Still in Motion

Gender DocuFilm Festival--Rome, Italy

This week I venture to Rome for the launch of a small new festival.  Artistic director, Giona Nazzaro, whom I met at the Thessaloniki doc fest in Greece a couple of years ago, heads up this new initiative, part of Gay Village 2010 and under the patronage of the Province of Rome's Cultural Aldermanship.  (It is, of course, encouraging to note that there is now this type of film fest, however small, in the shadow of the casa di Papa.)  The Rome Gender DocuFilm Festival's main imperative will be to explore the boundaries of self-representation by showcasing a small selection of documentary films.  (Pictured above, writer and sexual renegade, Kathy Acker, the subject of one of the films in the program.) 

The festival's notion of "documenting reality" is one of the most lucid definitions of this genre I've come across, so I will quote directly from the web site here:  "A constantly evolving force, the documentary has come to the fore in the contemporary cinematic economy in the past few decades.  A film genre traveling light, without the weights and frills linked to mass entertainment, it can therefore move extremely fast and explore the world at a low definition.  The documentary now is a complex and multifaceted reality, almost a stand-alone gender within the film system of today."  The festival's stated mission is to explore all possible worlds, particularly those in between male and female stereotypes.  (Pictured below, filmmaker Kimberly Reed, courtesy Details Magazine.)

The event will take place from the 26th through the 29th of August and the free program will include screenings of:  L'Esprit De Madjid by Ines Johnson-Spain (Germany); Should I Really Do It? by Ismail Necmi (Turkey); Ella Es El Matador by Gemma Cubero del Barrio and Celeste Carrasco (Spain); Stretch Marks by Zohar Wagner (Israel); Too Much Pussy by Émilie Jouvet (Germany); Who's Afraid of Kathy Acker? by Barbara Caspar (US); and Prodigal Sons by Kimberly Reed (US).  There will be a prize for best film and an audience choice award.  Visit the website for more information and showtimes.      

DAVID WANTS TO FLY: Enlightenment Comes with a Hefty Pricetag

It is said that you should never meet your heroes.  It's bound to be a disappointing encounter when all is said and done, your naive hopes pinned on the fantasy you've created in your mind about the outcome: an instant rapport, a mutual recognition that you are kindred spirits, the admiration and respect no longer just flowing one way, anymore--perhaps, even life-long friendship will transpire.

Young David Sieveking has just graduated from film school, another broke budding filmmaker looking for inspiration, when we first meet him in his apartment in Berlin.  His personality and demeanor are instantly appealing--sweet-faced, charming and a bit of a bumbler, he states in voice over, "I wanted to make dark films like my idol, David Lynch.  But I was lacking the darkness."  Yet the journey he takes to meet his idol in this wonderful début feature leads the wide-eyed searcher into some very dark places, indeed.

David Wants to Fly, which premiered at the 2010 Berlinale, showcases a new presence, a new voice in documentary that deserves much attention, for Sieveking has made a highly-entertaining, very funny, thought-provoking, disturbing and penetrating investigation into the inner workings of a very wealthy and powerful organization--don't let the sweet-faced, charming, bumbler fool you.  (Think Mr. M. Moore circa Roger & Me.)  I meant to write about this film after seeing it at the Doc Planete Film Festival in Warsaw, Poland in the spring where our jury gave it an honorable mention, all of us recognizing the profound accomplishment in storytelling artistry this piece contains, the artificial and, sometimes, awkward, contrivances, a constant wink and nod to his audience to stay the course with him.  And we're happy to.  It is a wild journey, slyly paying homage to Lynch while what he represents is simultaneously being stripped down to size.  (It recently played, out of competition, at Dokufest in Kosova, where I had a chance to watch it again.)

It is currently booked for wide national theatrical distribution here in Germany through the end of the year.  But since it's been on the circuit starting the early part of this year, there hasn't been much of a response from festivals in the States.  In some instances, there was great interest; yet, ultimately, it hasn't been programmed anywhere.  I can only attribute that to the fact that there is fear of a Lynch backlash (meaning: lawsuit) and festivals have just shied away from any of that madness.  I hope there's someone hardy enough to show it anyway, for it is an expertly structured, beautifully shot film that also happens to be a mighty powerful exposé into a rarely-glimpsed world.  Also, there are few docs that are as highly entertaining as this one, and methinks the genre could definitely use a lot more of that there E-word.  Please.

When David finds out from the Internet that Lynch will be in Fairfield, Iowa, to speak about the  source of his creative inspiration, he promptly scoots himself over the Atlantic, rents a car and drives himself into the American heartland.  Why Iowa?  Fairfield is where the palatial campus for the Maharishi University is located and, for the first time, Lynch will speak publicly about transcendental meditation (TM), something he's been practicing for decades.  The auditorium is packed with young people, a lot of them, we assume, budding filmmakers, there to eagerly receive pearls of wisdom from one of today's master filmmakers.  The Maharishi, old and infirm and residing in India, sends a video message to the audience:  "Go by the advice that you have received from the artist, Dr. Lynch."  Lynch extols the virtues of the Maharishi's teachings, describing it as "money in the bank."  Yes, but whose money?  And whose bank?

David is mesmerized, inspired, electrified with excitement.  He even lands a private audience with Lynch when his live-in girlfriend miraculously gets assigned an interview from a German magazine with the director.  Marie, an eccentric, whip-smart, no-bullshit girl with a distinct fashion flair, sits quietly as David takes over, grilling Lynch on TM, asking him to explain its magic.  Ignoring the dubious stance of Marie (some of the most delightful scenes in the film feature the two of them in combat), David dives right in.  Once back in Germany, he gets himself an appointment at the German TM headquarters in Hanover for his initiation into the practice; there, he will receive his own personal mantra so he can go about transforming himself from the inside out.  He is told to bring six fresh flowers, sweet fruits, a white handkerchief.  And 2,380 euros.  In cash.  But never mind that, he is swept away and becomes a valiant acolyte, meditating every day, a novice believer--the most vulnerable kind. Yet, the more he learns about the movement and its inner workings, the more puzzled and disturbed he becomes, hero worship notwithstanding.  It is great fun to watch him use his innate earnestness, his suit and tie, his spectacles and suspenders and jaunty hat, to gain the most incredible access over and over again.

On February 6, 2008, the Maharishi passes away and David takes himself to India for the funeral, camera equipment in tow.  He sees Lynch there, a VIP in the proceedings, and Lynch greets him warmly, shakes his hand, asks him how the film project is going.  This is the last time the two will share such a friendly exchange.  Based on what he's shot so far, David receives backing and funding for the project from some German producers, and it's full steam ahead--the filmmaking becoming more and more grand (gorgeous cinematography by Adrian Stähli), the rabbit hole going deeper and deeper.  In a whirlwind world tour, Sieveking's blind faith clears into razor-sharp vision, his "nice little documentary on the TM movement" becoming a hard-hitting, in-depth investigation into something really insidious.  It becomes dangerous territory, both for the filmmaker and his subjects.  As he delves deeper, his life and well-being devolve into an existential nightmare.  This is where this young man shows what he's made of; overcoming his fear and trepidation, he kicks things into high gear, pulling out all the stops, continuing to gain open access by being effervescent, polite, friendly, nodding enthusiastically, encouraging his subjects with a wide open smile to skewer themselves in front of his camera. 

The film took Sieveking five long years to make and we can visibly see him age--his hair gets peppered with gray, some wrinkles start to radiate from the corners of his clear, blue eyes, an exhausted pall pulls his boyish features down a bit as he carries on.  The surreality of the worlds he encounters have to be seen to be believed.  I, for one, am a believer in this new filmmaker's talent.

La bocca del lupo: "An Excavation of Memory"

The Dokufest jury for the international competition awarded the Best International Feature Documentary to Italian filmmaker Pietro Marcello's La bocca del lupo (The Mouth of the Wolf) "for its haunting, lyrical and gorgeous depiction of one city and one remarkable love story."  We are not the first jury to give this beautiful film top honors since its début in 2009.  At this year's Berlinale, it won the Caligari Award, as well as Best Documentary at the Teddy Awards.  It also took the Film Critics Prize for Best Film at the 2009 Torino Film Festival, the first time in the northern Italian festival's 27-year history that the prize was given to an Italian film.  It's an exquisite, distinctive work, its director creating a layered story with unrestrained romanticism, a love letter to the port city of Genova in the Liguria region, founded by "abandoned castaways" washed onto its shores by the sea to create a unique culture of its own.  Marcello, in turn, has made a unique film that is hard to define by one genre alone.  Shot in luscious 35mm, it is an epic poem, an elegy, an archaeological excavation, a city symphony, and a true love story for the ages, told in a disorienting, mysterious dreamscape, using sound and vision, spoken word and music, brand-new footage residing beside ancient, fragile pieces of celluloid.

While in the midst of researching this utterly-transformed place for the San Marcellino Foundation, the Jesuits of Genova (an organization that offers aid to indigents and the marginalized, including ex-cons), the director met his extraordinary protagonists by chance.  He met Vincenzo (Enzo) Motta (pictured right) outside a bakery, a ruggedly handsome man who promptly engaged the filmmaker in conversation, showing him the bullet hole marks in his leg from a shootout he'd had with the cops decades ago.  Enzo's wife of 20 years, Mary Monaco, was a bit more reticent to participate, but the two ultimately agreed to share their incredible love story for Marcello's camera.

Enzo is front and center throughout most of the story--visually and aurally, his coiled presence and vibrating machismo and sexuality, the engine that moves us through time and space.  We only hear Mary's voice (and see a couple of photos of her when she was young) through most of the film.  We finally see her when she is sitting by Enzo's side for one of the most captivating interviews ever captured on film.  Marcello purposely fools us into thinking we are seeing the woman who is speaking time and time again.  We realize at the very end of the film, that she is one of the very first images we see, hiding in plain sight, a silhouette in repose.  When we do see her, she is still mostly hidden in shadow, tentative and shy, but her eloquence and emotionalism, the beautiful language she uses to describe their first encounter, her impressions of him, how they saved one another, the synchronicity of their bond, will melt the most stoic heart.  Enzo sits beside her mugging for the camera and flexing his muscles, then turning to her to sing her a love song, a born ham if ever there was one.  He does make one hell of a movie star.  Unfortunately, he's spent most of his life behind bars due to a talent for finding trouble from a very early age, never quite succeeding in getting out from under his own violent temper and hubristic "rule of law." 

The story, like all good fairy tales, has a happy ending, the two lovers living their dream in a small, shabby farmhouse with their dogs, Enzo munching herbs from the ground like a goat as the camera gazes from a high hill overlooking the now-ugly, industrial city built upon the rubble of the old one, that world forever submerged.  "Small, great stories, that's what it was."

There were many films we saw at Dokufest that pushed form, that found new and innovative ways of spinning a true yarn.  Our deliberation was that much more difficult due to the stellar programming, not just in the competitions, but in the festival, as a whole.  Yet a film like La bocca rose above a field of outstanding work because of its unabashed ode to all that we love about cinema, how it can transport and enrich us, capture our imaginations, allow us to be swept away by sheer beauty. Kudos to its creator, and a particular salute of respect to editor and archival researcher, Sara Fgaier, and composers Marco Messina, Massimiliano Sacchi and Nino Bruno (ERA).  Bravissimi, tutti.

Coda:  Sadly, Mary passed away very recently and so this film, in essence, must become a tribute to this remarkable woman, transformed throughout her life in many ways most of us will never experience, or understand.  (Pictured, Mary, Marcello and Enzo celebrating in Torino last year.)

Dokufest Balkan Documentary Competition Winners, Part 2

Turkish filmmaker Doga Kilcioglu's Kamerayla Izdivac (Married to the Camera) won the much-coveted audience award at this year's Dokufest.  The award was calculated from votes cast by the general audience.  It's a very meaningful award to any director and Kilcioglu's film is certainly a crowd-pleaser. 

Made for television and commissioned, in part, by ARTE/France, the film focuses on the unknown faces that make up the audience of a hugely popular show in Turkey called "Marriage with Esra Erol."  A take on The Dating Game, the aim is to match-make in front of the camera and get people married as quickly as possible (and not always for love).  The film also follows some of the contestants, ranging in age from early 30s to 75.  In one hour's time, the filmmakers capture a rich and multi-layered world that reflects the riotous warp and weave of a very complex and complicated culture. 

What's so enjoyable about the film is that everyone on camera, both those that create the show and those that provide the Greek chorus commentary, i.e., the audience members, is willing to reveal and talk about the absolute fakery and artifice that goes into making a television show that means to take a nation by storm in a very competitive medium where everyone is gunning to out-sequin and out-spangle the other shows that rely on both staged audience participation and the cult of personality of their hosts.  Without the audience, it's an empty exercise and they are encouraged to participate, schooled by the crew in the ways in which they can become celebrities, too--and possibly find a bride or groom of their own!

In the opening scene, a restless mob of spectators stands in the hallway, having been kept waiting an exceedingly long time to get into the studio, their bags and bodies searched as if going through airport security.  One of them shouts impatiently, "Let us in!  We aren't terrorists!  We're the audience!!"  To my mind, one of the best movie lines ever.  (Pictured above, sophisticated but superstitious hostess, Esra Erol, praying backstage before the show.  Her dream is to become her country's Oprah.)

For this piece, which she co-edits, Kilcioglu (pictured) partners with her brother and producing partner, Can Kilcioglu, who does wonderful camera work; soundperson, Ögünc Hatipoglu; and co-editors Pierre Haberer and Cem Yildirim to create absolutely wonderful vérité, the camera stealthily capturing subjects in incredibly funny and unguarded moments--that is, when they're not directly engaging with the camera since most have become super savvy in the ways of entertainment.  One such unguarded moment which made me laugh out loud was when the president comes to visit a houseful of women to listen to their grievances and to "acknowledge their oppression."  One of the regular audience "plants" for the show is also a campaign worker and organizes citizen meetings with campaigning or elected officials.  (Television = Politics--one nonexistent without the other.)  The consummate politician walks through the door and someone shoves a child in his arms as flashes frantically pop away.  He grins for the media's cameras, but it is Kilcioglu's camera that lingers to capture him practically dropping the little girl to the floor when the lights go off, his smile simultaneously cascading to a frown of annoyance.  Married to the Camera is a delight from start to finish.

Romanian filmmaker Alexander Nanau's The World According to Ion B. (a co-production with HBO Romania) won best film in the Balkan Documentary Competition, the jury noting that, "the director's filmmaking skill merges seamlessly with the character he portrays, leaving no opportunity wasted in the telling of his story.  It is a deeply intimate portrait told with a grace and humor that won us over unanimously."  Nanau's portrait of late-to-the-dance art celebrity, Ion Barladeanu, is indeed, full of grace, the most graceful aspect, at least to this viewer's mind, the relationship between subject and filmmaker.  The partnership in making a personal cinematic portrait of an individual is everything in documentary, the energy exchanged between subject and filmmaker through the agency of a camera lens a mysterious and alchemical process that is either successful--or not.  When it's not, it's obvious.  When it works, it's great.  But when there is a profundity that goes deeper than merely capturing a story, it is transcendent and makes for an exhilarating journey for the viewer.  And that doesn't happen very often.  (I saw one other film at Dokufest where this is also the case which I will talk about very soon.) 

The fact that Nanau accomplishes this in just 61 minutes is remarkable, the economy of scale between meaningful dramaturgy and high emotional impact impeccably balanced--please take note all you "feature-length" filmmakers!!

In 2008, when the filmmaker discovers him, Ion B. is still living on the streets, or more precisely in the back alley of an apartment building in Bucharest, a place he's called home for over 20 years, taken in by the building manager and kept like a pet in the backyard.  Ion B. is also a drunkard and as his story unfolds, we learn little by little why he felt the need to anesthetize himself from his past.  In these alcohol-infused years, Ion has created an astounding body of work, making 900 brilliant drawings and collages dating from the 70s to the mid-90s.  In one of the most affecting opening scenes in recent memory, as Ion is addressing Nanau's camera, telling him that he'll "die where he lays in an alleyway, a drunkard and a useless piece of junk," someone from an upstairs window starts throwing their trash down onto the street, the detritus falling several stories and crashing loudly onto the ground around Ion where he lolls on his pallet.  This, we learn, is the genesis of his art, the flotsam that people discard.

Then Dan Popescu comes along, a young successful art gallery owner who recognizes the absolute goldmine in Ion's work and goes about marketing his discovery to the art world.  "We'll have a normal artist / gallery owner relationship," he tells Ion.  Yet, there is nothing "normal" about this man's life and he would never in a million years be able to insinuate himself into the art world no matter how hard Popescu tries to pull a My Fair Lady number on Mr. B, a new set of choppers notwithstanding.  There are many humorous scenes that transpire from this (seemingly) mutually beneficial relationship, but time after time, Ion is unwilling or unable to play along.  He doesn't want to understand his work in the context of Warhol and Otto Dix--he doesn't know who they are and he doesn't care.  When they read the culture section of the local newspaper together, which bestows the title of "Forefather of Pop Art" on Ion, he asks Dan what Pop Art is.  When Dan tries to explain the late-60s, early 70s art movement, he also notes that during that time, Romania was run by dictator, Nicolae Ceausescu, who blocked any information from the West.  Ceausescu damaged Ion's life in many ways, as he did most of the population of his country, and the artist used the image of the dictator in his art quite a bit.  We realize that he would probably be a dead man if his art had been "above ground" at the time.  Ion's own father, a communist activist and leader and Ceausescu supporter, in fact, at one time had Ion and his brother arrested.  But instead of engaging in any direct (and exceedingly painful) discussion of his former life before coming to Bucharest, Ion rubs his bushy eyebrows and proclaims, "I really need to get a haircut today."

I won't describe the entire journey this film takes (one of the stronger sections is when Ion returns to his native village of Zapodeni after a 17-year absence to confront his past), but by the time the film finishes, Ion B. is a very famous art star, showing at the Basel Art Fair in 2009 where the word "genius" is pronounced by one pretentious art denizen; his works are exhibited in London together with works by Andy Warhol (who?) and Marcel Duchamp; and in February of this year, he had his first solo exhibition at the Anne de Villepoix gallery in Paris.  What's even more encouraging, however, is that after a decade of not making anything new, he's created 160 new collages.

As for the "normal artist / art gallery owner relationship"?  I hear there's a lawsuit brewing, big surprise. 

Dokufest Balkan Documentary Competition Winners, Part 1

Jurij Meden, the Slovenian director of 1717 Kilometrov Poletja 2009 (1717 Kilometers of Summer 2009) and Bilijana Garvanlieva, the Macedonian director of Tabakmädchen (Tobacco Girl) shared the Best Newcomer Award at this year's edition of Dokufest.  Tobacco Girl also garnered a special mention for the Human Rights Award, its jury saying that Garvanlieva's film takes the form of a "poetic confrontation of established social norms and multi-layered inequalities."

These filmmakers aren't exactly newcomers in terms of making films, but the Balkan Documentary Competition jurors (Emel Celebi from Turkey, who won the Best Balkan Documentary Award last year for her Sisters of Lilith; Michael Palmieri from the US; and Sissi Korhonen from Finland) decided that they wanted to recognize the fine work these directors presented, particularly since they work so independently, or without direct support from their own countries.  In fact, in her acceptance speech at the awards ceremony, Garvanlieva noted that she's made her films, including this one, "no thanks to my country" of Macedonia.  Recognition and support have come mainly from Germany.

Both half-hour films, in their own unique way, artfully show the traditional versus modern dilemmas and contradictions of their regions, each beautifully illustrating the speed at which life can move when one is determined to rocket through time and space.  In Meden's case, it is a physical journey by car of almost 2000 kilometers through six countries; in the young girl, Mümine's case, she traverses centuries of tradition in an attempt to land squarely in the midst of modern times.  The growing pains are intensely palpable, both for her, and for her family.

Tobacco Girl opens with a haunting song telling of the 600-year-old history of the people that inhabit the high mountain regions of Macedonia, part of the Turkish minority that resides on the land.  As a family unit--mother, father, two daughters and two sons--they do backbreaking work in the tobacco fields, the crop their only source of income.  As the tobacco is meant to be sold for survival, so are the children who work the fields, for they are just as precious a commodity to their parents as the substance they sell at market.  In her direction Garvanlieva shows, to wonderful effect, the claustrophobia of their lives, and I cannot praise highly enough cinematographer Susanne Schüle's camera work, which is absolutely exquisite.  The vibrant, multicolored traditional costumes the women wear stand out in bas-relief, not only from the dun-colored background of the village's dirt and wood, but also against the Western wear the men sport--leather jackets, T-shirts, jeans, all shades of brown, black and gray.

What is so appealing about this story is that instead of presenting some boring ethnographic treatise on these mountain people, the director tells the story from the 14-year-old girl's point of view, gossiping with her girlfriends, flirting with boys, talking incessantly about their crushes and obsessions, their dreams for the future.  But Mümine wants more.  She describes sorting tobacco with her family as pure "agony," and is determined to educate herself enough so that she can marry the person she wants to marry, so that she can move to the capital city of Skopje to go to school and do well enough to become a teacher, in the process, totally breaking "the laws of nature" her people have followed since anyone can remember.  The intimate scenes with the family are painful in their complexity--no raised voices or overly dramatic scenes, but plenty of fierce looks and reprimands, particularly from the matriarch who threatens the girl with permanent expulsion from the family if she runs away to the city. 

Yet the whole family is moving into modern times, using their earnings to buy a new house--but still compelled to sacrifice a goat in honor of their new dwelling; shopping for new appliances--but still discussing marrying off their children for the highest financial advantage, first the eldest son, then the eldest daughter, and then Mümine.  It is determined the youngest girl will fetch the highest price because she is so pretty.  However, the boy she loves is poor, and this angers her mother no end.  The camera consistently captures Mümine's universal beauty throughout the film, yet, oddly, when we do see her in modern dress at the end visiting the school in Skopje decked out in jeans, tennis shoes, hoodie, hair tied back in a ponytail, she appears to be just an ordinary, average, modern teenager.  Yet this is exactly who she wishes to be.

Jurij Meden is a freelance film writer and curator, his catalog bio consisting of this meager information:  "born in Ljubljana in 1977, film worker."  In his glorious experimental piece, 1717 Kilometers, we journey through his native Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia Herzogovina, Serbia, Montenegro and Kosovo.  The film is a super 8mm record of summer, filmed by Meden and Vlado Skafar, "filled with idiotic excursions, false goals, prodigal waste, disappointed loves, galling personal insufficiencies, and half-witted associations."  It is a thrilling road movie on speed.  As visually stunning as the piece is, the sound design and score must be noted, as well.  Created by Paulo Raposo, a sound and media artist based in Lisbon, Portugal, the music and ambient recordings add a totally appropriate psychological element, capturing the essence of the hallucinogenic quality of a long road trip, the world flying by, hour after hour, day after day, from the confines of an automobile. 

The film's physicality reflects how much ground gets covered, geographically, emotionally and otherwise.  The road becomes an alternate universe, road weariness creating its own dreamscape, the monotony and hypnotic cast of it all, life passing by as if it's one extended mirage, image after image floating out of the emptiness that surrounds the strip of road one follows until it turns into total and utter abstraction, one image blending into another, coming in and out of focus, one moment the colors overly-saturated, then everything blurry and opaque.  The distinct world of the constant traveler is one of feeling, somehow, captured, even though the journey is through one's own auspices, the "freedom of the open road" a siren call for many, a rite of passage.  But there is a feeling of isolation that is contradictory to the freedom of movement, a feeling that there is no one else in the world that knows where you are since your physical location changes every moment, you're always somewhere different than you were just a second before.  Lost, you have the effortless freedom of a ghost and feel as if you could float on the wind and blow through solid obstacles without touching them.  It is a fantastic journey, one simply signed at its close, as if it's an art piece (which it is), JM 2010.

Eau de Vie, Or: Self-Transformation Through Raki

I don't visit too many places where I meet a third-generation carpenter carrying on the work his grandfather started refurbishing the wooden staircase that leads up to the bell tower in an Orthodox Cathedral.  This particular church is in the center of the town of Prizren, Kosova and is guarded by armed policemen.  It was badly damaged during the ethnic riots of March 2004 and is almost fully repaired, but is still not open to the public.  However, they let me in to take a look in a casual, friendly manner. 

I don't visit too many places where I, and my young, female guide, can interrupt three ancient men engrossed in conversation on a bench in the garden of a mosque (one of several in the town) to ask if they will let us inside the locked sanctuary.  (Oddly, there is a modern LED display board on the side of the building like the ones you see at train stations and airports that informs passerby of daily prayer times.)  With a slight downward tilt of his capped head, one of them shuffles to the front door and unlocks it, gesturing for us to slip off our shoes, but not concerned that our heads aren't  covered or that our arms and legs are bare.  He leaves us to take in the beautiful and peaceful interior, caustics of soft sunlight bouncing on the walls that reveal the private spaces where men meditate and pray.

I don't visit too many places where a waiter in a restaurant that I frequent becomes a friend, someone I look forward to seeing every morning.  He calls me Miss Pamela and I call him Mr. Love, not because his name is Ashkan which means "my love" in Turkish, but because he just is Mr. Love.  A small group of us adopts him as our Balkan mother and he feeds and fusses over us several times a day, only asking for a bit of sympathy when his hands go numb from carrying too many hot, heavy plates of food.  He tells us next week is Ramadan and people in the town are celebrating in a frenzy--several wedding processions pass by every day, there is much eating and drinking, and much promenading in the streets, disco music thumping everywhere.  The place pulses like Ibiza, but it is calm, calm, calm.  I have never met lovelier people.  (Pictured, Ashkan serving breakfast to grateful filmmaker, Rowland Jobson, director of the outstanding short fiction piece, A Girl Like Me, filmmaker, Michael Palmieri, who served on the Balkan jury, still sleeping behind his RayBans.  Unbeknownst to their owner, said shades fell under the table one night, but were found and returned by--you know it--Mr. Love.)

I don't visit too many places where I stay up until 6:00 a.m. every morning, the recorded call of the muezzin at a bit before 5, when the sky's black starts to turn a deep violet, announcing that a new day has begun.  We find ourselves still glued to our chairs around a table in the town square engrossed in conversation, eyes sparkling, faces smiling, nonstop laughter, the proprietor patiently bringing us glass after glass of homemade raki and, occasionally, something to eat--bread with cheese, a plate of spicy meat, pommes frites with lots of salt--nary a sign indicating that he wishes us to get the hell out of his place so he can go to bed.  Instead of stumbling off to our own beds, we slide by our hotel to grab our cameras and go exploring, no one awake in the still-sleeping town except the occasional baker pounding dough to the accompaniment of Arab pop softly playing from a small radio, or the wild pack of dogs that roam the streets, occasionally stopping so that a couple of them can hump for a few seconds before the group moves on.  We refrain from retiring just yet, not because we're that keen on taking pictures (although we are), but because we simply aren't ready to give up one another's company.  Not just yet.  It feels like the beginning of a love affair when you can't stand to be out of someone's presence for a moment. 

Okay, raki, or "rakifuel," as Miss Sonja calls it:  we're puzzled.  Normally, when one stays up all night drinking alcohol, especially something as pure and strong as this anise-flavored spirit quaffed in Turkey, Bosnia and the rest of the Balkans, also known as Lion's Milk (!), one gets completely blotto, right?  Barely able to speak, let alone climb a steep hill to the fortress overlooking the town.  (To be honest, we were a bit wobbly when we reached the top.)  But because we fortify ourselves regularly with food, a local assures us that yes, one can stay up for days drinking raki, carrying on one long, rambling conversation, a mad dialog that fuels the imagination and the soul, that makes everyone as witty as Dorothy Parker, as wise as Socrates--a regular gathering of geniuses, I tell you.  At least that's how it seemed to us.

I don't visit too many film festivals, like Dokufest, which staged its ninth iteration this year, that marry both its program and its surroundings so perfectly.  Executive director, Aliriza Arënliu, and artistic director, Veton Nurkollari, presented an amazing program of international feature and short documentary work, one of the best I've encountered.  And Samir Karahoda's short fiction program was a revelation.  Ironically, since there are no cinemas there besides the ones created specifically for the festival, you can see audiences grappling with how to watch a movie.  They, literally, don't really know how.  So there is usually a lot more going on than movie-watching.  But, somehow, because of the open air venues--on the river, up on the fortress wall, the big outdoor amphitheatre in the middle of town--it only adds to the celebratory quality of the proceedings.  The directors of Hamburg-based A Wall Is A Screen used this to glorious advantage and presented a fantastic shorts program that floated through the town one evening, projecting films on the walls of a bank, a mosque, a restaurant, a residential building, to great effect, a large crowd following along for the 90-minute program.  

It was a very special week and I can only offer up these quixotic and scattered impressions to describe the spectacular experience it truly was.  What I can offer up in a more concrete fashion (more or less) are future posts which talk about some of the films.  In my next installment, I'll start with the stand-outs in the Balkan competition program, some selections from the international competition which I was privileged to jury along with AJ Schnack, Doug Block, Sonja Henrici and Adriatik Kelmendi, and other fare that played in the five competitions, as well as in other special strands.  Stay tuned.