Creating art is never easy, getting funding for art is even harder. I helped write a short film, and we, the creative force behind this film, are seeking contributions. Any little bit will help, and please, please, if you don’t donate at least spread this to any fat cat friends you may have.
Here is a video of me rambling about the project:
It can be quite jarring moving from a darkened environment to one brightly, if not garishly lit, and teeming with bodies and noise, that all constant thrum of people, walking, talking, shouting, jangling coins and keys, rustling bags of bought and bargained wares. I was forced to sit down after I exited the theater, grasping for something, anything, that would explain what I just witnessed. Over the speakers of the mall, a muzak version of “Goodbye Sunshine” played, only adding to my distress.
When you consider yourself a fan, an aficionado, of an art form it is not often that you are thoroughly astounded, and yet that is exactly what “The Tribe” left me. Fitting that a film with no dialogue spoken between its characters would leave me silent. Plot wise it is fairly straight forward. New kid in town quickly rises through the ranks of a gang, because of love he falls out of favor and things end badly for all involved parties. A story told many a time. Except this is set at a school of the deaf in a crumbling Ukraine, resembling a bombed out Neverland where the children run rampant. And all of the dialogue is done in sign language, sans subtitles.
This is a film about movement, the camera constantly tracking, the actors constantly moving, gesturing, attempting to communicate. We are dumped right into this whirlwind with the main character, a new arrival to the school. As viewers we are as new to the environment as he, we follow his initiation into the gang, his sudden rise, and the events leading to the final act that left me so debilitated.
The violence of this film grows, you first notice in the very act of their communicating, the sudden slapping of hands on a table, you see that they are yelling, but only with their hands. There is a fight between the new student that is stunningly filmed, the frame full of movement. The cinematography lends itself to the violence, tracking shots that continue on and on, and yet in one of the most astonishing moments of the film the camera is still, you are stuck, a victim for your voyerism into this world in which you do not belong.
This is a movie that will smash your head in and then leave, and dare you to get up again.
“To the master bedroom where the vampires feast”
– “Monster Mash,” lyrics by Bobby Pickett
This film has been described as an Iranian feminist vampire movie and a spaghetti western, I have heard the director, Ana Lily Amirpour, compared to Tarantino and Jaramusch. The problem with comparisons and labels is that, oftentimes, they are attempts to fit something within a box. We seem to live in such a world that needs such comfy characterizations, that needs to function with these easily marked boxes, the better to fit into someones algorithm. “If you liked that then you will surely enjoy this. You bought that, how about shilling out for these?” All the more significant when something comes along that defies such tidy explanations and tedious comparisons. Ana Lily Amirpour’s debut, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, is such a work.
One of the reasons it resists classification is because this movie is a multitude, as can be gleaned from the disparate comparisons it invites. Plot wise there are at least three different movies contained within one. Usually this shows a lack of restraint on the part of the filmmaker, a tendency towards excess and messy final product. In this case Amirpour is in control, weaving all the strings together into something grander than each brilliant thread.
From the opening notes of the film you get a sense that something is going to be a bit off . Aresh, one of the main characters, grabs his cat from someone’s back yard and is walking back to his car. The opening music begins as the camera follows him down deserted streets. Although it is daytime, the only person he passes is a lone woman standing on a corner. As he begins to cross a bridge, the music slows down, like a cassette tape set to the lowest possible setting, and as the camera lingers on a ditch it becomes apparent that it is filled with bodies. The music is then replaced with the sound of flies. This body pit is never mentioned throughout the film, but its mere presence at the beginning, hovers and buzzes over over the rest of the film. It is seen a few times after the opening, a body is pushed tossed in, and later a dog emerges from it. Life is cheap in Bad City. Ostensibly a shadow version of Tehran, (although does Tehran really need a shadow version; what do you call the shadow of a shadow?), Bad City is a lawless ghost town. It is populated by drug dealers and addicts, prostitutes and pimps, beggar children, and the spoiled rich. And stalking all of them through the night is a nameless woman, played by Sheila Vand and credited as The Girl.
Not much of a city, the surroundings are made up of square, squat houses, thumping oil pumpjacks, billowing smoke stacks; industrial desolation. We get repeated shots of these as stand alone images, not tied to any of the characters, but looming, like the corpses, over everything. A comparison that I have not heard bandied about, is to that great chronicler of bourgeois malaise, Michelangelo Antonioni. His films are populated by such standalone images, and he uses them to highlight an emptiness, a lacking in the lives of his characters, of an entire class. They are not just a backdrop for the camera, but come to represent a backdrop for the very souls of the characters wandering around these wastelands. Here these images are put to a similar use, they represent a kind of death, but it is not a death of bourgeois ennui. The constantly pumping oil, the endless smoke, this is a kind of violence, a violence into which these characters are born, live and then die.
Violence is at the heart of this film, particularly violence against women. The Girl can be viewed as some kind of avenging angel, or perhaps avenging demon would be more accurate, I don’t remember any angels having fangs. She stalks these men who have ravaged this earth, these women. The Girl tells a prostitue she has been shadowing, “You don’t remember what you want. You don’t remember wanting and nothing ever changes.”
These women are told what to want, told what to do, what to be. For those lucky to be in the upper class they sedate themselves with drugs and are happy in their trance, in the lower class drugs are forced upon them and happiness escapes them entirely.
The violence, or justice depending on your view, The Girl metes out is sudden and jarring; this film contains some fine moments of horror. But, as mentioned previously, this is more than a horror movie, more than a very strange love story, this is the dawn of a new talent, and I cannot wait to see what Ana Lily Amirpour does next.
They Feed They Lion
Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
They Lion grow.
Out of the gray hills
Of industrial barns, out of rain, out of bus ride,
West Virginia to Kiss My Ass, out of buried aunties,
Mothers hardening like pounded stumps, out of stumps,
Out of the bones’ need to sharpen and the muscles’ to stretch,
They Lion grow.
Earth is eating trees, fence posts,
Gutted cars, earth is calling in her little ones,
“Come home, Come home!” From pig balls,
From the ferocity of pig driven to holiness,
From the furred ear and the full jowl come
The repose of the hung belly, from the purpose
They Lion grow.
From the sweet glues of the trotters
Come the sweet kinks of the fist, from the full flower
Of the hams the thorax of caves,
From “Bow Down” come “Rise Up,”
Come they Lion from the reeds of shovels,
The grained arm that pulls the hands,
They Lion grow.
From my five arms and all my hands,
From all my white sins forgiven, they feed,
From my car passing under the stars,
They Lion, from my children inherit,
From the oak turned to a wall, they Lion,
From they sack and they belly opened
And all that was hidden burning on the oil-stained earth
They feed they Lion and he comes.