Director Rob Tregenza
Kirk Kjeldsen, cowriter and producer
Rob Tregenza and Kirk Kjeldsen survey a location for the film
Actor Andreas Lust takes a break with Kirk Kjeldsen
Actor Mikkel Gaup on the set with director Rob Tregenza
cast and crew on a film break
bonfire on the set
Harpist Earecka Trezenga-Moody (the director’s daughter), along with her husband, violinist Jason Moody, composed the music for the film
GAVAGAI
A-
Norway Canada Germany (90 mi) 2017
‘Scope d: Rob Tregenza Official
site
The road ends in the
night,
but the night ends on the road.
The road slices like a knife
through life.
Separating good and evil.
The road is the road
to the last day.
but the night ends on the road.
The road slices like a knife
through life.
Separating good and evil.
The road is the road
to the last day.
―The Road (Vegen),
by Tareji Vesaas (1897–1970)
A film about the eternal, love and grief, and the
everlasting, offering an extreme portrait of personal loss, expressing the
agonizing consequences of losing a soul mate, a spouse, whose dead spirit
appears throughout the film, as a lonely man retraces their steps together,
taking a journey throughout the Telemark region of Norway, a place they spent
their happiest years, where she translated the poems of local Norwegian poet
Tareji Vesaas (1897–1970) into Chinese while visiting the region where he
lived, which was the project of her life. After her death, he tries to
revisit those places and complete her unfinished work, which he does largely in
silent homage to her while reading passages of the poetry, making this a
ruminating tribute to both his wife and the poet, becoming a painful journey
where the implications of what he’s dealing with are initially unclear, as he’s
simply closed off and alone, stoically incommunicative, but slowly things
reveal themselves, with the film exploring the essence of the human soul,
recalling the haunting quiet of Alexander Sokurov’s ORIENTAL ELEGY (1996),
which is more of a shared communion between the living and the dead, where
thoughts, feelings, and memories intersect in a void of timelessness, where all
happen to occur simultaneously in one’s head. It also feels like a
Kiarostami film, in particular TASTE OF CHERRY (1997), though this isn’t about
wanting to end one’s life, but to connect in the spiritual realms with a loved
one already deceased, where you’re trying to commune with their living spirit
before it dissipates, raising one’s level of awareness to acute, using poetry
as a kind of exploratory mechanism trying to break through an impregnable layer,
like reaching into an abyss, feeling stuck on the other side, as death in all
its permanence leaves one devastated, producing a solitude incapable of being
defined by words. So quickly thoughts are lost, as everything that we
came to appreciate in life is mourned in death, feeling like the other side of
joy, becoming a piercing anguish that doesn’t go away, lamenting what was lost,
as part of you dies with her. Rejected by multiple film festivals, this
may be as close to Norway as many of us get in our lives, as the film feels so
exploratory, not just the layers of poetry that so eloquently express the heart
and soul of the nation, but also the personal journey to revisit special
moments in one’s life, a literal search for meaning while traveling through a
rural countryside, allowing viewers to share in a deep understanding of an
existential dilemma. Certainly a somber film, but it’s a memory search,
like an autobiographical Proustian journey deep within that bleeds with
intimacy.
At the center is Carsten Neuer, Austrian actor Andreas
Lust from Götz Spielmann’s REVANCHE (2008) and Benjamin Heisenberg’s THE ROBBER
(2010), both excellent character studies in films making the rounds at film
festivals, arriving by train to a remote stop in the middle of nowhere, the
lone passenger to exit, slowly making his way out of the picture, walking
towards an unknown destination until he quickly retreats and runs back onto the
still awaiting train, as if he forgot or lost something, exiting again just
before the train pulls away, seemingly carrying the same amount of bags.
What follows is a visit to a small shop nearby where he encounters Niko (Mikkel
Gaup), a burly guide to elk or even beaver safaris who speaks English, though
it’s clear he doesn’t have much of a business. Offering him money to be
his driver, as the stranger inexplicably is unable to drive, they set out on a
journey that only becomes understandable over time, as Carsten barely utters a
word, where the narration includes his reading of various passages of poetry
that provides an underlying lyricism to the landscape images seen out the
windows of the van, which include apparitions of his wife all dressed out in
colorful formal attire, wearing a Kabuki face painted white, dressed in elegant
silk robes. Without explanation at this point, he sees her everywhere,
haunting him wherever he goes, silently sitting in the back of the van,
ignoring any conversation with Niko. When they make a stop at a grocery
store, they amusingly reveal who they are by what they decide to buy, as
Carsten buys fruit and water, healthy choices, while Niko prefers junk food,
buying chips and beer. But it’s not until later at the continual prodding
of Niko that Carsten’s actual intentions are revealed, thinking he’s lugging around
“the Lonely Planet
Guide to the most lonely shit in Norway,” which quickly changes him from
providing comical relief to being an understanding and supportive friend.
Niko has his own issues to deal with, first meeting up with a girl, Mari (Anni
Kristiina Juuso, who also doubles as the ghostly image of the wife), who’s not
particularly thrilled to see him, but once the mood shifts with his solemn
friend opening up to him, he changes his tone, getting serious with Mari,
stopping at a nearby cemetery where she works, where a devout spiritual mood
shift takes place with an exquisite musical selection that reaches for the
sublime, Å, for djup i
Jesu kjærleik / Locus iste (Bruckner) - YouTube (5:10). It’s here
that Niko unexpectedly asks for her hand in marriage, making promises for the
future, a willingness to change, which she gladly accepts, providing a tender
moment in the quiet hush of the journey.
Shot on 35mm, directed, edited and co-written (with Kirk
Kjeldsen) by Tregenza, he is a master of the long shot which helps establish
the mood, providing a slow and lingering pace, where each shot is like its own
self-composed essay that is literally filled with contemplation. It’s a
perfect way to infuse regional poetry that reeks of loneliness and distance and
fleeting opportunities, suggesting humans are ephemeral creatures, short-lived
on this earth, struggling against the immovable indifference of the
permanent. Within this context, in a relatively brief period of time,
it’s clear that something profound happened within this relationship, something
that marks them as human beings, that speaks not just to their character but to
their human consciousness, defining who they are, that when separated is a
hollow shell of what previously exists. This realization of suddenly and
abruptly being alone is what this film is all about, as it’s a startling
revelation that we spend most of our lives avoiding, as it never enters into
our thoughts. Only death provides this shroud of mournfulness that clouds
our entire outlook, affecting us like nothing else, becoming an inescapable
anguish that literally paralyzes our souls. Perhaps the only other film
that captures this extreme degree of emotional isolation is Hirokazu Koreeda’s
first film, MABOROSI (1995), a poetic embrace of death that leaves one in a
dreamlike state of quiet grace. While there’s a gorgeous ferry sequence,
with the men initially completely out of sequence with each other, on separate
wavelengths, but there’s a meeting of the minds by the end, culminating with a
mountainside trek where Carsten releases the ashes of his wife, easily the most
painful moment for him, spewing untranslatable thoughts, shot in a deluge of
rain, where the man is utterly inconsolable. Afterwards two roads diverge
in an interesting parallel ending the film, as Niko heads for his impending
marriage at a beautiful seaside setting while Carsten drifts off in another
direction all alone, their futures at opposite ends of the spectrum, one just
beginning, the other wrought with pain. Part of the beauty of the film is
the haunting musical score played by the director’s daughter, harpist Earecka
Trezenga-Moody, who provided the music as well in his earlier film INSIDE/OUT
(1995), playing along with her husband, violinist Jason Moody, musicians with
the Spokane and Seattle Symphonies, both of whom composed the music for the
film, adding a touch of lyrical reverence bordering on the sacred. The
film ends with one of those Kiarostami final shots, much like he ends each film
in the Koker trilogy, a beautifully composed shot that lasts for several
minutes, that by itself sheds light upon the multi-faceted subject matter of
the film, revealing a weary traveler far from home, making his way into
undiscovered territory, or perhaps an endless wanderer, stuck in a purgatory of
endless grief, taking a journey into the infinite.
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