Roy Andersson closes out (for now) his absurdist trilogy on 'what it's like to be a human being' with another masterfully crafted series of deadpan, drip-dried, comedy vignettes. Armed with a characteristic jet black wit; the odd unexpected hook to the stomach; and an impeccable eye for cinematic detail; the 71 year old director has found a warm defiant humanity amdst all that overcast Scandinavian gloom.
We open, as they do in that part of the world, with a few short gags about death. We see a daft looking fella take in a natural history exhibit; and a canteen deciding what to do with a dead man's food; before happening upon our two downtrodden leads. Sam and Jonathon (Nils Westblom & Holger Anderson respectfully) are a pair of traveling joke shop salesmen who stumble about town, flogging their wares. They appear relatively chuffed with their current haul, all things considered, but no one else in town seems to feel the same.
This act provides a point of focus from scene to scene but Andersson's films have always been more of a variety show. We get a tremendous musical bar scene in 1943; a hands-on dance instructor groping one of her troupe; and a cavalry filled cafe as prince Charles XII heads off to war. We might laugh at, instead of with, these miserable souls, but the real shake of watching this film is that, like it or not, you see yourself up there too.
This act provides a point of focus from scene to scene but Andersson's films have always been more of a variety show. We get a tremendous musical bar scene in 1943; a hands-on dance instructor groping one of her troupe; and a cavalry filled cafe as prince Charles XII heads off to war. We might laugh at, instead of with, these miserable souls, but the real shake of watching this film is that, like it or not, you see yourself up there too.
Anderson hones a particular brand of humour which seems both ornate and absurd. Had they been born on that particularly chilly peninsula, it's the sort of stuff you might expect the Pythons to have done. However, unlike the Python's (all due respect), Anderson happens to be a top level aestheticist too. His lovingly hand crafted sets express a mad, tragic gloom. His colour palette recalls over-boiled cabbage and his cast look like they've never seen a warm sunny day.
It's all counterpointed beautifully to the marching tones of Glory Glory Hallelujah. It's a simple and effective underscore, which plays throughout, but Andersson uses it in a way to provide the film's last blow. Without giving too much away, the director brazenly holds a mirror up to any lingering colonialist guilt but also to those who remain blissfully ignorant to it. The image alone is an absolute jaw-dropper; but the sweep from humour to depravity is utterly profound.
The director has managed just 6 feature films in the last 45 years but he assured us this week that, thankfully, Pigeon will not be the last. With this trilogy he has shown a standard of technique and artistry which is rarely seen on screen. Funny; life affirming; tragic; sublime. In fewer words: A masterpiece. The Venice Film Festival's Golden Lion might have just turned a snotty shade of green.
