Alexandra Makarova's second feature portrays an exiled mother and painter who decides to return to her native Slovakia in the early 1980s after the release of her daughter's father.
Being a single mother and successful painter is already difficult to maintain. But doing so as an exile who escaped the Soviet bloc and suffered deep trauma as a result is even more harrowing, especially when the past comes back to haunt you.
Director: Alexandra Makarová
Writer: Alexandra Makarová
Stars: Simon Schwarz, Rebeka Poláková, Noel Czuczor
Such are the burdens faced by Perla, the titular heroine of Alexandra Makarova's promising second feature, which screened in Karlovy Vary following its Rotterdam premiere in January. Gritty and tense, with stunning attention to period detail, the film is both a portrait of a rebellious artist and a time capsule revealing lives shattered by the Iron Curtain just a decade before its fall.
Like a cross between The Memory of Joanna Hogg and Pawel Pawlikowski's The Cold War, Perla oscillates between scenes of postmodern artmaking and Soviet-era political conflicts, focusing on a Slovakian painter (Rebeka Polakova) trying to raise her daughter, Julia (Carmen Diego), in Vienna circa 1981.
Years have passed since Perla fled to the West, and despite her accent, she has managed to adapt well to life in Austria. Known for her art brut canvases in the style of Jean Dubuffet, she is about to present her first solo exhibition in New York. And she has also begun a passionate relationship with Josef (Simon Schwarz), a globetrotting bon vivant who reveres Perla as both an artist and a lover.
But all this comes crashing down when Julia's father, Andrej (Noel Czuczor), is released from prison in Slovakia. He and Perla share a turbulent past, though the film takes a while to reveal what happened to them. When Andrej calls asking to see his daughter, claiming he's dying of cancer, Perla has no choice but to escape to her homeland with Julia and Josef.
Makarova and cinematographer Georg Weiss capture the family saga in still shots that often unfold without cuts, with the camera observing from a safe distance. This gives the actors plenty of scope while allowing us to capture every nuance of Klaudia Kiczak's sets, which convincingly recreate the muted tones of the era. There's an underlying coldness to this style that also reflects the period. But the film also features sudden bursts of emotion, especially in the scenes between mother, daughter, and a father who has been missing for so many years.
Perla ultimately finds herself caught between two lives: the one she led in Slovakia as a young artist in love with Andrej, a photographer whose career ended when he was arrested, and the one she has forged abroad, as a promising painter and a fun and loving mother to Julia. The psychological tug-of-war is enough to make her lose her mind, which seems to happen once they arrive in the East. One scene particularly underlines her state of mind: in a gloomy cafe, Perla orders too many dishes for the table, as if to prove she doesn't need to respect Soviet rationing. When a man chides her for being gluttonous, she stuffs herself to the point of vomiting.
The director was partially inspired by the story of her own mother, a Slovak artist who raised her in Austria (the paintings seen on screen are hers), and there is much in this drama that feels authentic. The sequences set in Košice (a city in eastern Slovakia), as well as in the small mining town where Perla grew up, are particularly realistic, as if they were filmed in their time.
It is during her return home that Perla is confronted with what she has been fleeing: widespread Soviet oppression, but also a country that has no place for a female artist. She learns—or rediscovers—that her homeland is deeply sexist, whether in the way Andrej attacks her or in a disturbing ritual in the village where men grab women and throw them into a stream. It's meant to be a joke, but the act forces Perla to relive the trauma she experienced while crossing the border illegally.
However, there are moments when Makarova can't decide what to focus her attention on: the political conflicts of the early 1980s? Perla's artistic career? The mother-daughter story? The love triangle between Perla, Josef, and Andrej? This can cloud the drama at times, although the direction is sharp and restrained enough to keep the film contained.
The cast is solid overall, and Polakova (The Auschwitz Report) is so believable as the painter Perla Adamova that, for most of the film, it feels like we're watching a genuine biopic. In fact, believability is probably its greatest strength, whether in the haunting scene or the film itself.
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