As the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival gets underway, all eyes are on the ten feature films competing for the prestigious Crystal Globe, the festival’s main award. In past editions of the film festival, which has awarded this prize since 1948, plenty of films later recognized as beloved, influential works of world cinema have emerged triumphant in this competition, among them “Kes” by Ken Loach, “Amélie” by Jean-Pierre Jeunet, and—more recently—“I Do Not Care If We Go Down in History as Barbarians,” by Radu Jude.
Members of the Crystal Globe jury this year include Mexican producer Nicolás Celis (“Roma”), filmmaker Babak Jalali (“Fremont”), film critic and programmer Jessica Kiang, Czech filmmaker Jiří Mádl (“Waves”), and Swedish actress and director Tuva Novotny (“Blind Spot”). While the jury members are sworn to secrecy until their final decisions are rendered later in the festival, such a deep bench of film-industry talent on this year’s jury—coupled with the diversity of films in competition—has surely already led to some fascinating discussion, akin to that which can be overhead at restaurant patios, cocktail bars, and festival lounges all through Karlovy Vary.
With over half of the films competing for the Crystal Globe yet to premiere, it’s practically impossible at this early stage in the festival to assess which stand the greatest chance of recognition by this estimable panel of judges. But the films that have already screened around town see this year’s festival off to a characteristically strong start.
Of that first wave of competition films at Karlovy Vary, none have been so emotionally resonant or quietly lacerating as “Broken Voices,” Ondřej Provazník’s exceptional, restrained account of power and silence in the elite concert section of a Czech girls’ choir. Sustaining a tense note of agony and despair so long it left me breathless, it skillfully depicts the blurred lines and queasy imbalances where abuse can fester within academic environments.
Set in the early 1990s, the film was inspired by the real-life case of Bambini di Praga, a famous Czech children’s choir long-led by Bohumil Kulínský Jr., who was eventually arrested and found guilty of sexually abusing underage girls in his choir—some of them younger than 15—across a period of more than 20 years. But even without that historical context, which the film does not directly acknowledge, Provazník has crafted a riveting exploration of how intertwined social and artistic hierarchies, with their unwritten rules and power dynamics, can turn any such cultural microcosm into a system of complicity.
At the film’s center is 13-year-old Karolína (a wonderfully expressive Kateřina Falbrová), who dreams of singing in the concert section beside her 15-year-old sister, Lucie (Maya Kintera). She not only wants to succeed in joining the section but also to secure a spot in a smaller delegation that will travel with the choir on an international tour, departing from their native Czech Republic for concert appearances in major U.S. cities. Of course, she knows being selected will require her to capture the attention of their charismatic but temperamental choirmaster.
This authority figure, Mácha Vitek (Juraj Loj), sets the tone for the group during his demanding rehearsals, often castigating latecomers and singling out those even slightly off-pitch. But he’s equally flattering to those in his good graces. And he seems all too encouraging of the young female students competing to catch his eye, to such a degree that two of the older girls have started tallying up how many times he glances in the direction of particular pupils, believing this will mirror their placements. Those who work to build up a flirtatious charge between student and teacher, they insinuate, will likely be rewarded the most. That Vitek imposes himself over the girls is hard to miss, but what his autocratic presence draws out of the girls—ferocious drive and competition, but also fear, longing, and shame—is trickier to parse.
After Vitek notices Karolína practicing and soon invites her to serve as an alternate, joining the concert section for several weeks of rehearsal at a remote ski lodge, she’s elated — even as the other girls make it clear they resent the attention she’s receiving. One night, as she showers, an unseen tormentor steals her clothes and towel, forcing her to run naked back to her room in the shivering cold. Even Lucie, who’s grown wary of Vitek, is ultimately compelled to sabotage her sister, though “Broken Voices” leaves room for ambiguity as to her motives for doing so.
The same is true of Provazník’s film as a whole; the filmmaker is more focused on dissecting the interpersonal dynamics at play, exploring what factors inform the girls’ collective decision to stay quiet and sometimes play into Vitek’s cult of personality, than in depicting the trauma inflicted on so many of them in part due to this communal silence. Mostly non-professional actors populate the film’s cast; Provazník sought to cast singers to ensure the choir music could be performed live, adding to a chilly, almost-miserabilist realism that runs through the film. This makes its slow build—especially once the drama shifts from the ski lodge to a New York hotel where Vitek is emboldened to greater abuses of power—all the more searing. For all this film leaves unsaid, its implications are etched in the shattered glass of Falbrová’s features, still pellucid and pure as the light breaks within her.
“Out of Love,” also competing for the Crystal Globe, is the type of intimate, character-driven drama that’s stock-in-trade for contemporary French cinema. However, its themes of motherhood and belonging are handled thoughtfully by filmmaker Nathan Ambrosioni, whose straightforward yet sensitively observed approach is all the more astonishing for his young age. Now 25, he has already made three feature films; in this one, he reveals an emotional acuity beyond his years, both in his understated crafting of mise-en-scène and empathetic treatment of characters struggling with the unexpected paths life has led them down.
Working as an insurance claims adjuster, Jeanne (Camille Cottin) is committed to this career and has no desire to parent, having separated from her partner of 12 years (Monia Chokri) over their differing stances on the subject. But after her estranged sister, Suzanne (Juliette Armanet), arrives unannounced on the doorstep, then drives off the next morning, Jeanne finds herself left to care for Suzanne’s two young children: 9-year-old Gaspard (Manoâ Varvat) and his little sister Margot (Nina Birman).
What’s happened to Suzanne? Where has she gone, when will she return, and why has she chosen to entrust Jeanne with her precious children? A handwritten note, left behind with a suitcase and some essential documents for the children, provides none of the answers that Jeanne is desperate for, and the police are less than helpful, given the voluntary nature of Suzanne’s disappearance. As days turn into weeks, and weeks into months, all three of them start to reckon with the once-unthinkable possibility that they’ll never see her again.
Reuniting with Ambrosioni after also starring in his last feature, Cottin portrays Jeanne as a self-possessed woman whose response to her sister’s actions unearths far deeper anxieties of loneliness and purpose, especially as she starts to look back over their childhood for potentially non-existent clues. Bringing elegance but also a mournful edge to the character, hers is a remarkably heartfelt performance, matched at every turn by two extraordinary child actors. A scene where the children answer repeated calls from an unknown number packs a devastating punch, flickers of hope and heartbreak seeming to play simultaneously across their faces.
With a rapt attention to both adult’s- and child’s-eye perspectives, Ambrosioni lets his scenario’s cross-currents of emotion carry the film forward without too bluntly overwhelming his audience. As seasons change, bringing with them the formation of a new kind of family structure, “Out of Love” makes it clear that what’s passed is past; its grace note of a resolution is thick with regret for a life interrupted but reassures us that another, still rich with possibility, can take its place.
Another sublime lead performance—this time from Norwegian actress Pia Tjelta—grounds Nina Knag’s Crystal Globe contender “Don’t Call Me Mama,” which echoes some other films I’ve seen at Karlovy Vary this year (particularly Michel Franco’s “Dreams”) in its taut exploration of sex, power, and morality, even as Knag’s intimate-then-insidious portrayal of her protagonist’s lust and confusion makes for an intriguing companion piece to “Babygirl” and “Last Summer”—films in which a woman’s desire, liberated through an act of transgression, threatens to destroy everything in its path.
Tjelta plays Eva, a popular teacher and wife to the mayor of a small Norwegian village, who volunteers at a nearby refugee center partly out of compassion for the influx of young people fleeing conflict in the Middle East and partly to support her husband’s re-election campaign. At home, she’s unsatisfied, and her husband’s past indiscretion has led their marriage to freeze over, though Eva’s long-since grown accustomed to setting her own needs aside for others. So when she meets Amir (Tarek Zayat), an 18-year-old refugee and aspiring poet whose talent impresses her—and whose intense glances suggest that interest is reciprocated—she’s moved to help him start his life over.
But in mentoring this charismatic young man, whom she can’t seem to stop thinking about, Eva goes a step further, then another. Soon, she invites Amir to live with them, and he gratefully accepts. Then, one day at the local pool, as Eva tries to teach Amir how to swim, another boundary blurs, and they begin a passionate, reckless affair. At first, at least in her eyes, this forbidden relationship is electric and life-affirming, though her passion for Amir starts to spill into plain view. Knag brings a languorous heat to the early sex scenes, but a chill creeps into both her filmmaking and Tjelta’s portrayal as Eva’s behavior grows harder to justify.
Though Knag pushes the limits of her audience’s sympathies, she’s as invested in depicting female desire and its contradictions with a clear, curious eye. As Eva’s obsession escalates, she finds herself in a slippery struggle for power and control. Her all-consuming desire for Amir puts both of them in danger, but she seems powerless to resist—to resist what she wants, that is.
What Amir wants, and how he feels about this amour fou, is another matter entirely, and it’s one that Eva is incapable of seeing clearly. Even as she helps Amir earn a residency permit and apply to continuing-education programs, her support becomes increasingly conditional, and when Amir, still living with Eva, starts to date one of her students, all the furies that have been raging inside of Eva rip destructively free of her.
“Don’t Call Me Mama” is complex, unsettling, and often squirm-inducingly tense. Part of what makes the film addictive is the thrill of transgression, and the question of how far Eva can go before her life comes crashing down. However, Eva’s relationship with Amir is also unmistakably a violation, a display of ego that takes a vulnerable teenager in a challenging situation and exploits him further. Her selfishness and the deniability afforded by her high-bourgeois positions of privilege and authority come into play during a third act, where Eva’s actions force her hand, laying bare the power dynamics at play in their relationship with scalpel-like precision.
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