Dizzying Poetry
Petra Costa is not only one of Brazil's best filmmakers. She's one of the world's best filmmakers, period.
I've written before about her first feature documentary, Elena. Her 2019 film The Edge of Democracy is a masterfully constructed work of poetry. It unfolds like a real-life Shakespearean tale, with the vividness and intimacy of a personal journal, even as it ambitiously encompasses decades of Brazilian political history.
As a documentary film editor myself, I could scarcely believe the quality of the historical footage unearthed for this film, and the electrifying nature of the original footage she captures. Her camera finds its way into the most impossible places, witnessing moments of tremendous historical importance from inches away. This will live on not only as a great film, but as a historical document of one government's descent into autocracy and populism.
But the beautiful thing about Petra's film is its use of poetry, not only of the written word, but of the moving image, the textured soundscapes, the moments of pause and reflection. These are woven together, sometimes in the most unexpected ways, conveying feelings more effectively than most words could. Impressive aerial photography shows massive protests, or sometimes meanders at askew angles up the side of government buildings, or through the quiet, pristine interiors of the Presidential home at dusk, as Petra's voice meditates in her earnest attempt to discern reality from fiction. The minimal, soft, sometimes classical music, doesn't forcibly evoke a response, it only subtly underlines a profound sense of dread implied by the work as a whole.
And in particular scenes, the choice of visual juxtaposition leaves a lasting imprint on the viewer's mind, the likes of which a plainly literal interpretation could not. In one scene, we learn that President Dilma Rousseff, when she was an activist in her youth, was tortured in prison by the military government. We hear a recent audio interview with her where she's describing the only way she could withstand the torture, which was to fool herself into thinking that it would only last a minute more. Most filmmakers would dramatize this with archival photos of Rousseff as a prisoner, or ominous shots of empty prison cells, or even a tasteless reenactment with stand-in-actors filmed in slow-motion and shallow depth-of-field. Instead, Petra overlaps the audio interview with a single shot of present-day Rousseff, following her from behind as she walks through a room full of politicians, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. The viewer is left to make a myriad interpretations and associations more sophisticated than any literal depiction implies.
Sometimes, Petra lingers on an image so powerful and rich that words are not required, and she's confident enough not to cut away too early, or overburden it with explanation. One unbelievable piece of found footage is taken from someone's apartment as they point to a TV set broadcasting a speech by President Rousseff. As the phone camera walks over to the apartment balcony, the TV is almost completely drowned out by a frenzy of voices coming from the streets and hundreds of neighboring high rises, as residents scream profane accusations into the night, echoing in all directions. The camera again returns to the drowned-out voice on the TV set, then back to the balcony, rocking us in a dizzying wave that a traditional montage could not produce as effectively.
Another one of these brilliant moments is the very first shot of the film, which later reappears during the climax. The camera is inside a vehicle as President Lula is being driven away to serve a prison sentence. The lens points out, through the car window, into the night. At first the image is too dim and obstructed to comprehend. We only hear a wash of muted sounds coming from outside, a quiet tumult of low rumbles and bursts, a distorted mesh of inhuman vocalizations. As the image begins to stabilize, come into light and focus, and the audio clarifies, we begin to understand what we're witnessing. But it is barely more comprehensible than before. Through the tinted glass and between frenetic flashes of light, we see that the vehicle is surrounded by a mass of people so tightly packed, scrambling so vociferously to catch a glimpse or snap a photo or record a sound bite, that they are falling over each other and against the glass, producing a chaotic cacophony of desperation, the convulsions of a nation urgently grasping at a flailing, fleeting future.
In the film's final shot one can interpret the meaning of the film's Portuguese title, Democracia em Vertigem, which translates perhaps more literally to Democracy in Vertigo. As Petra shares her concluding thoughts, the camera flies slowly over the National Congress building and above a crowd of protesters. She asks: "What do we do when the mask of civility falls and what appears is an even more haunting image of ourselves? Where do we gather the strength to walk through the ruins and start anew?"
As she says this, the camera gradually tilts down to reveal a dizzying view from above, of the ruinous, scattering crowds, sapped of their energy, as the nation's monument to a crumbling democracy towers from above.
The Edge of Democracy was nominated for an Oscar for Best Documentary Feature, and is available on Netflix.
