Fallen Leaves (Kuolleet lehdet)

 

Writer/director Aki Kaurismäki

The director with his dogs

The director with his lead actors

The director on the red carpet at Cannes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FALLEN LEAVES (Kuolleet lehdet)          B+                                                                          Finland  Germany  (81 mi)  2023  d: Aki Kaurismäki

I’m imprisioned here forever                                                                                                  Fences surround the graveyard too                                                                                               When my last earthly task is finally done                                                                                      You’ll still dig me deeper into the ground.

—Maustetytöt, Syntynyt Suruun Ja Puettu Pettymyksin (Born Of Sorrow And Clothed With Disappointments)

A throwback to the Aki Kaurismäki of old, this is an exaggerated working class romance fantasy that accentuates “the Finnish reality” of making the best out of a wretchedly miserable situation, a laughable alternative to Candide’s “the best of all possible worlds,” yet both Voltaire and Kaurismäki sympathetically accentuate the best humanist traditions, with Kaurismäki portraying down-on-their-luck individuals driven to outrageous acts by an oppressive society, becoming dark comedies that are characterized by laconic humor, drinking, detached irony, and smoking.  Centered in an industrial section of the Finnish capital of Helsinki, the grimness of his protagonist’s lives are deeply entrenched in a social realist cityscape that offers a dreamlike avenue of escape through a redemptive power of love.  Deeply cynical and darkly comedic, this director makes the most out of so little, where his minimalist style uses succinct and extremely well-chosen staccato language that plays out like a haiku poem, with no rehearsals and usually only one take, evoking the visual precision of Bresson and the gritty tone of Fassbinder.  Pre-occupied with working class loners encumbered by soulless jobs in bleak surroundings, they express a marked disdain for rigid authoritarian rules, where preserving one’s dignity feels paramount, typically finding refuge in dive bars, where drinking is man’s last salvation, viewed as an almost heroic retreat from the blistering conformity of their lives, where rock ‘n’ roll music provides the sardonic tone of absurdity necessary to survive the eternal gloom that permeates such an enveloping wasteland where the future always looks grim.  Premiering at Cannes where it won the Jury Prize (3rd Place), easily the shortest of all the films in competition, while also listed in the Top Ten of Cahiers du Cinéma, Film Comment, IndieWire, Time, Atlantic, Ringer, Slant, and John Waters, Movies - Year-End Lists, it is heralded as the 4th film in his earlier Proletariat Trilogy, SHADOWS IN PARADISE (1986), Ariel (1988), and THE MATCH FACTORY GIRL (1990), though it could just as easily fit into his Helsinki Trilogy, seemingly having more in common with DRIFTING CLOUDS (1996), as it navigates the debilitating despair and insurmountable hopelessness that comes from searching for happiness in low-wage, dead-end jobs that offer no benefits or job security.  Featuring two new actors who have never worked with this director before, they are new faces gracing the screen, yet both exhibit that deadpan comic timing which is an essential component of any Kaurismäki film, where an outlandish Kafkaesque absurdity drives the film with the precision of Samuel Beckett one-liners.  The sometimes shy and other times emboldened Ansa (Alma Pöysti) works a mindlessly repetitive job at a grocery store while the disillusioned yet ever stoic Holappa (Jussi Vatanen) is a construction worker who is seemingly inseparable from a hidden bottle of booze, a predominate theme in Kaurismäki movies, coming from a place where heavy alcohol consumption is such an entrenched part of the culture.  With documentary style precision of their respective workplaces, their dreary lives meet in a karaoke bar, each accompanied by their one and only friend, Liisa (Nuppu Koivu) and Huotari (Janne Hyytiäinen), yet the raw, pulsating rhythm from 1974 - Hurriganes Get On YouTube (3:44) announces that we’re in for a wild ride, as it lures viewers into the mindset, setting the tone for what follows.  You haven’t lived, apparently, until you’ve heard the enduring popularity of Mambo italiano YouTube (2:40) sung in Finnish.

The most-watched domestic film of the year in Finland, a first for this director, part of what makes it so special is the director’s unique ability to capture palpable modern emotions via silence and expressions rather than words, very much resembling silent films, where everyday details register as grand, meaningful cinematic gestures, while his unorthodox, jukebox soundtrack fills the screen with humorous asides that bring irony to the next level.  The maker of La Vie de Bohème (The Bohemian Life) (1992), Lights in the Dusk (Laitakaupungin Valot) (2006), Le Havre (2011), and The Other Side of Hope (Toivon tuolla puolen) (2017), though for my money it’s hard to top Take Care of Your Scarf, Tatjana (Pidä huivista kiinni, Tatjana) (1994), Kaurismäki is a director who takes great pleasure in filming outcasts on the fringe of society, where what stands out in each of his films is the disintegration of the working class and thwarted social advancement, shattering all aspirations for a better life, where exploitation in the workplace is the norm, leaving characters stuck in an indifferent world from which there is no escape.  Gloominess and romance typically do not mix, yet here they merge to a surprisingly comical and heartfelt effect, as both characters clearly have some sort of baggage, yet the film moves along at a snappy pace even with long scenes where the camera barely moves, giving the film a simplicity and lightheartedness which elevates it into a rare form of cinematic treasure that simply can’t be found elsewhere.  Adding to the oppressive tone are the recurring radio broadcasts of the Russian invasion of Ukraine heard on old-school radios in their homes, relying upon news reports by radio instead of television, where the monotonous nature of these messages act as historical time capsules that you immediately want to tune out, reflecting just how ordinary this worldwide calamity has become on the modern landscape, affecting people all over the world.  Let’s not forget Finland is on Russia’s border, where Putin’s troops are never far away.  Triggered by the aggression, Finland joined the NATO military alliance immediately after the invasion, while it’s important to recall that Kaurismäki once boycotted the Oscars in protest of the Iraq war.  Yet, as Susan Sontag suggests in her 2003 book-length essay, REGARDING THE PAIN OF OTHERS Susan Sontag, people can become unresponsive to horror, even though thousands of families have lost their loved ones and their possessions forever.  Making matters worse, both characters keep losing their jobs, which is another everyday reality they have to contend with, where money is scarce, so both keep their emotions tightly in check, never knowing what tomorrow will bring.  Both appear to be diligent workers, hardly the troublemakers they are made out to be by overzealous employers, though drinking while operating heavy machinery does present definite problems, especially when management couldn’t care less about faulty equipment.  What Kaurismäki has done is craft a storyline where, through a series of mishaps, both characters find each other and lose each other and then find each other and lose each other again, both physically and emotionally, where the struggle to stay afloat resembles the sardonic tone of Roy Andersson’s existential parables in his Living Trilogy, SONGS FROM THE SECOND FLOOR (2000), YOU, THE LIVING (2007), and A Pigeon Sat On a Branch Reflecting On Existence (En duva satt på en gren och funderade på tillvaron) (2014), yet also About Endlessness (Om det oändliga) (2019).  Kaurismäki predates Andersson, but both are in the same mold of bone-dry Nordic humor.

Holappa: I’m depressed
Huotari: Why?
Holappa: Because I drink
Huotari: Why do you drink?
Holappa: Because I’m depressed

Their first date is memorable, with Kaurismäki paying homage to his beloved cinema, as there are movie references everywhere you look.  Taking place in a sparsely populated arthouse theater, they attend a screening of Jim Jarmusch’s absurdist apocalyptic zombie movie The Dead Don't Die (2019), where one older patron hilariously explains afterwards that it reminded him of Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest (Journal d'un curé de campagne) (1951), while another mentioned Godard’s Band of Outsiders (Bande à Part) (1964).  A prominently placed poster for Luchino Visconti’s Rocco and His Brothers (1960) is featured in a bar, while inside the theater posters are seen for Bresson’s L'Argent (1983) and Jean-Pierre Melville’s LE SAMOURAÏ (1967).  Outside the theater we see Finnish movie posters of David Lean’s BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1945), Sam Newfield’s LOST CONTINENT (1951), Godard’s Contempt (Le Mépris) (1963) and Pierrot le Fou (1965), something of a movie lover’s dream, FALLEN LEAVES Clip | TIFF 2023 YouTube (1:23), where you’ve got to love that rush of romantic strings from Tchaikovsky’s 6th Symphony, a sure sign of romance ahead.  While Ansa has a first generation Nokia flip phone, he has none, or even a permanent address, so she writes her phone number on paper, which he promptly loses, leaving him in limbo trying to find her afterwards, which is reflected not only in their disconnect from the conveniences of modern electronics, but in the bare furnishings and rather dated furniture of their apartments as well, perfectly captured in a hilarious moment when Ansa receives her electric bill in the mail.  Alienated from themselves and each other, there are so many awkward looks in this film, where characters seemingly have nothing to say, with a camera lingering to prolong the discomfort, yet that karaoke bar is filled with a stream of witty, lyrical references from the lush romanticism of Schubert’s lieder, Jussi Björling; "Ständchen" - Franz Schubert - YouTube (5:03), which is actually sung by Mika Nikander, a bass who has performed with the Finnish National Opera, to the chilly expressionless performance style of the platinum-blonde Finnish sister duo Maustetytöt - Syntynyt suruun ja puettu pettymyksin (Live 2020 ... YouTube (4:09).  Especially in context with such a heavy theme, where the weight of the world is on their shoulders, this film can feel rejuvenating in spirit, so authentically complex and intelligently composed, yet filled with funny gags, including a cameo appearance by longtime regular Sakari Kuosmanen, offering a sweetness and tenderness in the face of so many obstacles in their path, where the director’s own dog captures our collective hearts at the end.  There is no lack of irony with Kaurismäki, where a constant Brechtian estrangement, together with very rigorous compositions of predominantly static shots and a 35 mm cinematography with clear and particularly saturated colors, contributes to a grotesque and surreal character.  Yet, at the same time, there is also a crude social criticism concerning not only the dehumanization of work, but also the transience of life in a world in where just a small gust of wind could drastically change things.  The evocative imagery and pronounced symbolism from longtime cinematographer Timo Salminen is particularly effective, especially an early shot of Holappa looking at himself in front of a broken mirror that condenses the jagged look of a man with a broken identity into a single image.  Few filmmakers have achieved a style so personal and so immediately recognizable, providing an extremely concise style of filmmaking with an elegant structure that manages to touch viewers in familiar yet also unexpected ways, subverting the Boy Meets Girl narrative that we’ve seen so many times, so far outside the Hollywood mold, yet the final shot is an enduring tribute to Chaplin.

Lights in the Dusk (Laitakaupungin Valot)

LIGHTS IN THE DUSK (Laitakaupungin Valot)          B+                  

Finland  Germany  France  (78 mi)  2006  d:  Aki Kaurismäki

You couldn't get out. All the doors were locked.        —Koistinen (Janne Hyytiäinen), describing what it was like in prison

A perfect example of Kaurismäki’s minimalist miserablism, which is so wretchedly miserable, especially the way this director loves to pile it on, perhaps a template for the Coens in A SERIOUS MAN (2009), that it ends up being absurdly rich in comedy.  Helsinki never looked so bleak and depressingly gloomy as this, the final chapter of his Helsinki Trilogy where love and hope eternal blooms among the homeless in THE MAN WITHOUT A PAST (1992), followed by a down-on-their-luck couple in DRIFTING CLOUDS (1996), taking a look at life on unemployment, making the best of a depressing situation, living “the Finnish reality,” leaving this final installment, perhaps the most painterly of the series, to be Kaurismäki’s sour comment on the brutally harsh system the Soviets left behind, where each man exists in a no man’s land of solitude and eternal gloom.  Never have you seen a grayer city set in an industrial wasteland where the future looks so grim, where Kaurismäki accentuates the featureless concrete high rise structures of a former socialist state, remnants of an Eastern European mindset, adding stoic faces, rigid authoritarian rules, and rampant conformity, where anyone who’s different is looked upon the same as a foreigner, with utter contempt.  Inside one of those nameless and faceless buildings lives Koistinen (Janne Hyytiäinen), a decent, good looking guy who goes about his business as a shopping mall security guard, carrying keys and entering security codes for each of the retail shops that he checks, returning the keys each night when he checks out.  For whatever reason, and Kaurismäki never explains, the other guards all hang out together and go out drinking afterwards, but they shun and despise Koistinen, who by the way he speaks may have little education.  There may be little hints, like a slightly different foreign accent that would not be perceived by an international audience relying on subtitles, but more likely Kaurismäki simply wrote it this way.  In every group, there’s always one bad apple, but here the apple is decent, it’s the group that’s rotten. 

Drenched in an atmosphere of delicious evil and uninterrupted cigarette smoking, Ilkka Koivula plays the most despicable character in the film, a Russian, or perhaps even worse, a Finn acting like a Russian, which in itself is a hilarious caricature because Kaurismäki relishes every touch of Russian malice, where here there’s plenty to go around, as he surrounds himself with other Russian gangsters, all wearing black shirts under their dark suits and ties, riding in black stretch limos, smoking relentlessly.  These guys are completely amoral, yet with all the connections they have, they pull the strings.  For whatever reason, probably because he’s friendless, isolated and alone, they target Koistinen as a chump, an easy set up, so they send him a gorgeous girl, Mirja (Maria Järvenhelmi), a shapely blond ice goddess who emotes nothing, asking at a café if he wants company because he’s all alone.  Koistinen figures out in split seconds that God has answered his prayers and asks “And now what?  We're getting married?”  He takes her to a rock ‘n’ roll club, where in typical Kaurismäki fashion the first song is played in its entirety by a band called Melrose, where Koistinen just aimlessly stands in one spot and looks around, but Mirja whispers in his ear “It's easy to see you've got rock ‘n’ roll in your blood,” a viciously funny remark, and a comment on how he sees himself as opposed to who he really is.  Little does he know what’s in store for him, as after walking the rounds with him and memorizing the security code, they drug him, take his keys and rob a high priced jewelry store on his route, the first of a series of Job-like setbacks that challenges him to the very core, where he is sent to jail and humiliated from one instance to the next, where even the building where he lived gets demolished and where the girl expresses reservations about him talking to the police.  But the Russian insists not to worry, “Koistinen will never betray you. He's as loyal as a dog, the sentimental fool. It's my genius to understand that.”

And there you have it, Kaurismäki’s comment on the Finnish state of mind, a society of lap dogs just waiting for hand outs that never come, believing their troubles are just “temporary.”  Through Koistinen's Christ-like suffering, continually turning the other cheek, the audience is continually dismayed that it’s not playing out like “in the movies,” like the machine guns and surging violins heard when Koistinen actually goes to the movies, where some unanticipated heroic answer arrives in the form of a cavalry or a bigger villain than the Russian who will cut him down to size.  But it’s not that kind of movie.  Instead it’s mercilessly accurate in terms of how helpless and lonely each individual stands against the heartless bureaucracy and the impervious scorn of the State. Kaurismäki’s picture of Helsinki is to expect to get kicked around a lot, where rampant homelessness and unemployment complete the picture of the urban Trilogy.  In all three films there’s a depiction of romance, from an established marriage, to a most unorthodox attraction, to a completely bogus affair, where Koistinen shuns his real girl friend, Aila (Maria Heiskanen), a simple yet loyal woman who steadfastly remains at his side, exactly like his coworkers treat him, barely noticing that she’s even there.  With ravishing shots of construction cranes strewn about the city and a fog-like emptiness surrounding the gloom of the harbor, cinematographer Timo Salminen shows Helsinki to be a work in progress, where there are also luminous views of high rise modernization and a thriving seaport.  Set to an operatic soundtrack featuring plenty of Jussi Björling, a “Swedish” tenor, told in his trademark deadpan style with fadeouts to black, Kaurismäki wittily shows how easily one can fall from grace and end up in the gutter, with no protection from the fall and where all hope feels lost, where easily the sequence of the movie is a Buñuel-like scathingly dark commentary with gallows humor where just like the end of Simon of the Desert (Simón del Desierto) (1965), the Russians sell their souls to the devil and discover their love of rotgut rock ‘n’ roll, where they sit around drinking and playing cards all day while Mirja sweeps up after them, waiting on them hand and foot.