Ted Bafaloukos, Rockers, 1978, color film, 100 minutes.

REGGAE’S STEREOTYPE as the breezy sound track of good moods may have enabled its pop-cultural integration, but something was also lost in that assimilation. Its relationship to the Rasta movement that produced the music’s most famed musicians (Bob Marley, Horace Andy, Gregory Isaacs) is often—when not cartooned—opaque.

BAMcinématek’s fourteen-film “Do the Reggae” program (August 2–6) is a multifaceted contextualization of Jamaican music history during reggae’s golden age: the mid-1960s through the early ’80s. The popularization of Jamaican music coincided with reggae’s distinct turn to Rasta culture in the early ’70s (the resultant music is usually termed “roots reggae”); unsurprisingly, most “reggae films” were made during the decade when the genre’s popularity was soaring. The essential films are all here, as are some winking references that reggae-heads seem to find irresistible, like a screening of the 1972 Sidney Poitier–directed western Buck and the Preacher, about which the great toaster I-Roy titled and wrote one of his most infectious fast-talking scats.

Roots Rock Reggae (1977), Heartland Reggae (1980), and Deep Roots Music (1983) are all fascinating, but Rockers (1978) and Land of Look Behind (1982) are the signature films—touchstones for any history of the complex connection between Rasta culture and music in the ’70s. Rockers is the best-known reggae film, and though it isn’t a documentary, it often feels like one, and was originally intended as such. A scrawny session musician (Leroy “Horsemouth” Wallace, drummer on many classic Studio One records) wants to supplement his income by selling records. Needing stylish transportation, he buys an expensive motorbike. The bike is stolen by a kind of Kingston mafia, and Horsemouth plots revenge with his crew of musician friends (Burning Spear, Gregory Isaacs, Dirty Harry, Jacob Miller, and several others, some playing themselves). Rockers is a morality tale, and many of its impenetrably slangy—and mercifully subtitled—conversations concern selflessness and the preservation of the Rasta culture, in large part through reggae. The scene where Horsemouth and Dirty Harry “change the mood” in a nightclub by forcibly ejecting the disco DJ/capitalist lackey and launching into a sublime version of Ranking Trevor and the Jays’ “Queen Majesty” is a definitive moment of on-screen reggae.

Land of Look Behind, a stream-of-consciousness documentary loosely centered around Bob Marley’s 1982 funeral, spotlights Rasta culture more specifically, focusing on individuals in rural Jamaica. What emerges is a portrait of Rasta’s (and reggae’s, for the two are close to inseparable until the early ’80s) philosophical structure.

Both films show Jamaican music during its golden age as a profoundly moral music, in some ways the antithesis to the straight-ahead anti-moralism of so much of the rock and soul that early Jamaican rocksteady was modeled on. As one particularly verbose attendee of Marley’s funeral says to the camera in Land of Look Behind, reggae, “isn’t just a rocky-rocky thing. It’s a message to teach mankind to unite.”

Nick Stillman

“Do the Reggae” runs August 2–6 at the BAMcinématek in Brooklyn, New York.

Anka Sasnal and Wilhelm Sasnal, It Looks Pretty from a Distance, 2011, color film in Super 16 transferred to 35 mm, 77 minutes.

OLYMPIC FEVER FLAGGED in the British capital in the weeks leading up to the big event’s inexorable landing. But this year’s East End Film Festival were perfectly content to jump on the Olympic bandwagon or propagating Hackney’s long-expired self-proclamation as the Capital of Cool; it’s a magical land where trust-funders have no problem whatsoever living side by side with the area’s impoverished minorities and immigrants—so long as the latter don’t mind the rent hikes.

Not everyone can be a happy camper, as Ted Nygh’s Riot from Wrong strove to demonstrate through an excavation of the underlying issues that provoked last August’s looting and rioting throughout the capital. Nygh’s film makes a convincing argument for the police’s culpability in the disaster, despite the contempt flung at the disempowered participants by the country’s nauseating mainstream media.

Alison Klayman’s bold debut, Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry, does an apt job of filling in the details in the story everyone knows, though it also may help perpetuate the black-and-white myth of the virtuous artist versus the evil villainous government. Most any Chinese intellectual with whom you broach the subject will assert that Ai must, in fact, have some support within the Chinese government, otherwise he would have disappeared eons ago, regardless of his popularity in the international media and art world. While I don’t discount the heroism of Ai’s stance, I remain unpersuaded by the naive view that imposing American-style democracy on a country with a radically distinct (and much older) culture that has never had anything resembling it is going to be the miracle cure for all of China’s travails.

In any case, Klayman’s film expertly weaves testimonies from an array of figures (including Philip Tinari and Chen Danqing) surrounding Ai, crafting a narrative that is intriguing from start to finish. It would be a great lesson for John Rogers, director of Make Your Own Damn Art: The World of Bob and Roberta Smith, whose film runs at a tedious seventy-five minutes and consists largely of Hackney’s wannabe enigma talking about his own work, which is so blunt and obvious that any further commentary can only ruin it.

Narrative features ranged from the stunningly awful (the much-heckled Anarchy Girls, selected because it’s the “first film from Lithuania with lesbian content”) to the mildly adventurous (Swandown, by Andrew Kötting and Iain Sinclair, in which the directors go for a long ride in a pedal boat to the site of this year’s Olympic Stadium). Much more compelling was Anka and Wilhelm Sasnal’s It Looks Pretty from a Distance, a rural gothic shot on Super 16. It provided us celluloid junkies with a fix of crispness and depth, a much-needed antidote to the digital flatness that has come to constitute the twenty-first-century norm.

With its unapologetic delays, reports of accreditation mishaps, and staff of mostly helpless volunteers badgering guests to fill out feedback forms upon exiting the cinema, the 2012 East End Film Festival is surely an indication of the British approach to hosting the Olympic Games this summer. Organizational blunders aside, it would have been nice to see some more films that live up to the rhetoric the festival uses to promote itself (“hard hitting,” “challenging,” “uncompromising,” ad nauseam). Here’s hoping that next year’s EEFF will concern itself less with looking “edgy” or promoting political correctness and more with substance. There’s a lot of it out there, and hunting it down is hardly an Olympic feat.

Travis Jeppesen

The East End Film Festival ran July 3–8, 2012.

Night Watch


Nikolaus Geyrhalter, Abendland, 2011, color film in 35 mm, 90 minutes.

THE FIRST SHOT of Nikolaus Geyrhalter’s latest documentary, Abendland (2011), is a night view of a vast, virtually deserted landscape. A camera pans across the Slovak/Ukraine border (the site is identified in the film’s closing credits), as if independent of human agency. Though two subsequent shots reveal a man controlling the camera from inside a van, it is the initial impression of an autonomous, impersonal machine scrutinizing the terrain that sticks, and that in many ways captures the ambience and tenor of Geyrhalter’s film. Stunningly shot and meticulously framed—as was his earlier Our Daily Bread (2005)—the film is infused with the theme of surveillance, as it journeys to a number of sites across a nighttime Europe, inducing the illusory sense that everything is happening simultaneously. It is as if an omniscient alien invader were moving through the global village, collecting data on the rituals of an unfamiliar species on the eve of its extinction.

The idea of surveillance is woven throughout, not always overtly, as is the theme of immigration or some variation of it. We watch Montenegrins being forcibly evacuated from a camp outside Rome; a camp facility in Basel holds hundreds of migrants awaiting their fate; and in the film’s penultimate sequence, a lone guard drives around an immense border fence overlooking the Mediterranean in southern Spain to prevent illegal entry from Morocco. An impressive surveillance facility in London, strewn with dozens of monitors directed at multiple sites in the city, goes under the benevolent label “Street Care.” The same odd mix of benignly imposed power characterizes police activity dispersing antinuclear protesters in Germany.

The camera’s eye has rarely seemed more boundless and omnivorous as it opens wide to encompass public spaces in extreme long shots, engendering both awe and terror. The first view of the European Parliament in Brussels recalls the war room from Dr. Strangelove (1964); an immense beer hall during the Oktoberfest in Munich eerily evokes a time when that city hosted boisterous, brotherly rallies of a different sort. The detached precision of such images yields to a daredevil immersion as the moving camera penetrates a sea of bodies shouting and drinking in unison. This strategy is repeated in the film’s final shot as the man holding the camera moves through the claustrophobic mass of young people dancing wildly to a deafening sonic roar at the Qlimax club event in the Netherlands.

If there is a singular vision here, it is neither one-dimensional nor reductive. Without an overt agenda, Geyrhalter’s camerawork testifies to the power of the image itself—the way it is framed, lit, and shot in relation to the content within it—to tell a story and project a mood. The juxtaposition of material tends to avoid calculated links, although associations gather and become irresistible through proximity: The Street Care shots are followed shortly by expansive views of the Sky News media facilities in another part of the UK, assembling and dispensing information via an equally ubiquitous use of monitors.

The film seems to suggest that the phenomenon of mass (as it relates to populations and cultures) is both an unavoidable reality and an increasing, irresolvable problem, as impossible to fathom as it is to control. Images of crowds—protesters, beer drinkers, or youth cults—connote both power and helplessness. What should we make of the fact that the only discernibly productive activities we see are lone workers doing their jobs quietly and competently during the night: a nurse gently tending to a prematurely born infant, saddled with tubes in an incubator; employees of a help line, patiently listening to troubled individuals phoning in; a postal worker sorting the mail by countries of origin or destination; a man cleaning toilets in a deserted airport? Do these images testify to a still viable belief in the value of the individual? Or do they depict the last manifestations of activities not yet swallowed up by technological advances? If the title and compass of Geyrhalter’s film bespeak the end of Europe, is the tribal whooping of the half-dressed youths in the last shot the dance of death? If so, what a gorgeously mounted series of canvases Geyrhalter has designed to frame the demise of Western civilization.

Tony Pipolo

Abendland has its US theatrical premiere at Anthology Film Archives in New York July 27–August 2.

A projection test at the 2012 screening of Gregory Markopoulos’s Eniaios. (Photo: Michael Wang)

DURING THE LAST WEEKEND IN JUNE, while most of Europe took a break from focusing on Greece’s precarious economic future to follow the Euro 2012 finals, I traveled to the tiny Greek village of Lyssaraia, in the heart of the Peloponnese, to attend the third installment of Gregory Markopoulos’s monumental Eniaios. The silent film, when it is finally printed in its entirety, will run approximately eighty hours in twenty-two “orders.” I was among more than two hundred guests who had come to see three of these orders, newly printed thanks to the fund-raising efforts of the filmmaker Robert Beavers, Markopoulos’s longtime companion, and to the last-minute success of a Kickstarter campaign that rallied a diverse cast of advocates, including Matthew Lyons of the Kitchen, P. Adams Sitney of Princeton, Rebekah Rutkoff of CUNY, and recent Turner Prize nominee Luke Fowler. This was, in fact, a world premiere. Lacking the funds during his lifetime to print the film, Markopoulos, who died in 1992, never saw the work screened.

For all of us, the trip to Arcadia would be our first and perhaps only chance to view this portion of the film. Markopoulos, who had played a prominent role among the American avant-garde in the 1950s and ’60s, gradually pulled his films from distribution after he moved to Europe in 1967. He eventually determined that his works, and in particular Eniaios, would be screened exclusively in a sacred context: what he called, in accordance with ancient Hellenistic terminology, a “temenos.” Markopoulos’s temenos would ultimately materialize just outside Lyssaraia—the hometown of the Greek-American filmmaker’s father—when a local farmer offered to allow screenings on his pastureland. The site, at the end of a cliff-hugging path, was inaugurated in 1980 with screenings by Markopoulos and Beavers. Only a handful of people present this year recalled the events from the ’80s (which were much more of a village event, with a local priest carting down a sofa to enjoy the outdoor screenings in greater comfort), while a dedicated contingent have been attending since the first Eniaios screening in 2004. Many more, like myself, were present at the last screening in 2008.

The schedule of events now feels like a routine—or a ritual: There’s the dinner hosted by the town on the evening before the screenings, when buses from Athens arrive with guests from London, Istanbul, or Chicago, and the camaraderie of the packed guest houses—many built in the last decade with government subsidies—that seem as if they are rarely occupied otherwise. There’s the drive to the trailhead with the winding road not infrequently blocked by herds of goats, and the walk to the site, as the sun sets and the air grows cooler.

The crowd at the Temenos. (Photo: Michael Wang)

This year’s screenings began later—often not until 10 PM—when the summer sky finally darkened and the generator-powered projector would compete only with the blue glow of the moon. The scrupulous attention to the viewing experience was integral to Markopoulos’s conception of the film medium. By tying the film to a single location, he worked against the distributional logics embedded in the reproducibility of the film image. Instead (as the title of Eniaios—which means both “unity” and “uniqueness”—makes explicit) the film image, and in particular the individual film frame, was for Markopoulos something irreducible and singular. Beavers recalled Markopoulos’s revelation of the filmic image as a kind of “hieroglyphic.” Over the three nights of screenings we were presented with this vision of the film image as a kind of linguistic element, nearly devoid of movement. Timeless images: the stone carvings at Chartres, or the columns of Olympia, blinking images appearing between lengths of black leader. But then suddenly a young Beavers, in dishabille with eyes shut, posed as the God of Love in a messy loft. The universal and the personal were linked by the rhythmic structure of the film.

Like much of the footage incorporated into Eniaios, the images of Beavers came from an earlier film, Markopoulos’s Eros, O Basileus, from 1967. The content of the Eniaios images often indexed Markopoulos’s transatlantic practice: While later images were almost exclusively of European sites and artists, especially in Greece and Switzerland, much of the earlier footage was shot in New York. At the end of the final night of screenings, when I had become fully ensconced in the closed world of the Temenos, images from Lower Manhattan, from where I had just arrived, appeared on-screen. To see the memorials of Battery Park projected as if onto the night sky in the fabled paradise of antiquity triggered conflicting feelings of displacement and homecoming.

Earlier that day, I had paid a visit to the museum at Olympia to see again the sculptures depicting the rape of the Lapinth women by centaurs that had adorned the pediment to the Temple of Zeus. Pieced together from shattered hands, hooves, and faces locked in expressions of terror or lust, the sculptures have been restored to sit within their original, triangular frame, with fragments, aided by steel struts, sometimes seeming to float in place. After two nights of Markopoulos screenings, each suspended detail seemed to evoke, in fact, a cinematic image. The sculpture, in its restored unity, seemed an apt metaphor for the form of Eniaios: a unity of fragments.

Michael Wang

The sixth, seventh, and eighth orders of Eniaios premiered at the Temenos site near Lyssaraia in Arcadia from June 29 to July 1, 2012.

Kiko Goifman and Claudia Priscilla, Olhe pra mim de novo (Look at Me Again), 2011, color film, 77 minutes.

A PROBLEM WITH NATION-THEMED PROGRAMMING is that it presumes a national character. In the case of Brazil, whose multiethnic population of two hundred million lives across a wide and diverse array of terrains, any summary of that character will always be incomplete. The twelfth edition of “Premiere Brazil!,” the Museum of Modern Art’s annual festival of new Brazilian films receiving their United States premieres (organized in collaboration with the Rio de Janeiro International Film Festival), gives a sampler of Brazilian life and art that goes far beyond the stereotypical images of beaches, drugs, and slums. (It also exposes American film distributors’ consistent failure to show any other kind of Brazil.) In lieu of a single, fixed view of the country emerges a rich display of people and places.

Among the panoply is Wolney Oliveira’s The Last Cangaçeiros, a documentary that depicts a couple in their nineties who reveal their history as members of a famous outlaw cowboy gang against the backdrop of a hard northeastern desert. Vicente Amorim’s fiction film Dirty Hearts features a Japanese family in São Paulo who fall into dealings with a terrorist group after their native land’s surrender in World War II; it offers a glimpse of Brazil’s greater community of Japanese descendants, the largest in any country outside Japan. Meanwhile, Eryk Rocha’s docudrama Passerby follows an older man as he wanders through Rio, black-and-white camerawork absorbing everyone in sight.

It’s a tribute to the variety and richness of the current film scene that my four favorite Brazilian movies from last year (the mysterious, unsettling fictions Hard Labor and Neighboring Sounds, and the elliptical, beautiful, and weird documentaries Belair and Raul—The Beginning, the End and the Middle) aren’t part of “Premiere Brazil!,” and that, even so, there’s still strong work showing. I’d recommend Kiko Goifman and Claudia Priscilla’s documentary Look at Me Again, in which we meet Silvyo Luccio, a garrulous, horny female-to-male transsexual in the Northern state of Ceará. He hopes to conceive a child with his female partner, and still chats up every lady in sight. Silvyo’s transition has affected many other aspects of his life, including his relationship with his grown daughter, who mourns her mother and can’t accept her new father.

Brazil has an excellent nonfiction filmmaking tradition. (Eduardo Coutinho, the generally acknowledged master, is on hand this year with his latest film, The Songs.) The popular narrative cinema is steadily emerging, represented in “Premiere Brazil!” by the biopic Heleno (with Rodrigo Santoro playing soccer great Heleno de Freitas) and the feel-good dramedy The Clown. But more compelling is 5x Favela: Now by Ourselves, an omnibus comprising five narrative segments by young directors shot in a Rio favela. Light, handheld camerawork and a bouncy score unite a cast of characters ranging from a young man resisting his law-school classmates’ efforts to make him their drug dealer to a group of rooftop-dwelling kids with eyes on the sky as they fly delicate kites. Families celebrate a solved power outage with a block party. The focus throughout this ebullient film is the mutual effort people make to build a better community.

5x Favela is dedicated to the memory of filmmaker Leon Hirszman, whose Cinema Novo marvel São Bernardo (1972), based on a novel by Graciliano Ramos, will screen at “Premiere Brazil!” in a new digital restoration. São Bernardo tells the tale of the monstrous Paulo (Othon Bastos), his release from prison, and his subsequent efforts to take over a rich, green property in Alagoas. He claims a wife, Madalena (Isabel Ribeiro), to stake his landowner’s identity, but torments himself once she refuses to live as his property. The film is full of sharp, incongruous juxtapositions. The manic Bastos shouts and lurches inside hard, flat, fixed frames, his dark skin standing out against white clothes and walls. He stomps through vast fields that will outlive his or any other owner’s hands. He narrates the film, but no one point of view triumphs. The world is larger and stronger and richer than any single voice can contain.

Author’s note: The beloved Brazilian filmmaker Carlos Reichenbach, a key figure in Brazilian cinema from the 1970s until his death last month at age sixty-seven, passed away too recently to be honored in the series’ programming.

Premiere Brazil! 2012 runs July 12–July 24 at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

Aaron Cutler

Far Out


Gonçalo Tocha, It’s the Earth Not the Moon, 2011, digital video, color, 183 minutes.

CORVO, THE SMALLEST AND FARTHEST WEST of the nine islands that comprise the Azores archipelago, is situated in the midst of the Atlantic Ocean, nearly a thousand miles west of Lisbon, 1200 miles southeast of Newfoundland, and 2100 miles from North America. According to Gonçalo Tocha’s documentary It’s the Earth Not the Moon, there is no history of the island, not even a written memoir by a native or a visitor. (The title comes from a 1970 newspaper article that the island’s resident chronicler, who has kept records for the past forty years, shows the filmmaker.) With only about 450 permanent inhabitants, Corvo is the least-populated of the Azores and, unlike its sisters, did not serve as an air base for the Allies during World War II. Like the other islands, Corvo was formed and is dominated by a huge though inactive volcano, and purportedly has earthen structures dating back two thousand years, suggesting human presence before the Portuguese settlement that has dominated all the Azores for the past six centuries. Despite the film’s title, however, Corvo is no more alien-looking than many islands and, given its connections to its sister islands and to the Portuguese mainland, is not exactly “stranded” in the middle of the Atlantic.

Nevertheless, the fact that Corvo has such a small population, along with one village, one airport, one church (Catholic), one road, one school, one health center, and, if one can believe it, one restaurant, prompts the filmmaker and his assistant to jokingly promise at the outset that they will film every face, every street, every workplace, every rock, every tree, every animal of this “primeval” world—a term that speaks to Corvo’s volcanic origins 700,000 years ago. The result, while no rival of Robert Flaherty’s majestic Man of Aran (1934), nor a match of Werner Herzog’s eccentric ethnographic excursions, is a patiently observed, quietly filmed exploration of the island’s botanical and geographic life, as well as its social, cultural, and economic structures. A cinematic record divided into fifteen chapters, the camera does most of the work with minimal, mostly neutral audio commentary. This works fine with the long silent gazes at land and seascapes, the views of agricultural and forestry activities, slaughterhouse, and cheese factory. It also seems right for the intimate visits to craftsmen, the island’s chronicler, church services, and the old woman knitting a traditional Corvo beret throughout for the filmmaker.

The approach is more questionable when we hear a political speech about the island’s diminishing social services and workers’ rights and wonder how seriously we’re meant to take it. Though such data may counteract an impression that the filmmaker wants us to think he has found a harmonious earthly paradise, the viewer may feel that something is missing. I certainly wanted to know more about the German piano teacher who came to Corvo precisely because it was “the furthest point in Europe.” Among the more wiling raconteurs, one tells a story about the old whaling days, while a man identified as the second oldest on the island follows his statistics with the curious remark, “Do you want more lies?” Is this the island’s cynic or its stand-up comic?

Near the close of its three hours, the film offers us two affecting montage sequences that require no comment, on the one hand a juxtaposition of the natural signs of the island’s primeval character—the volcano, the sea, random rocks, and ancient bones—and on the other, an iconic display of the rugged, enduring human faces of its native population. A sobering touch is the shadow of—one presumes—the filmmaker, camera in hand, stretching across and then dissolving slowly into the earthen landscape, a gesture that bluntly marks his visitation just as it replays the perpetual cycle of appearance and erasure of human life to which Corvo, like all such islands, has given silent witness over thousands of years.

Tony Pipolo

It’s the Earth Not the Moon has its New York theatrical premiere at Anthology Film Archives July 13–19.