Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Silent (and beautiful) Light

Earlier today, I finished watching Carlos Reygadas' film, Stille Licht. Coming after having seen his film Japon, it shares much of the same meditative quality, where time is expanded and silence assumes a very evocative feel.

In this case, the director has chosen to explore a story of infidelity set among the Mennonite community of northern Mexico. It is a simple story, but also one that is permeated with feeling and resonance.



Johan is a middle-aged man with a large family. He also finds himself torn between two women, his wife Esther and his lover, Marianne. He feels that his lover more closely responds to his needs, and is, according to the terminology used by his close friend Zacarias, his "true woman". And yet at the same time he loves his wife, and he is hurt by the pain that he is causing her, prompting him to break out in tears at several moments.

It is the nature of the open relationship between this couple that he has told his wife everything about his predicament. She suffers in silence, meekly continuing and trying to comfort her husband. But the communication seems to take place on more of an emotional, intuitive level, and less on a verbal one. There are long stretches of silence in which the characters stand next to each other, frequently not even maintaining eye contact, and there are long languid shots of landscapes. These are very beautiful, and would seem to perversely suggest the beauty of suffering, even in those moments when the withered crop stalks are willowed by huge combines. Once senses that the same action is taking place within the psyche of the characters.

The dialogue is simple and honest. It isn't lavish nor clever nor overblown. If anything, one obtains the sense that emotional extremes are avoided by the Mennonite culture, and instead they strive for an equilibrium that is somewhat distancing. This is not the case, however, for the physical passion that Johan feels for Marianne, and it is a sentiment that is almost overwhelming in its volcanic sentiment, and offers a great contrast with the restraint that is seen otherwise.

The characters wish to live, and yet they desperately look for other ways in which to express themselves. Their culture is not overly emotive, and the landscape and the scenes of water and cleansing suggest how they wish to purify themselves. Maria Pankratz, who plays the wife, is affecting in her earnest suffering, assuming almost a withdrawn character. She is steadfast, and it is only towards the end, during a wonderful and yet tragic drive, that she manages to express the depth of her suffering.

As always, distance and silence and understatement play notable roles in this Reygadas film. The landscapes are particularly evocative, and the film opens with a dawn and ends with a dusk. One senses that the dilemma, and the scene of forgiveness that is deeply moving, helps to resolve some of the tension, lending dignity furthermore to Marianne.

Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2011
Copyrights ORomero 2011

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