Compared to last year’s edition, when, due to the obvious implications of the pandemic, the festival was held in a short virtual form, this year’s outing of the Berlin International Film Festival (the 72nd) wanted to attempt returning to a possible normality. The Berlinale took place under a hybrid form, with in-person screenings and galas, while a few of the festival’s essential segments, such as the European Film Market and Berlinale Talents, were held online. If, in January, the Rotterdam Film Festival also made its selection available on an online platform, the Berlinale opted for a version in which the press had to either physically attend the festival or to hope that distributors would be as kind as to offer them screeners. As such, before one could rejoice at the fact that one could finally return to the state of mingling between the audience and the industry, let us remember that we are still in the grips of the pandemic, even in spite of its apparent decline. For many journalists, the critical situation of the last few months didn’t make a trip to Berlin seem that appealing, and I have to admit that even my own stay at the festival was clouded by the thought that I haven’t made the right choice for myself in terms of health, no matter the many, hefty measures that were taken by the organizers. Furthermore, a Covid scare considerably shortened my days at the festival, which is why I returned from Berlin with a short, condensed experience and a slightly broken heart.

All in all, this year’s selection did not seem to raise up to the level of the spearheading position that the festival is often associated with, orienting itself towards films that, while good and congenial, are rather tame. This might well be a personal impression, as I didn’t have much time to explore many of the sections that are out of competition, such as Forum and Encounters, where the gamut of the festival’s more experimental-minded titles reside.

Off the bat, I must also mention that I didn’t attend the Berlinale as press, but rather on a student accreditation, propelled by the romantic notion that this is my final year as a student in Romania and that I could put this to good use for one last time. However, my accreditation has its limits (meaning screenings or locations that I was not given access to), which is not particularly comfortable for a film critic. Lesson learned. But, why should I deny that this also brought along a lot of well-deserved freedoms, in the sense that my 2022 Berlin experience was “all for me”, no obligations, no pressures that are usually entailed by one’s status as an accredited journalist/critic. I allowed myself to choose films instinctively, and to thus enjoy cinema in a purely cinephile spirit, and I wish that anyone would be able to experience a festival like this, at one point. In other words, my first trip down to Berlin was a bit of a cinematic splurge. 

Maybe that all of these tensions of a world at a crosspoint are looming about, or maybe that it’s a general Zeitgeist that invites one to take the path towards introspection and healing, but my instincts seem to have led me to a lot of films that regard weaknesses and vulnerabilities, like a sort of red thread. Trauma and loss, inadequacies and mistakes of various ages, difficult love stories and families were part of most of the notable films that I saw during my four days at the festival, sometimes successfully, at times more conventional, given that I mostly followed the official competition and the special screening. I particularly rejoice at the fact that most of these films focus on characters that are older than 40, 50 – in an audiovisual world that persists in its cult of a perfect youth. I was also happy to see unconventional feminine models, as well as a lot of female directors who created some of the works that I include on my best-of list of the festival.

About Joan, dir. Laurent Larivière

First of all, I would like to focus on About Joan. This 72nd edition of the Berlinale bestowed Isabelle Huppert with an award honoring her entire career, and she is one of the lead performers here – and while it may not be one of her career’s best roles, it’s still an endearing one. A chance meeting with a long-lost love prompts Joan (Huppert) to go on a journey through the decades of her own life, as she retreats to her provincial villa and remembers the tragedies of her life, both small and big. Memories split between France and Ireland, her first love, her parents’ divorce, the loves of her adult age, and her memories of her son, Michel (Swann Arlaud), who pays her a visit. Small hints indicate that we might have to do with a fictitious memory, which seems to unveil a series of coping mechanisms that the woman has developed along the years. The slow reveal of the inconsistencies in between Joan’s stories and what truly happened is not fully innovative, but one could reclaim this character as a sweet study of nostalgia, and of a late maturity that is still marred by the scars of the past.

What About Joan seems to demonstrate is the degree to which Isabelle Huppert can raise the level of any film in which she is cast through the sheer force of her presence. As cold as she is sensitive, Joan is imbued by the actress’s incomparable charm, and subtly shifts between her various moods and interactions with the people surrounding her. Swann Arlaud’s performance as her son is initially somewhat unexpected, but ultimately very pleasant, as they create a mother-son duo that switches between warm and uncompromising attitudes, as Joan is defined beyond her simple status as a mother.

urul său. Swann Arlaud în rolul fiului său e o prezență inițial neașteptată, dar finalmente extrem de plăcută, făcând împreună un duo mamă-fiu care alternează între căldură și intransigență, fără ca Joan să fie definită prin calitățile sale de mamă.

Fire / Both Sides of the Blade, dir. Claire Denis

Fire starts on an exquisite sequence in which a he (Vincent Lindon) helps a her (Juliette Binoche) float on the calm waters of a sea. An image resplendent of the candor of light-hearted love, that needs no words. Denis manages to build in Fire such a warm intimacy of couple life, only for her to then shake it to the core with a heartrending intensity. The intimacy is all the more marked as the story ramifies into a love triangle composed of mature individuals, and not some kids animated by passing emotions. The film’s main aim is that of the passions of the past, that slowly creep into the present and endanger a trust that has been built at an effort, along the years. A subtle and memorable dialogue regarding how much someone can love another, whether one has ever loved someone, or if they will love someone forever, is what Fire is all about. The possibility of an adulterous liaison is tactfully explored by Denis, not as a deviation, but as a complex process which will make everyone suffer. 

Denis’ film has a respectable cast – Binoche, Lindon, Grégoire Colin, Mati Diop, and a notable appearance of veteran Bulle Ogier, in a role that is much smaller than the one required by her prestige. Still, despite the fact that Denis was awarded a Silver Bear for her directing, I believe Fire is one of her lesser titles. A mature, refined film with a certainly serious drama, but it seems to me that Juliette Binoche as Sara, living through the terror of falling back in love with the ghosts of her past, often plays on a forced, melodramatic paroxism. Even so, a Claire Denis film, even a mediocre one in comparison to her past work, is oftentimes much better than other films, and certainly much better than others features in this year’s competition of the Berlinale.

The Line, dir. Ursula Meier

Passing on from Claire Denis to another famed female director – Ursula Meier and her newest, The Line, whose cinematography is helmed by her iconic collaborator, Agnès Godard. The Line has somewhat of the atmosphere of a stereotypical European film, but it’s saved by the charismatic performance of Stéphanie Blanchoud, who plays the role of a young woman (Margaret) who is starving her own aggressive impulses off and fighting a dysfunctional family. On the other side of the conflict, in the role of a pianist mother with petit-bourgeois aspirations, we have Valeria Bruni Tedeschi, a tad cliche and affected in her quality as a hysterical mother-artist, who doesn’t care about her children. Following a fight, The Line starts off with a restraining order that prevents Margaret from coming close to her mother and which generates various attempts at family reconciliation. Blanchoud’s performance is commendable when the actress is capable of engendering both her very physical revolt, with its punches and reproaches, as well as her despair at the futility of her attempts at trying to tell her mother that she loves her. Meier intelligently passes around a given blame – nobody is morally superior, and each member has their own transgression toward another to account for. The only angel (quite literally, as she is constantly praying to god) is the family’s little sister, Marion, who is trying to forge peace amongst the others and who tries, in saintly fashion, to make everyone happy.

The Line is not very consequential in its qualities, as it often falls prey to the common areas of European cinema and family dramas, but it sometimes has its moments of pure inspiration. The film ends on a splendid, devastating acoustic song performed by Blanchoud, which I am listening to on a loop. Speaking of music, it’s worth mentioning that Benjamin Biolay appears in the minor role of an ex-lover, who, despite being unsatisfactory and not leading almost anywhere, at least comes across as a cute sample of pop culture. 

Good Luck to You, Leo Grande, dir. Sophie Hyde

My bet regarding what Berlinale film will last the longest in cinemas this year is on Good Luck to You, Leo Grande (even though its premiere took place earlier, at Sundance). It’s an English-language film aimed at a large audience – even though it proposes a nuanced discussion regarding sex work and sexuality at a mature age. The film’s very existence seems to prove that it’s not so hard to integrate notions about body image or less-objectifying perspectives on female sexuality in a general discourse that is available to all audiences. With a storyline focused on a widow that pays a much younger man for sexual services, Good Luck to You, Leo Grande is a sweet and light comedy, which, however, would have lost its charm in the absence of Emma Thompson as Nancy, a former religion studies teacher. Daryl McCormack rises to her level, performing a seductive, yet incredibly comforting Leo Grande – a saint of sex, as Thompson’s character allshim. I wouldn’t say that the film contributes per se at the stigmatisation of Leo Grande’s job, since it’s much too less political in this regard, but the intimate moments shared between the two and Nancy’s insecurities make space for a lot of empathy, on both sides. 

Good Luck to You, Leo Grande seems to work most tightly around a couple of discussions surrounding vulnerabilities and healing. The film is not profound, but it is indeed a call to rediscover oneself and to defeat one’s own prejudices regarding one’s own worth and capacities. This line of thought might indeed be a dime for a dozen, but I don’t think that it’s a bad thing for us to remember, as Emma Thompson said at the film’s public screening, that we all deserve to do things for our own pleasure.

Dora Leu

Graduated with a BA in film directing and a MA in film studies from UNATC; she's also studied history of art. Also collaborates with the Acoperisul de Sticla film magazine and is a former coordinator of FILM MENU. She's dedicated herself to '60-'70s Japanese cinema and Irish post-punk music bands. Still keeps a picture of Leslie Cheung in her wallet.