(a running commentary as I watch)
A tiny island in the middle of a fast flowing river. A rather precarious place for this old fella to be building his shack.
Who is the girl he’s bringing to the island? She doesn’t seem overjoyed at being here. She’s bought her dolly with her.
Its 20 minutes before a single word of dialogue is heard ‘Are they Georgians?’ she asks. He nods his head. Turns out he’s her granddad.
There’s not a lot going on other than the laborious building of this shack. But I’m liking where they are. I’m intrigued as to why they’re having to be there.
Its got a simple parable like quality to it. There’s the catching and cleaning of the little fishes. The making of the fire to cook them on.
Its deliberately slow and permeated with slightly disquieting melancholy.
Nothing much is happening at all apart from the knocking up of this ricketty driftwood shack. There’s some kind of eerie sounding bird echoing off from back in the woods somewhere.
We’re a third of the way through and only 2 lines of dialogue have been spoken.
Comes a storm. The river is risen up with rain. Surprisingly, the low level little island isn’t submerged.
The granddaughter is a doleful and pensive girl; continually looks over to the mainland. Sounds of gunfire are heard, the shouting of mens voices as if fighting is going on. She anxiously stares and listens.
Corn is planted and grown. Corn Island is created.
On 53 minutes comes the third line of dialogue: ‘Hey sweetie whats your name?’ shouted by soldiers on the far bank to her. Grandad is not pleased. He goes and gets his rifle, fires a warning shot in the air. A man of few words. Not into talking, only doing.
The film is drenched in portentous atmosphere. But a distinct lack of vital interest, or dramatic development. We’re waiting.
For something bad to happen. The bad that will destroy all this hard work, his honest toil, their simple endeavour.
In the third act a wounded soldier is found stretched out shot in the corn. He’s an enemy soldier but the granddad does the honourable thing, tends his wounds, shelters him from his pursuers.
The soldier eventually, and mysteriously, disappears.
Here comes another storm.
This time it overflows and floods the river. The island is submerged, the crop of corn devastated.
The old granddad and his shack are about to be swept away by the river.
It did seem like a foolhardy idea to be building such hope on this slim bit of mudbank.
A precarious place to be staking so much last-ditch life energy.
Maybe there was no other choice. Could be he had to. Even though, in the end, it was all going to be doomed to inevitable, almost fatalistic, failure.
Dir: George Ovashivili, Georgia
6/10
Windows on the World 