Kaurismaki’s works are not just audiovisual gems. They are windows to the heart. Like few auteurs on the contemporary scene, the Finnish director is able to convey universal truths through the poetics of the little things in life, behind the lens of his surreal irony. In a universe of misfortunes, his films are the canticles of the unhappy and of the last ones, who eventually find a small joy to cling onto. His vision somehow repeats itself like a formula, a style so clearly recognizable all the time, but that never ceases to enchant the audience. Maybe it’s because of its scathing sweetness, which comes through that subtle detachment, that weirdness that may seem glacial but can actually unveil extraordinary depths of almost puerile and certainly pure feelings. His characters are innocent, losers, tainted with the sole guilt of being unlucky. They are the outcasts. Like the working man who lost his memory in Man Without a Past (2002), the former writer who is now an old shoeshine in Le Havre (2011), the shirt salesman with a gambling habit in The Other Side of Hope (2017). Or like the two virtually nameless characters in Fallen Leaves, in competition at Cannes 2023, where it received a much-deserved Jury Prize, but should have been worth the Palme d’Or.
The woman is a supermarket clerk who “steals” expired food instead of throwing it all away, and the man is a drunken welder who lives with a colleague in a prefabricated little room. Both will change jobs multiple times within the 81-minute-film, fired quickly for these vices that are nothing more than means of survival in a world where they must constantly struggle to make ends meet. It’s a capitalist society depicted so well by the black screen of the opening scene: all you can hear is the beeping of products passing the checkout counter in a large supermarket. Poetry sometimes comes through a half-ton of vacuum-packed steak: this is the poetic revolution of Kaurismaki. Ruthlessly, tenderly and desperately sarcastic; that’s how he tells human discomfort.
Ansa and Hoppola are terribly lonely. Tied by the common thread of radio reports of the Ukraine war, their almost sought-after marginalization is perfectly reflected in their distant nights, when they’re apart. She heats up a lasagna gone bad and he reads a cheap magazine and pretends to appreciate his solitude, which doesn’t suit him at all. And we don’t know what they’re dreaming of, but they certainly are hoping for a change that will eventually come. When they see each other for the first time in a late-night bar. Canonical meeting venues in Kaurismaki’s film universe. Desolate places that sometimes take on a Lynchian overtone. Here the pubs have absurdly oxymoronic names such as California or Buenos Aires, a fancy exoticism that only dwells in the sign, but inside, they’re populated by sleepless figures of desperate people seeking for a little warmth. In alcohol, in karaoke exhibition, in a look, or in an unspoken word. Like the name of Ansa and Hoppala, which they will never officially state out loud to each other.
It is in fact a love story without a proper introduction of the two. A love without kisses, hugs or declarations, without speeches, and yet told so well in the surrealistic cloud that envelops them. The only stream of words is the one coming from Olavi Virta’s Finnish version of Mambo Italiano or Autumn Leaves. It serves as a soundtrack to the prolonged silences or the laconic lines that would be indecipherable if they were not so identifiable with the director’s language of love. In fact, it is only by knowing his tone that one can get to appreciate his specific witticism.
The absurdly sarcastic subtlety is Kaurismaki’s signature, and it reaches the top in some specific moments. Like in the scene of their first date, after they have watched Jim Jarmush’s zombie-movie The Dead Don’t Die (2019). Two thugs come out of the cinema, and we hear them say: “It reminded me of Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest“, “It reminded me of Godard’s Breathless”.
Again, another typical trait: Aki’s citationism. Here evident from the posters of old cult films that stand out in the Finnish nighttime. A night made of primary colors, tinged with yellow, blue and red. These contribute to draw the audience in an almost doped state of suspension, lightness, and paradoxical warmth. After a while, we can in fact sense the indefatigable, all encompassing and bizarre tenderness, and we don’t know exactly where it comes from.
Well, it comes from the genius of Aki Kaurismaki. One of the few pure and uncontaminated directors that we can see in the circuits of the most important film festivals. His only weapon is his revolutionary poetry, that does not compromise. Maybe that’s why he has passed unnoticed so many times. Because his films are not like the steaks from the beginning: pre-packaged, coarse and in bulk, for mass consumption. In a word: cunning.
But rather they are like that cinnamon brioche that Hoppala buys for Ansa. A caress on the heart, a moment of sensory and mental peace that tastes like home, to be enjoyed sparingly one bite at a time, and not to be wasted ravenously. Even when we are hungry. Because Kaurismaki makes films for the people hungry for life. Perhaps we will have to wait years for the next one. In the meantime, we shall prepare our stomachs, and our hearts.
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