Nuri Bilge Ceylan 2014 Turkey
Starring: Haluk Bilginer, Demet Akbağ, Melisa Sözen, Ayberk Pekcan, Tamer Levent, Nejat İşler, Serhat Kılıç, Nadir Sarıbacak, Emirhan Doruktutan, Mehmet Ali Nuroğlu
To describe a film as unique in the modern day is a trite, really quite unhelpful statement, not just because there's such a volume of releases worldwide but also because so many of them either follow a well-worn pattern or are remakes/reboots. That being said the cinema of Turkish director Nuri Bilge Ceylan is practically matchless. Genre wise his work is closest to the 'slow cinema' movement, a field characterised by long takes, a contemplative, languid pace, minimalist dialogue, narratives stripped to their skeletons and a observation visual style that owes more to the panoramas of David Attenborough documentaries than to cinematic versions of the world. In spite of any connotations these elements may carry however the films are frequently gripping, searing human dramas that rigorously examine the fractured psychology of their characters' lives. Ceylan's latest, the Chekhov adaptation Winter Sleep, shares many such qualities while somehow remaining resolutely different, its story told through intense scenes focussing on dialogue and scrutinising, amongst other things, family, marriage, obligation, spite, the hypocrisies inherent of human nature and the line between benevolence and patronisation. One, featuring a gradually unfolding argument between the protagonist Aydin and his dismissive, cynical sister Necla, clocks in at a mammoth 18 minutes, the camera rarely changing position and the the quarrel growing organically but never quite exploding. Likewise the harsh and at times brutal honesty of the pair's speech recall Ingmar Bergman but Ceylan manages to extend their view slightly, as such the characters never appear to break the forth wall but engage with one another in believably everyday discussions, the tension increasing through temper and emotion, her telling him without melodrama or anger "In the old days we admired you. We thought you'd do great things, become famous even. But it didn't happen". He responds by questioning if she hates him with a wry smile. It's as if the remote Cappadocian hotel they've inherited and, now deep into middle age, feel trapped in has caused their hearts to become cold like the snow-laden mountains surrounding them, with their minds quite possibly soon to follow, whether they will warm again remaining doubtful. In his room Aydin stares out of a tiny window silently, both wishing for more and yet yearning for a quiet life as the kind regional ruler he aspires to be. He is in the process of writing a history of Turkish theatre, although he hasn't got much further than procrastination and self doubt. Necla is divorced but, in a startling moment, admits that she sort of wishes she'd not rebelled against her husband's ill treatment of her, her desperate hope being that he may then have grown to feel ashamed of his actions. Officially the hotel is owned by Aydin and he has renamed it Hotel Othello, a fitting choice as he, like Shakespeare's moor, is married to a much younger woman, Nihal, and feels uncomfortable in the middle class he has been brought up to. Although married may be the wrong word; the couple live singular lives in their own, separate parts of the estate, they have their own interests and routines, he spies on her doing her hair. One morning he asks one of the maids where his bride is, only to be told that she was up and out early. Later he phones her from his study to ask if she's free to join the conversation he's having with a friend, unaware of her daily plans and, it seems, not having seen her for days. When at one point he does attempt to support her in a charitable gathering she takes him aside and asks him to leave. That night in an incredible 12 minute scene lit by shadows and firelight he goes to her room and attempts to help her again but simply ends up oppressing her, laughing as she takes to her bed and weeps. She is the common sense and the logic to his scepticism and scorn but she too is becoming vicious and uncaring, as she puts it she's shed all her good qualities to struggle with him. As with real life there are instances of comedy and beauty too; when Aydin's assistant enters a station waiting room weighed down by baggage he slides on the ice, his legs flailing about before he lands on his face like a slapstick hero except nobody laughs. Early on Aydin commissions a man to catch him a wild horse for one of his guests and, when he gets a call to collect the animal, he arrives to see it thrashing in a river, frantically trying to escape. Finally it's pulled from the waves drenched and near-death and lays its head on the bank exhausted, the camera closing in on the fear and resignation in its eye. Aydin looks horrified but soon recovers, pleased with perhaps his only true act of kindness even if to achieve it he has had to take part in the destruction of another living thing. He visits its makeshift stable that night seemingly to apologise but the guest leaves the next day, his actions not only unappreciated but in the end completely unnoticed, the tragic mingling with the aspirational. The three's troubled privilege is contrasted with the hand-to-mouth existence of a local family, tenants Aydin doesn't even realise he has and who he only becomes acquainted with after an act of violence by the youngest member breaks the stasis. The boy's uncle, the decent but feckless local Iman, brings him to Aydin to apologise and suggests he kiss Aydin's hand, a traditional act of respect. Aydin insists it isn't necessary and denigrates it as an outdated act he morally disagrees with but soon laughingly forgets his objections. Before the boy can perform the act though he faints, apparently disgusted with Aydin's weak will, a different view of the film's chief subject, the resistance of evil. In a nice twist however it turns out that pneumonia is actually to blame, a reaction to the child's impoverished living conditions rather than any type of loathing. Playing Aydin is Haluk Bilginer, best known (at least in this country) for his time served as Mehmet Osman in Eastenders and he's magnificent throughout, the script even allowing him to poke fun at his soap opera past. Only once does Ceylan fall down, cutting one scene mid sentence, an interesting attempt at innovation but one that none the less feels sloppy and out of place amid the film's entrancing, devastating take on domestic and emotional hibernation.
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