QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM MALTA
A male tells another male: “this is where you take the young woman”. Meanwhile, the radio announces that Eta (the radical Basque separatist group) has finally reached a deal with the Spanish government, putting an end to their armed-struggle. This means restoring peace, but also putting full independence plans on hold. We hear that international leaders such as Tony Blair helped to achieve this, suggesting that the developments take place roughly at the turn of the century. This is all the contextualisation you get in this dark study of political activism and individual isolation.
There is a barely a narrative. The young woman in question is running away from home, yet there is no explanation why. She has left her parents behind, and is no longer in touch with her friends. Is she a wanted fugitive? Does she have a cunning resistance plan? Has she broken up with those sympathetic to the peace agreement? She hides in the sleepy hamlet of Zubieta, somewhere near the French border. Despite sharing the language with the locals – except for a brief announcement of the radio, the entire film is spoken in Basque, a mysterious language isolate (a tongue not connected to any other) -, the woman feels lonely and isolated. She is permanently gloomy and downtrodden. Neither the audience nor the locals know her real name, her motive and her plans. What is clear is that she is not part of a larger cell. She represents vestigial political activism. The lone wolf that continues to lurk in silence and hunger long after their pack has disbanded.
The weather and the settings offer little comfort, instead emphasising the sense of isolation and detachment. It rains all the time, and the sunlight is never to be seen, whatever time of the day. The road are long and narrow, the forests are dense, and the rocks covered with moss. In fact, the film title translates as “approaching winter”, yet you wouldn’t know this without either reading this review or looking it up on Google Translate. The four filmmakers aim to keep not just their protagonist but also audiences in the dark, trapped in the coldest season of the year with a strange sense of alienation. The film title, placards, signs, banners and a potent closing song (devoid of instruments and images) all come without subtitles, vouching for the cryptic nature of the movie.
It isn’t just the radio news and the settings that take us back in time, roughly a quarter of a century. The dark and grainy cinematography suggest that the film was shot in the past, with the low resolution equipment available then. That Negu Hurbilak has the texture of a movie made in the 1990s is a notable artistic achievement. While not making an overt political statement, or a call for independence, the film reveals that the internal struggle of the political being is timeless.
The story wraps up with a local carnival parade. The locals wear creepy masks of all sorts (ranging from Hollywood characters to folklore monsters), while taking the streets of the tiny town. They chant and perform. This isn’t your average village parade, but instead a visceral act, bordering on the perverse (including the torture of a completely naked man). The unintelligible signs and the provocative acts contain a political message (the Basque people are no strangers to fiery performances with an unequivocal message). The exact meaning? Your guess is as good as mine. A thought-provoking and enigmatic piece of filmmaking.
Negu Hurbilak is in the Official Competition of the 2nd Mediterrane Film Festival, in Malta.
