Flora Ofelia Hofmann Lindahl in As In Heaven (2021) When daring to envision a brighter future ahead, wishing and hoping for all the glorious things that could be, so often the response that brings one back down to earth is “it’s just a dream.” Is a dream really just a dream? Lise (Flora Ofelia Hofmann Lindahl) has an exciting prospect to look forward to: in a family of eight younger siblings, she will be the first to attend school. Lise has in front of her an image that she wants to create. On the verge of womanhood, she is starting to leave pieces of childhood behind for a brand new experience out in the world. That she’s facing such a big realm of possibility gives her the feeling of power, as though she can control anything that comes her way. But when her pregnant mother Anna (Ida Cæcilie Rasmussen) is in difficult labor and has a vivid vision that threatens livelihood, Lise discovers a much greater power in her path: fate. Inspired by Marie Bregendahl’s classic novel ‘A Night of Death’, writer-director Tea Lindeburg tells a resonating story of late-nineteenth-century superstition in the visually stunning debut feature As In Heaven. Set on a wistful rural farm in Denmark over a century ago, the film moves poetically and rings with contemporary chimes. As In Heaven has the look of a whimsical classic period piece and the feel of a living nightmare. It’s a vivid, modern tale of a teenage girl experiencing budding sexuality, searching for autonomy, and pressured by a community enraptured in anti-science beliefs. In addition to a coming-of-age thread, Lindeburg explores the dangerous impact of letting a vision rule rather than guide. Many of the characters in this film believe in the power of visions and fate, that God has a plan for each and every person, that there is no real way of influencing an outcome when it’s already been decided. Such is the viewpoint taken when Lise’s mother Anna falls ill during childbirth. Having had a vision that the delivery of a boy would be difficult, and that she would die if anyone called for a doctor, Anna is determined to endure the pain. Even if it threatens her livelihood and that of her children. Lindeburg’s powerfully observed story about the horrors women faced in the nineteenth century ring eerily true in today’s age. The film explores the collective thoughts of a community and how they are ultimately detrimental to the protagonist’s future, specifically her independence. Should something happen to her mother, the responsibility to look after the family and tend to the farm will fall entirely onto Lise’s shoulders. The ominous opening scene, one that showers Lise with a raging red storm, is among the most vivid film imagery in recent memory. The image, along with its contrast to the whimsical farmland, are an instant hook. As In Heaven moves in an assured, poetic way that creates an all-consuming atmosphere. Every little detail melts into each frame. From Marcel Zyskind’s cinematography and Nina Grønlund’s costume design, to Jesper Clausen’s production design, tremendously textured work brings the setting to life. Lindeburg does a wonderful job of establishing a sense of place, not just visually but also emotionally. Lise’s perspective is a guiding force in the story, through which all happenings are filtered as she grows more and more stunned by what she sees. One of the most resonating elements of the story is the expectation and societal pressure on women to follow in the footsteps of their mother, their grandmother, their great grandmother. To carry on their traditions and beliefs, no matter the cost. The absorbing quality of As In Heaven is a fascinating parallel to how intently the character of Lise absorbs her surroundings. It’s almost as though she is the all-knowing one above, watching over everyone and everything, willing something to happen with all her might. Her hopelessness makes the unfolding of the film all the more tragic. Lise’s attempts to take control of her own life and its trajectory is a waking nightmare. The tremendous performance by Flora Ofelia Hofmann Lindahl is the compass that brings the film together. Lise goes on a compelling journey in the span of a fairly short runtime. The horror quality of the film sees her encounter moments of breathtaking fantasy. As In Heaven is an all-consuming, nightmarish turn of events that takes some time to find a footing but is helped by such haunting imagery. At the core is an intriguing tale about standing on the shoulders of the women who have come before. As In Heaven had its premiere on September 9th at the Toronto International Film Festival. TIFF21 runs September 9-18, 2021. Flora Ofelia Hofmann Lindahl in As In Heaven (2021)
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Joséphine Sanz and Gabrielle Sanz in Petite Maman (2021) Céline Sciamma knows how to pack a punch of emotion in each and every frame. From her coming-of-age drama Girlhood to the hypnotic, smoldering Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Sciamma always finds a delicate way to leave a reverberating impression. Her latest film Petite Maman is a subdued gem of a story. Following a girl’s visit to her mother’s childhood home, the story is told from the perspective of Nelly (Joséphine Sanz). Having just lost her grandmother, and while her parents clear out the home, Nelly is often left to find engagement in her own little world. Therein lies an enchanting realm where she encounters Marion (Gabrielle Sanz), a girl her age and to whom she strongly resembles. A friendship is born as the two build a hut in the woods, play make-believe, and simply enjoy each other’s company. The more conversations they share, personal revelations begin to blur the lines between past and present tense. Packing a punch with a fleeting runtime, Petite Maman is a bittersweet experience in which every minute is precious for its characters. As magical as it is melancholy, Sciamma’s story speaks to the delicate threads embedded on the path from childhood to adulthood.
Petite Maman radiates warmth in a cool autumn breeze. In capturing the season and its simple pleasures, like the changing leaves or the comfort of a knit sweater, Sciamma beautifully conveys the emotion behind such pleasures. Autumn is a time of change; new beginnings are on the horizon, and stuff of the past get left behind. The emotional response to change can often be nostalgic, and Petite Maman has that wistful affection. Told from a child’s point of view, the film feels like a wondrous tale that speaks delicately about emotions that are difficult to put into words. Or magical trains of thought that a person may not have another soul to share with. One of the most resonating lines in the film talks of secrets; not all are deliberately hidden, there’s just no one to tell them to. The pang of loneliness that moves through each character manifests on such subtle levels elevated by remarkable performances. Joséphine Sanz and Gabrielle Sanz deliver such memorable, joyous work that lay at the core of the film. Lingering as well are the gorgeously detailed cinematography by Claire Mathon, and affecting music by Jean-Baptiste de Laubier that hits at all the best moments. Sciamma’s talents are a perfect match for finding the sweet spot between joy and sadness. Nelly’s mother (Nina Meurisse) is going through a rough time, having just lost her mother/Nelly’s grandmother (Margot Abascal), which emotionally brings her back to when the two of them were distant. The act of clearing her house opens a window to the moments when those spaces were both empty and full. What this film does exceptionally well is convey the powerful sentiment of activities that seem so simple on the surface. Petite Maman is a treasure chest of memories old and new. Sciamma treads the line seamlessly between the past, the present, and the future. Nelly comes from the path behind Marion, and so forth, which the film conveys through minimal heartfelt dialogue. The story traces the beauty and loss of a mother-daughter relationship. Harkening to the wistfulness of wanting to know more about my own mother, and not being able to converse with my late grandmother. Suddenly, children get older, and with that comes wisdom but also a touch of sadness from not knowing then what you know now. Petite Maman takes a nostalgic path, where intergenerational pebbles are left behind as stepping stones for another family member to follow. This gentle tale of women’s connections, through the motions of time, is another absolute winner from Céline Sciamma. Petite Maman had its premiere on September 9th at the Toronto International Film Festival. TIFF21 runs September 9-18, 2021. Dobromir Dymecki and Agnieszka Zulewska in Silent Land (2021) This review contains spoilers.
“It’s broken.” The first line uttered in Aga Woszczynska’s stirring feature debut, Silent Land, holds a clear mirror to a Polish couple’s disintegrating relationship. As the film opens, Anna (Agnieszka Zulewska) and Adam (Dobromir Dymecki) float into the frames of a beautiful holiday rental in Italy. They meddle with household fixtures that need repairing, as though these items have the audacity not to work perfectly for their idyllic vacation. Beyond their temporary interior villa is a bigger problem: the garden swimming pool is empty, and they’ve paid for a house with a pool. Despite the island struggling with drought, Anna and Adam insist their Italian host hire a worker to repair the situation. All the while, the sound of the sea and its picturesque setting fill a backdrop. With confident direction, Woszczynska paints a picture of eerie stillness. Quiet moments of the couple introduce a feeling of serenity, but the more Silent Land lingers on calmness, the clearer it becomes that Woszczynska is summoning a sense of dread. As Anna and Adam wait precisely for the pool repairman to fix a problem they’ve taken so personally, the waves of the sea crash in the distance. Silent Land is a powerfully observed drama of a relationship’s unpredictable nature and unsettling instincts. The effectiveness of a steady buildup is on full force in Silent Land. Amidst the feeling that unpleasantness is around the corner, the story plays on ambiguity and strikes without heavy warning. But signs are stitched in the moments left unspoken. The quietest moments of Woszczynska’s feature debut are often the loudest, and the ones that leave the most behind to ruminate on. Silent Land exposes the worn out threads of a couple’s seemingly idyllic foundation, and how a single incident unravels their moral compasses. Anna and Adam paint an ambiguous picture of their intentionality from the start; it is through their interactions with others that the couple are faced with each other’s true colours. The most revealing of interactions lies between the two of them and the pool worker Rahim (Ibrahim Keshk). The way in which his character is treated on screen is an unsettling reflection of how the couple sees him: as a nuisance, a threat, a violation of their tranquility. Though not outwardly spoken, the director and actors convey strong emotions in subtle moments. Whether it be Adam setting an alarm before leaving the house, or Anna making no effort to address the language barrier when Rahim is looking for a hose to fill the pool. There is no real introduction between these characters, just a silent expectation that he is there to do a job, and simply does not exist to them beyond that role. The overall dismissal of him simmers, and creates an emotional punch in the gut after watching him suffer from a poolside accident while the couple are nowhere to be seen. The suddenness of it, the wave of sadness from not getting a chance to know the character, and the anger from blatant nonchalance surrounding the entire incident is deeply unsettling. Dobromir Dymecki and Agnieszka Zulewska play the couple with such stacked layers of self-protectiveness and self-absorption, it’s a wonder if they are even aware of what has happened when the camera cuts to them post-incident. It’s a wonder if they are being honest about what they have seen or heard. Woszczynska maintains a well-paced buildup to this moment, and spends the rest of the film uncovering the fragility of their behaviours. Interesting parallels between character psyches and settings are drawn in the screenplay, co-written by Woszczynska and Piotr Litwin. The house setting of Silent Land holds a compelling mirror to the couple’s emotional dysfunctions that dwell inside. The house falls apart in ways that appear mundane on the surface, but become almost fateful and betraying later on in the film. The recurring problem with closing the blinds to their windows is a neat parallel, particularly post-incident when the couple can’t shut out their consciences. Woszczynska plays broken house to dark humorous effect at times; as seen in a long sequence of the couple’s gate not opening/closing when they want it to. This house, tucked away and designed as a vacation from reality, isn’t the paradise they expect. Nor does it leave their personal dysfunctions and tensions outside the door. Most interesting about the house is what does end up working: the irony that once the pool is up and running, as per the couple’s request, neither of them step foot inside. Showing their unwillingness to immerse in the truth of their emotions, they would rather drop the entire incident out of veiled comfort and a false sense of security. The film makes strong use of setting as a way of mapping out how the protagonists process their irrational, often insanely unlikeable ways of thinking. There is a precise look to every frame of this film; with pristine cinematography by Bartosz Swiniarski. So precise and cultivated to the point where all it takes is one single disturbance to shatter the foundation. From that point on, the house becomes unrecognizable in spirit. The characters’ perpetual interrupted bliss makes it so they can never go back to how they were. Woszczynska tells a stirring story of fragility…in relationships, in morality, in deciphering what courses of action to take when met with unpredictability. Much of the story’s conflict comes from watching Anna and Adam address each other’s instincts, with questions of why one said this and why the other said that. The frustration from not having an answer to give is palpable on screen, and drives both characters to a point of unexpected emotional release. Dymecki and Zulewska do a great job conveying how desperately their characters hold onto the idea of security as an outward display. One can cut the tension between them with a knife, but they push through. They drive each other away and make room to return, step and repeat. Regardless of what’s going on, until the bitter end, they consider it more important to act as a united front. It’s a way of thinking that absolves them from wrongdoing, which creates an unsettling experience watching them reassure their way to faux bliss. In one of the moments where Adam storms off from Anna, he reaches a point of emotional release. Jumping into the sea, laughing his way through the tension that has enveloped their vacation in an ominous postcard. He returns home, wearing the debris of a rocky cliff. As a storm rages on outside the house, one is roaring just as loudly at their dinner table. They cut tension with a knife and wash down their guilt with a glass of red wine. As Aga Woszczynska has so precisely shown throughout her feature debut, the moments of silence speak the loudest volumes and leave behind the most to ruminate on. Making its case for one of the most haunting conclusions of a film this year, Silent Land offers the protagonists no true escape from the noise of their inner voices, no matter how united they appear for dinner. Silent Land had its premiere on September 10th at the Toronto International Film Festival. TIFF21 runs September 9-18, 2021. |
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