In Elena Ferrante’s Frantumaglia: A Writer’s Journey(2015), fellow Italian writer Nicola Lagioia was afforded the opportunity to pose a number of questions, via e-mail, to the inimitable author. This also coincided with the year they were both finalists for the Strega Award (Lagioia eventually won for his first novel in translation, Ferocity). It’s a fascinating repartee and at one point, he states “For me literary needs always take precedence over the journalistic ones.” This is certainly evident in his latest book – a book which states it’s a work of fiction on the verso of the title page but then acknowledges that “the story told in this book is true” AKA “the most vicious crime in modern Roman history”.
In March 2016 in an apartment just outside Rome, the body of twenty-three-year-old Luca Varani was discovered brutally murdered at the hands of Manuel Foffo and Marco Prato. Two seemingly ‘ordinary’ men from ‘decent’ backgrounds. The crime supposedly sent Italy into shockwaves at the time but managed to bypass the UK entirely. The first I heard of it was when I started Nicola Lagioia’s The City of the Living, published by Europa editions UK and translated by Ann Goldstein (Queen of Italian translation and brilliant friend of Ferrante).
This gripping literary work of true crime pulls together months of interviews, courts documentation and correspondence with one of the killers in such a way, it reads like fiction. While the crime itself is stomach-churning and the conclusion of the court-case infuriating, Lagioia never loses empathy in portraying every injured party of this tragedy (and there are many). He seeks to expose Foffo and Prato’s humanity even when actions proved they had, frighteningly, lost it. Painting a truly compelling narrative of class, corruption, drugs and violence, he forefronts class, betrayed expectations, sexual confusion, and the provocative blood ties often unbearable in families.
Lagioia describes The Eternal City as one of absolute freedom but this story shows just how oppressive that liberty can be. The author, who lived in Rome for many years before moving on, pulls no punches in depicting the decay of a city crumbling, not only via its historic ruins but from its rotten core. A metropolis of darkness and an underbelly most tourists are unaware of. So convincing is his prose that it soured my opinion of a place I once adored.
A lot of its publicity has compared The City of the Living to Capote’s In Cold Blood, however, I find it pointless to compare the two. Both are incredible pieces of writing but this, is less dated, more incisive and one tends not to question its veracity (Dave Cullen’s Columbine or Michelle McNamara’s I’ll be Gone in the Dark are probably more appropriate contemporaries). After reluctantly finishing it, the first thing I did was Google the case. I was furious to not only finish the book but also in such a way, where justice failed (yet again!). I had to, if only to see these people whose lives and death(s) had kept me so rapt over three days because at no point does the author give any description of the three men beyond the height of one and the hairpiece of the other.
The City of the Living is a brilliant and disturbing page-turner brimming with tension. The book is a must-read about the reverberation and ruination of lives following a brutal act, in which identity crises, sexual complexities, personal supposition, and the location it all happened in played a part. It bolsters the notion that once again, humans can be atrocious and the belief in/notion of justice is not only blind but, at times, ridiculous.
There have been numerous attempts to depict the cruelty of dementia onscreen, detailing the disease, from diagnosis to decline. Often told from the (adult) children’s perspective, most of these films comment on the hardship and then the parent is often shoved into assisted living – despite refusal – where there are medical professionals who will help them. Viggo Mortensen’s Falling doesn’t necessarily reinvent the wheel, however, his film is a family drama first and foremost with dementia in a supporting role.
The actor was on a night-flight returning from his mother Grace’s funeral in 2015 when he initially got the idea for a film. At the wake, he noted in his journal all the conversations he’d had and overheard, a lot of which triggered remembrances from childhood. He was intrigued by the differing recollections of memories (often the same ones) shared during the memorial.
Memory is a theme which has recurred through his previously published work, including books Coincidence of Memory, and I Forget You for Ever and makes up the genesis of Falling, his feature debut as writer-director. This debut is seen through the eyes of John Peterson (played respectively Luca & Liam Crescitelli, Grady McKenzie, Etienne Kellici, William Healy and, finally, as an adult by Mortensen himself) and uses fictionalised aspects of the actor’s childhood .
Angry Old Man
Willis (Lance Henriksen) is a belligerent old bastard of a man, foul-mouthed, abrasive and stuck in a time-warp. He is stoic and habitually unmoving in his attitude and views of the world, made all the more problematic by his advancing dementia. His son John, a pilot, who lives with his partner Eric (Terry Chen) and daughter Monica (Gabby Velis) in California brings Willis to visit so that he and sister Sarah (Laura Linney) can make plans for their father’s long-term health-care. Specifically, selling the farm in upstate New York and finding somewhere geographically closer to them so that they may share the care-load.
Willis’ reaction comes as no surprise to the whole idea. Cue a multitude of slurs, expletives and the testing of anyone’s patience but John remains calm, reticent and immune to the insults until, well, he isn’t. In a series of flashbacks, we see there is no love lost between father and son – the term “cocksucker” is used as both an expletive and term of endearment. It is these flashes of memory that give way to happier moments as Willis – the younger iteration played by Sverrir Gudnason – and Gwen’s (Hannah Gross) love story is detailed in snatches of scenes, like a slideshow, depicting their wedding day, the birth of their children and the inevitable fracture and breakdown of their relationship. These snapshots are interwoven with moments seen through the eyes of their children.
Young John (Grady McKenzie) and his father Willis (Sverrir Gudnason)
Amongst these, we see father and son bonding, hunting and fishing on the lake, the joy evident on the little lad’s face. There was affection once-upon-a-time but as John grows and away from Willis’ overbearing control, through divorce after divorce, the relationship becomes fractious building to a head during the boy’s teenage years.
The film frames Gwen as the love of Willis’ life, however, he doesn’t seem to know what true happiness is with or without her, and he spends the last few years of their relationship torturing her and trying to make her as miserable as possible. Yet, in a film which focusses on subjectivity and memory can the viewer take anything at face value or do we doubt everything? These flashes belong to multiple people, their perceptions as they experience them, and then there’s Willis’ recollections are even more questionable due to his advancing years and disease.
Mortensen comes across as a fairly unassuming and private man which makes this all the more fascinating. Reportedly working for free in order to finance this film, the film’s producer, director, screenwriter and composer chose to fictionalise some elements of his early life and childhood without losing verisimilitude leaving the viewer to question what the ‘factual’ element is. Apparently, Little Viggo (he was never know as junior) did have a dead duck as a pet which fed his ‘obsession’ with death, and the scar above his top lip was allegedly caused by barbed wire (and not by his father’s hand as the film suggests). He’s not a pilot either but his brother, Walter, had a cameo as one in an early Mortensen film, The Crew (1994). Their other brother Charles is also named in the film’s pre-credit dedication – there is no sister. In reality, Mortensen apparently took on the lion-share of caring for their parents – both of whom had dementia – prior to their respective deaths, Falling is not only a love letter to lost parents but for his younger siblings.
The Petersons, L-R: Willis (Gudnason) and Gwen (Hannah Gross)
There are little nuggets of information scattered throughout that, upon first viewing, few would be aware of but serve as nods to the Mortensen/Atkinson family history. It is clearly no accident that John has the surname he does. While Mortensen went by Little Viggo, his father tended to be Peter. John Peterson is, symbiotically, Peter’s son. Much was made of Mortensen’s choice of sexuality for his main character, however, he has stated in interviews that he wanted to exaggerate the polarisation between father and son. Both are presented in a very specific microcosm of American society – you’d be hard pressed not to miss the Obama image on the fridge – and a Presidential term that was afflicted with the darker aspects of misogyny, racism, homophobia and misanthropy (it was to get oh so much worse with the 45th). Themes suggested in this narrative. John and Willis are at odds over political affiliations, life choices, sexuality, as well as their memories of Gwen.
As a side note, it’s a really astute observation that the older generation i.e. Sarah and John won’t call out Willis for his bullshit opinions but his older grandchildren will. Monica, on the other hand will often lapse into Spanish (presumably she is the personification of the Mortensen boys’ childhood in Latin America) – her mother tongue – but is his best friend. She’s the only one who will accept him for who he is. Coincidentally, an immigrant like herself.
Eric (Terry Chen) and John’s daughter Monica (Gabby Velis)
Mortensen’s maternal grandfather (and one brother’s namesake) was Canadian and a medical doctor and two Canadians plays Doctors here. Close friend and collaborator David Cronenberg (as deadpan proctologist Dr. Klausner) and Hannah Gross’ actual father Paul plays Dr. Solvei. Mortensen own son, Henry, also makes an appearance as law enforcement officer Sgt. Saunders. So many father and son references and yet the real driving force of the narrative is the mother – she is the conscience running through the film and, as previously mentioned, only in her absence is her (somewhat romanticised) presence felt all the more, the subjective memories of her often the bone of contention between father and son. For John, his mother has gone, his memories are relegated to the past while Willis – due to his declining cognisance – has Gwen in the present despite having had a couple of wives since her. She is whom he recollects, imagines her in front of him, and continues to love during his sun-downing.
Thankfully, they are eventually able to accept each other’s version of events, something Mortensen also learnt in real life. He told Alec Baldwin during his podcast episode that this is aspect he personally finds so unconvincing about the so-called ‘dementia’ films; the need to depict people as bumbling and forgetful, with their carers gently revising their recollections, as this wasn’t his experience at all. “One thing you learn is not to correct them. It’s too late – don’t argue anymore… if they’re enjoying the memory, let it go.”
It is those types of scenes, as Falling edges towards its denouement, that are the most heart-breaking as the son moves back in with the old man (Canada doubling for Watertown, New York state) who, in his confused state, believes his ranch is under siege – despite having sold parts of it and promptly forgotten. In reality, Mortensen Sr. would lapse into Danish to converse, often slipping back to his own childhood while the actor would sleep in the next room with a baby monitor for company. Onscreen, Henriksen’s Willis mistakes John for his own father. John has dealt with his father, his diagnoses and outbursts with relative calm, diplomacy and resignation up to this point but to hear him raise his voice, see him rage – albeit briefly – exposes more of his humanity, pain and sorrow etched upon his (unshaven) face, and his usual perfectly coiffed hair standing on end.
It’s the first time his guard slips, his usual immaculate appearance refreshingly missing while Red River plays on a small portable TV in the background. In Howard Hawks’ 1948 Western things get tense between John Wayne as a Texas Rancher and his adopted son, Montgomery Clift. It’s no coincidence that John is trying to broker a deal to sell the remaining land given his ornery father is now too infirm to work it or save it. It also serves as a reminiscence back to a ‘simpler’ time, the old west in which ‘men were men’, a (toxic) masculinity which Willis clearly subscribed to but is also frozen in suspended in time, unwilling (unable?) to change. Décor of the surrounding rooms and even Mortensen’s costumes cement this, all are dated and somewhat old-fashioned. Henriksen’s performance is extraordinary throughout and especially in these moments, enabling such sympathy in a man who has up to that point been largely unpleasant and devoid of sentimentality is certainly no mean feat.
Grandpa Willis and his favourite person share a nap
Falling is gorgeously edited by Ronald Sanders (A History of Violence, Eastern Promises, A Dangerous Method) and stunningly shot by DoP Marcel Zyskind (The Two Faces of January, The Dead Don’t Hurt). Certainly, it didn’t hinder the first-time director having a cast and crew of familiar people/frequent collaborators working alongside him in what proves, to be a beautiful and cathartic experience, one that stays with you. There is a lot to admire and be moved by.
It asks questions about age, memory, its perception, recollection, retainment and reconstruction – and its persistence (there’s even a sneaky nod to Dalí’s 1931 painting, see image above) the notion of verisimilitude, and, above all else, forgiveness. This is no typical screen dementia patient, there is no withering away quietly – here the patriarch keeps his personality, his faults hard to ignore. He is tenacious, angry, insecure, his presence overwhelming at times; impossible to love and loved anyway. It’s a film which reconciles life with the parent you have with the one you might have wished for, full of compassion, empathy, and grace.
Mortensen (centre) with brothers Charles and Walter (1966)
On Christmas Eve as the snow blankets the ground and buries car wheels deep in Montreal, Alex (Paloma Vauthier) and her Téta (Clémence Sabbagh) open the door to a parcel from Beirut. The delivery – addressed to Alex’s mother Maia (Rim Turkhi) – is initially turned away by the oldest matriarch who declares that “the past stinks”. The box contains cassette tapes of a life suppressed; Maia’s teenage years of the 70s and 80s in the wake of the sender’s death. Liza was Maia’s best friend and her dying wish, it appears, was to be reunited with her friend albeit through their memories, photos, notebooks and audio files. While Maia is too bereft to embrace her past, Alex finds the perfect opportunity to connect with a country she has never visited and a woman, her own mother, whom she barely knows.
With the aid of the box the audience learns, along with Alex, what a life is like during war – for most of us, we have not had to experience it – and bridging the generational divide however possible. Images literally come to life and interact with the music playing from the cassette recordings, for example, a memorable time-lapse sequence sound-tracked to Visage’s “Fade to Grey” while, you’ve guessed it, fading to grey. It may sound trite but it’s far from it as real-action bombs and gunfire burn holes in negative strips, and a potentially simplistic premise is fleshed out. It is incredibly evocative of a country ravaged by war and visually impressive, beautifully edited by Tina Baz.
Shifting between fantasy and reality, and with the help of flashbacks Alex enters her mother’s adolescence, her dreams and nightmares during the Lebanese Civil war and the loves and losses overcome during a tumultuous time. Alex, with the help of the late Liza, her Téta and the memory box is able to embrace the most important relationship of her life and see her mother not only as a woman and friend but with new understanding. The same goes for Maia and her own matriarch.
With such heavy hitting themes surrounding death, trauma, and abandonment, it is often the case for films depicting this sort of conflict to do so with earnestness and solemnity, however, Memory Box doesn’t do that. There were some 120,000 fatalities during 1975-1990 but not all perished in Beirut, many survived, lived and thrived and it is these people who are celebrated, the dead honoured in this intergenerational tale with women at the heart of its narrative.
To go forward, one must go back and sometimes reunite with your trauma and, in this case, a homeland which has been suppressed, wartime survival which has been denied, tragedy which has been compartmentalised, like a photo film that has never been processed in over thirty years. There is a compassion to Joreige, Hadjithomas and Gaëlle Macé’s screenplay which is non-judgemental and forgiving, especially in relation to Raja’s reappearance as an adult (Rabih Mroue). The first half may rely of a visual inventiveness and the image, yet, the second still manages to hit with emotional resonance and be deeply moving brimming with moments of levity.
Memory Box is a handcrafted gem by experimental filmmakers, Khalil Joreige and Joanna Hajithomas. Utilising their own photographs and journals written between 1982 and 1988 they create a visually inventive and accessible film which re-writes personal history, questions memory, its unreliability, and how it shapes the present. While visuals are particularly pop-arty and magazine-like, there is an overpowering resonance and meaningful juxtaposition. This is their memory box, made for their children, for whom the film is dedicated.
Memory Box is available to rent from all the usual places you can stream from.
An elderly woman completes a crossword with a young girl – there is a brief assumption she’s her granddaughter but the child gets up to leave with an “au revoir”. The girl then goes into every room along the dimly lit corridor and bids farewell to the other female residents until she reaches her destination; the bright room at the end of the hallway. ”Mama, can I keep her stick?”
After the passing of her grandmother, Nelly (Joséphine Ganz) and her mother Marion (Gabrielle Sanz) drive to the latter’s childhood home to pack up belongings, keepsakes and transport furniture, as families are wan to do after a bereavement. Nelly feeds her mother from the backseat of the car, extends the juice carton to her lips and then reassuringly clamps her arms around her mother’s neck as they both follow Papa (Stéphane Varupenne) driving the white van in front. Nelly is every inch the little mother of the title despite the interchangeability of role throughout the taut 82-minute film.
Nelly moves into her mother’s childhood bedroom and they both go through Marion’s note pads, school books and toys. The little girl chides her mother’s inability to spell but offers words of encouragement about a drawing of a fox. It’s an incredibly tender and loving relationship between the two. Despite being only eight years old, Nelly is wise beyond her years, empathy seeps from her every pore; she can sense her mother’s vulnerability and offers her narrow shoulders and small arms within which comfort can be sought. When Marion suddenly leaves, it is up to her daughter and partner to stay on and finish packing up. Nelly attempts to engage her father by bringing up the treehouse her mother built in the surrounding woods but the man merely shrugs and says he can’t recall anything about it. ” You don’t forget,” she scolds, “You just don’t listen.”
What happens next is so matter-of-fact that to go into detail would ruin the surprise (NB. Don’t watch the trailer if you wish to avoid spoilers) but it relies upon an open-minded audience and one which is willing to accept the ordinary and enchanted; the magic and imagination of a child. We all sought it once upon a time.
While Portrait of a Woman on Fire cemented Céline Sciamma as auteur, her earlier filmography has tended to forefront children and teenagers. Adults don’t really exist in the world she creates and she writes the world from their viewpoint whether they are eight-years-old, teenage girls, a tomboy, or a courgette. This film uses an autumnal colour palette full of lush browns and greens, and rich blues and burgundies; colours echoed between mother and daughter. Its costumes look to corduroy, woven jumpers and anoraks to weight the seasonal surroundings but also to give it a timeless quality. Transitions in time are slight but not insignificant – French language aside, this could be anywhere.
Childhood is a tricky thing to navigate while you’re experiencing it – although you tend not to realise just how much until you’re out the other side. Petite maman is extraordinary and enchanting, small and yet packs a punch. It is a thoroughly gorgeous film in which memories are tangible, maturation comes quickly, and a loving and assertive little woman seeks to renew her connection with her maman and say goodbye to her beloved grand-mère on her own terms.
Full disclosure, I haven’t written anything in well over a year – it’s probably closer to two if I’m being completely honest – for a multitude of reasons: a severe lack of confidence, general work-related inability, the pandemic, or just general disgruntlement at the world around me. Inspiration took me by complete surprise when I began looking back over this blog space and I allowed myself to briefly reminisce about the enthusiasm I once had, and the encouragement I received from two wonderful souls. Both of whom are, devastatingly, no longer with us. Anyway I digress… although I’m sure there is something to add about the fragility and futility of life. Do what you love. So, I figured I’d try and write about a subject I love, a bit of an obsession* if you will.
One of the first pieces I published was way back in 2012 for a long-defunct film-site and it got me thinking of my onscreen main squeeze, Viggo Mortensen. Eleven years later, he is still somewhat of a King (and technically a Knight having been bestowed with the honour back in 2010 by Queen Margarethe II of Denmark) and continues to work, thankfully, choosing roles that are fascinatingly complex, interesting, and most of the time utterly unique to him.
“I have no plan. Maybe I should have a career plan but I don’t. I usually wait and hope the right thing will find me.”
The Evening Chronicle
Now a spritely 65-year-old (come October), the dimple-chinned deity has received countless SAG award noms, Golden Globes, EFAs, recognition at TIFF, the Goyas, BIFA, and BAFTA. Plus, wins at Stockholm FF and San Sebastian for his directorial debut, Falling, and a second and third Oscar nom (for Captain Fantastic and Green Book respectively). I can’t say I was a fan of Green Book to be perfectly honest – it was fine, j’adore Vig and Mahershala Ali but I kind of loathed Tony Lip. Thankfully, there has been plenty to enjoy since 2013 (which is where my original Viggo is King piece left off).
The Two Faces of January (Dir. Hossein Amini. 2014)
Based on Patricia Highsmith’s 1964 novel of the same name, Viggo is Chester McFarland, a con-artist married to Colette (Kirsten Dunst), who has to quickly rely on Oscar Isaac’s perfect stranger Rydal Kenner to get him out of a sticky sitch. Cue: frustration, jealousy, paranoia and a slow unravelling. As leading men go, few have looked finer in this tragic murder-flight-redemption mystery thriller. There is an almost Oedipal theme running throughout despite the link to Janus, and with filming taking place in Athens, Crete, Knossos, and Istanbul the emphasis is on heat, sand, and bright light (there are few shadows to hide in). Chester’s Man From Del Monte suit begins to look rather grubby by the end.
Jauja (Dir. Lisandro Alonso, 2014)
In 1880s Argentina, Danish Captain Gunnar Dinsen (Mortensen) is there with his daughter Ingeborg (Viilbjørk Malling Agger) who wants a dog, falls in love with one man, and has to spurn the affections of another… to reveal anything more of the plot would spoil the experience. This is a slow-burn and magical piece of cinema, its gorgeous visuals shot in a 4:3 aspect ratio (Mortensen also served as the film’s composer). The title, Jauja, refers to the once capital of Spanish Peru known as ‘never never land’ and the ‘land of milk and honey’; a mythical El Dorado of sorts. The film itself is existential in tone, hypnotic, and haunting and has me excited for Lisandro Alonso’s next film Eureka – a recent Special Screening at Cannes – which is also anchored by Mortensen.
Captain Fantastic (Dir. Matt Ross, 2016)
Ben Cash (Mortensen), his wife Leslie and their six, uniquely named children live deep in the wilderness of Washington State, “off-grid”. The kids are home-schooled, they hunt, fish, read Noam Chomsky and can be more than a little wild. When Leslie takes her own life, Dad and the kids have to shun isolation and venture into mainstream society, the first time for a lot of them. Vig continues his run of ‘out-of-time’ men, male characters on the cusp of, well, somewhere else. His Ben exudes a childlike simplicity and whimsy but he’s a limiting, almost dangerous, father; selfish, imperfect, and deeply flawed. It’s an incredibly honest and raw performance.
Falling (Dir. Viggo Mortensen, 2020)
Mortensen’s most personal project to date – a work of auto-fiction – based on his own childhood, his parents’ love story, and the last few years of their lives. He directed the film, wrote the screenplay, and composed the film’s score as well as starring as John, a Pilot charged with looking after his father Willis (Lance Henriksen), an unflinching and uncouth, bad-tempered old bastard of a man whose brain is slowly surrendering to dementia. This film is the antithesis of Florian Zeller’s The Father and one which looks at memory, communication, forgiveness, and is evidently made with love.
Crimes of the Future (Dir. David Cronenberg, 2022)
David Cronenberg’s 2022 body horror is the fifth time he has worked with his favoured leading man (a safe assumption by now, right? For anyone questioning the five films, Cronenberg plays a staid proctologist in Falling). After Tom Stall, Nikolai Luzhin, and Sigmund Freud comes Saul Tenser, he of tender soul – and still a man ‘undercover’ or in hiding. This is a vulnerable Vig. His Saul is a performance artist whose body leaves him in constant pain – he has the ability to produce multiple new body organs, which are then removed during a live show by his partner Caprice (Léa Seydoux). He is then approached to go undercover to infiltrate some radical evolutionists. The world is changing (again) and “surgery is the new sex”. There are visual nods to The Man Who Laughs (1928), The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) and call-backs to Videodrome (1983), Crash (1996) and Existenz (1999). Viggo is, as ever, compelling but I think the women of the cast, Seydoux, Kristen Stewart (who is fantastic), and LifeFormWare Techs played by Nadia Litz & Tanya Beatty shade him at times.
My admiration goes way back to The Indian Runner (Dir. Sean Penn, 1991), I was 15 when I discovered the DVD in 1998, I’d just seen him in another directorial debut (ugh) Albino Alligator (1996) and wanted to see more, beyond the bespectacled and besuited moustache he played. Aside from the obvious aesthetically-pleasing exterior, there’s a quiet intensity, and nuance to his performances. He’s not a method actor but I find him as mesmerising as Brando (unsurprisingly, I’m a huge fan of Bud too). 27 years later, Mortensen is still my go-to, one of a select group of actors who I’ll watch anything and everything they churn out.
This has resulted in a wealth of work to look back on and dip in and out of from the multi-hyphenate artist. As well as the new projects he completes to look forward to. Perhaps, I will even, finally, get to those elusive three that I have yet to watch – La pistola de mi hermano (1997), On the Road (2012) and Far From Men (2014).
It’s rare for him to give a bad performance even if the film itself is a dud. Whether he’s onscreen for one brief scene or the King of a 682-minute trilogy, he tends to bring his kind of magic to it which keeps you enthralled or at least pique your interest. Next, however, will be his sophomore outing behind the camera, The Dead Don’t Hurt, an 1860s-set western love story, in which he will play Danish immigrant Holger Olsen opposite Vicky Krieps’ Vivienne Le Coudy. Can’t wait.
*“Without obsession, life would be nothing.” – John Waters
The Framing Device 