QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM INDIELISBOA
While not directly referencing the Weird Wave of Greek cinema, which catapulted to fame the likes of Yorgos Lanthimos and Athina Rachel Tsangari, this Portuguese film clearly drinks from the same water as its distant Mediterranean peers. Unconventional storytelling, often bordering on the surreal, is combined occasional elements of dark or deadpan humour in order to create a film dealing with societal exceptionalism. In other words, weird people behaving weirdly, and enjoying it throughly in the process.
The barely cognitive story surrounds a middle-aged, eccentric and upper-class couple, Mateus (Albano Jerónimo) and Irene (Isabel Abreu), and their adolescent son. They live inside a luxurious house surrounded by verdant gardens. They dream of travelling to a very distant and exotic French Polynesia in order to celebrate their 20th anniversary, yet seem unable to barely step out of their residence. Every detail of the house – furniture, walls, bric-a-brac – is gingerly layered, as are their clothes. That’s in stark contrast to their dysfunctional personalities and relationships. Mateus starts the story wearing a sock on his head balaclava-style, the son wears female clothes and oversized sunglasses, they often murmur, pant and groan. Their conversations are silly and pointless. A blonde woman and an elusive male complete the picture, even if their function isn’t entirely clear to me.
The muddled narrative devices are intentional, presumably a reflection of the inebriated state-of- mind of the characters, who experience minor convulsions and hallucinations after taking a vaccine in preparation for their trip. As the film progresses, the descent into social and moral disintegration continues to accelerate.
The film title, which refers to the grammatical “we”, provides the movie with a sense 0f confinement and alienation. These people live for each other, in a near-symbiotic manner. They have little interest or even awareness of the “you” and “they” (the second and the third person plural). And they seem imprisoned in a familial continuum. First person plural in the present continuous tense. A clever title choice, aligned with the sense of “otherness” that intoxicates the story. This is a plural with a limit: five or six characters. We spectators are mere voyeurs. We are never invited to join this select “first person”.
Stylistically, Aguilar evokes the 1970s, with impeccable, elegant costumes and mise-en-scene. Mirrors and glassed walls add a sense of confusion to the interiors. Sparse lighting injects a little oppressiveness into the movie. Even the exteriors (the gardens, and the elusive French Polynesia) feel a little stifling. At times, the house settings blend seamlessly with the tropical environment (which might be real, or perhaps a mere figment of the imagination of the eccentric characters). Medium and long shots prevail, often keeping a safe Brechtian distance. The characters are encumbered by their short-sighted fantasies and prescriptive existence. Think RW Fassbinder’s Martha (1974) or Despair (1978) and you’re in the right direction.
While aesthetically impressive, First Person Plural fails to rivet viewers. With a duration of 119 minutes (nearly two hours), barely anything happens, and monotony surfaces. The cryptic dialogues do not take audiences anywhere: narratively, emotionally or spiritually. A repetitive piano score becomes extremely annoying. The intoxication allegory feels banal. At times, the film is just as insufferable and annoying as the futile characters it sets out to criticise and expose. SDome lingering erotic tension – including some homoerotic interactions between father and son – never come full circle. First Person Plural is a partly accomplished endeavour, oscillating between the tropical and trippy, and the cold and dull.
First Person Plural shows at IndieLisboa.
