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A few words from festival manager Taavi Tatsi

Stories from the sauna:

A festival is a festival not only because of the thoughtfully selected programme and colourful experiences in the cinema hall. A festival also happens in staff conversations in the cinema cafe, as well as in cider glasses in a pub at night; a festival also lives in sleepy mornings and in walkabouts on Toome hill, to rest the eyes. And so, on Thursday night, when all the festival team and guests had ‘landed’ together in a barrel-sauna by the river, many filmmakers revealed their well kept secret: “We wouldn't even dare to speak about the Worldfilm festival to our colleagues, or else they would all rush here immediately!”

So instead they return to their homes and tell curious stories about their sauna experiences:

“And there we were, totally naked under the starry sky, surrounded by mist, ice and snow. We climbed into a strange barrel full of cold water and started to think intensely. We thought and thought, and sang a few spellsongs until the water started to get warmer. Oh, how good that felt! But the more we thought, the more the water got hot, and hot... Finally I had to ask the Estonians – please, stop thinking! Stop! But the water only got hotter and hotter until I just had to pull myself out from the barrel! So strong is Estonian’s mind.”

Terje

Terje Toomistu writes about a world premier at Worldfilm

Shepherdess of Clouds, shown in our festival as a world premiere, is a film that merits the title of visual art. The film's strong composition and perfect combination of time and space show the story, rather than telling it with words. The emphasis is clearly visual and although the film is verbally almost silent, this visuality can be considered a language of its own.



The film took us to a plateau in the Argentinian Andes. Thin air, a sky full of contrasts, piercing wind and burning sun, red-brown soil with sheep and lamas wandering on it.

Silence, silence, prayer and an echo in the infinite space, then silence. Sometimes, the whistling wind blows so hard that you cannot hear even that much. Some might say that this is a filmmaking defect – wind blowing into the microphone – but in my opinion hearing this wind added a feeling of presence, which is a desirable quality in itself.

The author of the film, Ruben Guzman, followed the paths of a lovely shepherdess Benita, who tended her sheep and lamas in the mountains. As is the custom in the Andes, she offered coca leaves during her prayers, to Mother Nature and to the mountain spirits. And as it is characteristic to the region Roman Catholicism had a relatively strong presence in her rituals – the ancient cosmology of the Andes and the Christianity that came with missionaries have mixed and taken strange hybrid forms.

Having a photographer's background, the author's main emphasis was on the visual aesthetic, and this is also what made the film seem so different from other films shown on the same day. From my own experience on the windy hills of the Andes I remember time moving slowly, making the details of the scenery, the wideness of the mountains, the depth of the sky, the lightness of the clouds all the more intense.

The author of the film also emphasised the passage of physical time, as I have previously seen and enjoyed for example in the films of A. Tarkovski. With great sensitivity, Guzman painted smoke flying in the wind, clouds moving in the bright sky, lightning playing on a distant volcano. It seemed that we could approach the cosmology of the shepherdess more easily in this way than in any way that words could have given us.

Terje Toomistu

Terje Toomistu writes about ayahuasca culture in Peru

The bench underneath you rattles a bit, somebody blows prayers into a bottle. Through the damp hot darkness of the jungle a distant song can be heard. But suddenly this song takes a visual form and flies towards you in spirals, exploding. It must be a fantasy, you think, but soon you remember that there's a shaman singing this song, and the taste of the bitter reddish brown drink burns your throat.

Icaro fantasies hover in a dark room, hot tobacco adds depth to the grooves of the shaman's face. The shaman blows smoke on your body and whistles you a healing song.

Without showing all this, Rudolf Amaral's film was about precisely that – a culture born around a herbal drink in the forests of Amazon. This was probably the expectation with which many spectators came to see a film about ayahuasca – rituals, songs, visions, etc. But this is not what they saw. Without going deeply into the effect that this plant has on the human body; without going deeply into the ayahuasca rituals, folk stories, icaros or ayahuasca art; without going deeply into shamanism and travelling between worlds, Amaral's approach was from a point of view of a future perspective of ayahuasca culture in the globalisation process.

In the biggest jungle city of Peru, Iquitos (where no road can take you – travel is by boat or aeroplane), ayahuasca tourism is an important source of income to the locals. There are many kinds of ayahuasca tourists, of course. Those who come for another drug trip, as well as those who travel for spiritual reasons. Some of them have even settled and learned this ancient spiritual knowledge and the effects of the plant; now they organise the tourist sessions themselves - like the American shaman Ron who we meet in the film.



Although the situation is somewhat strange – shaman tours, drug tourism or red-neck shamans creating new-age shamanic centers - the phenomenon may have a positive side. As Amaral shows towards the end of his film, it can actually save traditional knowledge from disappearing. The value of this is all the greater because shamanism is mainly based on subjective experience and is therefore more difficult to preserve than something with more widely agreed reference points, for example a disappearing oral tradition. One cannot patent the shaman's knowledge or skills. As the local youngsters’ interest towards this culture has dwindled, spiritual people from the West take the lead. The attention that Western tourists pay to ayahuasca culture can also motivate the locals to renew their interest, and perhaps to learn grandfather's shaman knowledge.

One of the performers in the conference that is shown in the film, talked about paradigmatic conflict in anthropology – to understand even a little bit about a culture so different from one's own, the anthropologist must deconstruct himself. The two worlds – the world of the Western researcher and the world of ayahuasca – are situated in different paradigms, in different systems of understanding and belief. The Western world lives in a dualistic division of body and mind and pays little attention to spirit, whereas in the ayahuasca world the situation is almost the reverse: the spirit is the most important, everything else follows.

One can continue by asking whether it is possible for an anthropologist to study a spiritual experience from the point of view of reason. From my experience with ayahuasca, I recall the shaman's words: “Visions are yours only, and they are yours to interpret”. So the signification must reveal itself in and for you.

Perhaps this is also the reason why Amaral left these aspirations aside and concentrated more on the relationship between ayahuasca culture and tourism. Although this choice made the film more political, the author showed his sensitivity to the issue by combining interviews with poetic passages and beautiful images from nature.

But mainly he wanted to make a difference with his film. Many films have already been made about  rituals, visions and shamans, whereas anthropologists’ attention has focused much less on dealing with where – or rather, what – is the heaven and earth of the tourists and the new age shamans.

Fin/Estonian Mika Keränen writes about Prisoners of the Ground

After seeing the film by Stella van Voorst van Beest, called Prisoners of the Ground, it seemed to me that Finland is very far from Estonia. Although Estonia is not so far to the south it is still a full ‘enjoyment’ for our northern neighbours to have such a phenomenon as a polar night depression, and the remedy for it – singing tango in a karaoke bar – as we saw in Stella's film.



Her film was at the same time very funny and very sad. Her subject – the polar night – is a gloomy one; fighting with loneliness in dark winter nights is not easy. At first, I didn't quite understand whether this film was about Finnish tango, the polar night, karaoke or something else; but all together it seems to me to be a film about loneliness. The life stories that unfold in front of the viewer are tragic. The melancholy music of tango brought the film’s message out loud and clear. Finland has a long winter indeed, and longing for the sun and happiness is great. Then again, as it was a documentary, it would have been nice to see, as counterbalance, some of the positive side of Finland, for example the Finnish summer when sun does not go down at all.

I would have liked to see some images from that summer, which is really gorgeous. The 88 minute film concentrated totally on the dark season and only at the very end did summer begin and we saw some yellow rape fields. There was a longing for the sun and the beauty in the cinema hall too. Of course it wasn't a film by a Finnish tourist company, but rather the creation of a filmmaker. It is just that at some moments, I had a similar feeling to that experienced when reading Sami Lotila's stories in the Iltalehti: please, give us a little happiness!

The filmmaker had included a lot of time in the karaoke bars, but it looked somehow quite depressing, as I looked forward to see more beauty specially in the presentation of the tango singing. These places are not all as dark and desperate as they seemed in the film. Whenever I go to Finland, I try to go to some local karaoke bars. I especially recommend one called Satumaa (Fairy land), next to Lasipalatsi [film and media centre, Helsinki]. Despite the desperate image that the film presented of these places, one can meet really nice people there, and of all ages, not only old people. Even professional singers go to karaoke bars to relax.

Tango is the most beloved music style in Finland and has a strong position in society, which also came out nicely in the film. Perhaps the best description of it is given by the owner of one of the Finland's biggest dance halls. He said that Finnish people can dance to any kind of music, but when the orchestra starts playing a tango, there is a sudden change on the dance floor and the real dancing begins. Another interviewee said that she just isn't a friend of quick songs.

After what I have said until now, one might think that I didn't like the film, but this is not true. The film had much to be cheerful about. The greatest value of the film might be that the filmmaker made people talk and open up. This was fantastic! The camera work was also magnificent. Some images were so absurd that it made the viewers laugh, even when it seemed there wasn't much to laugh about. Many things were so tragic that they seemed comical. The image from a courtyard of the red house where a man had made big palm trees was more telling than a million words. This artist had also created many animals to go in his savanna, made out of old pieces of iron and other junk. Despite that fact that it seemed not all of his Moomins are in the valley, I still believe he is a very intelligent and talented man.

By the way, artist's name is Alpo Koivumäki and you can read about him in Finnish, as well as see pictures of his garden, on this web site.

To conclude, I would like to mention that the film had proudly included the lyrics of tangos. Although they might have seemed a bit strange in the English version, those who know a little Finnish could also enjoy that part of the film. It would be interesting to see the film on Estonian television, because Estonian, which is related to Finnish, might communicate the message of the lyrics more precisely.

Mika Keränen

World premiere at the Worldfilm festival: Liivo Niglas's Itelmen Stories

The visual feast of The Solitary Life of Cranes

Perhaps we become a little blind at times to what is around us. When we look at a cityscape like London we see, and yet somehow don't see, the cranes that punctuate the skyline. Of course they are there, they have to be. A forest must grow and a city must build, because that's what cities do don't they? But what do these urban Giant Redwoods do, how do they function? They are automatic surely, as one of the drivers tells us about a common misconception. He looks down over a telescopic distance to the ground. “Sometimes I want to put the load down in front of someone”, he tells us. “I want to say to them, 'don't go that way, go the other way, you'll like it much better'” The crane revolves gracefully, a lattice of steel like a sculpture perfectly balanced. The radio crackles: bring the block down, another metre, slowly, hold it there. And then the driver is alone in the sky again, with his thoughts, his flask of tea, his breathtaking view over 6 million Londoners.

The drivers' musings provide a commentary, and their reflections are matched by the thoughtful camera work, and both are sometimes matched by the reflections in the glass of the drivers' cab. Turning turning, always gently active these leviathans are passive like whales, powerful and fragile: they sway slightly, the rain beats on the cab roof, wind whistles through the cables. And at the end of the day the driver climbs back down to rejoin the world of the ground. Often a little reluctantly: “some drivers get cab-happy”. And who could blame them?

Eve Weber's film is beautifully composed and beautifully shot. And deceptive - nothing that looks this simple can have been easy to make: the long list of credits at the end of the film confirms how complex it was.

Danny Allen

Link to the trailer

A film by Minna Hint: Inside or Outside

Festivals often pose the dilemma of whether to come and see as many films as you can, or to try to predict your favorites and experience the details more thoroughly. As I cannot participate in the whole festival this year, I decided to go for the first choice, and indeed I did manage to see quite a few of my favourites. The first of those was Nomad's Land, which I saw in the Video Library. It was a real treat, possibly one of the best travel documentaries. So personal, so peaceful, so “off-the-road”.

Another favourite was Liivo Niglas's new film. Although the film described a hunting trip, I felt at some point that even if there won't be any hunting done, the film with its stories stands out on its own. Magnificent visual work, silence that was as talkative as dialogue, darkness as significant as light.

And thirdly, Setu Wedding made me think of traditions and universalisation. As I don't have roots in Setumaa, Setu people seem to me as far and exotic as Mayans or Hindus. Universalisation takes us closer to the roots of all the world, and yet we would want to ask whether there is anything genuine left when we learn about traditions in such a way. I don't have an answer. My roots, as far as I know, are in western Estonia landscapes, but there is no such tradition, or at least it hasn't reached to me. My tradition is the landscape.

Mathura

Photographic moments from the festival

Terje Toomistu writes about Poet's Salary

Mari Kalkun writes about "Zanzibar Musical Club"

On Tuesday night we saw a documentary entwined with music, called “Zanzibar Musical Club”, directed by a former musician Philippe Gasnier, and as a co-author, Patrice Neznan. The film looks into the original musical culture and life on the Spice Island Zanzibar. Zanzibar, belonging to Tanzania, has for centuries been an important place on the commerce road in the Indian Ocean, where people, cultures and music from Africa, India and the Arabic world mix. Every night, musicians meet in the musical clubs to rehearse ensemble playing and practice new songs. Zanzibar's typical music is taarab, played on everyday occasions as well as in rituals and at weddings. Taarab's aim is not so much to entertain people, but rather heal them, and unite their souls. It is strongly collective music, and musical clubs are one expression of this tradition. Local people gather in the clubs which used to be open only for men: they exchange news, play games, and on the initiative of the ensemble, sing songs together.

The film's director Philippe Gasnier, who has a rich experience as a musician, looks at this place and its culture through the filter of music. The film's language is poetic, even somewhat romantic. The music speaks for itself and gives the best idea about the life rhythm and atmosphere of Zanzibar. We do not hear much talking in the film. Songs accompany images from everyday life, markets, the ocean.

One of the most spectacular characters in the film is an almost-one-hundred-year-old woman, Bi Kidude, a well respected and honoured singer, well known also in Europe, who has kept her voice and life force. It doesn't even matter if we see her performing on the stage or baking cakes at home, Kidude has the dignity of a thousand years. To relate this film to the festival's main topic, ageing, Kidude is an excellent example of a positive attitude towards old age. Despite being close to her hundredth birthday, Kidude is an active member of the community who passes on traditions and creates a connection with the ancestors and the old times.

One of the questions of the film might be, is music actually the strongest link that connects this community? The film doesn't present any problems, so we can assume that the merging of cultures through very colourful history has namely taken place through music. The social idea behind taarab music is to combine elements from different cultures without violence. Compared to Ramesh Khadka's film “Menstruation”, which we saw on Wednesday where the community holds on to their traditions, even if they were uncomfortable for the community members themselves, in Zanzibar, the tradition seems to be rather changing. And how could it be otherwise, on an island where such different cultures and religions meet? Changing is probably the key for survival of the traditions, even though it is never certain that everything will be conserved. The number of musical clubs has in fact diminished, whereas taarab music has spread to other countries in East Africa and elsewhere, developing into new forms in pop music and film production. But “Zanzibar Musical Club” gives an enjoyable view of the current state of Zanzibar's music and culture, through sounds, poetics and images from everyday life, showing how music can be a universal power for transmission.

Mari Kalkun



Bi Kidude

Casado's Legacy: Reflection by Carlo A. Cubero

Valentina's most recent documentary reminded me of two interesting trends in recent ethnographic filmmaking – specifically in relation to its content and form. In terms of the content, the documentary embraces the complexity of indigenous politics in Paraguay. On this level, it is a refreshing reflection on the different complexities that the Mascoy are contending with in their identity politics. Historically, these communities have been exploited by a variety of elements – Spanish imperialism, industrial capitalism, and the contemporary Paraguayan nation-state that continues to marginalise these communities However, these relationships have been so ongoing and their impact so powerful, that they have become undeniable aspects of people's lives. As such, the indigenous in this documentary have an ambiguous and at times contradictory relationship with the state and the discourse of modernity in general. The communities wish access to development and to the national programme, and yet they continue to ascribe to very specific cultural norms that at times hinder their position of power in relation to the modern spheres that they wish to be a part of. The documentary's narrative puts these complex relationships at its centre and indulges in the richness behind these discourses and practices.

The full fledged embrace of the complexities behind post-colonial politics - a colonial relationship that is concentrated within Paraguay's borders - goes against the simplicity with which indigenous politics of the Americas have tended to be represented throughout the history of the ethnographic film genre. Ethnographic documentaries that have addressed the indigenous subject of the Americas have by and large either victimised the indigenous subject, by placing it in an antagonistic position to 'outside' influences, reified indegeneity in an unsuccessful attempt to deconstruct the indigenous discourse, or de-historicise the indigenous by examining people as research objects.

For example, the most compelling scenes show the main protagonists of the documentary engaging in direct political negotiations with elements of the state. In doing so, “the state” ceases to be an amorphous and magical thing that the indigenous/traditional/conservative subjects negotiate with in abstract terms. In this documentary, the state is engaged with through a parliamentarian, Secretary of Education, a Mayor, and the Director of Indigenous Affairs in Paraguay, who also have to contend and compromise with the indigenous subjects – at times negotiating in Guarani. By giving the state and the indigenous flesh and bone, Valentina's documentary has the potential to demystify the political process of Paraguay and offers a convincing understanding of identity politics, without proselytising the viewer.

In relation to its form, the documentary also presents an interesting paradox. Contemporary debates in the ethnographic filmmaking scene bemoan the limitations that the audiovisual medium has when it comes to addressing discourse and political themes. Observational cinema, the hallmark of ethnographic filmmaking, is constantly complained about for its incapacity to produce knowledge on discursive issues that have historically been at the centre of Anthropology. Casado's Legacy is not an observational film, but its aesthetic references a lot of the central motifs and conventions of observational cinema – ie. handheld camera, maintaining integrity of scenes, not directing and following the action rather than directing it.

However, if the camera work and ethics of the documentary has observational references its editing strategy deploys conventions that have historically been understood as counter to the observational practice. Early on in the documentary it is made clear to the viewer that this is a multi-narrative with various parallel narratives joining the different scenes together. If done well, this strateg yhas the capacity to immerse the viewer in the world it is depicting. This kind of montage at a macro-narrative level seems to work well to address the limitations of observational cinema. The placing of different contexts in relation to each other has the capacity to generate a third meaning that is – in this case – contextual and discursive. This narrative strategy allows the placement of scenes that would otherwise represent antagonistic or contradictory meanings, next to each other offering the viewer a complex world view.

On both counts, this documentary works against the grain of the traditional ethnographical documentary. It suggests the deployment of a modern medium – cinema – to assess a modern problem – the state vs. the indigenous – in complex ways.

Carlo A. Cubero

Terje Toomistu writes about “Shaman Tour”

"Shaman Tour"

Dir Laetitia Merli, France, (filmed in Mongolia), 63 min

In different cultural contexts, a shaman can have different kinds of roles. He or she can be a healer, a mystic, a magician, a political leader of the community, or a visionary. In any case, for a Westerner, a shaman is usually surrounded by an aura of mystics, ancient wisdom and tradition, which seems to remain outside the capitalist systems and thus, does not know money. Laetitia Merli's film “Shaman tour” is an honest film in that respect, perhaps even too honest. The subject of this film is nothern Mongolian shamans, or rather, their tourist visitors. This is a serious look at the commercialisation of religion.

In some sense, the shaman's vocation can be seen as any other vocation in which a person sells his or her skills and asks money for it. A shaman is a doctor and deserves a reward for his services. But then comes the tourist, for whom, the mysticism that surrounds shamanism has been an attractive product to buy for decades, and the tendency seems to be growing. And of course, where there is demand, there is also supply. If there are tourists in north Mongolia, on the coast of Huvsguli lake, the shaman also moves there and starts organising touristic shaman rituals, selling souvenirs and asking 3000 tugriks for a photograph. Sitting on the back of a reindeer costs 1000 tugriks. I remember in Peru it was very popular to have a three-day jungle tour that culminated with a shamanic ritual, ayahuasca. “And then, on the very last night, after we have caught piranhas, we go to see the shaman...”, the travel salesman introduces his program, giving the last word a specially mystic emphasis, as if he were speaking about scary ghosts. And without a fuss, ancient practices give in to universal market rules. As with any commercialisation, the limits between representation and reality, between image and content seem to become blurred. One of the tourists starts wondering, after a ritual performed by the shaman Enkhetuya, the film's central character: “Did she do it really or was it … represented?”

In quite the same way, tourists who participate in a shaman tour in South America get a somewhat weird or, even worse, a terrible experience. You can never be sure, of course, whether the guide will take you to a real shaman or to a self appointed, so called 50/50 % shaman. But lovely Enkhetuya touches tenderly her money pocket in the end of the day and calls it her bank. The day's salary is 42 000 tg. Five families to feed, children to educate. Such is the reality which surrounds shaman traditions in many places around the world. And we shouldn't be angry, either with the spiritually minded tourists, or with the shamans who earn their daily living. Laetitia Merli presented both sides convincingly. The film leaves a somewhat bad aftertaste – to see the earthly realms of money so closely connected to something as intimate as peoples' beliefs. Painful, but honest.

Terje Toomistu

Mika Keränen writes about “Heart of the Country”

The Worldfilm programme said that Leonard Kamerling from Alaska has made a warmhearted film about a countryside school in Hokkaido. The announcement was correct. The story about Kanayama school was lovely. My first thought after seeing the film was how many of these schools are there on this side of the world. I would like to hope that there are at least some. If anyone has gone to such a school in Estonia on else where, could you please let me know, either here in the comments or by email.

Leonard Kamerling's film also made me think about other things, for example, that we rarely see in films heroes of everyday life, such as teachers and school directors. I am happy that the filmmaker appreciated schools by his choice of subject. The audience definitely liked it, as no one wanted to leave the theater, but instead, as if wanting the story to go on, started asking many questions about what has become of the school director and the children.

My opinion is that the film was successful mostly because it talked about school family – what a beautiful expression – instead of showing what a great guy a school director can be. The film author said after the screening that one of the conditions given by the school director to the filming was that they must also film in the homes of children where the education really takes place. These are golden words. This was one of the many wisdoms of the Japanese director.

In this film people cried a lot, and sincerely from their hearts. That was the fact that astonished me most about that film and about that school. After six years of elementary school, a ceremony of finishing took place where all the finishing students were holding candles. Every one of them said a few words and blew the candle out. Tears were flowing. This scene was followed by another where a teacher said to the children that crying is a good thing to do. I wanted to cry too, but held it back since the hall around me was quite quiet. Even the teachers cried in the film.

I would like to thank Kamerling also for showing how teachers talked about their feelings so openly with their students. In that same finishing ceremony, a teacher said that the loneliest day for him is going to be the day when he goes back to school and these students will not be there anymore. And as if to emphasise this thought even more, the director reminded us of a Japanese proverb: you cannot go on in your life if you do not say good bye to yesterday.

Good bye!

Mika

Since Tuesday evening Worldfilm festival has also been available in a softer, more horizontal, version in the form of the chillout cinema.

Eva Toulouze writes on the Leonard Kamerling retrospective

While watching Len Kamerling’s films today on a large screen, with beautiful image and sound, I felt very happy that this year’s festival had chosen these films for its special programme. Kamerling’s filming was represented by three films: two of them about Eskimos (this word is not depreciative for this Alaskan native people!) and one made in Japan. Or so could we sum them up superficially. If we listen to the filmmaker, however, we notice that he always emphasises the word „community“: he has filmed communities. What are communities? On the one hand, undoubtedly, there is a geographic meaning of the word – the inhabitants of the villages of Gambell (on Saint Lawrence’s island between Alaska and Siberia) and Emmonak on the coast are communities. Still, the third film, made in Japan, shows that the concept is deeper and more subtle. Is the film about Kanayama village community? True enough, but it goes deeper: its community represents the people concerned with the village school, with education issues, who are connected with school world through different kind of fine threads, from the director, who is like a conductor who gives life to an orchestra, up to the elder generation of villagers interacting with children.

The concept of „community“ is a keyword for Kamerling’s work: his choice of subject and main character for his films corresponds to his method of filming, whose keyword is „collaborative“. Len Kamerling’s ego as an author is as unobtrusive as possible. He has developed his own filmmaking philosophy – apparently shared by Sarah Elder, with whom he made the Inuit films – in which he gives a central role to the communities filmed and which is built up on respect towards them: all the decisions concerning filmmaking are taken collaboratively with the people who may be concerned by the film (the whole of Gambell for Spring Ice, the dancer’s group in The Drums of winter, teachers, parents and children in Heart of the country. They are associated at all stages, from the choice of the theme as well as during the shooting and the editing. Often they orient the contents of the film, which may become entirely different from what the filmmaker had imagined when starting the project. That does not mean that Kamerling rejects responsibility: as he twice emphasised, the final result were born in the editing room. Unlike what is often taught in film schools – that one must already think of the editing while filming – Kamerling prefers to remain open and to film without being influenced by future editing. This is actually one of the advantages of filming when you do not understand the language spoken, as he says. Only when all the material has been shot, when filming has been lasting for months and the filmmakers have been living with the community, only then can the story emerge, around which the film will be functioning. So Kamerling does not reject responsibility on the others, but he takes care that the interests and the sensitivity of the people he films are taken into account and respected. That people would recognise themselves in his films and would recognise the films as their own.

Undoubtedly in the first film that was shown today, On the Spring Ice, this goal was quite simple to achieve. The issue shown in the film was essential for the Gambell community: it concerned such a vital activity for survival as spring mammal hunt, an activity that takes place when currents may lead the melting ice to close on the hunters, thus endangering their very life. The whole village follows their ordeal, especially the women, who do not traditionally hunt in a boat and remain at home. This permanent danger that threatens the men is partly compensated by the use of firearms, that make the task easier for the hunters and give less opportunities to the animals to escape their fate (as Aleksei Peterson emphasised in the discussion), and also by the contemporary rescue means, as we discover in the first episode of the film, when a coast guard helicopter rescues hunters in trouble. Anyhow spring hunting remains a need for survival and as we discover in the film, the Gambell Eskimos have all the necessary equipment and modern means of communication. As Kamerling emphasised, this image is undoubtedly in contradiction with the stereotype of the primitive Eskimo... But it is also different from what researchers are accustomed to witness while working in Russia, where most of these means are, or at least were at the time too expensive for native communities. A final comment about this film: it is good ethnography, which is always necessary. Processes are filmed from the beginning to the end and that guarantees that this material is and remains usable both by researchers and by the communities themselves, if one day there will be the need to teach future generations endangered skills.

The second film, The Drums of Winter, focuses on Eskimo dance, which is accompanied by drums. As Kamerling mentioned, this film is deeper, more complicated than the first. It penetrates deeply into the Yupik Eskimo soul. For dancing is for them not only a symbol of collective identity, but also a way of expressing individual emotions. The understanding of dancing for the Eskimo differs from what dancing means for Westerners: in dancing, the arms are the members that are in motion, almost magically. The men sit on the floor, the women stand behind them – they don’t whirl, and move very little. But the resolute and light movements of the arms follow the rhythm given by the drums, and they draw in the air extraordinary patterns thanks to dancing fans made of feathers and caribou hair, sculpted with figures that are important for the dancers or for his or her forefathers. One has the impression that the movements of the dancers are not exactly symmetric, as they would be for instance in western ballet: each dancer follows his or her emotions within a given framework – but as a whole all these movements are extraordinarily harmonious. Still, the importance of dancing is not only aesthetic, emotional or ontological, it is also social: the inhabitants of two villages who visit one another in order to attend the other’s dancing exchange presents. For me, it was particularly interesting to discover that when at the beginning of the 20^th century the Christian missionaries fought fiercely against dancing, one of their main reproaches was this gift exchange habit: for them, dancing was not only a waste of time and a way of spending time that has a scent of paganism, it was also, through the gifts, an unacceptable waste of money. The “white” Christians could not accept that for the Inuit possessing was not a value; in the Eskimo societies, there are efficient wealth equalising mechanisms that function even nowadays (as for example the home bingo playing mentioned once in the film is one of them) which may lead to people giving away all they have. Still, they have no reason to be afraid: the community won’t let anybody starve. But this was for missionaries an incomprehensible and sinful behaviour and they attempted to eliminate it. Historic parts in the film show interesting documents about missionary thinking, being redeemed by today's Jesuit attitude of remorse and support for revitalisation. In the film there are many touching moments: the clear and direct words of the elder, in their own language; the little girls dancing for the first time. I remember particularly a moment in which women who did not dance moved their hands discreetly and rhythmically: a little girl did the same, and that was pleasant, because it was proof that when the film was shot, there was still instinct in the younger generations. The young girls interviewed – who were at university far from their communities – were pessimistic about the survival of this tradition. Still, an older man was right: “It keeps going, wherever you go, it exists”, and now, there is actually a revival.

Kamerling’s work has undoubtedly contributed to this revival; the material he filmed together with Sarah Elder has been kept, catalogued, partly digitised: in short it is available. Kamerling has a special foundation for that, whose importance can not be overestimated: this material’s value increases with time. One could say, taking into account filmmaking’s method, that the communities themselves have provided this gift for themselves. But is has become possible thanks to the initiator and implementer of the project.

For Kamerling, the ethic dimension is central, as Heart of the country, the film made in Japan, shows. As a matter of fact, it is a film he made mostly himself, even the editing (Sarah Elder, his partner in the Inuit films, is not involved). There are common features with the Inuit films, and these are probably of Kamerling’s signature. Their name is heartiness, warmth, humanity and they are central in this film: not only the school’s director, but also the teachers emphasise how kindness in needed by everybody: by the parents, by the teachers, by the children themselves. The adults’ generation have had harsh life experiences: an extremely cold and hierarchical school system, distance in relationship with parents. One has the impression that there is in the Japanese society a huge need for warmth that is expressed in this film. Unlike the stereotypes about Japan, the film enhances the respectful mutual relations between teachers and students; the students greet every day the teachers bowing, and the teachers answer them bowing themselves; the director eats at the school canteen at the same table with the children and talks with them and the teachers are those who show to the parents how to interpret difficult features in their children as promising qualities. To characterise the functioning of this community the keyword would certainly be “heart”: the title of this blog paraphrases a phrase by one of the characters “education from the point of view of the heart”. But it would have been impossible to transmit this philosophy without the same kind of approach to filmmaking: filmmaking from the point of view of the heart.

Eva Toulouze

Leonard Kamerling presenting his films (Photo: Daniel Allen)

Special programme: ageing experiences

Here writes a young person, active and sporty. In her prime you could say. Or how is it with the age, really?

Yesterday we saw three versions of the last quarter of human life. Ageing in Germany and in London, ageing in the city and in the forest. We also had a chance to reconsider our opinions of ageing, and to think that perhaps the phenomenon, which Western culture considers almost taboo, is in fact not that terrible. According to film authors Martin Gruber and Lucy Kaye, making these films certainly changed their relationship to elderly people and their attitudes about getting old. As Martin said, the elderly no longer seem to him an indistinguishable mass but are individuals who are experts in their own lives. And the lives in these films are exiting. This is perhaps not only because these people have lived through the second world war, some of them even celebrating their marriage not taking much notice of the bombing. They are the generation who lived from the horrors of war to the welfare of Western society, and perhaps this is why their ageing seems beautiful to our eyes. They are beautiful people.

And yet ageing in the city seems somewhat weaker than in the countryside. Yesterday's films brought that contrast very strikingly in front of us. City people need assistance, someone to hold them, to help them move, to cope with loneliness. In the forests of Siberia, a Mansi grandmother is the one who holds the disappearing world. She cuts down trees with incredible simplicity, goes hunting, not to mention all the indoors works. Because in her circumstances you simply have to make it yourself, otherwise it will not get done. Simply.

Madli Kütt

The first festival guests have arrived in Tartu.

The first guests have arrived, among them is Ramesh Khadka, from Nepal, pictured here with locals Mari Kalkun and Patrick McGinley. The first dinner has been shared, the first meetings made. Tomorrow we start watching films.

Photo by Taavi Tatsi

Last chance to see: some of last year's films on Estonian TV

Each night this week ETV2 has been showing one film from last year's festival. Those who couldn't see the films during the week can still see a repetition of three of them tonight, starting at 19:45. Organise your own armchair festival at home and get a taste of the festival.

We asked some Estonian specialists to introduce and comment on the films for the TV, but in the festival hall next week you can ask questions and discuss the films directly with the film authors themselves. My previous visits to Worldfilm have proven that these discussions add many colours to the films. Worlds and thoughts that arrive in Tartu will not stay on the screen but will also reflect from hundreds of other worlds and thoughts amongst the spectators. Fun.

Appetisers tasted, time to go for the main course.

Piibe Kolka

Last Wednesday's film evening in Genialistide Klubi was introduced by Patrick McGinley, and here he tells us how it went:

on wednesday evening worldfilm held a teaser event at genialistide klubi in tartu to promote the upcoming festival. taavi tatsi asked me to say a few words of introduction for the film, which was flattering, even if i didn't quite understand why he choose me, an unknown newcomer to this fine city. i understood a bit better after watching the copy of the film he gave me, on my own with grumbling stomach at my present home in mooste. the film, by director joseph péaquin, is entitled "c'era una volta… le delizie del piccolo mondo" (in english: "once upon a time… delicacies of a small world"; or in estonian: " oli kord… maitseelamused väiksele maailmale").

my name is patrick mcginley. originally from america, i am now living here in estonia, currently in mooste, working with the moks centre for art and social practice. i am a sound artist, but i also very much like to cook, which is certainly the real reason taavi asked me to make this introduction. taavi introduced my introduction in estonian (of course; and i'm proud to say i began my introduction in my own version of estonian as well), so, although i caught several words (including his announcement that it was, in fact, st patrick's day, which i had completely forgotten) i don't know quite who he told the audience i was. he may or not have told them that i am a cook, and he may or may not have told them that i am a *good* cook, and these things may or may not be true, but i do think it is fair to say that i am an *enthusiastic* cook, and i believe cooking is one of those realms where enthusiasm is worth a great deal. you can trick people into thinking almost anything tastes good if you look like you had a lot of fun making it - i know this from experience. in any case, this film was to show us a wonderful mixture of enthusiasm, knowledge, experience and skill.

this was also a good opportunity for me to mention one of our recent endeauvours: last month moks launched the mooste toiduklubi, an opportunity for people from the local community to gather to, essentially, cook and eat together. mooste is without any public gathering point; there are no restaurants or cafés, no place where locals can meet and socialize. with the mooste toiduklubi we hope to create such a space, even if it is temporary and movable, with a hope of introducing the idea into the village consciousness. we also want to share our own traditional recipes, learn others from the area and from our neighbors, and explore what can be prepared using only local produce. each month a different cook will plan and host a toiduklubi meal, open to everyone in the village.

the protagonists of our film share many of these ideas, although while our foodclub is acting perhaps out of conscious political choice, erminio and attilia, the retired couple in the film who have lived all there lives in arnad, a small village in the aoste valley in the italian alps, live these ideas simply as a way of life. they keep animals and a large garden, waste nothing (even their dried turnip peels, which they fry with potatoes. "it tastes like tripe," one of them asserts), and gather wild mushrooms, berries, nuts, and herbs year round. they cook simply with traditional recipes handed down by their families, with all grown and gathered ingredients, often served on a bed of steaming polenta, the cornmeal porridge that, originally a peasant food, is a culinary staple in the region. the aoste valley is a politically autonomous region within italy, like the islands of sicily and sardinia and a few other regions. it is located just at top left-hand corner of the boot, bordered by france to the west and switzerland to the north. the local language is valdotain, a dialect of franco-provençal, also known as arpetan. as a french speaker i am able to recognise the occasional word, and perhaps an italian speaker would find the same, but for the most part this is an entirely independent language, spoken by a small population (the aoste valley has the lowest population density in italy) is an autonomous region. a small world indeed, something that i think perhaps we here in estonia can relate to…

patrick mcginley

Wednesday was the first meeting of Wordfilm festival volunteers…

…where we could meet eachother for the first time, find out why it is a good thing to be a festival volunteer, find out about the coming tasks (for example checking tickets or climbing up to the fifth-floor chillout room with a pile of pillows), find out about the programme and even see a few clips of the films selected for the festival.

Michael Yorke's Holy Men and Fools is shown at the Genialists Club, Tartu.

Last night at the Genialists Club in Tartu, we had a hint of the soon-arriving spectacle of Worldfilm. A houseful of spectators travelled from the snowy monochrome of Estonia to the lush greenery of India for an hour. Our travel guide was Michael Yorke, who had met two rather colourful characters at a festival in India attended by many saddhu, India’s holy men. Uma, of Swedish origin and an ex-model now living in India, and Vasisht, an Indian saddhu. From this meeting, and their common pilgrimage to the sources of Ganges and Yamuna rivers in the Himalaya, came the film Holy Men and Fools, which was screened at Worldfilm festival three years ago and now again at Gen Club as a taster of what’s to come this year. A festival friend, journalist Peeter Riba, gave an introduction to the film and the journey began - with hundreds of ‘sky clad’ (naked) saddhus running into the Ganges.
     Some guys just have good luck and Michael Yorke certainly did to have met such people. And we as spectators of his film had good luck too, to get so close to the two characters, to get a glimpse into the intimacy of their devotion. And we also got close to Michael's searching too, to know whether he was to belong among the holy men, or the fools. Regardless of the answer, his enthusiasm for his subject and keen interest in their spirituality come across strongly in the film, and at times rather charmingly, as expressed among other times in his, “this is fantastic!”, quietly whispered behind the camera when Vasisht shows him the cave in which they were to spend the night.
     In addition to last night's event, two of last year's festival films are being shown in KUMU, Tallinn (10th March and 17th March). Estonian Television has one film a night for the week leading up to the festival, at 21:30 Monday 15th March to the Friday 19th March, with all 5 repeated on Saturday 20th. And the Video Library at the ENM café (Kuperjanovi 9, Tartu) also has previous festival films.

Madli Kütt

Holy Men and Fools, UK 2005, 72 min, director Michael Yorke.

Michael Yorke filming Vasisht and Uma.

After the long, dark (and white) winter, the world is again about to become colourful...

...Worldfilm is coming. Keep an eye on what happens at the festival, and on the run-up to it, on the pages of this web diary.

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