13 Tzameti” is the type of film that you’d project on a wall at a Halloween dance party. The black and white cinematography augments the nightmarish scenario, making this film feel like something from the back of the skull of a notorious serial killer.
Released in 2005, the debut feature of director Gela Babluani is a starkly entertaining film that borders on psychopathic horror. “13 Tzameti” won accolades at the Sundance Film Festival in 2006 and is currently being remade by Babluani into an American film.
Babluani’s younger brother, George, plays the lead character, a Georgian immigrant living in France named Sebastien, a hard working labourer that wants to help his family get out of poverty. He’s young and naive, but works tirelessly on a dilapidated house owned by a wearied morphine addict, Godon.
The reason for Godon’s addiction becomes quite clear later on, but, when a special letter arrives at the house, and Godon overdoses, Sebastien takes it upon himself to go in the addict’s place, taking the train to a station in Paris, checking into a sullen, lonely hotel.
All of this is a minor exercise, swiftly constructed, in order to get into the heart of the mess, which the trailer will explain with the power of images.
“13 Tzameti” is about this a perverted game of Russian Roulette, with a loathsome group of well dressed multi millionaires hungrily betting on which poor sucker will survive the gruesome match.
Up until the nightmare starts, Babluani’s choice of black and white seems odd, almost forceful added to the weakness of the opening scenes, you’d almost be tempted to lower your lids.
Once Sebastien enters the levels of Hell in Paris, though, the cinematography plays a crucial role, summoning the bleakest moments from film noir and sickly horror to give us a demented view of what the world looks like from the perspective of a butchered carcass.
Naturally, Babluani desires to make a statement about the perversion of money. the wealthy, bored with simply being able to purchase things, need to feel increasing levels of excitement to have any sense of vitality at all. We’re meant to look on the game as a horrible spot of muck underneath the social boot, ever present and fetid, like sex cults or fight clubs.
Unfortunately, most of this commentary is lost, as the director eschews the chance to offer a Georgian view of France, relying, in the second half, to pure visceral entertainment. That’s fine for us by this moment, everything is forgotten except for the incredible horror of that light bulb snapping on.
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