Two old friends of mine who I spent most of my childhood with settled down in Glasgow, where they could find work at the peak of the Polish unemployment crisis in the early 2000s. Krzysiek, a brilliant, sensitive guy, graduated the BA programme in English, and chose to join his brother and dad who'd emigrared earlier and found construction jobs. With his good language skills, he managed not only to get a job quickly, but started a business at a side, selling used quality clothes at the Polish internet auctions. Ajo, the other friend, who's always been the engine of our little crew and, at heart, a twin brother of Krzysiek, has been hopping jobs, from construction, to nightclub bouncing, to temping.
Half a year ago, the news broke that Krzysiek's ex-girlfriend gave birth to their baby, having got pregnant just before they split up. When I heard about it last Christmas, it struck me as a turning point, not just for him, but for the whole generation of boys, like Ajo, Krzysiek or me, now in their mid-twenties, but apparently taking on more and more responsibility, mellowing, leaving the youth days behind for good. I like the way such events make me reflect on how far we have all come and how the choices we made years ago have influenced the course of our lives.
This piece on Edinburgh in Intelligent Life inspired me to write the above.
Monday 31 August 2009
Sunday 30 August 2009
Watch it if you can
There's a good British film too watch, Fish Tank, a gritty piece of bleak British realism, set in the council estate, feted in Cannes. I hope it makes it to Poland.
Who's Wogan?
I love the way you start with one thing on the Internet and end up discovering ten more. Terry Wogan is a living legend of British television, a chat show host, a breakfast radio presenter and a British commentator during the Eurovision Song Contest (replaced after three decades by Graham Norton in 2009). It was fun to listen to him interview Paul McCartney in the 1980s, in this lovely spirit of little Britain, cozy, traditional, a bit tongue-in-cheek, and see Parkinson interview him on BBC quite recently.
Saturday 29 August 2009
Sublime Britain
It's a well-known fact that Britain is located on a heavily indented territory and it takes no more than around 150 kilometers to reach seawater from any place inland. Britain's northern fringes are virtually sprinkled with archipelagos, lending the Scottish landscape the aura of rough, wild beauty. The Orkney Islands and Shetland off its northern coast and the Hebrides off the west coast are sparsely populated and its islands were once used as wind-swept isolation destinations (like Bute, where troublesome Polish army officers were detained during the WWII by their own commanders).
The Guardian ran a brilliant piece on St Kilda, a group of the most remote British islands off the west coast, which for some time hosted a secluded, self-sufficient community. At its peak it housed 300 people, mostly living off the land and from fowling, but as contacts with the central Scotland became more intense, the community went into decline and was eventually evacuated in 1930 following the death of a pregnant St Kildan who couldn't get to the hospital to give birth in Glasgow and died.
The event inspired the 1937 film The Edge of the World and the archipelago has recently attracted fascination among travellers and birdlovers.
Before the article I wasn't aware of the phrase sea stacks, like Stac Lee, which sticks 172m out of water.
The Guardian ran a brilliant piece on St Kilda, a group of the most remote British islands off the west coast, which for some time hosted a secluded, self-sufficient community. At its peak it housed 300 people, mostly living off the land and from fowling, but as contacts with the central Scotland became more intense, the community went into decline and was eventually evacuated in 1930 following the death of a pregnant St Kildan who couldn't get to the hospital to give birth in Glasgow and died.
The event inspired the 1937 film The Edge of the World and the archipelago has recently attracted fascination among travellers and birdlovers.
Before the article I wasn't aware of the phrase sea stacks, like Stac Lee, which sticks 172m out of water.
Tuesday 25 August 2009
Strains of Being a Teacher
I'm lucky not to work as a teacher in Polish public schools, where lack of respect and misbehaviour are commonplace. It seems, though, that teaching youngsters is difficult not only in Poland and dilemmas in this forgotten profession reach destinations far richer and far more developed. It may well be that the wealthier the nation gets, and the more liberal in its everyday ways, the harder it is to bring up and educate its youth, so used to abundance and freedom. There's a good article on a young graduate's experiences in one Teach First secondary school in London, published in The Times. I find her curiousity and her will to learn the tough side of working as a teacher admirable, but I know it for sure now, having been through teaching incidents of my own, that I'm not cut out for this type of contact and taming overeager youngsters isn't exactly my cup of tea.
Thursday 20 August 2009
Kolejny Kutz
Obejrzałem "Nikt nie woła" Kazimierza Kutza, jego drugi film w roli reżysera i znowu jestem pod wrażeniem. Ten nakręcony w Bystrzycy Kłodzkiej obraz o szukaniu stabilizacji i normalności na Ziemiach Odzyskanych przez dwójkę młodych, pokiereszowanych przez wojnę ludzi nigdy nie przebił się do powszechnej świadomości, krytyka i publiczność przyjęli go chłodno. Z dystansu ogląda się go dużo lepiej, tolerując artystyczne poszukiwania, które na przełomie lat 50. i 60. tak bardzo raziły. Zdjęcia Jerzego Wójcika, zimne, ascetyczne kadry czy też karykaturalne antydialogi wojennych rozbitków doskonale wydobywają atmosferę zagubienia, niezrozumienia oraz lęku przed demonami przeszłości.
"Nikt nie woła" to jednak przede wszystkim wyjątkowy dialog z "Popiołem i diamentem" Andrzeja Wajdy, z romantycznym mitem Maćka Chełmickiego (Zbigniew Cybulski), który odrzuca nadzieję na normalne życie i wykonuje rozkaz zabicia komunistycznego dygnitarza, tym samym podpisując na siebie wyrok śmierci. Bożka z "Nikt nie woła", granego przez Henryka Boukołowskiego, poznajemy w momencie ucieczki przez kolegami z konspiracji do małego miasteczka, kiedy walczy z myślami przypominającymi mu, że "nie strzelił do czerwonego". Tym samym, Kutz proponuje nam zabawę z alternatywną wersją historii bojownika polskiego podziemia, nienaznaczoną romantyczną śmiercią, choć nie mniej dramatyczną, nie mniej zatopioną w rozterkach.
Tajemnicze (wypowiedź Kutza) są losy pięknej partnerki Boukołowskiego z filmy aktorki Zofii Marcinkowskiej, która zmarła niedługo po zagraniu roli śmiercią samobójczą.
"Nikt nie woła" to jednak przede wszystkim wyjątkowy dialog z "Popiołem i diamentem" Andrzeja Wajdy, z romantycznym mitem Maćka Chełmickiego (Zbigniew Cybulski), który odrzuca nadzieję na normalne życie i wykonuje rozkaz zabicia komunistycznego dygnitarza, tym samym podpisując na siebie wyrok śmierci. Bożka z "Nikt nie woła", granego przez Henryka Boukołowskiego, poznajemy w momencie ucieczki przez kolegami z konspiracji do małego miasteczka, kiedy walczy z myślami przypominającymi mu, że "nie strzelił do czerwonego". Tym samym, Kutz proponuje nam zabawę z alternatywną wersją historii bojownika polskiego podziemia, nienaznaczoną romantyczną śmiercią, choć nie mniej dramatyczną, nie mniej zatopioną w rozterkach.
Tajemnicze (wypowiedź Kutza) są losy pięknej partnerki Boukołowskiego z filmy aktorki Zofii Marcinkowskiej, która zmarła niedługo po zagraniu roli śmiercią samobójczą.
Tuesday 18 August 2009
Delicious
When it comes to eating out in Poland's big cities there's a wide variety to choose from, but as a local I'm often attracted to the best value for money, steering clear of classier, costlier establishments. At times I end up having a BigMac in McDonald's, a twister combo at KFC or pierogi at some other eatery every once in a while, but most of my working days, by far, I dine at the university canteen where food is consistently better, healthier and cheaper.
Still, there's one more place I drop by for lunch and it deserves credit for food quality, low prices and, most importantly, ambience. Called bar mleczny, which translates into a dairy bar or a milk bar, it's peculiar to Poland's cityscape and offers state-subsidied meals for poorer customers. Originally, the idea was to create a national network of affordable diners for the working class with no canteen at the workplace and the name referred to the menu, then dominated by milk-based dishes. Dairy bars gained immense popularity in the communist period, when the concept behind them seemed well in line with the broader political principles. Unlike communism, the bars have survived until today, with slightly improved quality and service, and remain relatively popular eating establishments for workers, students or the elderly, attracting the less affluent with the pricelist.
I have fond memories of dairy bars from my university years, when for financial reasons I was a regular there, navigating my way around the crowds queuing to order with a bowl of hot soup or going for an odd seat at a table full of unknown faces, all others being taken. Now that I moved into a new neighbourhood by the river, where there is one well-run dairy bar, I visit from time to time when I don't go to town. It's refreshing to have lunch among all walks of life, being served a little old style, settling into the rhythms of the simple folk. And it's cheap and traditional, too.
It's hard to compare bar mleczny to anything, but in terms of the layout it's essentially a diner or a cafeteria (canteen in the UK). In terms of the nostalgic value the dairy bar carries for the Poles it may be compared to a luncheonette or an Automat in the US or a greasy spoon in Britan.
Still, there's one more place I drop by for lunch and it deserves credit for food quality, low prices and, most importantly, ambience. Called bar mleczny, which translates into a dairy bar or a milk bar, it's peculiar to Poland's cityscape and offers state-subsidied meals for poorer customers. Originally, the idea was to create a national network of affordable diners for the working class with no canteen at the workplace and the name referred to the menu, then dominated by milk-based dishes. Dairy bars gained immense popularity in the communist period, when the concept behind them seemed well in line with the broader political principles. Unlike communism, the bars have survived until today, with slightly improved quality and service, and remain relatively popular eating establishments for workers, students or the elderly, attracting the less affluent with the pricelist.
I have fond memories of dairy bars from my university years, when for financial reasons I was a regular there, navigating my way around the crowds queuing to order with a bowl of hot soup or going for an odd seat at a table full of unknown faces, all others being taken. Now that I moved into a new neighbourhood by the river, where there is one well-run dairy bar, I visit from time to time when I don't go to town. It's refreshing to have lunch among all walks of life, being served a little old style, settling into the rhythms of the simple folk. And it's cheap and traditional, too.
It's hard to compare bar mleczny to anything, but in terms of the layout it's essentially a diner or a cafeteria (canteen in the UK). In terms of the nostalgic value the dairy bar carries for the Poles it may be compared to a luncheonette or an Automat in the US or a greasy spoon in Britan.
Monday 17 August 2009
O psie, krzyżu i wdowie
Podchodziłem do tego filmu z duża ostrożnością, może nawet niechęcią, bo jego reżysera, doskonałego Kazimierza Kutza, znam jako publicystę i raczej nie cenię za brak umiaru, za agresywność i nierealistyczne tezy. "Krzyż walecznych" rozpoznałem jednak juz po pierwszych minutach, wiedziałem, że będzie to kino, jakie lubię, przewrotne, głębokie, niepozbawione ironii. Obraz osadzony jest w powojennych realiach i podzielony na trzy niedługie nowele, niepołączone ze sobą postaciami bohaterów.
Pierwsza, pod tytułem "Krzyż" opowiada historię młodego żołnierza, odznaczonego krzyżem walecznych za bohaterską postawę na froncie, który na kończącej się wojnie odnalazł swoje powołanie, okrzepł, dorósł, stał się mężczyzną. Teraz, pełen dumy, entuzjazmu i dobrej nadziei, jedzie na urlop do rodzinnej wioski, w której uchodził za nieudacznika, gdzie nazywali go Wyskrobek, żeby zachwycić starych znajomych, matkę, ojca, braci swoją wojenną opowieścią, żeby urosnąć w ich oczach, odzyskać należną mu reputację. Jego zachwyt jest tak wielki, że widz od początku ma wrażenie, że musi spotkać go rozczarowanie i rozczarowanie go spotyka. Jego wioska zniknęła z powierzchni ziemii, rozjechana przez niemieckie czołgi, rozstrzelana przez niemieckie karabiny, a bohaterowi zostaje jedynie rozmowa z zastraszonym, obłąkanym starcem. Nie dochodzi do rehabilitacji, nie dochodzi do odzyskania reputacji, w ostatniej scenie młody żołnierz leży jak sparaliżowany na wojskowej koi.
Nowela "Pies", w której występuje znany mi skądinąd Bronisław Pawlik, to historia owczarka niemieckiego z obozu w Oświęcimiu, którego przygarnia młody polski żołnierz zaraz po wyzwoleniu więźniów. Postać psa skupia w niebanalny sposób powojenne dylematy moralne, problem winy, współodpowiedzialności i legitymacji etycznej do życia po katastrofie wojny. Dla psa, który mechanicznie reaguje na bodźce, atakuje obozowe pasiaki, jest lojalny wobec munduru, kwestia narodowości jest nieistotna, podobnie jak kwestia bodźców oraz wyuczonych na nie reakcji, przecież łatwo mogłyby się zmienić. Jak mówi polski żołnierz: "Pies to pies". Jego dwóch kolegów nie może jednak znieść myśli o przygarnięciu zwierzęcia, które pomagało w zagładzie. Idzie z nim na spacer, za miasto, żeby go rozstrzelać. Brakuje im jednak zimnej krwi, odwagi, ostatecznie porzucają psa. To głęboka nowela, napisana przez Józefa Hena, rodzi pytania o winę i karę, ale też używa postaci psa, żeby wywołać niepokój o kondycję człowieka, jego mechanistyczne zachowania z czasów wojny, swój, wróg, ocal, zabij, prawdziwą mentalność zwierzęcia.
Wreszcie "Wdowa", której motyw przewodni, bohaterski mit kapitana Joczysa duszący lokalną społeczność powojennego, idyllicznego Lubosza, jest bliski mitowi porucznika Zawistowskiego z Eroici Andrzeja Munka, artystycznego mistarza Kutza. Wdowa po kapitanie, grana przez Grażynę Staniszewską, osiedla się wraz z matką na zaproszenie byłej kompanii męża w małej mieścinie Lubosz, rządzonej przez weteranów wojennych w duchu gorliwego, ludowego komunizmu. Do miasteczka przyjeżdża również zootechnik z Warszawy (Cybulski). Pomiędzy wdową i zootechnikiem, parą większą niż otaczająca ich pruderyjna prowincja, rodzi się uczucie, na które nie ma społecznego przyzwolenia. Wdowa po kapitanie ma jasno określoną funkcję kontynuatorki mitu męża, jego strażniczki, nieskalanej, wzorowej. Ku zdumieniu miasteczka wdowa ucieka razem z zootechnikiem z Lubosza do szerszego świata, gdzie ich miłość nie będzie zakazana, gdzie można "żyć, tańczyć", jak mówi przezabawny fryzjer Petrak, a nie tylko celebrować w nieskończoność przeszłość, śmierć i smutek.
Genialny film w genialnej serii 50 lat Polskiej Szkoły Filmowej, której zestawy dvd z filmami oraz materiały w internecie pilnie zgłębiam, z nieopisaną przyjemnością.
Pierwsza, pod tytułem "Krzyż" opowiada historię młodego żołnierza, odznaczonego krzyżem walecznych za bohaterską postawę na froncie, który na kończącej się wojnie odnalazł swoje powołanie, okrzepł, dorósł, stał się mężczyzną. Teraz, pełen dumy, entuzjazmu i dobrej nadziei, jedzie na urlop do rodzinnej wioski, w której uchodził za nieudacznika, gdzie nazywali go Wyskrobek, żeby zachwycić starych znajomych, matkę, ojca, braci swoją wojenną opowieścią, żeby urosnąć w ich oczach, odzyskać należną mu reputację. Jego zachwyt jest tak wielki, że widz od początku ma wrażenie, że musi spotkać go rozczarowanie i rozczarowanie go spotyka. Jego wioska zniknęła z powierzchni ziemii, rozjechana przez niemieckie czołgi, rozstrzelana przez niemieckie karabiny, a bohaterowi zostaje jedynie rozmowa z zastraszonym, obłąkanym starcem. Nie dochodzi do rehabilitacji, nie dochodzi do odzyskania reputacji, w ostatniej scenie młody żołnierz leży jak sparaliżowany na wojskowej koi.
Nowela "Pies", w której występuje znany mi skądinąd Bronisław Pawlik, to historia owczarka niemieckiego z obozu w Oświęcimiu, którego przygarnia młody polski żołnierz zaraz po wyzwoleniu więźniów. Postać psa skupia w niebanalny sposób powojenne dylematy moralne, problem winy, współodpowiedzialności i legitymacji etycznej do życia po katastrofie wojny. Dla psa, który mechanicznie reaguje na bodźce, atakuje obozowe pasiaki, jest lojalny wobec munduru, kwestia narodowości jest nieistotna, podobnie jak kwestia bodźców oraz wyuczonych na nie reakcji, przecież łatwo mogłyby się zmienić. Jak mówi polski żołnierz: "Pies to pies". Jego dwóch kolegów nie może jednak znieść myśli o przygarnięciu zwierzęcia, które pomagało w zagładzie. Idzie z nim na spacer, za miasto, żeby go rozstrzelać. Brakuje im jednak zimnej krwi, odwagi, ostatecznie porzucają psa. To głęboka nowela, napisana przez Józefa Hena, rodzi pytania o winę i karę, ale też używa postaci psa, żeby wywołać niepokój o kondycję człowieka, jego mechanistyczne zachowania z czasów wojny, swój, wróg, ocal, zabij, prawdziwą mentalność zwierzęcia.
Wreszcie "Wdowa", której motyw przewodni, bohaterski mit kapitana Joczysa duszący lokalną społeczność powojennego, idyllicznego Lubosza, jest bliski mitowi porucznika Zawistowskiego z Eroici Andrzeja Munka, artystycznego mistarza Kutza. Wdowa po kapitanie, grana przez Grażynę Staniszewską, osiedla się wraz z matką na zaproszenie byłej kompanii męża w małej mieścinie Lubosz, rządzonej przez weteranów wojennych w duchu gorliwego, ludowego komunizmu. Do miasteczka przyjeżdża również zootechnik z Warszawy (Cybulski). Pomiędzy wdową i zootechnikiem, parą większą niż otaczająca ich pruderyjna prowincja, rodzi się uczucie, na które nie ma społecznego przyzwolenia. Wdowa po kapitanie ma jasno określoną funkcję kontynuatorki mitu męża, jego strażniczki, nieskalanej, wzorowej. Ku zdumieniu miasteczka wdowa ucieka razem z zootechnikiem z Lubosza do szerszego świata, gdzie ich miłość nie będzie zakazana, gdzie można "żyć, tańczyć", jak mówi przezabawny fryzjer Petrak, a nie tylko celebrować w nieskończoność przeszłość, śmierć i smutek.
Genialny film w genialnej serii 50 lat Polskiej Szkoły Filmowej, której zestawy dvd z filmami oraz materiały w internecie pilnie zgłębiam, z nieopisaną przyjemnością.
Sunday 16 August 2009
Literatura niemęska
Przeczytałem "Życie miłosne" młodej autorki z Izreala Zeruyi Shalev i jestem pod wrażeniem i stylu, i treści. To literatura wybitnie niemęska, opisująca zakamarki kobiecej duszy, obnażająca jej często histeryczne poszukiwania tożsamości, i niewykluczone, że z tego powodu tak dobrze mi się ją czytało.
Narracja nie jest łatwa, z długimi zdaniami, z rzadka przerywanymi kropkami, jakby czytelnik obserwował potok świadomości dwudziestoparoletniej Ja'ary. A ma co obserwować, bo poznaje ją w momencie życiowego zakrętu, kiedy zupełnie niespodziewanie ogarnia ją namiętność do dużo od siebie starszego Ariego, przyjaciela jej rodziców. To uczucie każe jej zdradzić własnego męża, przemiłego domatora Joniego, rozpocząć istny festiwal kłamstwa w stosunku do rodziny, pracodawcy oraz samej siebie oraz doprowadzić do załamania się dotychczasowego życia, tylko po to, żeby na końcu tej chaotycznej, nieznośnie nielogicznej podróży odnaleźć prawdziwą siebie.
Miałem wielką przyjemność towarzyszyć bohaterce w jej transormacji, skrzącej się niebanalnym humorem, oryginalnymi porównaniami i dziką energią kobiety, która wpadła w otchłań poszukiwania swojego ja i stara się, choć chyba sama nie zdaje sobie z tego sprawy, chaotycznie, w konwulsjach wydobyć na powierzchnię, zrozumieć swoje wybory, zrozumieć swoje żądze. Robi to w najgorszy z możliwych sposobów, metoda prób i błędów, nie kontrolując konsekwencji, bez najbardziej nawet szkicowego planu, ale za to z przymusu serca, zdając się na swój instynkt. Część z jej decyzji jest dla mnie zupełnie niezrozumiała, wręcz trudna do pojęcia, jak z baśni dla dorosłych, ale jak pisze Shalev ustami swojej bohaterki, "to wielka zaleta prawdy, że trudno w nią uwierzyć".
Zdecydowana większość książki to fikołki i piruety Ja'ary, historia jej coraz bardziej niewiarygodnego zagubienia, wręcz obłędu, którego pierwszym zewnętrznym motorem jest Arie. Dopiero ostatnie rozdziały przynoszą wytchnienie od tej nieuporządkowanej lawiny emocji, kiedy pomiędzy Ja'arą a Ariem dochodzi do moralizujących rozmów, a nagła do niego miłość zaczyna zajmować należne jej miejsce katalizatora zmian w życiu i świadomości coraz bardziej obolałej bohaterki. Moment, w którym Arie obnaża lęki Ja'ary oraz jej defensywną postawę wyczekiwania, które wydają się kierować jej życiem, to w moim mniemaniu punkt zwrotny. Niełatwa do zaakceptowania prawda prowadzi jednak młodą bohaterkę, doktorantkę biblioznawstwa, do samodzielności. Jej przypieczentowaniem jest dla mnie odważne, przekorne odczytanie legendy o czeladniku, stolarzu i jego żonie.
Stolarz potrzebował pożyczki od czeladnika, ale ten obiecał jej udzielić tylko, jeśli po jej odbiór pofatyguje się żona stolarza. Stolarz się zgodził, a po trzech dniach czeladnik poinformował go, że jego żonę w drodze powrotnej napadli, zgwałcili i zabrali pożyczkę. Zaproponował jednocześnie, że za umorzenie pożyczki odkupi skalaną żonę. Stolarz się zgodził, a wkrótce z biedy musiał pracować u czeladnika i jego nowej żony. Wbrew tradycji, która każe opłakiwać los stolarza, oszukanego przez czeladnika i żonę, Ja'ara widzi zaniedbania stolarza, który dopuścił do odejścia żony, nie opiekując się nią dostatecznie, ryzykując jej dobro przy propozycjach czeladnika.
W podobny, niesztampowy sposób Ja'ara reaguje na powrót jej męża Joniego z Istambułu. Najpierw widzi w nim jedyną szansę wybawienia z kołowrotka namiętności, ale na lotnisku w ostatniej chwili powstrzymuje się od obarczenia swoimi histeriami Bogu ducha winnego chłopaka. Decyduje zmierzyć się z nimi w samotności, pozwala mu odejść.
Kilka nieznanych mi pojęć:
1) czulent, gulasz z koszernego mięsa,
2) jesziwa, wyższa szkoła talmudyczna,
3) Jom Kippur, jedno z ważniejszych świat żydowskich o charakterze pokutnym, obchodzone we wrześniu lub październiku.
I ciekawy tekst: "Mam dzieci, ale one nie mają matki". Powieść jest pełna takich chodliwych cytatów.
Narracja nie jest łatwa, z długimi zdaniami, z rzadka przerywanymi kropkami, jakby czytelnik obserwował potok świadomości dwudziestoparoletniej Ja'ary. A ma co obserwować, bo poznaje ją w momencie życiowego zakrętu, kiedy zupełnie niespodziewanie ogarnia ją namiętność do dużo od siebie starszego Ariego, przyjaciela jej rodziców. To uczucie każe jej zdradzić własnego męża, przemiłego domatora Joniego, rozpocząć istny festiwal kłamstwa w stosunku do rodziny, pracodawcy oraz samej siebie oraz doprowadzić do załamania się dotychczasowego życia, tylko po to, żeby na końcu tej chaotycznej, nieznośnie nielogicznej podróży odnaleźć prawdziwą siebie.
Miałem wielką przyjemność towarzyszyć bohaterce w jej transormacji, skrzącej się niebanalnym humorem, oryginalnymi porównaniami i dziką energią kobiety, która wpadła w otchłań poszukiwania swojego ja i stara się, choć chyba sama nie zdaje sobie z tego sprawy, chaotycznie, w konwulsjach wydobyć na powierzchnię, zrozumieć swoje wybory, zrozumieć swoje żądze. Robi to w najgorszy z możliwych sposobów, metoda prób i błędów, nie kontrolując konsekwencji, bez najbardziej nawet szkicowego planu, ale za to z przymusu serca, zdając się na swój instynkt. Część z jej decyzji jest dla mnie zupełnie niezrozumiała, wręcz trudna do pojęcia, jak z baśni dla dorosłych, ale jak pisze Shalev ustami swojej bohaterki, "to wielka zaleta prawdy, że trudno w nią uwierzyć".
Zdecydowana większość książki to fikołki i piruety Ja'ary, historia jej coraz bardziej niewiarygodnego zagubienia, wręcz obłędu, którego pierwszym zewnętrznym motorem jest Arie. Dopiero ostatnie rozdziały przynoszą wytchnienie od tej nieuporządkowanej lawiny emocji, kiedy pomiędzy Ja'arą a Ariem dochodzi do moralizujących rozmów, a nagła do niego miłość zaczyna zajmować należne jej miejsce katalizatora zmian w życiu i świadomości coraz bardziej obolałej bohaterki. Moment, w którym Arie obnaża lęki Ja'ary oraz jej defensywną postawę wyczekiwania, które wydają się kierować jej życiem, to w moim mniemaniu punkt zwrotny. Niełatwa do zaakceptowania prawda prowadzi jednak młodą bohaterkę, doktorantkę biblioznawstwa, do samodzielności. Jej przypieczentowaniem jest dla mnie odważne, przekorne odczytanie legendy o czeladniku, stolarzu i jego żonie.
Stolarz potrzebował pożyczki od czeladnika, ale ten obiecał jej udzielić tylko, jeśli po jej odbiór pofatyguje się żona stolarza. Stolarz się zgodził, a po trzech dniach czeladnik poinformował go, że jego żonę w drodze powrotnej napadli, zgwałcili i zabrali pożyczkę. Zaproponował jednocześnie, że za umorzenie pożyczki odkupi skalaną żonę. Stolarz się zgodził, a wkrótce z biedy musiał pracować u czeladnika i jego nowej żony. Wbrew tradycji, która każe opłakiwać los stolarza, oszukanego przez czeladnika i żonę, Ja'ara widzi zaniedbania stolarza, który dopuścił do odejścia żony, nie opiekując się nią dostatecznie, ryzykując jej dobro przy propozycjach czeladnika.
W podobny, niesztampowy sposób Ja'ara reaguje na powrót jej męża Joniego z Istambułu. Najpierw widzi w nim jedyną szansę wybawienia z kołowrotka namiętności, ale na lotnisku w ostatniej chwili powstrzymuje się od obarczenia swoimi histeriami Bogu ducha winnego chłopaka. Decyduje zmierzyć się z nimi w samotności, pozwala mu odejść.
Kilka nieznanych mi pojęć:
1) czulent, gulasz z koszernego mięsa,
2) jesziwa, wyższa szkoła talmudyczna,
3) Jom Kippur, jedno z ważniejszych świat żydowskich o charakterze pokutnym, obchodzone we wrześniu lub październiku.
I ciekawy tekst: "Mam dzieci, ale one nie mają matki". Powieść jest pełna takich chodliwych cytatów.
Saturday 15 August 2009
Duża doza kultury
Jestem pod wielkim wrażeniem ostatnich inicjatyw w promocji polskiej kultury, na niektóre z nich czekałem od lat świadomie lub nieświadomie. Po pierwsze, nie mogę się nacieszyć projektem Filmoteka Szkolna Ministerstwa Kultury i Dziedzictwa Narodowego, Polskiego Instytutu Sztuki Filmowej oraz Polskiego Wydawnictwa Audiowizualnego, mimo że skierowany jest do uczniów. Mam nadzieję, że znajdą się wśród oryginalnych adresatów tacy, którzy bedę z tych materiałów korzystać z takim zapałem jak ja i inni nim zafascynowani. Do zainteresowanych szkół trafiły one jako zestaw płyt DVD z wyborem opracowanych filmów polskiej kinematografii, od Zanussiego, poprzez Munka, po Kieślowskiego, użytkownicy w wieku ponadszkolnym, jak ja, muszą zadowolić się stroną internetową, jak na moje potrzeby niezwykle bogatą, z krytycznymi tekstami, komentarzami video Tadeusza Lubelskiego i innymi smakołykami. Po drugie, internetowy magazyn Dwutygodnik, z tekstami o najnowszej sztuce i kulturze polskiej i niepolskiej, z długimi esejami, wyczerpującymi rozmowami, z nowoczesnym layoutem. Mogę sobie tylko zarzucić, że zbyt rzadko zaglądam, że nie czytam od deski do deski, może bardziej bym sie zmobilizował przy papierowym wydaniu. I na koniec, działalnośc wydawnicza Narodowego Instytutu Audiowizualnego, do niedawna Polskiego Wydawnictwa Audiowizualnego, które publikuje bogate serie polskich dokumentalistów, unikalne spektakle teatralne czy też opery. Nie we wszystkim w tym samym stopniu gustuję, film zajmuje niezagrożone pierwsze miejsce, ale to demokratyzacja i profesjonalizacja kultury w pięknym wydaniu.
Tuesday 11 August 2009
Start Your Own Festival
I doubt it's doable for me, but there's a funny guide to setting up your own festival published on Drowned in Sound.
Monday 10 August 2009
Back to Press
It's hard for me to explain why I suddenly stopped following the press in English. For years I'd been a devoted reader of dailies, weeklies, monthlies, think-tank pamphlets, anything I came across that originated in the Anglo-Saxon world. I suppose my disinterest is rooted in a gradual turn from the newspaper knowledge towards literature and science that I have been undergoing. Also, it seems to me I'm becoming more and more introverted and I don't find it attractive any more to chase the news and commentary, which tend to be so fleeting.
But I probably overreacted and it's time, for many reasons, to come back to regular readings in English, with extra distance gained by recent self-imposed restrictions.
For a start, I read a piece in Newsweek on the decline of the British power, which makes me think of my student times when I was totally engrossed by such articles, and a remarkable private investigation one Newsweek journalist went on to discover his dad's drug-smuggling past.
But I probably overreacted and it's time, for many reasons, to come back to regular readings in English, with extra distance gained by recent self-imposed restrictions.
For a start, I read a piece in Newsweek on the decline of the British power, which makes me think of my student times when I was totally engrossed by such articles, and a remarkable private investigation one Newsweek journalist went on to discover his dad's drug-smuggling past.
Sunday 9 August 2009
4 OFF belongs to the past
This edition of the OFF Festival in Mysłowice was billed as the most independent in its four-year history and to my taste it has lived up to its hype. Before they announced their line-up in early summer, I had little idea of who bands like The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Crystal Stilts or Olafur Arnalds were, to my enormous disadvantage. And before Friday, when the fest started, I had little idea how deep my ignorance was, not having paid enough attention to smash hits in the line-up, like Handsome Furs, a revelation I haven't seen for a long while released by Sub Pop, whose directors have been guests of honour in Mysłowice.
On the first day, my festival path started at the Forest Stage where a young Polish band George Dorn Screams played, but I have practically no memories of their show left. Then, I went on to see The Thermals, a band from Portland, performing on the Main Stage and again nothing has stayed with me by now, except the pleasure of watching them while lying sprawled on the grass in the mild late summer sun. I walked back to the Forest Stage to witness the first show by Micachu and the Shapes in Poland, a British experimental band driven by the much-prasied talent of a 21-year old Mica Levi, definitely worth my time, even though they may be too young to have enough quality material to impress.
And finally, the first really bright moment when the New York-based shoegaze-inspired pop group The Pains of Being Pure at Heart came on stage and carried the swelling audience away with their irresistible melodies, youthful lyrics and great contact during the show. The lead singer, who looked qintessentially American to me, was taken aback by the enthusiastic reception, especially considering their relatively low-key status in Europe, and it dawned on me again that the Polish audience never fails to please the performers with their generosity, a feature bands from U2 to Faith No More to more recent The Ting Tings or Santigold keep bringing up while on tour in Poland.
Then a string of disappointments started, some of them of my own making. First, I missed Health, who gave a supposedly great gig, when I agreed to go to the food area with my brother instead. Next, at the Trójka Offensywa Stage, my high hopes were dashed by the folk diva Marissa Nadler, much hyped around by Artur Rojek, the man behind OFF. I was drawn to her albums, full of melancholy and honest folk spirit, and probably expected more of her on stage, but what we got was a little aloof and unemotional. Her rapport with the audience was poor on top of that, which for me is always an indication of joy that artists themselves are having playing for me. Her performance made me think of another Americana folk artist I saw this seasson at Open'er - Priscilla Ahn, whose quiet, soft concert under the tent was given wings by her enchanting presence and connection with the listeners. This quality was painfully missing in Marissa Nadler. To make matters worse, I found myself in the middle of a furious gig by Fucked Up, a Canadian hardcore, not my cup of tea in the least, and had to fall back on the Experimental Stage in absence of any alternatives.
Fortunately, it's there where my misfortune came to an end and I could spend some time listening to otherworldy sounds of Lucky Dragons, an American duo who push the boundaries of what music is, creating sounds from odd instuments and a laptop in collaboration with the audience. It makes their shows look like a collective ritual, even more so considering the meditative, metaphysical vibe of their music. It was funny to observe the people get interested in how they generate their noise, stand up and then bashfully join them, taking part in the creative process.
After that, I hooked up with my brother to soak in his astonishment at how energetic Fucked Up were, in particular their lead singer, a fat, balding, hairy monster, who dived in the crowd during their second song and never reemerged until the concert was over. We decided to go and see the only Israeli band in the fest Monotonix playing at the Miasto Muzyki Stage, but their show was an awkward combination of talking, music and cabaret and I felt disinterested right from the start, even though their music alone sounds just fine. Lots of other people didn't share my scepticism and took part in their wild, interactive concert, elevating the band to the status of the festival revelation, especially because of their unique involvement of the audience. From there we went to see the final songs by the British group The Week That Was, but they were nothing to write home about. I like the way they used the piano, though.
To finish the long first day, I positioned myself at the Main Stage and waited for the opening sounds from a living legend of Britpop, the authors of a classic cd "Ladies and Gentleman, We Are Floating in Space", Spiritualized. I wasn't let down and spent the next hour and a half enjoying a masterfully planned and beautifully executed gig, which was full of variety and quite demanding on a listener, in my opinion. Cold, tired a and with my feet numb after I misjudged the weather and wore just flip-flopy sandals, I went back to my tent satisfied, but with little hope for a killer concert I remembered from a year ago. How wrong I was!
Handsome Furs made my second day, they pretty much opened and closed it, even though their show was midway through the evening. I hadn't even vaguely heard about them before, I hadn't even planned to be there at the Forest Stage, but as soon as the opening sounds rang out I knew I was in for an unforgettable treat. There was passion, there was nerve, there were sparks flying around and stunning, original sound, combining electronica with the guitar, as one review aptly said, "post-apocalyptic music to watch the world crumble to". Dan Boeckner, the natural born rock vocalist, and his wife, Alexei Perry, oozed unstoppable energy, Dan anxiously leaping around with his guitar, sputtering out the lyrics, his wife twisting her agile body in joga pirouettes at the drum machine. A stunning sight indeed, masterfully matching their spooky sound, bringing it to life. When I listen to their cd, named "Face Control" after their experiences in Moscow night clubs which exercise strong entry selection based on appearance, their stage antics won't let go even in the comfort of my peaceful room, their lasting effect too strong to erase. At one point during the performance, Dan mentioned Terminator Salvation as one of his favourite "documentaries about what happens when robots are given intelligence" and Handsome Furs seem to be haunted and inspired by such post-human scenarios, relying on a drum machine, putting on an unpredictable, punk image and making hypnotic, electrifying, supermodern music. They deserve to be much bigger and they will be bigger.
Handsome Furs swept all other acts aside that day, but I really appreciated watching Gaba Kulka, for the second time after her arresting concert in Gdynia under the tent. This year's discovery, she's managed to amass a collection of radio hits which have the audience teeming with excitement. Having enjoyed Gaba Kulka from the grass, I moved on to the Forest Stage only to be informed that Rolo Tomassi, some Sheffield-based youngsters, cancelled due to their bass guitarist's falling ill. After a quick beer with my brother, we proceeded to check out how Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, not exactly the most exciting live act, was doing in concert. Unsurprisingly, we left early to see Crystal Stilts from Brooklyn play on the Main Stage and I couldn't find a good reason to regret it. Their dark, dirty sound, reminiscent of Joy Division and, in terms of the vocals, The Doors, was enough to keep me grounded on the grass for the duration of the show.
Then the bomb exploded at 6.40 at the Forest Stage - Handsome Furs - and nothing was the same for me at the festival ever since. It gave me the same feeling of intense satisfaction Caribou did a year ago at the same stage, putting in a powerful, uncompromising display of live music.
With renewed belief in the power of modern artists to deliver exceptional experiences, but with little hope for a repetition during the festival, I watched Carifirnians from Crystal Antlers give a decent, energetic show. It was funny to learn one guitarist was actually Polish, even more so because I suspected something was not right with him from the start. I moved on to see Maria Peszek at the Main Stage, a bit of a repeat of Open'er 2009, but absolutely enjoyable. It's hard not to appreciate her consistence in relying on Polish in her lyrics and her remarkable originality in using it to paint a very contemporary, non-trivial picture of women, men or relationships.
I left early to pop in at the Experimental Stage to give Dictaphone a chance. Their elegant mix of electronica and a saxophone or a clarinet, performed by two artists, mostly for film and theatre, was alluring enough to draw crowds larger than the audience capacity. But I left early again to be in time for Wooden Shjips at the Forest Stage where they seemed a tad classic with their long, hippy hair and guitar noise, closing their show with a Neil Young cover, which reveals a lot about their inspirations. Expectations were running high for the next artist in line, but Jeremy Jay, at least from my point of view, is not really a name to remember, though his retro performance was smart and spotless, except for a tiny acoustic glitch at its start.
Finally, there came a much-anticipated concert by The National, a relatively recent New York-based squad, which nonetheless sounds like an instant rock classic, mostly due to its leaad singer, blessed by the gods with a gritty, low, Cohen-like voice. I'd known them before, so it was double pleasure for me to hear a selection of my top National songs, especially "Mistaken for Strangers", live. The show was long, very professional and some parts of it were in memory of John Hughes, an American director who'd died one day before the concert.
On the first day, my festival path started at the Forest Stage where a young Polish band George Dorn Screams played, but I have practically no memories of their show left. Then, I went on to see The Thermals, a band from Portland, performing on the Main Stage and again nothing has stayed with me by now, except the pleasure of watching them while lying sprawled on the grass in the mild late summer sun. I walked back to the Forest Stage to witness the first show by Micachu and the Shapes in Poland, a British experimental band driven by the much-prasied talent of a 21-year old Mica Levi, definitely worth my time, even though they may be too young to have enough quality material to impress.
And finally, the first really bright moment when the New York-based shoegaze-inspired pop group The Pains of Being Pure at Heart came on stage and carried the swelling audience away with their irresistible melodies, youthful lyrics and great contact during the show. The lead singer, who looked qintessentially American to me, was taken aback by the enthusiastic reception, especially considering their relatively low-key status in Europe, and it dawned on me again that the Polish audience never fails to please the performers with their generosity, a feature bands from U2 to Faith No More to more recent The Ting Tings or Santigold keep bringing up while on tour in Poland.
Then a string of disappointments started, some of them of my own making. First, I missed Health, who gave a supposedly great gig, when I agreed to go to the food area with my brother instead. Next, at the Trójka Offensywa Stage, my high hopes were dashed by the folk diva Marissa Nadler, much hyped around by Artur Rojek, the man behind OFF. I was drawn to her albums, full of melancholy and honest folk spirit, and probably expected more of her on stage, but what we got was a little aloof and unemotional. Her rapport with the audience was poor on top of that, which for me is always an indication of joy that artists themselves are having playing for me. Her performance made me think of another Americana folk artist I saw this seasson at Open'er - Priscilla Ahn, whose quiet, soft concert under the tent was given wings by her enchanting presence and connection with the listeners. This quality was painfully missing in Marissa Nadler. To make matters worse, I found myself in the middle of a furious gig by Fucked Up, a Canadian hardcore, not my cup of tea in the least, and had to fall back on the Experimental Stage in absence of any alternatives.
Fortunately, it's there where my misfortune came to an end and I could spend some time listening to otherworldy sounds of Lucky Dragons, an American duo who push the boundaries of what music is, creating sounds from odd instuments and a laptop in collaboration with the audience. It makes their shows look like a collective ritual, even more so considering the meditative, metaphysical vibe of their music. It was funny to observe the people get interested in how they generate their noise, stand up and then bashfully join them, taking part in the creative process.
After that, I hooked up with my brother to soak in his astonishment at how energetic Fucked Up were, in particular their lead singer, a fat, balding, hairy monster, who dived in the crowd during their second song and never reemerged until the concert was over. We decided to go and see the only Israeli band in the fest Monotonix playing at the Miasto Muzyki Stage, but their show was an awkward combination of talking, music and cabaret and I felt disinterested right from the start, even though their music alone sounds just fine. Lots of other people didn't share my scepticism and took part in their wild, interactive concert, elevating the band to the status of the festival revelation, especially because of their unique involvement of the audience. From there we went to see the final songs by the British group The Week That Was, but they were nothing to write home about. I like the way they used the piano, though.
To finish the long first day, I positioned myself at the Main Stage and waited for the opening sounds from a living legend of Britpop, the authors of a classic cd "Ladies and Gentleman, We Are Floating in Space", Spiritualized. I wasn't let down and spent the next hour and a half enjoying a masterfully planned and beautifully executed gig, which was full of variety and quite demanding on a listener, in my opinion. Cold, tired a and with my feet numb after I misjudged the weather and wore just flip-flopy sandals, I went back to my tent satisfied, but with little hope for a killer concert I remembered from a year ago. How wrong I was!
Handsome Furs made my second day, they pretty much opened and closed it, even though their show was midway through the evening. I hadn't even vaguely heard about them before, I hadn't even planned to be there at the Forest Stage, but as soon as the opening sounds rang out I knew I was in for an unforgettable treat. There was passion, there was nerve, there were sparks flying around and stunning, original sound, combining electronica with the guitar, as one review aptly said, "post-apocalyptic music to watch the world crumble to". Dan Boeckner, the natural born rock vocalist, and his wife, Alexei Perry, oozed unstoppable energy, Dan anxiously leaping around with his guitar, sputtering out the lyrics, his wife twisting her agile body in joga pirouettes at the drum machine. A stunning sight indeed, masterfully matching their spooky sound, bringing it to life. When I listen to their cd, named "Face Control" after their experiences in Moscow night clubs which exercise strong entry selection based on appearance, their stage antics won't let go even in the comfort of my peaceful room, their lasting effect too strong to erase. At one point during the performance, Dan mentioned Terminator Salvation as one of his favourite "documentaries about what happens when robots are given intelligence" and Handsome Furs seem to be haunted and inspired by such post-human scenarios, relying on a drum machine, putting on an unpredictable, punk image and making hypnotic, electrifying, supermodern music. They deserve to be much bigger and they will be bigger.
Handsome Furs swept all other acts aside that day, but I really appreciated watching Gaba Kulka, for the second time after her arresting concert in Gdynia under the tent. This year's discovery, she's managed to amass a collection of radio hits which have the audience teeming with excitement. Having enjoyed Gaba Kulka from the grass, I moved on to the Forest Stage only to be informed that Rolo Tomassi, some Sheffield-based youngsters, cancelled due to their bass guitarist's falling ill. After a quick beer with my brother, we proceeded to check out how Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, not exactly the most exciting live act, was doing in concert. Unsurprisingly, we left early to see Crystal Stilts from Brooklyn play on the Main Stage and I couldn't find a good reason to regret it. Their dark, dirty sound, reminiscent of Joy Division and, in terms of the vocals, The Doors, was enough to keep me grounded on the grass for the duration of the show.
Then the bomb exploded at 6.40 at the Forest Stage - Handsome Furs - and nothing was the same for me at the festival ever since. It gave me the same feeling of intense satisfaction Caribou did a year ago at the same stage, putting in a powerful, uncompromising display of live music.
With renewed belief in the power of modern artists to deliver exceptional experiences, but with little hope for a repetition during the festival, I watched Carifirnians from Crystal Antlers give a decent, energetic show. It was funny to learn one guitarist was actually Polish, even more so because I suspected something was not right with him from the start. I moved on to see Maria Peszek at the Main Stage, a bit of a repeat of Open'er 2009, but absolutely enjoyable. It's hard not to appreciate her consistence in relying on Polish in her lyrics and her remarkable originality in using it to paint a very contemporary, non-trivial picture of women, men or relationships.
I left early to pop in at the Experimental Stage to give Dictaphone a chance. Their elegant mix of electronica and a saxophone or a clarinet, performed by two artists, mostly for film and theatre, was alluring enough to draw crowds larger than the audience capacity. But I left early again to be in time for Wooden Shjips at the Forest Stage where they seemed a tad classic with their long, hippy hair and guitar noise, closing their show with a Neil Young cover, which reveals a lot about their inspirations. Expectations were running high for the next artist in line, but Jeremy Jay, at least from my point of view, is not really a name to remember, though his retro performance was smart and spotless, except for a tiny acoustic glitch at its start.
Finally, there came a much-anticipated concert by The National, a relatively recent New York-based squad, which nonetheless sounds like an instant rock classic, mostly due to its leaad singer, blessed by the gods with a gritty, low, Cohen-like voice. I'd known them before, so it was double pleasure for me to hear a selection of my top National songs, especially "Mistaken for Strangers", live. The show was long, very professional and some parts of it were in memory of John Hughes, an American director who'd died one day before the concert.
Monday 3 August 2009
Three Days of New Horizons
I spent the past three days in Wrocław going to screenings at the film fest Era Nowe Horyzonty most of the time. I sat down in the cinema eight times, once outdoors, six times staying in to attend the Q and A session with the authors or critics.
Thursday
I saw Rok Spokojnego Słońca (The Year of the Quiet Sun) by the Polish moralist filmmaker Krzysztof Zanussi, co-produced by the Germans, which tells the story of budding, impossible love between an American soldier on a military mission to Poland, starred by Scott Wilson, and a common Polish woman in her forties (Maja Komorowska). Set against the post-war reality of early-communism Poland, it centres around the problems of miscommunication and cultural shock, as well as moral choices all characters have to take as the story develops. I enjoyed watching it outdoors at the magnificent Wrocław Old Square, but quite a number of people left during the screening, disappinted, which didn't come as a surprise since Zanussi has to be liked, or at least understood, to be watchable. It's amazing to discover that the film has been greeted with considerable enthusiasm abroad, much greater than in Poland, where for years it had a lukewarm reception. It's enough to look at these brilliant user comments at IMDB to put Zanussi in the right perspective. By the way, it was great to hear him speak English with Scott Wilson at the short intro before the film started.
Friday
I started out first thing in the morning with Heaven's Heart, a Swedish Bergman-style marriage drama, starring just four actors and shot entirely in austere interiors, which makes it easier to focus on dialogues, facial expressions or gestures, where the key to the film lies. In terms of labels and categories, it came across as a tragicomedy to me, with two befriended couples first disintegrating as they start voicing their grudges and acting on them, only to see a romance bloom between Ulf, Anna's defensive husband, and Susanna, Lars's frigid wife, with all protagonists resettling into their old marriages in the end, renewing vows.
It went from good to better when I saw Helen, an intriguing whodunnit film by two young Irish directors, Christine Molloy and Joe Lawlor, made within the Civic Life project. This daring enterprise is disarming in its simplicity, involving local communities (districts, towns, cities) and their residents to finance and take part in professional cinematic projects, which are later screened for them, as well as for larger audiences. Helen is the last job in a Civic Life series and the first feature by the Irish duo, enthusiatically received by the critics, here, here or here, telling a story of the eponymous Helen who agrees to take part in the police reconstruction of the last movements of Joy, her peer who went missing. Helen, who is about to come of age and feels lost herself, being a parentless child staying in a care home, uses this opportunity to seek her own identity. The film beautifully weaves both meanings of getting lost, understood as going missing or trying to find one's way in life, in a story that is uncomplicated, but powerful, and smacks of a modern fairy tale in the way it was filmed.
I couldn't resist to see Polytechnique, a Canadian feature on the 1989 Montreal school schooting (known as the Montreal Massacre), when a deranged male student, driven by his misguided hatred of feminism, shot fourteen young women dead with a rifle. Filmed in black and white to avoid unnecessary exposure to blood, it traces the events from the pespective of two rampage survivors, a boy and a girl. The day when the killings took place, December the 6th, has become the national memorial day for the victims of violence against women in Canada. What'd drawn me to this film, which wasn't pleasant to follow in the end, was another true story, pictured in Out of the Blue, a stunning New Zealand film I saw at the festival last year about a gun collector going on a deadly rampage in a quiet, unsuspecting community in the outback.
To finish off a day full of cinema experiences, I went to see North, a Norwegian road comedy, or as it's promoted an antidepressive off-road movie, which follows the awkward adventures of a brusque Norwegian recluse in his thirties who is challenged to renew contact with his long-lost girlfriend and a child. Spurred by the sudden need to see his family, he sets off on a scooter journey across the snow-covered landscape of northern Norway and on his way stumbles upon a host of weirdos, like a boy who practices making the most out of booze by tying an alcohol-soaked tampon to a shaved skull, supposedly a method a Polish dude taught him. A clusmy type himself, as he moves ahead, the protagonist inadverently sets two huts on fire and practically watches an old man drown in a lake as the ice starts to melt. I relished the Scandinavian feel of the film, ironic, with harsh landscapes and human isolation playing a large part.
Saturday
I managed to squeeze Iluminacja (Illumination) by Krzysztof Zanussi into a busy day. It's something I wanted to see to catch up with the Polish classics and it came along as a perfect opportunity since the director was on the spot to meet with the audience. Stylistically, it's a patchwork piecing together a documentary, a soul-seeking drama and an educational programme, but this couldn't possibly be held against it, as it takes this stylistic freedom to address moral choices of the highest calibre, few other films have dealt with. Franciszek, played by Stanisław Latałło, a director of photography by profession, is an aspiring student of physics engrossed with his quest for the knowledge that best captures the reality and his quest for the meaning of life. He leads an active life, intellectually, socially, professionally, but as he goes on, there always seems to be something that eludes him. The audience is invited to take part in his spiritual journey, as we listen to his colleagues at university speak their mind, witness medical experiments that shed light on what humans might be like or visit the Camaldolese monastery for guidance. I like to think of Iluminacja as a Pandara's box, a kind of film that opens up an awful lot of critical questions, but answers none, only inspires to pursue the answer. It came as no surprise then that quite a large crowd stayed in to listen to Mr. Zanussi speak after the screening, even though his cinema is demanding, to say the least.
Sunday
I knew my last day at the fest would open sharp. Sleep Furiously, a contemplative documentary on the idyllic rural community in Wales which is steadily going into decline, has been repeatedly praised for its artistry, uniqueness and beauty, like here or here or here. Its author Gideon Koppel, who grew up in Trefeurig, paints a slow-moving, detailed picture of a people whose time-honoured ways of cultivating land and tradition are starting to disappear due to economisation and industrialisation of the country. For example, the camera accompanies an itinerant librarian in a van, whose job is to reach far-flung households and keep them updated, cultured and attached. It follows the land rituals as we see the sheep shearing season, the harvest or the breathtakingly captured change of landscape when seasons rotate. The film is full of nostalgia, mysticism, with its subtle sounds, like tree leaves humming, but there is also a potent undercurrent of nervous anticipation, eg. when the residents of Trefeurig assemble to discuss the future of the school building. Koppel managed to catch the riveting charm of the shrinking world on camera, but he wasn't strong enough to suggest any answers as to what such communities could do to survive.
By the way, it ends with a sorrowful epigraph by Philip Larkin: "It is only when I sense the end of things,/ that I find the courage to speak/ the courage, but not the words"
9,99$, an Isreali-Australian production, trying to bring the audience closer to the meaning of life, was a great closing of the fest for me, since its tone was lighter, more optimistic, ironic. Painstaikingly put together by a team of people in a technique called stop-motion animation, it uses clay silhouettes to tell interwoven stories of several characters who are all after their happiness, understood as differently as it only can be. From a teenager who wants to have it explained in black-and-white and buys cheap spiritual guides in search of answers to questions larger than life, to his father who is drained of emotion by his dreary work in insurance industry and craves for a change, to their elderly neighbour who is so lonely he relishes taking part in ridiculous phone surveys as an interviewee for want of other roles people are willing to grant him. The film is based on short stories by Edgar Keret and is directed by Tatia Rosenthal, who was present in her modest self at the screening.
Thursday
I saw Rok Spokojnego Słońca (The Year of the Quiet Sun) by the Polish moralist filmmaker Krzysztof Zanussi, co-produced by the Germans, which tells the story of budding, impossible love between an American soldier on a military mission to Poland, starred by Scott Wilson, and a common Polish woman in her forties (Maja Komorowska). Set against the post-war reality of early-communism Poland, it centres around the problems of miscommunication and cultural shock, as well as moral choices all characters have to take as the story develops. I enjoyed watching it outdoors at the magnificent Wrocław Old Square, but quite a number of people left during the screening, disappinted, which didn't come as a surprise since Zanussi has to be liked, or at least understood, to be watchable. It's amazing to discover that the film has been greeted with considerable enthusiasm abroad, much greater than in Poland, where for years it had a lukewarm reception. It's enough to look at these brilliant user comments at IMDB to put Zanussi in the right perspective. By the way, it was great to hear him speak English with Scott Wilson at the short intro before the film started.
Friday
I started out first thing in the morning with Heaven's Heart, a Swedish Bergman-style marriage drama, starring just four actors and shot entirely in austere interiors, which makes it easier to focus on dialogues, facial expressions or gestures, where the key to the film lies. In terms of labels and categories, it came across as a tragicomedy to me, with two befriended couples first disintegrating as they start voicing their grudges and acting on them, only to see a romance bloom between Ulf, Anna's defensive husband, and Susanna, Lars's frigid wife, with all protagonists resettling into their old marriages in the end, renewing vows.
It went from good to better when I saw Helen, an intriguing whodunnit film by two young Irish directors, Christine Molloy and Joe Lawlor, made within the Civic Life project. This daring enterprise is disarming in its simplicity, involving local communities (districts, towns, cities) and their residents to finance and take part in professional cinematic projects, which are later screened for them, as well as for larger audiences. Helen is the last job in a Civic Life series and the first feature by the Irish duo, enthusiatically received by the critics, here, here or here, telling a story of the eponymous Helen who agrees to take part in the police reconstruction of the last movements of Joy, her peer who went missing. Helen, who is about to come of age and feels lost herself, being a parentless child staying in a care home, uses this opportunity to seek her own identity. The film beautifully weaves both meanings of getting lost, understood as going missing or trying to find one's way in life, in a story that is uncomplicated, but powerful, and smacks of a modern fairy tale in the way it was filmed.
I couldn't resist to see Polytechnique, a Canadian feature on the 1989 Montreal school schooting (known as the Montreal Massacre), when a deranged male student, driven by his misguided hatred of feminism, shot fourteen young women dead with a rifle. Filmed in black and white to avoid unnecessary exposure to blood, it traces the events from the pespective of two rampage survivors, a boy and a girl. The day when the killings took place, December the 6th, has become the national memorial day for the victims of violence against women in Canada. What'd drawn me to this film, which wasn't pleasant to follow in the end, was another true story, pictured in Out of the Blue, a stunning New Zealand film I saw at the festival last year about a gun collector going on a deadly rampage in a quiet, unsuspecting community in the outback.
To finish off a day full of cinema experiences, I went to see North, a Norwegian road comedy, or as it's promoted an antidepressive off-road movie, which follows the awkward adventures of a brusque Norwegian recluse in his thirties who is challenged to renew contact with his long-lost girlfriend and a child. Spurred by the sudden need to see his family, he sets off on a scooter journey across the snow-covered landscape of northern Norway and on his way stumbles upon a host of weirdos, like a boy who practices making the most out of booze by tying an alcohol-soaked tampon to a shaved skull, supposedly a method a Polish dude taught him. A clusmy type himself, as he moves ahead, the protagonist inadverently sets two huts on fire and practically watches an old man drown in a lake as the ice starts to melt. I relished the Scandinavian feel of the film, ironic, with harsh landscapes and human isolation playing a large part.
Saturday
I managed to squeeze Iluminacja (Illumination) by Krzysztof Zanussi into a busy day. It's something I wanted to see to catch up with the Polish classics and it came along as a perfect opportunity since the director was on the spot to meet with the audience. Stylistically, it's a patchwork piecing together a documentary, a soul-seeking drama and an educational programme, but this couldn't possibly be held against it, as it takes this stylistic freedom to address moral choices of the highest calibre, few other films have dealt with. Franciszek, played by Stanisław Latałło, a director of photography by profession, is an aspiring student of physics engrossed with his quest for the knowledge that best captures the reality and his quest for the meaning of life. He leads an active life, intellectually, socially, professionally, but as he goes on, there always seems to be something that eludes him. The audience is invited to take part in his spiritual journey, as we listen to his colleagues at university speak their mind, witness medical experiments that shed light on what humans might be like or visit the Camaldolese monastery for guidance. I like to think of Iluminacja as a Pandara's box, a kind of film that opens up an awful lot of critical questions, but answers none, only inspires to pursue the answer. It came as no surprise then that quite a large crowd stayed in to listen to Mr. Zanussi speak after the screening, even though his cinema is demanding, to say the least.
Sunday
I knew my last day at the fest would open sharp. Sleep Furiously, a contemplative documentary on the idyllic rural community in Wales which is steadily going into decline, has been repeatedly praised for its artistry, uniqueness and beauty, like here or here or here. Its author Gideon Koppel, who grew up in Trefeurig, paints a slow-moving, detailed picture of a people whose time-honoured ways of cultivating land and tradition are starting to disappear due to economisation and industrialisation of the country. For example, the camera accompanies an itinerant librarian in a van, whose job is to reach far-flung households and keep them updated, cultured and attached. It follows the land rituals as we see the sheep shearing season, the harvest or the breathtakingly captured change of landscape when seasons rotate. The film is full of nostalgia, mysticism, with its subtle sounds, like tree leaves humming, but there is also a potent undercurrent of nervous anticipation, eg. when the residents of Trefeurig assemble to discuss the future of the school building. Koppel managed to catch the riveting charm of the shrinking world on camera, but he wasn't strong enough to suggest any answers as to what such communities could do to survive.
By the way, it ends with a sorrowful epigraph by Philip Larkin: "It is only when I sense the end of things,/ that I find the courage to speak/ the courage, but not the words"
9,99$, an Isreali-Australian production, trying to bring the audience closer to the meaning of life, was a great closing of the fest for me, since its tone was lighter, more optimistic, ironic. Painstaikingly put together by a team of people in a technique called stop-motion animation, it uses clay silhouettes to tell interwoven stories of several characters who are all after their happiness, understood as differently as it only can be. From a teenager who wants to have it explained in black-and-white and buys cheap spiritual guides in search of answers to questions larger than life, to his father who is drained of emotion by his dreary work in insurance industry and craves for a change, to their elderly neighbour who is so lonely he relishes taking part in ridiculous phone surveys as an interviewee for want of other roles people are willing to grant him. The film is based on short stories by Edgar Keret and is directed by Tatia Rosenthal, who was present in her modest self at the screening.
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