Best Premiere Viewings of August 2023

1. El extraño caso del doctor Fausto / The Strange Case of Doctor Faust (Gonzalo Suárez, 1969)

An overdose of distilled cine-madness of Zwartjes, Jodorowsky, or Clémenti-like kind, ‘The Strange Case of Doctor Faust’ is one of the most unorthodox, and not to mention inspiring (mis)treatments of Goethe’s play. Narrated through the fourth wall by Mephistopheles himself, from a spaceship owned by ‘nameless beings from an unidentified place in the universe’, it sees Faust interrupted by a telepathic embodiment of Sphynx, and introduces us to his son Euphorion – from a marriage with Helen of Troy – who grows into an Icarus-inspired acrobat. But, recounting a story would be rather pointless, as it (smoothly!) operates like a delirious dream conveyed through the exhilarating use of distorted camera angles, bizarre montages, and cacophonous musical delights. Suárez – at what is certainly his most experimental – directs with gleeful irreverence, great energy, and childlike playfulness informed by bold disregard of conventions, creating a seductive, one-of-a-kind piece that you either unconditionally love (like this writer) or hate so much that you immediately want to unfriend whoever recommended it to you.

2. L’envol / Scarlet (Pietro Marcello, 2022)

Once again, Pietro Marcello delivers a wondrous piece of cinema that is lost and beautiful (a reference to his 2015 docu-fantasy-drama ‘Bella e perduta’, for the uninitiated) – lost in time, as it appears like a precious artifact from the 20th century, and beautiful not only on the utterly charming surface, but also at its big, unprejudiced heart. A loose adaptation of Alexander Grin’s 1923 novel ‘Scarlet Sails’, the film – in spite of its simplicity – poses a challenge when it comes to the classification, gently meandering between a period coming-of-age drama and a whimsical fairy tale, a socially conscious ode to craftsmanship and a rapturous poem of love, platonic, familial and romantic.

Set between the two World Wars, ‘Scarlet’ belongs to neither the past, nor the future, appropriating the outsider attitude of its protagonists who live modestly, yet complacently, ever-strengthening their libertarian spirit, and bonds of togetherness, guided by intuition and creative impulses. Revolving around an idealized father-daughter relationship, it portrays peculiarities of life in broad, yet sensitive strokes filled with dreams, longing and nostalgia. Its delightful 35mm cinematography lends it a soft, almost palpable texture, as well as an exquisitely painterly quality, further enhanced by seamlessly interwoven archive footage which is given a hand-tinted-like overhaul. The harmonious symbiosis of visuals and narrative evokes the delicate lyricism of Franco Piavoli, with Gabriel Yared’s emotional score bringing to mind the yearning romanticism of Jacques Demy, particularly during the musical acts of the amiable heroine, Juliette (an unaffected performance from newcomer Juliette Jouan).

3. Un lac / A Lake (Philippe Grandrieux, 2008)

Eighty minutes of sublime intensity. In mesmerizing chiaroscuro closeups. In breathtaking totals reflecting the environment’s hostility. In mystery surrounding the characters and their spatio-temporal setting. In every touch they share, and prolonged silences that shroud them. In the dense, doomy atmosphere oozing from the screen, and plunging you into a void of cinema. In soft focuses that put you in a hypnagogic state. In the tremulous camerawork, the breathy soundscape, and the micro-acting of a small, yet devoted cast...

4. Moon Garden (Ryan Stevens Harris, 2022)

In his sophomore feature, Ryan Stevens Harris casts his own daughter as a comatose girl struggling to regain consciousness after a freak accident at home. Her name is Haven Lee and she is heavenly as the five year old heroine Emma stuck in a nightmare intertwined with past events that help her find her way back to reality. A simple tale is rendered with an astounding amount of creativity that puts the viewer in Emma’s tiny shoes, chiming in with her limited perspective, and wide-eyed curiosity. And those eyes – so innocent and sincere!

‘Moon Garden’ is a dark fantasy with horror undercurrents, so there has to be a monster. That role is filled by Morgana Ignis under a heavy mask, as a void-faced boogeyman Teeth that appears like the Pale Man’s equally grotesque cousin who escaped from the hell of Phil Tippett’s masterpiece ‘Mad God’. Speaking of inspiration sources, ‘Alice in Wonderland’ is the first one that comes to mind, but think Švankmajer’s stop-motion version by way of David Lynch and Dave McKean (Mirrormask). The industrial dreamscape where Emma’s eerie adventure begins may be taking cues from Wes Craven’s seminal shocker ‘A Nightmare on the Elm Street’, whereby lighting often suggests Bava and Argento. Steampunk elements, such as a tear-collecting machine, evoke Caro & Jeunet’s ‘The City of Lost Children’, with the precious memories of time spent with mom and dad channeling Terrence Malick’s poetic sensibility. Some parallels can also be drawn with Neil Jordan’s ‘The Company of Wolves’, and there’s even that frequently quoted ‘Alien 3’ shot, but make no mistake – ‘Moon Garden’ is not just a sum of its influences.  Harris rises high above mere mimicry, delivering a film that is both visually and aurally dazzling, emotionally resonant, and tailor-made for the central performance that puts Haven Lee on the map of the finest child actors in the history of cinema.

5. Müanyag égbolt / White Plastic Sky (Sarolta Szabó & Tibor Bánóczki, 2023)

Being a sucker for both post-apocalyptic fiction and rotoscoped animation, I am utterly impressed by the first collaborative feature from Sarolta Szabó and Tibor Bánóczki. Set 100 years in the future, ‘White Plastic Sky’ explores the burning issue of ecological sustainability, proposing a society that sees humans turned into trees once they reach 50. Opening in domed Budapest where holographic flora adorns a memorial park, its melancholy-fueled story moves on to the high-security ‘Plantation’ which introduces the viewer with the process of euthanizing transmutation, and later on, across the eroded wasteland and ghost towns remaining in the aftermath of a high-level devastation. In a manner that is in equal measures thought-provoking and de-sentimentalized despite a ‘parents who lost a child’ cliché attached to the film’s emotional core, it chronicles a return to a place that may become Eden with no humans to exploit it senselessly, shining over and again in the world-building department. A seamless blend of traditional and modern techniques – reportedly, 8 years in production – results in beautiful, immersive visuals of hyper-stylized realism, with sober pacing allowing us to feel all the textures, and an unobtrusively wistful score elevating the watching experience. 

6. Baron Prášil / The Fabulous Baron Munchausen (Karel Zeman, 1962)

You can never go wrong with Karel Zeman – one of the greatest cine-mages of the last century, especially if you’re into Jules Verne’s writing, Gustave Doré’s artwork, and/or Georges Méliès’s innovations in the field of film. A lavish ode to the highest form of imagination, the fanciful adventure that is ‘The Fabulous Baron Muchausen’ is larger than both life and death, flying you all the way to the Moon where Cyrano de Bergerac resides, and taking you on a dive into the ocean depths, amongst the mermaids and four-legged seahorses. Its intricate amalgam of live-action and animation, with actors in lavish costumes parading against deliberately unrealistic matte paintings, and across engraving-like sets, is the stuff that dreams are made of, constantly keeping you in the state of wide-eyed wonder. And the lies served by Zeman’s hero, a benign romancer, ring truer than those of ‘dangerous fantasists’ in our post-truth times...

7. Peščeni grad / A Sand Castle (Boštjan Hladnik, 1962)

Made under the strong influence of French New Wave and other modernist tendencies of the time, ‘A Sand Castle’ operates as a sunny ode to joy (of youth and freedom), but hiding behind its smiling mask, and often rearing their ugly heads are fear, anxiety and disenchantment. (Nevertheless, the bleak epilogue still comes across as a slap in the face.) The aura of carefreeness emanating from simple pleasures on an aimless off-road adventure gets mixed with an air of bitter melancholy or rather, premonitory signs not only of a protagonist trio’s personal collapse, but also of the society’s decline in the following decades. Normalcy and happiness embodied by Milena Dravić’s troubled character both fall under the category of illusion, one that crumbles as soon as real life kicks in. But, this mirage is beautiful and energizing while it lasts, its transience bewitchingly captured by the eternity of cinema.

8. Dani / Days (Aleksandar Petrović, 1963)

At his most Antonioni-esque, Aleksandar Petrović – best known for ‘I Even Met Happy Gypsies’ (1967) – weaves a tone poem of big city loneliness, and the magic of human contact, both transient and transcendent. In psychologically penetrating close-ups, he captures the emptiness that has been consuming the two leading characters, Nina (Olga Vujadinović) and Dragan (Ljubiša Samardžić), and saves them – if only for a day – from their own, disoriented selves. Through the masterfully composed bird-views of crowded marketplace and streets (many kudos to DoP Aleksandar Petković), he emphasizes the alienating, labyrinthine nature of the (modern) world that surrounds them, and allows them a cathartic release of emotional tension in a few scenes, the most memorable being the one towards the end, of driving across an empty airfield, and yelling from the top of their lungs. Their escape from the everyday routine – starting with a chance meeting – may be short, but it provides a new (and anti-conformist) outlook at both life and art. 

9. Kapi, vode, ratnici / Raindropas, Waters, Warriors

(Živojin Pavlović, Marko Babac & Vojislav ‘Kokan’ Rakonjac, 1962)

The influence of La Nouvelle Vague is strongly felt in one of the pioneering works of Yugoslav Black Wave – a formally balanced omnibus synergized by the theme of death, and beautiful B&W cinematography by Aleksandar Petković. It opens on a borderline-surreal note, with a word-free segment ‘Live Waters’ (Živojin Pavlović), set in a poor, muddy settlement by the river, while focusing on a young girl who lives there, and a stranger running away from the police. The pervading silence is disturbed only by ambient noise, shouting children in paper masks (who give off some serious ‘Lord of the Flies’ vibes), and towards the end, dramatic score and gunshots which destroy a warm, yet short-lived connection between the two characters. A truly fascinating experiment wholly dependent on the actors’ body language, and the eloquence of superbly edited imagery. Marko Babac’s ‘Small Square’ – a clever allegory on the effects of propaganda – comes across as the most accessible in the ‘triptych’, depicting a clash between optimist and pessimist perspectives in the confines of a hospital room. Marked by the brilliant use of (claustrophobic) close-ups, it is also memorable for its dark sense of humor demonstrated in a scene of deliberate incongruence between visuals and music. The last, but not least is Kokan Rakonjac’s ‘Raindrops’ – a Godardian take on a dying romance between an alcoholic and his girlfriend, featuring a painting by great Ljuba Popović in the antihero’s apartment. Olga Vujadinović is as charming as Jean Seberg in ‘À Bout De Souffle’ or Ana Karina in ‘Vivre sa vie’, and the jazzy, oh-so-60’s atmosphere easily finds its way into a cinephile’s heart.

10. Vital (Shin’ya Tsukamoto, 2004)

Shin’ya Tsukamoto trades the frenetic energy of his most famous works for the meditative calm in brooding psychological drama ‘Vital’ that sees a young amnesiac, Hiroshi (portrayed with melancholic detachment by Tadanobu Asano), facing the loss of his (death-obsessed) girlfriend, Ryōko (the sole acting credit for dancer Nami Tsukamoto). The fragmented and deliberately paced story of grieving and regaining memories takes a subtly morbid twist with another woman, enigmatic Ikumi, and anatomy classes in a medical school, yet the elements of body horror for which the author is recognized remain but an echo muffled by bleakly poetic reveries. For that reason, the most avid fans of the ‘Tetsuo’ trilogy may be caught completely off guard by this peculiar piece of cinema which cuts deep into one’s psyche, rather than flesh, as it blurs the boundaries between the real and imagined. Although there are a few sequences of hectic montages, ‘Vital’ is dominated by a funereal mood – the courtesy of haunting soundscapes and austerely composed visuals, landing a strong emotional punch in its denouement.

11. Barbie (Greta Gerwig, 2023)

‘Barbie’ is a film that shouldn’t work, and yet it does – so admirably! Elaborate in its simplicity, and quite clever behind its silly facade, it examines a number of topics, from feminism and self-actualization to love, death and existential crisis, in a package that is blatantly sincere, thoroughly entertaining, laugh-out-loud funny and dazzlingly beautiful. It wears its numerous and incongruous influences on its sleeve, proudly and fabulously, reflecting on real and imaginary worlds of our creation, in a fashion that is equally satirical and escapist, decidedly on-the-nose, yet strangely sophisticated, and brimming with glittery self-irony. Gerwig’s direction couldn’t be more playful and the casting choice of Margot Robbie couldn’t be more on point, with both of these women’s hearts in the right place.

(This mini-review was not sponsored or endorsed by Mattel.)

12. Die Nackte und der Satan / The Head (Victor Trivas, 1959)

Anticipating ‘The Brain That Wouldn’t Die’ with several of key plot devices, ‘The Head’ shares one of its production designers, Hermann Warm, with the quintessential piece of silent horror cinema, ‘The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari’, cinematographer Georg Krause with Kubrick’s ‘The Paths of Glory’, and sees veteran Swiss-French actor Michel Simon (L’Atalante) as the (unfortunate) head from the English version of the title. That is quite a pedigree for a B-movie based on a silly premise treated mostly with a straight face, and directed by an Academy Award nominee who collaborated with Orson Welles! Anyhow, the film looks beautiful, with its Bauhaus-esque functionality filtered through the prism of German expressionism, which lends it a dense neo-noir atmosphere complemented by a compelling jazz score, in turns mysterious and swinging. An extra dose of mystery is provided by its villain, Dr. Ood, portrayed by steely-eyed Horst Frank whose magnetic performance ranges from subtly creepy to a raving madman predating the ‘Cage rage’.

13. Trotocalles / Streetwalker (Matilde Landeta, 1951)

A cautionary tale from one of the first Mexican women who successfully fought their way to the director’s chair, ‘Streetwalker’ is an elegantly crafted melodrama anchored in Landeta’s artfully composed helming, the powerhouse central performance from Miroslava (who would tragically end her own life in 1955), with a perfect counterbalance in Elda Peralta’s Maria/Azalea, and captivating, film noir-influenced cinematography by Rosalío Solano.  

14. Brigitte Bardot cudowna / Brigitte Bardot Forever (Lech Majewski, 2021)

Reminiscing his childhood and adolescence in Poland behind the Iron Curtain, Lech Majewski adapts his novel ‘Pilgrimage to the Tomb of Brigitte Bardot the Wonderful’ into an increasingly surreal drama that sees his alter ego, Adam, on a quest for truth about his pilot father. While watching Godard’s ‘Contempt’ in the cinema, the boy is teleported into Brigitte Bardot’s dressing room which opens the doorway into a world where Cézanne and Tagore coexist with The Beetles, Liz Taylor (as Cleopatra), Raquel Welch (in iconic fur bikini) and Roger Moore’s Simon Templar. Adam’s reveries – which, inter alia, include Ms. Bardot using a magic wand to turn her interviewer into a pig – are brought to vivid life through excellent production design and handsome cinematography, though comparisons with Majewski’s earlier works make his latest offering less appealing. Nevertheless, ‘Brigitte Bardot Forever’ provides an enjoyable viewing experience blanketed in warmth and nostalgia, with Kacper Olszewski – looking at least five years younger than he actually is – delivering a sympathetic performance in the central role. Now I wonder if my impression would’ve been the same, if the subtitles had been available...

Onirica (Lech Majewski, 2014)

"Svetlost se samo u tami može roditi."

Inspirisana Božanstvenom komedijom, a krcata simbolima čija značenja nije lako odgonetnuti, poetična i meditativna drama Onirica (poznata i kao Polje pasa) opravdava naslov gotovo svakom scenom, delujući kao veliki i raskošni san. U isti mah, ona predstavlja intimni portret tuge i filozofski esej o životu i smrti, odnosno nadi i očajanju.

Usredsređuje se na Adama (naturščik Mihal Tatarek), mladog pesnika i profesora književnosti, koji u saobraćajnoj nesreći ostaje bez devojke i najboljeg prijatelja. Utočište od bola pronalazi kao kasir u sterilnom hipermarketu, kljukajući se tabletama koje bi mogle biti uzrok bizarnih podsvesnih vizija. Depresiju pokušava da utopi u odbacivanju emocija i "razgovorima sa Bogom", a utehu dobija od svoje tetke (sjajna Elbieta Okupska), koja parafrazira Epikteta, citira Hajdegera i persijske pesnike i čita mu redove iz Senekinih Pisma prijatelju.

Jukstaponiranjem Adamove lične tragedije i katastrofa koje su zadesile Poljsku 2010. godine, Majevski stvara predapokaliptičnu atmosferu, naglašavajući sumornost filma snažnim kjaroskurom i potmulim skorom. Nižući katarzične slike, kojima podređuje svedene dijaloge, odvodi nas u nadrealni svet koji egzistira na granici stvarnosti i "pomerene" psihe glavnog junaka. Dotičući se i tema kao što su sumrak intelekta i dekadencija potrošačkog društva, odvažno se upušta u potragu za odgovorima na večna pitanja. Nelinearan i apstraktan narativ potiskuje u drugi plan, čineći paralele između Adama i Dantea nešto jasnijim u završnici, s tim što raj menja za pakao... ili se to samo poigrava našim shvatanjima? Patnji pridružuje milost, ovaploćenu u liku ravnodušnog anđela, koji pohodi snove ucveljenog protagoniste. Kao što se od njega i očekuje, donosi obilje nezaboravnih kadrova - obnažena dojilja na obali reke, oranje po podu samoposluge, ples duhova u mračnoj šumi ili lebdenje ljubavnika - opčinjavajući omaž Tarkovskom...

Onirica je odličan primer beskompromisnog autorskog filma, kojim Leh Majevski još jednom potvrđuje status vrhunskog umetnika.

The Mill and the Cross (Lech Majewski, 2011)

Sedam godina nakon meditacije nad Bošovom Baštom zemaljskih zadovoljstava u istoimenom, poluuspelom (i pomalo monotonom) eksperimentu, Majewski se ponovo okreće ranoj holandskoj renesansi i sa minucioznošću vrednom divljenja posvećuje delu Nošenje krsta / Put ka Golgoti (De Kruisdraging, 1564) flamanskog majstora Pitera Brojgela starijeg (Pieter Bruegel de Oude, 1525-1569).

Nižući prepoznatljivo "statične" tabloe, raspamećujuće od prvog do poslednjeg kadra, i stavljajući gledaoca u poziciju opčinjenog posetioca muzeja, reditelj udahnjuje život spomenutoj slici i, dodeljujući joj ulogu glavne junakinje, isporučuje jedinstvenu i autentičnu istorijsku dramu u kojoj je sve, uključujući i samog tvorca, podređeno Njoj. Opisivanje procesa Njenog nastanka podrazumeva oslobađanje od stega konvencionalnog narativa, poštovanje osnovnih principa Brojgelovog stvaralaštva (ali i nadogradnje istih), pribegavanje pretpostavkama zasnovanim na nesigurnim podacima iz njegove biografije i oslanjanje na neporecivo raskošnu vizuelizaciju pred kojom epiteti u superlativu deluju bledunjavo. (Sada je verovatno i suvišno reći da je fotografija Adama Sikore, autrovog proverenog saradnika, besprekorna, te da je u svakom trenutku film melem za oči.)

 
Veličanstveni prikazi profane svakodnevnice Flamanaca XVI veka isprekidani su progonima "jeretika" koje sprovode izaslanici kralja Filipa II i španske inkvizicije, a predstavljaju raščlanjivanje detalja platna, krcatog likovima i alegorijama, religioznim i društveno-političkim. Kroz njih upoznajemo bučne i nestašne dečake, ulične svirače čijem veselju se pridružuju slučajni prolaznici i mladi par koji sa svojim teletom odlazi na pijacu, ni ne sanjajući da će njihovu bezbrižnost narušiti vojnici u crvenom. Sprovođeje surovih kazni (vezivanje na točak i sahranjivanje živih) ispraćeno je pogledima pasivnih i uplašenih seljaka, koji neretko deluju poput ranjenih zveri. Sa druge strane, umetnik ima prava da, ako poželi, zaustavi vreme kako bi skicirao određeni trenutak, a u tome mu pomaže Svemoćni Mlinar, koji sa vrha neobično visoke stene posmatra događaje ispod sebe. U preseku dijagonala (poput onih u paukovoj mreži), kao centralni motiv nalazi se Hrist, okružen konjanicima, skriven u rulji od preko petsto figura i izmešten u drugi period i na drugi prostor, u cilju protesta protiv katoličke crkve i, posmatrano šire, kritike ljudske okrutnosti.

Reči su svedene na minimum, bilo da su u pitanju poetični i elegični monolozi Marije (Charlotte Rampling) ili dijalozi iskorišćeni kao neki vid ekspozicije, direktnih objašnjenja koja Bruegel (Rutger Hauer) nudi svom meceni, kolekcionaru umetnina Nicolaesu Jonghelincku (Michael York). Na taj način, velelepnost brižljivo skrojenih vinjeta još više dolazi do izražaja, čineći da svet unutar slike diše punim plućima, tako da je visokostilizovani The Mill and the Cross još jedan triijumf Lecha Majewskog.

Wypadek (Lech Majewski, 1998)

Eliot Ems, montažer nekolicine ostvarenja ekscentričnog poljskog reditelja (Wojaczek, Angelus, Garden of Earthly Delights, Glass Lips), o ovom eksperimentalnom projektu rekao je sledeće:

"Oplakivanje. Sahrane. Poreklo kulture izgrađeno je na oproštajima. Pogrebne lokacije, grobnice, piramide i mauzoleji ispunjeni su objektima koji su pripadali upokojenima. Uvijeni i mumificirani, pokopani su zajedno sa vlasnicima pošto su bili produžeci njihovih ruku, nogu i tela.

Osamnaestodnevno bdenje u Galeriji Moderne Umetnosti rodnog grada Majewskog, Katovice, pokušaj je skromnog odavanja počasti mladoj ženi stradaloj u saobraćajnoj nesreći. Međutim, ono evoluira u nešto više: misteriozan ritual povezan sa mitom o fontani krvi koja daje život. Podsećajući na sveštenice sa Böcklinovih slika, ženske siluete u lucidnim odorama kreću se usporenim pokretima, čineći da i publika učestvuje u ceremoniji koja deluje kao antička sahrana."

 Sveta šuma (1882), Arnold Böcklin

Wypadek (Accident), kratkometražni (dvadesetominutni) film, zasnovan na gore spomenutoj instalaciji, jedno je od onih avangardnih ostvarenja koja fasciniraju uzvišenom, prividnom jednostavnošću, ostvarenom minimalističkim pristupom. Blještava belina sa plavičastim sjajem, u pratnji eteričnog pojanja (kompozicije Euntes Ibant et Flebant i Amen, Henryka Mikołaja Góreckog, u izvođenju hora silezijske filharmonije) već na samom početku nagoveštava tešku, hipnotišuću i iznenađujuće mračnu atmosferu koja, kako Ems tvrdi, odgovara kakvom drevnom (paganskom) obredu. Okružena eksponatima koji predstavljaju raščlanjeno ljudsko telo (smrt?), crnokosa devojka u beloj haljini polagano prati put soli, do stolice, kofe i lavora koji najverovatnije igraju ulogu izvora (večnog) života. Svojom pojavom i odrazom Adama Sikore (direktora fotografije i čestog saradnika) u ogledalu, Majewski razbija četvrti zid, vodeći gledaoca kroz turobnu fantazmagoričnu dramu. Prostor galerije, oslobođen suvišnih detalja, podražava transcendentni svet, kojim vlada neokaljana emocija. Svaki kadar odiše mističnom lepotom...

Glass Lips (Lech Majewski, 2006)

Kakav veličanstven početak! Grmljavina, planinčine i magla. Dok se stene ogledaju u mirnoj površini jezera, tmurnu idilu slama plač novorođenčeta, čija pupčana vrpca visi sa kamene površi... Nije prošlo ni pet minuta, a Majewski je već ščepao Esenciju Lepote i hipnotišući kadrovi se elegantno smenjuju jedan za drugim. Ova avangardna drama, oslobođena dijaloga, redefiniše žanr (i ono što nazivamo filmom), dajući snoviđenju potpuno novo značenje.

Vodeći nas kroz hronološki ispremeštane događaje iz života mladog pesnika, zatočenog u ludnici, i odričući se uloge naratora (bar u konvencionalnom smislu), reditelj (istovremeno i scenarista, direktor fotografije, producent, montažer i kompozitor!) nam dopušta da od rasutih fotki disfunkcionalne porodice sastavimo album po sopstvenom nahođenju. Od nas takođe zavisi i da li ćemo za sobom ostaviti deo ponuđenog materijala (mada, za odbacivanjem nema potrebe) ili ćemo svakoj slici pokušati da nađemo mesto (makar i na marginama). Plašimo se da će nas u podrumu izmučene psihe (sin, majka) i ljudske izopačenosti (otac) dočekati Buđ i Memla, ali je naš strah bezrazložan, jer autor izbegava jeftine šokove, i suptilno, nemuštim jezikom, "izgovara" odurne i opore reči u omotu od frojdovštine.

Kao slikar, Majewski još jednom opčinjava neprikosnovenom pedantnošću i virtuoznošću, a kao muzičar (pored Schumannove kompozicije Dream i meksičke narodne pesme Que Bonito Amor) servira koktel od nezaboravnih ambijentalnih zvukova i depresivnih melodija. Vizuelno, Glass Lips je slojevita torta umešena od tajnih sastojaka većine prethodnih ostvarenja ovog Poljaka, a glazirana smesom koja donekle podseća na živopisni ciklus Cremaster Matthewa Barneya. Međutim, ovaj "photoplay" slatkiš nije ukrašen jarkocrvenim jagodama već kiselkastim kupinama, čiji ukus, kada se naviknete na njega, sve više prija.

Nemilosrdno ekperimentalne Staklene usne imaju monstruozno nisku ocenu na imdb-u, a jedinstvena su prilika da na istom mestu vidite obedovanje iz posude za pse, erotično polivanje mlekom pred ogledalom, ples sa lutkom na naduvavanje, fetiš stopala, stigmatu utičnica i ključaonica, kao i žrtvovanje crnog ovna u atrijumu koji formiraju stare tamnosive višespratnice. A ono nadrealno u filmu samo je bezazlena manifestacija podsvesti, pa je priručnik za dešifrovanje najčešće suvišan teret.

Ukratko, Estetsko Čistilište...

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Wojaczek (Lech Majewski, 1999)

"Zakopaj me, ja sam ionako mrtav čovek."

Rafał Wojaczek - poljski pesnik, buntovnik (s razlogom), depresivni alkoholičar i samoubica. Sudeći po filmu koji mu je posvećen, u njegovom samodestruktivnom ponašanju postojalo je nešto mračno romatično, tužno poetično i, povrh svega, grandiozno i enigmatično. Gledajući delić jednog kratkog života, stiče se utisak da je Vojaček bio poput palog anđela, osuđenog na posleratnu komunističku pustinju u Poljskoj (tačnije, u Gornjoj Sileziji) kojoj, tako uzvišen, nikako nije mogao da pripada.

"I know if you ever leave my sight as a woman, naked as out of the water, then I won't be able to call you in case I call death from its rose..."

Prvi put se sa tragičnim junakom susrećemo onda kada, uz bučnu lomljavu stakla, prolazi kroz izlog (prizemnog) restorana. Sa ponekom ogrebotinom, on ustaje i teturajući se stiže do kuće svojih roditelja. Odlazak na grob rano preminule sestre, ismevanje vojnika, povremeni seks sa bolničarkom u psihijatrijskoj bolnici, neobična ispovest u crkvi, česta opijanja i spontani recitali u kafani (ili gde god stigne) deo su onoga što sledi do završnice koja jeste očekivana, ali svejedno dirljiva, pogađajući u srce i u nerv, a naglašena suptilnim zatvaranjem kruga nihilizma.

Brutalno sumorna atmosfera, koja od samog početka hvata za gušu i ne popušta, ostvarena je savršenim skladom potmule tišine, koju presecaju iznenadni (skoro izbezumljujući) "plehani" zvukovi i žalopojna muzika kafanskog benda (Majewski ima čudan smisao za humor), i Sikorine hipnotišuće crnobele fotografije, gde posebno treba naglasiti (ništavno) "crno". Statična kamera i retki, neosetni pokreti iste, karakteristični za Majewskog, u ovom slučaju dobijaju novo značenje, oslikavajući izgubljenost suicidnog uma i duha, dok je stanje u zemlji kojom vlada represivni sistem pametno i vešto sažeto u izlaganje (o javnim toaletima) jednog od Vojačekovih kolega. Posebna zasluga pripada i pesniku Krzysztofu Siwczyku (inače, naturščiku) za briljantno tumačenje glavnog lika, koje zasenjuje i čitav opus izvesnih nadri-glumaca.

Nakon delimično razočaravajućeg i monotonog Garden of Earthly Delights (eksperiment kakav reditelju sa već izgrađenim stilom uopšte nije bio potreban), Wojaczek je kao melem na ranu koji, ako bismo tražili pandan u muzici, zvuči kao ambijentalni dark metal sa anđeoskim ženskim vokalom i prodornim muškim growlom... Turobna biografska drama, par exellence.

Angelus (Lech Majewski, 2000)

"You can't see the world for women's arses, lads. You're all blind. You see an arse - paint an arse. You see a horse - paint a horse. To see the other, real, metaphysical world, to get strength from it, you need to be clean, pure..."

Posle četiri odgledana filma Lecha Majewskog (pri čemu je svaki bio pravo otkrovenje), mogu sa stoprocentnom sigurnošću da potvrdim beznadežnu zaljubljenost u njegovo delo, vrlo blisku onoj koja uključuje avangardna čudesa Maye Deren ili Shūjija Terayame.

Angelus je priča o silezijskom kultu rudara-slikara, čiji duhovni vođa, na samrtnoj postelji, predviđa kraj sveta u 3 koraka - Veliki Rat, Crvenu Kugu i Ogromnu Pečurku, kao najavu za zrak sa Saturna koji će dokrajčiti Zemlju. Pošto se prva dva proročanstva obistinjuju kroz II svetski rat i uspostavljanje komunističkog režima, članovi ove neobične grupe odlučuju da spreče treće i spasu svet, tako što će golog i nevinog mladića postaviti na krov zgrade Partije koju će, po njihovim proračunima, pogoditi smrtonosni zrak... Sažeti sinopsis, naravno, ne može ni približno da opiše vrcavu lepotu ove apsurdne drame, uvrnute komedije i fantastične misterije.

Narator i žrtveno jagnje (mesija) je stidljivo siroče Rudolf, čija gotovo bezizražajna, blago-avetinjska pojava (kad odraste) izaziva neobjašnjive simpatije i melanholiju. Sa druge strane, njegova opsednutost pranjem nogu u potpunosti odgovara ekscentričnom okruženju, u koje Majewski smešta radnike iz rudnika Wieczorek u Janowu, blizu grada Katowice. Od Helmuta koji stalno trlja svoju mešinu (valjda mu je to zamena za amajliju), preko Ewalda, nezasitog u krevetu, do Teofila koji voli da razmišlja hladne glave (pa po cičoj zimi spava pored otvorenog prozora, a knjige drži u frižideru), reditelj uspeva da stvori nezaboravne, beskrajno zanimljive likove, prema kojima ni u jednom trenutku nije snishodljiv, prepuštajući ih njihovoj luckastoj prirodi. Raskošnu karakterizaciju upotpunjuje podjednako pomerenim članovima porodica glavnih junaka, raznovrsnim glumačkim minijaturama, kao i bezobrazno kicoškim prikazima Hitlera i Staljina. Neretke narativne digresije (gde spadaju i epizode sa pomenutim istorijskim ličnostima) umetnute su tako da ne odvlače pažnju gledaoca sa glavnog toka, već da demonstriraju autorovu neporecivu pripovedačku snagu.

Majewski se i ovde opredeljuje za najčešće statičnu kameru, pa prilikom gledanja stičete utisak da prolazite kroz galeriju fascinantnih živih slika, koje obuzimaju vašu pažnju taman onoliko koliko ste spremni da im se divite. Za maestralnu fotografiju je, kao i u Sobi jelena, zaslužan Adam Sikora. U pogledu vizualizacije, ovo ostvarenje se može protumačiti kao idiosinkratični spoj naivnog slikarstva i nadrealizma ili pažljivo naslikano kolo aluzija i metafora koje, u iskrenoj razigranosti, brišu granicu između stvarnosti i fikcije. Jedinstveni mise-en-scène paralelan je tvrdoglavo-detinjastoj posvećenosti pozivu i istraživanju odnosa ljudske zatucanosti prema umetničkim slobodama.

Angelus je odraz impresivne kreativnosti i ne bi ga valjalo ignorisati.

Pokój Saren (Lech Majewski, 1997)

Gde li bi nam bio kraj kada bi svi reditelji od televizijske produkcije uspevali da izvuku maksimum, baš kao što to čini Majewski u Sobi jelena? Njegova autobiografska film-opera, kako u uvodu naglašava, predstavlja poetizovano, melanholično sećanje na period adolescencije, podeljen po godišnjim dobima, počev od (ne baš zelenog) proleća, vesnika odrastanja, do depresivne zime, sa snažnim mirisom smrti (čiji se zadah sve vreme oseća).

"When there is a fool moon, 

I can never enter my father's room...

... Only at dawn, I feel through my skin

the presence of the moon..."

Za razliku od Hamdamovljevih Vokalnih paralela, gde su iskorišćene klasične operske arije, Majewski je sam napisao libreto i komponovao muziku, pretvarajući scene iz svakodnevnog života (spremanje večere, postavljanje pribora za jelo, obedovanje, odlazak na počinak) u čudesnu svečanost. Ono što na početku podseća na ordinarnu dramu (kada se izuzme nekonvencionalan pristup), lagano prerasta u inspirativno delo magičnog realizma. Sa površine stola izvire voda, zidovi se rone, dok iz njih izbija korov ili curi krv (tamo gde je ekser za sliku raspeća), a posred stana izrasta drvo, čije korenje upija grehe iz mračne sobe ispod, da bi u onoj svetloj iznad negovalo cvetove krošnje. Pored religioznih aluzija, autor rasipa i simbole ne toliko očiglednih značenja, pričajući (tj. pevajući) o prolaznosti/ciklusu života, poput nostalgičara setnog glasa. Duboke i iracionalne senke sa reprodukcija Giorgia de Chirica (kao dekor, savršeno odabranih) podudaraju se sa mistifikovanom i tihom polutamom u kojoj otac, majka i sin provode monotone dane.

"Their moist eyes touched by darkness shine."

Majewski i ovde demonstrira neprikosnovenu snagu u komponovanju kadrova, što nimalo ne iznenađuje, s obzirom na podatak iz biografije da se, između ostalog, bavi i slikarstvom. Promišljenim i usporenim pokretima kamere on oslikava svoju artistički preinačenu prošlost nalik najvećim majstorima kičice. Iako samo u tri navrata napušta enterijer porodičnog doma, koji se (zajedno sa stanarima) predaje čvrstom i nemilosrdnom zagrljaju Majke Prirode, uspeva da se izbori sa granicama prostora, smeštajući makrokosmičke promene unutar mikrokosmosa. Uz setne, milozvučne melodije (Wielka Orkiestra Symfonyczna Polskiego Radia), prožete hipnotišućim vokalima (Chór Opery Śląskiej), pruža nam jedinstven i nezaboravan audio-vizuelni doživljaj eksperimentalnog duha, hraneći i oči i uši do sitosti.

Genijalno.

Rycerz (Lech Majewski, 1980)

''THE KNIGHT'' is a haunting, austere parable that has been directed with assurance by Lech Majewski, whose flair for starkly poetic compositions often manages to outshine the elliptical quality of his material.

Janet Maslin, New York Times, 9. decembar, 1983

Nakon gledanja (odličnog) Jevanđelja po Heriju (Gospel According to Harry, 1994), u režiji Lecha Majewskog prepoznao sam ono što bih jednostavno nazvao "faktor x", koji je prisutan kod većine reditelja čija dela cenim, tako da su, shodno tome, moja očekivanja od Viteza bila ogromna (i ispunjena).

Iako (osim nekolicine reči) ne razumem poljski jezik, nisam mogao da odolim mračnoj i mističnoj lepoti tapiserije satkane uglavnom od crnih, bordo crvenih i belih niti, na podlozi od tamnozelenih šumaraka, sivih stenčuga, peščanih dina i plaža, a u pratnji gotsko-ambijentalne muzike. Vizuelno sočan u gotovo svakom kadru, Rycerz donekle asocira na rad Sergeija Parajanova (konkretnije, na njegovo remek-delo Sayat Nova), najviše zbog statične kamere koja stvara utisak da prisustvujete oživljavanju srednjevekovnih ilustracija i slika.

Verovatno je čak i uz prevod nemoguće dešifrovati baš svaki segment ove alegorične avanture (slatke li draži), tokom koje junak sreće leprozne starce, čudne monahe i grupicu pagana (?) sa oslobođenim libidom. Od uvrnutog buržujskog plesa, preko (očiglednog) preispitivanja vere, do razularenog kola na plaži, koje izgleda kao vrcavi avangardno-ritualni performans, Majewski kida okvire zacrtane varljivim sinopsisom - priča o potrazi za legendarnom zlatnom harfom, sa isceliteljskim svojstvima. Njegova namera je da gledaoca povede na naporno, ali prosvetljujuće duhovno putešestvije, nalik lucidnom snu (odnosno košmaru).

Eksperimentalan, neporecivo artističan, poetičan, senzualan, tmuran, prljav (a u srži čist), sa oreolom svedenog nadrealizma i teatralnosti oko glave, Rycerz je film koji se oglušuje o mnoga pravila. Rizičan, ali u ovom slučaju vrlo isplativ potez.