Kosmos

It is a sad sight when a talented filmmaker allows themselves the luxury of their own vanity.

This film is unfortunately within that category. A mishmash of previous efforts and constant spoon feeding of style without substance, the viewer can hardly follow the plot line. Such an experienced filmmaker should have known that visuals and atmosphere is nothing without a solid plot line.

Erdem's previous efforts were better, but Kosmos unfortunately is catered to the inexperienced standards of Turkish film-goers as an art film. For those of us in Europe and America however, it is mediocre at best.

While almost all Turkish so-called directors/producers want to create something which can be understood easily, with the most popular way and scenarios, and with no any effort to bring something new to Turkish cinema.. this guy -on the contrary- prefers to walk towards very strong tides, he knows that this kind of films would not make him any more richer or more famous, as this film is not for %95 of Turkish people (hope i am not too much optimistic)...unfortunately our people tends to watch slow and easy-to-understand things, or so-called comedy films full of slang and cheap jokes, or films/soap operas full of out-of-line relations, there is no any preparation in acting nor any deep meaning in story, just cheap characters with poor conversations, nothing to edit, nothing to worry about...So, as a Turkish citizen, i must thank Reha Erdem for this incredible film, not only because i like this movie, but also because really i am proud of him as a Turkish director. I don't want to talk about the film, there are plenty of explanations, but, whatever is told, this film is a must-watch for Turkish People first because Reha Erdem made this film with many difficulties and has brought something new no doubt, there is no any other such film you can compare with, whats more, its really good.

Granted this movie is one of the best Turkish films in its visual aspects. it is so wonderful to see this in a movie that has a very pale color scheme. you can pause most of the scenes and exhibit them as photographs. and i would be glad to hang one of them on my wall.

and it had a symphony concert affect to my ears. I cannot articulate what else to say about that. defining sound is as hard as defining the taste of an apple.

however, a director should always bear in mind that having a wonderful visuality and delightful sound necessarily suggest a wonderful film. I understand that this movie tries to separate itself from the rest with claiming that it has some issues to share, it wants to show you people something and do not want to make these so obvious because it is afraid of being a mainstream trash with its storytelling.

but this kind of an approach also bears the risk of being an outcast which limits the number of theaters that wants to screen it because the movie has the risk of not being understood since it avoids the traditional storytelling. therefore director's complaints about not being able to find a big number of theaters is meaningless when a director sets out for this. there is no way that this kind of festival movies will get closer to 100 000 viewers.

To conclude, wonderful photography, frantic sound but a weak plot and storytelling which leaves everything all over the place and above all such a weak script (which makes you think that it was intentional but I did not feel that) ends up to this. max 7 thousand viewers and a discouraging step for the following filmography. (for the director, for the producers, for the theater and most importantly for the viewer.)

Contains spoilers.

Reha Erdem's Kosmos is a rare film that exhilarates the spirit. Unclassifiable, it's best placed in one of those niches set aside for oddball jewels. Not a perfectly cut diamond – it digresses here and there and could be slightly trimmed – but a highly polished one nevertheless. Its hero Battal, who calls himself Kosmos, is brilliantly brought to life by Sermet Yesil. Yesil crafts him into one of the strangest and most endearing characters to emerge out of recent cinematic history. Quirky and intense, with a sub-layer of sadness that seems to reflect the suffering of the world.

The film begins with his dramatic entry into the Turkish city of Kars, in eastern Anatolia, near the Armenian border. Erdem takes his time with the opening scenes: gripping and feverish, against a palette of sounds and snowscapes, they set the film's tone and prefigure its ending. Battal is a distant figure engulfed by a wintry landscape, running fearfully from unseen pursuers as he downs a snow-covered hill towards the river that runs through the city. He hears a young woman calling for help as she runs along the bank after the body of her brother, floating downstream in rushing water. After hiding a wad of bills (stolen?) under a rock, Battal pulls the child out of the water. In a wild frenzy of hugs, cries and rolling about, her brother is resuscitated. The beautiful young woman (Türkü Turan), who claims the boy was dead, finds instant affinity with Battal, and decides to call herself Neptune.

Battal is then received as a hero by the locals and the neighborhood café owner offers him room and board for the menial job of clearing tables. The film recounts the events that occur as he shirks the job, steals money (which he mostly gives away) and roams the city, trying to alleviate the suffering of his fellows.

It is soon clear that this stranger is a man of uncanny powers and otherworldly connections. Drawing his febrile energy from no more than sugar lumps and tea, he shimmies up trees like a feline and emits birdsong as he leaps, swings or flies (we never really see) from branch to branch. In one shrilling, virtuoso scene with Neptune, we get a flashing glimpse of his (their?) feet turned into those of a bird and of Battal walking upside down across a ceiling.

His presence deregulates clocks, he claims to have been to Alpha Centauri and he has the power to heal, though not infallibly. A child he cures of muteness falls ill and dies, and the brittle school teacher he beds and cures of migraines jumps to her death. The film only drops hints as to why some healings fail and Battal seems as perplexed as we are.

Battal's Kosmos never preaches, but gladly spouts his obtuse philosophy, spiked with homespun homilies, when questioned. He lauds the virtues of eschewing work and the delights of uniting soul and body in erotic love. When this boils down to spending a night of love with Neptune, her father stubs a cigarette out on his hand, but no matter, the burns vanish overnight.

Other things are happening. There are huge and disturbing close-ups of cattle destined for slaughter. Mundane activities such as bringing in the geese are charged with ominous foreboding. But foreboding of what? A satellite that falls from space seems connected to Battal, but how? The film continually suggests that events are taking place at other levels, with deeper significances than meet the eye, but what are they? All of this is helped along by the film's exceptionally effective sound design and soundtrack, used as powerful mood enhancers, generating tension as the pace accelerates, giving rise to expectations of impending disaster, but does it ever come?

Mysteries and loose ends abound at the end, most of all the identity of the elusive Battal. But the film's tight structure, centering on Battal and the Kars neighborhood, easily keeps the film from overloading As in Lynch, Kosmos is best experienced through emotional connections and recognitions than through reasoning. But while Lynch peels off layers of psyche to reveal our beasts within, Erdem quite happily relegates everything to the macrocosm. At the film's end, he whirls us upwards on an exhilarating ride deep into the real cosmos, where sheer awe tends to make any need for explanation seem paltry. In this film's magical way, everything comes harmoniously together in this joy ride to the stars, music crescendoing to the point of explosion.

Altruistic thief, loopy star man, hybrid human – let's just say that Battal is blessed with unearthly powers that invite us to revel in the strangeness of the world. The film also invites reflection on marginality, tolerance and the meaning of freedom. For Battal is the bothersome man in the timeless tale of the other, the intruding visitor who rattles the social and moral order, pointing at their contradictions and hypocrisy. The status quo will never accommodate him, and he hightails it out of Kars just as he came in – this time running up the snowy hill, a tiny dot lost in the wintry landscape, with the police hot on his trail for thieving and basic "undesirability".

A neat subtext emerges when a right-wing activist makes the rounds, drumming up support to oppose proposed measures to open the border with Armenia, in an effort to stimulate trade. Suspicious, he questions Battal about the nature of his visit. Battal replies only that he is an "unexpected guest". Disarmed, the hunky xenophobe can only utter back "welcome".

That's what we should say too after seeing this exuberant film, teetering on the brink of a minor masterpiece.

Reha Erdem's Kosmos is a barren land, a desolate white town inhabited by ghosts, ghosts that are as real as you and I. In this cosmos, chance encounters have the power to throw things in and out of their orbit, and miracles are just as imminent as death.

Through the masterful camera-work we follow the main character Kosmos (remarkable performance by Sermet Yesil) as he wanders through the snow-laden wilderness in eastern Turkey. His presence has a prominent role in the villagers lives, lives that are so wrapped up by borders and boundaries, real and imaginary, that never have come to grasp their true selves.

The strength of the film largely benefits from the expressive performances from all of the cast. Thank you Reha Erdem and everyone involved with this spellbinding film for restoring my faith in Turkish cinema.