angels with dirty faces
Vodka Lemon is Hiner Saleem's 2004 film depicting a small Armenian village sometime after Soviet occupation. The film is quiet and subdued, but sticks closely to an Eastern European film aesthetic; mainly, to depict the lone individual as s/he suffers and celebrates against all forces of a life. Vodka Lemon does not stray from this tradition. This is a film that challenges the viewer to understand what is needed and what is not in a life...to understand what the essential necessities of existence are.
The film is unclear about how much time has passed since the Soviet occupation, but it is long enough to know that communism has fled, and capitalism has failed. In this scenario nobody has escaped the poverty which ensues. Hamo, the 60 year old protagonist, travels almost daily to visit his wife's grave where he meditates, not so quietly, with her picture inlaid in the stone. Some of the most telling moments come when Hamo gingerly cleans off the snow from her gravestone...he cleans it off with his bare hands, always his hands. Over swills from his flask he talks kindly to her inlaid image about his miserable pension, and the hope that his son, who now lives in Paris, will someday send him money.
In the meantime, Hamo continues to sell what little he has left of his home and life: his wife's wardrobe, his military uniform: commodities that have no real value, yet the memory they evoke make the commerce a painful transaction. Offers at the local market come in way under what Hamo suggests, and with each sale Hamo leaves the market with a little less of his former life than he had when he came. Although Hamo is stoic, anyone who has ever had to sell anything to pay the bills will understand the sadness that comes with departing from the things that make up our lives...the items that become artifacts to explain our existence.
The thing I like most about this film is that it is quiet, save for a brilliant soundtrack and score of Armenian folk tunes; The village is subdued by winter. The village is subdued by remoteness. With Hiner Saleem's shots of snowy highways and cold, snow-beaten huts, the cinematography mimics the silence of the people as they struggle to not only make sense of what their life has become, but also to survive it: if the poverty and cold do not kill, then certainly the memories will. Some say desperation needs no sound.
Unlike Fellini or Bergman, Saleem's camera work does not overly dramatize the face of the actors. Instead, the faces of Vodka Lemon stand to explain everything by merely existing in the film. The shot of Hamo and his son sharing bread and vodka depicts two faces I will not soon forget. There is something in the face of the Eastern European that is foreign to contemporary western sensibility, yet is understood by our sense of ethos. It is the face of 1930s America...when our grandparents worried about where their food was coming from. When they watched what sustained them seemingly blow away into the wind. When they didn't know what the future would bring. For me, Steinbeck captures the humanity of this face best when he writes,
"The people came out of their houses and smelled the hot stinging air and covered their noses from it. And the children came out of the houses, but they did not run or shout as they would have done after a rain. Men stood by their fences and looked at the ruined corn, drying fast now, only a little green showing through the film of dust. The men were silent and they did not move often. And the women came out of the houses to stand beside their men--to feel whether this time the men would break. The women studied the men's faces secretly, for the corn could go, as long as something else remained. The children stood near by, drawing figures in the dust with bare toes, and the children sent exploring senses out to see whether men and women would break. The children peaked at the faces of the men and women, and then drew careful lines in the dust with their toes. Horses came to the watering troughs and nuzzled the water to clear the surface dust. After a while the faces of the watching men lost their bemused perplexity and became hard and angry and resistant. Then the women knew that they were safe and that there was no break. Then they asked, what'll we do? And the men replied, I don't know. But it was alright. The women knew it was alright, and the watching children knew it was alright. Women and children knew deep in themselves that no misfortune was too great to bear if their men were whole. The women went into the houses to their work, and the children began to play, but cautiously at first. As the day went forward the sun became less red. It flared down on the dust-blanketed land. The men sat in the doorways of their houses; their hands were busy with sticks and little rocks. The men sat still--thinking--figuring."
The face is one of suffering and quiet madness, yet it is softened by a humanity somehow not lost in the poverty of existence. Despite the severe poverty, Hamo's face is beautiful and kind, if not a bit weathered and tired. Hamo will not break because he continually believes in humanity, and we see this by how he interacts with others: he does not let human contact go by lightly. His thoughts are heavy with burden, yet he dances, laughs, sings; although he is quiet, his spirit fights to stay alive. Hamo's life, no matter how worn down, is his own life...there is only one...so he takes the tragedy and sadness in stride, always remembering that it is there, and to leave it behind for a while is only a gift not to be ignored. There are those among us who have the gift of removing sadness for a while and replacing it with peace...there is a space that separates the two worlds, and if we look just right we can find it and perform in it. When Hamo sings or plays the piano, when he makes someone smile, I think he is keeping his soul from dying.
As I watched the film I wondered if Hamo thought back to his childhood, and if he did, what did he see? There are many scenes in which Hamo is simply caught deep in thought. I liked to think he was thinking of his youth. I somehow think it was the source of his strength.
The film is unclear about how much time has passed since the Soviet occupation, but it is long enough to know that communism has fled, and capitalism has failed. In this scenario nobody has escaped the poverty which ensues. Hamo, the 60 year old protagonist, travels almost daily to visit his wife's grave where he meditates, not so quietly, with her picture inlaid in the stone. Some of the most telling moments come when Hamo gingerly cleans off the snow from her gravestone...he cleans it off with his bare hands, always his hands. Over swills from his flask he talks kindly to her inlaid image about his miserable pension, and the hope that his son, who now lives in Paris, will someday send him money.
In the meantime, Hamo continues to sell what little he has left of his home and life: his wife's wardrobe, his military uniform: commodities that have no real value, yet the memory they evoke make the commerce a painful transaction. Offers at the local market come in way under what Hamo suggests, and with each sale Hamo leaves the market with a little less of his former life than he had when he came. Although Hamo is stoic, anyone who has ever had to sell anything to pay the bills will understand the sadness that comes with departing from the things that make up our lives...the items that become artifacts to explain our existence.
The thing I like most about this film is that it is quiet, save for a brilliant soundtrack and score of Armenian folk tunes; The village is subdued by winter. The village is subdued by remoteness. With Hiner Saleem's shots of snowy highways and cold, snow-beaten huts, the cinematography mimics the silence of the people as they struggle to not only make sense of what their life has become, but also to survive it: if the poverty and cold do not kill, then certainly the memories will. Some say desperation needs no sound.
Unlike Fellini or Bergman, Saleem's camera work does not overly dramatize the face of the actors. Instead, the faces of Vodka Lemon stand to explain everything by merely existing in the film. The shot of Hamo and his son sharing bread and vodka depicts two faces I will not soon forget. There is something in the face of the Eastern European that is foreign to contemporary western sensibility, yet is understood by our sense of ethos. It is the face of 1930s America...when our grandparents worried about where their food was coming from. When they watched what sustained them seemingly blow away into the wind. When they didn't know what the future would bring. For me, Steinbeck captures the humanity of this face best when he writes,
"The people came out of their houses and smelled the hot stinging air and covered their noses from it. And the children came out of the houses, but they did not run or shout as they would have done after a rain. Men stood by their fences and looked at the ruined corn, drying fast now, only a little green showing through the film of dust. The men were silent and they did not move often. And the women came out of the houses to stand beside their men--to feel whether this time the men would break. The women studied the men's faces secretly, for the corn could go, as long as something else remained. The children stood near by, drawing figures in the dust with bare toes, and the children sent exploring senses out to see whether men and women would break. The children peaked at the faces of the men and women, and then drew careful lines in the dust with their toes. Horses came to the watering troughs and nuzzled the water to clear the surface dust. After a while the faces of the watching men lost their bemused perplexity and became hard and angry and resistant. Then the women knew that they were safe and that there was no break. Then they asked, what'll we do? And the men replied, I don't know. But it was alright. The women knew it was alright, and the watching children knew it was alright. Women and children knew deep in themselves that no misfortune was too great to bear if their men were whole. The women went into the houses to their work, and the children began to play, but cautiously at first. As the day went forward the sun became less red. It flared down on the dust-blanketed land. The men sat in the doorways of their houses; their hands were busy with sticks and little rocks. The men sat still--thinking--figuring."
The face is one of suffering and quiet madness, yet it is softened by a humanity somehow not lost in the poverty of existence. Despite the severe poverty, Hamo's face is beautiful and kind, if not a bit weathered and tired. Hamo will not break because he continually believes in humanity, and we see this by how he interacts with others: he does not let human contact go by lightly. His thoughts are heavy with burden, yet he dances, laughs, sings; although he is quiet, his spirit fights to stay alive. Hamo's life, no matter how worn down, is his own life...there is only one...so he takes the tragedy and sadness in stride, always remembering that it is there, and to leave it behind for a while is only a gift not to be ignored. There are those among us who have the gift of removing sadness for a while and replacing it with peace...there is a space that separates the two worlds, and if we look just right we can find it and perform in it. When Hamo sings or plays the piano, when he makes someone smile, I think he is keeping his soul from dying.
As I watched the film I wondered if Hamo thought back to his childhood, and if he did, what did he see? There are many scenes in which Hamo is simply caught deep in thought. I liked to think he was thinking of his youth. I somehow think it was the source of his strength.
