Rial (Wunmi Mosaku) and Bol (Sope Dirisu) are refugees from South Sudan who have been granted temporary asylum status in the UK. They're set up in a run-down house on the outskirts of London, with a long list of things they're not allowed to do. Bol is eager to start a new life, but Rial finds it more difficult to let go of the past, especially when strange phenomena start to happen in their house. Rial soon surmises that they are being haunted by Nayagak (Malaika Abigaba), their daughter who did not survive the journey from Africa, and a malicious spirit called an apeth (Javier Botet and Cornell John).
This is the feature debut of Remi Weekes, but arrives fully formed and beautifully executed. The state of the house reflects the emotional state of Bol and Rial, which goes from bad to worse as the film goes on, eventually full of holes and refuse, with ghosts multiplying everywhere when the lights go out. Dream sequences merge with supernatural encounters and finally fold into flashbacks to the horror and carnage that the couple only barely escaped. As a psychological horror film, "His House" is visceral and thrilling, full of startling images and wrenching, emotional reveals. However, its quiet commentary on the mental traumas faced by refugees and their survivors' guilt give the story extra impact.
There's a wonderful efficiency to how Weekes uses his visuals, distilling and combining so much familiar imagery of British poverty, Sudanese strife, and refugee migration into this haunting fable. I've seen Mosaku and Dirisu in other productions, but didn't recognize either of them here, where they seem to totally disappear into their troubled, traumatized characters. Their performances are excellent, but it's the ghosts and monsters that make the film so memorable. And for all its darkness and despair, "His House" has a happy ending - conveyed in a hopeful, wordless montage that's one of my favorite sequences of the year.
Now, over to Portugal, the home of Pedro Costa and his latest film "Vitalina Varela." Its titular character is an aging Cape Verdean woman who comes to Lisbon in the wake of her husband's death. She spends several days at his home in the shantytown of Fontainhas, piecing together their past, both together and apart. It is an unapologetic art film, much like Costa's previous films that I've seen - "Colossal Youth" and "In Vanda's Room." The camera stays mostly static, and the characters - almost all poor, dark-skinned, and elderly - often seem to be in danger of becoming lost in the dark, nocturnal compositions that make up their little world. The film is a series of tableaux, where we observe the characters talking, washing up, or simply existing. At first, Vitalina Varela says little, but eventually her story emerges.
The film is a melding of truth and fiction, with Varela playing herself, re-enacting a real episode from her own life. Hers is another story about the immigrant experience, and about the absences and distances that end up defining a woman's life. Vitalina herself is not an immigrant, so out of her element in Lisbon that she steps off of the airplane from Cape Verde in bare feet. Her departed husband, however, came to Europe to seek his fortune, and started a new life without her. He became alcoholic and destitute, part of a community of forgotten men who only seem to exist in shadows. As Vitalina sits in his tiny hovel, ruminating over how he came to woe, the air seems thick with ghosts.
We see scenes of other characters - the mourners coming home from the cemetery, the neighbors and friends who populate the rest of Fontainhas, and eventually a local priest (Ventura), who meets with Varela and agrees to perform additional rites for her husband. Ventura and Varela engage in spirited discourse as daylight finally begins to filter into the shantytown, chasing back some of the shadows. In spite of her frailty, and in spite of her circumstances, Varela remains indomitable and resolute. Her tale is told slowly, and requires significant effort to engage with, but I'm glad to have spent the time with her.
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