Twittering Soul, in Stereoscopic 3D

The science of both photography and medicine have advanced enormously since the 1880s. This film will make you grateful on both scores. It might feature the most striking use of 3D ever, yet it also incorporates Nineteenth Century stereoscopic photographic techniques. If you want to watch it, see it now, because it is only intended for theaters. However, viewers should understand Deimantas Narkevicius’s Twittering Soul is a very different kind of film, which is now showing at Anthology Film Archives.

Narkevicius very literally transports viewers back to the 1880s in Southern Lithuanian. It is an era defined by folklore, before the rise of mass media. Consequently, characters discuss witches and fairies as if they are obviously real, even though the viewers never see them.

Frankly, it is hard to embrace any of the figures as characters, per se. Due to his stereoscopic techniques, Narkevicius was technical unable to film close-up shots. However, his masterfully composed frames often look like museum dioramas. You truly feel like you could reach in and pick up a cast-member, as if they were figurines.

Arguably, the closest comp film would be Lech Majewski’s The Mill and the Cross, which translates the canvases of Pieter Bruegel into a film. Yet, Majewski still offered his cast greater opportunities for characterization (in fact, many viewers might have overlooked the excellent work of Michael York and Rutger Hauer in Majewski’s masterwork). Conversely, Twittering Soul is even more immersive—in the truest sense of the word. The 3D visions of hidden valleys and grottos vividly create a sense of depth that rivals full-fledged VR films.

Narkevicius also recreates the tactile sensations of nature, as if you were truly there. It is debatable how much drama viewers could take in, under such circumstance. In fact, there were even physical concerns for Narkevicius, who explained during the opening night Q&A, he deliberately kept the film relatively short (70-some minutes), because the stereoscopic process activates twice as many optical receptors, or something like that.

Pilgrims, on OVID.tv

This provincial Lithuanian town might be the only place where the idea of collective guilt might be valid. At least that is what a grieving man and woman start to suspect. They came to town to retrace the final steps of the late Matas, but the truth hurts even more than they expected in Laurynas Bareisa’s Pilgrims, which premieres today on OVID.tv.

Somehow, both Paulius and Indre were very close to Matas. We quickly figure out Paulius was Matas’s brother, but Indre’s relationship will be revealed over time. That is clearly Bareisa’s M.O., slowly unveiling little tidbits of information, until a full mosaic suddenly forms.

It is also pretty clear who killed Matas—a notoriously thuggish local—but, again, the where, when, how, and why are initially obscure. Like those bizarre Kennedy assassination tourists, Paulius and Indre slavishly retrace Matas’s final steps, to fulfill their pilgrimage to be exactly where he was and see essentially what he saw during those final minutes, hours, and days. The villagers do not seem to appreciate that much. In fact, their hostility stokes the audience’s suspicions.

Bareisa’s approach might sound annoying, but the execution is so rigorously disciplined, it is really quite surprisingly powerful. Although it is not truly a thriller, there are moments in Pilgrims that feel comparable to the climax of George Sluizer’s The Vanishing.

Giedrius Kiela is so brutally down-to-earth-looking, you might confuse the film for a documentary while watching him. Although Gabija Bargailaite looks a little more likely to have a film career, there is nothing posh or extravagant about her work or the way she is presented. Indeed, it is an extraordinarily complex performance.

In the Dusk, Resisting Communism in Lithuania

Father-son relationships are often complicated. A foreign occupation will not make it any easier for Jurgis Pliauga and his adopted son Unte. The young man is drawn to the more proactive means of resistance advocated by Deacon, a leader of the Forest Brothers partisans, whom he starts to see as a competing father figure. In contrast, his father prefers to play dumb, drag his feet, and even hide, if necessary, when the new occupying authorities come calling. Of course, tragedy comes for all men of good conscience in Sharunas Bartas’s In the Dusk, which premieres today on Film Movement Plus.

The War is over, but the Lithuanians would hardly know it. From their perspective, Soviet uniforms have simply replaced those of the Germans. Supposedly, they are now part of the Soviet Union, but the reparations and protection money the Soviets extort from them clearly imply their lowly position in the Soviet hierarchy. As the owner of a sizeable farm, Pliauga is a prime target for their shake-downs and his lazy farmhand Ignas also expects to receive part of his employer’s land holdings, through the promised socialist distribution.

Both Pliauga and Unte have social and commercial dealings with the rag-tag band of partisans in the forest. Increasingly, Unte is swayed by Deacon’s greater intellectual understanding of communism, democracy, and the Cold War, as well as his willingness to fight for Lithuania’s freedom. However, Pilauga is instinctively cautious. When the local troops come looking for him, the old man hides in a secret room hidden in his barn, which obviously evokes memories of those who hid from the Germans in a similar fashion.

In the Dusk is definitely an intentionally slow and deliberate film, but it is more accessible than Bartas’s previous film Frost. Through the former, we witness the long, slow death of innocence, experienced by Unte and anyone else who might have hooped for a better life under the Soviets. The Forest Brothers are often rude and crude, but they are not wrong about the Soviets.

Neither is Pilauga. Watching the tragedy unfold, it is clear the partisans and the farmers needed a more widespread, more coordinated, and more flexible campaign of resistance. Of course, nobody looks worse than the Soviets, who are sadistic torturers. Yet, they clearly do not believe their purported ideology either. They just cynically mouth the right platitudes, while practically rolling their eyes.

Inevitably, it all ends in heartbreak, unless you are Putin or one of his Western amen chorus, like Chomsky or MTG. This is a brutally realistic film that is rooted in the muddy muckiness of the forests and farms. Cinematographer Eitvydas Doskus makes it all look appropriately dark and ominous. Yet, Bartas still gets some terrific performances from his cast, particularly Arvydas Dapsys, as the cagey but sadly dignified Pilauga.

Slamdance ’21: Isaac

Isaac Kaplan was killed by a mob enthralled by an anti-Semitic ideology during the 1941 Lietukis Garage Massacre in Lithuanian, but he was also a victim of the Soviet Socialist ideology, before and after the fact. The truth, as revealed to viewers in fractured fragments, will be duly covered up in Jurgis Matulevicius’s extraordinary Isaac, which screens during this year’s (online) Slamdance Film Festival.

Viewers will see the murder of Kaplan unfold amidst the horrors of the massacre in the riveting and horrifying long opening tracking shot. Supposedly, Kaplan denounced his score-settling murderer to the retreating Soviet occupiers for his anti-Soviet activities. Obviously, the atrocities committed by the Soviets, the Germans, and their respective Lithuanian collaborators continue to fester and corrode the national psyche, but in the mid-1960s, you could only safely address the crimes of the Germans and their fascist allies—and then only cautiously so. Expat film director Gediminus Gutauskas does not understand how carefully he should tread when he returns home from America to shoot a film based on the Lietukis Massacre.

Initially, Soviet propaganda hails his voluntary return, receiving him like a superstar. His former lover, Elena Gluosnis is also happy to see him, because she hopes he will jumpstart her stalled film career. Her semi-estranged husband Andrius is less than thrilled at the prospect of his homecoming, but he too rekindles their friendship. As Gutauskas and his wife start production on the film, Gluosnis finds himself working more closely with KGB Major Kazimeiras, both as a crime scene photographer and as a photographic expert, analyzing archival photographs of the massacre. Struck by the similarities between the script and classified details of mass killings, Kazimeiras starts to suspect Gutauskas was present in a culpable capacity.

Except, nothing in Isaac is that simple. The screenplay, co-written by Matulevicius with Saule Bliuvaite and Nerijus Milerius takes a story by Lithuanian émigré writer Antanas Skema folds into itself and even incorporates Skema into the narrative. It has been billed as a “film noir,” which it is to an extent, but there is also heavy absurdist and postmodern elements. Yet, we can maybe also discern the influence Andrzej Wajda, particularly in they way it portrays censorship and cover-ups as an act of violence upon the national Lithuanian conscience.

Visually, Isaac is also a flat-out knockout. Matulevicius starts in brutally stark black-and-white then shifts to crimson-tinged color, before eventually reverting back to black-and-white. He and cinematographer Narvydas Naujalis pull off some stunning tracking shots. They truly immerse viewers in the characters’ world and surroundings. At times, Matulevicius’s visuals are almost too eye-popping, because they can distract from drama, which is also considerable.

MUBI: Frost

They really should have just done an AIDS walk. Instead, Rokas Vysniauskas and his girlfriend Inga Jauskaite agree to deliver a van-load of humanitarian aid to the Ukrainian defense forces battling “separatists” (a.k.a. Russians) along the porous Donbass frontline. It will be a much more dangerous mission than they initially expect in Sharunas Bartas’s Frost (trailer here), which premieres tomorrow on MUBI.

Vysniauskas is not very political, but he agrees to make the delivery on behalf of a friend, more or less for what-the-heck reasons. He also seems to think it will be a way to strengthen his strained relationship with Jauskaite. However, his plan seems to backfire during a stopover in Poland. During a party with Ukrainian relief workers and international journalists, they both initiate flirtatious encounters with other guests.

Nevertheless, they continue on their way, but the closer they get to the front, the more rigorously they are vetted at check points. Some of the Ukrainian self-defense volunteers see them as little more than dilletantes—and neither Bartas, co-screenwriter Anna Cohen-Yanay, or their characters are much inclined to argue.

It is probably safe to say Frost cautiously sides with Ukraine. It certainly is not pro-Russia. However, its most pointed criticism is directed at the young Lithuanians’ gawking war zone tourism and their naïve do-gooder attitudes. Wars are serious business, as everyone will eventually see first-hand.

Ironically, Vanessa Paradis steals the show with her brief but significant appearance as a photo-journalist with whom Vysniauskas chastely spends the better part of a night. Their ships passing dialogue is conducted in halting English, but it definitely connects on an emotional level. It is also the only time Mantas Janciauskas comes out of his Nordic-like Baltic shell. As Vysniauskas, he is glacially reserved. In contrast, Lyja Maknaviciute is a bit more passionate and quite a bit more neurotic as Jauskaite.

When Bartas finally stages scenes of warfighting, they are frightening and confusing in the right, deliberate kind of way. Admittedly, Frost is a small, uneven film, but it has enough interesting things going for it, particularly for MUBI subscribers. Recommended accordingly, Frost starts its 30-day MUBI rotation tomorrow (12/20).

Panorama Europe ’18: Miracle

Irena’s pig farm could use a capitalist pig. The former state collective was once the envy of Lithuanian agriculture, but it has fallen on hard times in the immediate post-Communist years. Bernardas claims to be the white knight riding in on a red Cadillac, but his motives are more complicated than he lets on in Egle Vertelyte’s Miracle (trailer here), which screens during this year’s Panorama Europe at MoMI.

Irena knows pigs, but that just isn’t enough anymore. The farm is on the brink of collapse, the share-owning workers have not been paid in months, and most of the town is rooting for her failure, because they resent the perks she enjoyed during the old regime. Enter Bernardas. The rather eccentric first-generation Lithuanian-American wants to buy the farm, because of a supposed sentimental attachment. It turns out the farm was built on land confiscated from his parents.

Frankly, you might expect Bernardas would more likely harbor feelings of bitterness towards the farm, but beggars can’t be choosers. Indeed, as soon as he takes possession of the farm, he starts to act suspiciously disinterested. Irena could better understand the situation if she talked with the village priest more, but she still bitterly clings to her abrasive Communist-era atheism.

Bernardas has been widely interpreted as a Trump surrogate, which in fact, feels like a fair reading. (Yet, the expat is arguably a more complex character than his pseudo-analog.) However, there is more to the film than a deadpan skewering of capitalism. As the title suggests, there is also a level of Christian allegory that pays off much more profoundly (and for the record, there is not much nostalgia for Communism, either).

In terms of aesthetics and ideology, Miracle often suggests a kinship with the work of Swedish Marxist Ray Andersson, but it is dramatically more humanistic. The bold manner it addresses the mysteries of faith and suffering also calls to mind The Temptation of St. Tony from Estonia and Letters to Father Jacob from Finland. Arguably, the film challenges viewers to replace their false gods with the real one. Of course, it is not easy, but neither is pig farming.

Egle Mikulionyte does indeed resemble the sort of severely reserved character found in the films of Aki Kaurismäki, or Heaven forfend, the uber-dry Andersson, but she also projects a keen sense of Irena’s closely guarded pain and insecurities. Ultimately, she is an acutely human and heroically dignified figure. Vyto Ruginis plays Bernardis as more than a bit of a blowhard, but he too is messily human and deeply sad. Yet, Daniel Olbrychski steals the show with understatement as the simple, patient priest.

So yes, watching Miracle requires a little faith. It pays off considerably, but it takes the long, indirect route to get there. Recommended for sophisticated viewers, Miracle screens tomorrow (5/5) during Panorama Europe, at MoMI.

Panorama Europe ’17: Mariupolis

It is hard work enduring a siege, yet the stoic citizenry of Mariupol, Ukraine continue to show up for work each morning as skilled factory laborers, shoemakers, and even zoo keepers. Lithuanian documentarian Mantas Kvedaravicius observes the embattled Ukrainians quietly going about their lives as death and destruction hovers just outside the city limits in Mariupolis (trailer here), which screens during this year’s Panorama Europe, at MoMI.

It is indeed quiet in the eye of the storm. During the first half of the film, the worst chaos we see is entirely domestically produced. Two trams collide, but nobody is hurt and rather astonishingly, they have the line repaired in time for the evening rush. However, there are disconcerting reports of nearby fighting on the radio and the tell-tale signs of military aggression mar buildings on nearly every block.

Obviously, this is a tense time, but musicians still perform concerts and a young couple proceeds with their wedding plan. Perhaps most ironically, Mariupol upholds tradition with their annual May 9^th Victory Day celebration. However, things get tragically real when a projectile attack claims innocent victims.

Obviously, Mariupolis will not be part of the Putin hit parade, but it is probably too Wisemanesque to serve a polemical role. Of course, that also means Kvedaravicius maintained his aesthetic and journalistic integrity. Still, there is no question where the film’s sympathies lie.  Throughout Mariupolis, it is clear the Russian-backed separatist terrorists are deliberately targeting civilians and they consequently have no appreciable support within the beleaguered city.

To really understand the Maidan revolution and the subsequent Russian invasion, you need more context than Kvedaravicius supplies (which is precious little). On the other hand, it opens a very personal window into the David-and-Goliath conflict. It is rather poignant to see these taciturn Ukrainians celebrate life, while the Russian puppets outside the city walls embrace death. Recommended for sophisticated documentary watchers, particularly those who appreciate the work of Sergei Loznitsa, Mariupolis screens this Saturday (5/13) at MoMI, as part of this year’s Panorama Europe.

The Invisible Front: Lithuania’s Heritage of Resistance

As Putinist forces wage a dirty war against Ukraine, it is hard to avoid the sinking feeling of history repeating itself. However, there is some history he and his separatist lackeys would be advised to remember. The Soviets did their best to banish any mention of the armed resistance to their Baltic occupation from the media and the history books, but the truth will out. The heroic struggles of Lithuania’s partisans are chronicled in Jonas Ohman, Vincas Sruoginis & Mark Johnston’s The Invisible Front (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

The Baltic Republics were caught in a tight spot during WWII, trapped between two ruthless totalitarian systems. When the Soviets reconquered the Baltics at the end of the war, they commenced a brutal crackdown, hoping to beat the occupied nations into submission. It had the opposite effect.

At its height, one out every twenty Lithuanians was directly involved with the armed partisan resistance, known as the Forest Brothers—a staggeringly high percentage given the risks. Juozas Lukša emerged from the ranks as the movement’s inspirational leader. He was a warrior when necessary, but first and foremost, he was a journalist documenting Soviet atrocities.

Lukša’s memoir of resistance, The Forest Brothers, provides much of the film’s descriptive commentary, augmented by the testimony of surviving partisan supporters, as well as some of the occupying Soviet oppressors, at least one of whom has since had a change of heart. Unfortunately, America plays the role of the absent cavalry in this story, never interceding on behalf of the Baltics as the Forest Brothers hoped and prayed. It was certainly not for a lack of trying on Lukša’s part.

Several times he clandestinely traveled to the west, hoping to spread awareness of Soviet human rights abuses and thereby spur western action. His efforts were not completely wasted. He met his future wife, Nijolė Bražėnaitė while on assignment in Paris. Needless to say, their romance would be sadly cut short.

Told through the prism of Lukša’s life, Invisible begins as a war story, evolves into a surprisingly tense tale of espionage, with a heartbreaking romance embedded right in its center. All our stirring stuff, but it is the love story of Lukša and Bražėnaitė that really cries out for a dramatic feature treatment.

Ohman & Sruoginis scored some impressive on-camera interviews, including Bražėnaitė, former Lithuanian President Valdus Adamkus, and at least one former Russian officer who does not realize how ominous it sounds when he explains they referred to duty in the Baltics as the titular “Invisible Front” because of the complete news blackout throughout the rest of the USSR. (Yet, nobody can say they did not give the other side a chance to speak for themselves). Lithuanian pop vocalist-actor Andrius Mamontovas (excellent in Hong Kong Confidential) adds further domestic star power, sensitively narrating passages from Lukša’s memoir.

Invisible Front is a tightly constructed documentary, arriving at a precarious moment in history, with Putinist Russia is openly aggressing against a free and unified Ukraine. Keenly aware of the film’s timeliness, the production team has started raising funds to supply body armor and medical kits to Ukraine’s volunteer Self-Defense Brigades. It is a worthy cause and a worthy documentary. Ultimately, it is an inspiring film, but it is eerie just how directly it speaks to events unfolding in Ukraine. Highly recommended, particularly for younger viewers who did not live through the Captive Nations era, The Invisible Front opens this Friday (11/7) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Panorama Europe ’14: Cinematic Inclusions (including The Black Box)

The Lithuanians did not take to Soviet domination, culturally or politically. In strange ways, they cultivated their rugged, taciturn image to help sustain their distinctive national identity. One can see this strategy at work in a series of short documentaries restored to commemorate Lithuania’s EU presidency. Collected under the title Cinematic Inclusions, these often abstract films screen together for adventurous viewers during Panorama Europe.

In observance of strict chronology, the most accessible (and longest) Inclusion is the final film of the program. Not so surprisingly given their non-conformist nature, hundreds of thousands of Lithuanians were deported to Siberia during the Communist era. The exile experience was especially painful when family members passed away, because Lithuanian customs highly value burial in one’s homeland. As the rotten Communist system started to crumble, many repatriated Lithuanians returned to Siberia in hopes of smuggling loved ones’ remains back home. Algimantas Maceina followed his father on one such mission in The Black Box.

In part, Box is like a time capsule of the early days of newly independent Lithuania, but it is also an ethnographic record of Lithuanian funerary customs. However, it is not included in Inclusions merely to represent the mid 1990s. While Maceina faithful records the trip, as well as the subsequent wake and funeral for his grandfather’s recovered remains, he plays the footage as if on an accelerated fast-forward. At least, you cannot say he does not respect the audience’s time, as he documents a significant phenomenon largely particular to Lithuania.

Before going further, it is worth remembering American experimental film icon Jonas Mekas is Lithuanian. Indeed, he would most likely appreciate the avant-garde aesthetic of the rest of the Inclusions. As much cinematic essays or visual tone poems as they are documentaries, they are remarkably consistent in tone and subject matter, despite spanning twenty-seven years of frustrating national history.

In the 1960s, Robertas Verba established a template with The Old Man and the Earth and The Dreams of Centenarians, celebrating the salt-of-the-earth while explicitly rejecting Socialist Realism. Poring over every wrinkle and imperfection, Verba’s films have a clear inclination towards grotesque fetishism. Not very doc-ish, they present a rather surreal perspective that becomes even more pronounced in films like Almantas Grikevičius’s Time Passes Through the City. The ambivalent attitude towards industrial “progress” reflected in Henrikas Šablevičius’s A Trip Across the Misty Meadow is also clearly out of step with Socialist propaganda. Yet, it is hard to get any less Soviet than the jazzy interludes that make their way into several of the films’ soundtracks.

Its execution might be a bit eccentric, but just about any viewer will get something out of Algimantas Maceina’s The Black Box. While the rest of the constituent films are decidedly more demanding, they represent a fascinating episode in cinematic history. It is good to know Lithuania values its heritage enough to preserve them for posterity. Recommended for hardcore fans of experimental film, Cinematic Inclusions screens free of charge this Wednesday (4/9) at Bohemia National Hall and Saturday (4/12) at the Museum of the Moving Image (free with regular admission), as part of this year’s Panorama Europe.