Product Description

Silent Light is the latest breathtaking work from Carlos Reygadas, the controversial and prestigious director of the award-winning Battle in Heaven and Japón. Johan is the head of a family in a Mennonite community in northern Mexico. However, he goes against the law of both God and men by falling in love with another woman and, although he is honest with his wife about the affair, his actions create conflict in their otherwise serine and tranquil existence. An enlightening and engaging exploration of moral and spiritual crises, Silent Light's poetic tone at times invokes Dreyer, Bergman and even Kubrick as it weaves its intricate and brilliant way to one of cinema s most exquisite finales. A modern classic from one of the greatest film-makers of our time.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #37365 in DVD
• Released on: 2008-04-14
• Rating: Suitable for 15 years and over
• Format: PAL
• Original language: German
• Subtitled in: English
• Number of discs: 1
• Running time: 136 minutes

Synopsis
With SILENT LIGHT, Mexican auteur Carlos Reygadas (JAPON, BATTLE IN HEAVEN) delivers an extraordinary, transcendent meditation on love and religion. To capture the innocence necessary to tell his tale, Reygadas ventured to a Mennonite community in northern Mexico, where the inhabitants live like relics from another era. Rather than falsifying his world, Reygadas cast the film with actual Mennonites who speak the German dialect Plattdeutsch, which gives the film an even greater authority--and further establishes a truly original tone. The story concerns Johan (Cornelio Wall Fehr), who is in the midst of a major spiritual crisis. A devoted father, and a husband to Esther (Miriam Toews), Johan has found himself caught up in an affair with a waitress named Marianne (Maria Pankratz). But his connection with Marianne isn't just a physical one; he fears that he's fallen in love with her. The honest and tortured Johan confesses to Esther, spurring a series of cataclysmic events that will test his faith once and for all.


From the luminous opening shot--which is without question one of the most stunning opening shots ever committed to celluloid--it becomes clear that this is a much different film than Reygadas's last, the graphic and blunt BATTLE IN HEAVEN. While it appears that Reygadas was deeply influenced by Carl Theodor Dreyer’s ORDET, as well as the works of Terrence Malick, SILENT LIGHT is not merely a carbon copy of those films. It is the work of a visionary filmmaker who is challenging himself and trying to address genuinely deep human issues. Beautiful and profound, SILENT LIGHT is cinema at its most breathtaking.

Review
Overwhelmingly powerful --The Guardian

Review
Rivetingly beautiful --Sight & Sound

Customer Reviews

A stunningly beautiful example of what cinema is capable of.
The stunningly beautiful, and immensely moving, Silent Light was, for me, the best film released in 2007, and its availability on DVD enables a wider audience to appreciate its marvels. While a reviewer in one Sunday newspaper informed his readers that it is "the kind of film favoured by those who are basically disdainful of movies", the fact that this same newspaper in 2006 described the Dardennes brothers' terrific L'Enfant as "really just a French version of Cathy Come Home" shows how much reliability can be placed on its judgements.

Silent Light is a mesmerising drama set in the Mennonite community of northern Mexico, with members of the community, non-actors all, playing the main parts. The dialogue is in the archaic Dutch-German language which they speak, and, for the first 90 minutes, is a simple story of a middle-aged family man agonising over his adulterous relationship with another woman in the community. Then there is an unexpected tragedy, followed by what is a virtual remake of the miraculous last scene of Carl Dreyer's 1955 classic Ordet.

The newspaper reviewer mentioned above cannot see the simple fact that Silent Light is a grown-up movie, shot in a grown-up way. The first 5 minutes are an extraordinary time-lapse sequence of the skies from night to sunrise, the soundtrack filled with sounds of the waking natural world; the last 5 minutes are the reverse (sunset to night). If people prefer pointless cgis and rapid-cut editing, so be it; but they are depriving themselves of the experience of what cinema can do.

The drama plays itself out against the background of the wide-open landscapes of the region, the landscape not just of the farmlands but also of the actors' faces, largely expressionless, almost trance-like (melodramatics would ruin a film like this, and there is no non-diagetic music to tell us how we should be reacting). The scenes between the central character and his non-judgemental father, played by a real-life father and son, are particularly moving.

Several scenes, incidental to the basic plot, are specially memorable, such as the magical extended sequence of the children playing in the lake. But it is the final scene, the near-remake of Ordet, which will provoke the most argument and discussion. The "miracle" itself is perhaps less convincing than that of Dreyer's film, not because of how it is shot but because of the context; it could conceivably be interpreted as the farmer's fantasy. (The director has said in an interview that it is more Sleeping Beauty than Ordet.) In the length of time during which Reygadas holds what is virtually a still-life shot he is daring almost to the point of parody; almost, but not quite. It takes a great director to know when to cut.

DVD extras are few, just an interview with the lead actor and a short written note by a critic. But the film itself is worth anyone's money, a brilliant example of what cinema can do.

The camera as intruder on a private world
I was once in an art history tutorial when a fellow piped up and asked whether the three legged stool the Madonna was sitting on was symbolic of the Holy Trinity. I recall the tutor looking politely doubtful while the rest of the class fell about cackling unkindly at the poor try-hard. His crime: striving and over-reaching to see meaning in a purely incidental relationship. Well, maybe it was incidental - maybe he was right, who knows? - but I laughed all the same.

Nevertheless, his disposition would stand that chap in good stead should he ever chance upon Carlos Reygadas' Silent Light. This film admits of - requires, even - an over-reaching to see meaning, and as such will not be everyone's cup of tea. I'm still not sure whether it was mine.

To be sure, there is a certain sort of buff to whom Silent Light will appeal greatly - he who is rejoices in straining to unpick a film-maker's message will be in heaven: such industry is obligatory since Carlos Reygadas has opted to communicate his message in the most eliptical way. Reygadas is, you see, an auteur (a fact which will fill you with glee or despair, depending on the significance you see imbued in things like three legged stools).

In many places, the Meaning of Silent Light is to be found not in dialogue (there isn't much) nor its delivery (the actors - real Mennonites - aren't professionally trained, and frequently may as well be reading out technical manuals for all their performances convey) nor, really, in what happens in the film (in fairness, after a *very* slow build up, things do happen), but rather how it is *seen* to happen.

There is meaning, that is, in frame composition. It is significant that the camera itself is often visibly part of the film - not just in camera position and width of angle (though they are frequently telling) but in the existence of lens flare, in that the camera itself pushes long grass off screen when tracking a character at ankle level, that its lens is spattered by water cascading off a tree and when a wide-angled tracking shot noticeably fish-eyes the parallel horizontals of a building. In a more careless film maker, you'd assume these were continuity errors, or at the most purely incidental relationships. Not, I suspect, here. There is a long slow shot (indeed, there are hundreds of long slow shots, but one in particular) forward out the windscreen of Johan's pickup - itself doubling as a visible lens - as he drives down a dirt road. When he turns off the road, the truck pivots around the camera as if it is on a gyroscope, the camera continuing to point on its original bearing, only now pointing at the side of Johan's face. The effect is that the viewer cannot help but be aware that there is a movie camera sitting on the passenger seat in Johan's truck. Cinematography 101 would teach that first principle of filmmaking is to create quite the opposite impression.

Not here: The lens constantly intrudes, and when it doesn't we see through windows, through windshields, through ajar doors into private affairs. We are always aware we are intruding.

What to be drawn from this? We are conscious, always, of the aperture - that we are observers, voyeurs in an intensely private world (an extramarital love affair) inside an intensely private world (a devoutly religious family) inside an intensely private world (a Mennonite comunity) and, like the camera, we shouldn't be there.

Profound, I suppose, but I'm not sure what finally to draw from it. I feel much the same way about the film as a whole.

There's something clever about this, but it's too clever: self-consciously self-conscious, and tiring - divining which production artefacts bear messages and which do not is hard, and exhausting. In many places I gave up.

I didn't understand, for example, the significance of a momentarily lost child, discovered safe and sound and watching an old recording of a Jacques Brel TV special, in French, in a van. Why? And why a long dead Belgian folk-singer? Could a director who takes such care to speak via lens flares and camera angles have been so careless to throw in such a scene apropos nothing? And what to make of the end, wherein a studiously realist film suddenly goes surreal, apparently capable only of figurative interpretation?

Some high brow critics loved this film - the one through whose recommendation I came to be watching it, Nigel Andrews in the Financial Times, was so taken by its luminescence to declare it "the impossible made possible by grace and faith" - but for me it was too empty for that. Much has been read into the celebrated opening and closing shots but, again, I couldn't quite see the cleverness (and as you'll notice, I'm prepared to be as creative/fanciful as the next chap in my interpretation), and so let dusk fall not that much wiser than I'd been when daylight broke a couple of hours previously.

Olly Buxton

Ravishing photography, langorous pace
This is a visual experience rather than an auditory one. The photography and framing of shots is stunningly beautiful. Sometimes the director holds a picture so long that it looks almost like a still of a painting. There is a quiet stillness about the film that is very soothing and the antithesis of the frenetic-style of many Hollywood movies. The story unfolds so slowly it seems as if it's a fly-on-the-wall documentary with little editing. There are long pauses between almost monosyllabic dialogue, but one keeps watching as one wants to know the outcome of the love-triangle that is the central story.