Peter e Marusa sono due amici/amanti e il film è la storia del loro rapporto.
nel 1961 sloveno questo è un film che non ti aspetti - Ismaele
Dance In
The Rain is generally regarded as Slovenia's best film. Shot in 1961 by writer/director
Bostjan Hladnik, who worked under Claude Chabrol in the late Fifties,
the stylistic links to the French New Wave are evident.
Peter
(Miha Baloh) is the dark brooding type. Leading a vacuous, shapeless life, he
longs for the ideal woman, while at the same time, half-heartedly continuing
with his habitual girlfriend, Marusa (Dusa Pockaj), who is considerably older,
a fact that Peter is quick to point out. As an ageing actress, struggling for
parts in her local theatre, she oozes insecurity and breathes uncertainty.
Together, they spend their time in the local restaurant, smoking, drinking and
trading verbal blows. "I bet you'll just end up a drunk," she tells
Peter each time. Peter just grins and tells her how old she looks. Compounded
by a thankless director who soon shows her the door, Marusa finds her identity
being squeezed harder and harder against the wall…
…There
is a really interesting scene about theatre/film where Marusa decries the
trifling role of directors on being fired and bemoans her condition, as the
camera draws up to reveal her a tiny speck in a composition dominated by
hanging lights and strewn ladders. Hladnik uses sound in surfeit and designs
the narrative so that surreal elements are not clearly demarcated from the
designated reality. A clear influence of Godard and Bunuel on a film that deserves
closer analysis than I've done here.
Peter, an elementary school art teacher, lives
on a drab bed, surrounded by easels, paintings, and cigarette butts. He
sometimes shares his space with Maruša, a stage actress who is several years
his senior. The two seem eager to one day be rid of one another, and seem just
as unable to let one another go. It is around the borders of this sad, charcoal
sketch that Dancing in the Rain chews, wending its
termite-circles to the center, til it digs deep within the insecurities and
longing of its impossibly isolated characters. Each of them is a trench in
which a dream of excitement and fulfillment in the city has gone to die.
Hladnik’s film, more than a bravado litany of trick and subjective
cinematography, more than an eccentric brooder, is an omnivorous autopsy of
those dreams, one that double-exposes them with the concrete, with what is
remembered, to discern their true shapes…
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