Uzak is a glorious film, a classic. The basic plot is astonishingly simple to describe - Yusuf, a man from a rural part of Turkey, visits his cousin, Mahmut, in Istanbul, hoping to find a job there. The cousins share a tense time living together in the same flat until, eventually, Yusuf leaves. All of this unfolds slowly and methodically, in a manner that some viewers and critics have found infuriating. Indeed, at times the film seems to almost revel in its inaction - in particular, hints at possible romantic relationships come to nothing as the girls involved quite literally drift out of the picture. Although not a great deal ostensibly happens in Uzak, a great deal is said by the film - particularly on the topic of modern existence. The film's characters are almost always depicted as alienated and anesthetized - Mahmut photographs tiles for a living; people hardly talk to each other; watching television seems to be the universal past- time; and even familial bonds have broken down, as Mahmut bitingly refers to Jusuf as a 'little prick' and a 'filthy son of bitch'. The theme of a dehumanized people is crystallized by one recurrent image in the film - that of Mahmut sat recumbent in an armchair, watching TV. This image (always shot from the same angle, always static - much like Mahmut's life) keeps reappearing; the same each time apart from the differing programs on the screen. Mahmut's unerring attention to the television comes despite the fact that, at one point, he complains:
"The G**Damned thing has 90 channels but there's only sh*t!"
He is clearly a man that has been neutered by TV (porn seems to make up a significant proportion of what he watches), and by the trappings of modernity more generally. And hence one of the film's great triumphs is to make alienation recognizable; holding a mirror up to our own lives. Indeed, it is remarkable how 'real' and true-to-life the film seems - on this matter, I have already mentioned the effectiveness of the slow pace, but I would also draw your attention to the aftermath of the first sexual encounter of the film. In this scene, his mistress having just (wordlessly) departed, Mahmut lies back on the bed only to place his hand in some sticky, sexual residue, which he promptly wipes with a tissue. This is clearly no romanticized view of the world; no Hollywood portrayal of 'love-making', but a presentation of the less-than-perfect realities. Ceylan, I would contend, is a documentarian at heart, taking photographs which capture what is there for us all.
The decay on display here is not only spiritual but also economic. Yusuf goes to Istanbul, in search of work, because both he and his father have been told that they no long have jobs in their local factory. However, the city offers little relief from financial hardship - ships lie derelict and rotting in ports along the Bosporus (overshadowing the humans who created them), and the job-seeking process is nothing more than a series of delays, broken promises and refusals.
Uzak, however, is not devoid of optimism - we can see this through the subtle redemption of Mahmut which occurs at the end of the film. As should be clear from what has been written above, Mahmat's life is one that seems to consist wholly of taking photos of tiles; watching television; keeping his flat tidy; and having inconsequential, unfeeling sex. By contrast, there is a certain impulsiveness and innocence to Yusuf (at one point, he follows around a number of girls that he's interested in), that draws one towards him and demonstrates that he is a more complete and less tormented man than his cousin, despite his (Yusuf's ) poorer financial situation.
Watching so acute and affecting a portrayal of loneliness, ineffectiveness and eventual redemption, the viewer comes to realize that he is being granted special access to the very soul of the filmmaker - only a man who has experienced this trio firsthand can make a film such as this. And, indeed, Nuri Bigle Ceylan made Uzak in what might be called a solitary manner (I like Telerama's description of him as 'L'Artisan Solitaire') - he employed a sparse crew of five, and entrusted to himself many of the film-making roles. Not only did he direct this film but he also wrote it, photographed it, co-edited it, and produced it for his own company (nbc films). We even recognize Ceylan in the character of Mahmut - not only does Mahmat drive a car and live in a flat which, in real life, belong to Ceylan, but Ceylan used to also be a photographer. Although I'm reluctant to use a word which is often so casually applied, Uzak is undeniably the work of a true auteur. But this film does not just represent the maker's past but also, we suspect, his nightmares. When Mahmut's friends comment that:
"You used to say you'd make films like Tarkovsky."
We see clearly what Mahmut is: that is, the failure that Ceylan feared he might become. The references to Tarkovsky that are littered throughout the film thus become more than, say, the 'nods' and ejaculations of some art-film Tarantino - they are an integral part of so personal a story. Whilst it is true that Ceylan is influenced by Tarkovsky, I would argue that, in a certain respect, the references to the Russian master's work are far from flattering - in Uzak, watching a Tarkovsky film is seemingly no worthwhile pursuit but the sad remnant of a forgotten dream; something that can be switched over for pornography (as Mahmut does). It bravely asks: can't mere film-watching be enervating and soulless; a barrier to true human experiences? Shouldn't we be going out and making our own films? One suspects that Ceylan, as someone who has literally been saved by film-making, would answer with a resounding 'Yes!' to these questions.
"The G**Damned thing has 90 channels but there's only sh*t!"
He is clearly a man that has been neutered by TV (porn seems to make up a significant proportion of what he watches), and by the trappings of modernity more generally. And hence one of the film's great triumphs is to make alienation recognizable; holding a mirror up to our own lives. Indeed, it is remarkable how 'real' and true-to-life the film seems - on this matter, I have already mentioned the effectiveness of the slow pace, but I would also draw your attention to the aftermath of the first sexual encounter of the film. In this scene, his mistress having just (wordlessly) departed, Mahmut lies back on the bed only to place his hand in some sticky, sexual residue, which he promptly wipes with a tissue. This is clearly no romanticized view of the world; no Hollywood portrayal of 'love-making', but a presentation of the less-than-perfect realities. Ceylan, I would contend, is a documentarian at heart, taking photographs which capture what is there for us all.
The decay on display here is not only spiritual but also economic. Yusuf goes to Istanbul, in search of work, because both he and his father have been told that they no long have jobs in their local factory. However, the city offers little relief from financial hardship - ships lie derelict and rotting in ports along the Bosporus (overshadowing the humans who created them), and the job-seeking process is nothing more than a series of delays, broken promises and refusals.
Uzak, however, is not devoid of optimism - we can see this through the subtle redemption of Mahmut which occurs at the end of the film. As should be clear from what has been written above, Mahmat's life is one that seems to consist wholly of taking photos of tiles; watching television; keeping his flat tidy; and having inconsequential, unfeeling sex. By contrast, there is a certain impulsiveness and innocence to Yusuf (at one point, he follows around a number of girls that he's interested in), that draws one towards him and demonstrates that he is a more complete and less tormented man than his cousin, despite his (Yusuf's ) poorer financial situation.
Watching so acute and affecting a portrayal of loneliness, ineffectiveness and eventual redemption, the viewer comes to realize that he is being granted special access to the very soul of the filmmaker - only a man who has experienced this trio firsthand can make a film such as this. And, indeed, Nuri Bigle Ceylan made Uzak in what might be called a solitary manner (I like Telerama's description of him as 'L'Artisan Solitaire') - he employed a sparse crew of five, and entrusted to himself many of the film-making roles. Not only did he direct this film but he also wrote it, photographed it, co-edited it, and produced it for his own company (nbc films). We even recognize Ceylan in the character of Mahmut - not only does Mahmat drive a car and live in a flat which, in real life, belong to Ceylan, but Ceylan used to also be a photographer. Although I'm reluctant to use a word which is often so casually applied, Uzak is undeniably the work of a true auteur. But this film does not just represent the maker's past but also, we suspect, his nightmares. When Mahmut's friends comment that:
"You used to say you'd make films like Tarkovsky."
We see clearly what Mahmut is: that is, the failure that Ceylan feared he might become. The references to Tarkovsky that are littered throughout the film thus become more than, say, the 'nods' and ejaculations of some art-film Tarantino - they are an integral part of so personal a story. Whilst it is true that Ceylan is influenced by Tarkovsky, I would argue that, in a certain respect, the references to the Russian master's work are far from flattering - in Uzak, watching a Tarkovsky film is seemingly no worthwhile pursuit but the sad remnant of a forgotten dream; something that can be switched over for pornography (as Mahmut does). It bravely asks: can't mere film-watching be enervating and soulless; a barrier to true human experiences? Shouldn't we be going out and making our own films? One suspects that Ceylan, as someone who has literally been saved by film-making, would answer with a resounding 'Yes!' to these questions.