Life is surprising. A second visit home in the depths of winter buffered by the incredible luck of having three seats to myself on a 13 hour flight and the anticipation of furry cuddles and the glow of warmth from my husband's cooking. I get myself into the mood by watching three slow, arthouse films of varying quality.
Denmark sees a South Walean try to get banged up in a Danish prison after hearing of their 5* conditions, a stark contrast to his own hopeless Gavin and Stacey backdrop. It's not as funny as it sounds, but has this undercurrent of deliberation as it pans from a faux-trafficking inside a shipping container to beach-side solstice merriment around a bonfire. It reminds me of Adam's thoughtful, measured ways of seeing the world. I never understood why he took so long to reply, and despite my best efforts I'm pleased to report he continues to practice the 'think before you speak' mantra. I could do with a bit of that to tone down my rashness.
Celle que vous croyez miscasts Juliette Binoche as some aging femme's catfish scheme to recapture the desirability of youthfulness. I felt a bit sorry to see a grown woman give into facile naivete, so incongruous with her own life achievements. I appreciate we all have different sides to us, but I'd be sorry to see myself give into a stereotypical vapid infatuation when I get to 50. I see a predictable French commentary of the dangers of social media; sometimes being slow to analyse things gives more perspective, but I think they over-worry about every change that comes with advancement. I remember all the attentions I got playing at a bronzed American cheerleader, but I don't expect to feel or react the way I did when I was 18.
Äiti means mother in Finnish and tells of one who tries to seek out her daughter after being in prison for stabbing her husband. The lead walks around looking lost for an excessive amount of the film, again those long pauses as the camera zooms out of a gently curving Alpine road and cuts to overexposed montages of happy golden-haired baby moments while a mother just off screen carries her, as if to give the audience time to consider what might be going through their head. My perhaps jet-lagged conclusion is: not much, and certainly not enough to be anymore than a 5-minute feature. Watching a film like this is too much like watching life, and I'm easily depressed when I see the Scandinavian way of dealing with shocking events, with a stoic denial and lots, but lots of pregnant pauses. Maybe I'm too used to just automatically equating entertainment with dramatisation, but I don't want a 1:1 ratio when it comes to plot development even if I'm stuck on a flight.
Anyway, Helsinki airport welcomes me now with Nordic birdsong in the toilets and actual logs for footstools and side tables.