This is not a review of Otar Ioselliani’s Monday Morning (2002) September 10, 2007Posted by Richard Bolisay in Alliance Française, European Films.
Monday Morning reminds me of myself almost 12 years ago: flipping through pages of books in our small, elementary library, looking for that story about a girl who sells matches in a wintry night and dies eventually, then, the bell rang, “Damn luck, I can’t find it!” but I decided to spend one more hour and skip my Journalism class. I finished the news article for the day, anyway. Silently, I managed to skim through books in almost every shelf that I could reach. In a sudden spur of the moment, something happened. I discovered something that defined a turning point. Glued and hypnotized, I thought my world ceased to rotate and revolve. It read clearly: Anthology of Poems by e e cummings. Its first poem, I was stunned. At such a young age, I realized how falling in love feels like:
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of the tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind,can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
In my eyes, those were beautiful lines of love, but comprehension was beyond my capabilities then. For I have felt it I knew I understood what ee cummings wants to say, and for words weren’t enough to express emotions, I opted to keep my silence.
Monday Morning is not a love story, but rather a film about love’s non-existence or its fleeting nature. Minutes in a life of an ordinary man named Vincent, who spends his day like it is the most boring day of his life. Its languid pacing — an atmosphere reminiscent of Jacques Tati’s comedies — is filled with life’s dullest and purest moments. Leaving the theater, it did not come as a surprise that Ioselliani is one of Tarkovsky’s favorite filmmakers.
When a film ceases to be a film, it becomes a poem. * * * *