Che Guevara

A feminist's ultimate wet-dream!

Film Review: The Measure of a Man

La Loi du Marche'  "Market Law" is the French name for this film, spoken in French with English sub-titles - duration one hour and thirty-three minutes.  The word for work in French  is "travail" and occurs often in the French dialogue. In English the same word is still related to work, but precisely, it means, to toil painfully.  The English word aptly describes the attempts of the leading character in this film to find work.

The leading character is a 51 year old retrenched factory worker, played by Vincent Lindon. Thierry Taugourdeau (Lindon) has been out of work for more than a year and is struggling to keep his family and home intact on a monthly 500 euro dole cheque.  His son is disabled, and his wife, well she is his wife - and that's all -   her role is in name only.  The film traces Thierry's  negotiation of an ego bruising gauntlet to re-employment.  He is subjected to a humiliating training session, where fellow dole recipients are encouraged to disparage his performance in a mock job interview.  Then follows a demeaning Skype interview with a human resources moron, who delights in tormenting his captive, Thierry.  Given his circumstances, Thieery is powerless to respond in kind.  Thierry is a cold stoic, even with his wife and son.  His love for them is mute, visible only in  his body language .  Speech is not his strength.  His furrowed brow and downcast eyes are the only signs of his inner anguish. He is a remote and solitary individual , measured by his new employer to fit into the occupation,of a supermarket security guard.   He patrols the shop floor watching, or hovers above, watching monitors for the body language of theft, not just theft by shop -lifters but also theft by staff.  Is the hunting and trapping of shop-lifters, including his work-mates, the measure of this man?

I think it is a well tailored fit. Fifty one years old and no exertion required beyond walking, out of that unforgiving French weather, a family including a disabled boy to support, no prospects of other employment; and thieves are deserving of apprehension, surely, as they prey on other people, and in the case of work- mates, friends or at best equals.
 

Hypocrisy Needs Virtue

Mike Baird (Where have all the Micks gone?) Premier of New South Wales, a man of virtue (moral excellence, goodness, and conformity) has felt duty bound to ban greyhound racing in his fair State.  This decision has cruel consequences for people less fortunate than Mr Baird, people who Mr Baird believes are in need of his supervision and guidance, he being of superior virtue, people who, just like Mike Baird, need freedom to achieve personal aspirations without external oppression, people who have families to maintain, people who are not part of the mythical "working families" of the middle class,   The myth makers can afford private school education for their children, and the latest model of pretentious foreign motor vehicle, and  budget for overseas tours every two years.  No, we're not talking about the ignorant, yet all knowing, members of  the magnificent middle class, who have ample stores of time, money and egotism, to indulge in activism which impacts cruelly on less fortunate people. Most of the people who race greyhounds have modest incomes, love their dogs and race them as a hobby.  Some live with their families in modest dwellings, work a full day, and in their limited spare time train their  dogs from home. These people are realists.  They have mortgages to pay, children to rear.  Racing greyhounds is a hobby they can afford.  Another group within the sport, are pensioners and retirees.  Again greyhound racing is a hobby they can afford.  Then there are the professional trainers and owners, dreamers and gamblers who are the risk-takers in a pursuit they regard as an industry rather than a sport.  Any financial success they enjoy is short-lived, whether from winning or betting, as the government taxation vacuum cleaner suck ups its mandatory cash imposts from the winnings.

What about the dogs?  After all it's the dogs Mike Baird is worried about. This brings us to the animal loving RSPCA.  Is it more convincingly virtuous than Mike Baird? -  after all he is a politician.  It claims that in the last 12 years, between 48,000 to 68,000 greyhounds have been killed, simply because they were uncompetitive (So do we give up eating meat because we kill cattle, sheep and chickens?). On this basis alone, the RSPCA claims greyhound racing should be banned.
It also claims that live-baiting continues in the sport.  But does the RSPCA come with clean hands?  Apparently, it kills 12,500 animals year.  In response, greyhound refugee centres and other unwanted-pet centres have sprung up recently, to reduce this institutionalised and government subsidised slaughter.  In the light of its public campaign to shut down greyhound racing in Australia, the RSPCA appears comfortable with the prospect of  killing thousands of greyhounds, if necessary, to finalise the closure of greyhound racing in New South Wales.  A final solution, indeed!  The RSPCA over the last decade has changed from an organisation that once cared for abandoned and injured animals into an aggressive, activist organisation that not only wishes to close down greyhound racing, but also, to close down: horse racing in all states of Australia, cane farming in North Queensland, live cattle exports and to control: dog and cat breeders, pet owners and their pets, farming in general and abolish pet shops.

It is obvious Mike Baird and his Liberal Party (what a misnomer!) wish to be the virtuous.  But in siding with the RSPCA, as progressive animal liberationists, they intervene uninvited into the lives and homes of ordinary people, simply because they believe they are superior to ordinary people, and know what is best for them.
As for the RSPCA, it is another vile activist front for underhand social engineering, carried out under a mantle of virtue.

Foot note:  In Australia, it is estimated (the Australian Government does not keep abortion statistics) 80,000 medically supervised abortions are carried out every year.

See Miranda Devine's scathing attack on "authoritarian elitism" Why banning greyhound racing hurts us all

Bullshit Managers

"But, he's a nice person, " says the BSM, in defence of her best friend's son.  On initial meeting, he is "a nice person".  He greets you with a bright-white, picket- fence smile; and softly modulated words of engage- ment.  Jeremy is a lithe, slender, clear skinned, 20 year old, just a tad under six feet.  His clothing is neat and clean, in merging blues, greys and blacks underscored by soft-textured pale-blue sneakers, a soft pink line dividing the soles from the uppers. The sides and back of his head are shaved, his thatch coiffed and gelled forward, into a high five, above his forehead. Cool.  Your eyes concur with the BSM - clearly - "he's a nice person".
Chit-chat  reveals , a private school education (obviously unsuccessful, otherwise he would he would not be here), a resident of an SUV suburb, living with his parents, a hyphenated surname, and family discord, "My parents are freaks and my sister, a chronic pest."  On further engagement, on the job and in the workplace, the persona of a nice person quickly unravels.  He appears unable or unwilling to follow simple instruction, displays singular inattention and cannot or will not complete tasks successfully, or on time.  Deeper into the week, he fails to arrive at work on time, damages equipment, and begins to disappear from his assigned workplaces.  "I had to help Helen move her stuff from A block to C block.  She's moving offices. Don't you know?" Cute. Every time his supervisor wishes to speak to him, he needs to gesture to this nice person to remove his headphones.
Inevitably, the supervisor complains to the BSM.   "But, he's a nice person; truly he is.  Don't worry, I'll talk to him and we'll go from there."  On Friday morning, the supervisor is summoned to the office of the BSM.  The nice person has complained about poor supervision and lack of proper instruction.  Uh-oh, the nice person has experience.  The nice person is given a new supervisor and an identical story to that of the first supervisor is retold.  Nothing has changed since the staging of these events.  The BSM is not going to terminate her best friend's son's employment, though she has known for years that he is a misfit, firstly at school and then unable to find employment without inside help.  She was his last chance. " I'm not going to implode my relationship with my best friend, muses the BSM, "these thing have a way of sorting themselves out, and if I'm lucky enough to score a suitable transfer, out of this job, or out of this shit-hole of a place, or better still, be made redundant, he'll be someone else's problem.

Swamp creatures

Circa 1940s and  1950s,  in Cairns and Townsville, workers had to be cautious, leaving work or arriving for work, early in the morning. For instance, the telegram boy who manned the Townsville Post Office, at night,  never left, without inching the front door open, ever so slowly and carefully, scanning the front verandah for crocodiles that may have ventured up, from  Ross Creek, during the night.  Eagerness to finish the shift early was tempered, by the fear of what may have been waiting outside.  Sometimes, before opening for business, brooms and specially designed poles were used by Post Office staff, to persuade these reptilian migrants, to return to the creek.  Cairns, during a sustained wet season could produce crocodiles in drains, on roads and under the high-set houses.  It was best, to keep the dog inside the house, during these wet periods and just hope the chooks could find safe perches in trees. It was always recommended to approach your car, (if you were fortunate enough to own one) cautiously.   A not uncommon occurrence was a crocodile slithering out from underneath the chassis, on your approach, or still more unnerving, after you started the car.

Circa 2016, Cairns, school cleaners working in a school, adjacent to low-lying, inhospitable vacant land (formerly called a swamp)  have been banned from starting work before dawn, because of the danger posed by the swamp's present low- life inhabitants , drug addicts.

Vanity Plates

Neat, Lenin fig-shaped beard, without the moustache, John Lennon spectacles, enamel blue fedora atop, Ace Ventura shirt, beige slacks and moccasins.    Here I am, off the side of Mogill Road, jump- starting 'Lenin Lennon's' car battery.  I'm becoming vexed - I"m slow getting the leads attached, and this guy is telling me how to do it.  He must be in a hurry.  I'm too much of a coward to ask him, where his leads are, or why he isn't a member of a roadside assistance service.  It's not as though he can't afford these things.  His car is a recently minted, V8 Twin Turbo, automatic, Diesel Toyota Land Cruiser.  Curiosity cooled my irascibility and I interrupted his flow:  "What do you do for a crust?  "I'm an academic."  "Yer, and what do you teach?"  "I don't, I'm a leader of an sustainable environment research team."  I reverse, stop and wait for him to drive away.  I look at his front number-plate to determine the year of manufacture.  95PHD!  Irony has lost its teeth, hubris has no limits and altruism leaves me cold.

Queenslander

7.30am, Kenmore Shopping Centre.  Just parked, then another car pulls up , beside mine.   Its driver, alights, from the ground up wearing thongs, shorts and T-shirt, quintessential Queenslander chic.  I'm wearing closed shoes, socks and trousers and  my torso is layered with a singlet, long sleeved shirt and hoodie. Self doubt invades my consciousness.  Could my defensive clothing be a sympton of a demented imagination?  I check my I- phone - temperature: 8C    

The Bicycle and its role in the emancipation of women in England, circa 1900.

The sound of a bicycle being propped against the wall outside was less frequent than that of a horse's hoofs; but there were already a few cyclists, and a number of these increased when the new low safety bicycle superseded the old penny-farthing type.  Then, sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon, the call of a bugle could be heard, followed by the scuffling of dismounting feet, and a stream of laughing, jostling young men would press into the tiny office to send facetious telegrams.  These members of cycling clubs had a great sense of their own importance, and dressed up to to their part in a uniform composed  of a tight navy knickerbocker suit with red or yellow braided coat and a very small navy pill- box cap embroidered with their club badge.  The leader carried a bugle suspended on a  coloured cord from his shoulder.  Cycling was considered such  a dangerous pastime that they telegraphed home news of their safe arrival at the farthest point in their journey. Or perhaps they sent the telegrams to prove how far they really travelled, for a cyclist's word as to his day's mileage then ranked with an angler's account of his catch.
   "Did run in two hours , forty and a half minutes.  Only ran down two fowls, a pig, and a carter", is a fair sample of their communications.  The bag was mere brag: the senders had probably hurt no living creature; some of them may have even dismonted by the roadside  to allow a horse carriage to pass, but every one of the them liked to pose as "a regular devil of a fellow".
    They were townsmen out for a lark, and, after partaking of refreshment at the hotel, they would play leap-frog or kick an old tin can about the green.  They had a lingo of their own.  Quite common things, according to them, were "scrumptious", or "awfully good", or "awfully rotten', or just 'bally awful'. Cigarettes they called 'fags' : their bicycles their 'mounts', or ' my machine', or 'my trusty stead': the Candleford Green people they alluded to as 'the natives'.  Laura was addressed by them as 'fair damsel', and their favourite ejaculation was " What ho!' or 'What ho, she bumps!'
    But they were not to retain their position as bold pioneer adventurers long.  Soon, every man, youth and boy whose family were above the poverty line was riding a bicycle.  For some obscure reason, the male sex tried hard to keep the privilege of bicycle riding to themselves.  If a man saw or heard of a woman riding he was horrified.  'Unwomanly.  Most unwomenly!  God knows what the world's coming to,' he would say; but, excepting the fat and elderly and the sour and envious the women suspended judgement.  They saw possibilities which they were soon to seize.  The wife of a doctor in Candleford town was the first woman cyclist in that district.  "I should like t tear her off that thing and smack her pretty backside ,' said one old man, grinding his teeth with fury.  One of more gentle character sighed and said; 'T'ood break my heart   if I saw my wife on one of they', which those with the figure of his middle-aged wife thought reasonable.
    Their protestations were unavailing; one woman after anotherappeared riding a glittering new bicycle.  In long skirts it is true, but with most of their petticoats left in the bedroom behind them.  Even those women who as yet did not cycle gained something in freedom of movement, for the two or three bulky petticoats formerly worn were replaced by neat serge knickers - heavy and cumbersome knickers, compared with those of to-day, with many buttons and stiff buttonholes and cambric lin9ings to be sewn in on Saturday nights, but a great improvement on the petticoats.
    And oh! the joy of the new means of progression. To cleave the air as though on wings, defying time and space by putting what had been a day's journey on foot behind one in a couple of hours, with a light ting,ting of the bell and a casual wave of recognition. 
    At first only comparatively well-to-do women rode bicycles;  But soon almost every one cunder forty was awheel, for those who could not afford to buy a bicycle could hire one foe sixpence an hour.  the men's shocked  criticism petered out before the fait accompli, and they contented themselves with such mild thrusts as:

                         Mother's out upon her bike, enjoying of the fun,
                        Sister and her beau have gone to take a little run,
                       The housemaid and the cook are both a-riding on their wheels;
                      And Daddy's in the kitchen  a-cooking of the meals. 

And very good for Daddy it was.  He had had all the fun hitherto; now it was his wife's and daughter's turn.  The knell  of the selfish, much-waited upon, old-fashioned father of the family was sounded by the bicycle bell.

Flora Thompson  LARK RISE to CANDLEFORD  First published  1945 Oxford University Press; pages 492/493/494.

Cities

I met an organist, an old man, of Christian faith, not interested in history, or his own past; instead, he is intent on an unlimited future.
I asked him why he still accepted engagements at St John's and St Stephen's Cathedrals in the city of Brisbane.  "Is it money, now you have outlived your contemporaries and retirement budget?"  "No! that's not it, and it has never been it", he replied, clearly annoyed by the ignorance of his inquisitor.  "It's the beautiful choral expression of sacred text and sacred music united with the Spirit.  Nowadays, when I am fortunate enough to play in one of the cathedrals, and only then, am I joined with my late, much-loved wife and my dear son. Other than then, I can only dream of joining them in eternity. 'For here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come (Hebrews 13-14)'. ''

Heaven

Not a native speaker of English, a Brisbane mum, when reading to her seven year old daughter, would google words, the meanings of which she was unsure. One night, her daughter asked that inevitable question of all young children, "Mummy what is heaven?"  Mother paused, to compose a suitable answer. Impatient for the answer, her daughter cried out: "Mummy don't worry.  Google it!"

Missed opportunity

My good friend, Augustus told me  that he discovered the meaning of life, last Friday. Unfortunately, he forgot to write it down.

Film Review - "Rams"

This film is truly an exotic experience for an Australian.  The story begins during an Icelandic autumn, on the wind-swept, grass-tufted floor of a valley, with a forbidding backdrop of bare hills.  In the foreground, two  sheep farmers, brothers and bachelors, who have not spoken to each other for 40 years, live on adjacent farms. Each tends lovingly to their separate flock.  Their predictable, muted existence is suddenly shattered, when one of the brother's flock is infected with an incurable and contagious disease.  The relevant  government authority requires that the flocks be slaughtered, to prevent the disease spreading to other flocks, outside the valley.  Ominously, winter darkness, accompanied by snow and ice blizzards blot out the landscape as the brothers co-operate with each other in an attempt to save some of the breeder sheep from the clutches of authority.

The story unfolds in a series of subtle, humorous incidents involving the thawing of the brothers' relationship and the threat of discovery of the surviving sheep by government representatives.  The beautifully crafted ending remains with you for weeks after you've seen the film - the mark of an outstanding film.

Film Review - "The Revenant"

The Revenant
Dictionary meaning: A person who has supposedly returned from the dead.
A violent story of murder and revenge, filmed in red and white.

Two Book Reviews

  

 My Brilliant Friend - Author - Elena Ferrante
2015 Edition published by the Text Publishing Company (Melbourne)
ISBN 9781925240009 (paperback) $29.99 Dymocks

Best of the Blurbs: None.
The first three pages of this book contain 19 separate blurbs; each one of them, over-the-top adulation.  Assaulted by this crap, my immediate response was to put the book down and not buy it.  Then, I paused, "Wait, it has sold very well, and doesn't the feminine side of my psyche need renovation?"  Ancient, white-hair, male, conservative, and an Anglo/Irish white Australian. "OMG, Yes!", I hear the consensus say.

An index of characters is provided , and very helpful it proves to be, in keeping track of family and Christian names. No non-traditional given names here. The  families and characters of the book live in an impoverished part of Catholic Naples, circa 1960s. We are led through the tale by the first person voice of Elena, one of the two main characters. The other is her brilliant friend, Lina or Lila Cerullo. The book covers the first two stages of their lives, childhood and adolescence.

Elena is studious, kind and thoughtful - Lila, clever, cruel and impetuous.  Not only is Lila street-smart, she is also school-smart. We share the pair's up and down relationship in childhood and adolescence. It's a competitive relationship in which Lila mostly triumphs. Poverty, ignorance, violence and horrid parents are constant themes. Sex, of course is also there, but in a muted tone, in keeping with the early 1960s. The kids of Naples were like me, aware of it but confused.  The postmodern bonfire of profanity and promiscuity wasn't ignited until later. In adolescence, Elena's brilliant friend drops out of the scholastic side of their competitive relationship and her future is seemingly corralled by marriage and her "pleb" status. By contrast, Elena excels scholastically and is determined to change her "pleb" status. Who, now, is the brilliant friend?  Although the book ends with this question unanswered, the story does not end there. This book is the first of four in the "Neapolitan Series".  I look forward to reading the second book, The Story of a New Name.  Presumably, Elena retains her friendship with Lila as she makes the transition from "pleb" status to middle class.

Elena Ferrante is a pen name and the main character in the book is called Elena. So is the book autobiographical or fiction?  It's sold as fiction. The author claims it's fiction. My view is: it is clearly biographical, yet the first person voice of Elena is so intimate and consistent, you assume her presence.  Entranced by the voice of Elena you are sucked into the illusion of reality.  

The illusion is shattered, fortunately, only for a moment, by the intrusion of pedagogy.  Lila coaching Lena in translating Latin: "Read the whole sentence in Latin first, then see where the verb is.  According to the person of the verb you can tell what the subject is.  Once you have the subject you look for the complements : the object of the verb is transitive, or if not other complements. Try it like that." So, the author is or was a teacher and like her kind, always trying to uncork the genie from the bottle of childhood.  Could be the professional identity of the author is that of a teacher

Dialectic language is more likely to be used by Mary Norris, a mature-aged, self confessed "Comma Queen" and the author of Between You & Me.

Between You & Me ........ Confessions Of A Comma Queen  -  Author: Mary Norris
2015 Edition published by the Text Publishing Company (Melbourne)
ISBN 9781922182937 (hardback)  $29.99 (Avid Reader West End Brisbane) 

Best of the Blurbs: Ben Yagoda:  "A delightful mix of autobiography, New Yorker lore, and good language
sense." ( Note the careful use of punctuation. I sense Mary reading over his shoulder, with a corrective eye and an unholstered pencil.).  And why does this guy's name remind me of Star Wars? 

"Synecdoche: what was that?"  (As soon as I finished typing this word, my spell-checker asked me the same question.) "The context defined it for me-----a small thing writ large but I looked it up anyway. It's from ---the Greek syn(with)+ekdoche (sense, interpretation), from ekdechesthai "to receive jointly" : "a figure of by which a part is put for the whole (as fifty sail for fifty ships), the whole for a part (as society for high society), the species for the genus (as cutthroat for assassin), the genus for the species (as a creature for a man), or the name of the material for the thing made (as boards for stage)". It has four syllables, with the accent on second syllable: "sin-NECK-duh-kee."  A near rhyme with Schenectady".  

This was  Mary's Road to Damascus moment. No more foot checking at the local swimming pool or driving milk trucks. On discovering this word in The New Yorker, Mary moved to New York, eventually
obtaining a job at The New Yorker, the beginning of her 30+ years career as a proof reader. 
and copy editor.

Her love of words inspires her to take the reader on several, other etymological journeys. Her guide is the Merriam -Webster dictionary, anointed by The New Yorker as its supreme book of reference. Mary rewards Merriam -Webster with a potted history of its development and a neat biography of its author, Noah Webster.

The rest of Mary's book can be described as a raft of English-usage in a river of anecdotes. Mary  entertainingly covers the usage of commas, hyphens, dashes, colons, semi-colons and apostrophes. An interesting aside is Charles Dickens' use of commas, punctuation by ear. Dickens' books were read in public by him and others, including actors, to entertain audiences who were unable or unwilling to read themselves, like television audiences of today. Dickens' profuse use of commas was "intended to give a lift to the voice, a pause as the [reader] .....injects a bit of suspense". By contrast, I recall reading  Angela's Ashes, the childhood memoir of Frank McCourt and being swept along in its telling, unconscious of his minimalist use of commas until well into the book. Some of his sentences I discovered, were large paragraphs, with only one punctuation mark - at the end.

Mary has some pet hates and writes: "It's an inarguable tenet of punctuation : the period at the end of the sentence makes you stop and tells you that a new sentence is about to begin. Otherwise you have the despicable "run-on sentence".  And yet sometimes in fiction of a very high order you see sentences that have been spliced together with commas and you wonder...Chances are that if the piece has been published, the commas are not a mistake: someone, probably the author, insisted. The express-style sentences may be telling you something about the narrator.  The Italian writer Elena Ferrante (a pen name) rushes from one sentence to the next, with a breathless pause, and the cumulative effects of great urgency in the storytelling".  Oops, I didn't notice this, reading, My Brilliant Friend.  On checking Mary's comments, there are commas and short sentences in abundance, even when you take into account the quoted dialogue. Good punctuation is like a referee in a football match, if you don't notice him, he is umpiring well.  I notice the commas in Dickens' novels; they irritate me together with the verbosity and sentimentality of the books.  Thus I have read very little Dickens and felt guilty about rejecting the famous author.  I have forgiven myself, now, in the knowledge that his books were written to be read aloud in public, and that he was paid for the numbers of words he wrote.

By the time Mary got around to intransitive verbs, I was done with grammar.  I was in need of  a refreshing anecdote, like the one investigating the origin of the hyphen in Moby-Dick. Yet, the best of the book has nothing to do with commas or hyphens.  "Ballad of a Pencil Junkie", the title of the last chapter of Mary's book is a funny, informative account of Mary's obsession with pencils and erasers, essential tools of her trade. We are introduced to the world of graphite pencils including the history of their development, how they are made, Mary's preferences: a Palomino Blackwing or a Palomino Blackwing 602 - "Half the Pressure, Twice the Speed." Unlike the rest of us, Mary can boast of going to a pencil party in New York. Then she tops this, with a visit to the Paul A. Johnson Pencil Sharpener Museum in Logan, Ohio, where 3,441 pencil sharpeners are housed - each unique - no duplicates. Inside the Museum, Mary discovers it does not have a black KUM long-point sharpener. She had been given one at the pencil party. The visit ends with Mary donating it to the museum's collection, a truly generous act of philanthropy.  And where else, other than in America  could this happen?

The title of the book announces Mary's main complaint, the use of "You & I" instead of "You & Me". Mary's complaint is that people using You & I are snobs and worst than that, ignorant snobs. Phew!

Film Review - "An Autumn Without Berlin"

Absence may lead to avoidance; and in An Autumn Without Berlin, now showing as part of the 2016 Spanish Film Festival, June returns after a long absence, to her home town, Madrid, wishing to renew her former relationships with her ex-boyfriend, Diego, and her family.  First call on a windy autumn night is to Diego's address.  He avoids June, simply by refusing to talk to her, when she speaks into the intercom.  From there, she walks to the family home.  Her brother warns her that her father will not be happy to see her - an understatement - as her father's avoidance of her presence is colder than the autumn winds.

The rest of the story narrates the painful and emotional attempts by June, to repair the relationships with Diego and her father. Her trials are relieved a little, by the resumption of a wonderful friendship with her best friend, who is pregnant.  She also forms a fresh, loving relationship with a male child, who she tutors in French.

The essence of love can only be found in the purity of the present - suspension of time - child-like transcendence - where there is no memory of the past and no vision of the future - innocence - free from hurt and injury - free from wrong, sin or guilt. June's simple, innocent and loving relationship with the little boy is a contrast, too evident to miss, with her adult corrupted relationships.

The search for this essence is strained through a mesh of subtle, non-sentimental dialogue, and hesitant body language, in the confinement of Diego's dark, box-like apartment, as June tries to erase his pain of past rejection, and at the same time avoid her own rejection.  

Irene Escolar plays the dominant role of June. She is totally convincing and her character is refreshingly free of sentimentality and pretension. The character of Diego is somewhat wooden, but given he is agoraphobic, one should not be surprised by this.

My only complaint is the title which (without me revealing why) betrays the ending.

An Autumn Without Berlin - 2016 Spanish Film Festival