Il Cinema Ritrovato 2018: Finding Water, Finding Land

Fischfang in der Rhön (an der Sinn) von Ella Bergmann-Michel

Circling, encircling, turning full circle: the not altogether lucid experience of summer. A film festival playing out in the midst of it is inevitably infected with its spirited grandeur as well as the emptiness it leaves behind. Il Cinema Ritrovato, in part due to its festival time slot and the sultry air of the Emilia-Romagna basin, but also thanks to the programming that charts new-old discoveries onto the sketching boards of all manner of visitors, remains the keeper of an (as of yet) unconquerable and somewhat irresistible meandering line leading through film history, albeit enveloped in a misty light that leaves much to the imagination. It’s hard to keep from wondering what would happen if something were to change; if, for example, a new kind of territory, be it cinematic or geographic, were to appear on the festival maps or another manner of introduction and discussion set in motion. The history of cinema may prove itself inexhaustible if we reach deep enough.

As it is, we participate in the swerving, latching onto a creature of choice and following it all along the line. And there it is, the line itself come to life in a tremor: Luciano Emmer, whose La ragazza in vetrina (1961) pursues the light by parting from it in one of the first shots. A group of miners goes underground in Holland – its members are, for the most part, Italian immigrants who left home looking for work and money to send back. Vincenzo is a new arrival and it is his gaze that propels the gut-sinking feeling as the crew drop down into the dark pits of the Earth, the bead of light above becoming smaller by the second. Their descent is planned, it is supposed to bring them something but, instead, they are buried in a mine shaft on one of Vincenzo’s first trips down. You can carry your light with you, but you can also be buried together with it. After a few days, the survivors, Vincenzo and rowdy, boisterous Federico (a magnanimous Lino Ventura) among them, are dug out by their colleagues and Federico convinces the youngster that he deserves a weekend in Amsterdam before returning to Italy, a decision he arrived at after the catastrophic accident. This is where the mermaids come in, filmed as they’ve rarely been filmed before, in real locations the likes of which we’ve hardly ever encountered.

La ragazza in vetrina by Luciano Emmer

As the two protagonists venture into Amsterdam’s red light district, it becomes clear that going down the pit can mean many things. In the film, the incredible prostitutes Else (Marina Vlady) and Chanel (Magali Noël) carry another portion of both simmering violence and hopefulness that are so essential to its spirit. Women displayed in windows and men sent into the darkness join forces for a moment, as a dreamlike idyll at Else’s tiny seaside house sends her and Vincenzo into another pursuit. The last shots see him back in the mines with a glint in his eye – the light returned. Terza liceo, Camilla (both 1954) and Le ragazze di Piazza di Spagna (1952) confirm Emmer’s essential humanism and, in view of the disturbing lack of recognition of (and writing on) his generous, vibrant filmmaking, bring this Annie Dillard quote to mind: “Emotional impact and simplicity are two virtues (…) which strike textual criticism dumb.”

F. Percy Smith at his house in 1936

What then of another find, a small jewel of botanical imagery which seems to float as the blossoms turn on their axis before the camera, colors peeling off them in slivers of green and red? The seven-minute Varieties of Sweet Peas (1911) shows F. Percy Smith, pioneer filmmaker and great naturalist whose films have recently been assembled into a collage called Minute Bodies (2017) by Stuart Staples of the Tindersticks, gently opening a box full of flowers. All that in Kinemacolor, a short-lived beauty of an early additive color process revived.

What of Ella Bergmann-Michel’s 1932 short Fischfang in der Rhön (an der Sinn), ripe with the mystery, stillness and life of water? Its transparencies are captivating; tadpoles make music with waves and fish, visual music that overflows in double exposures. Plants are reflected in the water, and dandelions and shadows filmed near the river. A cat slinks through the grass, an epitome of the unknown. All the while, a man is angling on the shore. The man ends up with a fish on his hook, the cat with a bird in its mouth. Something is awry, certainly. Something is ruthless and running amok in the crystal waters. We can’t tell where it ends or begins, since all is water, which is at once “life and a threat to life; it erodes, submerges, fertilizes, bathes, abolishes,” writes Claudio Magris.

Venise et ses amants by Luciano Emmer

And if we now do turn full circle to Luciano Emmer, we will arrive at a wonder: his non-fiction essay films. Two of these are notably located (almost) on water, revolving in and around Venice, a city that Emmer treasured since his childhood days spent there. Venise et ses amants, with Jean Cocteau reading the text, illuminates the melancholy air of many who succumbed to its charms and blended their touch and flame to that of the city, such as Keats, Lord Byron and George Sand. Their words and ghosts are reintroduced into Venice as palaces collapse their shadows into the sea in the astonishing ambition of reaching for the sand and stars all at once. But then the circle widens, opening towards the Venetian Gulf and, most importantly, the lagoon.

Isole nella laguna (both films were made in 1948) roves the small islands protruding from the sea and their few remaining inhabitants, recording landscapes both disappeared and disappearing, always on the very brink of existence. Its children eat blackberries without paying heed to the bones moved there from the overflooded Venetian cemeteries, the patients of the San Clemente insane asylum cling to a grate as the camera approaches on water, though whether to keep safe or in a desire to escape will forever remain unclear. There are those who embroider and blow glass into being, as if to say the human hand can only work to create miracles in this world. Magris, writing on the nearby Grado Lagoon in his Microcosms, says it best: “Poetry is pietas, humility – closeness to the humus lagunare (…) – and the fraternal pleasure of living. The waters of that immemorial humus are dark, the batela glides calmly, the hand guiding it knows how to sculpt a face mined by the years, to etch the profile of a landscape.” This life is ancient and young and made for meandering quests. Let at least one of them be a festival of intermittent light.

Seeping Light Along the Edges: Sílvia das Fadas in a Square Dance

In the flicker of silhouettes, light filters in. Rooms charge and change, the trails of people lingering in the back of history and memory. What does is take to put the once swaying world back in motion? Clarity, as that of George Oppen, seeks its own ground, metamorphosing a child’s foot into a butterfly because it is what needs to be done. In Sílvia das Fadas‘ Square Dance, Los Angeles County, California, 2013, the discarded photographs of Russell Lee are called back as well as called forward in a fulgent dance of figures, shadows, and light. Luminousness needs to be restored and reinvented, the sources of opalescence cannot always remain the same: those who have sought will belong to a “we,” an overcoming, ardent “we” wielded by hands in which the power of lives is contained. A chorus of imagined futures joins those of reverberative pasts. Legs and arms shift and travel as leaves and shades, trees and shrouds, traces upon traces. There is a story to be told in possible dances.

square-dance3

Doubly exposed to time, laid open to possible world sightings from both ends, through echoing with “Which side are you on?,” these windows of chance glimpses at people in rural America during the Great Depression join imagined pasts with graceful futures. Their grace is not without strife, for the filigree waves of their bodies and clothes, the contours of the room and the lines of their faces are reflected in a prism of multifariousness. Where they are going, there is no end, no callous lingering, not even a whisper of delineation or definition. Instead, it is clarity that rings true in revisiting places where people are handheld, whether by camera or song, by cinema or light. Sílvia das Fadas is familiar with these lands, as her intimacy with the recovery of once living relationships reveals in strokes of seeping light. Memory burns bright, with details as its sacred fireflies. Corners of the once inhabited brush against the newly arrived. Remnants of the once seen bloom in the gaze born anew. There is no way to hide, nor is there any reason to: we are all the richer, all the closer, all the more saturated with each other in taking up the threads and vestiges of other golden tales, following their courses whether they be rivers, mountains or sands buried underneath the cities.

Awakening has need of shipwrecks – in brushing the quotidian from the soles of our feet, we teeter on the edge of forgetfulness. Remembering is a choice more than it ever was, but its walls and hedges are no less slippery. Shadows dance in the realms of the forlorn as much as in those of the hopeful, but the thread to follow, glowing in the darkness in-between, is woven from the urge and yearning for the filtering light, the light that made cinema and that breaks and reflects the world.