This was a big thing when it came out, fellow Greek readers will attest to that. It was aggressively promoted as both 'expensive' and 'prestigious', it seems a rare thing for Greek cinema. The story went that the filmmaker had to mortgage his own house to finance his vision, proof of bold artistic merit. The movie played theatrically for what seemed like endless months - to make back its partly government-subsidized budget the rumor goes, since little interest materialized abroad. Schools planned 'educational' trips to the cinema, probably for the same reason.
How small it seems now. You can see loftier production values on TV, and probably much better acting and a less grating parade of profundities.
What really offends though is the spirit behind the work. It's not that it is dull and completely without insight about its own craft. It is both these things, but that's a simple incompetence. I mean, here is a film about a man of extraordinary vision who wanted to paint with light, and the 'inspirational' film about him is wholly ordinary, as lush and spiritual as perfume. What poor use of Aris Stavrou, who once liked to puzzle (next to Nikos Nikolaidis) about texture and light.
It's that Smaragdis hoped to capture a bit of Greek soul (not necessarily historical 'truth') and journey with it abroad, a noble aim. Capture us as we dream ourselves to be, feisty and passionate Zorbas, made pensive by centuries of hardship - a bit like Kusturica did for the neighboring Yugoslavs.
The film is set in those centuries of foreign rule, Italian and Ottoman elsewhere. There was no Rennaisance allowed in those times, it would be good to note, no lofty national art as they could develop in the salons of Western Europe. Our painting was religious. Our theater was song and dance, from Thrace to Crete. The collective soul had to pour that way, which is why they still persist and resonate so strongly in these parts - as elsewhere in the former empire.
You will know it's all phony by watching the scene of proud Cretans dancing after a skirmish with the Italians. You'd think, if there was a bit of ancient Greek song rising from the earth, it would be in that scene. If you are ever in the region, go to a Cretan wedding or folk fest, in fact anywhere in rural Greece during times of celebration. Then watch the posturing in the film. Dismal.
If you want to know a bit about these things, to see actual Balkan spirit, seek out a man called Sergei Parajanov. He was Armenian who made films under Soviet rule, but it is the same soul he captured.
