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The Bleak of Araby
Araby: Fitting a life onto the pages of a spiral notebook
Don’t you hate it when, while rifling through a desk drawer in search of a book of matches or piece of scratch paper, a character accidentally happens upon the one indisputable clue needed to solve the crime and send audiences packing? Coincidences such as this generally act as signposts that boldly announce: Lazy Screenwriter Ahead. Generally, but not always, as in the case of Araby, the heart-saddening and fiercely naturalistic road movie opening Friday at the Digital Gym.
An aqueous long take of André (Murilo Caliari) effortlessly pedaling through the countryside spans the entire length of the opening credit sequence. From the outset, we are primed for something undividedly different than what lies ahead. With Mom and Dad on the road, André plays parent and doctor to his sick younger brother. (The overburdened 18-year-old puffs his way through a cigarette faster than an under-cranked Bette Davis.) Nor does the boy get any relief from his surroundings. The textile factory outside his window leaves enough residuum in the air that he can write his name on the window sill.
(Not that the proceedings weren’t compelling to look at, but I kept waiting to see in what direction this possible tribute to the Dardenne Bros. was going to play itself out. That seemed more likely than experiencing a sudden Hollywood departure that found our hero taking up boxing to help bankroll a life-saving operation for his kid brother.)
Then subtly, there is a change. André’s aunt Márcia (Gláucia Vandeveld) appears to be the only indication of an authority figure in the boy’s life. With André in the passenger’s seat, Márcia spots factory worker Cristiano (Aristides de Sousa) and offers him a lift to work. Almost a third of the way into the picture — and only after Cristiano falls ill and André is sent to the man’s apartment in search of a change of clothes — we finally learn our protagonist’s true identity, as André uncovers the notebook to which author and off-camera narrator Cristiano gives voice. His journal is part freeform diary, part shaggy dog story, and in its understated manner, a reflection of our times.
Cristiano views himself as a fatalistic film noir creature, a man who, “Had practically nothing and nothing to fear.” To writers/directors João Dumans and Affonso Uchoa, he’s, “a worker-traveler wandering between nostalgia and murders as an old western character without any mission but to stay alive.” That, not Deadpool, is what well-informed genre-bending is all about.
Each day presents a fresh opportunity for Cristiano to start start at the bottom. His story spans ten years; first stop, a stretch in the pokey for car theft. To a caged man, tossing breadcrumbs from a cell window to the hungry birds below is a way of feeling free. Cristiano returns to a civilian life, but remains unable to step outside the boundaries that govern his daily existence. (Characters are frequently portioned off between cramped door frames, the camera acting as distant observer.) Instead of returning to a life of crime, he takes to the road, first as a tangerine-picker at a plantation where his cousin toils. When they ask for three months back pay, the workers are told to take a hike. Note the familiar prison-orange tint to the unpaid human-harvester’s work duds.
It’s here that we are introduced to Bareto, one of the many striking characters who line Cristiano’s path. In his youth, an anarchistic union organizer of sorts, Bareto was the first to fight for an employee’s rights to fixed wages. Under his care, fruit trees were said to yield sweeter crops. It’s through Cristiano’s impassioned words that we discover how much the land loved the old man. But as one might expect from an episodic tale that’s driven by fate, Bareto hops on board only long enough for his story to be told and to drop dead.
For ten years, whether he’s doing renovation work on a brothel or waxing nostalgic over objects he and a fellow day-laborer have lifted and carried over the years, destiny hastens every step of Cristiano’s journey. The directors’ loosely-framed long takes allow ample room to observe how their lead relates to and interacts with his surroundings, which in this case is a key to character appreciation.
“Everyone had a story,” Cristiano observes, “even the quiet ones.” To say that’s he’s not the greatest yarn-spinner would be an understatement. His stories are all over the map; incidents and individuals get sidetracked only to return minutes later (and seemingly at the author’s whim). Such is the case of Ana (Renata Cabral). She may very well be the love of Cristiano’s life, but no sooner does her name come up than she’s side-lined by an anecdote.
Cristiano’s life soon begins to unravel faster (and with less debility) than the bolts of textiles he boxes. Dumans and Uchoa work hard to cover each of Cristiano’s chance meetings with varying degrees of formal finesse. Perhaps it’s placement so late in the game is what causes Ana’s confessional to stick out like a stage reading adrift in an otherwise steady surge of cinematic invention.
With storytelling as vivid as this, at some point the question arises as to the need for André as a framing device. It’s Cristiano’s story after all. Why not begin and end on him? Perhaps the filmmakers had more of a before and after picture in mind.
Here's something you might be interested in.
The Bleak of Araby
The Bleak of Araby
Araby: Fitting a life onto the pages of a spiral notebook
Don’t you hate it when, while rifling through a desk drawer in search of a book of matches or piece of scratch paper, a character accidentally happens upon the one indisputable clue needed to solve the crime and send audiences packing? Coincidences such as this generally act as signposts that boldly announce: Lazy Screenwriter Ahead. Generally, but not always, as in the case of Araby, the heart-saddening and fiercely naturalistic road movie opening Friday at the Digital Gym.
An aqueous long take of André (Murilo Caliari) effortlessly pedaling through the countryside spans the entire length of the opening credit sequence. From the outset, we are primed for something undividedly different than what lies ahead. With Mom and Dad on the road, André plays parent and doctor to his sick younger brother. (The overburdened 18-year-old puffs his way through a cigarette faster than an under-cranked Bette Davis.) Nor does the boy get any relief from his surroundings. The textile factory outside his window leaves enough residuum in the air that he can write his name on the window sill.
(Not that the proceedings weren’t compelling to look at, but I kept waiting to see in what direction this possible tribute to the Dardenne Bros. was going to play itself out. That seemed more likely than experiencing a sudden Hollywood departure that found our hero taking up boxing to help bankroll a life-saving operation for his kid brother.)
Then subtly, there is a change. André’s aunt Márcia (Gláucia Vandeveld) appears to be the only indication of an authority figure in the boy’s life. With André in the passenger’s seat, Márcia spots factory worker Cristiano (Aristides de Sousa) and offers him a lift to work. Almost a third of the way into the picture — and only after Cristiano falls ill and André is sent to the man’s apartment in search of a change of clothes — we finally learn our protagonist’s true identity, as André uncovers the notebook to which author and off-camera narrator Cristiano gives voice. His journal is part freeform diary, part shaggy dog story, and in its understated manner, a reflection of our times.
Cristiano views himself as a fatalistic film noir creature, a man who, “Had practically nothing and nothing to fear.” To writers/directors João Dumans and Affonso Uchoa, he’s, “a worker-traveler wandering between nostalgia and murders as an old western character without any mission but to stay alive.” That, not Deadpool, is what well-informed genre-bending is all about.
Each day presents a fresh opportunity for Cristiano to start start at the bottom. His story spans ten years; first stop, a stretch in the pokey for car theft. To a caged man, tossing breadcrumbs from a cell window to the hungry birds below is a way of feeling free. Cristiano returns to a civilian life, but remains unable to step outside the boundaries that govern his daily existence. (Characters are frequently portioned off between cramped door frames, the camera acting as distant observer.) Instead of returning to a life of crime, he takes to the road, first as a tangerine-picker at a plantation where his cousin toils. When they ask for three months back pay, the workers are told to take a hike. Note the familiar prison-orange tint to the unpaid human-harvester’s work duds.
It’s here that we are introduced to Bareto, one of the many striking characters who line Cristiano’s path. In his youth, an anarchistic union organizer of sorts, Bareto was the first to fight for an employee’s rights to fixed wages. Under his care, fruit trees were said to yield sweeter crops. It’s through Cristiano’s impassioned words that we discover how much the land loved the old man. But as one might expect from an episodic tale that’s driven by fate, Bareto hops on board only long enough for his story to be told and to drop dead.
For ten years, whether he’s doing renovation work on a brothel or waxing nostalgic over objects he and a fellow day-laborer have lifted and carried over the years, destiny hastens every step of Cristiano’s journey. The directors’ loosely-framed long takes allow ample room to observe how their lead relates to and interacts with his surroundings, which in this case is a key to character appreciation.
“Everyone had a story,” Cristiano observes, “even the quiet ones.” To say that’s he’s not the greatest yarn-spinner would be an understatement. His stories are all over the map; incidents and individuals get sidetracked only to return minutes later (and seemingly at the author’s whim). Such is the case of Ana (Renata Cabral). She may very well be the love of Cristiano’s life, but no sooner does her name come up than she’s side-lined by an anecdote.
Cristiano’s life soon begins to unravel faster (and with less debility) than the bolts of textiles he boxes. Dumans and Uchoa work hard to cover each of Cristiano’s chance meetings with varying degrees of formal finesse. Perhaps it’s placement so late in the game is what causes Ana’s confessional to stick out like a stage reading adrift in an otherwise steady surge of cinematic invention.
With storytelling as vivid as this, at some point the question arises as to the need for André as a framing device. It’s Cristiano’s story after all. Why not begin and end on him? Perhaps the filmmakers had more of a before and after picture in mind.
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