A new section dedicated to ‘slow cinema’ champions four mesmerizing, must-see films. By STEVE GARDEN.

AMERICAN independent filmmaking has been a rich source of cinematic substance for cinephiles in recent years – Lance Hammer’s Ballast, Steven Soderbergh’s Bubble, and Kelly Reichardt’s Old Joy, to mention only a few. Reichardt’s new film, Wendy and Lucy is every bit as subtle and perceptive as its predecessor, only much darker. This time the political implications are more to the fore, but without a hint of didacticism or finger-pointing. Reichardt leaves all interpretive possibilities completely open to the viewer. While her intention may have been to consider what it feels like at the bottom of the social order in present-day America, the film’s depiction of the consequences of economic rationalism has an implicit global reach.

That said, Wendy and Lucy is no dry political tract. It may be sober and reflective, but it’s also intimate and deeply humane, no small credit for which must go to Michelle Williams’ sensitive and convincing central performance. Reichardt’s dog, Lucy (one of the three characters who go in search of the hot-springs in Old Joy) is given a more pivotal role here, but don’t assume for a second that this is a sentimental tearjerker. One of Reichardt’s strengths is her refusal to pander or condescend to the viewer.

With influences ranging from Barbara Loden and Monte Hellman to New German Cinema and Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Reichardt’s thematic and formal restraint positions her work alongside the very best of contemporary American, European and Asian cinema. Wendy and Lucy is understated, intelligent and compassionate, and is sure to be one of the highlights of 2009. Not to be missed.


CHANTAL AKERMAN’s Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles is one of the seminal films of the last 50 years. It is also one of the least seen, so to have it included in this year’s festival makes it a contender for the cinematic event of the year. Jeanne Dielman is an intelligent and challenging work. The rigour Akerman brings to the film is uncompromising, making it a film one must actively (rather than passively) engage with. The more one works with it, the more rewarding the experience will be.

The plot revolves around the daily rhythms and routines of a single mother (played by Delphine Seyrig) who runs a business from home for gentleman callers. Stripping the film of formal and narrative expectations, Akerman concentrates her focus (and ours) on the minutiae of Jeanne’s domestic activities. As things begin to unravel, the orderly rhythm of the film gives way to increasing and provocative asymmetry.

The film, made almost exclusively by women, has lost none of its subtextual relevance or power. It doesn’t take much to see a parallel of sorts between Jeanne Dielman and Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy. Reichardt’s film may not be as pointedly feminist, but both directors are driven by strongly egalitarian concerns with societal inequality, and are masters at utilising the formal properties of cinema to enable viewers to draw their own conclusions. Jeanne Dielman might be a demanding film for some, but for those interested in cinematic art and/or issues of social justice, this is an opportunity too good to miss.


ONE OF THE films I am most pleased to see in this year’s programme is Albert Serra’s Birdsong (El cant dels ocells). Accompanying it will be Mark Peranson’s Waiting for Sancho, a documentary feature that observes the making of the film. (Peranson is the editor of Cinema Scope magazine, and has a small but pivotal role in Birdsong.) To top it all, Serra and Peranson are guests of the festival and a Q&A will follow the Auckland and Wellington screenings.

Serra’s naturalistic minimalism is not for everyone. Those who saw Honour of the Knights at the 2007 NZIFF will attest to the fact that he favours a very measured and contemplative approach, one influenced by the likes of Straub/Huillet, Bresson and Pasolini. While the journey of the three Magi in search of the infant Christ constitutes the basic plot of Birdsong, the story and (most importantly) the cinematic telling of it have been stripped of the conventions and expectations usually associated with biblical epics (or movies in general, for that matter). Serra focuses on the highly cinematic elemental reality of bodies and landscape, the quality of light, the sound of the earth and wind, and the time and effort it takes to get somewhere. His films (particularly Birdsong) are about the is-ness of everything and (crucially) our visceral connection with it. Every frame of this remarkable film testifies to the inherent poetry of existence, and it ranks alongside Pasolini’s Gospel According to Matthew (perhaps surpasses it) in terms of coming as close as cinema can to something resembling metaphysical truth. For those with the eyes to see and the ears to hear, this is cinema at its most sublime, but for others it might just be three fat guys on a hill. Either way, don’t miss it.


ONLY NOW, some 80 odd years later, are we seeing films that fulfil the artistic aspirations of silent cinema, and the promise implicit in the achievements of Godard and Antonioni is only now being diverted towards genuinely challenging cinematic territories. Okay, when I say ‘only now’, of course I’m overstating it. One only need cite Straub/Huillet, Bresson and Akerman (among many others) to refute the statement, but such filmmakers are rare. They are mavericks, forging ahead regardless of whether the rest of cinema follows. But over the last couple of decades, an increasing number of filmmakers have been willing to leave cinematic conventions in the cupboard to make films that delve more deeply into the gestural, subtextual potential of the medium, the kind of potential that was clearly visible to Carl Dreyer, Mauritz Stiller and (notably) Victor Sjostrom.

While the visual and tonal characteristics of Alexandr Sokurov’s work appear to have been an influence on Philippe Grandrieux’s exquisite A Lake (Un Lac), Scandinavian silent cinema (particularly Sjostrom’s films) is a less obvious but pertinent touchstone. However, an even greater influence (or so it seems to me) may have been the largely unseen work of the neglected Lithuanian genius, Sharunas Bartas. Bartas has been making films since the early 90s, but not one (as far as I’m aware) has made it this far south. (Thanks to one or two on-line collectors, I’ve managed to source a handful of nth generation VHS copies that are now highly prized additions to my visual library, and Grandrieux’s film sits happily in that company.) Dialogue and plot are very spare in A Lake, although compared to a Bartas film it’s positively chatty! Still, with its epic visual and thematic scope, this is cinema at its most richly elemental, and a brilliant example of elliptical visual storytelling. It’s a film you give yourself over to and simply let it do its oneiric magic. Some will no doubt be annoyed by it, but if it isn’t already obvious, this my kind of cinema.

See also:
» Spiritual Saunter: Birdsong, Waiting for Sancho
» Woman on the Verge: Jeanne Dielman