In art, nothing is more complicated than the simple. And there is nothing simpler than the complicated. The oeuvre of great directors exemplifies this. Zsófia Szilágyi, as her second feature film proves, is following in their footsteps. Six years ago, she made one of the most promising career starts with One Day (One Day), which won the FIPRESCI prize at Cannes. While that was made with the minimum budget of the Incubator Program of the Hungarian National Film Institute, January 2 (Január 2), now showing, was made without public funding, with the support of the Venice Biennale’s College program. These minimum budgets are a narrow playing field. Szilágyi, like a number of talented young people, uses the restrictions to her advantage. She has developed a consistent, unique film style that uses both a closed, clear, straightforward dramaturgical structure and a minimalist cinematic language.
Like her previous work, January 2 is the story of a single day. In One Day, we followed an ordinary day in the life of an ordinary Hungarian mother. Nothing special happened—that was the point. It was a series of small daily madnesses that we all experience and which we don’t even notice unless a sensitive filmmaker brings them to the screen. The ars poetica of Zsófia Szilágyi’s latest film is similar. Unlike One Day, the narrative is triggered by a dramatic situation, a divorce, but this remains in the background. The story is not about the deterioration of the relationship between Áron and Klára, a couple with two children who move apart. We don’t find out why they split up, who, if anyone, was to blame, and the filmmakers don’t show the emotions, except what can be captured on camera: a sequence of actions. Szilágyi is interested in the facts of life. Obviously, there are many ways to divorce, a thousand different reasons. But they all have one thing in common: the couple must move apart. The slow unpacking, the meticulous dismantling of the former home and with it the former life, the transfer of objects to the new space of life. January 2 shows the process of Klára (Zsuzsanna Konrád) moving her belongings to her new home with the help of her friend Ági (Csenge Jóvári) and some friends and family members, in six journeys. The practical activities are carried out while the drama smolders in the background.
The film starts with a very strong opening, summing up the story of the day and the conflicts that triggered it—which are not visible on screen, and which we can only infer from a few signs. Ági arrives at Klára’s home in a borrowed car to help her friend move. All this is watched stiffly, coldly by Klára’s estranged husband, Áron—trying to discipline himself—plus Ági’s mother, who takes the two small children to stay with her while the move is being carried out. It is quite brilliant how Kristóf Becsey’s camera follows the movements of the characters to sketch the situation, pausing at a single facial expression, the repressed emotions and the practical actions they take to try to tidy up the piles of things to be taken away, the mementos of their life together in boxes and nylon bags. They make six turns between their former home and Klara’s new apartment, driving there full and back empty.
These six car journeys (plus a seventh, on which Klára’s mother takes her) provide the repetitive rhythm of the plot. It raises practical questions such as what to put in the cramped car space, what to leave at home for the kids’ stuff, whether they need it, whether the palm fits, and so on. All serious dilemmas. In the apartment, the husband’s parents appear; the mother, seemingly out of the goodness of her heart, messes everything up; Ákos himself nervously gets rid of objects to put things to rest and release the tension; later Klára’s brother and cousin, and then, in the background, his new partner, come in to help. They pop in and out of the picture, trying to put a good face on the awkward situation.
Present all the time: Ági and Klára, constantly making the same journey until early dark. In this repetitive road movie, Klára is the more active one, as are the eager helpers, while Ági observes the events in a rather emotionless, silent register. She is an equal protagonist, even more important than Klára. It is no coincidence that the film begins and ends with her close-up. Her impassive face, like the chorus in Greek tragedies, is more eloquent than those of the characters in the action. In the mirror of events, she sees her own fate and conflicts: her troubled relationship with her boyfriend, her parents. There are few words in the film, and if there is a weak point, it is the confessional dialogue that builds up towards the end of the story. The most interesting of these is when the two young girls talk about men—between themselves. But January 2 is a film of silences, not of words. At the end of the film, the narrow space expands, we leave Klara and head with Ági to the square crowded with protesters, to today’s feverish Hungary, the heavy backdrop against which the private story of a day has taken place.
György Báron
Edited by Robert Horton
© FIPRESCI 2024