Just as contemplative and intuitively cinematic as his enchanting feature debut, End of Season [+lire aussi :
critique
bande-annonce
fiche film], Elmar Imanov’s The Kiss of the Grasshopper [+lire aussi :
bande-annonce
interview : Elmar Imanov
fiche film], which has just celebrated its world premiere in the Berlinale Forum, delves even deeper into the metaphysical layers of his characters’ inner world. The focus here is on Bernard (Lenn Kudrjawizki, sporting a wandering gaze), a forty-something, creatively blocked writer whose life oscillates between his imposing, alienating house, visits to his father Carlos (Michael Hanemann, convincing in his stubbornness) and daily subway journeys, which serve as the backdrop for his relationship turmoil with his girlfriend Agata (a charmingly vulnerable Sophie Mousel) or simply as moments to observe the world around him – a world he seems to care little about. Yet, in the opening scene, when we realise that Bernard shares his king-size bed with a sheep, it becomes clear that reality in this film will be highly subjective, to put it mildly. Soon afterwards, we find ourselves plunged into the depths of the subconscious alongside the main character, where visions provoked by fear, anxiety, lust or loneliness blend seamlessly with physical existence in the most organic way possible.

The plot can be summarised in one sentence: a middle-aged man is facing a romantic breakup and the death of his father. Yet, even the over two hours of screen time barely suffice to recreate his complex inner world and the states he goes through. What is said moves the plot forwards in terms of objective reality, and what is shown builds the imaginary layer in which the soul disintegrates and reassembles into a personality that must go through hell to be reborn. While the dialogue tackles themes like overrated happiness and ironises the bureaucratisation of life, the audiovisual layer expresses what is inexpressible in words – turning anxiety into sticky tar, embarrassing bodily fluids into flowers or suffering into wall-crawling, for instance. The soundtrack, somewhere between electronic and ethnic music, is crucial for building the rhythm and mood. And grasshoppers pop up out of the blue in various shapes and sizes, accompanying the internal turmoil as silent witnesses to the character’s metamorphosis.

What is often lacking in so many European arthouse films, but seems to come naturally to Imanov, is the ability to create an oneiric environment filled with bizarre elements, in which every bit of awkwardness nevertheless makes sense; to weave a meditative, dreamlike atmosphere that does not make one check their watch, but truly pulls both the mind and the gaze into the transformational experience that The Kiss of the Grasshopper is. This may be thanks to the eight years of work he did on the film, in which precision was clearly a priority, but above all, it reveals Imanov's talent for storytelling in an extraordinary and surprising manner, without losing sight of the logical interconnection between characters and events. Furthermore, the film's imagery is captivating without overshadowing the content by being too polished or overly pretentious – Borris Kehl’s cinematography, intimate and stylish in a somewhat distant yet explorative fashion, faithfully serves the meaning without imposing form on the content. Thus, the movie manages to both enchant sensorially and take the viewer on an existential adventure, establishing Imanov as a truly original auteur in contemporary European cinema.

The Kiss of the Grasshopper was produced by Germany’s Color of May, in co-production with WDR Westdeutscher Rundfunk, Luxembourg’s Wady Films and Italy’s Incipit Film.