The author continues his tradition of bizarre meditations on film
By Evan Villari
[Note: This article first appeared in The Agenda #16]
Cheat Sheet: An Eastern European family hires Evan to transfer some film to video. The film, from an orphanage in Russia, is of a little girl this family is thinking of adopting. When the people at the orphanage strip the little girl down, Evan becomes uncomfortable with it, and begins to wonder if he might be involved in something illegal. This gives him the chance to reflect on some of his favorite Eastern European filmmakers.
And so patiently I waited. Happiness for a possibly sterile family was depending on my abilities. Railway tracks were quite literally crossed to get here. It was the end of the month and I wasn't proud of what I was about to do. A craigslist post had brought me here. He said she was from Russia. I of course knew this could have meant just about any satellite nation (formeror otherwise) in the Eastern Bloc. Although I must confess when the shoves get pushed around, my ultra-west, red-painting ignorance had a way of calling the whole of it Russia too. My thoughts wandered to a work by Jan Svankmajer.
It made sense. If this family couldn't have kids, as was the case in Svankmajer's film Little Otik, why shouldn’t they dig up a root from the backyard of their weekend retreat and raise it as their very own too? I would even be as bold as to volunteer my stop-motion talents and animate that demon of the soil for home movie mailings to out of town relatives, or theatrical release perhaps. Who was I kidding? This wishful father-to-be didn’t need me. But as was the case, I needed him.
I had been parked in front of his house for damn near six minutes as the first wave of anxiety began tickling my cheeks—but not in that social way which prevents me from looking at you when I talk, or answering the phone when you call, and pretty much keeps me in most nights.
No, I mean the feeling brought on when I’m squatting in the rest area ankle-panted, six squares stacked, digging deep (not because things didn’t pass inspection the first time around or due to dingle dangles, bum bum lumps, coarse strands, or any other reason other than sometimes it just itches) uncertain if the door is locked, looking over my shoulder, trying to think of an excuse if someone were to enter, but rather succumbing to the soothing relief as the gratifying tingle dissipates by way of a jubilant flush. As more time passed, more images of Eastern European cinema came to me. Maybe this guy was like Polanski in The Tenant: delusional, obsessive, cross-dressing, committed to his own suicide (really committed).
The unmistakable headlights of a Tercel gave comfort to this implausible concern as they grew nearer, passed by and darkened. He had been out getting the mini-DV tape as our phone agreement had mapped out. Not a lash was bat batted as he told me he had got it at Wal-Mart. I suppose I couldn’t have had it any other way. He handed me the copy “from Russia. ” I was a mother fucking KGB operative for about thirty seconds, looking stern, nodding solemnly, tucking the obsolete video tape equivalent to regular 8 film into the breast pocket of my woolen shinel (had I actually worn one). A handshake from my comrade sent me away, not to return until my services as a format transferring whore had been done, shock worn off, and vodka all gone.
After my equipment had been set up, I felt it again. His story had a wider range of gray than a roll of Eastman Kodak Double-X 7222 B&W negative. Allegedly, he and his other were looking to adopt a girl who had some type of a medical condition, which would not allow her to come to the states. A Hi8 video was made documenting her state, so doctors could examine, discuss details with the adoption agency, and determine whether or not the process could be taken to the next step. Problem being, no one rolled Hi8 no mo’. I had to run that shit digital, son!
I began to pace. Two reasons. I did not know what to expect on the tape. Also I don’t turn the heat on in my place so pacing keeps me warm. I wondered if what I heard about Russians fearing the cold was true. No ice in drink? No conditioner of air in summer? I shrugged it off as yet another commie conspiracy theory with intentions on our purity of essence. But what's with this energy crisis and the government controlling their heat? I decided to see for myself.
The tiles on the floor revealed to me a uniquely European aesthetic. They used a foreign tongue that I may have been able to identify with the aid of subtitles. There were none. The orphanage was little more than a room with five cribs and some stuffed animals. Surely the camera operator had done this before. The shots did not bumble and bounce like many amateur attempts usually do. I momentarily escaped in the Krzysztof Kieslowski-esque similarities I was witnessing. It was much like his film Camera Buff, where a first time father buys a camera to record the early years of his daughters life and ends up becoming his company’s chief filmmaker, due to the fact that he was the only one they knew with a movie camera. The character Filip Mosz shot anything that moved—even his own daughter relieving herself. Once again, familiar territory: the assistants at the orphanage proceeded to strip the young girl down.
As soon as I saw toddler hatchet wound, I turned away. I was going to have to finish this transfer blind.
I made certain to wipe the tapes of any and all of my prints when I was done. Not sure if what I had contributed to was legal, I attempted to contain my self-disgust. Temporarily distracted by visions of yet another Polish film, by the grand master Andrej Wadja, I wondered if it would have been better for me to put sunglasses on while I made the final exchange.
Ashes and Diamonds’ contributions to world cinema were made possible by a director (much like the others mentioned) who had witnessed first hand the confining order of a political-economic structure that very much controlled their industry. Taking their experiences from wars, depressions, uprisings, and tyranny, they developed a vision that would not have been possible otherwise. Through a forced loss of identity, it is possible for one to be responsible for one's own ultimate truth, and that of one's people.
The hand can only crush us so much before we snap back with the precision of a rubber band gun. The iron curtain—torn! The future of our children lies in our diversifying of portfolios. This is our opportunity to shine much like the greats from the Czech Republic, Macedonia, Georgia, Albania, and Croatia.
All that insight for a twenty dollar profit? That's nothing—wait until I tell you about how I made rent last month.
