Kusturica can really move me, he's one of very few filmmakers I trust and allow into my life to do that. It is in a very delicate way he can affect, a way that I also know and appreciate deeply from some of the great Zen and Sufi poets. He has that quality, let's call it a duende, of having lived with enough ardor and zest of soul to be able to speak about a sadness that is joy. About pain without ego. Struggle as release.
And on top of that he's so adept with images it hurts. He knows how to frame a small puddle of water so that it reflects entire skies above with many moons, and make the moon seem wet and the waters earthy.
So even though this is a more than fine film and better than most filmmakers accomplished on their second turn behind a camera, I am saddened that it doesn't move me more. This is a rare complaint from me. And this is because I know this man has felt harder than he shows here, and has sung what it means to feel with images that cut deeper. This also cuts, but cuts solemnly, in ordinary way, with mostly serious restraint, with a historic thrust for a respectable account of Yugoslav suffering as the suffering between brothers in law.
It's just not a very enviable or interesting position to want to be the historic chronicler like he's doing here, it just means you have to organize a lot of pedantic detail.
Now I am from around here and can trace roots from every corner of the Balkans to be able to tell that what Kusturica usually writes about is a romance and not an account. This is a frequent complaint of course, acknowledged, moreso from around here where pundits feel somehow threatened or otherwise insulted by this wistful, clowny image broadcast abroad for tourist consumption. So yes, a romance that is about a love and life that is a little more dangerous than from the safe distance of reason, a little more sublime and noble than was today or yesterday, but that is nevertheless imbued with the same reckless spirit that gave rise to the chronicle that Kusturica is only a very recent chapter to.
Meaning this spirit that he has used to make films pre-existed him and carries its own truths from long ago. The family gatherings around food, the common rituals, the stories about honorable scoundrels that may be someone's father or uncle. These songs above all, our main tradition being musical and fiddled continuously on the stage for a few hundred years.
So when he puts it all together, it is not a question of ability that makes a difference and stirs the soul - he was always able, and here just as well - but one of spontaneous creation. There is only a little of that here for my taste, more history. It is touching drama but lacks some of the reflections I prize so much.
And on top of that he's so adept with images it hurts. He knows how to frame a small puddle of water so that it reflects entire skies above with many moons, and make the moon seem wet and the waters earthy.
So even though this is a more than fine film and better than most filmmakers accomplished on their second turn behind a camera, I am saddened that it doesn't move me more. This is a rare complaint from me. And this is because I know this man has felt harder than he shows here, and has sung what it means to feel with images that cut deeper. This also cuts, but cuts solemnly, in ordinary way, with mostly serious restraint, with a historic thrust for a respectable account of Yugoslav suffering as the suffering between brothers in law.
It's just not a very enviable or interesting position to want to be the historic chronicler like he's doing here, it just means you have to organize a lot of pedantic detail.
Now I am from around here and can trace roots from every corner of the Balkans to be able to tell that what Kusturica usually writes about is a romance and not an account. This is a frequent complaint of course, acknowledged, moreso from around here where pundits feel somehow threatened or otherwise insulted by this wistful, clowny image broadcast abroad for tourist consumption. So yes, a romance that is about a love and life that is a little more dangerous than from the safe distance of reason, a little more sublime and noble than was today or yesterday, but that is nevertheless imbued with the same reckless spirit that gave rise to the chronicle that Kusturica is only a very recent chapter to.
Meaning this spirit that he has used to make films pre-existed him and carries its own truths from long ago. The family gatherings around food, the common rituals, the stories about honorable scoundrels that may be someone's father or uncle. These songs above all, our main tradition being musical and fiddled continuously on the stage for a few hundred years.
So when he puts it all together, it is not a question of ability that makes a difference and stirs the soul - he was always able, and here just as well - but one of spontaneous creation. There is only a little of that here for my taste, more history. It is touching drama but lacks some of the reflections I prize so much.