Morbid Fascination

Can a slow Romanian film about death be exciting? Time Out marvels at the directorial talents of Cristi Puiu.

Jul 12 2006

The true merit of film festivals is not that they let you see the latest Loach or Almodóvar before your friends, but that they facilitate the discovery of lesser-known filmmakers. It's on the promise of relatively new and young filmmakers that we pin our hopes for a healthy filmic future. At last year's Cannes, for this writer and many others, the most exciting new kid on the Croisette was Cristi Puiu, whose 'The Death of Mr Lazarescu' took top prize in the Un Certain Regard strand.

Actually, his first feature, 'Stuff and Dough', had played there in the 2001 Directors' Fortnight, while his 2004 short 'Cigarettes and Coffee' won a Golden Bear in Berlin. Though both are superb, at the time of his Cannes triumph the Romanian was unknown to most of us, which made 'Lazarescu' all the more exhilarating a find.

'Exhilarating?' I hear a sceptic ask. 'When did we last see a good film from Romania? And isn't this movie supposed to be long and slow – and about a horrible old man dying? Exhilarating?'

Trust me, please. For starters, try to recall when you last saw a movie that treated mortality properly. So many films kill off characters, but when did one last remind you how fragile life is, and make you think about what it means not to be here any more? Films that take seriously such questions – which are relevant to us all – can be counted on the fingers of one hand. 'Lazarescu' would be in the line-up.

Moreover, Puiu's a natural director. 'Lazarescu' might last 164 minutes; it might be a little slow; it might centre on a not entirely sympathetic sexagenarian nursing an ulcer aggravated by alcoholism while he's being ferried in an ambulance from hospital to unwelcoming hospital. But the film is utterly engrossing.

The secret of Puiu's success lies partly in his decision to use long takes suggestive of 'real time' (the film's two-and-a-half hours depict events lasting perhaps six or seven) and partly in the grounding of his grittily 'realist' style through meticulous research. His depiction of the behaviour of Bucharest's doctors, nurses and paramedics is so wholly credible that many non-Romanians find themselves reminded of their own country's health services.

Explains Puiu: 'The critic André Bazin said there were two kinds of filmmakers: those in love with movies and those in love with life. Movies by the first group can be very entertaining, but that satisfaction's different from what I get from people like Cassavetes or Rohmer. When I studied filmmaking in Geneva, my teacher asked what kind of films I wanted to make. I told him: films in which people sleep, and work.

'With this one I wanted to avoid the three-act drama; I'm interested in repetition. I'd heard of a case in the '90s when a patient was sent from hospital to hospital; finally the paramedic left him in the street. The guy died, the paramedic went to prison… though none of the doctors did. Those were my starting points, and I discussed with my writing partner how to structure it.

'It was difficult finding the right tone and point of view – we did think of centring on a paramedic or doctor. But once we'd decided to focus on the patient, it became clearer that the story – the first of a series I'm doing about different kinds of love, called "Stories from the Bucharest Suburbs" – was about love of life.'

One reason Puiu's handling of his material is so convincing is that he was able to draw on first-hand experience. 'I know about all this because in 2001 I was struck by a severe case of hypochondria. It had been a long, painful struggle to make my first film; also, many men develop hypochondria in their 30s or 40s. I kept thinking I might have cancer; I didn't see a doctor because I was afraid of what I'd be told, so I read endless books and websites.

'Then I switched from cancer to heart disease, then to paralysing nerve-related illnesses. Neurologists said nothing was wrong, but I kept thinking I had ALS [amyotrophic lateral sclerosis] because my muscles were twitching. Only after a year of seeing a psychotherapist did I stop reading the books and websites. My greatest fear of all was of an illness where I wouldn't be understood. It's hard for us to understand each other anyway; imagine not even being able to express yourself properly! That's why the film develops as it does.

'Death is so strange. Once, late at night by myself, I was watching a film in which Cagney died, and I wondered: what happens if I die at the very moment I'm watching his death? I know it's fiction but I'm identifying with him anyway! You build up a life, do things that somehow represent you, and then die in circumstances that have nothing to do with that life – like watching Cagney die! Death can be so absurd, so senseless. Take Lazarescu – wife long dead, sister in Canada, cats back home: he's among strangers, has nothing with him that's close to him any more. The cliché is you die in bed surrounded by family, but it's seldom like that.'

Don't imagine Puiu as a miserabilist, however. Like his conversation, his film is laced with humour. 'That was especially important in the scenes with the doctors and nurses; very often humour is their way of protecting themselves in order to do the job; you can't suffer along with every patient!' – and he's optimistic enough to have already written treatments for the entire 'Bucharest Suburbs' series.

'In 2003, I was going through a sort of Rohmer period, and wrote all six stories: they're about love of your kids, love of success, sexual love and so on. People ask if the prizes I won have helped my plans for the future, but the funny thing is, winning them has only made finding finance more difficult. In Romania, people turn against you if you're successful. It's as if they think you're an enemy of the people.'

'The Death of Mr Lazarescu' opens on Friday.

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