Writer-director Jan Kruger's third feature
Light Gradient (
Ruckenwind) begins as a simple tale of two young lovers taking a trip by bicycle through the countryside in Germany, though the parable of the fox and the hare which accompanies the opening credits introduces a hint of Middle-European fairy story and foreshadows the power dynamics in the relationship we are about to witness. When Johann and Robin reach the Brandenburg Forest before nightfall, they struggle with their tent in the rain for a few minutes, and then the movie swerves into decidedly less innocent territory, as they play a game of hide-and-seek in the dark which ends in one of them being tackled to the ground, hogtied, smeared with mud and stripped by the other. These feral undertones are amplified by the narrative development, as the couple lose their bikes and wander further into the forest and away from civilization, encountering finally a house and its two enigmatic occupants, an adolescent boy and his mother. The curious relationships that develop between the four are subtle, understated, and unstraightforward; sexual tension flickers from one character to the next in a delicate flutter of signals that never abates, and it is in the context of these developments that the men undergo a redefinition, or perhaps simply a clarification, of their private power dynamic. The telling of the second fable, about a wild man who lives in the forest and leaves a skinned swan in a bed of its own feathers as a calling card underscores the wilderness theme, and wilderness dominates the visual field by virtue of some stunning cinematography, which lavishes attention on leaves, trunks, water, and other aspects of the natural environment as it frames the men's gorgeously lit bodies. One shot of trellised and silhouetted leaves against a rich amber glow of skin (echoing an earlier shot of Robin against the gold of passing fields) was almost
supernaturally beautiful, but the film continually hints at a sort of minutely configured exchange between natural and supernatural elements, as if reality and fantasy, or fable, are subtly related in every dimension of our lives, especially the sexual. When Johann eats some hallucinogenic berries and suffers a two-day fever, the fable seems to enter his mind in a way that invites its own realization, triggering a sexual denouement which references every level of this intriguing story. The film has a light touch, and a dark center; it blends clarity with mystification, innocence with violence, and its final resolution is more of a question than a statement. This is a true work of the imagination, a beautiful, lingering, sophisticated film.
The same cannot be said for Pascal-Alex Vincent's one-dimensional 'Give Me Your Hand', inexplicably showcased by Frameline as a main attraction. The film explores the bond between the handsome but sullen-faced twins Quentin and Antoine as they hitchhike through the French countryside on their way to their mother's funeral in Spain. The camerawork is assured, the scenery is lovely, but the boys in this film are dull; it is clearly their beauty alone which is the focus, because there is precious little in the way of script; of their interior lives we see precisely nothing, and their relationship consists mainly in pushing, shoving, and slapping one another. There is a reversal of sorts in their relationship in the course of the film, as the dominant Antoine is confused by Quentin's sexual experience with a man and the brothers separate on bad terms. When they reunite in Spain the action is meant to suggest a greater capability on the part of the previously more submissive Quentin, who has arrived unscathed in Spain despite his brother's trick of 'selling' him to a stranger in a reststop cafe. The brothers fight once more, which is to say, they tumble recklessly in the waves before a blissfully swooping camera, after which Quentin gains the upper hand, revives his brother on the sand, and walks away. It is to be hoped that this signals an advance in maturity for one or both of the brothers, but it would have been a more interesting film if some maturity had featured earlier on or anywhere in this fluffy, trivial, good-looking feature.
Writer-director Jan Kruger's third feature Light Gradient (Ruckenwind) begins as a simple tale of two young lovers taking a trip by bicycle through the countryside in Germany, though the parable of the fox and the hare which accompanies the opening credits introduces a hint of Middle-European fairy story and foreshadows the power dynamics in the relationship we are about to witness. When Johann and Robin reach the Brandenburg Forest before nightfall, they struggle with their tent in the rain for a few minutes, and then the movie swerves into decidedly less innocent territory, as they play a game of hide-and-seek in the dark which ends in one of them being tackled to the ground, hogtied, smeared with mud and stripped by the other. These feral undertones are amplified by the narrative development, as the couple lose their bikes and wander further into the forest and away from civilization, encountering finally a house and its two enigmatic occupants, an adolescent boy and his mother. The curious relationships that develop between the four are subtle, understated, and unstraightforward; sexual tension flickers from one character to the next in a delicate flutter of signals that never abates, and it is in the context of these developments that the men undergo a redefinition, or perhaps simply a clarification, of their private power dynamic. The telling of the second fable, about a wild man who lives in the forest and leaves a skinned swan in a bed of its own feathers as a calling card underscores the wilderness theme, and wilderness dominates the visual field by virtue of some stunning cinematography, which lavishes attention on leaves, trunks, water, and other aspects of the natural environment as it frames the men's gorgeously lit bodies. One shot of trellised and silhouetted leaves against a rich amber glow of skin (echoing an earlier shot of Robin against the gold of passing fields) was almost supernaturally beautiful, but the film continually hints at a sort of minutely configured exchange between natural and supernatural elements, as if reality and fantasy, or fable, are subtly related in every dimension of our lives, especially the sexual. When Johann eats some hallucinogenic berries and suffers a two-day fever, the fable seems to enter his mind in a way that invites its own realization, triggering a sexual denouement which references every level of this intriguing story. The film has a light touch, and a dark center; it blends clarity with mystification, innocence with violence, and its final resolution is more of a question than a statement. This is a true work of the imagination, a beautiful, lingering, sophisticated film.
The same cannot be said for Pascal-Alex Vincent's one-dimensional 'Give Me Your Hand', inexplicably showcased by Frameline as a main attraction. The film explores the bond between the handsome but sullen-faced twins Quentin and Antoine as they hitchhike through the French countryside on their way to their mother's funeral in Spain. The camerawork is assured, the scenery is lovely, but the boys in this film are dull; it is clearly their beauty alone which is the focus, because there is precious little in the way of script; of their interior lives we see precisely nothing, and their relationship consists mainly in pushing, shoving, and slapping one another. There is a reversal of sorts in their relationship in the course of the film, as the dominant Antoine is confused by Quentin's sexual experience with a man and the brothers separate on bad terms. When they reunite in Spain the action is meant to suggest a greater capability on the part of the previously more submissive Quentin, who has arrived unscathed in Spain despite his brother's trick of 'selling' him to a stranger in a reststop cafe. The brothers fight once more, which is to say, they tumble recklessly in the waves before a blissfully swooping camera, after which Quentin gains the upper hand, revives his brother on the sand, and walks away. It is to be hoped that this signals an advance in maturity for one or both of the brothers, but it would have been a more interesting film if some maturity had featured earlier on or anywhere in this fluffy, trivial, good-looking feature.
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