In addition to the number of exciting new screenings at the BFI London Film Festival this year, are three ‘Treasures’. Meticulous restorations of older works were shown ahead of physical release. Each hails from a different country, each with a very different cinematic legacy and culture. All are great discoveries to be enjoyed by a new generation of fans and historians.
The first of the three is perhaps the most anticipated. A once-lost Iranian classic, Chess of the Wind (1976) has been restored after the original negatives were found in an antique store. Saved from the cruel fate of obscure VHS transfers, it looks absolutely gorgeous in this new version recovered by the filmmaker’s son.
More than forty years on, it’s plain to see why this decadent and perverse story of fading aristocracy was originally banned. Prayers are undermined, sexuality is explored, and the central family are universally detestable. As with Southern Gothic narratives in the Western world, inheritance and wealth become highly-charged symbols of excess and decay. Fakhri Khorvash’s plays the central figure. A disabled heiress defending her claustrophobic yet opulent household from a number of wicked, abusive men.
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Comparisons to Visconti’s later work are apt. But the incredibly virtuosic long takes and lush, wide compositions here are utterly singular. Theatrical framings are made visceral and rich through chiaroscuro lighting and an evocative, eerie symmetry. Sheyda Gharachedaghi’s disruptive, energetic score punctuates rare moments of brutal, sometimes gleefully twisted violence. Mainly the tone is one of bitterness and loss. Grounded by an austere and complex view of social relations and sharp, highly symbolic images and compositions.
Whenever director Mohammad Reza Aslani subverts the candle-lit guise of niceness present, the sheer energy and intricacy of his camerawork is spellbinding. I can’t think of anything quite like it. And the discovery sheds light on an auteur who is far away from typical conceptions of the nation’s cinema. This is not a low-budget or a documetary-esque investigation of real life, but a delightfully ironic and absurd tale of rich people hating each-other. It’s profound and highly socially-conscious. But these points are made through the lens of melodrama rather than actuality.
All in all, it would be easier to call this a masterpiece than not. Though it remains for more perceptive critics to expand upon its formal achievements and relationship to various social, political, and religious mores.
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The misuse of material wealth proves itself a perennial theme drawing back to the age of the silents. Where strict moral codes constrain this next story and contribute to its status as an intriguing but largely average social drama. Directed by Paulette McDonagh and starring her sister Isabella (under the stage name Marie Lorraine), The Cheaters (1930) concerns a young woman and jewel thief who falls in love with a man of more legitimate means.
Considering how obvious the tale is and how it seems to constantly make concessions towards shallow, easy resolutions, it is strange that the plot manages to throw in at least one huge twist. Mostly, however, this is just a romance plot, and the potential joys of the premise are never quite fulfilled.
The McDonagh sisters are known for the attention they give to atmosphere and set-design. And there are shots here that are beautiful. Silhouetted, skeletal trees against a purple-tinted sky. The girl, masked, peering intently at the man she loves while desperately trying to hide her identity and emotions. I found these highlights too few and far between, but they may be enough for some people.
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Another remarkable aspect, of course, is the number of female artists behind the work. The silent period was generally more accepting of women than say, post-war Hollywood. Yet these Australian mavericks were still operating in a male-dominated world, producing a host of titles that I can’t wait to explore.
The restoration looks sharp and not too over-processed. Showcasing effectively the range of tinted colours and shot types used by McDonagh. A flawed but essential find for Female and Australian silent cinema.
No less important, both as a work of art and as a restoration, is the BFI’s own release of Peter Wollen’s only solo feature. A famous scholar, theorist, and journalist, Wollen directed several experimental, political films with his wife (at the time), the legendary Laura Mulvey. Extending this didactic gaze, Friendship’s Death (1987) takes place in Jordan during the ‘Black September’ war.
Friendship is played with naive wit and charm by Tilda Swinton. A robot from outer space who accidentally crashes into this conflict. Sheltered only by Bill Paterson’s journalist Sullivan. They discuss the causes of violence alongside themes such as human cruelty, armed struggle, and what it means to be human.
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The film is fitted with a spectral, atmospheric score and a marvellous though typically unassuming performance from Swinton. It also explores in a more comedic way the confusion of another life-form upon visiting our planet. While reflections on the mundaneness of football may not sound that relevant to Middle Eastern politics, these disparate musings are anchored nicely by quiet, intelligent directorial choices. Cinematography is purposeful here, framing the two leads in ways that stress and emphasise their strange bond. While also noting the disparity between their emotions.
Admittedly influenced by Godard’s movies of political revolt, Wollen is quite timid in his approach. Only using documentary footage that never interrupts the main conversational structure of the movie. It still succeeds due to its sense of humour and the subtle performances from the two leads. It’s a treasure of British cinema, but one that will benefit more from new distribution than from the restoration work. By this I mean that it doesn’t shine in the same way as Chess of the Wind does.
It’s imaginative with a number of limitations, though it feels a little stagy and repetitive at times. Hopefully, this version will spark renewed interest in Wollen’s filmmaking practise alongside his seminal scholarship.
