Carlos hangs up the phone and leans against the wall. His eyes are glazed over and he would like to vent but he doesn’t because, as he says, “men don’t cry.” This is the conflict that Un Varón, Fabian Hernández’s new film, sets out to investigate: that of a young man who tries to conform to the ideal of masculinity that prevails on the streets of Bogotá while in private he just wants to be himself. Christmas is approaching and his only wish is to spend it with his increasingly elusive sister and his mother, who is in jail. Leaving the youth center that took him in, he finds himself coming to terms with street life and the law of the alpha male.
At the University of Turin, on 29 and 30 November, the study conference “Being an actor. Paths and dialogues on training and acting” organized by the “F-ACTOR” project in collaboration with UniVerso and curated by Professor Mariapaola Pierini was held. The conference is part of the research plan of the “F-ACTOR” project, dedicated to the mapping of the actor’s profession in the contemporary Italian media scenario, according to methodologies and study perspectives that refer to performance studies, studies on stardom and media production studies.
Presso l’Università di Torino, il 29 e il 30 novembre si è tenuto il convegno di studi “Fare l’attore. Percorsi e dialoghi su formazione e recitazione” organizzato dal progetto “F-ACTOR” in collaborazione con UniVerso e curato dalla professoressa Mariapaola Pierini. Il convegno si inserisce, appunto, nel piano di ricerca del progetto “F-ACTOR”, dedicato alla mappatura della professione dell’attore nello scenario mediale italiano contemporaneo, secondo metodologie e prospettive di studio che fanno riferimento ai performance studies, agli studi sul divismo e ai media production studies.
The Fire Within è un film che non si concentra tanto sull’interesse di Herzog per i vulcani – già dimostrato in La Soufrière (1977) e Into the Inferno (2016) – quanto sull’opera di Katia e Maurice Krafft. Un requiem, come suggerisce il sottotitolo, che ruota attorno alla morte dei due celebri vulcanologi, mentre studiavano da vicino quei giganti verso cui provavano una vera e propria ossessione.
“Abramo si alzò di buon mattino, sellò l’asino, prese con sé due servi e il figlio Isacco, spaccò la legna per l’olocausto e si mise in viaggio verso il luogo che Dio gli aveva indicato” Genesi 22:3
Il racconto biblico dimostra che Abramo, mosso da una grande fede, non ebbe esitazioni. Leonid però è pagano, Leonid non crede. E pur di offrire il futuro migliore alla propria progenie è disposto a trasgredire norme etiche e leggi umane, arrivando di conseguenza a sfidare Dio.
Il 4 agosto 2020 una tremenda esplosione distrugge il porto di Beirut causando 220 morti e 7000 feriti. Solo un giorno prima il regista Karim Kassem arrivava in città – proprio nella zona portuale – per girare un lungometraggio che non girerà mai, Octopus. Al suo posto questo Octopus: resta il titolo ma è un film completamente diverso. È il lamento sinfonico di una città rimasta senza voce.
Carlo Rivolta was a young talent of Italian journalism during the ’77 protest movements, a figure unknown to most, yet capable of describing firsthand the upheavals of this historical period. The crisis of ideologies, the internal clashes of the movement and, above all, the spread of heroin that condemned him, and an entire generation, to an untimely demise.
Carlo Rivolta è stato un giovane talento del giornalismo italiano durante i movimenti di protesta del ’77, una figura sconosciuta ai più, capace però di descrivere in prima persona i rivolgimenti di questo periodo storico. La crisi delle ideologie, gli scontri interni del movimento e, soprattutto, il dilagare dell’eroina che ha condannato lui, e una intera generazione, alla scomparsa prematura.
The main difference between us and History is that History does not speak, but we force it to do so. What would happen, however, if it looked us in the face, took us by the hand and started making small talk, telling us about its regrets and pipe dreams? This is exactly what Aleksandr Sokurov’s “Fairytale” aims for: to make History speak spontaneously, quietly and with a hint of humour.
Adolf Hitler, Iosif Stalin, Benito Mussolini and Winston Churchill find themselves reunited in the afterlife, chatting as they wander through a dark, foggy forest, waiting for the gatekeeper to decide whether to let them into heaven. What about the content of these conversations? Despite their different languages, they mock each other while asserting their political and social ideals. Their speeches focus on their private dimension and therefore erase the aura given by their public function and by History itself. Words thus serve as a tool to reconcile the different points of view and as an attempt to overcome the past and the crystallised image we have of these historical figures. Built through archive footage and without the use of deep-fakes or other artificial intelligence tools, the film calls into question the relationship with reality, verisimilitude, memory and the demythologisation of these personalities. This is an objective that could not have been pursued by using actors to replace the faces, bodies and gestures that changed history. Moreover, the voices lent to the protagonists are perfectly given through an excellent lip-sync that breathes life into the faded images shrouded by the misty reminiscence of the past.
Sokurov seeks to make sense of the challenges that mankind is facing nowadays by taking a step back and lingering on the figures who most shaped the reality we know, namely the protagonists of World War II, the main event that eradicated positivist beliefs about human progress. Trying to empathise with figures such as Hitler and Stalin is the arduous task proposed to the viewer, who through this process realises that behind every historical event, even the most terrible and evil, there are men.
Presented and competing at the fortieth edition of Torino Film Festival, and already winner of the Camera d’Or at Cannes, competing in the Un Certain Regard section, War Pony marks the directing debut of actress Riley Keough and producer Gina Gammell, featuring an inspiring portrait of the Native American community, directly involved in the making of the film.
Una classe di diplomandi, una festa sfrenata in un cottage sperduto nei boschi della Lituania, un serial killer mascherato. Bastano questi pochi elementi a qualsiasi conoscitore dell’horror per intuire dove ci porterà Jonas Trukanas con la narrazione di Pensive, la sua opera prima in concorso nella sezione “Crazies” del quarantesimo Torino Film Festival.
Honoured by the 40th Turin Film Festival with a retrospective and awarded with the Stella della Mole prize, Malcolm McDowell has been one of the best-known British actors in the world for more than half a century. In particular, for his unforgettable performance as the sadistic and violent Alex De Large in Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971).
It is difficult to talk about such a popular but atypical figure without repeating what has already been written about him over the decades. McDowell has never been a canonically understood star or even the darling of a specific season or cinematic current. Nevertheless, he has been able to traverse a variety of narratives in European and overseas contexts throughout his prolific career, often guided by great auteurs.
After gaining experience in the theatre, he made his debut in 1968, immediately starring in one of the last peaks of British Free Cinema and a Palme d’Or at Cannes, Lindsay Anderson’s If… (and with this director he would repropose the character of Mick Travis in a sort of truffautian cycle in the following O Lucky Man! in 1973, and Britannia Hospital in 1982). After the unjustly forgotten Figures in a Landscape (1970), an en plein air dystopian film directed by Joseph Losey, Kubrick had no hesitation in calling him out. The ineffable tenderly childlike gaze capable of transforming itself into a perverse grin with the mere hint of a smile was indeed truly unique and terrifying, and embodied the very essence of the very young criminal from the pen of Anthony Burgess.
Having attained his place in the pantheon of the seventh art (not without courageous sacrifices – just remember the serious corneal injuries suffered during the endless filming of the famous ‘Ludovico technique), McDowell’s image was marked for better or worse by those dazzling beginnings, failing to follow up on that first happy season. However, by stubbornly getting back into the game from the 1980s onwards, he was able to start a prolific second professional life, carving out a space in which to express his versatility, often in secondary roles, but always leaving a personal mark beyond the actual merits of the films.
We remember Cat People by Paul Schrader (1982), The Assassin of the Tsar by Karen Shakhnazarov (1991), Gangster No. 1 by Paul McGuigan (2000), Evilenko by David Grieco (2004), a couple of Altman and Mike Kaplan’s tasty one-man show Never Apologize (2007) to remember his friend/mentor Anderson in his own way. We tasted this ability as a performer also during the festival, in a masterclass full of anecdotes and brilliant jokes and, again, in the witty presentations of the films on offer, demonstrating a verve (79 years old and he looks great), the charisma and at the same time the affability of the star capable of involving even the youngest audiences.
The Turin prize helps fill the gap of the far too few awards given by the film world to McDowell (he was snubbed by the Oscars and the Baftas, he had a single Golden Globe nomination, a special European Film Awards, and a special Nastro d’Argento), but meeting him in person allowed us once and for all to dispel the evil aura that surrounds his cinematic double: Malcolm was never Alex.
Omaggiato dal 40° Torino Film Festival con una retrospettiva e insignito ieri del premio Stella della Mole, Malcolm McDowell è da oltre mezzo secolo uno degli attori inglesi più noti al mondo, in particolare per l’indimenticabile interpretazione del sadico e violento Alex De Large in Arancia Meccanica di Stanley Kubrick (1971).
Arduo parlare di una figura così popolare ma atipica senza ripetere quanto già scritto su di lui in questi decenni. McDowell non è mai stato una star canonicamente intesa e nemmeno il beniamino di una specifica stagione o corrente cinematografica, eppure ha saputo attraversare nell’arco della sua prolifica carriera svariate narrazioni in contesti europei e oltreoceano, guidato spesso da grandissimi autori.
Dopo essersi fatto le ossa a teatro, esordisce nel 1968, subito protagonista, in una delle ultime vette del Free Cinema britannico e Palma d’oro a Cannes, Se… di Lindsay Anderson (e con questo regista riproporrà il personaggio di Mick Travis in una sorta di ciclo truffautiano nei successivi O Lucky Man! del 1973, e Britannia Hospital del 1982). Dopo l’ingiustamente dimenticato Caccia sadica (1970) distopia en plein air diretta da Joseph Losey, Kubrick non ha alcuna esitazione nel chiamarlo: l’ineffabile sguardo teneramente infantile capace di trasformarsi con il solo accenno di un sorriso in un ghigno perverso era infatti davvero unico e terrorizzante, e incarnava l’essenza stessa del giovanissimo criminale uscito dalla penna di Anthony Burgess.
Raggiunto il suo posto nel pantheon della settima arte (non senza coraggiosi sacrifici – basti ricordare le serie lesioni corneali subite durante le infinite riprese della celeberrima “cura Ludovico”), l’immagine di McDowell è stata segnata nel bene e nel male da quei folgoranti inizi, non riuscendo a dar seguito a quella prima felice stagione. Rimettendosi però in gioco con caparbietà a partire dagli anni ’80 ha saputo avviare una prolifica seconda vita professionale ritagliandosi uno spazio in cui esprimere la propria versatilità, spesso in ruoli secondari, ma lasciando sempre un’impronta personale aldilà degli effettivi meriti dei film.
Ricordiamo Il bacio della pantera di Paul Schrader (1982), L’assassino dello Zar di Karen Shakhnazarov (1991), Gangster nº 1 di Paul McGuigan (2000), Evilenko di David Grieco (2004), un paio di Altman e il gustoso one man show di Mike Kaplan Never Apologies (2007) per ricordare alla sua maniera l’amico/mentore Anderson. E questa abilità di performer l’abbiamo gustata durante il festival, in una masterclass ricca di aneddoti e battute brillanti e, ancora, nelle argute presentazioni dei film proposti, dimostrando una verve (79 anni portati splendidamente), il carisma e al contempo l’affabilità del divo in grado di coinvolgere anche il pubblico dei più giovani.
Il premio torinese contribuisce a colmare la lacuna dei davvero troppo pochi riconoscimenti assegnati dal mondo del cinema a McDowell (snobbato da Oscar e Bafta, una sola nomination ai Golden Globe, un European Film Awards speciale, un Nastro d’Argento speciale), mentre l’incontrarlo dal vivo ci ha permesso una volta per tutte di scacciare l’aurea malvagia che circonda il suo doppio cinematografico: Malcolm non è mai stato Alex.
“Don’t murder me, ok?”. Con queste parole Lea (Lily McInerny), una giovane ragazza diciassettenne, risponde alla proposta di Tom (Jonathan Tucker), un uomo di trentacinque anni, di accompagnarla a casa in macchina dopo una brutta serata con gli amici. Il tono con cui Lea pronuncia la frase è ironico, ma il suo sguardo perso nel vuoto cela una reticenza di fondo. Forse, in quel breve istante di spensierata interdizione è racchiuso il nucleo di Palm Trees and Power Lines, opera prima di Jamie Dack, già vincitrice del premio alla miglior regia al Sundance Film Festival 2022 e presentata in concorso alla quarantesima edizione del Torino Film Festival.
Il film presenta uno scorcio della vita di Lea durante le ultime settimane estive prima che ricominci la scuola: la sua quotidianità nella suburbia americana l’annoia, i suoi amici sono infantili e immaturi e il rapporto con la madre Sandra (Gretchen Mol) – unico membro della sua famiglia – è sempre più teso. L’incontro con Tom scuote la ragazza e le offre una via di fuga dalla sua realtà; Lea è affascinata da un uomo più grande ma allo stesso tempo non si lascia completamente andare. Tom si comporta come il fidanzato perfetto: la corteggia, le fa regali e la porta al mare, ma cela un lato oscuro che Lea decide di ignorare e che la porterà a fare i conti con un doloroso trauma nel finale.
L’intento politico del film è chiaro ma non offusca né la forma né il contenuto. L’opera, infatti, si misura con questioni spigolose come l’adescamento minorile e la difficile realtà di molte famiglie della periferia americana – proprio al personaggio di Lea sono delegate alcune delle battute più gravose come, rivolta alla madre: “Certa gente non dovrebbe avere il diritto di fare figli” – e, allo stesso tempo, offre delle soluzioni formali piuttosto insolite del dramma coming of age. Jamie Dack, infatti, rinuncia a virtuosismi stilistici per offrire una regia sobria e senza sbavature, dimostrando di voler comunicare una necessità, anzi un’urgenza nel narrare determinati eventi piuttosto che soffermarsi sulla componente visiva. Lo sguardo pulito e statico della cinepresa di Dack non solo offre nuove possibilità alla rappresentazione del genere, ma mette in mostra l’originalità del lavoro della regista e il coraggio con cui afferma una personale e autentica visione già a partire dalla sua prima opera.
“Don’t murder me, okay?” With these words Lea (Lily McInerny), a 17-year-old girl, responds to the proposal of Tom (Jonathan Tucker), a man in his mid-30s, to drive her home after a bad night out with friends. The tone in which Lea utters the sentence is ironic, but her lost gaze conceals an underlying reticence. Perhaps contained in that moment of carefree interdiction is the core of Palm Trees and Power Lines, Jamie Dack’s debut feature, which has already won Best Director at the 2022 Sundance Film Festival and was presented in competition at the 40th Turin Film Festival.
The film presents a glimpse of Lea’s life during the last weeks of summer before school starts again: her everyday life in the American suburbia bores her, her friends are childish and immature, and her relationship with her mother Sandra (Gretchen Mol) – the only member of her family – is becoming more tense. Meeting Tom shakes the girl up and offers her an escape from her reality. Lea is fascinated by the fact that Tom is older but at the same time she does not let herself go completely. Tom acts like the perfect boyfriend: he woos her, gives her gifts, and takes her to the beach, but he hides a dark side that Lea decides to ignore and that will lead her to come to terms with a painful trauma in the finale.
The political intent of the film is clear but does not cloud either the form or the content. The work, in fact, deals with such edgy issues as child grooming and the difficult reality of many families in the American suburbs. Furthermore, it also features many burdensome lines, the majority of which are delegated to Lea’s character. To bring an example, she says, referring to her mother, “Some people shouldn’t have the right to have children”. At the same time, the work offers some rather unusual formal solutions of the coming-of-age drama. Jamie Dack, in fact, forgoes stylistic virtuosity to offer understated, unadulterated direction, demonstrating a desire to communicate a need, indeed an urgency in narrating certain events rather than dwelling on the visual component. The clean, static look of Dack’s camera not only offers new possibilities to the representation of the genre, but also showcases the originality of the director’s work and the courage with which she affirms a personal and authentic vision even from her first work.
It is the 27th of February 2012 when, during the eviction in Chiomonte, Luca Abbà climbs on a high-voltage pylon: the aim is to slow down the operations of expropriation carried out to widen the construction site of the tunnel, of that “great strategic work”, still pending to this day. The contact with the high-voltage cables causes him to fall ten metres. Although unconscious, his body keeps being traversed by electric shocks. He has a punctured lung. He goes into a deep coma.
Reviewing Chiusura by Alessandro Rossetti twenty-one years after its release makes the analysis of the film even more arduous. Seeing a world that doesn’t exist anymore and sensing the awareness that the world itself had that it had reached a terminal stage – the end of a millennium and all the fears attached to it – generates in the viewer a mixture of anxiety and tenderness. There is love for a fading past but, concurrently, there is the awareness that not much has changed. Even years later, the province remains a swampy, stagnant place that is difficult to escape from but, through the cinematic image, it simultaneously gains a romantic and fascinating appeal. It is precisely the ability to show this double soul of the province and this gap between fading tradition and advancing modernity that makes Alessandro Rossetto’s cinema great. Chiusura, as said by the director himself, is a film that, years later, has become a reflection of the passing of time.
The documentary, which has been restored by Istituto Luce under Rossetto’s supervision, follows the closure of Mrs. Flavia’s hair salon after 44 years of activity. The director, an anthropology graduate, carefully examines the small gestures of this world, the words of the inhabitants who inhabit it, and the conflicts which animate it. Alongside this world, there are others: the circus which comes to town and the local women’s soccer team. The observation of these worlds focuses in the same way on the imperceptible rituals and conflicts, and on the personal emotions of the people who inhabit them.
However, hovering over this microcosm is the winter fog, a constant element of the film, which amplifies the feeling of stillness and even of finality, namely the closure of a period that has come to its end. Nevertheless, what stands out is the beauty of these elements and real cinema’s ability to give charm to the things of ordinary life. The feeling of paralysis transcends and becomes beauty: personal gestures, words and speeches become captivating and fascinating in the eyes of the viewer.
Elapsed time thus amplifies the experience of viewing Chiusura, to which the reflections on time and the end of an era are added in retrospect to a period that has now passed, but whose emotions and feelings remain incredibly vivid.
Nagisa, a debut feature film by Japanese director Kogahara Takeshi, can be interpreted as a complex and layered attempt to reframe a bond, to redefine that thin filament that connects the body of those who survive and the increasingly evanescent memory of those who are no longer with us. The world that is portrayed is thus the result of a blurred mental condition, a set of indistinct reenactments created by the mind of a boy detached from reality.
The protagonist is Fuminao, a Tokyo boy tormented by guilt over the death of his younger sister Nagisa, who died three years earlier in a bus accident on her way to visit her brother. One night, the boy accompanies his friend Yuki to visit a tunnel that, according to some popular beliefs, appears to be haunted by ghosts. In this mysterious and gloomy place, he will again face his past, his origins, until he relives in his mind the intense relationship with his missing sister. The film is basically a reprise of a homonymous short film by Kogahara himself in 2017, in which the two main characters, again Fuminao and Nagisa, are two young people in love. The adolescent “love story” of the former is thus contrasted, in this second work, with the memory of a deceased person and the reminder of the faint sigh of death, in a mad dance involving Eros and Thanatos until they become part of the same being.
The protagonist’s apathy, as well as the alienation that affects his existence, arise from the strong trauma triggered by the loss of a loved one. For this reason, the young man’s life is constantly punctuated by mechanical movements and continuous silences, depicted through the use of repeated and interminable fixed shots. The story is fragmented, not at all linear, as if every shred of memory spontaneously resurfaces when Fuminao savors certain physical or emotional sensations. This makes the film a real labyrinth with no way out, a puzzle in which, at times, it is difficult to understand the meaning of certain events.
At the end of this enigmatic existential journey, there are many questions that arise, raising more doubts than answers in the protagonist’s mind. “Do ghosts really exist?” the boy hesitantly asks a policeman he meets by chance outside the tunnel. The man’s answer will come only after a long and ostentatious silence: “The ghost is you.” It is those who have remained anchored in the past, unable to continue a normal life, like a woman wandering the streets in search of her missing son, who represent the real ghosts of society.
In un saggio sul legame tra reenactment e fantasmatico, Bill Nichols riflette su come tale tecnica sottolinei lo scarto tra presente e passato, ma anche tra percezione soggettiva e oggettiva degli eventi. In questo modo, il reenactment crea una dimensione fantasmatica che annulla l’idea di oggettività totale e ne evidenzia la sua impossibilità. In Parkland of Decay and Fantasy, presentato all’interno del concorso Documentari Internazionali del TFF40, è l’immagine digitale a svolgere la funzione descritta da Nichols: le nuove tecnologie e in particolar modo la loro possibilità di intervento sull’immagine – come nel caso del finale visionario – rendono possibile l’evocazione visiva dei fantasmi al centro della narrazione di Parkland of Desire and Fantasy[1].
Carlos riattacca il telefono e si appoggia al muro. Ha gli occhi lucidi e vorrebbe sfogarsi ma non lo fa perché, come dice lui, “gli uomini non piangono”. Questo è il conflitto che Un varón, il nuovo film di Fabian Hernández, si propone di indagare: quello di un ragazzo che tenta di conformarsi all’ideale di mascolinità che vige nelle strade di Bogotá mentre nel privato vorrebbe solo essere se stesso. Il Natale si avvicina e il suo unico desiderio è quello di passarlo con la sorella, sempre più sfuggente, e con la madre che è in carcere. Uscito dal centro giovanile che l’ha accolto, si ritrova a fare i conti con la vita di strada e la legge del maschio alpha.
