Dropping away from suited commuters to enjoy a 9am screening of the blackly comic Gravity carries a curious excitement akin to skiving school. The film delivers unpredictable plotting and excellent performances from Jurgen Vogel (as an ex-con trying to go straight) and buff-Jimmy Carr-alike Fabian Hinrichs (as his bad-influence banker friend, newly embracing the illegal thrills of burglary and hitting people with bats), but as events spiral out of control, the tonal shifts generate some unpleasant amorality. But maybe I’m just grumpy; after all, time is short and I’ve plenty else to see – preferably seated before the lights go down…
While I arrive in good time for film number two, not everyone is as fortunate and the opening minutes of the Lynch-produced, Herzog-directed My Son My Son What Have Ye Done are accompanied by the sight of no less than seven harried writers stumbling and falling while attempting to surreptitiously shuffle to seats. The situation’s sustained absurdity is so bizarrely in-line with the aforementioned filmmakers’ eccentric reputations that it’s easy to imagine Herzog himself as the curled-tight obstacle, mischievously tugging the ankles of tardy reporters. The film itself balances a sense of danger with a sense of humour in a more prolonged fashion, as a reliably unconventional cast brings the true story of Brad McCullum’s murder of his mother (Michael Shannon and Lynch regular Grace Zabriskie, respectively) to off-kilter life. The results convey the barely-suppressed mania of a fever-dream and are twice as vivid.
Speaking of dreams, two films in and the perils of a 7am start and a warm day spent in darkness presents itself: the accursed micro-sleep head-dip. So the prospect of two-plus hours of leisurely crime procedural carries the strong fear of slipping into public snoring. Luckily, The Secret In Their Eyes offers plenty to keep minds alert: intricately drawn characters, a decade-spanning plot filled with love, loss and vengeance, and a goosebump-raising denouement. While still a surprise Oscar winner in a year boasting A Prophet and The White Ribbon, the Academy decision proves by no means a miscarriage of justice.
Entering a fourth cinema eleven hours after the day’s first necessitates a pick-me-up. Coffee does the trick; not through its caffeine-boost, but through the equally invigorating sensation of a clumsily-dropped cup spilling its contents into my lap. While a little more vigorous than intended, the sudden awakening helps focus attention on the beautifully-realised but Bresson-paced The Robber. The tale of a marathon-running career criminal lapsing into old ways starts slow, but it stages its set-pieces – not least a surprise dash from custody that leads to an on-the-lam second half – with expert tension. That said, as the micro-sleeps threaten a reappearance, its conclusion comes as something of a relief. If, as the day’s third film pronounced, the eyes hold secrets, my blackened sink-holes are doing a terrible job of concealing their tiredness.
The next day I add a fifth film to the schedule for good measure. Thank goodness the festival’s only eleven days long…
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