A sometimes emotional, sometimes funny stroll through the heart of Romania’s largest personal archive of photography and footage shot on film, Timebox is a perfect addition to the (not-so) recent discussions about archives, their interactions with memory and their relationship to film. In terms of the local cinematographic milieu, Timebox sits perfectly between Licu, A Romanian Story (2017, by Ana Dumitrescu) and The Dead Nation (2017, Radu Jude), following a character who is part of history itself and also a scribe of it, leaving behind an impressive collection of both private and public, official histories. Without being a fully-formed found footage film or an essay-film that would question the grand subject of history, memory and archive on a theoretical level, the portrait of Ioan Agapi painted by his own daughter goes for a more concrete approach.

What is the archive composed of? Thousands upon thousands of boxes, big and small, covered in dust, yet carefully labeled, that are spread throughout the entire house of Ioan Agapi. What does it mean? Well, first of all, a big hassle, since they all have to be carried away. Why carried away? Because Ioan Matei Agapi must leave the home in which he has lived and worked (as a teacher for the local Popular Arts School) for over thirty years, the once-sumptuous Braunstein Palace, will be renovated by the local authorities (ironically, in order to be repurposed as a cultural center, as I found out afterwards).

Another hint of irony. In the midst of the conflicts and legal issues that he’s having with the Iasi Town Hall, Ioan Agapi receives high honors from the institution, meaning a showcase of his work and an official title; anything but a house. Well, sure, they do offer him homes, but they’re either at the edge of town, unsanitary or simply not large enough to host Ioan Agapi’s years of celluloid, his work and his legacy.

These images, this priceless archive (which is priceless because it is mostly unknown) plays the “role” of the film’s conflict, while also functioning as its main topic matter. Across the hour and a bit that Timebox spans, the archive is discussed at great lengths, but not at a theoretical or conceptual level (as it is in The Dead Nation), neither it is ever referred to as an “archive”. Rather it’s discussed in the highly de-mistifying and unceremonious terms of „okay, so what do we do with all of this?”. The lead fighter for the Agapi archive, the director as you see her at the Q&A sessions of the film, doesn’t seem to have much in common with the despairing figure we witness in the film, the one accusing her father of being a „hoarder”.

Sure, the archive itself is just a facet of the film. Nora Agapi, as is to be expected, doesn’t only discuss the images, her father’s work, she doesn’t just stand quietly behind the camera, observing the disaster, the corruption. She prods, she pushes, she has outbursts in many scenes, leaving a lot of space in the film for negotiating her relationship with her dad and his legacy. Already on the third generation of photographers (starting with her grandfather), the duo have a few moments where they put their cameras “in dialogue”. A good example would be the scene where this happens directly (the daughter is filming her father while his executing a 360 pan that includes her), but also the footage and places Agapi Sr. captured and Agapi Jr. is now revisiting. In a sense, these are the most touching moments of the film, this audiovisual bong which comes to complement the very tense relationship we see throughout the film.

The much-contested tower often seems a sort of observatory, Agapi himself having shot many a showy parade from the window and, now, his daughter is shooting little post-communist shopfronts over which the seasons change – it snows, it rains – and, in the middle of which, The Braunstein Palace is standing like a long-forgotten relic. Ioan Agapi and the Palace are, in a sense, similar. Both barely standing in the heart of Iasi, still carrying the heavy burden of their history.

Those of you curious to find out more can search online for the Braunstein Palace, but won’t find much about the building’s historical importance – some estimates about the date of its construction (sometime around the beginning of the 20th century) and it relationship to Adolf Braunstein (a jewish salesman). Instead, what you will find will be articles about the investments into the building’s restoration and various plans (all of them have yet to materialize) regarding the future destination of the building. Soon, it is slated to become a cultural center, which will be especially dedicated to visual and plastic arts. Ioan-Matei Agapi doesn’t seem to be a part of this new history. Relegated to an apartment in a high-rise, still one that he is paying rent for, still owned by the Town Hall, but much smaller and much less representative for one of the most important people that worked towards conserving the local history of Iasi.

Monica Lăzureanu-Gorgan, the producer of the film, made a mention about the authorities from Iasi (this shapeless, yet mailitious, quasi-antagonistic of the film) at a Q&A of the film, stating that they are still in a tense relationship with the Agapi universe (father, daughter and film), since the town is one of the few (after a festival circuit that spanned more than a year, and now a national distribution deal) where the film isn’t to be seen in any of the local cinemas.

And it’s a pity. The documentary is emotional, complex, yet accessible, Ioan Agapi is charming and fascinating, and the film’s implications are extremely relevant and important. Go see it! And if you’re not convinced, read more about it, and maybe even donate. 

Alex Mircioi

Film and theatre critic, sometimes dabbles in theatre-making. Has written and edited texts for Film Menu and Acoperișul de Sticlă, and collaborated with a number of other cultural publications like AperiTIFF, Scena9, All About Romanian Cinema and Film. Desperately in love with female filmmakers and writers, could always go for a queer coming-of-age.