In Guto Parente’s latest feature, A Strange Path, the filmmaker returns to his roots–both thematically and physically–crafting a narrative that is as intimate as it is surreal. Set against the backdrop of a rapidly escalating COVID-19 crisis in Brazil, the film follows David (Lucas Limeira) as he attempts to navigate the labyrinthine complexities of his family relationships and the existential dread he’s facing.
The film’s first act is fraught with a mix of nostalgia and trepidation. David’s quest to reconnect with his estranged father soon echoes the chaos unfolding in the outside world. As the pandemic accelerates, so too does the unravelling of their relationship. The film strives to ground its most surreal elements within a deeply personal story, trying to make some bizarre occurrences feel like natural extensions and manifestations of the characters’ internal struggles. However, this balancing act does not always live up to expectations, resulting in moments that feel more contrived than compelling, leaving you confused, but never unengaged. A Strange Path’s dive into the surreal often feels superficial and underperformed, lacking the depth needed to make the final twists truly impactful. The film’s second half could have benefited from a bolder approach, and Parente might have benefitted from embracing the full dystopian potential of its premise. Instead, the film occasionally settles into predictability, undermining the tension built in some of its earlier scenes.
The cinematography by Linga Acácio is a standout, capturing the eerie transition to lockdowns and the claustrophobic intimacy of the characters’ interactions. This is achieved by incorporating color grading that closely imitates the film look with rich magentas and faded shadows. Other elements, such as Taís Augusto’s set design of the inn where David is staying, masterfully echo the conflicts the young man is going through: feeling lost in life and abandoned by your father–let us kick you out of your room so you have nowhere to sleep; feeling that life is falling apart and is uncertain–let us steal your phone at 6 am at the beach. The sound design by Lucas Coelho and Paulo Gama is effective, enveloping the audience in an aural landscape that amplifies the film’s sense of unease with experimental music, all while offering non-diegetic sounds that instead heighten a feeling of intimacy and calm.
A far cry from the intimate surrealism of A Strange Path, Yervand Vardanyan’s Orbita is set against the sombre backdrop of the 44-day War between Azerbaijan and Armenia, a period marked by collective grief. “It is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence,” Karl Marx once wrote, “but their social existence that determines their consciousness.” So it is for the drifters Vardanyan follows. Every character here bears the scars of this conflict while navigating life and toiling at Orbita, an abandoned Soviet factory turned backgammon production hub where the documentary is set. Shots of infinitely many “Kilikia” beers and blue VIP cigarettes are the staple of the modern-day Armenian “qyart” community. Moments of intimacy between the male workers–as when one is seen changing his clothes, or others get drunk and philosophise about God–immortalise a sort of bromance with an underlying homoerotic tension, exploring how men navigate or ignore their grief.
Orbita’s transformation from a vestige of Soviet ambition into a wildly different factory feels profoundly symbolic, reflecting the fragile independence and enduring myths that carve themselves into the Armenian psyche, much like the intricate designs etched onto the backgammon boards. The characters are worn-out, their faces scarred with the lines of labor, their eyes heavy with blue resignation.
Vardanyan’s narrative embraces the classic trope of the ‘goodfella,’ a legacy rooted in the Russian “thief in law” subculture, which has significantly influenced the Armenian archetype. The film’s language, a raw “street Armenian” (a mix of informal Armenian sprinkled with Russian words) underscores the social divide and educational disparities. It is a dialect associated with the underprivileged, which is also reflected in the musical choices of the characters in the film; they are cultural signifiers laden with connotations.
Songs of the Rabiz genre, such as Tigran Jamkochyan, carry a weight of history and sentiment in Armenian society, often linked to the lower working class and their desire for hedonistic indulgences. “Vnasakar,” a rapper notorious for his contentious reputation, represents the voice of the streets—raw and unfiltered just like the film's character.
Yet where Orbita stumbles is in its characterisation of these people. While Vardanyan seeks to humanise his subjects, the film often renders them one-dimensional, perpetuating existing stereotypes rather than dismantling them. The characters, though vividly drawn, are frequently reduced to archetypes which perpetuate some preexisting beliefs–their alleged reputation as alcoholics, smokers, members of the “non-educated class”, maybe because we see them in only one setting. It took Vardanyan three years to shoot his film, yet character development in Orbita is noticeably absent. By the time we bid them farewell, these drifters aren’t that much different from how they came across when they first graced the screen. Despite that, Orbita beautifully captures the essence of a community bound by shared hardships and fleeting moments of joy.
I hope GAIFF was just as revelatory and inspiring for you too, Bota.