past week. As you are still on hysterical mode (WHAT DO YOU MEAN DIABETES?!!!) and maybe slightly under the influence of strong nail polish smell (those who know the Aventure, know what I am talking about), the thought crosses you mind to shout theatrically “Vive le Conseil d’Etat!” while queuing. Fortunately, being aware of your own febrile condition, you reconsider this option as fast as it came. You just get your tickets, show diligently your COVID QR code and go and grab a seat (the most comfy ones in town according to me).
And that’s when the magic happens and when 2022 unexpectedly grants you with your first 2 hours of (pretty vital) mental rest and enchantment. Young Cooper Hoffman obviously inherited the genius of his very much missed dad. Alana Haim should switch from her musical career to cinema (at least it would make my ears very happy… #verypersonalopinionalert). And just watching one scene more charming than the other (at least based on the state you’re in), listening to legendary music and realizing that you are laughing out loud together with many of your cinema buddies, makes your dramatic life circumstances feel way lighter than a moment ago.
Not that the Belgian government would care, according to it you’d better go and buy new shoes.
Any case, looking at what feels like a batch of friends having fun together, exchanging the most absurd dialogues possible and creating as improbable situations as may be (you sometimes even get your Jim Jarmush happy vibes), it naturally crosses your mind that the whole film crew, starting with Paul Thomas Anderson himself, must have enjoyed itself so much while putting this together. Maybe it’s the case. Maybe it’s just that Anderson is as, or even more, talented than you thought. Maybe it’s both. Any case, to you the picture transpires happiness, lightness and warmth.
And that’s how, for the first time in 2022, going back home through dark, windy and very rainy Brussels you allow yourself to think (at least for a while) that, provided you get a sufficient quantity of Licorice Pizzas in the months to come, you might survive whatever comes next. And your cat as well.
Klara's cinema 