Tickets (Ermanno Olmi, Abbas Kiarostami & Ken Loach, Italy & UK, 2004, 115 Minutes)
Split into three occasionally intertwining stories, much like Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s Amores Perros, this film tells the tale of three very different sets of passengers aboard a train journey heading firstly from Germany to Italy, and then from Northern Italy through to Rome. Given the calibre of the three directors, and their past feature films, the viewer is entitled to expect a great deal from Tickets, and thankfully is generally not disappointed.
In the opening part, Ermanno Olmi depicts Carlo (Delle Piane) as an ageing businessman, forced to travel by rail as all flights have been cancelled due to a security alert. The latter is a theme throughout the entire three-part film, as the presence of officialdom – be it through the police, the armed forces, or just some extremely vigilant rail staff, is highlighted throughout. To this end, each director examines the culture of a ‘terror-wary’ Europe, and the freedoms its citizens are paradoxically denied in the name of their protection. From knocking a bottle of babies milk to the floor, to intrusively checking the contents of an old lady’s handbag, the ‘security forces’ are shown to be more a burden than a saviour; creating a negative attitude of suspicion wherever they go, seemingly never leaving the passengers in peace.
As the train slowly pulls away from the station, and the biochemist embarks on his journey home, he hears a small piece of Chopin which stirs within him a childhood memory, the exact details of which are not made transparent at this stage, but it’s nature is clear; it is a memory of his youth, of hope and promise. Gently tapping a key of his laptop, he decides not to write about business, but instead to write a letter to his assistant while in Germany, a warm and pretty Valeria (Bruna Tedeschi), thanking her for taking care of him, and examining his feelings for her.
How Olmi decides to portray these feelings is in a slow, melancholic manner, through a number of fantastical scenes where the words of the letter, and of Delle Piane’s thoughts, are acted out like scenes from a play. Every so often, we return to the train journey, and again hear the music, which we soon realise has as much an effect on the other passengers as on the ageing dreamer. As he turns and gazes at the eyes of a beautiful young black girl, the sentiments of Olmi’s message are clear; in the music there is hope and inspiration, regardless of sex, age, or ethnicity. There follows a series of light, warmingly affectionate moments as a young mother and her child play with the buttons of the train, as the ageing man flits between the memory of one occasion and the fantasy of another, all complimented by more Chopin of course. It feels very personal, which is testimony to Olmi’s skilful creation of atmosphere, and the viewer does feel involved, albeit that the story is not gripping or compelling, just charming and inviting.
What spoils everything; for Delle Piane’s character, for the little black girl, for the young mother and her child, and for the warm, positive attitude, are the soldiers who patrol the carriages of the train, chiefly the man who sits directly across him, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, constantly monitoring all that happens around him. Though subtle, and slowly played out, Olmi’s point is made clear. The atmosphere changed immediately, the sounds now not of beautiful music but of the tears of a child, the biochemist no longer able to write the poetic words of his letter, instead choosing to abandon the idea, and the hope, the dream, altogether. In the end though, as he quite literally stares into the face of authority, there is defiance. After the child’s bottle has been smashed, leaving her poor mother with nothing but kisses to offer her, he requests from the onboard waiter a glass of warm milk. When it is delivered, and as the whole carriage of passengers watch, Delle Piane stands and takes the drink to the infant, forcing the soldier to hide his face behind his jacket. Through a simple act of kindness; of humanity, the old man is able to display the madness of an atmosphere which requires military presence in our daily lives.
The second part of this film, directed by Kiarostami, centres around the relationship between an ageing woman and her young male carer, forced to look after her in lieu of his national service. Very slowly played out, with carefully constructed shots, attempting to create an emotive atmosphere displaying the gulf between the polarised opposites of generation, the film never really manages to capture its viewer’s imagination, seeming far longer than the stories which come before and after. As characters, both the old lady, aggressively clinging to her independence, and the twenty five year old man, whose help she badly needs, are amusing, though lack an engaging story or pivotal moment to better centre this comedy, and their opposites, around. In the end, this segment of Tickets disappoints slightly, leaving the viewer feeling that they could have learned much more, that the characters could have been explored far deeper, rather than just scratching at the surface of their idiosyncrasies. There is plenty of potential, as we see that Filippo (Fillipo Trojaro) has unresolved memories of his own, particularly regarding his ex-girlfriend and his late father, but overall the plot feels lazy, the lack of energy perhaps a result of the director’s intent on the film remaining very real, and very inconsequential.
Any fears that the film may have peaked during Olmi’s show however, quickly evaporate at the outset of Ken Loach’s high energy, convincingly funny, and ultimately very touching piece, centred around the journey of three young Celtic fans to a football match in Rome. The trio, all of whom appeared in Loach’s superb Sweet Sixteen, are initially seen as loudmouthed, typically British tourists, insistent on singing their songs, imposing their celebratory atmosphere on the passengers around them, and generally having a very good time. The humour is typically gritty working class slagging off, and all the better for it; the dialogue is so typically Scottish, and suffers nothing when transported into another environment, beyond being magnified.
The whole tone of the film changes very quickly though, when one of the lads Jamesie (Martin Compston) realises that his ticket is stolen, the culprit a small Albanian boy who the three had befriended. Completing the circle of the three stories, the boy belongs to the same family whose baby’s bottle was knocked over by the official in Olmi’s opening segment, and through their interrogation of the immigrants the football fans, and thus the viewer, are told the story of the desperate family; a tale of suffering; of a fight for survival, for preservation, and for freedom. That the film flirts with becoming overly sentimental at this stage can be overlooked given the message Loach is trying to depict, but unfortunately the character of Frank, until this point the most amusingly outspoken of the three, and acted superbly by William Ruane, undergoes a complete metamorphosis of sorts, instantaneously changing from the hardened, selfish football fan abroad into an individual prepared to sacrifice his holiday in order to save the family. If only this sudden consciousness of the plight of others could be true of the entire Western world.
In the end though, everything works out for all those involved, save for the wretched authorities. The three boys have passed the test of their humanity; emerged as more intelligent, caring souls for the experience, and can now get back to what they are truly here for; to noise up the Roma fans at the airport. The sentiment, though powerful and lasting in its message, is consciously dropped by Loach, careful not to exhaust its preaching, and the energy and comedy of the film returns, the audience leaving the theatre with a smile on their face, and a strangely wistful feeling that life could so easily be better for everyone. In the end, for all the criticism and the momentary disappointments, Tickets is an excellent film, beautiful throughout, and exceptionally emotive in moments.
Review by Alex McMillan
In the opening part, Ermanno Olmi depicts Carlo (Delle Piane) as an ageing businessman, forced to travel by rail as all flights have been cancelled due to a security alert. The latter is a theme throughout the entire three-part film, as the presence of officialdom – be it through the police, the armed forces, or just some extremely vigilant rail staff, is highlighted throughout. To this end, each director examines the culture of a ‘terror-wary’ Europe, and the freedoms its citizens are paradoxically denied in the name of their protection. From knocking a bottle of babies milk to the floor, to intrusively checking the contents of an old lady’s handbag, the ‘security forces’ are shown to be more a burden than a saviour; creating a negative attitude of suspicion wherever they go, seemingly never leaving the passengers in peace.
As the train slowly pulls away from the station, and the biochemist embarks on his journey home, he hears a small piece of Chopin which stirs within him a childhood memory, the exact details of which are not made transparent at this stage, but it’s nature is clear; it is a memory of his youth, of hope and promise. Gently tapping a key of his laptop, he decides not to write about business, but instead to write a letter to his assistant while in Germany, a warm and pretty Valeria (Bruna Tedeschi), thanking her for taking care of him, and examining his feelings for her.
How Olmi decides to portray these feelings is in a slow, melancholic manner, through a number of fantastical scenes where the words of the letter, and of Delle Piane’s thoughts, are acted out like scenes from a play. Every so often, we return to the train journey, and again hear the music, which we soon realise has as much an effect on the other passengers as on the ageing dreamer. As he turns and gazes at the eyes of a beautiful young black girl, the sentiments of Olmi’s message are clear; in the music there is hope and inspiration, regardless of sex, age, or ethnicity. There follows a series of light, warmingly affectionate moments as a young mother and her child play with the buttons of the train, as the ageing man flits between the memory of one occasion and the fantasy of another, all complimented by more Chopin of course. It feels very personal, which is testimony to Olmi’s skilful creation of atmosphere, and the viewer does feel involved, albeit that the story is not gripping or compelling, just charming and inviting.
What spoils everything; for Delle Piane’s character, for the little black girl, for the young mother and her child, and for the warm, positive attitude, are the soldiers who patrol the carriages of the train, chiefly the man who sits directly across him, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, constantly monitoring all that happens around him. Though subtle, and slowly played out, Olmi’s point is made clear. The atmosphere changed immediately, the sounds now not of beautiful music but of the tears of a child, the biochemist no longer able to write the poetic words of his letter, instead choosing to abandon the idea, and the hope, the dream, altogether. In the end though, as he quite literally stares into the face of authority, there is defiance. After the child’s bottle has been smashed, leaving her poor mother with nothing but kisses to offer her, he requests from the onboard waiter a glass of warm milk. When it is delivered, and as the whole carriage of passengers watch, Delle Piane stands and takes the drink to the infant, forcing the soldier to hide his face behind his jacket. Through a simple act of kindness; of humanity, the old man is able to display the madness of an atmosphere which requires military presence in our daily lives.
The second part of this film, directed by Kiarostami, centres around the relationship between an ageing woman and her young male carer, forced to look after her in lieu of his national service. Very slowly played out, with carefully constructed shots, attempting to create an emotive atmosphere displaying the gulf between the polarised opposites of generation, the film never really manages to capture its viewer’s imagination, seeming far longer than the stories which come before and after. As characters, both the old lady, aggressively clinging to her independence, and the twenty five year old man, whose help she badly needs, are amusing, though lack an engaging story or pivotal moment to better centre this comedy, and their opposites, around. In the end, this segment of Tickets disappoints slightly, leaving the viewer feeling that they could have learned much more, that the characters could have been explored far deeper, rather than just scratching at the surface of their idiosyncrasies. There is plenty of potential, as we see that Filippo (Fillipo Trojaro) has unresolved memories of his own, particularly regarding his ex-girlfriend and his late father, but overall the plot feels lazy, the lack of energy perhaps a result of the director’s intent on the film remaining very real, and very inconsequential.
Any fears that the film may have peaked during Olmi’s show however, quickly evaporate at the outset of Ken Loach’s high energy, convincingly funny, and ultimately very touching piece, centred around the journey of three young Celtic fans to a football match in Rome. The trio, all of whom appeared in Loach’s superb Sweet Sixteen, are initially seen as loudmouthed, typically British tourists, insistent on singing their songs, imposing their celebratory atmosphere on the passengers around them, and generally having a very good time. The humour is typically gritty working class slagging off, and all the better for it; the dialogue is so typically Scottish, and suffers nothing when transported into another environment, beyond being magnified.
The whole tone of the film changes very quickly though, when one of the lads Jamesie (Martin Compston) realises that his ticket is stolen, the culprit a small Albanian boy who the three had befriended. Completing the circle of the three stories, the boy belongs to the same family whose baby’s bottle was knocked over by the official in Olmi’s opening segment, and through their interrogation of the immigrants the football fans, and thus the viewer, are told the story of the desperate family; a tale of suffering; of a fight for survival, for preservation, and for freedom. That the film flirts with becoming overly sentimental at this stage can be overlooked given the message Loach is trying to depict, but unfortunately the character of Frank, until this point the most amusingly outspoken of the three, and acted superbly by William Ruane, undergoes a complete metamorphosis of sorts, instantaneously changing from the hardened, selfish football fan abroad into an individual prepared to sacrifice his holiday in order to save the family. If only this sudden consciousness of the plight of others could be true of the entire Western world.
In the end though, everything works out for all those involved, save for the wretched authorities. The three boys have passed the test of their humanity; emerged as more intelligent, caring souls for the experience, and can now get back to what they are truly here for; to noise up the Roma fans at the airport. The sentiment, though powerful and lasting in its message, is consciously dropped by Loach, careful not to exhaust its preaching, and the energy and comedy of the film returns, the audience leaving the theatre with a smile on their face, and a strangely wistful feeling that life could so easily be better for everyone. In the end, for all the criticism and the momentary disappointments, Tickets is an excellent film, beautiful throughout, and exceptionally emotive in moments.
Review by Alex McMillan
posted by Barnaby at 3:35 PM
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