I am often reluctant to put myself into the hands of an art filmmaker and then have to sit passively absorbing something. Is it just some abstract philosophical notion, as I found, somewhat, with Quatre Volte a few weeks ago. It was alright, even pretty good, but I wanted something more.
As Poetry's first scenes unfolded, I wondered whether I was in for another passive couple of hours. I had just had dinner and I even fell asleep for an instant. Fortunately my wife nudged me. There was much of interest, after all. A grandmotherly woman, washing an old man who has been a stroke victim. She is a quiet woman. She goes to a clinic and is examined by a doctor. She goes home, a middle class, rather small apartment, where she provides room and board for her teenage grandson.
Scene by scene goes by, a bit of drama here and there. It is not too long before one realizes he is in the hands of a poet, hence the title, a poet filmmaker, a celebrator of the ordinary. There is no music except the music of life. Although the woman attends a poetry class, hoping to learn how to write a poem, there is little spoken poetry that is not rather banal.
It is not simply that a crime has been committed, that this film becomes so engrossing. It unfolds on many levels. There is, of course, simply the matter of allowing oneself to be absorbed in a foreign language and an Eastern culture. The story could not have been the same in the West, but I don't want to give too much away.
The woman wonders, how could her very own grandson have been involved in such a crime? Why will he not speak to her about it? She visits the various scenes involved. She goes to see the victim's mother, without telling the mother who she is.
No one else seems to be sensitive about the incident or the victim's family, perhaps because that family is a poor, fatherless one. Indeed, the only fathers we see in the film are attempting to cover up what happened. Grandmother herself seems quite insensitive about it; she is no heroine, just a rather ordinary woman just getting by.
But she wants to write a poem. She wants beauty in her life again. Somehow, beauty has gone away like her youth, and she may even be falling into Alzeimher's disease.
All of this and more unfolds like a masterpiece, a multitextured collage of many levels. And in the end, it is not disease or old age to which we must succumb, but simply heartbreak. At the end of her poetry class, she is the only one to have written a poem, and what a masterful, deeply moving story it tells. In the end she has become something so much greater than her ordinary, everyday self; I found it powerfully moving, powerfully affirming of life.