Being a festival goer is not always easy, in the sense that you often have to deal with the very same kind of cinematographic tricks, and you are even more sensible to it. Most of the time, they are supposed to add more rhythm, depth or complexity to the films. Most of the time they seem a bit obvious or awkward, because at the end of the day, a lot of directors use them without paying attention to it. Glue, by Alexis dos Santos and Flakenberg Farwell, by Jesper Ganslandt use a grainy image to capture in a nostalgic way the daily life of some boring teenagers. As if it was necessary to have such a formal style to mask the vacuity not only of the narrative but also of the artistic project. It should be some kind of Sofia Coppola’s syndrome, that tend to widespread as she gets more and more credits for her films. Another well-known trick consists in adding small vignettes to each others and go for the choral film, with its crescendo, its acme and final explosion: Shortbus is stereotypical in this regard and a bit annoying in a way, given the tricks it uses are way to obvious and heavy. Last but not least, Hotel Harabati by Brice Cauvin uses a very French trick that consists in mixing somehow fantastic and psychological dramas. The two characters did not spend their holidays in Venice, and yet their photos show that they did. This trick adds some confusion to the narrative, and makes everything even more doubtful. It is nonetheless a very artificial mean to make the film more opaque and dramatic. Many French films like La Moustache and Lemmings use it, for the worst most of the time. Fortunately Brice Cauvin offers us a few images that give to the film its reason: a mother and her childs lying and laughing on a carpet, a husband looking at his wife, while she takes a shower. All a film needs is a reason, a few shots that make sense and crystallize the desire that made the film possible.

What I like in Reykjavik is that sense of desire and necessity that animate the Icelandic artists. I have that feeling (maybe as a foreigner) that entertainment doesn’t make as much noise there as it does in most of the western countries. On the other hands, there is not much to do in Reykjavik expect creating and experiencing art in its various forms. I found in Reykjavik and its film festival a great appetite for art and true sense of dialog between its multiple forms. This is what is so amazing about this city, small and yet extraordinary living, or beating should I say, to the extent that music plays a significant role in its vitality.
I watched an interesting Icelandic documentary, that is called Act normal, by Ólafur de Fleur. It tells us the story of a monk who once lived in Reykjavik, and then decided to become normal, to have a wife, a job, etc. For him, being normal meant disappearing. No one was looking at him anymore, he had became invisible. Maybe Iceland was the only place where he could have done that. There is so much space here, that you can get lost at any time. There is no places, just space. Iceland is all about disappearances and appearances : you see nothing, and yet you can feel that everything around you is constantly moving and living : you can hear some sounds, see some elusive lights, and then it’s gone. I like to think about Icelandic art and films in terms of pure events and epiphany. “The sublime is now” used to say Barnett Newman, and I think it definitely suits Iceland. I still remember those shots in Noi Albinoi, when the main character looks at the sea. The contre-champ shows the sea and the mountains. It gives no answers, but in a way it is the answer. Iceland is so full of lights, and cherishes darkness so well, cinema is at home there, no doubt about that.