In Carlos Reygadas’ magical 2002 film, Japon, a crippled man lurches awkwardly on his walking stick across an arid plateau randomly studded with huge agave plants, each succulent a cluster of pointy fingers, each finger laced in rows of sharp threatening thorns.
From nowhere, a young boy scuttles from plant to plant, yelling at the man to duck down. Guns fire. A bird falls to the ground mortally wounded but not yet dead. The boy runs to retrieve the small trophy. Frustrated and ashamed that his young hands cannot wring the animal’s neck- as hunters do to end the now pointless and painful struggle for life- the boy hands the bird to the unknown man admitting his weakness. The man tears off the bird’s head and tosses it, still blinking, onto the ground.
The boy’s father, the hunter, arrives with his group and offers a ride, asking where the stranger is going and why- family? No family; to kill myself, he replies. The noisy carload of mostly younger men takes him half way to his goal. He must walk the last leg of this journey down into the valley through baking sun to a remote village where, once he has centered himself, his final act can be accomplished. The intention is to achieve disappearance without a trace.
There is ample evidence as the tale unfolds that he has been led to this particular spot to encounter a specific woman, Ascen, who provides him a makeshift room. She wonders what has brought him here, but quickly accepts his presence, for whatever reason. Her willingness to house him gradually widens into those rituals of shared daily life as of an old married couple: his tea awaits him after the daily walk; his clothes are handed over to be laundered; a dish of fruit is simply present, as if it were manna.
The man has brought farewell tokens of culture: an illustrated history of modern art, a portrait, music and a gun. Purpose and focus seem present enough. Will he jump from a precipice, shoot himself or both? Though he has talked himself into believing that living on holds no interest for him, this is pure rationalization. As he familiarizes himself with this strange environment, he cannot deny that life continues and he remains a willing participant.
From the moment that he takes out his gun maneuvering it to point at his heart and then putting it away, it grows apparent that he is still wedded to this plane of existence. He comes face to face with the difference between the desire to be dead and the ability to act. The word ’cowardice’ partly describes his dilemma but, more importantly, he continues to recognize an inner pull toward new experience and an inexorable attraction to the mysteries of life and the living.
Ascen, because she wants nothing for self beyond her utterly humble life, reveals in her character a form of action that contrasts with, and is clearly superior to, his imagined resolve. She meets the moment with whatever decision corresponds to an appropriate human response. The culminating example of her potency comes to fruition when she accepts his proposal (old and long widowed as she is) that they once have sexual intercourse before he proceeds on his way somewhere, never to return.
The intercourse scene is a moment of pure poetry, totally not about lust, passion, or anything ordinarily thought of as relationship. She accepts him because of an expressed need that she has no reason to reject. Like all her little actions, this most personal one remains, in essence, impersonal. Her power is as incontrovertible as it is quiet, fully selfless, awesomely present.
Ascen’s nephew, released from jail, wants to claim his supposed patrimony by dismantling stone by stone the one solid structure in her physical world. She knows that her shambling shack cannot survive the fierce April winds without the shelter of the stone barn. Her only reaction to this aggressive demand is to see it as proof that he must need them more than she does. Ascen assents.
After the men have destroyed the entire structure, extracting the huge chiseled stones and placing them onto the double beds attached to a tractor, the nephew’s young son tells his father that the driver says they must make two trips; the stones are too heavy. All the men, and Ascen too, have been drinking, celebrating the event and the end of their intense labor. “I pay, I command- one trip only” the father roars and the tractor starts the slow downhill progress on the narrow winding dirt road. The men are lounging on top of the stones as if on a hayride, singing and shouting.
The film ends by showing the inter-connected resolution of these stories. Ascen knows her future cannot exist in the humble home that will be torn to shreds in the spring storms and she moves toward the only open place there is. Cloaked in the much too large jacket of the man she has sheltered, Ascen joins the merry group, climbing onto the already over-loaded vehicle transporting the stones to their new home. Predictably, it overturns. The stones tumble every which way and the passengers are strewn all over, crushed and dead.
For Ascen, it is totally natural to allow her life to find an appropriate ending. She has not chosen suicide; rather, she accepts impartially that her earthly story has been completed. Meanwhile, the man who ostensibly came to end his life stands in the doorway of her hovel, which has been as though willed to him as a home. Ascen has shown him the way into death, by giving herself fully into life. As never before, he has gained the strength and viewpoint to stand exactly where he is, ready to respond to the diurnal tasks without judgment or fear. He is the new Ascen.
Showing newest posts with label Carlos Reygadas. Show older posts
Showing newest posts with label Carlos Reygadas. Show older posts
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Silent Light (Stellet licht)
Mexican director Carlos Reygadas’ third feature, “Silent Light”, takes place nominally in a Mennonite community in northern Mexico. The film’s combination of universal fable and magical realism is apparent from the first scene- a long shot of deep outer space. A galaxy slowly coalesces into the center of the image and continues its crystalline condensation toward earth as the spiraling Milky Way yields to preternaturally glimmering stars scattered along the lacy silhouette of a day-glow dawn emerging through a thicket of foliage and trees, propelled by the disembodied cries and calls of roaming wild animals.
The ominous sounds give way to the ticking clock in a brightly lit farmhouse kitchen where a farmer, his wife and family sit in silent meditation before their morning meal. The story that unfolds is of Johan’s struggle to honor his love for his wife, Esther and his attraction to Marianne, the woman with whom he is having an affair. He has kept no secrets from his wife, who patiently, supportively and lovingly awaits his decision. Johan wants to believe his liaison with Marianne could be spiritually ordained. His anguish and vacillation are evidence of his uncertainty as to which commitment is his true fate.
Long scenes of rugged landscape in wide-angle inclusiveness or pinpoint detail are punctuated with architectural vignettes that carry a deep relevance and resonance for the unfolding narrative. All of the architecture depicted is straightforward and ordinary; nothing is even slightly unusual. Through placement and direction, shape, size, color and lighting, these simple rectangles and boxes take on narrative associations far more complex than their modest purity would imply.
The first structure depicted is the farmhouse itself. Matter of fact in the extreme, its capacious interior is entirely unsurprising. Outside is another story: the large L-shaped main house nestles a small separate cottage set off to one side, seemingly uninhabited. Already we understand that there is something that the main house cannot contain.
Johan goes to pick up a repaired engine part from his friend Zacarias’ auto shop. The huge cavern of the shop’s work area is just a large box with one side that opens entirely, as with a roll-down garage door. Under the blazing morning sun the interior is as black as the underworld; undecipherable overlays of music and talk radio pour out of the mechanics’ workspace, though they are nowhere to be seen. Zacarias and his helpers are working down in a grave-like opening, which on second thought is not in the least unusual at a shop that repairs engines, trucks and cars.
The building that adjoins the dark workshop is a smaller plain white clapboard façade, as shallow in appearance as the workshop is deep. The wall is punctuated with a brown door and two small windows like closed eyes; their plain plastic shades are drawn down tight. Zacarias knows of Johan’s affair and that the two lovers are about to meet; he encourages Johan’s wish to believe that Marianne might be his “natural” woman.
Low to the ground the camera traces Johan’s steps as he climbs a hillock to join Marianne. A flat stone wall brings all movement to a halt. Three dark upright rectangular openings, possibly three doors in a game of chance or a reference to Calvary, speak irredeemably of fate. Johan is barely visible in the central opening, showering, trying to cleanse himself.
Seeking advice from his father, Johan goes to his parents’ farm. As the two converse in a snow covered field, we see a huge solid gray barn- old but implacable- it is set with a pair of enormous closed red doors. Like the united parents themselves, the barn and doors stand firm and present, their responsibility and gift are only to witness.
The seasons progress. Huge, indifferent and unrelenting, the metal teeth of a tractor shears the harvested field clean to the ground. Esther not only drives the tractor, but has made and serves the lunch that is interrupted when a messenger arrives and Johan reveals that it is a request from Marianne. Esther’s only comment is that he should take along the children for an overdue visit to the dentist.
Marianne’s world is a spacious gleaming-white truckstop diner so spotless it is impossible to imagine even the possibility of customers or food. She leads Johan to the simple motel bedroom, for what she tells him will be the last time. Afterwards they stand in front of two narrow green buildings; each has a separate external staircase leading to a single room on its second story. A drawn pink curtain marks the room from which they have come. The two buildings are so close it seems impossible that they do not and cannot connect, but they do not.
Johan tries and fails to resist his attraction to Marianne. Marianne’s sincerity and depth are above question. She, too, struggles with the truth of her relationship with Johan and her responsibility to Esther.
In a raging storm that matches her frustration, exhaustion and bottomless sorrow, Esther runs through an open field toward a copse of trees and collapses; she has nothing more to give. Like a discarded cardboard box lying in an empty field, the long low building of the rural hospital tells us the outcome of her ordeal.
Returned to the farm for the rituals and gathering of departure, the family prepares the body and makes their goodbyes. . Marianne arrives and asks to see Esther once before she is buried. The body lies in a white room so empty it appears as if in a ray of light, the companion/opposite to Marianne’s cool yet equally brilliant realm. Unlike the rest of the house that feels to be hermetically sealed, the window of this room is left ajar and the open, empty space becomes a prism connecting the two women’s essential spirits. Marianne leans down and kisses Esther tenderly on the lips, acknowledging fate and forgiveness.
The kiss unites the spheres of death and life in unspoken dialog. Marianne surrenders to her fate of taking Esther’s place. Esther grants her permission and comes to life to speak her gratitude to Marianne. The two youngest daughters enter the room and witness the exchange between their mother and Marianne, understanding that one is passing her earthly mantle to the other, that from now on Marianne is the mother of the children she could not have brought into the world. The girls are still young enough to be amenable to the mixture of the real and spirit worlds and accept this altered reality as they excitedly discuss the unusual proceedings of the day. They do not know what death is, or how long it should last, or how the journey begun in one place or person should find its way to another. The ghost of Marianne leaves the house as Johan’s father resets the clock that was stopped at the story’s start. The girls tell their father that their mother wants to talk to him.
The wide horizon darkens as the sun sets and dissolves into the enormity of the night sky, back to the twinkling stars that began this tale.
The ominous sounds give way to the ticking clock in a brightly lit farmhouse kitchen where a farmer, his wife and family sit in silent meditation before their morning meal. The story that unfolds is of Johan’s struggle to honor his love for his wife, Esther and his attraction to Marianne, the woman with whom he is having an affair. He has kept no secrets from his wife, who patiently, supportively and lovingly awaits his decision. Johan wants to believe his liaison with Marianne could be spiritually ordained. His anguish and vacillation are evidence of his uncertainty as to which commitment is his true fate.
Long scenes of rugged landscape in wide-angle inclusiveness or pinpoint detail are punctuated with architectural vignettes that carry a deep relevance and resonance for the unfolding narrative. All of the architecture depicted is straightforward and ordinary; nothing is even slightly unusual. Through placement and direction, shape, size, color and lighting, these simple rectangles and boxes take on narrative associations far more complex than their modest purity would imply.
The first structure depicted is the farmhouse itself. Matter of fact in the extreme, its capacious interior is entirely unsurprising. Outside is another story: the large L-shaped main house nestles a small separate cottage set off to one side, seemingly uninhabited. Already we understand that there is something that the main house cannot contain.
Johan goes to pick up a repaired engine part from his friend Zacarias’ auto shop. The huge cavern of the shop’s work area is just a large box with one side that opens entirely, as with a roll-down garage door. Under the blazing morning sun the interior is as black as the underworld; undecipherable overlays of music and talk radio pour out of the mechanics’ workspace, though they are nowhere to be seen. Zacarias and his helpers are working down in a grave-like opening, which on second thought is not in the least unusual at a shop that repairs engines, trucks and cars.
The building that adjoins the dark workshop is a smaller plain white clapboard façade, as shallow in appearance as the workshop is deep. The wall is punctuated with a brown door and two small windows like closed eyes; their plain plastic shades are drawn down tight. Zacarias knows of Johan’s affair and that the two lovers are about to meet; he encourages Johan’s wish to believe that Marianne might be his “natural” woman.
Low to the ground the camera traces Johan’s steps as he climbs a hillock to join Marianne. A flat stone wall brings all movement to a halt. Three dark upright rectangular openings, possibly three doors in a game of chance or a reference to Calvary, speak irredeemably of fate. Johan is barely visible in the central opening, showering, trying to cleanse himself.
Seeking advice from his father, Johan goes to his parents’ farm. As the two converse in a snow covered field, we see a huge solid gray barn- old but implacable- it is set with a pair of enormous closed red doors. Like the united parents themselves, the barn and doors stand firm and present, their responsibility and gift are only to witness.
The seasons progress. Huge, indifferent and unrelenting, the metal teeth of a tractor shears the harvested field clean to the ground. Esther not only drives the tractor, but has made and serves the lunch that is interrupted when a messenger arrives and Johan reveals that it is a request from Marianne. Esther’s only comment is that he should take along the children for an overdue visit to the dentist.
Marianne’s world is a spacious gleaming-white truckstop diner so spotless it is impossible to imagine even the possibility of customers or food. She leads Johan to the simple motel bedroom, for what she tells him will be the last time. Afterwards they stand in front of two narrow green buildings; each has a separate external staircase leading to a single room on its second story. A drawn pink curtain marks the room from which they have come. The two buildings are so close it seems impossible that they do not and cannot connect, but they do not.
Johan tries and fails to resist his attraction to Marianne. Marianne’s sincerity and depth are above question. She, too, struggles with the truth of her relationship with Johan and her responsibility to Esther.
In a raging storm that matches her frustration, exhaustion and bottomless sorrow, Esther runs through an open field toward a copse of trees and collapses; she has nothing more to give. Like a discarded cardboard box lying in an empty field, the long low building of the rural hospital tells us the outcome of her ordeal.
Returned to the farm for the rituals and gathering of departure, the family prepares the body and makes their goodbyes. . Marianne arrives and asks to see Esther once before she is buried. The body lies in a white room so empty it appears as if in a ray of light, the companion/opposite to Marianne’s cool yet equally brilliant realm. Unlike the rest of the house that feels to be hermetically sealed, the window of this room is left ajar and the open, empty space becomes a prism connecting the two women’s essential spirits. Marianne leans down and kisses Esther tenderly on the lips, acknowledging fate and forgiveness.
The kiss unites the spheres of death and life in unspoken dialog. Marianne surrenders to her fate of taking Esther’s place. Esther grants her permission and comes to life to speak her gratitude to Marianne. The two youngest daughters enter the room and witness the exchange between their mother and Marianne, understanding that one is passing her earthly mantle to the other, that from now on Marianne is the mother of the children she could not have brought into the world. The girls are still young enough to be amenable to the mixture of the real and spirit worlds and accept this altered reality as they excitedly discuss the unusual proceedings of the day. They do not know what death is, or how long it should last, or how the journey begun in one place or person should find its way to another. The ghost of Marianne leaves the house as Johan’s father resets the clock that was stopped at the story’s start. The girls tell their father that their mother wants to talk to him.
The wide horizon darkens as the sun sets and dissolves into the enormity of the night sky, back to the twinkling stars that began this tale.
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