Well, it's time to say goodbye to the Venice at Home project. Maybe it'll return next year as other cinephiles flood the Lido and those of us who don't share in the FOMO. There are three remaining directors in the official competition. First, Jafar Panahi, incarcerated since earlier this year but no less capable of dazzling cinephiles with his political, profoundly personal work. No Bears sounds like another triumph. Also vying for the honor is Susanna Nicchiarelli, whose Chiara completes an unofficial trilogy about historical women (Miss Marx and Nico, 1988 also screened at Venice). Finally, Roschdy Zem jumps behind the camera after having graced festival audiences with his acting in Other People's Children. For Les Miens he does triple duty as star, director, and screenwriter.
This miniseries was always intended to celebrate great artists, so it's fitting that the last three films are about them as we focus on an Iranian filmmaker (This is Not a Film), a German singer (Nico, 1988), and a French clown (Chocolat) of Afro-Cuban heritage…
THIS IS NOT A FILM (2011)
Mayhap no recent picture better exemplifies the cineaste's need to make cinema than this work by Jafar Panahi and Mojtaba Mirtahmasb. Shot within the former's apartment during a period of house arrest, the film sports a cheeky title that stems from a verdict that forbade Farhadi from making films for 20 years. So, this is not a film, merely a playful exercise oscillating between a diary and a confession. Maybe it's an artist's profile or, perchance a man's self-reflection, two friends messing around or a testament to the miracle of moving pictures. It's all that and more, encompassing an epic's worth of ideas despite its humble construction. Moreover, for those afraid of an impenetrable think-piece, This Is Not a Film feels remarkably accessible.
Reflecting upon this masterpiece, one of its most impressive elements is how the directing duo navigates through contrarian tones. Think of an early sequence when Panahi tries to explain a project that's now impossible to complete, inspiring the camera to become excited as if possessed by the power of a man's dreams. He, too, seems euphoric until the limited possibilities of a living room start crashing down on him. Gradually, a joy unlike anything else falls apart, a despondent ruin remains. Farhadi emerges as a person whose means of understanding the world got stolen by totalitarian injustice. Still, he's not a tragic lost cause but a bullish presence that refuses to give up. Cinema is part of his very being, and there's no way around it.
Another intersection of bliss and terror occurs in the transience of the building's elevator – a conversation turned into an interview turned into documentary filmmaking. There you can again see that graceful force by which the artist can't stop themselves from framing reality by the paradigms of their craft. For this domestic prisoner the need to create is paramount, personhood and politics defined as one and the same. Then, soaring into a lyrical finale full of unexpressed pain, This Is Not a Film affirms itself as a bold gesture, an act of defiance that dares anyone to separate the man from his freedom, the filmmaker from his camera. Still, for all this talk of rebellious sentiment, it's also a delicate thing, small and unadorned. It's the most beautiful "fuck you" ever articulated through film.
This Is Not a Film is streaming for free on Kanopy. You can also rent it on Kino Now.
NICO, 1988 (2017)
Dramatizing the last year in the life of Christa Päffgen, the erstwhile Warhol-muse more commonly known as Nico, Italian director Susanna Nicchiarelli and the Danish actress Trine Dyrholm approached their heroine as if she were a fictional character. According to the collaborators, it's a version of Nico, not necessarily an accurate portrayal. Though this strategy entails rich rewards, it also saddles the film with a mountain of problems it can't reasonably avoid. Above all else, this cinematic Nico feels simple to a fault, as if a deeply complicated personality had been flattened into easy-to-digest melodrama. Though some of the thorns remain, one can't miss the airs of hagiography.
Notice how Päffgen's war experience is reduced to an ominous prologue. The moment is later referenced regarding the artist's experiences with childhood hunger and her eternal search for the sound Berlin made as it burned. Whatever ideological marks growing up in a Nazi regime had on this (publicly racist and anti-Semite) woman are ignored. They're pushed aside even when the cast's racial makeup or the political setting are flagrantly predisposed to incite such character explorations. All these grumblings center on the text, for that's Nico, 1988's weakest link. Beyond the problematic script, though, the film is an insouciant drama that's always happy to stray from the biopic model.
Flashes of memory and archival footage blossom through the movie while the cinematography appeals to a marriage between a VHS atmosphere and celluloid textures. And then there's Dyrholm, a formidable actress who's always keen for a challenge. Devouring the screen with a rockstar's attitude, she's a force of nature constrained within the body of an addict whose better days are behind her. Her singing is especially astounding, turning concert scenes into spectacles of self-laceration, the voice traveling through her throat in raspy rhapsodies that are somewhere between Björk and Marlene Dietrich.
Nico, 1988 is streaming on Amazon prime Video, Tubi, Kanopy, and Plex.
CHOCOLAT (2016)
Chocolat is another biopic, though this one's happier to indulge in the vices and clichés expected from this genre. While not precisely a cradle-to-grave narrative, it comes close to it, going as far as to include flashbacks to a traumatic childhood. This is the story of Rafael Padilla, an Afro-Cuban performer who gained great success working as Chocolat, France's first Black clown superstar. Starting at the moment of discovery, the viewer is guided into the story by George Footit, a master of pantomime fallen on hard times and in need of something to revitalize his act. That something proves to be our hero, quickly refashioned from a cannibal king act into an auguste clown always ready to be pummeled by his white colleague. The dynamic is rooted in racism, and Zem never tries to sugarcoat that experience for what it's worth. Indeed, examining the insidiousness of racial prejudice in 1900s France becomes the movie's raison d'être as it unfolds.
While the director never exactly hide these realities, the indignities are gradually foregrounded. The change reflect the man's journey from someone who is willing to capitalize on quasi-minstrel acts to someone that feels objectified, eager to escape the colonial commodification. Some eleventh-hour attempts at Caucasian redemption spoil part of the critique, but there's value in this exercise nonetheless. If nothing else, Chocolat illuminates the life of a Black pioneer in French theatrical culture, calling attention to how even in triumph, marginalized people were seen as lesser by those in power, whether through active oppression or passive prejudice.
Furthermore, the picture's a showcase for dazzling period costumes and carnivalesque set design – production values are off the charts. Just as gorgeous to behold is Omar Sy in the titular role, evoking the clown's characteristic physicality with muscular bravado. James Thierrée is almost as excellent in the part of Footit, delivering a performance that earned him the César for Best Supporting Actor.
Chocolat is streaming for free on Kanopy. You can also rent it on various other services.
To all the readers who've been following the Venice Film Festival from their homes, how has the experience been treating you? Care to share some final prize predictions?