All These Voices
How a talented, multi-cultural team of young AFI graduate filmakers has inspired me to write my first film review.
Kurt (Harrison Thomas), a young SS officer drops a cable and descends into a dark and empty space, away from the cheerful voices echoing in the imagined streets. The world is celebrating outside, the war has ended. The space in the darkness looks and feels like a bunker. He removes any identifying pieces of his uniform and hides them away. He tries to scrape out the swastika from his knife’s handle — and fails. Such is German quality — and such is the past. It can not be undone, can not be scraped away. The image of the swastika will stay embedded seemingly forever in the handle. Will so the mark on the nation? But the knife is a tool, a valuable tool, and Kurt can not simply get rid of it. He is condemned to keeping it on himself, probably the only object that could give him away.
Kurt must have spent a considerable time in the space. Long enough to be going mad from loneliness. He seems to know his way around the bunker, handling the strange pieces of electrical equipment — walls of switchboards and wires, large plugs and levers, switching them with apparent mastery and the sole aim of filling the void, keeping the mind busy. To forget — or at least not to remember. Everything he has done. I wonder what he must have done. The metallic drawers and lockers covered in chipping enamel reverberate dreadfully in the empty silence. I assume at this point the strange devices are of military origin. I mean, what else could they be — it had been war time after all?
Then, two wires touch, there’s a spark — and a small room is lit up as he finally sits calmly in the warmth of a work light. A moment of rest, stillness from sheer exhaustion. The “room” is really more of a crawl space, too small to be a normal room. It feels vaguely familiar, I have seen this kind of a space before. It reminds me of a Venetian prison cell from Casanova’s times, not tall enough to stand, not wide enough to lie down.
Then — a majestic view — a decrepit old movie theater is revealed, sitting in darkness. Instantly, Cinema Paradiso comes to mind. And Chaplin. And my heart jumps with happiness. The “little room” is where the projector goes.
Then there are voices of strangers — a group of Polish friends has made their way into the theater. As Kurt hides behind crates, I wonder if he is a ghost and they are visitors in present time. One of the women says to someone that that someone has fulfilled a promise. What promise? That the place was magical? That it was worth the effort? Or… that some day they would see it again, the theater? This possibility sends chills down my spine, because I know that she would have heard those words, hanging on for her life in a concentration camp — and remember, by now I have not even seen her face on the screen. There is surprising, invigorating and inspiring mastery unwinding in front of me. I can completely relax and enjoy the ride.
Mordo, one of the strangers take note of Kurt hiding behind the crates. A moment of tension, a fear which creeps into the actor’s body (Anthony Nikolchev) as he stumbles off the stage and lifts a piece of wood as a desperate weapon. The way he propels off the stage, makes my knees cringe — it’s not a stunt, it feels very real. And beautiful because of that. This may sound a simple reduction for nothing but a physical move, but when you see it you will know what I mean. Kurt slowly shows himself, arms raised high in surrender. Of course, he can not speak a word so as not to give away his identity.
Janusz, a man of a majestic presence (Kristof Konrad), who perfectly embodies the pride and beauty of the Polish folk steps forward towards - he will ask. The simple, ordinary questions which follow somehow seem to bear tremendous significance. Perhaps because spoken in a theater.
“Govorite po Russki?”
Then: “Sprechen Sie Deutch?”
A heavy silence. An uncomfortable silence.
It’s a relief to the group the young man does not answer, so that the worst does not happen. But we know and the tension is awe inspiring. They ask further - Yiddish? French? Italian? (it’s funny to them if he were, and I somehow laugh with them — I don’t even know why) Greek? Maybe English, finally - English? No answer. They conclude he must be unable to speak.
Let there be light.
The young man slowly moves down and connects wires to a spotlight lying on the floor, the stage area is lit up for the first time. It is his offering to the group. The first fire in the cave of men is born and paves the way for the arts.
Janusz offers Kurt a piece of bread, Kurt hastily fills his mouth and with devastating gratitude simply nods. I loved this moment. How to say thank you without speaking. With your head, with your eyes... The wonderful thing about this moment is we know it’s not only Kurt’s gratitude for the bread, but for the fact he knows — that is, he thinks — he does not deserve it.
Janusz stands, his clear blue eyes seemingly seeing through Kurt. I can’t help but think Janusz may know something and indeed, Kurt feels it too. Janusz does not show a sign of such, or of the opposite; just standing there in simple humility, grandeur, which — to me — perfectly captures the entire Polish nation and its stance through history. A vulnerable, honest, beautiful moment, yet another one — there are plenty in this film.
The Arts are born.
The women and men scatter across the stage, picking up leftover artifacts and taking them in — with an insatiable thirst for beauty. Kurt is asked closer to the stage, and turns on another set of lights as masks appear in the shelves by the side. I feel like crying. I instantly miss theater, the Greeks. Quite possibly unintended, I see the whole early history of arts and I feel excited, and amazed how all this is possible in a 15 minute film. The fire in the caves (the first spotlight Kurt lights), then the shapeless voices and sighs (the first ooh-s and aah-s of a thespian on a box), and homologous early body movements from tired, worn out bodies which we know had endured… the worst. And the movements give birth to dance and the voices make way for spoken word as Janusz picks up an old copy of the Odyssey and reads from it:
I saw the ghost of my dead mother Anticleia, daughter of Autolycus who was still alive when I set sail…
Poland, their mother, was still alive when they left — for the hell they had somehow miraculously returned from. Their eyes fill up with tears. Beata (Beata Pozniak) finds a silk white glove and as her hand slips in, she utters one of the most profoundly human lines I have ever witnessed in a film: “I miss my clothes.” The clothes, of course — the goddamn clothes! Her — own — personal clothes. Isn’t that beautiful?
Mordo finds a wooden prop piece of a model house. At first, it’s a discovery, with the magic of a music box. He gently lifts it up, turns it around, and looks at it. The women (Kinga Phillips, Kaszia Kowalczyk) look at themselves in the mirror. Beata puts on a luscious white wig. It’s all first looks, childish awe, magic — and discovery.
Then a shot of cinematic genius: a pair of hands lifts a set of heavy books, which was pushing down a fragile hand on a thin, tired forearm. The forearm bears an inmate number. We’ve seen those numbers so many times, and it’s still one of the most powerful symbols. The hand moves freely and “dances” free, liberated from the weight of occupation. The hand flies — like the wings of a bird.
Oh, we all fall for it, we really do — we’re as excited as they are, Kurt watches, amazed. We’ve all forgotten, for a moment. Then, Beata notices — something in the mirror, her expression changes to a shade of worry. Doris notices her sunken cheeks. Mordo finds the house is barren, the windows are gone, there is no splendor, no splendor at all. Reality kicks in. I realize, my gosh, they have probably not seen their faces in — how many months, how many years?
The images begin to blend in a montage, as the guests take on their newly found roles. They dance more, they perform — as Drama comes to life. Lenses are shifted, images distorted and I know I am seeing — the art of Cinema. Kurt’s face is full of terror, as his memories invade and catch up with all their force. He runs away from the stage and trips. His knife has fallen out of his holder.
Janusz walks up, picks up the knife and points it at Kurt. Kurt begs for mercy. In a beautiful shot, Janusz turns the knife. The cycle of life. The dreadful, miserable cycle of harm, of retribution — is imminent. Then Janusz lets out a scream. A profound, symbolic scream which gives me goose bumps. It’s all there. The inability to understand the pain that had been inflicted, the point of it all, the anger, the profound sadness which is eating up the soul. Yes, another one of those masterful moments — are you still counting?
I would like very much to write my impressions for what follows but I can not, should not describe the scent of a rose to you. Go and smell it for yourself. See how they do it. Then tell me about forgiveness, both forgiveness to others as well as oneself, about moving on. Tell me about the closing door. And I’ll tell you how it’s amazing that they shot the film at the decrepit “Roxy” here in Downtown LA and how cool that is. We will talk about the impeccable timing of the edit, and the amazing Polish folk music soundtrack which somehow reminded me of all the beautiful Bosnian music I had heard and how I saw not only that one war in this film, not only that one genocide, but the one in Bosnia too. I saw all of them. I wish some day we can close those damned doors - for good. Until then, I shall be screaming.
It’s a really, really special film, a gem of a film from under the hands, minds and hearts of what must be nothing but an amazing little crew. I foresee great careers for all of them. David Henry Gerson, the co-writer and director, who has to, has to be a genius: the impeccable pacing of the film, and all those moments where a simple gesture, a look, an image conveys everything — and more. The other two writers Martin Horvat and Brennan Elizabeth Peters, I’d like to see their individual voices in the future. And yes, another project by the team would also be quite wonderful. Eli Arenson, for the crisp, daring cinematography which allowed the rich, layered, magically layered art direction by Daniela Medeiros to come to life. (As I sat in the screening theater of AFI, I kept thinking — thank goodness they shot this on celluloid, I would not have it any other way.)
Friends. If the film comes to a theater or festival close to you, go out of your way to see it. As for myself, I am happy to report that cinematic art is very much alive and well. And this Sunday, June 7th, I shall be going to bed hopeful and inspired.
