Little Dieter Needs to Find (Better Films): Notes from the 57th Berlinale
My 2007 Berlin International Film Festival and European Film Market experience ended with an exhausted smile and a shrug this past weekend, as my 10-day goal of scoring a Benten-worthy title turned me on to 32 features but too few great shakes. The critical consensus among the trade mags, my peers and other insiders seemed just as nonplussed about fest director and programming dictator Dieter Kosslick's safe, serviceable tastes, much of which wasn't worth writing overseas about. Gone were the bulk lots of challenging, edgy selections seen in previous competitions (if you wanted access to Tsai Ming-Liang this year, you needed a market badge), replaced instead by Euro crowd pleasers (Irina Palm, La Vie en Rose), Sundance throwbacks (Hallam Foe, 2 Days in Paris), and Hollywood glossies leveraging for international sales (The Good Shepherd, The Good German, Goodbye Bafana, and more that weren't, well... good).
Since I was on assignment as a buyer, not a critic, what I sought out differed ever so subtly from where my nose usually carries me. Knowing that buzzworthy flicks like The Counterfeiters, I Served the King of England and Lady Chatterley would likely make their way to the U.S. someday soon (and were probably out of Benten's price range this week), I followed my impulses when screenings overlapped in favor of what I hoped were under-the-radar gems. With over 700 films screening in Berlin, there was no way to catch everything I wanted, nor guess what was worthwhile. Full confession: I had little interest in Golden Bear winner Tuya's Wedding until after it won the top prize.
For personal reasons that maybe you'll benefit from, I've scribbled a few quick notes from my daily screening diary, each film rated on that ol' 
scale:
Faces of a Fig Tree (Ichijiku no kao), d. Kaori Momoi :: 
:: Japanese actress Momoi's directorial debut seems to have incorporated every last idea she had in her noggin, as if she was afraid she had to get it all out in case she's never allowed to helm another film. Wildly poppy in the hands of Seijun Suzuki's regular production designer Kimura Takeo, it's an everything-and-the-kitchen-sink melodramedy (one moment, a contractor abandons his family and squats on a construction site; in the next, CGI-animated ants are dissecting the meaning of the F-word). Hyper-stylings mean little to me without coherence, or at least some feeling of visceral enjoyment, and I've already seen stark familial dynamics blended seemlessly with magic realism in Toshiaki Toyoda's far-better Hanging Garden.
La Vie en Rose (La Môme), d. Olivier Dahan :: 
:: Beloved songbird Edith Piaf definitely had a strife-filled life, but this miscalculated opening-night biopic offers almost no upbeat moments to counter its bleak sensationalism except for a slew of concert sequences, which Dahan stages the same each time: triangular rays of light beam down on a microphone, reverse shots, close-ups, crowd reactions, repeat. (It should come as no surprise that the director's best known film until now was the Jean Reno action sequel Crimson Rivers 2.) This one's by the numbers, with the random (instead of contextually useful) time-jumping chronology that's so en vogue it's just predictable. Everyone's ga-ga for Marion Cotillard as Piaf, but I found her performance too manically self-aware and her frail, shaky, post-junkie scenes more theatrical than realistic. Don't blame her; it's Dahan who can't steer the ship, nor utilize the lovely Sylvie Testud's talents for anything more than extra-character bloat.
Clash of Egos (Sprængfarlig bombe), d. Tomas Villum Jensen :: 
:: There was no sign of Lars von Trier's The Boss of It All in the marketplace, so to get my fix for dark Danish comedy, I went with the new one from The Green Butchers director Jensen (who recently collaborated with von Trier on his Advance Party obstructions, so far yielding Red Road). The premise alone is ripe for this uneasy age where the importance of arts criticism has been put to several tests... A hothead ex-con takes his kids to see a blockbuster movie, but instead he's talked into seeing some critically lauded piece of art-trash, which makes his daughter cry and his blood boil. The mad dad stalks the "auteur" to get his money back, and after a clever turn of events, the two are legally bound to co-direct the last in the filmmaker's trilogy, their visions differing between something Brechtian and something Kill Bill-ian. (The literal translation of the Danish title is Exploding Bomb, a triple entendre named for the thuggy newcomer's movie-within-this-one.) I know Clash of Egos is still fresh on the fest circuit, but as Filmbrain and I discussed, it already needs a spicier remake. As a potentially probing satire on the critical/populist divide, it's under-inflated, pulling punches for the sake of broader comedy. The same problem plagues the upcoming Jake Kasdan comedy The TV Set, which might just be the other half of what's missing here. At least it doesn't make the typical Sundance indie cop-outs, like name-dropping Proust and Pynchon to feign savviness, since screenwriter Anders Thomas Jensen (no relation to the director) has the chops to spin those Brecht references into an ultimately Brechtian punchline.
Fay Grim, d. Hal Hartley :: :: I haven't seen a film audacious enough to be shot entirely in Dutch angles since Battlefield Earth, but at least Hartley's HD lensings are striking and don't look like an old Batman! villain's hideout. How is it that the former New Yorker turned Berliner gets more ambitious with each new release, and yet there's a sameness (forced stiltedness, elliptical dialogue, in- and out-of-frame choreography) that feels like a desperate imitation of his earlier years? I often quote a turn of phrase from Flirt, in which two German custodians meta-discuss the formality of the film they're in: "Will it work?" "No, it'll fail. But it'll be an interesting failure." That about describes every Hartley film since Henry Fool (especially his last, The Girl From Monday, which was like Alphaville frustratingly trapped in Beta mode.) Similar to how 2046 was a pseudo-sequel to In the Mood for Love, this transforms the aforementioned Henry, plus Fay, Simon, et al. into avatars of a low-key espionage thriller and sociopolitical satire-fantasy, so why even re-use those characters? The absurd tone here negates the tragicomic deadpan and wonderfully ambiguous ending of Henry Fool, a great disservice upon that film, his last artistic success.
I'm a Cyborg, But That's OK (Saibogujiman kwenchana), d. Park Chan-wook :: :: Those who can't stand Oldboy nor the other films in Park's Vengeance trilogy probably won't be won over by the South Korean auteur's zany new rom-com, which is as equally inventive and annoying as Gondry's The Science of Sleep, yet less tempered to the real world. Mental health is still a new-ish idea for some Asian cultures (as will be witnessed in Mike Mills' upcoming SXSW doc about depression in Japan, Does Your Soul Have a Cold?), and by setting a film almost entirely in a white-jacket ward, Park paints himself into a corner, forced to show how shallow his own understanding is. Characters roll and jump around like loonies, wear cardboard bunny masks, and obey their specific oddball quirks as if that's the depth of their psyches (such as, yes, thinking one's a cyborg). What attracts many of Park's fans to his films is his ability to artfully mine humanism from gonzo set-ups, but this film plays only with the artifice of imagination, never even addressing the underlying sadness of an unwell girl on an irrational hunger strike. Unless you're a fan of Korean pop superstar Rain (the male lead), it's worth a single watch, but probably not two.
Happy Desert (Deserto Feliz), d. Paulo Caldas :: 
:: A nubile Brazillian teen becomes a prostitute because she's poor, and she seems alright with that. (I'm a Streetwalker, But That's OK?) Her life is monotonous and unpleasant, which she must be ruminating about when she repeatedly stares into middle distance. Each time, Caldas refuses to cut the shot because he thinks either (a) it's art if you hold it too long, or (b) maybe he can fill time since there's not enough narrative momentum to pad 92 minutes. She eventually meets a German john who loves her more than her other tricks, and maybe that Deutschland connection is how this made it into Berlin? I found it especially dubious how Caldas leers predatorily at the nude flesh of this vulnerable victim of abuse, spitting on any good intentions to open eyes on an ethnographic tale of adversity. Feh.
When Darkness Falls (När mörkret faller), d. Anders Nilsson :: :: Three storylines, all about folks terrorized by violence: there's a high-profile journo too afraid to speak out against her ongoing domestic abuse; a club owner too afraid to testify against a dangerous goon who shot his bouncer; and the daughter of an ambiguously brown-skinned family, too afraid to run away from elders who will actually murder her if they think she's a promiscuous disgrace to her clan. Fun, eh? Nilsson's filmmaking is slick, his editing tight (sometimes a segment will play for 90 seconds at a time, other times for 15+ minutes; it keeps the pace lively), and thankfully, there's no attempt to intermingle the storylines until the end, which reminded me of Kieslowski's Red. I'm not ashamed to admit that I was wrong when I left the theater diggin' on its "impressive tech package," as Variety might say. I was ready to defend the film to the death against Filmbrain, who proclaimed it "the Swedish Crash." While I'm not feeling the hate like 'Brain is, a few days of afterthought has revealed that he has a valid argument about Nilsson vilifying his audience through nasty generalizations. Rather than follow through each thread to satisfying dramatic resolutions, Nilsson's closing statements accuse us all of homophobia, racial profiling and misogyny, then lecture about our intolerances. It's subtler than Crash, but it's there, and he does it by pulling a happy ending out of his butt... one that literally blurs out the names of the three leads' final destinations as if protecting them from us.
The Last Gunfight (Ankokugai no Taiketsu), d. Kihachi Okamoto :: 
:: The late Okamoto (Kill!, The Sword of Doom) was the subject of a retrospective this year, and this swingin' 1960 gangster action-comedy sure looks stellar in Toho Scope. It's not as anarchic or inventive as an early Suzuki, but it's fun to see Toshiro Mifune in cool-cat mode as a disgraced detective who teams up with a crime lord to solve a murder. There's a cynical undertone in the shadows, but this is classic rock-and-roll zing, light on its feet and drumming with wit. Plus, it might have the most hilarious boob flash ever projected on film.
The Old Garden (Orae-doen jeongwon), d. Im Sang-soo :: 
:: Im's films have a magnificent sense of fluidity in intimate spaces, and this one is lushly expanded in scope. Much like his previous stunner, The President's Last Bang, it would have helped to know some Korean history before seeing the film, because it's so wrapped in the guilt and other emotional ties of the Gwangju Massacre that U.S. audiences might not relate. I hope I'm wrong because this predeterminedly doomed romance between a socialist student activist (Ji Jin-hee) and the art teacher who's hiding him (Yum Jung-ah) is still quite moving without that personal context. However, if I hadn't remembered that The President's Last Bang offered no historical explanations to non-Korean viewers, I could see how some might think this more wearisome than wonderful. I dig it, but should I recommend to others? Methinks a second viewing is in order...
The Trap (Klopka), d. Srdan Golubovic :: :: This was overhyped because of all the foreign markets buying it up left and right, and I'm sorry I had such high hopes. Inaccurately billed as a modern Serbian noir, this strictly utilitarian suspense drama focuses on an urban couple who are desperate for cash to get their son a life-saving operation. Suddenly, a stranger approaches the increasingly detached dad and tells him he'll pay big for the murder of someone he's never met. Yep, that's the extent of what makes this noir, and while the technical execution is crisp enough to win over mainstream foreign-film audiences, the unravelling of events is telegraphed as if we've never seen a Hitchcock. [*SPOILER ALERT*] The only truly surprising moment -- when our hero breaks down and confesses his crime to the victim's wealthy wife after she pays for the operation as a good samartian -- seems terribly weak after seeing the same emotional collapse play out in the arms of his own wife. Lighten the film's tone, replace the father with Marianne Faithful as an equally despairing grandmother (sick child and all), and voila, you have Irina Palm.
Ad Lib Night (Aju teukbyeolhan sonnim), d. Lee Yoon-ki. No stars possible, since between my ongoing battle against jet lag and my terrible front-row seat on the far right, I had passed out within minutes. Occasionally, I'd be awakened by Korean people kneeling around a dying man's mattress and either yelling, crying, and/or getting drunk. What a shame, since this was one of the most praised titles amongst my cinephile friends. I promise not to make the same mistake when this inevitably makes its way to NYFF or a similarly refined fest.
Madonnas (Madonnen), d. Maria Speth :: :: Gut instinct tells me three-and-a-half stars, but I didn't see the last 20 minutes and I have little more to say until I do. At the risk of overstating the case, the brothers Dardenne could learn a few things from this gifted Bavarian director's heartwrenching drama to avoid falling into a creative rut.
Winter Journey (Winterreise), d. Hans Steinbichler :: :: A misanthropic proprietor (Josef Bierbichler, Heart of Glass) digs himself deeper into debt and despair as his bipolar mind starts to flake out on him. Once it's proven that famed co-stars Hanna Schygulla (The Marriage of Maria Braun) and Sibel Kekilli (Head-On) have minor parts, the flash cuts and rock songs about "going insane, insane, insane" kick in to remind us that some directors are too nervous about letting audiences draw conclusions of our own. Bierbichler's characterization is bigger than life and unexpectedly charismatic for an A-1 asshole who calls everyone else an asshole, but the film's just another ho-hum melodrama about spiralling downward.
Mein Führer: The Truly Truest Truth About Adolf Hitler (Mein Führer: Die wirklich wahrste Wahrheit über Adolf Hitler), d. Dani Levy :: :: What intrigued me most about seeing this Hitler-bashing comedy was that the majority of German critics loathed it. Were they overly sensitive to the material, or was this bold idea really a stinker? The latter, I'm afraid, because how could anyone think goose-steppin' alone is clever enough to join the Ministry of Silly Walks? Behind a face full of jowly prosthetics, funnyman Helge Schneider makes only a human voodoo doll of the persona, unless you're of the opinion that seeing Adolf in a track suit or punched out by The Lives of Others star Ulrich Mühe equals "Hit-lairity." Go for Zucker! writer-director Levy burns some subversive energy in playing up a Jewish man's flinch in a Nazi shower for laughs, but nothing resonates to justify such ballsiness. Colonel Klink looks like The Great Dictator in comparison.
Waiter (Ober), d. Alex van Warmerdam :: :: Writer-director van Warmerdam stars as the eponymous everyman, a fictitious character in an unfinished novel who knows exactly what he is. A little wittier than that wannabe Charlie Kaufman riff Stranger Than Fiction, this Netherlandian meta-comedy is a dry, minor chord of drollness, front-loaded with cleverness that doesn't quite sustain. Also, van Warmerdam is no Will Ferrell, his deadpan a little too dead, and his stiffness can get depressing. (Maybe that's the point?) Authors antagonistically confronted by their miserable creations is a canvas of possibilities, but the dynamics aren't developed far enough here. The most incredible plot twists happen when the novelist is passively stuck in the bathroom while his girlfriend types out nutty changes to his manuscript; nothing tops the role-playing sequence seen early on, in which African warriors hunt with our waiter on an indoor love-making mission.
LoveDeath, d. Ryuhei Kitamura :: :: Japan's Kitamura (Godzilla: Final Wars, Versus, Azumi) aims to please the Asia Extreme fanboys with this inane, superficial rip-off of True Romance and other girl-and-a-gun fantasies. I walked out long before its 158 minutes were up, but I'm curious how the hell he could keep up the frenzy for that long without making the kids' heads explode. It's not snobbery fueling my smackdown, but I don't care enough to even defend that position.
La León, d. Santiago Otheguy :: :: Beautiful HD compositions in a silvery black-and-white aren't enough to counterweigh this totally abstruse tale of a gay Argentinean fisherman and the brutish skipper who secretly loves him. A word of advice to filmmakers who want to make the next Old Joy or similar piece of detail-oriented minimalism: if I have to read the fest synopsis to know what your film is about AFTER I've already seen it, you're not giving me enough. No, really, until I sat down for a meeting and had it summarized for me by a rep from French sales agency MK2, I had no idea.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Please come back later this week, when I publish the second half of my Berlinale screening journal.
