QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM TALLINN

The year is 1894, and the action takes place in Tartu, Estonia’s “intellectual capital” and the country’s second largest city. A title card explains that Estonian poet Juhan Liiv is one the eve of being admitted into a mental asylum for seven years, for no apparent medical reason. For the next hour and a half, we watch the developments that led to his imprisonment, as one of the country’s most famous poets (played here by Pääru Oja) jots down his ideas, reads out loud his poems, and promotes Estonian self-determination. The small Baltic nation first became independent in 1918, several years after Liiv died – a useful piece of information that the movie does not share with viewers.

The battle for freedom ensues. Liiv impersonates the desire for liberation, in the familiar battle between good and evil. He questions the use of Russian in schools, particularly a very sycophantic “God save the Emperor”. He fears that the nation could become “a place of faceless stagnation”, instead insisting that the “bees should fly to the beehive” (a metaphor for the “fatherland”. He repeatedly claims that his heart is “crushed under rubber and lead”, in reference to the military belligerence of their Russian rulers. “The devil” is pervasive presence and provides a facile explanation for unwarranted events and behaviours. Liiv’s ideas are deeply subversive, and authorities prompt haunt him down. His cherished Mari (Alice Siil) and his associate Madjus (Meelis Rämmeld) provide him with moral and emotional guidance. A mysterious killer donning a horrific black mask (taken straight out of a folk horror movie) derails his plans. Events take a turn for the worse, and our poet ends up virtually on his own. Nationalistic themes gradually lose steam, as what started out as a psychological drama morphs into a murder intrigue, with very graphic and abundant violence. And a vaguely disjointed script.

This auspicious historical drama possesses a visual and a narrative language compatible with television. The tidy period costumes, the classical acting, the cautious framing, the pedestrian lighting, the formulaic editing, and so on: every industry convention is followed ad litteram. This is a movie is no room for subversion and innovation. As a result, the story often lapses into monotony. The casting choice has little to do with historicity: Oja does not convey the physical weakness associated with his character. On the other hand, the blue-eyed wonder and heartthrob is guaranteed to please audiences.

The Shadow is named after the eponymous short story, which was written by the film protagonist, and published in the same year. Its main character Villu is often compared to the real-life poet, both allegedly possessing a frail body and a powerful intellect. This loose biopic presumably combines real-life developments with elements from the late 19th century publication. Those not well-versed in Estonian poetry and literature can only guess the extent of the fictionalisation.

This is a film aimed at Estonian audiences. Or at least those familiar with the country’s history. The blend of nationalism that Liiv promotes has a very local flavour, however universal the aspirations of national sovereignty might be. Some of the characters – including the protagonist and the masked antagonist – are neither internationally recognisable nor particularly relatable. The Shadow is very conventional for the film festival circuit. It lacks the auteur sensibilities typically associated with arthouse cinema. Jaak Kilmi is a strong household name in Estonia, with a career spanning nearly three decades and more than 20 film and television works. The Shadow is unlikely to catapult him into the European spotlight.

The Shadow just premiered in the Official Competition of the 28th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival.