A pigeon sat on a branch reflecting on existence (2014)

Nobody assembles stylized tableux like Roy Andersson - tableux that in one sense seem to be stripped down to the bare bones, but, one the other hand, open up a multitude of existential levels. He inhabits his own cinematic universe, of course; a film is instantaneously recognizable as a Roy Andersson production. There are the run-down locations that conjure up a vague feeling of the Swedish Welfare state in the fifties, mixed with some contemporary details, all built with interior locations so that the end results becomes intentionally artificial. There are the scruffy, sad-eyed characters played in a style that - well - is deadpan in the best sense, in a way that fits these movies.

The problem with A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence is that it feels like Andersson is repeating himself, using old ideas, employing a technique he knows so well. For me, some of the scenes felt a bit stale and lifeless and Andersson's quirks stood out much too obviously. On the other hand, there is plenty to enjoy - there is a heap of scenes that capture Andersson's personal blend of sadness and humor. So what is it about? Jonatan and Sam are salesmen. Not very good ones, but they try, you know, with the leading ambition that they just want to help people have fun. They sell novelty items. Not very funny ones, but still. The film revolves around these two, and other creatures of this world. The basic mood the film delivers is that something is deeply wrong in our lives, and that we try to gloss this over with lines like 'I'm glad you're doing fine'. One of the striking things about Andersson's rendition of such existential forgetfulness or hopelessness (haplessness also) is that it is not cynical. In this, and other movies he takes a look at clichés from a point of view where they exude both human warmth and a kind of existential horror. Warmth and horror? How is that possible? Somehow, in Andersson's apocalyptic-humanist approach, it is. His films are full of contradictions molded into a perfected style, and perhaps that is why it works so well when there is more to the vignettes than Andersson's own favorite themes.

The best, and truly elusive, scenes involve .... the Swedish war king Karl XII. It is hard to put into words in which way these scenes dodge silliness, and instead end up being both moving and scary.

I am Cuba (1964)

No doubt about it - Soy Cuba is a propaganda film about the revolution. It is marred with the weaknesses of propaganda, and also its deceit. This is a narrative that asks you to look at some people as the glorious revolutionaries, others as half-hearted pseudo-rebels and others still as traitors and people that simply have to be extinguished in the brutal path towards true socialism. For this reason, it is hard not to be intimidated by Soy Cuba. But when I watched it, I couldn't resist some moments of stunning beauty or strangenesss that the film also contains. The beginning of the film features a lengthy, very dreamy, scene in a bar. The combination of jazz, drunken camerawork and zombie-like acting in terrible English makes for a surreal and haunting scene. There are several examples of Kalatozov's sense for the floating camera and a scene that moves effortlessly (and strangely) from one thing to another. But this strands in quaint contradiction to the didactic and heavy-handed outlook of most of the film. The 'story' (a rather loose one where people are representatives of classes, rather than human beings) takes us from pre-revolutionary times in which yankees loll around on the streets, to the heated moments that paves the way for the revolution, and then the war itself, and the glorious central characters of it. Even though Soy Cuba is by no means a great film, there are still a number of things that speak for it as an artistically original piece.

Bakhmaro heisst Paradies (2011)

Finland is lucky to still have the state-funded TV channel that broadcasts odd documentaries and films from all over the world. Bakhmaro heisst Paradies (dir. Salomé Jashi) is about a restaurant in Chockatauri, Georgia. The restaurant, situated in a dilapidated brick building, is up and running every day, ready to welcome fancy guests, but there are no customers. The camera pans across the strangely painted room, a room that has become a sort of desolate non-place. The owners talk about the future, or what, to them, seem to be the lack of one. This was a surprisingly moving documentary that managed to show huge existential worries in an everyday setting of the small, unsuccessful, business. One day, there is a visit from the Party. The restaurant workers complain about the situation, and the party members shrug: what can they do? Besides that, there is waiting, waiting - for something, for nothing. The film approaches its subject with almost tender, barely visible humor. You can watch the film here.

White god (2014)

Kornél Mundruzcó's White god works best if you allow it to move from level to level. Parable, horror movie, drama - the film moves boldly from genre to genre and doesn't shy away from trying to say big things with a story that may strike some as bizarre. If you accept this restless plunging into several different cinematic expressions, this is for you.

The story starts in a very simple way. A girl moves in with her father. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, the father allows her to take the dear dog along with her. But the dog is too much trouble, he thinks, and drives out to the outskirts of Budapest, where he sends the dog to look after itself. The rather original way of telling the ensuing story is that we follow both the dog and the girl who goes to look for her pet.

The image of what people do to animals is not exactly flattering. I dare say that the film takes us on a spiritual journey from a dog's point of view. The dog encounters other dogs and humans who exploit, capture and hunt. The city of Budapest is seen from the perspective of the animal living in a precarious existence, hunted by humans who want to take advantage of it. It is easy to read this - there are also more or less explicit references - as a story about neo-fascism, about the emergence of race-thinking and a class of people living in fear. One could also interpret the film as a scary image of the kind of people bred by a situation of being outcasts in society. The eventual rage the film depicts towards the end is very, very hard to forget. But here the problems begin: isn't this kind of fantasy about the roaring, violent underclass actually often an expression of an extremely shady idea? What kind of fantasy is it, how is it meant to unsettle us? What kind of revenge does the ending signal? The film ends on an ambiguous note that suddenly seems inclined to pander to our longing for fairy tales with a happy resolution. I suspect that if I would re-watch the film, I would have a much less generous verdict - there are, one might say, traces of an exploitative approach here, where the dogs are reduced to mere symbols.

I find no fault with the element of allegory. It works rather well, even though the way of delivering the message is not exactly subtle (the father works in a slaugtherhouse...). But why settle for the subtle? Mundruczó skillfully conjures up fear by using a frantically pulsating camera that tracks the movements of the dog (dogs) and the girl who sets out to find it. The problem with the film - for me - was the music. The use of a bombastic action film score reduced some of the suspense. After all, this was not a Bruce Willis movie.