Twenty-five movies in two weeks: Tony Stamp’s film festival diary

There’s something about going to a festival film that you don’t get from other cinema experiences. The ‘wagging school’ feeling of a daytime screening has something to do with it, but mostly it’s the hushed collective reverence that you get in a theatre full of people who have rearranged their everyday lives to watch a special film on the big screen. We’re all there with the same intent, following the same unspoken rules. It’s mutually respectful. Well, mostly.

Like a lot of movie fans, I was excited about this year’s New Zealand International Film Festival (NZIFF). The last few years have been a bit rocky; longstanding director Bill Gosden stepped down in 2019, it went online-only in 2020 and then to a hybrid format in 2021. Last year’s festival, under the care of general manager Sally Woodfield, felt like a step back towards normality so I had high hopes about 2023. The number of sold-out screenings suggested other people felt the same.

Movie-going is an exercise in mindfulness that forces you to reclaim your attention span. Even though I’m excited to be there, for the first 15 minutes or so of each film I have the reflexive urge to check my phone. I also have to fight feeling hyper-aware of everyone around me and whether or not they’re adhering to the unspoken rules of cinema-going; phones off, no chattering, not eating anything noisy or potent-smelling. This feeling is greater in the daytime, when you’re wired to be at work and alert (forcing yourself to not think about work is also a thing).

At the opening night film, French drama Anatomy of a Fall, our seats are closer to the Civic Theatre’s giant screen than I’ve ever been before. One of the people in front of us has tall, spiky hair, and the other is wearing a big hat. My blood pressure starts to rise, just as they turn around and ask if I’d like them to take it off. Naturally averse to confrontation, I tell them that it’s fine, but I’m thankful when the hat ends up being removed: reading the subtitles from that angle requires excellent posture, and the movie is two and a half hours long.  

Anatomy of a Fall is great; thorny and emotional with boatloads of subtext to gnaw on afterwards. There are a lot of audible ‘mmm’s - people letting you know they ‘get’ what’s happening on screen. This may have annoyed me in the past, but now I enjoy it as part of the communal experience. I even join in occasionally.

The following day my friend reports back from an afternoon viewing of the 1950 Japanese film The Munekata Sisters, where the person sitting next to him snored throughout. Sleeping through movies can be very pleasurable (although I’ve never done it in public), so I can’t blame them too much. 

Daytime festival sessions attract a lot of senior citizens; at a screening of the French film Passages, I clock that I’m one of the few audience members under 65. I can’t help thinking about this during one extremely prolonged, reasonably graphic, sex scene.

Passages involves a guy who cheats on his husband with a woman, and the complications that ensue. Someone complained to me that the lead character was unlikable, but to me, that was the point.    

For the documentary Beyond Utopia I’m lucky enough to be seated upstairs in the Civic Circle. I really do love this theatre; it has a certain special atmosphere, as people murmur, fake stars shine overhead, and the iconic flamingos gaze back from the curtain. 

The movie features footage smuggled out of North Korea, and interviews with defectors. Its most nerve-wracking thread follows a family fleeing the state through China and Vietnam, including an 80-year-old grandma and two small children. We have spirited discussions afterwards about its effectiveness, and construct vs content.

During Mami Wata, a modern African fable, a few people walk in late. One of them sits right in front of me, so I have to adjust my posture (subtitles again). It’s fine.

It’s a gorgeous film, shot in immaculate black and white; a great example of cinema as tourism. Seeing bits of the world you might not otherwise be able to is fascinating unto itself, and by and large this type of thing is shot on location, and not, like most modern blockbusters, in front of a green screen in Atlanta. 

As the second week rolls around, going to movies becomes more a part of my daily routine. It feels less like a big deal, but invariably gets trickier to schedule. I realise it’s best not to stress out, and make peace with spending more on things like food and Ubers. Life begins to bend around the films, but it also feels like I’m always rushing from one to another.

I’m back at the Academy for a Japanese romp called #Manhole, which involves a guy who falls down one (the hashtag is a longer story). Afterwards we all agree it was a bit underwhelming, but I reflect later that years of streaming international movies has made us somewhat spoiled for choice. It doesn’t feel like long ago that seeing a Japanese movie at all would be a novelty, let alone one this straight-up weird. 

My intolerance of bad cinema etiquette has mellowed somewhat by the time I see Charcoal, a Brazilian black comedy.  Before each film, a note appears on screen telling attendees to unwrap their snacks now, not during the movie. Despite that, at least five different people peel theirs open at different intervals throughout the film, for seemingly extended durations. The sound of crinkling surrounds me. It’s totally fine. I’m not bothered.

Mystifyingly, three separate attendees wander in around halfway through and watch the second half of the movie. One of them has an armful of bags, and proceeds to trip over, needing an usher to help them clean up their stuff (this is the second time this happens during my festival film binge). 

Despite taking a week off work, and jamming in as many movies as I can, I grudgingly accept that I’m  not going to see everything I want to. I have to miss Chinese art house flick Suzhou River, but I do see the other two entries with ‘river’ in their name (both in one day). River is a fun Japanese time-loop caper from the director who made the equally delightful time-related jaunt Beyond the Infinite Two Minutes a few years back. Later that evening, a friend and I meet at the ASB Waterfront Theatre to see Only the River Flows, an atmospheric Chinese murder mystery that proves impenetrable but incredibly enjoyable through pure vibes.

Before the movie I hear people around us speaking Mandarin (and notice some big laughs at things I assume are culturally specific), but it’s not until the lights come up that we realise a good 90 percent of the crowd is Chinese. As the credits roll my friend and I discuss whether or not we ‘got’ the ending;  a guy turns to us and says, “Don’t worry, we’re Chinese and we didn’t understand it either”. 

This type of interaction  - strangers interjecting in your conversation or offering their opinion - is actually pretty common at festival films, and it’s always welcome. 

My schedule hits a snag as I try to make it to French animated sci-fi Mars Express on time. I’m starving and grab a Korean pancake on the way, but it’s volcano-hot, so I nibble as much as I can before bolting down the Academy Cinema stairs. 

I’m a minute or two late, and my eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark so I can’t see a damn thing. The usher says I can sit anywhere, but I genuinely have no idea how many people are in the theatre. I turn on my iPhone torch, shining it in two people’s eyes as I stumble down next to them. “Sorry,” I mumble. 

I have become everything I disapprove of. I am the bad guy, a breaker of cinema etiquette rules. It’s a low point. Luckily, the movie rules. 

The following day I’m back (ridiculously early) to see American horror-comedy Late Night With the Devil. Around 10 minutes in, a woman behind me gets up and whispers to the usher, who steps out. A few minutes  later the projection stops for a moment, then starts again in the correct aspect ratio so the tops of people’s heads are no longer cropped off. 

Like just about everything I manage to catch at the NZIFF - 25 movies in just over two weeks -  it’s really good. The 2023 Festival feels like a gift; a series of wonderful sensorial experiences, and a reaffirmation of community after a cautious few years. The quality control has been ridiculously high (I only saw one stinker, which I won’t name). 

As the credits roll on Late Night With the Devil I thank the woman who got the projection fixed. “No problem," she says. While we chat about the movie, the man to her right decides to interject: “What an absolute load of rubbish that was!” 

I guess you can’t please everyone.