The Belgian filmmaker spent a period of time, unspecified, a week or two, in an apartment in Tel Aviv that was lent to her. She lived there alone, in virtually complete isolation, indirectly filming and narrating the experience, sustained only by "provisions" found in the kitchen, especially rice and carrots, having had stomach trouble from an Israeli salad; didn't go to cafes ...
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The Belgian filmmaker spent a period of time, unspecified, a week or two, in an apartment in Tel Aviv that was lent to her. She lived there alone, in virtually complete isolation, indirectly filming and narrating the experience, sustained only by "provisions" found in the kitchen, especially rice and carrots, having had stomach trouble from an Israeli salad; didn't go to cafes or supermarkets, and rarely even went out, except for a couple of forays to the sea; the apartment was a block or so from the beach.
La-bàs is a series of long stationary shots out the windows, often showing figures of old people on balconies on the roof or buildings opposite. A woman, immobile, is tended to by her husband. One man sits for long periods motionless. Ackerman in voice-over says she thinks he's watching his plants grow. "But I don't think plants grow any faster in Israel," she says.
Is this any better than the proverbial watching paint dry? Two aspects, visual and auditory, save this thin, dry, austere documentary from being a sterile art piece and make it both thought-provoking and haunting, for those who have the patience to sit through it; many will not.
To begin with, screens filter the light of the windows in a beautiful way: the shots are often handsome, not unworthy of something by Hou Hsiau-hsien or Tsai Ming-liang, if without their human figures moving about.
Further, Ackerman's voice overs, spoken off-camera during the shots, though skimpy, provide fleetingly penetrating, brutally frank self-revelations and contexts that range from the personal to the universal. Her father was once going to emigrate to Israal just after WWII and was waiting in Marseille to go, but he was warned that the Palestine environment was too harsh. The family settled in Belgium instead. She speaks of an aunt who committed suicide. Is she herself depressed? She speaks of passivity and laziness. She may be agoraphobic. She clearly is going through an agoraphobic period. She may also be afraid of bombs. A parent calls and expresses concern about her going out to dangerous places; she promises she won't. She speaks of prisons, external and self-imposed: this is one of the latter kind.
People call and invite her out. She says she can't because she's working. This devotion to the enterprise makes something positive and substantial, even noble, about this otherwise evanescent, uncertain project. This is an act of painfully heightened self-consciousness, a self-examination, a journal both Zen-like and intensive. She also speaks of reading; making extensive notes; having "complex" thoughts. A certain ambivalence toward her Jewishness is also involved. Finally, with minimal means, Ackerman has forged something unique.
A telling image: a Chasidic family leaving the beach. The man, in his quaint outfit, symbolizes the oddity of the Israeli enterprise. Ackerman doesn't comment on the oppression of Palestinians or Israeli dependence on the US. Her seclusion in the middle of Israel's largest city may be comment enough. This is something she apparently can't be a part of. But in her alienation, she couldn't be more Jewish.
Down There Akerman I don’t feel like I belong, and that’s without real pain, or without pride. Pride happens. No I’m just disconnected from practically everything. I have a few uncles and sometimes I let them go, or they let me go. And I drift. That’s m...
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那里的短评 · · · · · · ( 全部 231 条 )
16 有用 TWY 看过 2018-04-22 12:20:38
雷诺阿说镜头看向外界即代表了希望，但一个真正孤独的人，是无法给任何同类带来慰藉的，什么也不会发生，我们观者坐在同样封闭的房间里，无法接触到电影，连海洋也是又一堵墙，藏在镜头后的香特尔又一次说起自杀，又令人唏嘘。
8 有用 欢乐分裂 看过 2023-03-12 18:06:02 上海
其实要看到后半段才渐渐明白为何视角一直会躲匿于窗帘背后——这个房间是她的盔甲，也是她的牢笼，奥兹母亲的前例仿佛是应证了一道咒语或者是一剂预言，她无法挪动脚步去阳台远眺爆炸的发生地，自戕的念头如何渐渐成型凝固成实体状，真是好痛心啊；重复“我出生在布鲁塞尔”，然而她回到了特拉维夫，父辈的迁徙和现今的回归，是无法绕开的乡愁情绪，也是无法说服的槛——就像她最后终于来到室外，凝视着已然平静的海面。从室内望出... 其实要看到后半段才渐渐明白为何视角一直会躲匿于窗帘背后——这个房间是她的盔甲，也是她的牢笼，奥兹母亲的前例仿佛是应证了一道咒语或者是一剂预言，她无法挪动脚步去阳台远眺爆炸的发生地，自戕的念头如何渐渐成型凝固成实体状，真是好痛心啊；重复“我出生在布鲁塞尔”，然而她回到了特拉维夫，父辈的迁徙和现今的回归，是无法绕开的乡愁情绪，也是无法说服的槛——就像她最后终于来到室外，凝视着已然平静的海面。从室内望出去的框架构图中，左侧是邻居，右侧是自己，也是一种分屏，也是两个世界/空间的联结和对立。 (展开)
5 有用 angry baby🌈 看过 2023-03-12 18:58:37 上海
看完下午的两部就有些开始感受到Akerman多少压抑了她身上的lesbian倾向，这是她始终避而不谈、并为电影和世俗而牺牲的部分。那天我一直在想，为什么她明明是lesbian的身份，却不断地拍那些男人和女人之间的爱情故事（可她本人明明并不属于那个世界），在这部电影里，我发现她和母亲、还有那个大提琴艺术家索尼娅的关系那么紧密相连，这些不可能是毫无来由的。她一直说自己是没有归属感的，尽管她也不肯承认这... 看完下午的两部就有些开始感受到Akerman多少压抑了她身上的lesbian倾向，这是她始终避而不谈、并为电影和世俗而牺牲的部分。那天我一直在想，为什么她明明是lesbian的身份，却不断地拍那些男人和女人之间的爱情故事（可她本人明明并不属于那个世界），在这部电影里，我发现她和母亲、还有那个大提琴艺术家索尼娅的关系那么紧密相连，这些不可能是毫无来由的。她一直说自己是没有归属感的，尽管她也不肯承认这是她的犹太身份导致的，她只是一遍遍地回望过往，想象自己和家人如果留在以色列，也许会有另一种生活，她对不同的语言也无法真正做出选择，据她所说，不能写作让她转向了电影，但对她难以用文字把自己书写出来的状态，并且转向更晦涩的阅读文本，我很有共鸣。 (展开)
2 有用 吴邪 看过 2023-03-09 14:37:36 上海
It’s hard to get out of your prison, but you could. 靠近结尾的加速是因为巨响太令人恐慌了吗？
2 有用 甘草披萨 看过 2023-03-12 19:07:13 上海
＃阿克曼回顾展＃@艺海，犹如阿克曼书写的属于她自己的《爱与黑暗的故事》，以色列的“约拿先知的街”公寓里的，更为接近创作者心灵的絮语，身为犹太人的身份与身为一个创作者的身份交叠，形成了更为痛苦和残酷的精神焦灼，究竟该怎么生活，始终的“漂浮”动荡感，“黄星” 是永远摘不掉的，永远烙印在心底，摄影机注视着的对面灯火人家，短暂切换的夜景，近乎划破和平天空的战争硝烟侧写，是的，在各种意义上，去买点食物，坐公... ＃阿克曼回顾展＃@艺海，犹如阿克曼书写的属于她自己的《爱与黑暗的故事》，以色列的“约拿先知的街”公寓里的，更为接近创作者心灵的絮语，身为犹太人的身份与身为一个创作者的身份交叠，形成了更为痛苦和残酷的精神焦灼，究竟该怎么生活，始终的“漂浮”动荡感，“黄星” 是永远摘不掉的，永远烙印在心底，摄影机注视着的对面灯火人家，短暂切换的夜景，近乎划破和平天空的战争硝烟侧写，是的，在各种意义上，去买点食物，坐公车，去看电影，各种日常行为，确实是一种英勇 (展开)