Attempting to address Tirza

More views of - or after - Cambridge Film Festival 2011
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9 October

* Contains spoilers *

Since I saw Tirza (my second viewing being on 21 September), I have thought about it on many days – unlike some, I would not choose to describe it as having haunted me, even though the visitations would be benign ones, but say that I have pictured scenes in it and their emotional force, or the latter through the former.

On a first viewing, I was less sure, because I am interested in the depiction of issues relating to mental health, and I wanted to be sure that I was still persuaded, despite knowing the end from the beginning: I am now convinced that I should read the novel, to see which is the more powerful work. In the meantime – in the face of a list of reading priorities - the essential triangle of Jörgen, looking for Tirza with Kaisa, remains highly evocative.

The pressures that have been on Jörgen become clear early on: staged redundancy, domestic abuse verging on a humiliating kind of violence, unforeseen loss of financial stability, and, amidst it all, overcompensating by trying too hard to be a good father. The list is not meant to be reductionist or exhaustive, and it is not one whose force Jörgen recognizes or understands (in its totality), but they are facts (from some of which he knows that he tries to escape through alcohol, which he calls a medicine for shame) - and all of us would react differently to any one of them.

If I had to say what the film is, I would end up with a phrase such as ‘meditative tragedy’. However, that term in no way gives expression to the ambivalent relationship between Jörgen and Tirza, his daughter; which, itself, is one that Kaisa, in another country (although she should be able to follow Jörgen, whether he speaks in Dutch or English), only knows about directly through him (and, probably also, because of what he does not say).

Tirza, although the film as named after her, is the absence at the heart of the film to - and through - which Kaisa and Jörgen relate, and around whom they navigate Namibia (whose scenery is beautifully portrayed, when we leave the confined atmosphere of Windhoek, and, even more so, the area where Kaisa lives). This is all very sensitively and thoughtfully done, with tremendous, and very inner, performances from Keitumetse Matlabo (as Kaisa) and Gijs Scholten van Aschat (Jörgen).

Early on, Jörgen says that he likes Kaisa, because he can talk to her – we may (as I did) not be sure how much she understands, but the scene in Big Mama shows perfectly that she has followed what has gone on, with, if it does not sound patronizing, wisdom and depth beyond her years. (It does not matter that she does not have much to say, because she does far more than speak lines.)

For she is no mere excuse for us to hear what is on Jörgen’s heart, hear his confession, as she would be in a lesser work that failed to think out the dynamics. Kaisa is the catalyst for much, if not all, that happens in this land to which Jörgen is foreign (and where, perhaps aware of the colonial past, feels his awkwardness and embarrassment): she senses his need, his literal need, when she says ‘Need company, sir?’, and she helps and guides him to find what he has buried in and from himself.

We are left thinking about her, left wondering what could have been, left remembering how it all unfolded – when that happens, and when it is still happening weeks later, a real piece of cinema has been made and witnessed. Thank you, Rudolf van den Berg, for bringing Tirza to the big screen!


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Some time for Tirza

More views of - or at - Cambridge Film Festival 2011
(Click here to go directly to the Festival web-site)

22 September

I'd have to check, but I think that I briefly reported on seeing Tirza again - in fact, remembering the tag-line, I know that I did.

Tirza is the missing daughter of the main male character, Jörgen, and his distinctly unpleasant wife, who appears during the disappearance in a way that he does not seem able to do much about - she is much like the irresistible force, although not in the obvious sense. She does not have very much to say about Tirza's sister Ibi, but states her dislike for Tirza quite clearly, whereas, for Tirza's father, the opposite view is that she is the Sun Queen (and Tirza even has a disguised form of this name in the front of her diary).

That set me thinking a bit, rather belatedly, and led to an Internet search for want of any better way to find data in Festival central: a book on Akhenaton's wife Nefertiti calls her 'Egypt's Sun Queen', and shows the well-known statue of her head, which I was lucky enough to be in Berlin to see two years ago. (To be honest, it sounded more like something (wrong country!) out of Hans Christian Andersen, and maybe it is...)

Plenty of sun in Namibia, where Jörgen (pestered by telephone by his wife) goes in search of Tirza and her boyfriend Choukri, not least where he decides to head, out from Windhoek (the capital) into the desert known as Big Mama. Queen = Mother? (Sun Queen, not Sun Princess, anyway.)

Yet the real ray of sunlight that he finds is in another young life (Kaisa), who resists his attempts to search alone for the pair. And does she understand when he lapses into his native Dutch? According to Wikipedia, she might, since, although English became the official when the country gained independence in 1990, it seems that Afrikaans is widely understood. That said, Jörgen never tries his Dutch (even when he is failing to communicate in English, as happens several times), and he only talks aloud in it with Kaisa, when there is nothing to suggest whether she understands.

I may already have said that this film coalesces and coheres on a second viewing - some films just don't pass the test, because what you know at the end is inconsistent with the earlier part of the story, and you don't always know that until revisiting the territory. With a great film, a great story, it doesn't matter that you know where you are heading, because the journey there is beautifully done: oh, some mystery remains even then, but it strengthens one's conviction that it says something real about being human.