“Rembetiko” was undoubtedly a labour of love for producer, co-writer and director Costa Ferris. Unfortunately, the film will prove a labour of a different kind for most modern audiences, its muddled nature and shallow characterisations deflating some frequently inspired production work.
But you can discount yourself from possible disaffection if you’re in any way a musicologist. Part of “Rembetiko”’s mission is to illustrate the development of the Eastern-influenced Greek roots music for which it is named. The film is something close to a musical, with staged song taking up a great deal of its two and a half hour running time.
And it’s in these moments that “Rembetiko” soars, the music giving life to a staid film, much like it did to the actual existence of the Asia Minor refugees, who were its pioneers deep within Greece’s coastal cities.
“Rembetiko”’s central narrative charts a significantly fictionalised account of true life, following one of Greece’s most popular rembetiko singers, Marika Ninou (Sotiria Leonardou, who also co wrote the screenplay). Born in 1922 to Smyrnan parents, the film illustrates her artistic rise as being shadowed by key moments in Greek history, from Nazi occupation to the Civil War. Ninou’s life was dogged by heartache and tragedy, and when she sang she gave voice to the pain of an entire community of Asia Minor refugees.
It’s a reasonably simple narrative, but one that’s nevertheless muddled by Ferris and Leonardou’s sceenplay. Ninou’s life, as rewritten for the film, is full of weird beats and wonky character development, a portrait strangely out of rhythm considering the greater subtext of rembetiko it represents. The singer is a lurid creation, her pain over simplified and her motivations fuzzy.
Ferris and Leonardou seemed to get stuck on symbolism and a bracing visual beat, which uses such recurring imagery as smashing plates and spilling coffee cups as markers for Ninou’s inescapable pain. It’s impressive stuff, and after watching the film you will perhaps never want to touch a lemon again, but it doesn’t bear the impact it should simply because the character elements are so underwritten.
Technically, “Rembetiko” is frequently impressive, its small budget having little effect on Ferris and cinematographer Georges Zervoulakos’s desire to create sweeping dolly and pan shots. But this handywork can sometimes feel overdone, and when combined with the often clunky editing, courtesy of Yanna Spryopoulou, the visual elements can possess all the impact of a shalllow 1980s music clip.
But just about all of the film’s faults can be forgiven when the talking stops and the music starts. The soulful rembetiko music is what truly drives this film, Stavros Xarchakos’s authentic compositions being fully realised by some jaw dropping, heart breaking performances. On stage, Leonardou’s charisma builds to a torrent, and she’s ably supported by Nikos Kalogeropoulos as Ninou’s engaging fellow performer, Bambis. It’s here, also, that Zervoulakos’s long pans eventually find their place, lavishing an almost sycophant attention upon the players.
Thankfully, this rich musical thread takes up a large part of the film’s fatty running time and helps quell its more glaring deficiencies. This is a picture about music for people who love music, and if you’re one who’s willing to let that wash over you “Rembetiko” can be forgiven its more brittle elements.
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