Skip to main content

TRANSYLVANIA. Dir Tony Gatlif. 2006

Transylvania Gatlif


It’s unclear whether this film is supposed to be a romance, a road trip, or a creative documentary, and the result is a bewildering series of unconnected scenes.

A disturbed French girl, Zingarina, arrives in Transylvania with her anxious sister as carer, and an interpreter, and the trio are searching for Zingarina’s absconded lover. She finds him, he rejects her, and she descends into a prolonged schizophrenic episode and, because we know nothing about these characters and have been shown nothing to evoke our interest or sympathy, it’s meaningless and irritating.

Zingarina whirls around in her own misery, messing up a really interesting carnival procession of national costumed musicians and singers when, as a documentary, this could have been fascinating and illuminating. At various times during the film there are tantalising glimpses of local performers but there is little dialogue and no insight into either gypsy or local culture, leaving the impression of a film shot out of a car window – fleeting and unsatisfying. Had Gatlif taken the approach of Wim Wender’s Buena Vista Social Club this could have been a rich experience.

Instead, he tries to work in an implausible relationship between Zingarina and a parasitic itinerant dealer who preys on the poor. The dealer is a Bob Geldof lookalike who becomes marginally likeable and achieves some redemption when he (inexplicably) links up with the crazed Zingarina, sees she is a deluded hysteric, and takes her to be exorcized of her demons. There follows a long scene with her behaving - that is standing still and not thrashing around - amidst exquisitely beautifully male voice toning while a priest reads from his book, but the pair run away without paying and get a curse thrown at them. Pretty ungrateful.

However, she seems okay now and, the pair travel around, living in a car; she holds out the palm of her hand a lot, showing a big eye drawn on it, seems to get aroused by hitting him, then starts wearing red skirts and everyone thinks she is a gypsy. Cutting out the daft relationship from this film would leave some intriguing footage of musicians and singers but it would take real stamina to sit through it for these randomly inserted snippets of local colour.

So many questions are unanswered and continuity is a real problem. Why does Z neurotically cling to her sister and, two minutes later, disappear leaving her a note, and what is wrong with her sister’s legs? What is the meaning of the massive tattoo on Zingarina’s abdomen? How does she goes to sleep in a grey skirt and wake up in a black, flowered one? How come, after living on the road for seven months, her hair remains dyed dark brown without her roots showing, and she still has on dark eyeliner?

The first half of this film is a complete riddle and, struggling to find some logic or meaning to it during the second half, one slim possibility emerges: people keep leaving. Must be about grief and loss then. Ah, only one person comes back. She smiles. The end.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Running ‘till your nipples bleed

An email from a friend of mine arrives; she complains that, at work, she is routinely subjected to gruesome accounts of female colleagues’ intimate medical procedures and gynaecological problems. I am all commiseration because I, too, have had years of listening to workplace chats about periods, childbirth and sex lives. Oh please. Later, I wander off for a walk in the early evening sunshine and it is so silent and so beautiful that I flop down on the grass and lay awhile gazing out over the rolling fields, and the mouth of the river, and fall into a reverie. Two men pass by. A few minutes later sounds of women’s talk float nearer and, by the time the two females of the species draw level with me, I have risen up from my deliciously recumbent position in the meadow, alert and tense, something like a meerkat. “I do feel for her. Going down that IVF route is such an emotional roller coaster. I was never prepared for how terrible it was going to be.” I remain frozen in my meerkat position...

Ian McEwan. Amsterdam. London: QPD, 1998

McEwan’s novel about ambition, personal betrayal and revenge features Clive, a modern composer trying to complete a major orchestral work, his friend Vernon, an editor trying to save his ailing newspaper, and Garmony, an unscrupulous right-wing politician on the rise. In common, all three have, in previous years, been lovers of recently dead Molly. They meet at her funeral and the story follows the next few weeks of the men’s lives. Vernon and Clive act as one another’s conscience, each infuriating the other. Which is more important, honesty, friendship and trust or Vernon’s newspaper and Clive’s symphony? The novel presents the difficulties of balancing personal and public morality, the importance of private shame and public reputation, the conflict between taking a moral decision for the greater good, or putting first ones own desires. Not just a simple exposé of a politician with a vulnerable side, Amsterdam is full of double standards and surprises, and takes a long, cynical look a...

Ralph McTell, Truro, 19 April 2007

Ralph's mates from Pentewan have all turned up in a mini bus to hear him sing and play, and he walks onto the stage looking comfortable; he's amongst friends. He's a big man; very charismatic, with a warm smile and a beguiling aura of powerful gentleness. He's relaxed, we're relaxed, and he sits with his guitar, chatting easily between songs, and playing with an easy familiarity with us, and with his material. His guitar playing is intricate and playful; going from ragtime to blues to folk, and his voice is deep and rich. He comments that he's put together quite a serious programme for the two hours he's on stage; it's true that the lyrics are thoughtful and the subjects serious, but there is light material too; a tune about Laurel and Hardy, and one or two covers of old blues numbers. When he sings Streets of London there are happy sighs and the audience sing along very softly; as softly as a whisper. It feels as intimate as if we were just a few people...