The universal spoken and unspoken language of togetherness and lack thereof inspiring perspectives shared by directors Tasou Palisidou, Mihai Gligan, Jasmina Cloșcă, Karina Logothetis, Buse Halaçoğlu and Milorad Milatović translates into a rich selection of cinematic syntax and grammar; the reading of each relational situation shaping the next section of this year’s Competition festival program.
When “I love you” is uttered at a turning point in the conversation when hopelessness about feeling unappreciated in a relationship actually overwhelms the mind, the viewers of Jam (2022) can, in real time, feel Jemma (Léa Anderson) emotionally walking away from her partner, Sam (Iniki Mariano), despite tenderly holding her face. This is but one example of the couple’s seemingly never-ending cycle of attempts at making themselves feel heard and getting their attachment needs met. Throughout the several quotidian instances of trying to effectively communicate with each other, the two protagonists fill the area of their shared living space with anything but comfortable silence. With each next sentence hanging by a thin thread of trust in the other’s ability to truly listen, and not just to wait for their turn at a response, disguised as intimacy, self-preservation hurts as it tries to heal. By the end of Jam, viewers might find great relief in the outdoors fresh air and pause of its open-endedness.
The creators of Anticamera / The Antechamber (2022) thoroughly point out, in a director statement type overview, how the process of writing and directing their vision involved getting familiarized with philosophical study concerned with how life is “at core absurd because it is inherently chaotic”; having thus materialized a filmic universe open to the calculated unleashing of happenings belonging to what they conceptualize as facets of modern chaos. In the same breath, the description states that The Antechamber aims to suggest rather than to impose an interpretation; my analysis heavily bearing that aspect in mind. Similarly, viewers of any Roy Andersson directed film since Songs from the Second Floor (2000) can recognize that existentialist undertones abound in his work. However, it is due to the distinctive style born out of the ways in which Andersson together with his dedicated team managed to express memory and dream through the art of cinema that those abstract ideas were able to gain a fresh, personal voice and significance. The Antechamber’s strengths derive from how it forges an original pathway for the exploration of its own cohesive philosophy of said absurdism or chaos, one which, regardless of whether humanity is yet sold on it being a part of life, it is proven yet again as intrinsic to the art of filmmaking. In support of cinema as philosophy, as a gateway to unconditionally contemplating existence through cinema, here the closing line “God is born” (in Romanian, “Dumnezeu se naște”) can freely emerge anew, in spite of its 130-year-old famously opposite preceding form, carrying distinct time and area of study specific meanings. Personally, the watching experience of The Antechamber comes closer to the realm of meanings of another Nietzsche quote which references chaos in relation to creativity: “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” (Thus Spoke Zarathustra,1883)
A carefully crafted almost ten minutes long take holds together in Nexting (2021) an otherwise lackluster pattern of repeated first date small talk and one-night stand scenarios. Staying connected by means of a cinematically mediated fluid temporal dimension contrasts with the common lonely experience fostered by the modern world’s online dating scene. At the same time, it paints a complementary picture for the act of flipping through infinite profiles, determining potential based on a well picked set of photos, unreliable hunches and a slightly more interesting than the last bio while also wondering whether ten, twenty, thirty more swipes could possibly lead you to a better “match”. None other aspect of Nexting highlights this more than how the casual dating culture stays stagnant while Lexi (Ioanna Triantafilidou) goes from not seeking long-lasting commitment, from “I’d rather be tired than bored and I get bored very quickly.” to “I’m tired of doing all of this. Thinking what’s next and forgetting what’s now. I like you and I want to see you again.”. The environment in which she can freely refuse to conform to societal expectations surrounding romantic love is the same one, by design, incompatible with her change of heart.
“You are just looking for someone to listen to your complaints.” If thoughts manifested our reality ad litteram, this line from Ben ve O / Me and The Other (2022) would produce its short film’s location coordinates and the Other as the only resident expecting Me for as long as that thought persists. Often during difficult times, it is easy for people to lose focus or even forget that the human brain and all levels of consciousness are entities too complex to fully comprehend, even for those who dedicate their entire lives to studying them. For our protagonist, the misunderstanding clouds judgement intensely enough that it overpowers his ability to step outside of himself and see his situation from a big picture perspective (or from that of a genuinely caring friend). Instead the Man (Özer Arslan) goes deeper within a room which feels like a subconscious bunker whose main purpose is survival despite the sense that his hide and seek game is one of hide, never be sought and scream into the Void; with a special unspoken rule of “evolve or repeat”. Its counterpart, the Woman (Burcu Halaçoğlu), might be acting as an extension of self, love or hope personified, her presence productively challenges the deeply ingrained enmeshment between his sense of self-worth and external validation or, in other words, internal and external expectations. This imbalance also tangibly manifests in the purgatory-like universe directed by Buse Halaçoğlu, the world falling apart, crumbling, crashing down with each triggered restart phase of the game. Me and The Other feels like a tireless experiment of processing the Man’s emotions until, by way of tempering self-judgement with a steadily increasing, a lot more helpful in the long run, and consistently present sense of self compassion, he can breathe a sigh of relief and find reassurance in remembering that a half empty glass will always also be a glass half full.
Finally, in the context of BBB’s ALONE/TOGETHER section, by joining characters going on quotidian wonderings through emotional landscapes I understand witnessing a slice of life narrative which is especially sensitive to the connection between human inner life and the feel and textures of the places in which the short film is set. Keeping true to a naturalist depiction of the situation explored in Mar (2022), director Milorad Milatović leaves the task of perceiving difference to the audience reading in between the lines of a simple yet touching plot, with the silent performance of the protagonist, Mar (Bojana Malinovska), being subtle and at the same time strong enough to overshadow the still fresh wound dynamic between her sister (Maja Čampar) and the guy with whom she recently got back together (Aleksandar Gavranić). The way Milatović and his crew can be said to have “directed the natural landscape” in accord with the trio’s distinct personalities stands out the most together with the unnerving conclusion given to a day of walking through a rocky relationship’s lingering doubts and through the perfect landscape for Mar to, once more, have a go at running away from it all.