Telepolis

Some would argue that Argentinean director Esteban Sapir's La Antena is an exercise in anachronistic futility; that, while the silent films to which Sapir's pays homage were at the cutting edge of cinema when they were made, they are outdated today, leaving La Antena a meaningless oddity.

I would disagree. Fervently. La Antena melds the conventions of the silent film with 21st century technology, making it the ultimate exercise in post-modern film-making.

The film is set in the timeless "The City Without a Voice", so called because the citizens have been rendered speechless by Mr. TV, a dictator/media mogul with his hair painted on. The City resembles the titular one in Fritz Lang's seminal Metropolis (1927), perhaps 100 years before that film. It is all expressionist skyscrapers, TV aerials, and animated billboards.

The citizens of the City are mollified by La Voz (The Voice), the only person with the gift of speech. Her face perpetually shrouded by a hood (kept on even when she is naked), La Voz is forced to sing on Mr. TV's television network. But when Mr. TV concocts a plan to steal the written word as well, La Voz and her eyeless son join forces with a renegade family in an attempt to return the freedom of speech to the people.

La Antena is nothing but pure cinema. Burdening himself with the conventions of the silent film, Sapir has to rely upon images to tell his story. There is sound, most notably in the almost continuous score by Leo Sujatovich. It evokes the best of silent movie music, as well as ingenuously working itself into the film's diegesis, such as the beeping of car horns, or the rhythmic ra-ta-tat-tat of gunfire. And, underlying the whole film is a familiar whirring, as if it were being shown on an ancient projector.

There is a fair amount of dialogue as well. But instead of using intertitles, Sapir has the characters' words appear in the frame. They are larger or smaller, filling the screen or hovering meekly in the air, depending on what is being said. Think a more imaginative version of the subtitles in Night Watch (2004).

Thankfully, the words don't distract from the images. Which is very fortunate indeed, because La Antena boasts some of the most creative and original images we've seen in a long time, all captured by Cristian Cottet's sumptuous black-and-white photography. There are the expressionist cityscapes. The hooded singer and her eyeless son. There is the city's abandoned aerial, which looks like the decayed remains of some colossal spider. And there's the sinister Dr. Y, whose jabbering mouth is displayed on a television screen attached to his face.

La Antena has been criticised for relying too much on its imagery, while skimping on the allegorical depth. But, again, I would disagree. It is true that the sudden appearance of a mind-control machine shaped like a swastika, or the eyeless boy seemingly crucified on a Star of David, feels out of place, a tad over the top in what is otherwise merely a well-crafted fairy tale.

But the lack of overt symbols (the two previous examples aside) works in the film's favour. It allows us to make up our own minds: to decide whether to infer political meaning, to see La Antena as an allegory for fascism, the danger of capitalist monopolies, and the power and responsibility of the media; or to just take the film at face value, as a visually stunning adventure through a world simultaneously unique and familiar.

The sacrifice of explicit depth in favour of unique imagery may seem like a compromise. But, really, when a film looks as good as this, it's hard to care. There is more imagination and artistry in every frame of La Antena than Hollywood can shake a derivative stick at. Evoking films almost 100 years old might be futile, but in doing so, Sapir may be showing us what is lacking in the films of today. He may be telling us that it is time for another artistic revolution. And he may be right.

For those who appreciate the intersection of silent cinema and social commentary, this is a unique film. Part homage to German expressionism, part allegory, the film is replete with visual symbolism and an artistic style that rivals anything seen since the 1920's. Moreover, the attention to period detail and the visual composition of the scenes as an instrument for advancing the story is stunning. Aside from this, the plot offers an interesting commentary on the role of the media in society and its effect on social voice, perception, and opinion. In truth, it's not so much the silence that permeates the film as it is the loss of voice and the loss of words to communicate and express thought that inevitably follows. In sum, this film is something not often seen and, as the producer of the film said in the Q&A that followed, will leave you thinking about its meaning well into the next day.

I've seen this movie twice on Transilvania International Film Festival(TIFF), the movie is in competition and I really hope that Esteban Sapir will get one of the awards (at least the best image award).

As a silent cinema fan I'm interested in contemporary movies that quote or recreate the language of the yester-year cinema. The previous reviewer emphasized the quotes from Fritz Lang and Fr. W. Murnau. As I see it, the movie references directly Lang's Metropolis, and the allegorical-parabolic character of his plots. But I didn't see Murnau in it. There's a more obvious Melies-homage though: the Moon with a (here cigar-smoking) human face, and the paper-made, painted mountains and city-landscapes. I enjoyed the film mostly for its visuals, and in the meantime I found very interesting the story on muteness, and the creative means of communication used by the inhabitants of the voiceless city. From this perspective this movie is an unique reflexion on the muteness of the silent cinema, because in the films of the silent period one can hardly find stories with mute characters. In this case can be questioned whether the story on the stolen voices was the motivation for the silent film form, or there's an intention to play upon the muteness of the silent films. Another example of this kind of reflexion I found in Guy Maddin's Careful,where the inhabitants of a mountain-village have restrictions in using their voices. I intend to write a paper on it, if you know movies related to this topic, please let me know!!!

I highly recommend Esteban Sapir's film to every moviegoer (one of the critics called it: the jewel of the festival).

PS: Winners were announced, and the film won the award for best cinematography!

Stunning! One of the most visually fascinating films. It's almost like Georges Méliès took a time machine to the 70's, dropped acid, stole a Stanley Kubrick script, and channeled Spielberg, Burton, and Wes Anderson into this dream like un-reality. The cinematography and editing are mastered in the perfect sense of cinema, paying great homage to filmmakers of the 20's and 30's. The production design, costumes, and the use of the dialogue subtitles are extremely creative and visually relevant to the story, and the practical effects complete the surreal dream world. But what really holds this movie together, like a comforting blanket during a weird dream, is the score. Complementing every shot, action, emotion, and visual cue. Visual storytelling at its finest!

Having recorded this film from the television as many as four months ago, it'd been waiting in my to-watch pile for an achingly long time. Something about its premise put me off from watching it for so long; foolish considering that no premise could accurately sell La Antena.

In a big city of voiceless denizens in a time unspecified, television has a unique control over the masses, the soothing singing of the uniquely gifted "La Voz" (The Voice) fascinating them. The be-hooded singer does so under the employ of the evil Señor TV in order to earn eyes for her blind son, who—through a mistaken address—befriends Anna, the daughter of a recently dismissed television technician.

The summary I have just composed is both entirely accurate and completely irrelevant. Such is the nature of La Antena, a film which immediately announces itself as rather more than just a narrative—wild, wacky, and wholly original though that narrative may be. Firstly, the film is aesthetically stunning: composed in a beautiful monochrome; effulgently photographed; and composed of a miasma of fantastic effects which hearken back to cinema's earliest days. The references to the cinema of days gone by are many and frequent, in both the visuals, the lighting, the camera angles, and of course a replication of the moon itself from Méliès' Le Voyage dans la Lune. The film is completely packed with tips of the hat to German Expressionism, Film Noir, and—I'm reliably informed, having yet to see it myself—Lang's Metropolis. It is undoubtedly a film for cinephiles, the throwbacks to the silent era a delight to witness, and mixed expertly with the aforementioned early techniques. Double exposures are commonplace, used to delightful effect, especially toward the end of the film. What is modern and innovative about the film, however, is its abandonment of the classic silent film inter-title in favour of words given physical, interactive form on-screen. The words mouthed by the silent characters appear before them, echoing an earlier statement along the lines of "we still have our words". These objects are manipulatable, lending the film an odd but undeniably unique quality which furthers its memorability. As a (largely) silent film, it relies heavily upon its soundtrack, which does a solid job, often mixing with the actions on-screen in a slightly comical way. The bizarre arrangement of characters adds to the humour which runs throughout the film, a largely situational humour engendered through the oddity of this world and those occupying it. Large parts of the narrative are, unsurprisingly, unfathomable, the film much more about allegory than it is storyline. Save for two particularly detractive and diminutive pieces of symbolism in the film's final act, it functions as an inquisitive social commentary, gently criticising the manipulation of the masses by the mainstream media, and suggesting that perhaps we need a saviour of sorts from the brainless garbage which attempts to control us—a role it jokingly suggests it might itself fulfil.

Bookended by particularly wonderful sequences of a typewriter's words translating to music, La Antena is quite, quite unlike anything else you are ever likely to see. Originality is this film's forté; reference and fond recreation its cornerstone. Though its message is perhaps a little too gentle to be of any significant effect, it is the kind of film that ought to be enjoyed by all who love cinema.