Croatian Cinema. 2.

Beyond Boundaries: The Emergence of Croatian Cinema (through November 14 at the Film Society of Lincoln Center's Walter Reade Theater) got off to a splendid - if depressing - start with its initial offerings. I say depressing for two reasons: the content of the three films I was able to see - chosen because the director of each would be present and "up" for an interview - and because the audience for this series appears to be remarkably tiny. This is a shame, considering the quality of these first three movies and, I will presume, much of what is to follow.

In describing one of these films, Two Players from the Bench, Richard Brody, writing in the New Yorker, refers to the film as "what the West calls black comedy and the Balkans call life." Well said and too true. While there are things to savor, enjoy and laugh at in all three movies, the underlying feelings of gloom, disappointment and discouragement are simply too strong to exorcise. The miracle here is an ability to persevere.

Armin (site), which is Croatia's entry in the Foreign Language Oscar race, is the least bleak of the three. With very little exposition, it tells a tale of a father and son journeying from a small town to a larger one where the son hopes to audition for a role in a movie. Dad is among the "stage mothers" of all time, but in an exceedingly Croatian manner. Despite his persistence (and his son's great embarrassment), you will not mistake him for Momma Rose.

Little by little we learn the details - some of them, at least - of these two lives. And yet, what many might consider the most important details (certainly the film crew making the movie-within-a-movie does) remain hidden.  This is a daring thing to do, particularly as it concerns, we suspect, past war experiences. But this is also how director/writer Ognjen Svilicic keeps his slim story focused on relationship and character. We come to know about as much as possible about this father and son, given the long weekend time frame and the truthful parsing of exposition (the minimal dialogue allows us to see and hear only what, in reality, might occur).

By film's end, we've traveled back and forth with our duo, experienced a slice of Croatian life today in various venues, and have come to understand what separates - and finally unites - our pair of protagonists without a false moment or undue sentiment.

If Armin is the least depressing of this trio of films, Two Players from the Bench is the most - at the same time as it is hugely funny, nasty, shocking, ugly and full of life. From almost the beginning, when a policeman orders a car trunk opened, sees a bound man inside, and does absolutely nothing about the situation, you'll know you're in strange (yet uncomfortably believable) territory.

Writer/director Dejan Sorak has crafted a gangbusters story - twisty, rich in irony and surprise - in the service of a political/philosophical statement that is extraordinarily humane. Sorak is on record as saying his film is not political. But this is only in terms of not specifically pointing a finger at one side or the other. For anyone who sees the political as constantly impinging on the personal, the economic and everything else, Two Players will seem about as "political" as it gets.

The story unites two unlikely men needed by the state for their similarity in appearance to two other men who could provide an alibi for a Croatian military man accused of war crimes. By the time the film reaches its conclusion, the concept of identity (the individual's and the state's) has been given a shake-down that calls into question the actions of everyone in the film - and by extension its viewers, whom I suspect, will be asking themselves what they might have done in this most nasty and stupid of wars.

In addition to the first-rate concept and execution of the story, I was equally impressed with the quality of filmmaking: everything from the cinematography to the sound, editing, performances (the two leads are terrific) and music. The wondrous finale, which manages profundity and catharsis, will bring you about as close to the continuing aftermath of the destruction of Yugoslavia as you are likely to experience.

Seeing these two modern movies and then watching an equally fine 34-year-old Yugoslav film makes for a fascinating juxtaposition. The now-legendary A Village Performance of Hamlet, directed and co-written by Krsto Papic (from the play by Ivo Bresan) takes a great idea and makes hay with it. The leader of a hick "cooperative" hears about the play Hamlet (or, as they call it here, "Omlete") and decides that his village must produce it. Of course, nobody can fathom the dialog, so the leader then forces the village school teacher to rewrite Shakespeare so that he can be better understood.

Simultaneously, one of the prominent villagers has been falsely accused of embezzlement, and his son tries to come to his rescue. As this story begins to mirror that of Hamlet's, the movie takes on dimensions of social and political critique, in addition to the fun it has with the play itself and how the villagers insist on turning it into a hack political tract. In the lead role, a young Rade Serbedzija, who came to international prominence as a very handsome middle-aged leading man in Macedonia's Before the Rain in 1994 and now works mostly in Hollywood (The Saint, Space Cowboys, TV's South Pacific) here proves an equally handsome young man and helps carry the film as its would-be Hamlet.

As usual, with movies made decades previous, the pacing may seem a bit slow for the modern viewer. Were it shot today, even at its relatively short 98 minutes, it would probably move more quickly and include additional scenes and details. As it is, A Village Performance of Hamlet remains a kind of hallmark of Yugoslavia toward the end of Tito's reign, with Communism deteriorating but nothing quite ready or able to replace it. The penultimate scene - full of feasting and dance - is so festively shocking and unpleasant in its awful celebration of the corrupt status-quo, it's little wonder that the film (which began production during one of Tito's pro-West spells but ended production when he had moved entirely toward the Soviets) was removed from circulation for nearly two years. In any case, A Village Performance is a treat - one that I'd like to think even Shakespeare could enjoy.

Posted by dwhudson at October 29, 2007 2:07 AM