Tag: Portugal

O Destino (1922; Pt.; Georges Pallu)

This week, I return to Portugal. Having been exceedingly impressed by Maria do mar (1930) at the Stummfilmtage Bonn in August, I tracked down the DVD of the film from the Cinemateca Portuguesa. Finding that the Cinemateca has produced a whole series of DVDs of recent silent restorations, many with the original scores, and all with English subtitles, I took the plunge and placed a large order… Within a few days, I had a mouthwatering pile of films in beautiful presentations. Where to start? Why not with the film that the notes describe as “the most beautiful use of colour tinting and toning in Portuguese silent cinema”? A bold claim. But having watched O Destino, I can well believe it…

Let’s begin with the plot. (Yes, obviously, there will be spoilers.) The bereaved Maria da Silva de Oliveira returns from Brazil to her native home of Sintra to visit her daughter, who is also called Maria. After a road accident knocks her unconscious, she wakes in the palace of the Marquesa de Souzel. Here, the scheming Luís de Noronha has recently become the Conde de Grazil and thus has taken charge of the family estate. He has his eyes on Maria’s daughter, but so does his young nephew André. Meanwhile, the old housekeeper, who went blind with grief after his daughter was “disgraced” and left home twenty years earlier, wanders the estate mourning his past. These two stories are brought together when it becomes clear that Maria is the lost daughter, and that the man who disgraced her was none other than Luís. Maria decides to confront Luís, whom she – with the aid of the supportive de Souzel family – finally exile, enabling the engagement of her daughter Maria with André. FIM.

O Destino is directed by Georges Pallu, a French director whose five years in Portugal makes him one of the major figures of Portuguese cinema of this era. This film marks the only cinematic appearance of Palmira Bastos, a celebrated theatre actor. I had only the sketchiest knowledge of Pallu as a name, and none of Bastos as a performer. I therefore went into O Destino blind and was intrigued by the dramatic set up of the opening half hour or so. Pallu lets most scenes play out in long takes, with sparing use of medium and medium-close shots – and no true close-ups. I wondered if there were some missing titles in the opening, since only a couple of the characters were properly introduced – so it took a while for their relationship to sink in. What intrigued me was the fact that, despite minimal editing during scenes, Pallu kept longer sequences interesting by parallel cutting. In the opening reel, the family tensions of the de Souzels take place parallel to Maria’s arrival by steamer from Brazil. Pallu cuts between the estate and the approach of Maria (by boat, by car, and ultimately by foot) – building a kind of slow-burning tension as to when the two stories will finally meet. They do in marvellous fashion – quite literally colliding on screen when Maria’s taxi smashes into a truck, hurling her into the road. She is then carried into the palace, and she wakes up in the very site of her childhood. It’s a terrific way of introducing Maria into the drama.

That said, I found the first half of the film dramatically slow going. The relationships are carefully established, but I was never gripped by the emotional tenor of the drama. Maria spends too much of the film inert in bed, carefully avoiding contact with the man who impregnated and then abandoned her twenty years ago – and with her father. This means that the only on-screen conflict is between uncle and nephew over Maria’s daughter, which is a little uninteresting.

What saves this half of the film, lifts it indeed into the realm of the extraordinary, is the photography. Seen on my television screen, I thought the exterior scenes in O Destino among the most beautiful I have seen in years. Every new shot brings some astoundingly lovely vista of backlit trees, sparkling water, sun-dappled road, or rich parkland. The lighting is equally impressive in the large interior of the house, where Pallu allows natural light to create superb, rich, shadowy spaces inside the architecture. The lush pictorial beauty is enhanced by the tinting and toning, which creates a new mood for every scene. It’s stunning, just stunning. The cameraman was Maurice Laumann, whom I had not heard of – whoever he was, he did grand work here. I longed to see this film on a big screen. It’s simply wonderful to look at.

(A small footnote to this enthusiasm is that the lighting looks less effective when I went through the film and took captures from the DVD. The settings on my monitor are surely different from that on the television. I have the latter on “cinema” mode, so the contrast is not too exaggerated – but it has clearly made a difference. This clearly raises all sorts of questions about home viewing, but I must be loyal to my initial reaction: I was incredibly impressed by the way the landscapes looked on screen.)

As I said, I confess that I wasn’t much gripped by the drama of O Destino until about halfway through. At this point, Maria is alone in the palace and, instead of joining the household at the fireworks in the park, she decides to walk round the gardens of the estate. It is here, in the still, dim light – tinted a kind of dusky green – that we see her truly express herself, and where the film really taps into the emotional depths of her character and past. As she wonders alone through the gardens, Pallu once again uses parallel cutting to heighten the effect of Maria’s loneliness. We see her slow, quiet walk intercut with the sudden bursts of colour (pink, gold, green) of the fireworks, together with the boisterous crowds. These scenes are magnificently tinted and toned, enhancing the amazing chiaroscuro lighting of the dark park. But they also function to make Maria’s scenes seem quieter, more isolated. The film has much in common with the kind of “diva” films produced in Italy in the 1910s, and these scenes of a female protagonist walking in black veils through gorgeous surroundings had very much the same aesthetic feel. Bastos’s performance grows in stature across the film. I didn’t quite get the fuss over her status to start with, but by now her control and dignity on screen attained its full emotional weight. I found this sequence, and the climactic encounter between father and long-lost daughter, very moving. It also helps that the motif in Nicholas McNair’s piano score is a slow, gorgeous, memorable sequence of romantic chords. The whole sequence has a magical, dreamlike effect, which the music captures and enhances perfectly. What a gorgeous piece of cinema this is. Even the sudden way it ends – with Maria planting a kiss on her father’s head, his gesture of astonishment, and the end of the reel – is perfect. It’s a great, great sequence – and from this point to the end, the film really works.

One of the reasons it works is that Maria assumes greater agency. She finally deals with the legacy of the past, confronts Luís, and speaks to her father. The way she lifts her veil to reveal herself to Luís is a fabulous moment. It’s one of the many scenes that belongs in an opera by Verdi. I could easily picture scenes and sequences being transposed into arias and duets. The fact that it gives this sense of big emotion through such economic, silent pictorial means, is a marker of the film’s success. I love the way the film ends, too, with Luís being cast into exile. The film begins and ends with lone figures, silhouetted against the dazzling waves. That Maria is now at the heart of her family, and Luís is banished from Portugal, is deeply satisfying.

If O Destino is slow to get going, by the end I was totally absorbed by it. I can see why this was “the biggest commercial success” in the silent era in Portugal. It looks preposterously good. I can’t emphasize enough how hypnotically beautiful these exteriors look. The depth of shadow, the lustre of the light. I think I would be overwhelmed by this on a big screen. Nicholas McNair’s piano score was very good, and he brought out some lovely themes for Maria’s scenes. As I say, by the halfway point I was won over. Bravo to all involved in restoring this film. I can’t wait to dig into the rest of the Cinemateca Portuguesa DVDs – including more films by Pallu…

Paul Cuff

Bonn from afar (2024, day 7)

Day 7 and we’re off to Portugal for a heady blend of documentary and drama. As is often the case, the films that I’ve not heard of by directors I’ve not encountered turn out to be the best…

Maria do Mar (1930; Pt.; Leitão de Barros)

So then, the plot. Part 1 establishes place (Nazaré and its beach) and characters: Falacha, skipper of the boat Maria do Mar; his wife and his daughter Maria (named after the boat); Ilheu and his wife Aurelia (known as “Ilhôa”) and their son Manuel; the fishermen “Peru” (“the Turkey”) and “Lacraio” (“Scorpio”). Part 2 starts with news that the sea has broken the lines to the nets. Falacha decides his crew must set out in dangerous conditions. The local population gathers on the shore to urge them back, but it is too late: the Maria do Mar is wrecked. Part 3 reveals that Falacha is the sole survivor. He is dragged from the waves but then set upon by the families of the lost crew: they blame him for their unnecessary deaths. He goes to pray, but the widows pursue him: “God will never forgive you!” In despair, Falacha walks into the sea and drowns himself. In Part 4, Maria is now working in the fields and sells her produce in the market of Leira. Thanks to his mother’s intervention, Manuel avoids being conscripted and goes to celebrate with his friends. In Part 5, Maria and her friends from the fields encounter Manuel and his friends on the beach. Maria gets into trouble while swimming, but Manuel rescues her. The incident enflames local tensions, with Ilhôa clashing with Falacha’s widow. Ilhôa consults Patareca, a midwife conversant in witchcraft who places a “curse” on her rival’s doorstep. Falacha’s widow and Ilhôa fight in the street, only to be separated by Manuel and Maria. Part 6 sees Maria defy her mother’s ban and thank Manuel. They meet again, and then every day. Part 7, and the lovers marry. Manuel takes Maria home, but his mother ignores her. “She is the daughter of the man who killed your father! You can keep her – I’m leaving!” In Part 8, Maria’s mother in turn ejects the lovers. They find their own place and transform it into a home. Whereupon, in Part 9, Maria gives birth to a girl. Months later, when both parents are working, the infant is attacked by a rabid dog. Ilhôa refuses to care for it, as does Maria’s mother. At the same time, a girl of the same age is being buried, and the two rivals see the tiny casket being borne past them. Manuel and Maria rush home to find their mothers and all their neighbours gathered in prayer around the cot. The child was not harmed, and a “miracle” of reconciliation takes place. FIM.

This was a superb film. A masterpiece, in fact. It’s a document of a time and a place, and of a people – and it’s a romance, a fable, a beautiful fiction. Filmed entirely on location and featuring numerous extras drawn from the local population, this was an absolute joy to watch. It has a documentary-like sense of life and movement, plenty of handheld camerawork, enhanced with some dynamic editing – from overlapping dissolves to rapid cutting. The opening shots of the town and sea are hypnotically beautiful. I loved seeing the town and the beach, the physical effort of fishing, the manual labour of pulling in the boat, the sweat and sun-darkened skin of the people. When Falacha’s boat heads out into the storm, there are stunning shots of locals, all dressed in black, standing on the cliffs. And when the rescue mission begins, there is an extreme long shot, looking down at the paths toward the beach. The inhabitants of Nazaré are tiny specks against the spectacle of coast and sea. We see them pouring down the hillside, rushing along the beaches, dark silhouettes against the vast white waves.

But Maria do Mar plants us right in the middle of the population, not just at a distance. During the day of the fiestas, for example, we mingle among the crowds for the fireworks, dances, bullfighting. Though the film boasts some sequences of complex montage, here there is a spontaneity to the way the cameras move among the crowd. Barros isn’t afraid to record the shadows cast by the camera or crew, just as he allows some of the children to walk right up to the camera and grin into the lens. Here, and throughout, it’s the faces that are most striking. Ordinary working people, young and old, populate the film – you can read the lives in their clothing, on their faces.

The central cast – mostly professional actors – are plunged into a sea of reality. Such is the lack of artifice in the costuming and make-up that the actors hardly resemble actors. And the way they interact with each other strikes me as being true to life, surprisingly so. For example, when Falacha observes that his daughter “is a woman now”, he touches her breasts and gives her a playful flick around the cheeks, asking her if she has a boyfriend. It’s a startling moment but has the potency of a particular time and place. (I hesitate to say “custom”, but “culture” might fit the behaviour – the way the men touch the women, both in familial and familiar terms.) It also lends the tragedy an air of reality. I believed, absolutely, in the way Falacha prays for forgiveness – and in the furious reaction of the grieving widows – and in the way Falacha kills himself. The latter scene is like something out of ancient tragedy, of myth. Falacha walks towards the sea as his wife and daughter try to grab hold of him by the legs. He wrenches free, the camera hurls itself at the women, screaming, lying in the sand, imploring, and then watches Falacha walk into the surf. The whole town watches. It’s a grim spectacle. No-one stops him, yet everyone grieves – seems to look on in awe at the gesture, at the sacrifice. It’s like a scene from Greek tragedy.

It’s quite something that a film that starts like this can turn into a romance, or that a romance can burgeon from this kind of despair – and that it does so organically, realistically. It helps that the two leads, Maria and Manuel, are such naturalistic, unpretentious performers. They are very striking on screen, without any sense of artificiality – the aesthetic whiff of stardom. The sequence in which they meet is extraordinary. Already the women have stripped off to their underlayer of plain linen skirts and top, while the men have rolled up their trousers and jettisoned their tops. In the women’s boat, the camera emphasizes the labour of rowing while also drawing attention to the sweat and bared skin of the rowers. When Manuel rescues Maria, the sense of danger quickly becomes erotic. He is half naked, and her top is half torn away, by the time he carries her out of the water. The film eroticizes them equally, perhaps him a little more – for the camera lingers on his wet, glistening torso as he pants. Their first encounter is both a brush with death and a kind of physical consummation. It points to the violence that their relationship triggers between their respective mothers, and is even reflected in their domestic life. Their first argument ends with Manuel giving Maria a slap: Manuel clearly embodies the way we have seen other men treat their women. But all their scenes together have a kind of physicality, a touchiness, that builds a strong sense of their relationship. Their kisses are real, their embraces strong. We see Manuel pull down Maria’s top to plant a long kiss on her back – and their final, lingering kiss at the end of the film sets the seal on this physical closeness.

The music, by Stephen Horne (piano, accordion, flute) and Elizabeth-Jane Baldry (harp) was the most striking thus far among the streamed films from Bonn. I love the sonorities of the harp, the way it can produce such a range of textures and tones. Working in the company of the other (solo) instruments, it produced a lovely soundworld – evocative, dramatic, touching. The film was, it seems, originally released with a synchronized soundtrack, since the opening credits mention the two featured songs being available for purchase via Columbia records. I wonder if that version survives? Not that I have much fondness for synchronized soundtracks of this period, but I’d be curious what kind of tone it struck.

A final word on the restoration of Maria do Mar, which was completed by the Cinemateca Portuguesa in 2000 – and subsequently digitized. The print was damaged in placed in places but looked very good overall. However, I did think that it was transferred here at slightly too slow a speed. (I have seen online databases give this same 2000 restoration a shorter runtime.) Regardless of this slight reservation, this was a very pleasing film to watch – just the kind of wonderful discovery you hope to make at a festival. I’d love to see more by the same director…

Paul Cuff