My Chicago International Film Festival Diary - Final Entry

My final trip to the Chicago International Film Festival started with some minor drama - suburban trains were running late due to track construction, I had lost my admission ticket to the afternoon's screening - but all was eventually resolved.  I bypassed the energizing walk along the river and took a cab, which deposited me at the front of the AMC 21 Theater in record time, and the friendly, efficient CIFF volunteer staff replaced my ticket with little fanfare.

The inconveniences were well worth the trip.  The final film on my agenda, In the Fade, may be the best of the four I saw at the festival this year.

I know Diane Kruger has been a steady presence in films and television for the last fifteen years or so. But before yesterday, if you'd asked me what she'd done, the only role I could have brought to mind was Bridget von Hammesmark, the doomed German actress in Inglorious Basterds. That all changes now; Kruger gives a stunning, ferocious performance here as a grieving, traumatized woman whose Turkish immigrant husband and young son are killed by white supremacist bombers.  She won the Best Actress prize at Cannes this year and - depending on how this film is received when it opens in the U.S. in December - she could be an Oscar nominee. (She certainly should be.)

The handful of reviews published so far for In the Fade (from other festivals where it has appeared this year) are almost universally laudatory towards Kruger, but dismissive of the film as a whole, calling it formulaic and predictable.  I can't agree, and I don't share those critics' jaded reaction to the extended courtroom scenes in the middle of the film.  I found the rhetoric employed by the bombers' defense attorney to be unnervingly evocative of the debased political discourse we've seen in our own country as late, while the prosecuting attorney's passionate plea for common sense and decency felt especially cathartic. That timely relevance made for some pretty riveting viewing.

Through those courtroom, scenes, Kruger is a powder keg of barely controlled fury and horror - you can't take your eyes off her. The actress navigates all the stages of grief, despair, trauma, vengefulness, and resignation with impressive emotional stamina.  Her character is equal parts broken-hearted and bad-ass - a tricky kind of duplicity to pull off, but Kruger dives deep to find the character's shattered soul and makes every step of her journey heartbreakingly transparent.

The denouement here is shocking and depressing as hell (and I won't give it away), but the trip there is gripping and powerful.  I give the credit equally to Kruger and her director, Faith Akin, whose earlier work I haven't seen but am determined to seek out now.

In the Fade is Germany's official submission for the 2018 foreign-language Oscar.  I still think BPM is film to beat for the trophy, but I full expect to see this one on the final list of nominees come January.

My Chicago International Film Festival Diary, Part 2

The difference between attending the festival on a weekend and attending on a weekday is all in the audience.  Weekends bring a mixed crowd of young-to-middle-aged filmgoers.  On a late Tuesday morning, the audience is dominated by affluent older women. While waiting on line for the first matinee, I am surrounded by: precisely, expensively bobbed silver haircuts; capes and jackets that appear to be a Gold Coast boutique's riff on Chico's outerwear; emphatically delivered opinions on books ("A Gentlemen in Moscow" is, apparently, required reading) and Vanessa Redgrave (who "is absolutely beautiful and does nothing about it," and is "at least 83!'). Editorial comment: Redgrave turned 80 this year - but it does seem like she's been around forever!

Anyway, the first film of the day is Barrage, a tense family drama in which Isabelle Huppert and Lolita Chammah (Huppert's real-life daughter) play a long-estranged mother and daughter competing for the affections of Chammah's young daughter (Themis Pauwels).

Barrage is Luxembourg's official submission for the Oscars' Foreign Language film trophy, and I suspect that is because: 1) Luxembourg is a small country with a small film industry and not much else to submit; or 2) the presence of Huppert mere et fille gives the film an aura of prestige that it wouldn't have earned otherwise.

It's not that the film is bad, exactly.  It's well -acted and engrossing, but not especially revelatory.  Chammah shows up after years away to reclaim the daughter she left with her controlling mother.  The two slowly bond on a trip to a family chalet in the woods, where Chammah decides to discard the pills she keeps to 'keep dark thoughts away.' (Huppert is a supporting player here with a relatively small role.)

There's a muddled, muted feeling to the proceedings - the stakes are never too high, the consequences never too dire - and the dialogue among Chammah, Huppert and Pauwels is suggestive and alllusive, rather than explicit, about long-simmering family conflicts.  All of which is admirable to a point, and not unusual for a European film. But sometimes you really long for something about these people and their anger to be made startlingly clear. Maybe that's the result of my American conditioning or maybe it's a valid criticism; I'm still trying to work that out.

There's also a bizarre dream sequence awkwardly inserted late in the film, of which director Laura Schroeder admitted, in the post-screening Q&A, that she didn't really know whose point of view is represented (an odd comment from a writer/director).  Still Schroeder was so earnest and sweet, especially when admitting that she had stayed for the final screening of her film because she loved Chicago too much to leave earlier, that I find it difficult to be hard on her.   I wish her well, but I don't expect to see Barrage on the Oscar shortlist.

The other film I saw was God's Own Country which marks the promising debut of director/screenwriter Francis Lee.  It's been widely touted as a British Brokeback Mountain, a comparison which I guess was inevitable for a film about two young men who fall in love while working outside with sheep.  In truth, it's a far different story - more about how a good relationship forces its young, unfocused protagonist to grow up and deal with the responsibilities of his life than about furtive, forbidden passion. And without giving too much away, it's far more hopeful than the earlier film.

Johnny (Jason O'Connor) is a frustrated and lonely young man, working the family farm alone as a result of his father's debilitating stroke - and handling his duties none too well. His life is a blur of drunken nights, furtive assignations with other closeted young men, and stand-offs with a father who has no patience with his son's lazy carelessness.

Enter a Romanian migrant worker brought in to to help Johnny on the farm. Alec Sacarenu is handsome with soulful, chocolate brown eyes and his character, Gheorge, is as wise, gentle and patient as Johnny is adolescent and mercurial.  The two fall into a physical relationship while out and away in the hills; upon their return, the relationship deepens. There are further plot developments which force Johnny to come to grips with his life and his desires.  I'm not about to deliver spoilers here, but let's just say it all plays out to a satisfactory conclusion, although not without obstacles to be overcome along the way.

Nothing surprising there, but the journey benefits from Lee's handling of atmosphere and his eye for lovingly rendered details of the rural life and landscape.  Cinematographer Joshua James Richards creates beautiful shots of moody, gray Yorkshire skies that enforce Johnny's sense of bleakness and loneliness. The cast also includes a quiet, beautiful performance by an almost unrecognizable Gemma Jones as Johnny's steadfast mother.

My experience of the film festival isn't just about the films, it's also about being in Chicago.  I'm in the city infrequently these days; to my horror, I've become one of those suburbanites who rarely wanders into Chicago and limits her visits mostly to well-traveled venues.  Still, on a crisp, sunny October morning, there is no better sight than that from the Riverwalk. I strolled all the way from Wells Street to the east side of Michigan Avenue on Tuesday morning.  The Riverwalk was quiet - a few joggers, a scattering of tourists with cameras, the cafes and bars not yet open for business - and the magnificence of the architecture along the river was splendid to see against a brilliantly blue sky. It set the tone for my day and made me happy.  The films I saw were just the icing on the cake.

My Chicago International Film Festival Diary (Part 1)

I kept a long-standing promise to myself this year, and actually scheduled a week off work around the Chicago International Film Festival.  So far, I have four films on my agenda with the option to spontaneously head into the city for anything else that strikes my fancy.  Here's my first report.

I headed to the River East AMC theater for the first time on Sunday - a cool, cloudy day following a Saturday deluge of heavy rain.  The Chicago River had spilled over its banks and splashed into the outdoor cafes along the city's Riverwalk, which were closed and ghostly quiet that morning.  

The audience was also surprisingly sparse at the late morning screening of BPM (also known as 120 Battements Par Minute in France). Director Robin Campillo's drama about AIDS in early '90s Paris took the Grand Jury Prize at Cannes this year, and it's not hard to see why. The film is stirring and heartbreaking in equal measures, with very strong performances and expressionistic visual imagery that is at once sad, profound and beautiful.

The film opens at a meeting of ActUp Paris,the Gallic counterpoint of the USA's radical anti-AIDS activist group.  A earnest young man looks directly into the camera and outlines the rules of order for the group's weekly meetings; it's soon reveled that he's talking to a group of new members, but the scene also helps the audience comprehend the many fast-paced, debate-filled meeting scenes that follow. 

This same character is seen throughout the film on the edges of the group's actions (protest marches, disruptions of speeches and public events to throw fake blood or the ashes of dead AIDS victims on 'all talk/no action' scientists and politicians). He never seems to really participate, but rather looks on his fellow activists with wonder and obvious admiration.  He is clearly the stand-in for Campillo, who directs BPM with a cool, documentarian's touch. It's full of righteously angry characters given to fiery debates, yet the film itself never feels angry or polemical.  It does, however, have energy and a well-calibrated rhythmic intensity as it cycles through scenes of Act Up meetings, dance clubs, and intimate encounters between the two lovers at the story's center.  These particular types of scenes recur at predictable intervals, and yet the shape and focus of those scenes evolves as the stakes become more desperate. 

The stand-out in the cast is Nahuel Perez Biscayart, who portrays one of the most spirited members of Act Up  - and whose illness progresses most quickly.  All the young actors are good, but it's Biscayart whose presence and energy light up every scene he's in.  

Most of the audience sat through the entire closing credits crawl before leaving the theater, which for me is proof of BPM's emotional power; you can't get up and walk away from it easily.  This is France's submission for next year's Best Foreign-Language film Oscar. I'm going out on a limb and predicting that it will not only make the nomination's shortlist, but that it will actually win.

By the time BPM concluded, the sun had come out in Chicago.  I had nearly two hours to kill before another Metra train would head back to the northwest suburbs, so I took my time strolling down Michigan Avenue and State Street, popping into stores along the way.  It was maddening.  As is usual for a Sunday, the streets and stores were filled with tourists. Only these weren't the usual folks who drive in from Indiana or Wisconsin for the weekend; today's tourist trade was largely European or Asian and they were clamoring to scoop up clearance-priced designer handbags at Macy's, bargain-priced gewgaws at Nordstrom Rack, chocolate at Dylan's Candy Bar, makeup at Sephora.... you name it. Their near-manic quest to scoop up American consumer goods was startling.

Later, as I struggled to cross the DuSable Bridge, squeezing myself between out-of-towners snapping selfies in which the Trump building would loom ominously behind them, I had an uncharitable thought. "These damn tourists...." the thought began, and spiraled downward from there.

When I had finally settled in with a bowl of tomato basil soup at the Corner Bakery on Wacker Drive - blessedly uncrowded in mid-afternoon and largely tourist-free - I was able to see the irony in my irritation. Surely someone in Prague... and in Rome... and Verona... and Venice... had felt the same away about ME this past summer!