Last Friday (My Brother Got His M.A.)

[muninnhuginn]

So for the last four days we've been snatching small parcels of time to write up what we did last Friday--the NFTS Class of 2001 Graduation Screening--and the busy couple of days that surrounded it. So here goes. We're determined to finish up the account this evening. Warning, this goes on... and on... and on.

The Run Up

Thursday, we faced the necessity of a minimal clean up and a maximal iron up. Got dinner under way early--stew cooked long and slow. Dad arrived and we wandered off to collect Looby Loo from nursery. It's a real pleasure watching the complete and unalloyed joy of a little girl meeting up with her grandfather. Supper: stew followed by fruit and ice cream (we're being a tad disingenuous here: the stew was venison and the fruit was a fresh organically-grown pineapple that fortuitously arrived in the veg. box on Wednesday evening.) M and Dad got to do the honours getting LL to bed, whilst the ravens flapped off to CWIL.

Friday, far too early, leaving LL to an extra day of nursery and "looking after her dad for us" we caught the train to London, walked from Kings Cross to Euston (to get some fresh air after a hot, stuffy WAGN carriage and to indulge the ravens by passing St Pancras and the British Library) and got the tube to The Embankment. We crossed the Thames by one of the new bridges--the eastern one of the pair embracing the Hungerford Bridge (no time for the Millennium Bridge, unfortunately). Got to the NFT early for an agreed 9.30 meet up, eventually got in and got coffee. J and R arrived late, forgivably: there'd been a screening--with wine--for the "industry" the previous evening). They were late enough we were contemplating a sarky text message, anyway. Picked up programmes and proceeded into the cinema.

The Morning's Films

[There's a full list and brief information at the NFTS site, though the order for the screening for what J very kindly referred to as the "hoi polloi" differed.]

Ah, you might think, student films. Well, yes. But, professional, polished, thought-provoking, amusing, discomforting, engaging, moving. There was something of interest and of merit in each of them. If it was hard work, this was due to the uncomfortable seating, the to-ing and fro-ing of graduands climbing down to the front at the end of each piece, the number of available seats as compared to the (larger) number of people wanting to watch.

The morning kicked off at 10 with Sliproad. Perhaps one of the more predictable pieces, a guilty man trapped in a repetitive reliving of his crimes in a circle of hell that consisted in part of the Blackwall tunnel. Beautifully filmed: the effects of lighting, reflections, entire scenes reflected in windows, whilst not new, some even verging on the cliche, were handled in a way that enclosed the, already claustrophobic, spaces--road tunnel, oppressive roadside cafeteria--with light, emphasizing the isolation of the three players. The story itself relates somewhat to the urban myth of the solitary driver picking up an apparently living hitchhiker who it later transpires is dead and to the theme of many supernatural tales of the guilty reliving their mistakes repeatedly. The dialogue, spare as we recall it to be, was effective, the characters rounded enough to be credible. It was accomplished, but unsurprising, the least innovative of the show, but a completed-looking piece.

Next came Hacer La Luna, a documentary that followed a young man training to become a bull-fighter. It began with the sight of a young man outside in the moonlight, posturing in the dance-like moves, posing, apparently unaware of being filmed. It had a slightly camp feel to it, an almost homoerotic edge. For all that it was visually ravishing, it felt a little hollow. The middle, longest, section of the documentary followed the training of the young man, his comments on his aspirations and contributions from his parents and others who frequented the family's bar. It had a lot of comedy: the sight of the father taking the part of the bull, holding a set of horns in front of his head like a spare set of bicycle handlebars, his son facing him down with the same mixture of sneer and apprehension on his face (his father's tongue-lashing at his poor showing at the bullfight we later witness maybe explains his apprehensiveness) that is replicated when we see him facing a live bull; the ritual of the donning of the trousers, a struggle requiring the participation of son, father and uncle, involving the repeated attempts at getting the internal arrangements comfortable, and culminating in the lifting by the older men of the youngster by each side of the high-waisted trousers and jiggling him up and down until he was properly in. Watching the dedication and practice put into the moves, the showmanship as well as the combat skills, was revealing. With an identifiable participant in the bull-ring, the struggle between man and bull becomes compelling.

Ultimately this was a poignant piece about hopes probably about to be dashed, dedication and commitment leading only to a falling short. The repetition of the opening sequence at the end was a neat stroke. The play of light on the same half-naked bodies, the same ritualized posturings, the bull pawing the ground through the floating mist, all took on a mythic quality. Played out under the moon, away from ambitious fathers, from hints of favoritism or fixing surrounding the fights, from sweaty practice stabbing straw-filled bull-substitutes, the elements of ritual, of dance, grace, were clarified.

What was lacking was the smell, the heat (although we saw sweat it didn't convince), and--strangely--passion.

Neutral rather than in any way actively against bullfighting, the film began a conversion to a position slightly more in favour of the activity, undoubtedly cruel though it is.

Third we saw Lost and Found (we declare a bias here, since this was one J edited). This was superb. The manager of a lost property office, obsessed with his broadening bald patch, encounters a wig that has been handed in--with interesting results, and a surprising twist at the end. The atmosphere, produced by a stupendous set design, of a claustrophobic but immense labyrinth of stored items, all carefully labeled and logged, inhabited by comically-drawn characters worked a treat. We encountered Little Bo Peep retrieving her lost lamb en route to a fancy dress party, a funeral director coming for a lost wreath, the aging actor looking for... well, you can probably guess what he'd lost. With Phil Daniels and Christopher Cazenove in the cast, the acting was strong. Again there were things that were not new: the prissily-efficient minor official is a cliche of British humour, but portrayed well, and in such a way that we had sympathy with the guy, the film surpassed the cliche. The settings, both the office and the labyrinth of storage behind it, and the rather Heath-Robinson contraptions for delivering and sorting the lost property (a Nick Parkes/Wallace and Gromit parallel, too, maybe?), all gave a rich background to the drama. Would love to see it again especially if this meant it reached a wider audience too.

Fields (again we have to declare an interest) was a documentary showing sites of World War I battlefields and war cemeteries with an evocative soundtrack of contemporary news footage, extracts from soldiers' eyewitness accounts, tour guides at the cemeteries, music, natural sound. Quiet and meditative, it took the time to linger over landscapes, some obviously still marked by past conflicts, others "healed" over. The composition of shots was painterly, the colour schemes ravishing. What maybe it lacked was a firm structure, a message. Of course, it's risky tackling such a topic. WW1 has, if the expression is pardonable, been done to death. A straight anti-war anti-the-horrors-of-war statement is a cliche. The juxtaposition of footage of violence and atrocities now with the peaceful fields was fine, but only as far as it went.

Anna Spud was a fine, funny animation about a grumpy little girl, her appalling family, and equally grumpy granny missing the ferry for their holiday in Ireland. It worked: the script, characterization, humour were spot on. It'd be lovely to see it on TV. It's probably an idea that could be extended too.

Brothers was the most accomplished of the documentaries. It tackled a tough subject that could have been handled either insensitively or with too much sentimentality and avoided both failings. We got instead a straight depiction of the daily lives of two aging (in their 70s we'd guessed, but in reality the elder was in his 90s) Norwegian brothers, fit, apparently physically healthy, living independent lives in their house. Each was to a greater or lesser extent mentally and emotionally lacking. The elder had been in an institution, and had obviously the greater problems. There had been another brother, with an apparently explosive temper, but he wasn't present, his absence/departure unexplained; their mother was dead (there was no mention of a father in their lives at all); the two brothers behaved like any aged couple who have spent long years together.

The problem with watching the socially inept is our instinctive response of laughter, generally cut short by guilt at mocking the "afflicted". Watching and listening to the two brothers our initial embarrassed laughter at them became laughter with them: they had an awareness of their own peculiarities and were quite cruel about and to one another. They also laughed together and we joined in. If things didn't quite make sense, add up to a complete whole, this was an indication of similar confusions in the lives of those we were watching.

There were other players in this piece. The brothers lived with a large number of cats with whom they enacted regular rituals, the game of peek-a-boo through the glass of the back door as the hordes gathered for feeding time. The cats functioned as impassive, unmoved observers of the brothers. Around it all was a landscape as impassive as the cats. Steep mountains, snow covered with a stupendous waterfall, formed the backdrop to their home. Before them water, and between houses and the railway along which thundered the occasional train. [Interesting that whilst, except for those tied to a regular commute, railways play a fairly small part in our auto-centric lives, in both this piece and in Fields, railway lines and passing trains still form part of our transport landscape.]

Maybe the piece went on too long, but other than that, it was hard to fault. It gently pulled us inside what are very different lives to our own and allowed us to watch with, hopefully, empathy.

In Coming Home we were presented with a subtle and moving animation that played with time and place, memory and reality. A woman returns to a house around the time of VE Day, but also to a boarded up terrace. Reflections showed both the now and the then as she wandered through the house. An entire preceding and intervening history was gently implied. The derelict state of the house now was a reminder of all the destroyed homes of then.

Frozen was the least successful of the fiction pieces. A high-tech sci-fi suspense piece, it looked good, sounded better, but didn't transcend the rather predictable story.

The Guest was far more successful, a grim story of jealousy (as was Frozen). It featured strong acting and nicely delineated characters, and yet another flickering light.

After which, flickering lights making their own contribution to the lack-of-tea-induced headache, lunch did come as a relief.

The Afternoon's Bag

The afternoon kicked off with E1, a documentary about, well, several things all at once: two independent candidates in a local council election talking to possible voters in the streets of east London, a trip round the same part of London in company of a party of folk on one of those actor-led historic tours in this case covering Jack the Ripper and the Kray brothers, a trip round the same streets with a local resident pointing out an interesting range of "monuments" relating to immigration. With crime and the disadvantaging of the current local ethnic community being part of the political campaign, you could see the links being drawn. But the three strands didn't interweave comfortably. We needed more of each.

Sea Monsters was a moving story of a man returning to the family home to face events from his own past and to prevent their repetition in a younger relative's present. At times a little too oblique, the story made enough sense. The second film to both begin and end with a man alone in a car, there was a resolution--far more effective than that of Sliproad--a feeling that moving on was possible.

Gaijin was a visually and musically ravishing animation let down by a story that didn't work. A modern fairy tale, it lacked the formalism of traditional story-telling that would have enhanced its Japanese setting and its theme: the foreigner attempting and failing to fit in before finding their niche in an unlikely place. Getting animated models to be convincing robots alongside animated models that convinced as humans was very impressive.

After Years of Walking was another documentary that didn't quite come off. It again lacked a narrative thread to hold disparate, but linked, elements together. The subject, the attempt to reintroduce the teaching of history to Rwanda, where history has been removed from the curriculum, via a film made by a Belgian religious order, was a brave one. The stories and opinions of the individuals we walked alongside were fascinating. But again it was all somewhat unresolved, unfocused. Whilst there are no easy answers to reconciliation after genocides such as these, a clearer statement could still be made.

A story of a wish fulfilled and consequent disillusion, My Father Eduardo told of a small boy whose mother related magical stories of his absent father and whose father returned. The tale felt complete, all told, unlike some of the other fictions and the documentaries where there was an unfinished, unresolved quality. However, it left a feeling of dissatisfaction. There were nice moments and the two children, the little girl especially, were very convincing. Too much was unexplained for the absence, the return or the departure of the father to make complete sense. (It could be argued that this is entirely appropriate for events viewed through the uncomprehending eyes of a child, but the adult viewer needs the clues to build a possible interpretative structure.)

The entries for the Kodak Student Commercials competition were amusing and necessary light relief after a demanding start to the afternoon.

Mining for Muybridge was a long animation, visually and, we guess, technically accomplished, but painful both to watch and hear. Probably our least favourite piece.

Kawah Ijen was our favourite of the documentaries. It followed sulphur miners from the mines in the crater of an active volcano carrying their loads down to be weighed and on to receiving their pay. For a depiction of the misery of working in poisonous conditions with little more than bamboo poles and wicker baskets and the men themselves as the only transport for the sulphur, it couldn't be beaten. Fumes and heat, hard stones underfoot and heavy loads across the back, the amazing thing was that we saw no injuries greater than bruised shoulders. Grinding struggle not great tragedy. Poverty and the rewards hard-earned wages can bring: a clapped out motorbike that fails to get the men home to their families.

1 + 1 is one of those animations depicting a solitary individual encountering others without making a complete connection. Love and loss. Hesitation and acting too late. Nothing entirely novel, but immensely amusing all the same.

Finally, I'm Not going returned us to the dysfunctional family off on holiday that we'd already enjoyed in Anna Spud. This was film, not animation (except for the Ally McBeal-ish animated sea creature that popped up occasionally to the eldest daughter), with a script that rang uncomfortably true. The events too: how often does the temptation to simply lock oneself in the loo and say "I'm not going" arise in the mind of many members of families under the stress of going off for an enjoyable break? How often do the supposedly grown up give in to their sulky, obstreperous childish sides? Let down a little by a weak ending, I'm Not Going was well structured, well acted--the children again being very impressive--and served up that uncomfortable mixture of the amusing and the embarrassing that we so enjoy in Mike Leigh or Alan Aykbourne, against whose work the piece could hold its own with credit.

In Summary

Overall, it was immensely interesting and enjoyable. We saw things that, unfortunately, we don't often get to watch, in, for those of us who get to the cinema infrequently, an environment lacking the usual distractions. Things we probably wouldn't have chosen to watch in other circumstances. We're grateful for the opportunity.

There are some criticisms, but they're minor. In the documentaries, the lack of a strong shape to the pieces was a flaw. A tighter "story" would have helped. It's one of the reasons that Kawah Ijen worked better for me than some of the others. (Okay, Fields was deliberately impressionistic and part of the point of Brothers was surely the lack of structure and major event in the protagonists' lives.) They also seemed tentative in putting forward any "message". Whilst this could be argued as being a good thing, allowing the audience to make up their minds by not imposing an interpretation on us, sometimes a strong statement would have been welcome. This could be linked with the lack of voice over narrative, according to J frowned on as being patronizing, but without a clear voice like that, the picture can become unfocused.

In the fictions, the scripts sometimes fell flat. This could be the presence of, with the odd exception, second-rank actors (for financial reasons: Equity minimum rates apply). Sometimes the quality of the acting can carry weak lines more convincingly. The fictions were also relatively short, so all the words counted that much more. (An unkind voice asks: but do you think you could do better? -Dunno.) Again structure let the pieces down a little: some of the endings, for instance in the otherwise very successful I'm Not Going, fell a little flat.

Choice of subject was interesting, again contributing to the feeling that an incisive voice was missing. The fictions were, inevitably, chamber pieces. Small scale, small cast, but their subjects also tended to be on the small scale. Also there seems (we saw it surface in the choices of subjects at the story telling party A threw late last year) to be a tendency to head for grotesque or supernatural themes. Done well that's no problem, but is this sometimes an easy choice? I'm Not Going worked precisely because it was very true to life (so says the writer of, highly rhetorical, fantasy and sf).

The individual voices in the many of the documentaries never quite pulled into a whole that might have had more universal resonances.

Animations: wow! But it's possibly easier to do these, generally relatively short, pieces successfully. Well-known voices for the characters helped (cheaper to hire for a few hours than for a weeks' filming).

The contribution of entire teams was impressive. Music was crucial to the success of many of the pieces, as was the lighting and composition of the shots. The films looked and sounded good. The sets in the fiction pieces were good, often extremely so.

Nosh

Drinks, talk and a quick trip on the tube to Leicester Square, arriving at Cafe Fish on Rupert Street only slightly late.

Cafe Fish does... fish. It's sometimes possible when eating out to have salmon in every course (except pudding, that is), but not something one can generally guarantee. Here the major problem was deciding which salmon to have as a starter and whether to risk not getting salmon in the fish hot-pot (pretty certain there was some in there). Crusty toast with salmon pate to nibble on whilst making the tough decisions. Very fine all round. Not a place to take strict vegetarians, but a very good choice for vegetarians who eat fish and their omnivorous companions.

There's nothing quite as pleasant as a day with salmon (smoked salmon sandwiches in the Festival Hall with live music in the background) at lunch and dinner.

Immense Restraint

J succeeded in not crowing about getting a "real" MA, which his sister doesn't have, until we said our goodbyes in the tube. Sibling rivalry, albeit friendly, still going strong? We're really pleased for him.