Nothing But the Hours/Rien que les heures (1926, Alberto Cavalcanti)

A young, careworn-looking woman takes off her hat and sighs; when she looks up, she breaks into a smile; a young sailor is grinning at her in anticipation. Each face is held in close-up, shots alternating between the two so that we are invited to view each almost through the eyes of the other―almost, but not quite, because the camera is positioned just to the side of where a truly subjective placing would be. The woman starts to undress; the man looks to the side; there is a shot of a bed. The man turns his head back towards his companion, but the following shot is not of the woman’s face but of her legs and hands as she unlaces her boots. Returning to the man, we see his gaze tilted downwards, his expression a picture of lust. The next shot of the woman is of her head and shoulders, which are now naked; her back is towards the camera, and she slowly turns her head to meet the man’s gaze. We see him regarding the object of his desire before turning his head towards the bed again. A shot of the bed ends with a fade-to-black, suggesting eyes being closed, but before the screen turns entirely black, there’s a cut to the next shot: the woman turning her head away and closing her eyes in apparent pleasure. At first, cued by the turning of the man’s head, we might assume the shot of the bed to be his subjective view, but by ‘rhyming’ the fade-out with the woman’s closing her eyes, the film opens up the possibility of it being her subjective view. The next cut is not to the young man, but to the woman’s leg as she removes her boot and lets it fall; this time, as her arm swings for a moment by her side, her movements seem less seductive than exhausted. There’s one last shot of the bed, but the camera has moved closer to it this time. The last shot in this sequence is again of the woman; she winks, at the young man, and―almost―at the viewer. As the camera holds her in shot, her gaze maintains it focus, but her expression subtly changes: she purses her lip, shifts her lower jaw, and smiles somewhat shakily. While can read all sorts of things into this final close-up if we choose―bitterness, resignation, weariness, cynicism, sexual desire, love―no definitive reading is insisted upon, or possible. The camera’s playing with subjectivity and objectivity, with the sexually charged gaze of the man and the gaze of the woman as she observes that gaze, involves us closely with the characters yet also holds them at a distance, not allowing us to arrive at a settled response to them. The sequence of shots is further disrupted by the insertion of documentary footage of homeless men entering a shelter, a shot of a window, a doorbell etc., things bearing no obvious relation to the small human drama in the bedroom.

This scene takes place near the end of Alberto Cavalcanti’s luminous masterpiece Rien que les heures/Nothing But the Hours (a.k.a. Nothing But Time, 1926). Our experience of watching it is complicated by information conveyed by previous scenes. First, the young woman is a prostitute―something made clear near the beginning when we see her unsuccessfully trying to attract a potential customer. Is, then, the young man a paying client, a lover, or something else? His being a sailor might argue against a close attachment, but this is not something of which we can be sure. Another earlier scene showed the pair gazing at each other in apparent adoration at a dance hall―an image of contented romance contrasted with the intense expression of jealousy on the face of another man also present at the dance hall. Jealousy is, at least, the most obvious explanation for the intensity of this man’s expression (an earlier scene showed the same man kissing the same woman), but it’s not an explanation the film confirms. Do we see the dancers in a subjective shot from the other man’s point of view? Perhaps, but we can’t even be sure that he is looking at them, for the three are not shown in shot together. They do in fact share the screen at the same time, but it’s a tripartite split screen with the dancers in the middle, the intense-looking man on the left, and an accordionist on the right. Cavalcanti refuses us the grounds to be sure of the spatial relationship that exits between these characters (are they even in the same dance hall?). The dancers are framed in such a way as to suggest a proscenium arch; multiple exposure creates several copies of them dancing at once. A subjective shot conveying the emotional state of an observer? But both the intense man and the accordionist are facing away from the ‘proscenium’. A close-up of the intense man is followed by a second two shot of the dancers, the image in extreme soft-focus, which again suggests the emotional subjectivity of an observer. But then we return to the split screen, which disrupts again the connection we have drawn between the dancers and the intense man. Our attention might also be drawn to the fact that the sailor and the prostitute are not the only dancers in the middle portion of the screen; there is another, unrelated couple. What are they doing there?

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The other complicating factor is that, before her meeting with the sailor in the bedroom, we have seen the young woman apparently acting as an accomplice to a crime resulting in murder. In this scene, she stands watch while, in an alley, the intense-looking man from the dance hall robs and then kills a newspaper seller (another recurring character, whose death had been foreshadowed by an encounter with a fortune teller). Indeed, it is the sailor’s inopportune arrival that causes the prostitute to lead him away from the crime scene and to the bedroom. When we later watch the young woman undressing, the not-quite-subjective shot underlines the fact that we do not see her through the sailor’s eyes because we have information about her he does not share, information that affects our response to her. At the same time, we have information that she does not share, for she is unaware that the planned robbery ended with an unplanned homicide. We are not granted a position of privileged knowledge, however, because there is much we do not know, much that remains puzzling. None of the characters is given a name; the prostitute is introduced with a title card referring to her as ‘la fille’. The nature of her relationship to the intense man, and the degree of her complicity in his crime, is unclear; her relationship with the sailor is likewise not elaborated. Can we even be sure of the chronology of events? The film gives us merely the fragments and hints of a melodrama, declining to provide us with enough detail to enable us to arrive at a stable understanding.

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One of the claims often made of Rien que les heures is that it inaugurated the movement or genre known as the city symphony film, Walter Ruttman’s Berlin: Symphony of a Great City (1927) and Dziga Vertov’s extraordinary Man with a Movie Camera (1929) being the two most celebrated examples. Others include the Études sur Paris (André Sauvage, 1928), São Paulo, Symphony of the Metropolis (Adalberto Kemeny and Rudolf Rex Lustig, 1929) and Lisbon, Anecdotal Chronicle (José Leitão de Barros, 1930), as well as the shorter works Twenty-Four-Dollar Island (1927, Robert Flaherty), Skyscraper Symphony (1929, Robert Florey), Rain (1929, Joris Ivens and Mannus Franken) and À propos de Nice (1930, Jean Vigo). Manhatta, directed in 1921 by Paul Strand and Charles Sheeler, might be thought of as a kind of precursor. But what is a city symphony? Do the films share enough common features for us to consider them a coherent group? It’s certainly a very varied bunch. Skyscraper Symphony runs for under ten minutes; São Paulo, Symphony of the Metropolis for an hour and a half.  Études sur Paris is almost entirely documentary in approach, fictional vignettes being absent except for one brief scene of a thwarted assignation. At the other end of the spectrum, a title card at the beginning of Lisbon, Anecdotal Chronicle denies that the film is a documentary at all, preferring the term anecdotal chronicle on the basis that it features several famous actors (although it is clear that many of the people who appear on screen are not professionals). The films of Ruttmann, Kemeny and Lustig, Leitão de Barros and Vigo are avowedly portraits of individual cities, their names included in the titles, while Vertov’s city is a composite of Moscow, Kiev, Odessa and Kharkiv, and Rain seems only incidentally to be about Amsterdam (it could just as easily have been filmed in Rotterdam). The frenetic montage of Man with a Movie Camera is not in the least like the leisurely grace of Études sur Paris; Vigo’s droll mockery of Nice’s wealthy tourists could not be further removed from the boosterish qualities of São Paulo, Symphony of the Metropolis. Many of these filmmakers were associated, to one degree or another, with left-wing politics; stark scenes of urban poverty in the films of Vigo and Cavalcanti highlight the miseries suffered by the losers in a capitalist economy. The poor, by contrast, are largely absent in São Paulo and Lisbon, neither of which is interested in offering an overtly political critique―indeed a disturbing strain of militaristic nationalism is evident in both. Also absent from São Paulo are non-white faces; a few are featured in Lisbon, but with no acknowledgement of the violence of Portugal’s colonial project. Some features are common to most city symphony films, notably a fascination with industrial machinery (plenty of shots of factories) and modern transport (ships, trains, cars, trams, chaotic or smooth-flowing).

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One of the things that elements distinguishes Rien que les heures from the other city symphony films is the development of its fictional elements into dramatic story lines (oblique and elliptical though they may be) integrated with non-fiction scenes, the emotional power of melodrama combining with the truth-value of documentary (then a relatively recent concept) to give the work its sense of fullness and depth. In addition to the recurring characters already mentioned, another important figure is an old woman who staggers through alleys and across building sites, perhaps in search of food or shelter, or perhaps simply driven restlessly by despair or mental disturbance. This woman stands for all the ignored, disdained, downtrodden citizens of Paris, the ones who are usually left out of the familiar glamorous, romantic, sophisticated representations of the city, which are explicitly rejected near the beginning. Title cards announce that we are to be presented not with the fashionable and elegant life, but the daily life of the humble, the low-class (although the film does in fact include scenes of the fashionable and elegant life). To demonstrate the point, a shot of chic young ladies is frozen into a photograph, the image ripped up by a pair of hands into implausibly numerous small pieces. Next, a swanky car transforms by dissolve into a tired donkey and cart laden with bags. Such bold, even crude, transitions and contrasts are characteristic of the film: shots of attractive flowers and vegetables at a market are intercut with shots of flowers and vegetables discarded in bins; a well-dressed young man eats a steak while, framed by his plate, we see a scene at the slaughterhouse. Alongside effects such as these, there are beautiful shots of clouds moving across the sky, the rising and falling of a woman’s chest as she sleeps, morning light streaming through a grille, smoke ascending delicately from chimneys.

Rien que les heures is a collection of disparate fragments: fragments of a seamy melodrama, of a socially conscious record of the lives of the poor, of a rapturous and impressionistic cine-poem. As well as the Parisian setting, another thing these fragments have in common is an ever-present awareness of the inexorable passage of time, an awareness that adds poignancy to the brief, ecstatic moments of captured beauty; to the fleeting pleasures of alcohol, the swimming pool, the carousel, that provide relief from the grim routines of work; to the embracing lovers; to the consideration of the fragility of life (the murdered newspaper-seller) and the onset of old age (the wandering woman). ‘We can fix a point in space, freeze a moment in time,’ proclaims one title card; a bit later comes the reply, ‘but space and time both escape our possession’―an observation both tragic and charged with wonder. It’s also an observation made in the shadow of Einstein’s upending of the old certainties of physical reality, and the shots that occur between these two title cards play with this temporal and spatial disorientation. On a spinning globe, only two cities are marked: Paris and Peking (as Beijing was then known in the West), linked by a shared first letter, but in different time zones. We see postcards of Peking landmarks, referring back to the film’s opening statement that all cities would be identical were it not for the monuments that distinguish them. There follows a strange little scene featuring a Chinese woman being chased around a room by a Frenchman. In the background there is a folding screen decorated with images suggestive of contemporary European art, an ornamental blend of two cultures. The man and woman enter screen right, the woman apparently anxious to get away from the man. They exit screen left, but then immediately enter screen right again; this impossible circuit is repeated.* When we next see the spinning globe, it is first rotating at tremendous speed; there’s a slow dissolve to an image of oscillating back and forth hesitantly, the speed reducing until another dissolve shows an unmoving map of Africa and Eurasia, with Paris marked at one end of the screen and Peking at the other. During the second dissolve, a ghostly Paris is seen adjacent to Peking, as if the two cities were about to merge. Time is distorted in the next shot of a clock face, its hands turning at heightened speed; the image dissolves into one of the clock hands swinging like a pendulum. Next, the clock is physically reordered, the numerals in a horizontal strip at the bottom of the screen, the face shattered into multi-screen fragments, each showing a different scene. One of these scenes is of the city’s traffic; after a dissolve, the whole screen is taken up by this traffic, except that different shots are superimposed, so that cars appear to be travelling into each other at tilted angles. The confusion and disorder that Cavalcanti sees as the key condition of metropolitan modernity is viewed ambivalently: there is the scandal of crushed and thwarted lives, the violent, brutal underbelly of the clichéd falsities of the city of light, but here, in confusion and disorder, might also be found a breach in the defences of society and the possibility of reform or revolution. I don’t know whether the film is pessimistic or optimistic about this possibility, or whether its pessimism and optimism can be disentangled, but its freshness and fascination lie in part in its commitment to boldness and freedom of artistic expression as part of the social struggle. It is only 45 minutes long, yet the richness of its aesthetic and political radicalism is treasurable.

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*Is the woman in danger? So we might think, but we are wrong-footed when the woman sits down laughing on a sofa in the foreground; this is light romantic comedy rather than grim melodrama.

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Fogo (2012, Yulene Olaizola)

Between 1954 and 1975, the Canadian government resettled thousands of Newfoundlanders living in remote, impoverished communities, many of which were deemed unviable and abandoned. Such a fate threatened the small island of Fogo. In the late 1960s, while the outlook was still grim, the director Colin Low shot a series of short documentaries known as the Fogo Process, which sought both to record aspects of an everyday life with extinction looming over it, and to address community concerns by giving islanders a platform to discuss them. These were films made by an outsider (from Alberta) in collaboration with locals, and which were then publicly screened on the island. Many of them were overtly political: plainly-shot discussions of the state of the fishing industry, reliance on welfare, religious divisions, education, the role of women, the lack of opportunities for the young, etc. A few others recorded weddings, parties and musical performances, while one―the delightful The Children of Fogo Island (1967)―allowed Low to indulge his more poetic impulses. Funded by the National Film Board of Canada and the Memorial University of Newfoundland, what emerges most strongly from these films is a collaborative ethos and a sense of community; they were primarily made for local audiences, and maintain a focus on the issues that mattered to those audiences. In the end, the residents won their battle to avoid resettlement, their cause aided by the films they collaborated in making. Today, a little over 2,000 live on the island. The fishing industry has declined, but tourism provides a new source of income, encouraged by some swanky new architecture.

Not having been to Fogo, I can’t report on the current state of the community or speculate as to its future, but it’s safe to say that no visitor today will encounter the extreme desolation depicted in Yulene Olaizola’s mesmerising pseudo-documentary. In this film, the community is on the verge of dying out; houses are dilapidated and abandoned; most residents appear to have left; a man announces the departure in a few days of the last ferry―presumably the last ever ferry. Norm, the main character, is faced with the agonizing decision of whether to leave his lifetime home or stay behind with no hope of a future. No information concerning the cause of this desperate situation is given; it could be the end point of a gradual, localized decline, or it could be apocalyptic in nature. The clothes, buildings, furniture etc. on view might as well indicate the 1960s or 70s as the present or future. It’s a fictional scenario, but doesn’t announce itself as such; the absence of a plot, the natural lighting, mostly static shots and observational study of the lives of ordinary people are features that together suggest a documentary. Norm is played by Norman Foley, a real islander; his friends Ron Broders and Joseph Dwyer also play versions of themselves (and what beautiful performances the three of them give).

Yulene Olaizola is, as was Colin Low, an outsider, though from a different country: Mexico. In her film, there are no overtly political discussions; the only visible community is that of one in irreversible decay. The film was funded by an artist-in-residency program run by the Fogo Island Arts Corporation, a body that didn’t exist in the days of the Fogo Process. The corporation strives to meet the cultural needs of the island, but Olaizola is also aiming at international art-house audiences (though there’s little evidence of commercial calculation in such a determinedly non-mainstream work), who may not know very much about the real Fogo, and so may not realize that they’re watching fiction and not a documentary. Whereas the majority of the 60s shorts are specific and functional, Fogo is elusive, puzzling, elliptical. It is both rooted in place (the contemplative attention to landscape; the use of residents as non-professional performers; the imagining of the terrible fate narrowly avoided by the island, and which might loom again) and general (the scarcity of detail regarding the scenario turns Fogo into an exemplar of similarly remote communities, and its decline emblematic of wider civilizational anxiety in the face of economic and environmental catastrophe). Its low-key naturalism might appear to be in the service of verisimilitude, but in fact the Fogo that appears on screen is the result of a distorting process of selection; in an interview, the director explained how she avoided shooting the modern Fogo―its houses, its roads, its vehicles―in order to realize her vision of a broken-down, all but deserted community.

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Why are the characters so attached to their tiny island? The question isn’t answered. Olaizola and her remarkable cinematographer, Diego García, contrive to make Fogo an astonishingly beautiful film, but they don’t make Fogo seem a particularly beautiful place, at least not in a way that commonly wins the approval of tourist boards. Filmed in winter, there is just enough snow to impress the cold on the viewer, but not nearly enough for the kind of gleaming, picturesque snow-scape the camera loves so much. We see little other than a bleak, boggy, windy tundra―hardly an inviting terrain. There may well be more conventionally pretty scenes to be found on Fogo, but if there are, Olaizola has chosen to ignore them. Instead, it is in the midst of the bleakness that she shows a sensuous appreciation for nature: the wind blowing through the long grass, the pressing of boots and paws into wet mossy ground, a breathtaking low shot of the wind blowing little wispy trails of sand-like snow across frozen water. Perhaps the ability to find and cherish natural beauty where it is not immediately apparent, where all around at first sight appears barren and featureless, is one of the things that binds Norm and his friends to their birthplace, which will strike many as inhospitable. ‘We’re staying here,’ says Ron to his two dogs, Thunder and Patch, in the darkness of the kennel, his voice expressing at once defiance, solace and uncertainty. A single beam of light sunlight illuminates him, to which he turns his head: religious lighting, it might seem, except that there is no intervening heavenly power here, just the indifferent sun.

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The hopeless intensity of the bond these men feel to their island is evident in Norm’s meeting with his older friend Joe, which mixes wry comedy and an aching sense of loss in two exquisite scenes. The first scene is mostly comic, as Joe’s awkward attempts to trade a scavenged tin of spaghetti for a beer are rebuffed until Norm agrees to give him a beer for free. Underlying the humour, however, is the scarcity of food and drink: the tinned spaghetti is the only one Joe has, the potatoes Norm is peeling are mostly rotten, the beer is home brewed. In the next scene, as the two men drink together and lament, the comedy largely retreats (exception: Joe’s reference to the weather-beaten Norm as ‘a young fella’) and the despair engendered by their situation comes to the fore, especially in close-ups of their careworn faces. The friends derive some pleasure from reminiscences of happier times, but talk of the good old days also brings pain (Joe: ‘Oh, my son. They’ll break your heart, my son’). Norm considers whether to stay or go, but Joe is so wedded to Fogo that for him leaving is not an option. The older man starts to sing in a hoarse, cracked voice (sample lyrics: ‘You can’t take a man from the soil that he knows/Tear off his roots and expect him to grow’*), but fluffs his lines, swears, and mumbles that he can’t remember anything anymore: memory, song and language fragmenting and disappearing along with the community of which they are part.

Norm takes two walks around the island, during the course of which Olaizola and García linger on the landscape. The first is an apparently brief stroll Norm takes after Joe’s visit; after walking for a bit, he stands in the snow with a troubled face before returning via the same route we saw him follow earlier. Does he need the air to ponder the situation and reach a decision? Is he taking a last look before he’s forced to leave? Or does the walk (which ends with him heading back home) illustrate the impossibility of his leaving? By the time he takes his second walk, we know that he has decided to stay. After discussing his decision with Ron, the two men decide to set off for an isolated, rudimentary cabin, with Ron’s dogs in tow. We do not see them return. Around half the film is taken up with this expedition, the purpose of which is unclear. Do they have some notion of holding out or hiding in the heart of the island, retreating still further from society while the one they have known all their lives crumbles and vanishes? Is there even something of a death-embrace to it? The last ferry has, after all, left by now.** The two men spend the night in the cabin talking about the past while they finish off a small bottle of whiskey―as with the home brew, alcohol is prized for its scarcity and consoling powers. ‘Good to the last drop,’ says Ron, and follows it with ‘So’s life,’ which may or may not be ominous.

One curious anomaly about our first sight of the cabin is that there is no snow visible on the ground in front of it, whereas the ground we saw over the course of Norm’s and Ron’s journey has a light, patchy, but extensive cover of snow. Nor is there any snow on the clothes the two men wear. Does this indicate that they have been travelling for such a long time that the snow has melted? This is not very likely on such a small and cold island (25km long and 14km wide), especially as they are not seen carrying any provisions. Could one tiny patch be entirely free of snow in contrast to the rest? It’s possible, I suppose, although it would have to be a very small patch, because when Ron goes off to find water, there is snow on the banks (and yet again, not too small, because the establishing shot of the cabin shows quite a wide area). Perhaps their arrival comes after a different, later journey (though they are wearing the same clothes). Of course, it is quite possible that the absence of snow around the cabin is simply the unavoidable result of the weather during shooting, but while that might account for the anomaly, it does not dispose of it. Furthermore, the shot of the cabin is preceded by an instance of one of the most striking formal features of Fogo: its use of fades-to-black to transition between scenes. The shot prior to our first view of the cabin is of the men and dogs crossing the snowy tundra; the fade that follows lasts about 15 seconds from the moment the screen begins to darken to the next shot. This ellipsis not only opens up the possibility of considerable time having elapsed between Norm and Ron setting off on their journey and them arriving at the cabin (and so opens up the possibility of there being two separate journeys), it also undermines the surface realism of the documentary style. Rather than seek a narrative solution for the anomaly, or shrug it off as a continuity error, or mark of budget constraints, the absence of snow on the ground might be regarded as a deliberate, playful disruption, resistant to explanation―prominent enough to arouse curiosity and provoke a few questions, but no so glaringly unsubtle as to knock the film off balance.***

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I counted seven fades-to-black over the course of the film, in addition to the opening, which is of a black screen. These fades range in duration from around 4 or 5 seconds to around 20 seconds. Some, but not all, mark the transition from an evening to the next day. Sometimes the screen fades quite slowly, as it does before the arrival at the cabin, while at other times it turns black quickly. The two longest and slowest fades occur after the shot of Ron with his dogs in the kennel, and at the very end of the film. In the latter instance, there’s a cut from Norm looking ahead into the distance to a gorgeous shot of the dawn sky, with a pillar or sword of pink light seen between purple-grey clouds; this shot is held for about a minute before the screen begins to darken. The power of the image is heightened by its gradual fading into black, the cinematic technique decreasing the light even as the natural phenomenon it records is increasing it. On one level, the paradox is perhaps Norm’s subjective experience of an astounding beauty, both familiar and revelatory, soon to be denied him. More generally, it provides a haunting visualization of time’s dissolution of all things, a dissolution which, crucially, does not operate on all things with equal speed, for the natural world so wonderfully captured by Olaizola and García―the landscape, the sea, the sky―will endure far longer than any mere human who lives within it.

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*It is worth noting in passing the very male-centric focus of this film. We only see five people on screen, four of whom are men: Norm and his friends, and the unnamed man who announces the departure of the last ferry. The only woman to feature is Ron’s elderly mother, and we only glimpse her wordlessly gazing out of the window. It is Ron’s concern for her welfare that prevents him from leaving Fogo; when it is revealed that her view is of no more than some kind of cliff or rocky outcrop resembling a large natural wall, the idea of confinement or even entombment extents to both mother and son. It’s a powerful shot, and makes one regret the absence of any further consideration of societal collapse on the island’s women. By contrast, the women who appear in Colin Low’s 1960s documentaries are given the opportunity to express themselves with a strong voice.

**Unfortunately, I was not able to make out what may be a key line said by Norm in response to Ron’s stated wish not to see his mother die in their house: ‘Fuck it, let’s go to… [inaudible]’.

***Another unexplained anomaly occurs earlier in the film. A man knocks at the door of a very tumbledown-looking house and announces the departure of the last ferry in two days; there is then a cut to an interior shot of Norm seated at a table by the window, seemingly pondering the announcement; the next shot returns to the first man walking away from the tumbledown house. From this sequence, it would be natural to assume that the house we see is Norm’s home, and that while the man stands outside announcing the ferry’s departure time, Norm is at that moment seated inside the same building considering what he has just heard. However, after a further few shots of Norm at his table, there is then an exterior shot of a house that, while resembling the first house to such a degree that an initial glance might take them to be one and the same, is actually a different building. The first house we saw from the front, while the second we see from behind. The architectural style is the same: a simple, two-story wooden structure, but the color of the wood is subtly different, as are the shape and location. So which is Norm’s house, the first or the second? If the first, why cut away directly from Norm at home to this house which has nothing to with him? If the second, that would mean that Norm did not hear the news about the ferry while he was at the table; the man conveying the news was at another house altogether. Olaizola is creating minute fissures in both the fictional and documentary surfaces of her film, undermining the viewer’s complacency about both. Another example: before Joe breaks into an abandoned house to retrieve his tin of spaghetti, we see him look around before he applies a crowbar to the door, as if to ensure that no-one is watching. If the film really were a documentary, as it pretends to be, then this action would be completely unnecessary, as the real Joseph Dwyer would have no need to be furtive about an act he knows is being recorded.

Close-Up (1990, Abbas Kiarostami)

A man takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair: in itself, the simplest, most insignificant of actions, but here it carries an electrifying charge. The man in question has been passing himself off as an acclaimed film director to a trusting family of cinephiles; he has just realized that the game is up and that he is about to face the consequences. The removal of a layer of clothing, as well as signalling his acceptance (or at least awareness) of the inevitability of his impending downfall, thus also becomes a stripping away of his assumed identity, a shedding of his false self to reveal the more vulnerable true self beneath―the true self being the one that must meet with punishment. Even as he takes off the jacket, however, he is not yet ready to give up the pretence entirely, for he is still talking about rehearsing a scene from his new movie―his words a defiant, doomed last show of make-believe in tension with the submissive self-revealing of his action. What’s more, the actor, Hossain Sabzian, is playing himself, the real-life Hossain Sabzian, for the events depicted in Abbas Kiarostami’s remarkable Close-Up are based on a real-life incident: Sabzian really did impersonate director Mohsen Makhmalbaf, despite not bearing a particularly close resemblance to him. So the real-life Sabzian is playing himself playing Makhmalbaf, waiting to be exposed as Sabzian.

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Above: Sabzian and Mehrdad regard each other while Sabzian removes his jacket.

The targets (if that is the right word) of Sabzian’s deception were the Ahankhahs: a cultured, apparently well-off family, who invited him into their home, lent him money, and put themselves and their house at his disposal, swayed by his talk of casting them in his next project and using their property as a location. They, too, re-enact their roles in the affair, alongside the suspicious friend, the journalist who reported the story, the judge in the ensuing court case, etc. As Sabzian removes his jacket, he reminds Mehrdad, one of the family’s sons (whom he’d promised a part in the non-existent movie), of the rehearsal that had been scheduled. But Mehrdad, who by now has stopped believing Sabzian’s lies, tells him to eat his breakfast and wanders off. The slight note of irritation in his voice and body language is all he can show of the anger and resentment concealed within―concealed for the purpose of keeping Sabzian in place until the police arrive. The latter, in turn, knows or at least strongly suspects that Mehrdad no longer trusts him, and only feigns belief in Mehrdad’s continued trust to prolong the performance he knows must end. As both men regard each other warily from opposite sides of the room, neither of their faces clearly visible to the viewer (Mehrdad’s is too far in the background, while we only see the back of Sabzian’s head), each knows the truth, but suppresses it, together outwardly maintaining an illusion when, inwardly, each is disillusioned. It’s a moment of exquisite poise and tension. The two sensitive, intelligent young men almost present, in their differences and similarities, mirror images of each other. One is worried about his deceit being exposed; the other is bitter about having been deceived. Sabzian is working-class, unemployed, struggling to stay afloat; Mehrdad is middle-class, also unemployed, struggling to find a suitable job since graduating in civil engineering (in any case, he has no enthusiasm for the subject, presumably having studied it in the mistaken belief that it would lead to a solid position). Both turn to the cinema and to performance as a means of briefly escaping, or enjoying the fantasy of escaping, their constricted social and economic realities, but it is not a flight into pure fantasy, nor is it an outright rejection of reality, for the ideal of cinema pursued here is of an art that portrays the sufferings and frustrations of ordinary people, that does not stray too far from the realities experienced by its viewers, that is born of them―art and fiction born of reality and truth. This ideal is shared by Mehrdad and Sabzian; it is what both of them value in the cinema of Makhmalbaf (and of Kiarostami); it is what Sabzian seeks to realize in make-believe by assuming the role of Makhmalbaf; it is what Mehrdad seeks to realize by collaborating with the man he believes is Makhmalbaf; it is what both of them seek to realize by collaborating with Kiarostami.

When Sabzian finishes adjusting his jacket on the chair, a boom comes into view at the top of the screen, serving as both an intrusion of ‘reality’ and an affirmation of ‘artifice’. It looks like an accident, of the kind that would be derided as an embarrassing gaffe in an average mainstream movie, and while the viewer can’t be sure that isn’t just that (an accident), there’s also the suspicion that the appearance of an accident has been artfully constructed. The reminder of the presence of an actual crew at work, with Kiarostami at the helm, is an acknowledgement that the action we are watching belongs as much to fiction and artifice as it does to reality. Sabzian and Mehrdad may be playing themselves, but they are not simply reliving events as they in fact happened; they are re-enacting them fictionally, according to another’s direction and scripting. They are actors even as they are themselves. At the same time, by exposing the workings of production, the drooping boom brings into view another reality to be interrogated―that of the making of the film, the process of making it. Reality and artifice lead into and away from each other like M.C. Escher’s impossible stairways.

As well as dramatic re-enactments, Close-Up presents scenes that at least purport to be straight documentary, most notably recordings from Sabzian’s trial. But how much of even this, one wonders, has been shaped by the director? To what extent have the participants been nudged by Kiarostami’s promptings? His searching inquiry into the nature of the documentary form might in other hands have made for an arid post-modern exercise or, more happily, a light-touched post-modern divertissement. Kiarostami sets his sights higher. A cruder, more conventional film would have portrayed the Ahankhahs as spoilt, self-absorbed members of the bourgeoisie, whose smoothly complacent and privileged existence is disrupted by the proletarian trickster hero or anti-hero; their gullibility would have been mocked, their humiliation crowed over. Kiarostami, though, is careful to emphasize that even the Ahankhahs, in their spacious, comfortable home, are not immune from the economic pressures that weigh so heavily on Sabzian. Mehrdad, as I’ve already mentioned, is unemployed, his peers on his course having fared no better; the other son, Manuchehr, with a degree in mechanical engineering, is meanwhile stuck in an unfulfilling job managing a bakery. Kiarostami, profoundly humanistic, extends his sympathy to the family as well as to their deceiver, whose own crushing despair in the face of his seemingly hopeless grinding penury is given wrenching testimony during the trial. The Ahankhahs and Sabzian are united too by their love of cinema, of its capacity to both transcend reality and bear witness to it, like Stevens’ blue guitar. For Kiarostami, this capacity can be realized in something as ordinary as an empty canister rolling down the street, captured in a justly celebrated shot that is at once hypnotically beautiful and utterly banal, accidental and contrived.* Or it can be realized in a more emotionally charged scene like the magnificent conclusion, which brought me close to tears. The climactic reconciliation is not any the less moving for the nagging questions to which it gives rise―would it, for example, have been possible without Kiarostami’s intervention? Is such manipulation of real people justifiable?** What happens next? The note of soaring hope on which the film ends is qualified by doubt, but such doubt is an ethical necessity to keep the hope from soaring too high into potentially pernicious wishful thinking. And the doubt isn’t enough to undermine the transcendent beauty of the ideal captured in the final image: of an interplay of artifice and reality leading to forgiveness, understanding, compassion and (perhaps) to a kind of truth.

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Above: The famous rolling canister.

*Contrast this with that piece of junk American Beauty, in which the Wes Bentley character’s clumsily acted, awe-struck pseudo-philosophical idiocies, delivered in a grating, dull monotone and underscored with showily un-showy music, scupper any serious attempt to find beauty in a shot of a plastic bag blowing in the wind. You can see here the difference between an artist like Kiarostami and a pretentious hack like Mendes.

**Viewers might remember at this point the earlier words of the Ahankhah patriarch: ‘Mr. Kiarostami, everyone who’s become involved in our case so far has tried to use the situation to his own advantage’. Mr. Ahankhah resents the misrepresentation he believes his family has suffered, particularly at the hands of the journalist who broke the story. The complaint might be taken as a warning shot to Kiarostami, who, in the scene, is visiting the Ahankhahs for the first time in the hope of persuading them to take part in his film. Except he isn’t, because the whole scene is a re-enactment, and not one that attempts to be accurate―for also in attendance at the actual first meeting was Mohsen Makhmalbaf (the real one), who is not present here. Was the line then scripted, or suggested, by Kiarostami? I don’t know. But that ‘everyone’ pointedly encompasses the director(s)―not to mention the Ahankhahs themselves.