A History of Greek Cinema 9781628928501, 9781441135001, 9781441194473

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Preface

I This book is intended a s a narr ative HISTORY of Greek cinema

from its inception almost a century ago to the present day. It delineates the development, problems, trends, and personalities, as well as the main films, in chronological order; attempting in the process to highlight commonalities and incongruities, similarities and differences, continuities and ruptures. As a narrative history, the book is not concerned with trying to follow the complex structural or ideological threads of a more or less anarchic industry; although it does attempt to construct an “intelligible” account of what happened. It also avoids structuring the narrative around particular issues, such as the questions of identity that have become extremely voguish during the last 30 years in discussions about all things Greek. The creation of specific cinematic works or groups of works has always been underpinned by a complex interplay of many factors; consequently, there can be no single way of interpreting such a multifaceted and unpredictable cultural activity without limiting its semantic complexity. The history here refers to such issues to the degree that they have had an impact on the experience of watching films in the country. It deals primarily with the perceptual experiences that films create for their viewers and, therefore, focuses on their formal analysis and their historical contextualization. It approaches movies as cultural artifacts and as specific responses to wider questions and problems—artifacts that are articulated through visual means at specific moments in time and as singular problematizations of social realities. Probably, this book should have been written 30 years ago when the construction of a grand narrative was still feasible within the area of film studies. Since such a narrative is absent, we try to formulate it today while simultaneously identifying the structural asymmetries, ideological irregularities, and heterogeneous incongruities hidden beneath the thrust of a linear exposition. The book thus needs a companion volume that would explore the history of Greek cinema through the prism of specific genres, periods, and formalist questions as well from the point of specific analytic approaches, like feminism, subaltern studies, Hollywood hegemony studies, postcolonial and queer readings.



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Until such a volume is prepared, we focus here on the realities that defined cinematic experience as lived history at a macro-historical level, in an attempt to delineate a history of emotions in Greek society. At the most elementary level, however, our main purpose is to illustrate the political, aesthetic, and technical difficulties that film-makers confronted in order to make films in Greece, and from there to discuss the wider problems they faced and explain the solutions they formulated.

II The history of Greek cinema is a rather obscure and unexamined affair. Greek cinema emerged slowly and then collapsed. For several years it struggled to reinvent itself as it dealt with the uncertainties of a colossal national defeat in 1922; then, while in the process of recovering, it produced its first mature works, then broke down completely and almost vanished. For a short time before the Second World War, it resurfaced outside Greece, in Turkey and Egypt. During the War, it re-established its distribution and technological infrastructure and after 1944 flourished wildly, despite the indifference and hostility of its most formidable enemy, the Greek state. It was then continuously muzzled by strict censorship and government interference. In brief periods of moderate liberalization it proliferated beyond its own financial viability, showing the keen interest of audiences in watching Greek films, even of the most questionable quality. Yet under the strict surveillance of the 1967 dictatorship, Greek cinema produced some of its greatest achievements. After 1974, it exploded with a creative energy that sustained it for a decade, during which it was suffocatingly embraced by the government, until the euphoria of state-funded freedom meant it lost touch with its audience and—under the bureaucratic organization of the state—vanished almost totally. In the mid-1990s, young film-makers severed their ties with the recent past and began to construct novel cultural representations, creating a renewed connection with the estranged public, through new iconographic motifs and formal “investigations” which continue today. Throughout the last ten decades, production has generally been uneven. From a total of about 4,000 surviving movies, most are of a generic nature, characterized by a lack of experimentation with the medium and an avoidance of direct depiction of the stark realities surrounding the screen. Yet these realities have always been present through the mere recording of the cityscape, the depopulated countryside, and the psychology of characters in specific moments of history. No modernist experimentation with form and storyline or radical breakdown of narrative and image can be found in Greek cinema until very late in its development. We cannot find a single theoretical work of

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Preface reflection on the experience of watching movies until the early 1970s, nor a sociological approach to the act of going to the cinema itself, which was and continues to be a major event of collective socialization and a rite of passage for adolescents. Most Greek films were made for the immediate consumption of local audiences and with commercial success in mind. The majority were slapstick comedies, boulevard skits, dramas of passion, sentimental war movies, colorful musicals, and patriotic melodramas. They still remain the most successful products of the industry—through their remakes and reincarnations. Few movies (almost always financial failures) raised questions about history, class, gender, identity or cultural memory in ways that would make them interesting to audiences outside the country. Some of these films interrogated the structure of Greek society and the power arrangements within the nation state against the backdrop of oppressive political censorship, heavy taxation, and controlled distribution. The films were mainly “political” in the sense that they produced an oppositional way of looking at established perceptions of reality, of framing the real and of representing conditions of Greek society at particular moments in history. During most of its history, cinema, both as an industry and as a culture, developed in opposition to the institutions of the Greek state and its policies. Successive governments saw cinema as an enemy of the state and enacted strict censorship laws to control the ideas and forms that film-makers created in their attempts to construct a cinematic representation of Greek reality. Consequently, most people involved in the production of films, even those with conservative ideology, expressed opposition—explicit or implicit— to the dominant official ideology of the state as it was imposed through education, army, police, news media, and the Christian Orthodox Church. Such oppositional aesthetics were brought to the fore in periods of historical crises and at times of political unrest, as, for example, after the Asia Minor Catastrophe of 1922, the Civil War of 1946 to 1949, and during the military dictatorship of 1967 to 1974. Until the state became the main sponsor of the industry in the late 1970s, film-making was made possible only through the persistent vision and moral strength of certain exceptional cinematographers, who managed to construct and consolidate an iconographic idiom capable of depicting the Greek experience in a formally coherent visual language (despite the absence of sufficient production funding and well-equipped studios). Throughout the ten decades of its existence, Greek cinema would struggle to construct a visual metaphor that, within the modes of its specific historical consciousness, would heighten the understanding of reality and offer an opening into the realm of the possible, and occasionally even the utopian. The interplay, rather than the antagonism, between commercial and art-house movies, between film industry and film culture, has been the

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other battleground for the development of cinema in Greece—a country that joined the club of “developed” European countries in the late 1970s and the European Union in 1981. The development of Greek cinema has always been intimately associated with deep infrastructural problems in technology, material culture, and scientific know-how. For many decades, all film equipment had to be imported while exorbitant production costs never allowed for the democratization of the medium by giving access to new professionals. Only in the late 1950s and early 1960s did technological progress offer the opportunity for more people to get involved in the industry and to make their mark. Even after the major technological problem was solved, however, the question of the audience was immediately posed. As a small market with limited investment capital, Greece could neither sustain a developed and organized system of film production with international distribution and appeal nor, even more importantly, attract international funding through co-productions, something that would have given a wider scope to Greek films. Greek cinema could not even attract foreign actors (as could, for instance, Italian and more recently Spanish cinema) who would have given an international appeal to local films. Almost all Greek movies were made for domestic consumption, addressing local problems within the parameters of specific historical circumstances. This contextual specificity of these movies is both what redeems them and what marginalises them. Initially, Greek movie audiences were largely comprised of villagers who had moved to urban centers but who had maintained their rural mentality— cinema was introduced to Greece when urban culture was at its infancy and when populous cities such as Athens were still made up of distinct neighborhoods, or, as in Thessaloniki, of a mosaic of different groups. The mass of urban population was increased after 1922 with the influx of Anatolian refugees. After the Second World War and the Greek Civil War, mass migration towards urban centres completely transformed the demography of cities, thus creating the conditions for an urban and industrial culture. Only in the 1970s did the first generation with a truly urban upbringing and educated under a uniform education system become the target audience of film-makers. During the transition to the new urban mindset, the nouveaux riches of the lower middle class—the petit bourgeois—were the main viewers of Greek films. Consequently, their intellectual pretensions, “crass” sense of humor, and ideological fantasies shaped the dominant forms of representation for the largest part of film production. The tension between popular and creative cinema has always been and continues to be strong in Greek films, even though postmodernism has declared a convergence of high and popular artistic traditions through hybrid genres of representation based on the pastiche, the parodic and the interstitial.

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Preface Even in current times, with the permeation of everyday life by digital technology and the democratization of the film medium by the handheld camera, there is a distinct and almost deep cultural reluctance to proceed with a creative synthesis of both modes of production. For a prolonged period, the gap between the auteur and the director of popular movies only widened: a “good” movie remained a private vision while a “successful” one was considered a marketable generic commodity. Indeed, middle-ground movies attempting a synthesis of artistic risk and wide audience response were mostly absent. Because of the medium’s immense social effectiveness in a society tormented by political and institutional instability, the Greek state functioned either as the main sponsor of or the main obstacle to its development from its very inception. For decades, heavy taxation on the production of movies, a lack of protectionism, and the imposition of strict political control hindered the development of cinema as an independent and self-sufficient industry. From the late 1970s until the end of the 1980s, government took a friendlier, and ultimately more patronizing, approach to cinema. For almost 20 years, government seems to have functioned as the main or sole sponsor of all movies produced in the country—and the movies were spectacular failures with audiences, creating an unbridgeable gap between viewers and directors and finally, between filmgoers and the films themselves. It was a period that confirmed Paul Rotha’s adage that “the movie was rampant; the film was dormant!” After 1985, most Greek movies lost their commercial edge and became art-house films made exclusively for festivals and specialized venues. The old films, brimming with dazzling vivacity, passionate drama, and vernacular drollness, were either rejected or forgotten. A certain brand of elitism hijacked the dominant discourse of evaluating films, expressing through impenetrable and opaque idioms preconceived theories of vision, ideology, and film-making. Marxist, semiotic, and psychoanalytic approaches were used not for elucidating the submerged content of these “commercially successful” films but to exclude them from discussion and to isolate them in the oblivion of overspecialized academic studies. The obvious was the message, during this period of ideological frenzy, coinciding with Socialist Party rule. This state of affairs, however, could not have lasted for very long; the audiences simply disappeared and the system was no longer sustainable. Finally, the inevitable dominance of television gave the ultimate coup de grâce to the dying film industry. In the early 1990s, the practice of co-sponsorship came into operation. More recently, the practice of multiple sponsorships came into effect de facto and is still trying to find its institutional and legal framework within the state. During the last 20 years, international funding has been available, either through the European Union or through consortia with other European

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or American companies, and has essentially liberated production from its imposed or self-imposed tutelage to the Greek state or the Greek media. The misadventure is not over yet, however. The ongoing financial meltdown has imposed heavy restrictions on new and emerging directors. In the early 1990s, such directors, after a traumatic act of emancipation, cut the umbilical cord with the great names of the auteur tradition, thereby reconfiguring a new visual idiom to depict a completely changed and radically reformed society. As Greece finds itself on the brink of financial collapse in 2011, many film-makers struggle hard to secure funding for their films and channels for their promotion—and the situation is still too fluid for any predictions to be made about the final outcome.

III During its century of life, Greek cinema has managed to produce both interesting and commercially viable works, some of which are of international significance and deserving of closer study. Unfortunately, few are known outside Greece and, on many occasions, Greek cinephiles, for various reasons. Still fewer studies have been dedicated to the exploration of its historical trajectory. Many articles, especially in electronic journals, have dealt mainly with specific Greek directors, the impact of their work, or more generally with the aesthetics of Greek cinematography. In English, there is only one brief history of Greek cinema—The Contemporary Greek Cinema by Mel Schuster—which was published in 1979 and which focuses on the New Greek Cinema as it was developing then. This history does not offer a thorough analysis of the presuppositions and historical circumstances underpinning the medium before that period. Although we must recognize the pioneering character of Schuster’s work, it is important to note that its historical scope gives a rather limited understanding of the evolution of cinema as an artistic and social medium in Greece. We must also mention the brief but extremely accurate observations by Mirella Georgiadou, in Peter Cowie’s A Concise History of Cinema (1971). Also important for mapping out approaches and new perspectives on Greek cinema is the special issue of the Journal of Modern Greek Studies, edited by Professor Stratos E. Constantinidis in 2000. A number of its contributors analyse different periods and important films, presenting a sophisticated and nuanced understanding of the problems of Greek cinema both as cinematic art and as social text. Dan Georgakas’ “Thumbnail History” of Greek cinema, as also his reviews of Greek movies in the journal Cineaste, is another valuable contribution to the discussion of Greek cinema history. With an international experience in mind, Georgakas evaluates Greek cinema in its interaction with society, industry, technology, audience, and, finally, in the context of

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Preface its specific contribution to the representation of Greek historical experience. Furthermore, he detects thematic threads and technical analogies that give to Greek movies artistic and ideological continuity in both style and storytelling. Recent studies by Lydia Papadimitriou have shed more light on a specific genre of Greek cinema: the musical, exploring it as a cultural product and emblem of specific social ideologies that was disseminated at particular historical moments. In Greek, the multi-volume History of Greek Cinema by Yannis Soldatos is invaluable because of its impressive command of the primary sources, hard-to-find reviews, and innumerable references, which bring together the most important discussions on the topic, showing the persistent themes that have dominated the production and appreciation of film in Greece. Soldatos’ history is a continuous labour of love, which, despite the somewhat intrusive passion of its writer, is of permanent importance. 100 Years of Greek and Foreign Cinema by Ninos Fenek-Mikelidis represents a more personal vision of Greek cinema by one of its most important reviewers. Also of particular interest is Marinos Kousoumidis’ Illustrated History of Greek Cinema, which ends in 1981 but which contains accurate information and a selection of crucial primary sources. The monumental two-volume edition Greek Cinema by Angelos Rouvas and Hristos Stathakopoulos is a solid and invaluable source of historical information. Finally, Aglaia Mitropoulou’s Greek Cinema, in spite of its very personal approach by one of the pioneers of film history, is extremely valuable for the detailed information it gives on many film-makers and the background of their work as well as for its aesthetic appraisals. Of all the Greek directors, the most popular among scholars has been Theo Angelopoulos, and the superb studies dedicated to him by Andrew Horton in particular, contain deep insights into the work of a film-maker whose significance has exceeded the limits of national cinema. Unfortunately, no studies in English have been made of other important Greek directors such as Michael Cacoyannis or Nikos Koundouros, or even of contemporaries who deserve international attention like Constantine Giannaris. Other brief histories in English, available mainly on the internet, are equally interesting, and indicative of specific approaches to the historical development of a peripheral European cinema. (The anonymous compiler of ‘History of Cinema in Greece’ at filmbirth.com should be commended for its succinctness and accuracy.) A serious shortcoming of histories written in Greek is that they tend to focus on detailed references to people and events of local interest, so the big picture of the evolution of cinema as art and social testimony is usually lost under particular circumstances and individual references, and sometimes even behind personal antipathy and bias.

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For this book, I have endeavored to sift through material that is vast and still critically unexplored in order to present what reaches out, beyond the circumstantial or the episodic, to become (within the specificity of its historical situation) a symbol of a general trend, marking patterns of collective response. I have tried to locate the films that have directly or indirectly influenced the cultural and psychological topography of the country and to provide a brief commentary on their specific “social” value and formal structure—even when these movies were neither commercially successful nor seen by wide audiences. Given that this is a general survey, I have avoided detailed “cultural readings” based on the premises of academic film studies, as such approaches need to concentrate on specific movies, genres or individuals and through their very specificity to understand the wider cultural debates and political agendas that dominated the Greek public sphere in different moments of history. Having said this, there are also many occasions where I examine films’ implications, especially regarding gender, class, and cultural memory. I also try to emphasize the importance of foreigners, such as the founder of Greek cinema Josef Hepp, of women directors like Maria Plyta and of commercial directors like Yannis Dalianidis, who have been either forgotten or ignored. Finally, I have attempted to minimize my overall references, as most of these are in Greek and the bibliography in English quite limited. The issue of periodization is important. My initial intention was to divide the material into four periods: from the beginnings to 1944 with the liberation from German occupation, when the industry was reorganized and had established its own modes of production and exhibition; from 1945 to 1970 and the release of Theo Angelopoulos’ Reconstruction (1970), which reorientated cinematic practices, created new audiences and reinvented cinematic representation, marking the end of the Old Greek Cinema and the beginning of the New; from 1970 to 1995 when Angelopoulos released his monumental Balkan epic Ulysses’ Gaze (1995) as the breaking point of the Greek national cinema; and from 1995 to 2011, when a distinct new way of production, tentatively called the New Greek Current, started to emerge and produce its first works, which gained international recognition. In the end, however, I chose to break the history down decade by decade after 1945, as the immense number of films and the extensive debates surrounding them would have created an imbalance in narrative flow. This final arrangement accepts the establishment of the Thessaloniki Film Festival in 1960 and the election of the first Socialist Government in 1981 as equally important turning points in the history of Greek cinema. These two events reoriented production and promotion practices in the country and gave to this narrative the necessary temporal markers for a balanced chartering of the wider reconfigurations that occurred in film culture and the social realities surrounding them.

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Preface Furthermore, since 1995 a wide variety of genres, diversified approaches and filmic representations has been made possible through the depiction not simply of the foreign immigrant, but also through the discovery of the perennial other that had existed within Greek society since its very establishment: the marginalized group, the religious other, the outcast, and the displaced or dissociative individual. During the last 20 years, new “cultural heroes,” such as the immigrant, the transvestite, and the masculinized feminine, have found representation—portrayals that indicate a deep crisis in the traditional values pertaining to masculinity, the vexed issue of “Greekness,” and women’s self-articulation. Certainly, we have to define what we mean exactly by “national Greek cinema.” As this history argues, Greek cinema and images about Greece were made by Greeks and non-Greeks alike; starting with the patriarch of local cinema, the Hungarian Josef Hepp and continuing after the war with the English Walter Lassally and the Italian Giovanni Varriano, it would be fairer to talk about the history of cinema in Greece instead of Greek cinema simply. The heterogeneity of the cinematic endeavor in the country provides a better understanding of the collective efforts to construct a local visual idiom and to create the perceptual strategies that connect it with the dominant traditions worldwide. Greek cinema was and still is a point of convergence, a space of colliding idioms, as expressed by Hollywood and European traditions. Being both at the same time, Greek audiences and critics alike love to hate Hollywood and hate to love European auteurism. Such a fundamental ambivalence can be seen throughout the development of Greek cinema, creating an emotional and intellectual tension which gives a distinct energy and power to many Greek films. On the other hand, “Greek cinema” and the expectations of international audiences were not determined by films made solely by directors of Greek origin or, indeed, for Greek audiences. The most internationally successful movies that defined the cinematic representation of Greece for public consumption were made by the American philhellene Jules Dassin. His Never on Sunday (1960) was particularly responsible for establishing the dominant international image of Greek cinema, a topic that deserves further exploration and discussion in separate studies. Even Michael Cacoyannis’ celebrated Zorba the Greek (1964) cannot really be seen as a purely “Greek movie.” The director notwithstanding, it is essentially an American movie, with an American production and distribution company, performed in English and with the international audience as its target. The main focus of this exploration is to foreground the cinematic works, the personalities and some of the discussions that critically reflected on how reality could or could not be depicted by the camera. It also addresses the question of whose reality is being depicted and for whom, since movie-making is a social event and an act of public intervention, involving

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not isolated individuals but groups of people and mechanisms of industrial production—on many occasions, government-sponsored initiatives involving state apparatuses. Historical context is everywhere and sheds light on the production of each film. In this overview I try to outline the questions regarding history, cultural memory, and historical conscience implicitly depicted in each film by suggesting some provisional explanations about them within the wider context of local intellectual history and the history of ideas in Europe.

IV Existing histories of Greek cinema, especially in Greek, tend to give a catalogue of titles in historical sequence. Yet, despite this concern with historical particulars, most fail to study the historicity of each movie within the cultural and aesthetic context of the intellectual milieu that produced it. Within their specific context, most movies are sites of cultural politics since they give form to the various historical contestations that dominate cultural or political debates. In some, the density of the filmic text is so complex that the films can be seen as indications not simply of a looming social crisis but as spaces of an unfolding visual crisis, as is clear for example between 1965 and 1967 and after 1984/85. In the most important films of Greek cinema, one can see precisely how negotiable the limits are between cinema as an artistic activity and cinema as a social institution. Many movies were made with both political and aesthetic concerns incorporated into their structure; and as the medium gained confidence in the late 1950s, an implicit dialogue commenced between the film-makers themselves in an attempt to consolidate a distinct cinematic idiom. It still remains to be discussed (though not in this book), if there is a distinctly Greek cinematic language or cinema that has never achieved full self-awareness and articulation. It is said that the most important film producer, Filopimin Finos, preferred to make a “good imitation of a Hollywood movie” rather than to produce a “bad Greek film.” Contemporary globalization brings such a dilemma to the fore again. Moreover, the intellectual establishment of the country had an ambivalent attitude towards the medium itself. Despite its popular appeal, many intellectuals were extremely reluctant, if not unwilling, to accept its artistic value—only in the late 1950s did intellectuals begin to articulate a positive appreciation of cinema, and always with many reservations. Cinema is one of the main arts of capitalist modernity and, as such, has presupposed on many occasions a radical break with the established practices of the past in terms of aesthetics, historical awareness, and self-articulation. Throughout its history, Greek culture has been a bookish tradition based on the word and the printed page rather than on the image and the

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Preface visual modality of perceiving reality. Many important intellectual Western texts were written in Greek and because of them (and the mythologies around their meanings), the Greek language is of cultural value and significance, something that has been emphasized by the ideology of the state. Language has been the most singularly important thread of continuity in Greek history from antiquity to today. The establishment of the Greek nation state in 1828 was based on the continuing memory that such privileged texts offered to the citizens of the new civil society who, after being socialized by the educational system, articulated their self-perception in terms of linguistic continuity with the culture of Homer, fifth-century Athens, and the Hellenistic, Byzantine, and Ottoman periods. Being Greek meant speaking Greek through a peculiar strategy of nation building, which was based on linguistic nationalism, consecrated by religious ceremonies or folkloric rituals and fiercely disseminated by the education system. However, cinema privileges the image and, even more so, the flowing images of the ephemeral and the temporary. The transition from a culture of the book to a culture of images, from a reading society to the society of the spectacle gives an extremely important anthropological content to cinematic art in Greece—something that could perhaps be extended to other countries of Eastern Europe and the Mediterranean, such as Russia, Bulgaria, Romania, and Turkey, or the Arab countries, which seem to have faced analogous cultural dilemmas regarding their past, identity, and contemporary physiognomy. This survey also addresses briefly some peculiarities of Greek cinema. For example, despite the internationally accepted image of Greece as the locus of an ancient Greek culture, Greek cinema has rarely dealt with its nation’s ancient past. We don’t have modern Greek cinematic representations of classical Greece. The main concern of most Greek movies has been the political question in contemporary Greek society. And the political question, of course, is associated with the history of the country and the ways in which Greek society dealt in times of war and peace with its own self-perception and cultural memory. The most important postulate for Greek film-makers has been the attempt to construct, invent, or compile an optical language that could visually articulate Greek society either as a coherent unity or as a palimpsest consisting of gaps, missing pages, and individual silences. Indeed, it took Greek film-makers a prolonged period of almost 30 years to piece together the morphemes for a visual grammar appropriate and equivalent to the complexities of Greek society. The transition from a non-perspectival culture—a culture outside the visual tradition of Western European art— to the modern visual regimes, based on space, volume, light, and shadow, generated not only technological but also stylistic problems. In the early years, cinema was a succession of tableaux vivants or a series of family portraits. Only after 1936 can we clearly see that Greek

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cinematographers had abandoned the one-dimensional space of Byzantine iconography and had started exploring the potentialities of spatial depth, formal volume, and multiple stage arrangements. In the 1950s, a group of creative directors established an imaginative dialogue between the camera and the human form, thereby consolidating the visual language that permeates Greek cinematic representations to this day. It also took decades—not until after 1960—and many individual efforts and personal struggles for the Greek state to develop an interest in the industry, an interest undoubtedly encouraged by the fact that the ideological influence of cinema had by that stage become undeniable and its social impact uncontested. Cinema as an industry has served Greece as no other industry. For example, Cacoyannis’ Zorba the Greek has been the single most important trademark for exports, a “national” symbol that has instigated the local cultural industry through tourism and established “Greece” as a special place in the cultural imagination of the world. Cultural contextualization is crucial for the understanding of the development of Greek cinema. We must study the internal dialogue among directors, directors of photography, script writers, producers, actors, and, finally, of the audience itself in order to form a complete picture of the central physiognomy of Greek cinema. Some movies have generated more interest than others: as cultural artifacts, popular and generic movies are much more relevant to an understanding of the dominant taste, horizon of expectations, and collective pursuits than movies made by the singular vision or exclusive fascination of a particular individual. The old debate between genre and auteur is something that can be detected in Greece, as in many other cinematic traditions. When certain movies were screened, they elicited equally problematic emotions and reactions in their audience. Such films were either popular “soapies” based on the charisma of superstars such as Aliki Vouyouklaki, or works that expressed the artistic and political concerns of directors such as Nikos Koundouros, Takis Kanellopoulos, Theo Angelopoulos, Tonia Marketaki, and Stavros Tornes. The problem of representing the unstable realities of Greek society has been the pivotal point of departure for this account. Its main purpose is to explore and discuss the representation strategies established by a number of directors in order to depict the Greek experience and its cultural memory since the introduction of cinema into the country. We want to discuss the movies and artists who defined public taste, while at the same time connecting certain films with international trends, movements, and questions. Overall, this book focuses on films in which the depiction of Greek reality has assumed a special and even “irregular” form in an attempt to construct a visual pattern for the Greek experience—such films, regardless of their commercial success or failure, stand out by themselves.

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Preface This survey also briefly deals with the representations of “others” in Greek cinema (Roma, Jews, Americans, British, Turks, and so on), and finally examines movies that depict forms of sexual otherness and social marginalization as symbols of diversification and pluralism. While such movies were extremely rare in early periods of Greek cinema, they have proliferated recently as Greek society moves towards a more multinational and multicultural demography. Such films also chronicle the fluid and unstable realities that have emerged since 1991 and the influx of refugees from Balkan and Eastern European countries. On some occasions, I have attempted an anthropological conceptualization of Greek cinema, especially in relation to the modes of representation and the types of image it established in order to depict a society in constant fluidity and instability. Within such a society the issue of individual characterization has always remained crucial.With the exception of Theo Angelopoulos, who avoided any psychologization of individual existence, most film-makers tried to construct human types affected by the instability of their surrounding society, but have mostly failed in creating complete and believable characters. While commercial cinema depicted the stereotypical, conformist and adjustable “common man,” art cinema grappled with the psychological complexities and existential dilemmas of the internal exile and the social outcast, an enterprise that made such movies introspective, opaque, and, occasionally, self-indulgent. In its development, Greek cinema had to deal with the problem of constructing a visual language that would unlock the mystery of the human form and situate it within its historical local realities. The solution to this problem took decades to formulate and came about only after the creative imagination had succeeded in liberating itself from the traumas of historical experience. One can see the whole history of cinema in Greece as a visual antidote for the confusion and anxiety caused by such traumas; an attempt to bring balance and closure to the symptoms of post-traumatic helplessness that dominated a society in constant crisis over its present and future position in history.

V Inevitably, in writing this history I have had to choose films which did not simply define Greek cinema history but which could also be of interest to an international audience. I have tried not to see Greek cinema as a battleground between commercial and art films but to present the formal complementarity of both modes of production. I have endeavored to talk about the merits and the problems that each genre depicts within its own context and, wherever possible, in reference to the artistic quest of their makers. There are chapters on what is called New Greek Cinema, as well as

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chapters on propaganda, soft porn, or bad melodrama. They all illustrate the panorama of Greek film production and present through their own “gaze” different aspects of Greek history, culture, and society. Moreover, the fact that many “artistic” film-makers were involved in the production of commercial, popular culture films shows the implicit symbiotic relationship between high and popular culture and the invisible pathways of their convergence. In most cases, unfortunately, we do not have good digital copies of films produced between 1910 and 1980 (although recently a digitalization project has been inaugurated by the Greek Film Centre, EKK, and has been funded by the European Union and independent distributors). Still, many good films exist in bad prints and it would be of great assistance to the future historian of Greek cinema if the important task of digitalization were to be completed. Many films of the early period are considered lost; however, as recent research shows, many Greek films made between 1911 and 1945 have lain forgotten somewhere in the film archives of Berlin, Paris, London, and Moscow—for various reasons in each case. Let us hope that young researchers will try to salvage these lost treasures and reveal to contemporary viewers the difficulties that early Greek filmmakers confronted and so acclimatize the main art of modernity to the structures and mentalities of a traditional society on the periphery of Europe.

A note on the transliteration of names and titles I followed the simplest phonetic transcription of Greek names as they are pronounced in the language: Yorgos instead of George (but Yeorgios for the archaic form of the name), Yannis instead of John. The translated titles of films in English are taken from Dimitris Koliodimos, The Greek Filmography: 1914 through 1996. I indicate wherever there is a difference of opinion. When a particular form of name has already been used in English (Theo Angelopoulos for example) I maintain that form. All translations from Greek are mine unless otherwise indicated. Sometimes, there are discrepant release dates for films. The screening season in Greece starts in October, so a film can be shown in the theaters in the following year, even if it was produced in the previous year. In most cases, I have followed the date given by Rouvas and Stathakopoulos, while in others I use the year of release.

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Acknowledgments I a m deeply indebted to m any people for their assistance in the fruition of this project. First of all, I would like to express my gratitude to my students of the Modern Greek Department at the University of Sydney for their personal response, unbiased approach, and “random” comments, which helped me to form a truly contemporary view, free of the allure of history and the sentimentalism of childhood experiences. Many thanks are also owed to my colleagues in the department: Dr. Anthony Dracopoulos for our inspiring and challenging conversations and Dr. Panayota Nazou for her encouragement and relentless criticism. A thank you must also go to my colleague in the European Cinema course, Professor Judith Keene, for her sensitivity and critical gaze. I am also indebted to my other colleagues at the University: Michelle Royer, Laleen Jayamanne, and Richard Smith, whose presence and ideas helped me to form my own approach to cinema. I am thankful to my friend Takis Katsabanis who insisted on being critical but always with love, since this is “our tradition.” To my sister Emily for her inspiring fighting spirit and my friend Ourania Lampsidou for her uncompromised modernity. Finally, to my friend and partner Robert Meader whose dislike of Theo Angelopoulos and the “auteur” tradition gave me a reality check. The support and encouragement from particular individuals who made a substantial contribution to the study of Greek cinema enabled me to access material and sources that were very hard to find; Nikos Theodosiou with his out-ofprint studies on the beginnings of Greek cinema and the culture surrounding the experience of going to the movies. My colleague Lydia Papadimitriou provided me with extremely helpful commentary after having read a draft of the first chapter. George Mitropoulos kindly sent to me from Greece books that are hard to obtain in the Antipodes. Dan Georgakas has been the single inspiring force behind the whole project, since the study of his work and political thinking gave me the capacity and strength to be lucid and unambiguous. I also feel a deep sense of gratitude to the anonymous seller of DVDs in a small shop in Piraeus who in two days found for me the rarest Greek movies, especially films made between 1930 and 1960, which I could not find in the most advanced research centers. There are no words to express my gratitude to Mr. Charles Humblet the educational designer of the School of Languages and Cultures at the University of Sydney. Without his technical assistance there would have been no photographs in this book, which, as we know, make every book worth reading.



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My colleague Cathy Cassis with her linguistic sensitivity edited the text so that it has a smooth narrative flow and a seamless structure of sentence. Cathy gave the text its necessary stylistic unity and expressive precision which in my own world of confused bilingualism never really exists. Finally, I am thankful to the editor of Continuum, Katie Gallof, who embraced the project with enthusiasm and humor from its very inception. This book is dedicated to the memory of my brother Nicholas who died unexpectedly several days after we were reconnected by an unexpected discussion on the significance of going to James Bond movies together. Vrasidas Karalis, University of Sydney, July 2011

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Chapter One

❦❦

Early Greek Cinema: 1905–1945

Constructing the Cinematic Gaze On November 29 , 1896 , Athenians paid a hefty price to attend the first

ever screenings of moving pictures on Greek soil. The screenings took place nine months after the Lumière brothers officially patented their invention in Paris. At a central street in Athens and at a humble venue especially modified for the occasion, a strange inscription read: Cinematofotographe Edison. An anonymous reviewer wrote in the newspaper The City (To Asty): Carriages are travelling, horses are running, the sea is quietly moving, the wind is blowing, clothes are waving, trains are departing, Ms Loie Fuller is shaking and twisting like a colourful snake her paradoxical, unique and famous clothes, so that one thinks that they have before them living human beings, faces enlivened by blood, bodies pulsating with muscles. The illusion of life, in all its endless manifestations, parades in front of us. When it becomes possible to have a series of Greek images, of Athenian scenes and landscapes, the cintematofotograph will then excel, becoming an even more enjoyable spectacle. However, even as it stands, it presents one of the most astonishing inventions of science, one of the most fascinating discoveries; it is worth being watched by everybody and, certainly, they will all watch it and immerse themselves in its consummate phantasmagorias.1

Every day for a month, 16 screenings were offered until Alexandre Promio, the representative of the Lumière brothers, took the projector and the short films to Constantinople. All famous early films made by the Lumières were screened: L’ Arrivée d’un Train, La Sortie des Usines Lumière, Lyon les Cordeliers, Le goûter de bébé, and others. Despite their immense success, no special interest in film was shown in the Greek capital for over four years. Adverse and disastrous circumstances at the beginning of the following year quashed any curiosity or entrepreneurial interest in further exploring or 1

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A History of Greek Cinema making use of the new invention. (The first screenings were organized in Thessaloniki, then under Ottoman rule, in July 1897; and, in July 1900, the first regular screenings were shown at the famous Orpheus theater on the thriving commercial island of Syros.) Indeed, the new art of cinema was the casualty of the political and social upheavals of Greek history. In order to establish itself and consolidate its presence, the medium needed political stability, social cohesion, and, of course, peace with other countries: essentially the preconditions for the establishment of technological infrastructure and the development of a sophisticated studio system that would allow for the emergence of film culture. Such preconditions were absent from Greek history until 1950. Prolonged periods of warfare (1912–1922), political instability (1922–1928 and 1932–1936), dictatorships, failed coups, and ultimately the German occupation followed by the Civil War (1946–1949) deferred for almost 50 years the smooth incorporation of the technological infrastructure and the conceptual framework that cinema as an industry and as an art needs to flourish. At the end of the nineteenth century, the nation state of Greece had a total population of about 2,500,000 people; another 3,000,000 Greeks lived outside the national borders, mainly in the Ottoman Empire, Russia and Egypt. Athens, the capital city, had an unremarkable population of 130,000 and competed with other established centers of Greek civilization, such as Constantinople, Smyrna, and Alexandria, for cultural and financial domination.2 The Greek economy was predominantly agricultural, although in the last decades of the century several programs of international investment were in place and the presence of the working class had become noticeable in the political and ideological debates of the country. In April 1896, Greece organized the first Olympic Games of the modern era. The success of the Games raised the hopes of the Greek people and the political establishment on many levels. However, by the end of 1897 the country experienced the effects of a humiliating bankruptcy, first announced in 1893 by the Prime Minister Charilaos Trikoupis (1832–1896) with one of the most memorable phrases of Greek political vocabulary: “Regretfully, we are bankrupt!” The bankruptcy was a long process and was the painful outcome of a combination of intense borrowing for infrastructure works, the systemic corruption of a state based on political clientelism, the organization of the Olympic Games, and, finally, of a humiliating military defeat by the Ottoman Empire in the so-called Black 1897 War. Nonetheless, against all odds, the movement for a social and political renaissance began during the first decade of the new century, when the country was forced to confront the dilemmas of modernity and proceed with its industrialization process, its rising working-class movement, and its unresolved territorial disputes with the collapsing Ottoman Empire (mainly in Crete and Macedonia). Programs of reform were gradually implemented by different

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governments, starting in 1900 and culminating in the Goudi Uprising of 1908 when rebellious but ineffective officers demanded political concessions from the rather indolent and indifferent King George I of the Hellenes. In this political and social climate, the Psychoule Brothers from the city of Volos, Thessaly, introduced the first projection machine to Athens in 1899 at the Varieté theater behind what is today the site of the Old Parliament, screening short films, which they later took to the countryside. In 1900, other entrepreneurs, especially those from Smyrna or Alexandria, like Cleanthis Zahos and Apostolos Kontaratos, imported new projectors and installed them at the cafés surrounding Constitution Square between the Palace and the Parliament. Fierce competition broke out between the café proprietors for the premiere screening of the most recent French and Italian productions. The first movies, however, started being regularly screened at the industrial port of Piraeus by the Smyrnian businessman Yannis Synodinos. The initial session consisted of Edison’s The Battle of Mafeking and one of the great commercial successes of the day, Georges Méliès’ Cinderella. Other movies directed by Ferdinand Zecca and produced by Charles Pathé, such as Histoire d’un crime and Les Victimes de l’alcoolisme, became popular. Thanks to Pathé’s entrepreneurship, the tradition of Pathé-Journal with newsreels of actual events was to become the enduring legacy of early French cinema to Greek cinematography. After 1904, many cafés imported their own projectors, and the desire of their proprietors to attract greater audiences to their establishments only intensified the antagonism between them. A number of newsreels were taken during the Greek-Turkish war of 1897 by Frederic Villiers (1852–1922) and by Méliès himself (1861–1938)—these have to be the earliest film recordings on Greek territory3. An unknown American cameraman first filmed Athens in 1904. Later in the same year, an enigmatic French cameraman, named Leon (or Leons), who worked for Gaumont, Pathé’s great competitor, came to Athens to cover the mid-Olympiad of 1906 and filmed the games. His films were among the first existing visual records made on Greek territory. In 1907, an unknown cameraman made the first Greek journal, filming The Celebration of King George I. In 1908, a successful businessman from Smyrna, Evangelos Mavrodimakis, began to offer regular screenings of movies in the center of Athens, which had only just been supplied with electricity. On the central Stadiou Street he established the first movie theater, naming it the Theater of the World; he is considered to be the father of the Greek cinema venue. In these early days, each session usually consisted of a screening of eight short films, accompanied by a pianist, with improvised melodies, but later, whole orchestras were added together with popular singers. In early 1911, the first permanent cinema, Olympia (to be renamed later Capitole), was built in Piraeus by Yannis Synodinos, thereby inaugurating the material infrastructure for the expansion of cinema on Greek territory.

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A History of Greek Cinema It was not, however, until 1911/12, after the city of Athens was fully supplied with electricity, that three grand cinemas were specifically built to cater for the needs of the new art and its growing audience (Attikon, Pallas and Splendid). But open-air screenings retained their appeal for Athenian audiences, continuing the tradition of the open-air performances of the shadow theater of Karagiozis, which was for many decades the most popular form of public entertainment. In 1913, one of the most historic, almost legendary, cinemas opened in Athens, the Rosi-Clair, which was to screen the most popular films over a period of 50 years and which was finally closed down in 1969, under changed circumstances. In subsequent years, the famous Pantheon theater was established at the center of the city for the middle class, while the more humble Panorama was opened in a less-auspicious suburb for the underclass. By 1920, a network of six cinemas existed in the capital, together with open-air screenings that continued to be offered by a considerable number of cafés. Throughout the country, with the annexation of the city of Thessalonica in 1912 and the rest of Macedonia and the Aegean islands, an overall number of 80 cinemas were in operation by the end of the decade. During this period, due to the increasing demand for technological support, many foreigners were invited to Athens as cameramen, maintenance technicians, and projectionists. Some chose to stay. Among them, the German-Hungarian Josef Hepp (Giozef Chep, 1887–1968) worked relentlessly for decades to consolidate the new art form and should be recognized as one of the most prominent film-makers in the history of Greek cinema. Hepp was a man of artistic brilliance with a superb sense of style for mise-enscène, and his contribution is worthy of closer study. He arrived in Greece in early 1910, after an invitation from King George and bearing the conferred title of “Royal photographer and cinematographer.” His first film was the short journal From the Life of the Little Princes, which he shot in early 1911 with the King’s very many children and grandchildren. He later recollected: When I arrived in Greece, I fell in love with its lucid colors, its blue skies, the unembellished lines of its landscapes, but mostly with its people, their customs and way of living. I filmed them and I was the first who made images to represent Greece in other countries.4

Meanwhile, in 1905 in Macedonia, the brothers Yannakis (Ioannis) (1878– 1954) and Miltiadis (1882–1964) Manaki recorded rural scenes from the life of ordinary villagers.5 They made a number of reels, which established the genre of ethnographic documentary in the Balkans, despite their disputed political agenda. Macedonia was a contested area that still belonged to the collapsing Ottoman Empire, but Greece, Serbia, and Bulgaria aspired to annex it to their national territories. The Manaki brothers produced films that depicted the ethnic diversity of the region as well as the strange in-between minorities that had escaped

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the attention of the political rivals. These included work on the Aromanian Vlachs, Macedonian Slavs and the Romas. Christos Christodoulou has observed that, “The Manaki Brothers . . . recorded the Balkans at some of their most critical historical moments with both touching impartiality and a sense of documentary precision.”6 Within their work, films of special significance as the earliest visual records of an ethnographic nature from the region include Customs and Traditions of Macedonia (1906), The Visit of Sultan Mehmet V to Thessaloniki and Monastiri (1911), Turkish Prisoners (1912), Refugees (1916), and The Bombardment of Monastiri (1916). These early short reels are still very close to photographs; they are indeed moving pictures, and their photographic stillness can be detected in the decades to come as their enduring artistic legacy to Greek cinema. Miltos Manakis had some interesting ideas regarding photography: Photography is in essence an art form. We are artists/technicians of a sort, comparable to the painters of the past. They were not the only ones who could give beauty to what they painted; we do the same thing with our photographs. A good photograph depends on the play of light . . . And this is something only an artist can do, someone who knows what is attractive, divine and aesthetic . . .7

Manaki brothers, The Abvella Weavers (1905/6). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema Indeed, one can readily discern the continuity between still photographs and the cinematic representations in Greece and the Balkans at the time. Local artistic practices were based on the great, long, and venerable Byzantine tradition of religious iconography. The visual language of perspective that had dominated European painting since the Italian Renaissance was totally absent from the cultural optics of the country and, certainly, of the whole of Eastern Europe. The new tradition of painting, dominant in the late nineteenth century, was predominantly imported (it was even named the “Munich School”), and was still struggling to find its specific Greek expression and style. (It is interesting, however, that in his pioneer essay on cinema, Vachel Lindsay refers to the paintings of the main representative of the Munich School, Nickolas Gyzis, when he talks about “mood” in the cinematic image of Mary Pickford.)8 The face in Byzantine icons and frescos is self-illuminated, without shades or shadows; and space is depicted symbolically not “realistically” or “naturalistically.” That which interests the Byzantine tradition more is not the story but the “organization of space” and how the viewer experiences its “psychic content.” Its point of view is located within the iconographic space and through the special pictorial practice called “inverse perspective,” according to which the image and each of its components gaze at the viewer and not the viewer at the image.9 Similarly, the camera works with the interplay between light and dark, and with space, in a realistic, photographic sense by juxtaposing patterns, shapes, and forms in order to generate emotions through visual contrasts. The struggle to create depth, to explore natural space, and to understand perspective as the contrast between grades of black and white are visible throughout the early period of Greek cinema and were to be resolved only after the Second World War. Because of its specific iconographic sources and the prevailing visual cultures formed by shadow theater or folk painting, Greek cinema could not embark on the production of large historical epics as in Italy by Enrico Guazzone or Giovanni Pastrone. From its very beginnings, it focused on small-scale productions whose principal objective was to supplant the existing modes and genres of popular entertainment. The documentaries of the Maniaki Brothers do not belong to a single national cinema. They constitute the “primary foundational texts” of the whole cinematography that was to evolve with the collapse of the Ottoman Empire after the First World War. The lives of the two brothers are equally telling. One died poor and unknown in Thessalonica in 1954, while the other was celebrated as a national hero in Yugoslavia, with each of them opting for a different motherland, a different identity, and a different culture.10 In 1910/11, after the first recording camera was imported into the country, a number of short films on the lives of insects and reptiles were

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made by Harilaos Mavrodimakis, the first scientific documentaries to be produced in Greece. In 1912, Josef Hepp made two more short films on the life of the royal family, during the period of great optimism that followed the election of the new dynamic Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos, who was to play a crucial role in the development of cinema in the country, especially after 1928. Meanwhile, foreign films were extremely successful. Among them were The Crowning of the Tsar, Faust, The Life and Passion of Jesus Christ made by Louis Lumière; The Great Train Robbery by Edwin S. Porter; and Cinderella, The Dreyfus Affair and Journey to the Moon by Georges Méliès. These were so popular that they soon inspired local productions.

Production Begins In 1910, the first production company, Athene Films, made a number of slapstick comedies, which focused on the body of Spyros Dimitrakopoulos, aka, Spyridion, the owner of the company. His movies were filmed by imported technicians and were directed by the Italian Filippo Martelli. Spyridion modeled his acting on the American Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle and his film Ben’s Kid (1909), which Spyridion had watched in Paris. His cameraman was Erich Bumbach from Germany who was also to play a crucial role in the early period of Greek cinema. Spyridion himself was the scriptwriter, actor, producer and distributor. Spyridion, Quo Vadis (1911); Spyridion, Baby (1912); and Spyridion, Chameleon (1912) were comic skits based on the physical peculiarities of the actor, and his resemblance to the American comedian. They gained wide popularity throughout the country, since by then the number of cinemas had proliferated in many major cities, such as Piraeus, Patras, Volos, and Pyrgos. Unfortunately, none of these movies survive except in stills. Dimitrakopoulos himself was extremely aware of what he called the “demands of the screen.” In a sense, he was the pioneer of screen acting and managed to avoid one of the main disadvantages of most actors in the early period of Greek cinema: theatricality. In an interview in 1924, he recollected: I watched all movies and studied carefully the movements of screen actors, analyzing them, understanding their psychology and trying to find what I was missing, in order to add it. I also studied the ways in which directors arrange things on the screen and only when I became assured that I could pose in front of the camera, did I star in Quo Vadis and my other films.11

During these early years, Josef Hepp was the dominant figure, having by then become the Palace’s favorite cinematographer and, at the same time, the highest-paid professional in the country. He documented the Balkan Wars (1912–1913), the entrance of the Greek army into Thessalonica,

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A History of Greek Cinema and the defeat of the Bulgarian army. Meanwhile, he mentored his first student, Gabriel Loggos (1885–?), who would later make the earliest existing documentary on the criminal world of Athens by hiding the camera in places where the underworld people met—this was also the first attempt at creative script-free film-making. In 1914/15, the folk-costume rural drama Golfo was produced by Costas Behatoros in collaboration with Filippo Martelli, as the first feature film made in the country. Golfo, at 79 minutes, was a costly production (100,000 drachmas, an immense amount for the time) and inaugurated the characteristic genre of bucolic fustanella dramas, which maintained its appeal for many decades through its idealization of rural space and the pre-urban time of communal village innocence. Its story was derived from a popular love idyll in traditional rhyming verse written for the theater by Spyridon Peresiadis in 1893. However, beyond the ethnographic appeal of the story’s setting, were the themes of forced marriage and the position of women in society, especially poor women, and always according to the prevailing patriarchal imaginary. Its tragic conclusion, although somewhat primitive, was quite an emphatic critique of class distinctions and masculine mentality, as it ends with the implied message that every man has sacrificed a woman for his position and success. Stylistically, because of Martelli, it was very close to Italian films of the period, particularly those before the historical epics, which revolved around folk heroes. The actors were all from the theater, with the most prominent among them being Virginia Diamante (1896–1948) and Olympia Damaskou (1878–?), and it seems that their very theatricality contributed to the film’s failure at the box office. Despite this failure, as Dan Georgakas has noted, “the storyline continually intrigued Greek film-makers. A 1932 remake would be the first Greek talking picture. In 1955, there would be three more remakes, one being extremely successful and in 1974, Angelopoulos would feature the play as a central theme in The Travelling Players.”12 Behatoros left for Paris in 1916 and was lost to Greek cinema, as it seems was his fortune, after the failure of the film. Unfortunately, as early as 1931 the film was considered lost. The political unrest of the period, starting with the Balkan Wars and culminating in the tragic National Division (1916–1917), created a precarious environment for the consolidation of the new art form. In 1915, the first attempt to adapt a novel to cinema came with Constantinos Hristomanos’ The Wax Doll (I Kerenia Koukla) by Mihael Glytsos, the second feature film in the country; despite the money invested in the film, it had no commercial success and received vitriolic reviews. However, it is worth pointing out that these early feature films established a gendered visual discourse and took the feminine predicament as the foundation of cinematic language. Golfo was set in the

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village and The Wax Doll in the city, but in both cases the feminine presence was used as a gendered category, which, irrespective of space, embodied the socio-cultural tensions that prevailed in the public domain of the country. Screen adaptations of literary works caused quite a stir in the circles of an intelligentsia that privileged the culture of the word as the focal element of Greek tradition. On the basis of this film, a prominent intellectual of the period, Fotos Politis (1890–1934), denounced the new art as “a real plague, an artless wound, a superficial spectacle, not different from that of horse racing, which alienates people from the emotions of genuine art.”13 Politis changed his verdict much later, in the early 1930s, when sound was introduced and he saw cinema as potentially the “eighth art,” equal, if not superior, to theater. In 1916/17, Josef Hepp, with the financial assistance of supporters like Yorgos Prokopiou, established Asty Films but never completed their planned movie on The Passion of Jesus (O Aniforos tou Golgotha). Hepp introduced an important innovation then by devising a mechanism of his own to introduce inserts in Greek during a screening. He also managed to film one of the most notorious events in Greek history, the official “Anathema” of the Greek Orthodox Church against Prime Minister Venizelos in December 1916—this was the first political film ever made in the country and tainted Hepp’s reputation. The documentary was indeed just as extraordinary as the event itself—it didn’t escape the attention and reproach of the prominent British ethnographer Sir James George Frazer who saw in it “the indestructibility of superstition.” “In Europe,” he concluded, “such mummeries only contribute to the public hilarity, and bring the Church which parades them into contempt.”14 One year later, Dimos Vratsanos and Josef Hepp produced another drama, directed by Martelli, The Fate of Maroula (or, The Dowry of Annoula). Soon after, another company, the Anglo-Hellenic Company, which was established for the production and distribution of films owned by wealthy Greeks from Cape Town, South Africa, bought Hepp’s company following its huge financial losses. Yet their plans to build proper studios never materialized: the political instability of the period influenced Greek cinema production system in deeply adverse ways and compelled film-makers to make movies only in the open air and to shoot only on location. Meanwhile, Hepp’s films were confiscated and he was subsequently exiled to the islands of Skyros and Icaria for political reasons. (The government accused him of being a staunch royalist and pro-German, which he was.) His treatment prefigured what was to happen to other film-makers in the future. After King Constantine was deposed by French and British intervention in 1916/17, Greece, under the leadership of Eleftherios Venizelos, participated in the last phase of the First World War with the Allies; the war effort on many fronts was intense and film production ceased for two or three years,

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A History of Greek Cinema with the existing cameras used exclusively to record battles in Asia Minor, mainly, as we will see, by the Gaziadis brothers, whose father, Anastasios, was one of the greatest pioneers of art photography in the country.15 For its participation, Greece was rewarded at the Peace Conference in Paris (1919) with territorial gains in eastern Thrace and the area around Smyrna in Asia Minor. After the Conference, the pro-Western Prime Minister Venizelos proceeded with two controversial moves: first, he sent Greek troops to Smyrna, and second, he declared elections in order to renew his mandate by the people. Despite the celebrations after the landing of the Greek army in Smyrna, it soon became apparent that the situation was more complex than anticipated, with many international powers and interests involved. At the same time, the influence of Turkish nationalism and its charismatic leader Mustafa Kemal had been simplistically and fatally underestimated. Furthermore, in an extraordinary twist of history, Venizelos lost the September 1920 election. Consequently, the Western Allies abandoned Greece’s new royalist government which had sided with the Germans during the war and which had now restored the deposed King Constantine to power. After that, all Greek military involvement in Asia Minor was unsustainable and was indeed to end with a major catastrophe in August 1922. Smyrna—a city with a substantial Greek population for centuries—and the entire Asia Minor coastline were evacuated by all its Greek inhabitants in a forced exchange of populations that culminated in hundreds of thousands of casualties and more than 1,800,000 refugees. These displaced people flooded Greece and created a massive social problem that was to dominate the socio-political landscape of the country for many decades. Psychologically, the Asia Minor Catastrophe still remains the most traumatic event in modern Greek history. Its presence can be felt either implicitly or explicitly as the anxiety substratum of most Greek films, indeed of all cultural production, to this day. The fear of expulsion and of losing contact with one’s historic origins, imagined or real, can be detected in most Greek movies, and in most art forms of mainstream production, as a deep-seated anxiety, expressed on many occasions through a panic-stricken affirmation of national and personal identity. The only thing that remained intact after such great loss was the “unchanged” essence of “Greekness,” associated either with “racial” and “cultural” continuity or, in other instances, with the spirit of resistance and rebellion. Thematically, however, it was a trauma that was not effectively confronted and healed in the public arena for almost half a century; and consequently it caused a prolonged crisis of individual identity, confusion in cultural orientation, and finally, distrust towards the political system responsible for it. Even today, in order to affirm Greek identity and address the need for legitimacy and justification in contemporary adverse realities, most public

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intellectuals revert to pre-Greek state notions, such as the “purity” of the Orthodox faith, the “authenticity” of pre-modern life in the villages, or the glory of classical Greece. It is undeniable that the whole political establishment of the country was involved in the erroneous planning and the delusory execution of the Asia Minor campaign. Yet no one from either the political powers that had supported the campaign or from the high military officers was ever held accountable for the Catastrophe. Six officials, among them the former prime minister, Dimitrios Younaris, and five of his ministers, were executed under the fabricated accusation of “national treason,” as scapegoats for the monumental disaster—an act that only exacerbated the public feeling that the ruling elite was covering up the whole affair. (It is interesting that in 2009, when one of the descendants of the executed officials requested a re-examination of the trial, the Supreme Court declared all six innocent in closed-door proceedings—to ensure that state secrets would still not be revealed 80 years later!) During this period of crisis and collapse, many important film-makers, like Yorgos Prokopiou (1876–1940) and Gabriel Loggos, were filming the Asia Minor campaign (and their reels remain unique visual testimonies of the war effort; these were to be used quite extensively by successive generations of Greek cinematographers as parts of their films or documentaries). Nonetheless, several films were made during the ensuing period of chaos. A personality of special significance also emerged, Dimos Vratsanos (1873– 1944). Vratsanos was one of the associates who had helped Hepp to establish Asty Films; and by 1920 he was the first intellectual to take cinema seriously, establishing a private school for cinema acting. Meanwhile, the first Greek film reviews were published in Illustrated (Eikonografimeni), a journal founded by Vratsanos in 1904 and which was published sporadically until 1936. Furthermore, Vratsanos was the producer and Hepp the director of the hilarious comedy Villar in the Women’s Baths of Faliron (O Bilar sta Ginaikeia Loutra tou Falirou, 1920), which introduced Villar as the most successful comedian of the day. (His real name was Nikolas Sfakianos or Sfakianakis.) Twenty-six whole minutes from his second film The Adventures of Villar (Oi Peripeteies tou Bilar, 1926) have survived and were restored recently, making it the first Greek feature film to exist almost in its entirety. Villar was influenced by the American musicals of the period but more obviously by the “King of Comedy,” Mack Sennett, and especially by his productions involving chase gags and bathing beauties—and he faithfully followed Sennett’s axiom: “We have no scenario . . . the chase is the essence of our comedy.” Yet, as he was running up and down central Athens, his film offered a distinct depiction of the city, its main roads, people and landscape. Also, its subtle humor and its attempt to create a “comedy of manners” make this early film worth watching to this day.

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A History of Greek Cinema Another comedian of the period, Michael Michael of Michael (1895– 1944), also became very popular; his unscripted and director-less films earned him the nickname of the Greek Charlie Chaplin, and his personality gave rise to the first form of “media star” in the country. Between 1923 and 1925, he released five movies with Hepp as his principal cameraman—very few scenes survive from The Wedding of Michael and Concetta (O Gamos tou Mihail kai tis Kontsetas, 1923), Michael is Completely Broke (O Mihail den Ehei Psila, 1923) and Michael’s Dream (To Oneiro tou Mihail, 1923). The commercial success of these films also helped to establish the career of another important comedian in this early period, Ahilleas Madras (1875– 1966), whose movies, despite their shortcomings, can be seen as major social documents in a changing society, as well as filmic texts within a new understanding of cinema as cultural industry. A cosmopolitan wanderer, Madras made a number of interesting movies in a heroic attempt to tell a continuous story while desperately struggling with the camera in new angles, frame devices and perspectives. Most of his films have no script, no stable sets, and feature actors who could not act—with Madras the most prominent among them. His documentary The Refugees of the War (Oi Prosfyges tou Polemou, 1920/21), however, was immensely successful in the Greek diaspora of the United States and brought him considerable profits, which he used to fund

Michael Michael, The Marriage of Michael and Concetta (1923). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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such films as The Gypsy Girl of Athens (I Tsiggana tis Athinas, 1922), Maria Pentagiotissa (1928/29) and The Wizard of Athens (O Magos tis Athinas, 1931). They were failed, sometimes ridiculous, but bold and creative experiments with the medium. Maria Pentagiotissa, which survives in two versions (silent and talking), is an extraordinary film that is totally inaccurate, completely improbable and, despite its dramatically patriotic nature, extremely funny. It was aptly advertised as: “Maria Pentagiotissa is not a colossus! Not a 42mm Canon! Not a super–colossus! Not the miracle of the century! Not a superproduction! Not the first Greek movie! Not a Superfilm! Not an experiment! It is LOCAL STUFF!” The scene in which Maria, the Greek Calamity Jane, is fighting against the enemies of the nation up in rugged mountains and in spectacularly high heels, has been parodied endlessly by subsequent comedians. In the talking version, Madras impersonates the priest who christens Maria, reading the archaic liturgical texts with a perfect French accent! Madras’ last movie, The Wizard of Athens, which was a re-edited version of his first, showed a distinct search for continuous parallel storylines with many improbable twists and turns, and is deserving of closer study. Despite

Ahilleas Madras, Maria Pentagiotissa (1928/9). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema the fact that it was called a “masterpiece of bad cinema,”16 Madras’ attempt to add color to the movie shot by shot, to introduce double exposure or a form of primitive montage, and to constantly rework its plot in three different versions make it a strange bricolage experiment on stereotypes and clichés, a euphoric attempt at a carnivalesque comic treatment of a melodramatic motif. Despite their shortcomings, Madras’ films are interesting because they were constantly reworked by him in a way that makes the existing filmic text a palimpsest of different layers of stories, added progressively over each other, as the director improved his skills in representation, script and technical know-how. In 1923, Hepp released his poignant documentary The Exchange of Captives in Asia Minor, one of the most tragic documents of the Asia Minor Catastrophe. In the same year, Michael Dorizas, a visiting Greek-American professor from Philadelphia, produced his pioneering short documentary Meteora about the monasteries perched on tall rocks in the center of Greece. In 1924/25, Dimos Vratsanos filmed the sumptuous melodrama The Reject Child of Destiny (Tis Moiras to Apopaidi), which became so successful in Athens (it

Ahilleas Madras, The Magician of Athens (1931). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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was screened by itself for two consecutive weeks at the Splendid cinema) that it was soon exported to Greek communities in Egypt and the United States. By then, other cities, such as Patras and Thessaloniki, had set up their own studios and produced movies such as the Revolution of 1821 (I Epanastasis tou 1821, 1926). Other cities followed. Three comedies were made in the city of Drama in Greek Macedonia. In 1927, the strange attempt to acclimatize Charlie Chaplin in Greece continued with Anastasios Kefalas’ Charlie Chaplin, Arch Bandit in Arachova (O Sarlo Arhilistis stin Arahova). The film starred Kimon Spathopoulos, (1903–1989), who had just arrived from Paris, and highlighted the fact that a creative dialogue between local industry and the Hollywood tradition had already been established. Stathopoulos would later become one of the most important make-up artists for many Greek movies until the 1980s.

Organization and Challenges A turning point in the history of early Greek cinema came in 1927 with the establishment of Dag Films, the first systematized production company. Dag Films was founded by the Gaziadis brothers, who carried on the tradition of their father Anastasios, one of the most brilliant and innovative artistic photographers of the previous decades. Initially, the company made documentaries and journals as it had been doing since 1923; it also functioned as a distribution agency for imported films. In 1927, the Gaziadis brothers decided to transform it into a production company for feature films. In 1928, Dag Films established its own cinema school in order to mentor new actors and directors. The brothers’ background in photojournalism gave a distinct character to their films, making them moving images with strong black and white contrasts, and some brownish with deep-blue nuances. The austere photographic immobility of the camera itself remained initially but as the brothers gained experience in filming, it became possible to dispense with it entirely and to transform the camera eye into an active and meaningful participant in the cinematic experience. The Gaziadis brothers, Dimitris (1897–1961), Kostas (1899–1970) and Mihalis (1905–?) became the D. W. Griffiths of Greece in their attempt to establish a distinctly “national” cinematic style of storytelling through a unified stylistic presentation. Dimitris usually served as director of their films, Mihalis as cinematographer, and Kostas as editor. The brothers thought that their desired “national” style of film-making could be achieved by intercutting clips of documentaries into the storyline of the film, which was shot on location. In their persistent attempts to construct a grand visual narrative for the nation, they favored prolonged shots of the Greek landscape, having as their main opponent the strong and anti-cinematic glare of the sun, which hindered the depiction of inner conflicts and implied

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A History of Greek Cinema emotions; instead, actors had to pantomime their role in order to make its feelings understood by the audience. Dimitris Gaziadis’ unrealized master work The Greek Miracle (To Elliniko Thauma, 1922) was envisaged as immortalizing the recapture of Asia Minor, although using an all-Russian cast. The film was never completed, except in fragmented reels from the actual battles, which Gaziadis himself had filmed, especially the battles at the Sangarios River and in the city of Smyrna shortly before its disastrous fire.17 The devastating defeat of the Greek army forced him to substitute triumphalist narratives and national myths of military and patriotic glory with short and private folk stories of consolation, in an effort to compensate for the trauma of actual events and the death of the “Great Idea” of restoring imperial Byzantium which had dominated Greek politics for a long period. Dag Films’ first foray towards a systematic production was The Delphic Celebrations (Oi Delfikes Eortes, 1927), a pioneering cinematic effort to film ancient Greek tragedy in its natural space and on location. The celebrations were organized by the renowned poet Angelos Sikelianos and his wealthy American wife Eva Palmer and attracted international attention as the first attempt after antiquity to revive tragedy in its traditional environment. The filming was made in collaboration with the brilliant director of photography Dimitris Meravidis (1895–?), who had studied with the Lumière brothers in Paris. Despite their meagre technical means, Meravidis and Gaziadis managed to move the camera horizontally and to create visual effects similar to those on ancient Greek vases—one-dimensional figures in stylized gestures moving in linear sequence and foregrounding the character of ancient tragedy as sacred initiation. Their camera moved between deep-focus photography, longmedium shots and close-ups, alternating with shots of the depthless landscape and stressing the timelessness of tragic performance, the ritualistic slowness of the chorus, and the expressionless neutrality of the dramatic mask. Dimitris Gaziadis had worked with Ernst Lubitsch and Fritz Lang in Germany while his brother Mihalis had worked in Hollywood with Lubitsch

Gaziadis and Meravidis, The Delphic Celebrations (1927). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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and Griffith. In Dimitris’ most important works, we can clearly see both the influence of German expressionism and the allure of American narrative cinema in a successful fusion. The brothers tried to produce feature films with a continuous narrative story while using the camera to establish a single directorial point of view. Between 1927 and 1929 they produced three movies with uneven results and their final failure determined the fate of early Greek cinema and of silent movies in the country. Love and Waves (Eros kai Kymata, 1928) was a huge commercial success with 40,000 tickets sold in Athens alone. It was released in January 1928 and its unprecedented appeal raised hopes that good local productions were possible. Despite the negative response by critics, with this film Gaziadis introduced the visual grammar for popular movies that was to become dominant (especially in melodramas) for many decades. Importantantly for the period, Gaziadis used slow motion for the first time in order to enhance the emotive response of the audience. His second film, The Harbor of Tears (To Limani ton Dakrion, 1929) introduced actors who were to dominate the screen for the next 30 years. Both movies were honest, but essentially inadequate attempts to create continuous narrative cinema. The linear sequence of visual images in the second film was somehow slowed down. This slowness was deliberate, a means of concealing gaps in the script or disguising the extreme theatricality of the actors. The scenes followed the pattern of still photographs; they simply moved in succession since the actors remained still in front of a fixed camera. Furthermore, the actors were crammed together in the very confined space of a small studio, thus restricting their movement and making their performances self-conscious. Yet some spectacular shots by Gaziadis, especially of a storm around a lighthouse, were commended strongly by critics and were subsequently imitated by other cinematographers. The Harbor of Tears was about the Athenian underworld of smugglers, drug dealers, addicts, and petty thieves. It too was an immediate commercial success. The camera followed a number of characters without really creating a central story or identifying main protagonists. The critic Iris Skarabaiou pointed out that the movie was “a doubtful mixture of many episodes, and that confuses the plot asking for a deus ex machina to offer a favorable and yet improbable solution.”18 The movie also introduced a new representation of figures of the urban underworld as antiheroes, as victims of a social order beyond their grasp and control—a theme that was to dominate the melodramas of the 1950s and 1960s. In his next movie Astero (1929), Dimitris Gaziadis added dramatic intensity to the movement of the camera and made the audience “come into the movie itself.” For the first time, the camera seemed to change angle and follow the action, inviting the viewer to engage in a dialogue with what was happening on the screen. In this film, the camera empathizes with the actors and draws the viewer into the frame as an active participant rather than an

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A History of Greek Cinema indiscreet observer of an irrelevant story. Gaziadis seems to have understood that the camera is not simply the eye of the director, but the eye of the viewer. So, he moves along a horizontal axis, but in an ingenious and inventive way. There is an excellent scene where the camera rests on the head of a dog as it is barking over the dead body of its master: the camera rotates around the mountainous landscape, giving the audience the immediate sensation of an endless immensity of space and the human helplessness within it. The landscape acts as a megaphone to amplify the dog’s barking, as though nature is echoing the pain of human tragedy. In another scene, Gaziadis depicts the madness of Astero by shaking the camera and producing blurry, unstable, and indistinguishable pictures. Astero also introduced a new plot device—the happy ending—as the emotional closure to a story. Gaziadis’ movie consolidated the visual syntax and the framing devices that were to become an integral part of plot and representation in subsequent Greek cinema, especially in the genre of melodrama. The film could have been the first masterpiece of Greek cinema if Gaziadis had managed to work effectively with his actors: while the landscape and the story evoke an

Dimitris Gaziadis, Astero (1929). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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atmosphere of love and betrayal, most of the characters over-act and undermine the director’s attempts to create a distinct psychological aura around them. Also, Gaziadis avoided confronting or criticizing the patriarchal morality or the dominant conventions surrounding the representation of women. Set in the “innocent” landscape of a traditional village, which formed an organic continuity with the natural landscape, the film idealized an already lost way of living. Nevertheless, through the nostalgic recreation of an innocence lost and an authenticity sought after by the urban masses, Gaziadis implicitly criticized roles and institutions, which after the Asia Minor Catastrophe, had lost their legitimacy and moral authority. Greek “authentic” life was not a matter for the present but a thing of the past: Astero can be seen as a narrative of consolation set against the background of cities filled with refugees living in abject poverty. At the same time, Gaziadis constructed a gendered discourse for the nation, representing women as the most solid and steadfast core of moral probity, endurance, and stability. On this film, Gaziadis collaborated with Pavlos Nirvanas (1886–1937), one of the most well-known public intellectuals and popular writers of the period. Nirvanas wrote the scripts for both Astero and The Storm. In an interesting article which pointed out the urgent quest for good scripts, he noted that as screenwriter he had to obey conventions, write platitudes and satisfy the expectations of the audience by producing a movie “full of Greekness”: If it was successful, we would be able to prove that Greece was capable of establishing its own cinematic art and consequently a very significant national industry . . . Among so many concessions and compromises, I also had to deal with an art that follows convention, and my constant concern from the beginning till the end was: how the characters in the cine-drama were to be Greek, to feel Greek, to behave Greek, to speak Greek, even to fall in love—the great barrier of the screen—in a Greek way. Moreover, in moving within the environment of rural people, how was I to avoid the vulgarity into which there was always the danger of falling? I wanted to avoid vulgarity not by ennobling, through false devices, characters and situations, but by revealing in the depths of their souls genuine nobility, the same Greek nobility that found its most brilliant manifestation in our folk songs.19

Nirvanas’ testimony highlights another aspect of this project regarding the noble villager; its origins can be located in the cultural fantasies of the Athenian urban elite with respect to the countryside and its inhabitants. After the destruction of other cultural centers, Athens imposed a hegemonic view of Greek rural lands as a single homogeneous space with distinct ethical values, endurance, obedience, and respect for tradition by becoming the site which evaluated and privileged its “authentic” character. During Astero’s screening, songs were played on a gramophone in order to enhance the film’s emotional impact. Its achievement was extraordinary;

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A History of Greek Cinema 80,000 people saw it in the first week after its release. It was also screened regularly afterwards with such enormous success that a remake with sound was attempted in 1944.20 Although Gaziadis introduced the Hollywood practice of emotional empathy with the characters, he avoided introducing the star system that had started to dominate the studio system in the United States and which had to wait until the 1950s to be consolidated. Gaziadis achieved a more artistic effect with The Storm (I Bora, 1930). With occasional stylistic boldness reminiscent of German expressionism, he employed fading shots, intense close-ups, and soft focus to create an atmosphere of psychological tension and collective anxiety. In this strange film, he also entwined reels of the war in Asia Minor with scenes of a gripping human drama in order to reconstruct states of mind and to provide a continuous narrative sequence. But the film remained fragmented. Iris Skarabaiou notes that the actual reels were irrelevant to the story and were there simply because there was no script—which was only partly true. She also points out that, “the nightmare of the first shot” terrified most of the actors and so the film remained incomplete and disconnected.21 With Gaziadis’ movies, modern urban melodrama was born in Greece, while at the same time the predicament of refugees, of the poor and the dispossessed received its first visual representation. Despite technical difficulties, the Gaziadis brothers established the tradition in Greek cinema of intermingling actual events with fictional ones. After the failure of their artistic projects in 1932, however, the brothers produced only documentaries on current events, and here their camera recorded some of the most critical events of the 1930s. The success of the first organized film company gave birth to a competitor, Olympia Films (while Ahilleas Madras had established his own production company, Ajax Films, and another company Hellas Films appeared in 1930 with more being added during the 1930s, such as Nilo Films, Acropol Films, Astro Films, Foivos Films). The advent of talking pictures sparked intense competition between Dag Films and Olympia Films. Olympia Films produced its first film, Away from the World (Makria apo ton Kosmo, 1929), with the German cinematographer Erich Bumbach exploring the landscapes of Corfu and Mount Athos (unable as all companies were at the time to build their own studios). It was with this company that Josef Hepp made his first attempts to devise his own sound recording system, producing two short films in the process with a system of his own invention. Meanwhile, the challenges of the absence of organized studios and of confronting the rise of talking pictures were exacerbated by the policies adapted by the Greek state against the new medium. The historical context of this rivalry is very important to the development of cinema in Greece. The Asia Minor Catastrophe had been followed by the declaration of the

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First Greek Republic in April 1924. The Republic, supported by liberal army officers and ambitious generals, did not last long. One of them, General Pangalos, introduced the first legislation restricting the freedom of film-makers. Beginning in 1927, every kind of filming of public events required special permission from the police; furthermore, permission was not granted unless there was a detailed account of how the material was to be used. At the same time, the first strict rules about public conduct at the cinema were passed by the national legislature. Specific guidelines were introduced regarding behavior, dress codes, and the exclusion of minors. The age limit was determined to be 15 (rather than 18 or 21 as in other European countries), especially as the legislation stipulated “if the screened films were depicting criminal or erotic representations with provocative scenes . . .” The suspicion towards the new medium was expressed through public denouncements on the grounds of its promoting criminality, corruption, promiscuity, and immorality. In 1930, legislation defined as “proper” all those films “that have as their content the elevation of virtues, family values, love, maternal affection, and which inspire activity, positive spirit, kindness, and courage.” One of the main elements in police character profiling for petty criminals at that time was that, “during the interrogation it was revealed that the suspect was frequenting popular cinemas.” Such suspicions were also extended to the film-makers themselves, imposing upon them strict instructions about the “moral content” of their work, while at the same time allowing a police officer to inspect behavior at the movie theater during the screening. The Greek state, in utter confusion regarding the nature of the new medium, decided to impose strict “bureaucratic control on all movies, thus paving the way for the imposition of censorship,” as Eliza-Anna Delveroudi has convincingly argued.22 Fully cognizant at least of the popular appeal of cinema, the state regarded it as an industry that could generate easy revenue. Almost 60 percent of the cost of each ticket was state tax; from the remaining, an almost equal amount was retained by the distributor or the cinema owner. In the end, a meagre 15 percent was left to be divided among the producer, director, actors, and all others engaged in making the films. In 1927, there was a strike at all the cinemas of Athens in protest against the lack of protection for local film productions and the heavy taxation of local movies. Meanwhile, by 1928, 16 cinemas were operating in Athens alone with another 15 open-air venues during summer. Most of the films screened (between 200 and 300 each year) were imported from Hollywood, Germany, France, the Soviet Union, Italy, and Austria. Despite the absence of a serious film culture and discussion of the medium, among the most commercially successful films (between 1928 and 1932) were Fritz Lang’s Metropolis

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A History of Greek Cinema (1927), Abel Gance’s Napoleon (1928) and Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin (1925). Yet local production was dwindling, and the introduction of sound would affect it profoundly. In 1929/30, five local films were made; in 1930, twelve; in 1932, six; in 1932, five; and only one in 1933. Eleftherios Venizelos was re-elected Prime Minister in 1928 and for the next four years he managed to establish a relatively stable and prosperous society. It was the first period in Greek history when the public sphere was finally consolidated and the social question started becoming dominant, further intensified in the conflict between the rival political ideologies of fascism and communism. Venizelos, a center-right liberal, reduced taxes on local movies to 10 percent and offered the industry its first assistance from the state. This new legislation enabled Dag Films and the other companies to produce the first mature works of Greek cinema we have seen. The tax reforms of Venizelos were fated to be repealed in 1934, however, when the Greek economy succumbed to the consequences of the Great Depression, and Venizelos relinquished power in mid-1932. In the meantime, Venizelos had already introduced the first anti-communist laws in 1929, which established a new form of censorship in all the arts. Generally speaking, the movies produced by Dag Films promoted a “project of cohesive nationhood,” as their ultimate purpose was to construct an “authentically local” cinematic language. In 1929 Dimitris Gaziadis stated: In order for a film with a genuine local character to be successfully placed internationally it must appear impeccable. And this is equally improbable and feasible. It needs nature, which is landscape, sea, and antiquities in order to create the impression of authentic Greek images.23

The quest for “authentic Greek images” was also becoming prevalent with the literary generation of the 1930s as a cultural project of self-reinvention after the Asia Minor Catastrophe. In many ways, such a quest was in its essence a defense mechanism to counterbalance the traumas of the previous decade through an anxious attempt to discover what had remained unscathed by the national disaster. Such a quest, which can be seen in all movies produced by Gaziadis, naturally led to Josef Hepp’s first attempts to introduce sound to filmmaking, since the authenticity of Greek images could only be emphasized by the use of the Greek language. The invasion of the “talking pictures” in October 1929 with David Butler’s musical Fox Follies of 1929, however, proved to be a major factor in the demise of early Greek cinema. Dag Films had already imported recording technology or used gramophone discs during screenings. Dimitris Gaziadis’ The Apaches of Athens (Oi Apahides ton Athinon, 1930) and Kiss Me Maritsa (Filise Me, Maritsa,

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1930), based on an operetta and a musical comedy respectively, managed to synchronize sound and image through gramophone discs and were very successful commercially. They also confirmed as the first female “star” of Greek cinema Mary Sagiannou, who became a legendary figure, the Greek Greta Garbo, during her short life (1909–1943). It was the new company Hellas Films who produced the first really synchronized movie, Lagiarni (1930) by Ioannis Loumos, which gained international acclaim. The movie had to be sent to German studios for post production since there was no sound technology in Greece. In the same year, the otherwise unknown Tetos Demetriadis produced at Universal Studios in the United States the first truly talking Greek movie. Unfortunately lost, The Fist of the Cripple (I Grothia tou Sakati, 1930), a movie which addressed social exclusion and marginalization was a discouraging failure at the box office. Another locally produced talking movie was the bucolic fustanella drama The Shepherdess’ Lover (O Agapitikos tis Voskopoulas, 1932), directed by Dimitris Tsakiris. The film was hybrid, both talking and with intertitles, and was commercially one of the most successful films of the period. The dubbing took place in Berlin and introduced a practice which would last for almost ten years. The cost of its production locally and then of exporting it to Germany was high, so the choice of the story was obvious: the new technology was expensive and any financial investment had to be retrieved by producing a movie with an immediate and certain commercial success through well-known popular folk stories and songs. Such bucolic dramas became immediate money-makers for producers and cinema owners and they remained popular for many decades to come. One of their attractions was that they used the vernacular, demotic Greek language that was understood by a mostly illiterate audience. Franklin L. Hess has argued that this fustanella drama gave through its sound a new “ethnological turn in Greek cinema” and that “the film attempts to negotiate a compromise between demoticism’s interiority [the use of vernacular as a cultural project] and the outward orientation of cinema as a medium and to define Greek film as a national cinema alongside other national cinemas.”24 As the state was using an archaic and, to a certain degree, incomprehensible language, cinema became the first form of collective entertainment through which the vernacular gained legitimacy and acceptance. The transition to the new technology, however, did not take place without resistance. One of the most prominent public intellectuals of the period Pavlos Nirvanas, who wrote the script for Gaziadis’ The Storm and Astero and who had a persistent interest in cinema, declared in frustration: The characters in [silent] films not only talk but they talk in a special way. First, they don’t say nonsense, as do for example characters in the theater. Further, they never babble on about useless issues, they don’t exhibit stupid

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A History of Greek Cinema wit, don’t make gross jokes, and don’t shout out stupidities under the pretense of philosophizing. And yet, they communicate with each other perfectly . . . Watch two lovers on the screen: you think that they speak the language of angels never heard before by human ears. When the screen takes on the responsibility of informing us in writing about what they say to each other, the viewer is taken over by disgust. For this reason, the worse a movie is the more written text it presents us with. The best movie is the one which contains the fewest possible written expressions and lets us communicate without mediation with its heroes. [Emphasis added.]25

Nirvanas and many other intellectuals believed that the addition of sound would diminish the predominance of visual images and reduce their script to another form of theatrical performance. But the transition to talking technology was irreversible. The silent period in Greek cinema ended with a number of important films that reflected the new tendencies in both the art and industry of cinema. Two notable movies of the period were made in the studios of Istanbul. The first was Stelios Tatassopoulos’ Social Decay (Koinoniki Sapila, 1932) which featured some interesting stylistic innovations. The camera moved frantically between close-ups, medium and wide shots and withdrew into long shots following the tense and anxious development of the story. This was another movie still struggling to establish its narrative codes. Although the film did not take risks with form, it depicted its topic with a masterful self-sufficiency through the Marxist underpinnings of each distinct frame of reality. Social Decay is an early, perhaps the first, Greek movie of socialist realism that addressed the fresh trauma of the Asia Minor Catastrophe and the disastrous economic recession after 1929. It also added a new dimension to urban life by depicting the underworld of crime and delinquency with an affection that bordered on sympathy, sentiments that would resurface in the 1950s, particularly in Nikos Koundouros’ (b. 1926) The Ogre of Athens (O Drakos, 1956). Tatassopoulos (1908–2000) would reappear after the war and his fate, as we will see, become emblematic of many other important directors in the country. Meanwhile, the rapprochement between Greece and Turkey after 1930 allowed possibilities for artistic collaborations. The Evil Way (O Kakos Dromos, 1933), directed by the Turkish Mushin Ertuğrul (1892–1979), was made in Istanbul at the Ipek studios with two great actresses of the theater Marika Kotopouli (1887–1854) and Kybele (1888–1978). It was the first co-production between the two former enemies. Ertuğrul was the Turkish Gaziadis: “Influenced by the French and German theaters and Soviet revolutionary cinema, he was the only film-maker during this period when cinema borrowed from the theater and did not seek to find a language of its own.”26 Despite its lavish production and formulaic melodramatic story, the film was a commercial failure and invited the question of whether people from

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the theatrical tradition could be successful in the cinema, an issue that was persistently discussed during this period. Yet another of Ertuğrul’s films, In the Streets of Istanbul (1931), the first talking Turkish film, was one of the most successful films in Athens. The Greek-Turkish collaboration was to become untenable, however, due to fierce nationalistic criticism. As a consequence it became necessary to find a new location. The masterpiece of the decade and of the entire period of silent movies in Greece is Orestes Laskos’ (1907–1992) Daphnis and Chloe (1931). This appears to be the first Greek film with a script written for the cinema and successfully adapted from the ancient Greek story by Longos. Also, the actors were all amateurs and consequently theatricality is strikingly absent from their acting. Furthermore, the Charlie Chaplin of Greece, Kimon Spathopoulos, contributed his knowledge as a make-up artist, working effectively with the actors’ faces to eliminate the strong glare of open-air location shooting. The film followed Laskos’ previous experience as assistant scriptwriter with Dimitris Gaziadis. The movie unfolded in brief interconnected shots with soft focus, dissolves, and alternating close-ups. The rapid juxtaposition of frames

Orestis Laskos, Daphnis and Chloe (1931). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema created a surprising interplay between mental states and bodily images against a sensual and lush natural background. Laskos wanted to represent the confusion caused by eroticism as it takes over the adolescent body; and he did so by blurring the camera and dissolving human form through a suggestive use of medium-long shots and, occasionally, dangerous closeups. His camera boldly explored the possibilities of human form: in order to avoid the representation of the body as still portrait he made the camera wander discreetly around the body as it also gently immersed itself in the natural landscape. His use of dissolves as transitions between different camera angles is still admirable and ingenious. Laskos’ depiction of the human face was a brave attempt to enter the psychological world of the character, indeed to recreate a psychological atmosphere around the complete human body in its absolute fragility and beauty. (Dimitris Meravidis’ masterful photography also contributed to the psychologization of each frame. For the first time, panchromatic film was used which stressed the contrast between black and white, framing a soft and rich chiaroscuro.) Despite its prudishness, the movie was an unexpected stylistic experiment and a bold form that remains memorable, brimming with unintended sensuality and bold exposure of the human body. The poster advertising the film was equally interesting: The most original, the boldest, and the most “piquant” film ever made. The immortal, archaic idyll by Longos Daphnis and Chloe. The masterful cinematic creation by Orestis Laskos. Protagonists are, Apollo Marsyas, the embodiment of Hermes of Praxiteles, and Loukia Malti, the Greek American with the gorgeous flexible body. A movie filmed in superb locations on Lesbos, full of idyllic and realistic scenes.

Daphnis and Chloe is usually credited with the first nudity scene in European cinema. What has not been discussed is how nudity was cinematically framed in order to avoid censorship and public controversy. Indeed, the representation of a de-sexualized nudity, the nudity of a body without desire, is probably the most characteristic element of Laskos’ film. Despite its visual sensuality, the film avoided all forms of libidinal interaction—as effective editing totally stripped the naked body of its sexual energy and radiance. Certainly, there can not be a singular interpretation of the film’s nudity. It could be perceived as a revelation in the romantic sense of making sense of social fragmentation by transforming the human body into a complete map of reality. It could also be seen as an exposure: the naked body revealed as guilt and shame, suggesting the deep crisis of authority that the country was experiencing after 1922. The nudity could also be perceived as a provocation, a challenge to the patriarchal logic of hiding and protecting the female and male body in an attempt to control its function. In any case, this is a deceptively simple movie.

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Tongo Mizrahi, The Refugee Girl (1938). Greek Film Archive Collection.

It has encoded the collapse of political and moral authority by exposing power to the objectifying eye of the camera so that it becomes a public spectacle. At the same time, its depiction of rural innocence combined with its lack of historicity exoticized ancient Greece and depicted it as an escapist landscape. So, the messages of the film are both radical and conservative, making it a paradoxical space of confusion and disorientation, an image of a society in transition and turmoil. Unfortunately, after the Second World War, Laskos squandered his artistic vision on slapstick comedies and period pieces without ever rising to the level of his early work. Laskos, and this can be seen in his postwar films, was extremely conservative, both politically and socially. His life story and development as an artist reflected the compromises that a creative talent had to make both in relation to the state and to his audience in order to make movies.27 However, this unique and masterful work with its soft, gentle and contemplative sensuality can be placed alongside Griffith’s Broken Blossoms (1918) and Jean Vigo’s L’ Atalante (1934). It also bears close resemblance to another masterpiece of the period, F. W. Murnau and Robert Flaherty’s Tabu (1931). Within Greek cinema, the legacy of Daphnis and Chloe can be traced still decades later in Koundouros’ Young Aphrodites (1964).

Developing Film Culture The first literature on film was written between 1923 and 1933, mostly as empirical testimonies of the film-viewing experience. The magazine Cinema and the journal Cinematic Library were launched in 1923 but ceased publication within one year. A magazine carrying a French title, To Parlan,

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A History of Greek Cinema was published from 1931 to 1933 and is extremely important for the early debates on what constituted “Greek cinema.” Dimitris Gaziadis’ short book How I Can Play in the Cinema (1926) was heralded as the first attempt at critical reflection on the art of cinematic performance. Moreover, the fortnightly journal Cinematic Star (Kinimatografikos Astir) was first published by Heraclis Oikonomou in 1924 and continued until 1969, when more informed and theoretically inclined magazines appeared. It was in these early magazines, before newspapers and literary journals added special pages on films, however, that the first reflections on acting and directing, as well as some interesting reviews on specific films, were published. Most literary writers of the period refused to see any other worth in cinema beyond its entertainment value. It was only Nikos Kazantzakis (1883–1957) who during his extensive travels realized the importance of cinema for contemporary audiences. Having visited the Soviet Union on a number of occasions between 1925 and 1929, he witnessed the seminal importance of cinema for the establishment of the new society and watched films by the Russian avant-garde. He tried to write a numbers of scripts which were never produced into films, although at least one of them was later incorporated into his monumental play Buddha. In one of his letters to his disciple Pandelis Prevelakis, Kazantzakis made some sensitive and extremely prescient comments: When writing for films you are forced to transform the most abstract idea into image . . . A multitude of psychological problems and especially dreams, subconscious, visions can be perfectly expressed only through cinema . . . You are overtaken by a bitter pleasure and pride when you create through such shadows passions, loves, urges, and unite and separate and create humans who silently, in a fleeting moment, vanish . . . This cruel satisfaction of the immense drive and its sudden disappearance characterizes what I have written so far.28

One could claim that Kazantzakis was the first Greek thinker who understood the cinematic experience phenomenologically as the interplay of photosensitized surfaces that appear fleetingly and disappear without a trace—except that on the film itself. “I must learn to use this new weapon well,” he wrote to Prevelakis, “which as I practice it, I like more and more because it sharpens my eye beyond belief.”29 The first serious film reviewer was Elli Inglesi (1897–?) who, under the pseudonym Iris Skarabaiou, established the foundations for film criticism before anyone else in the country.30 Her reviews combine formal and thematic criticism and offer a rare insight into the development of the terminology of film criticism in Greek, which was then predominantly a matter of French words transliterated into Greek—a practice that continues to this day.

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Skarabaiou was one of the first reviewers to discuss the problem of lighting and to suggest ways in which directors could deal with the brightness of the Mediterranean sun and the glare of the Greek landscape. The fact that the first serious reviewer was a woman is unusual for a patriarchal society such as Greece, but may reflect the sense of modernity surrounding the new medium. Other important reviewers were Vion Papamihalis (who also made movies after 1945) and the ambitious young intellectual, Spyros Markezinis, who was later to become an ill-starred politician and who wrote under the initials RO-MA. Unlike the writings of Inglesi, the tenor of most reviews was rather dismissive and in many ways unfair. For example, Loros Fantazis (a pseudonym) wrote in 1930: As the reader can see, these films are nothing more than journals (documentaries), presenting natural beauties, with insignificant directing skills, clumsy, and destined to serve, I can’t deny this, intensely, tourism but not, as it interests us here, Art.31

Indeed, the search for “authentic Greek images” through “art films” would always oscillate between the commodification of the landscape for the purposes of tourism and the serious attempts at its cinematic framing through the camera eye. Special mention must be made of G. N. Makris, a film reviewer for the literary journal Nea Estia since 1932. Makris was one of the very few intellectuals who saw the new art as “a new way of looking at the visible world.”32 “The camera,” he believed, “has the magical power to recreate the visible world, to recompose time, to narrow or to enlarge space, and to mobilize everything according to its own rhythm.”33 Makris based his reviews on the aesthetics of Sergei Eisenstein and Jean Renoir and was one of the first film critics to discuss the dichotomy between European and American cinemas—accepting them both as equivalent and complementary modes of representation. Generally speaking, it was in the 1930s that the urban landscape of Athens was gradually discovered as material for visual representation. Visually, Athens had remained an enigma for the camera; ancient ruins coexisted with contemporary huts and formless buildings in stark and unflattering juxtaposition. Gaziadis, Meravidis, Hepp, and Tatassopoulos started exploring the Attic landscape by delving into the lives of ordinary people and the misery of refugees. They did not see the landscape and its people as idyllic images in a bucolic serenity, as was common in the dominant literature of the period. On the contrary, they focused not on the architectural ruins of a glorious past but on the human ruins of a chaotic present. Such representation outlasted these early cinematographers to become one of the hallmarks of Greek cinema.

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A History of Greek Cinema The Athens of the 1930s was still a collection of self-sufficient neighborhoods replicating the memory of distinct villages. The major film audiences in urban centers were abruptly urbanized villagers who worked in the expanding industries of the capital, and the millions of Anatolian refugees living in small villages around Athens, which were later to be incorporated as the suburbs of the expanding capital. For both audiences, the trauma of displacement and exile was so fresh and deep that it could not be confronted openly and critically. This accounts for the frequent production of idealized fustanella movies, which reminded the audience of their origins by extolling the virtues of the “true nation,” monumentalized by the symbolic ethnicity of their “authentic” costume. Thematically, the genre was a kind of populist therapy for social displacement and communal loss, and, at the same time, a symptom of a community in search of an “archetypal” identity in conditions of instability and uncertainty. These states of mind permeated Greek cinema for many decades to come. The ultimate function of such films, however, was a special strategy of nation building which was achieved through the shared experiences at the cinema and the establishment of spaces of communal bonding. As in other nations, the experience of going to the movies was a socializing rite of passage which helped to forge personal, social, and national identities. Due to the lack of a functional and profitable studio system, it was technically impossible for film-makers such as Gaziadis, Meravadis, Hepp, Laskos and others to bring together a complete story on the basis of narrative sequentiality. They were compelled by circumstances to avoid grand narratives or phantasmagorical stories, that is, the kind of historical reconstructions and period dramas that had been produced in Italian cinema since its establishment. Most of their films remained virtual documentaries that depicted existing realities in their multiplicities and contradictions, often blending genuine political tensions and ideological subversions with triteness and banality. The storylines were mostly a pretext, sometimes arbitrarily inserted, and often inconsequential. Nonetheless, by depicting existing realities they eschewed dividing cinema into high and popular, into cinema for the select few and cinema for the masses. Early criticism against cinema as an art was based on its appeal to the masses and was consequently judged as being unqualified for producing works of art (meaning high art, of course). Certainly, there was an imminent danger in this. It led to the mindless comedies of the postwar period and set the limits for the creative imagination in the mise-en-scène, the camera angle and finally the story itself in all subsequent films. On the other hand, it kept the cinematic eye close to ordinary people rather than to ideological fantasies or to the historicist delusions of the official state apparatuses. Even the fustanella dramas can be seen as a visual quest for origins during a prolonged period of instability and unrest and against

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the background of a rising modernity that fragmented all accepted forms of self-determination and produced a continuous anxiety about belonging and identity. The humbleness of the Greek cinematic eye has remained its main source of renewal and simultaneously its own worst enemy.

The Collapse Dag Films was dissolved in 1932 due to the commercial failure of its productions and the increasing competition from other companies, such as Olympia Films, Din-Drits Films, Skouras Films, and Foivos Films. A number of movies of 1932 to 1935 failed in their attempts to coordinate sound and image. The last film made on Greek soil was in 1934. New studios with sound facilities were needed. In their absence, movies had to be sent either to Germany or Egypt for sound to be added. The failure of the local industry to produce its own talking movies led to a failure to compete successfully with the influx of movies from Hollywood. As a result, the industry totally collapsed for several years, and between 1936 and 1938 a number of Greek movies were made in Egypt, where wellequipped sound studios existed and which Greek traveling players often visited. The rightly renowned historian of Greek cinema Yannis Soldatos calls 1935 the year of “the clinical death of Greek cinematography.”34 The period is usually referred to as the Egyptian Triennium due to the circumstance that the very few movies produced then were filmed in Egypt by an international crew with foreign directors and cameramen. One of the factors fueling the crisis in cinema was the political instability following Venizelos’ fall from government in 1932. A number of unsuccessful military movements took place, while a hung parliament became increasingly unable to solve the looming social crisis that fed the rise of communism and the challenge of fascism. In August 1936, General Ioannis Metaxas seized power and established a military dictatorship with a fascist ideology akin to that of Benito Mussolini. Metaxas imposed strict censorship on all media, exiled many important intellectuals and imposed an unprecedented 70 percent state tax on all “public spectacles.” This crippled the industry and made the production of feature films almost impossible. Between 1937 and 1939, a total of seven Greek language movies were produced in the studios of Cairo and Alexandria. From this “Egyptian period,” The Refugee Girl (I Prosfigopoula, 1938), directed by the Italian Tongo Mizrahi (1905–1986) and containing scenes filmed on location at Athens, Tempe, and Meteora, was an immediate success—and it can still be enjoyed because of its fast narrative rhythm, suggestive photography and memorable music by Kostas Yannidis. The story of an Asia Minor refugee being married off to a wealthy provincial landlord who later deceives her for an aristocratic woman resonated immediately with the urbanized villagers in Athens, so much so that it was

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A History of Greek Cinema screened regularly until the 1950s. This melodrama deserves more attention for its depiction of the refugee experience, rural and urban psychology, and the divide between social classes. Despite its technical problems, it shows a distinct sense of editing, camera angle and interior mise-en-scène; Mizrahi was a master of narrative sequence, black and white contrasts and montage. Actress Sophia Vembo became famous for the songs in the film (“a magnificent phonofilm,” according to the credits). Two years after the Italian invasion of October 1940, Vembo adapted an oriental song and transformed it into a patriotic hymn. Mizrahi’s other Greek films Dr Epaminondas (1937), When the Husband is Away (Otan O Sizigos Taxideuei, 1938), and Captain Skorpion (Kapetan Skorpios, 1943) are not as good—but still were praised for their narrative pace, which was to influence many Greek directors after the war. The last movie produced in Egypt Little Agnes (Agnoula, 1939) by the Italian-Egyptian director Alevize Orfanelli (1902–1961) was another successful melodrama. Its poster proclaimed, “At last . . . A GREEK MOVIE which will atone for the sins of all previous Greek films . . .” In reality it did not. The historical context and the political circumstances were not favorable. Orfanelli made one more film in Greek, Engagement with Problems (Arravon met’ empodion, 1937), and another after the war, as the director of photography for Nikos Tsiforos’ Wind of Hatred (Anemos tou Misous, 1954). Greek directors returned to the Egyptian studios between 1951 and 1954. During the Metaxas regime, the dictator actively promoted only the production of documentaries and “journals” which glorified his tours around the countryside as the “Father of the Nation” and which propagated the life and works of the Fascist Youth Organization (EON). It is estimated that around 450 such short films were made in a period of four years. The regime even imported 75 projection machines for public screenings of the movements of the dictator and his party through reels showing uplifting orations by Metaxas or the sporting activities of his youth organization. These short films were screened after imported feature films, in order to make a stronger impression on the viewers. It seemed that the regime was constructing its own visual history by promoting “the realism of true life,” as the dictator declared. A notorious 1937 law established a committee, comprised mainly of army and police officers, to oversee the ratings for films: films were classified as “appropriate, inappropriate, or strictly inappropriate for minors.” Many people accused the cinema industry of fostering immorality, criminality, and even physical ailments, especially “in young people or women, who fall more easily and more deeply under the influence of such spectacles.”35 Taking the medical advice of academics, the Committee suggested that going to the cinema had dangerous effects on the optical nerve, created respiratory problems, and spread contagious diseases. If any person, parent or friend, was caught by the police escorting minors, under 15 years of age,

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to the cinema, they were sentenced to up to six months imprisonment. “Appropriate” movies were those that “had a content promoting the elevation of the spirit through self-sacrifice, heroic deeds, the protection of public health, and the propagation of public hygiene.”36 Despite the fact that a similar law was first implemented in 1930, the connection between mental and physical hygiene with regard to the cinema became the dominant theme in state propaganda, under the Metaxas dictatorship. In May 1938, the regime organized the first ever conference on cinematography in Athens in an attempt to regulate the industry and control its production. Later that year, a long documentary by Maurice Novak, Greece of 1938 Speaks . . . (I Ellas tou 1938 Omilei) announced triumphantly that it had solved the problem of sound. It was a compilation of various newsreels, but it was very popular due to its successful synchronization of sound and image. It was also the only film produced in the country in the Metaxas era. Meanwhile, Greeks enjoyed American films, which held the primacy in attendance. And the number of cinemas in the capital had increased to 26 with another 60 open-air summer venues. The grand cinemas Palace and Rex were built and their opulence and magnificence have left an indelible mark on public memory. Famous architects constructed lavish and, in some instances, architecturally experimental venues throughout the country. An overall number of 280 cinemas were recorded throughout Greek territory by the end of 1939. Because of its increasing popular appeal, the 1937 Metaxas law on cinema imposed such strict rules regarding what could be said and depicted on screen that competent screenwriters did not wish to submit their work to extremely austere censorship and risk the prospect of being arrested or exiled. The concept of “thinking nationally” (ethno-conviction, ethnikofrosini) became the dominant ideology of the state—whatever was against the official version of the Nation was to be banned—especially everything that was, according to Metaxas, of communist inspiration. Between 1935 and 1943 only a handful of narrative feature films were made on Greek soil.

Greek Cinema Reborn Despite the Metaxas dictatorship, a revival of Greek cinema began to emerge in 1939 and continued during the German occupation. The major personality in this movement was the charismatic Filopimin Finos (1908–1977), who would become the most important producer in Greek cinema after 1945, indeed the Greek Samuel Goldwin. In 1929, Finos had tried with Meravidis to produce a Greek Western entitled Three Greeks from America (Treis Ellines apo tin Amerika). Not much is known about its quality, as it was burned accidentally while the film-print was being developed in 1929. Ten years later, Finos directed his only movie, The Song of Parting (To Tragoudi tou Horismou). It was

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A History of Greek Cinema thought destroyed after Finos’ arrest by the Germans, but early in the twentyfirst century a fragmented copy was recovered in Egypt and restored. The Song of Parting is a social melodrama that deals with a wealthy woman from the city who seduces an innocent fisherman and convinces him to abandon his girlfriend and his village. He moves to the city, where he becomes a successful singer, only to realize soon after that he does not fit into this system of conventional relations and social etiquette. After he receives a letter from his girlfriend, he abandons the wealthy seductress to return to his native island and the pure love of the woman who has patiently waited for him. Song and action compete for primacy in this film, without making any real connection with each other, something which Finos would keep in mind when he went on to produce the best Greek musicals. The actors stand still and act out stylized mannerisms as the camera dives into long-medium shots of the urban landscape to explore the emerging reality of an alienating and frightening city or the salons of a hypocritical bourgeoisie. The looming nightmare of history frames an interesting character with moral and emotional dilemmas, one of the first near-complete characters to be produced in Greek cinema. The movie was a colossal failure and, in terms of directing, was a dead-end for Finos. N. G. Makris was scathing about the film: The directorship is altogether missing; it is not only bad: it is simply missing. This is a movie made fatally and accidentally. There is neither montage, nor editing, nor photography. There is nothing. Deep darkness prevails from the very beginning till the very end.37

Although the film’s escapism and retreat from history ignored the onslaught of events that were to befall Europe, the film was a great step forward for Greek cinema as it was the first talking picture to be processed in a Greek technical laboratory. The facility had been built by Finos and would be the genesis of Finos Films, which would subsequently become the dominant production company in the postwar studio era. Another talking picture, Night without Dawn (Nihta horis Ximeroma), was also made in 1939. The film was directed by Tonis Papadantonakis who co-scripted it with Dimitris Bogris. It was a romantic comedy and featured well-known singers of the musical stage. Tracking shots were used in a primitive way: a carpet was placed under the camera tripod and was dragged slowly across the floor! Despite its poor technical quality, it might have been a hit but for the outbreak of the Second World War in Greece. (The film would later be recut and reissued in 1955 as a drama under the title Better Late than Never.) The storyline dealt with a resistance fighter who faces the moral dilemma of choosing between wife and country. Finos’ own sound technology was used for the film. This involved a system of “post-synchronizing” or

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“dubbing.” First the action was filmed, then the dialogue was recorded, and finally they were mixed together. This system was used until 1954 when modern sound studios and technology in the American style were imported. The Italian invasion and the unexpected Greek victory in October 1940 would become one of the most celebrated themes of postwar Greek cinema, inspiring a whole catalogue of movies ranging from popular melodramas to genuine existential explorations of war psychology. In contrast, the German occupation that began in April 1941, with its horrible atrocities, humiliations, terrible famine of 1942 and 1943, collaboration, and finally the Resistance, remained one of the most politically sensitive and heavily censored issues for cinematic elaboration. Indeed, it became the dominant subtext of almost all Greek movies produced after 1945 through to the 1990s. The occupation of the country meant the destruction of the industry’s infrastructure and the cinema culture, since large gatherings were banned and most cinemas were used as Soldatenkinos—cinemas for soldiers. In one of his last reviews before the occupation, Makris lamented, yet with deep optimism, the destruction of cinema all over Europe: Cinema’s defeat in Europe is but a local episode. Let all national productions perish! Let the great crisis unfold! The blow is not lethal. As long as Hollywood remains, nothing is lost for ever. One day the whole of Europe will become a huge screen on which the showing of Charlie Chaplin’s latest film will acquire the magnitude and the power of an eternal symbol.38

Under German occupation, many movies made in the prewar years were lost, not simply because of the destruction by the Nazi forces occupying public buildings that housed archival material, but also because of the intense lice epidemic that had infected the urban population of Athens. The Germans had confiscated the city’s supply of soap and in desperation most of the existing films were melted for their silver to make combs and lice removers.39 The Italian invasion provided the stimulus for the creation of the first Greek animated short film, Ducce Narrates How He Conquered Greece by Stamatis Polenakis and the camera of Meravidis and Papadoukas. The film was made on the island of Sifnos in 1942 and was finally released after 1945, but remained totally forgotten until 1980. Seven minutes long with a very good synchronization of image and sound, this short film is a rare achievement and quite interesting in terms of its innovative technique and optimistic spirit. In 1946, Yorgos and Yannis Roussopoulos made the second ever cartoon in the country, a satire on the ancient gods of Olympus called Settle Down With the Thunders! (Siga tous Keraunous!). It took another 23 years for this experiment to find its sequel, when Thodoros Marangos, a graphic designer, made his famous Tsouf (1969) and his scathing satire Hush (Ssssst, 1971).

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A History of Greek Cinema During the German occupation, only German, Italian, and Hungarian movies were being screened, but in 1942 Filopimin Finos set up a studio with its own sound equipment and montage facilities and called it Finos Films. This modest and primitive studio was destined to become the center of the most important film productions for the period of and after liberation, the nucleus for the revival and the triumph of the medium in the country. Finos and his associates, including the sound technician, production director, and internal designer Markos Zervas, brought together screenwriters, directors, actors, and all kinds of film technicians, providing them with a space for discussion, exchange of ideas, and experimentation with filming. Finos was also active in the resistance movement. His father was arrested and executed by the Germans in early 1944 and Filopimin narrowly escaped a similar fate. This made him later, when he had become the most important producer in the country, suspicious of power and unwilling to get involved in any unnecessary conflicts with the government, even the 1967 dictatorship. During the last year of the German occupation, Finos produced Dimitris Ioannopoulos’ The Voice of the Heart (I Foni tis Kardias, 1943), a sentimental melodrama with many technical problems but good performances and music. To the extreme consternation of the Nazis, the film drew large audiences and was an immediate financial success. From the three films made during the occupation, the most important was Applauses (Heirokrotimata, 1943), directed by one of the greatest Greek directors, Yorgos Tzavellas (1916–1976). The film, produced by Finos’ antagonist in this period, Novak Films, was characterized by a suggestive atmosphere of fear and claustrophobia, soft use of the camera and yet by a touching optimism. It was about the life and death of Attik, one of the most popular musicians and songwriters of the prewar period, and was similar to Charlie Chaplin’s Limelight (1952). Tzavellas filmed not just on location, but in the studio, exploring what would later become his main contribution to the cinematic art: the hidden and inexhaustible dimensions of interior spaces. As an anonymous reviewer observed, “The director proved that he was not afraid of the studio.”40 From his very first film, Tzavellas was the master of perfect lighting, effective spatial arrangements, and detailed photography. His shots were full of details and hidden subtexts: the viewer had to look from one side of the frame to the other in a series of “eye-stops” in order to form a complete picture of the story: the narrative unfolded on each shot separately. Meanwhile, the camera panned in and out in a gentle, almost imperceptible, manner, revealing the endlessness of interior space, and essentially of the domestic private space of families or lonely individuals. Tzavellas was the first Greek director who achieved effective spatial continuity and thematic unity in his movies, an achievement which found its complete maturity in his films of the next decade.

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Dimitris Ioannopoulos, The Voice of the Heart (1943). Greek Film Archive Collection.

Yorgos Tzavellas, Applauses (1943). Greek Film Archive Collection.

Gregoris Gregoriou (1919–2005), one of the most prolific directors of the next period, noted in his memoirs the importance of these two films: “If The Voice of the Heart marks the beginning of the history of Greek cinema, Tzavellas with his Applauses marks the beginning of the history of Greek cinematic miseen-scène.”41 It was becoming obvious that with these films something really new had started to emerge in the cinematography of the country. Meanwhile, Finos had constructed a well-equipped and functional studio that offered the possibility of good interior settings, effective lighting, and better photography; and technical innovations that allowed a complete story to unfold in a linear narrative. By then, sound and image could technically work together in Greek movies. Consequently, when liberation from the Germans took place in October 1944 the technical background was ready for the industry to take off.

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A History of Greek Cinema One of the most popular film critics of the prewar period, Vion Papamihalis, claimed that 15 movies were ready to be released or close to completion by the end of 1944. Although he criticized those who imagined that Greece, “in its current historical situation, could easily become a second Hollywood” because of the enthusiastic announcements regarding the construction of new studios, he stressed that, “the creative performance under the present circumstances is surprising” and concluded, “Tomorrow there will be Greek cinematography, whether we want it or not. And we have high expectations of it.”42 Shortly before the Germans left, another anonymous reviewer pointed out the shortcomings in “cinematic experience” which could not be overcome in the war period in which they lived. Yet the reviewer made the very interesting point: The perspectives of production . . . should tend towards purely Greek themes, filmed in an “international” way, so that, even if the budget does not allow for comparison and distribution in the international market, there should exist at least at the artistic level the ethnographic color which might interest international consumption.43

History, however, did not become any easier for the country after the departure of the Germans, who, as they were withdrawing, destroyed all important infrastructure including roads, factories, and railways. The process of reconstruction was to be long and not without problems. The depiction on screen of the traumatic events of 1941 to 1944 became extremely controversial and politically dangerous in the context of a highly polarized society, since new political problems began to surface with liberation. During the occupation, as elsewhere in Europe, a strong division began to loom between the resistance fighters, organized mostly by the Communist Party, through EAM (Greek Liberation Front), and the government in exile, supported by the British establishment. Attempts for cooperation were made, as in the case of the destruction of the Gorgopotamos Bridge in November 1942, but as Germany was collapsing and the Cold War beginning, conflict was inevitable. After the liberation, Greece was the only Balkan country to be assigned to the British-American sphere of influence. Resistance fighters, mostly committed communists or pro-communists, were marginalized, persecuted, and in many instances systematically exterminated. The traumas of famine, public executions, and savage brutality against civilians inflicted by the Germans were exacerbated by the events of December 1944 when a left-wing demonstration in the center of Athens ended with the massacre of many innocent people by British troops. This tragic event caused collective disillusionment and rage and was destined to appear more often in subsequent Greek cinema than the German

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occupation itself. One could indeed claim that this event was the founding mythos of postwar political cinema in the country. After that, four years of civil war would destabilize Greek society and cause a mass wave of refugees to migrate to the countries of Eastern Europe. Although many of the defeated insurgents sought asylum in the communist countries of the Balkans or in remote republics of the Soviet Union, many others who were committed to left ideology and who remained in the country were sent to uninhabited barren islands which became places of exile, torture, and execution. These islands were soon transformed into the symbols of a dark and horrific period in Greek history, which lasted well into the late 1950s. The island prisons were later resurrected by the Greek Junta between 1967 and 1974. In the Greek collective memory to this day, every island seen on screen is not simply an idyllic place for summer holidays under the hot Mediterranean sun. On the contrary, it is surrounded by an unredeemed memory of exile, oppression and death that rarely reached the screen, although it was present through its very invisibility. As in the case of the Asia Minor Catastrophe, the trauma of history was present but was never represented as an objectified reality—and it remained so until the late 1970s.

An Assessment Generally speaking, the prewar films were still, in their majority, pictures that moved rather than real continuity cinema (with one or two exceptions before 1936). The camera tried to capture real events, almost accidentally and out in the open, in order to document life on location and then to bring them together through a superimposed storyline, creating the illusion of a cohesive visual experience. This method usually did not work well and the gaps in plot, acting, and setting were too blatant to be ignored. This was the harbinger of a problem that still haunts Greek cinema to this day, the absence of screenwriters skilled in rendering, through cinematic dialogue, characterization, continuity, and the transition of scenes. Furthermore, there remains little to distinguish theatrical acting from acting in movies. Until the early 1950s, when the first school of cinematography was established, most playwrights were adapting their own theatrical works to film scripts and were themselves the directors. Two prominent examples are Alekos Sakellarios (1913–1991) and Orestes Laskos. In the 1930s and 1940s most actors in film with formal training had studied or worked under theatrical directors, often at the National (Royal then) Theater of Greece, which promoted a neoclassical Germanic understanding of performance through a highly stylized form of acting. In short, most Greek actors of this period seemed to act out emotions as if there were no dialogue and the movies were still silent. Their acting was in reality a form

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A History of Greek Cinema of pantomime, an attempt to show emotions and reactions in an obvious and “loud” manner while remaining unsynchronized with the storyline and its emotions. Also, in the rare cases of feature films with a good continuous storyline, the same approach avoided improvisation and ad-libbing, thus depriving comedians in particular of spontaneity and imaginative energy. The most successful blending of theatrical and film acting was by Katina Paxinou (1900–1973), who became an actor of international renown in Hollywood films, and who was awarded an Oscar for her role in For Whom the Bell Tolls (1943). She can also be seen in films such as Mourning Becomes Electra (1947) and Mr. Arkadin (1955). Paxinou and her husband Alexis Minotis (1898–1990), who can be seen in films such as Hitchcock’s Notorious and Arthur Ripley’s The Chase (both 1946), refined a strong theatrical element in a way that was appropriate for the cinema, while still retaining its roots in the theatrical stage. Theatricality, of course, is always on the horizon of acting; but in the films of the period, especially after the introduction of sound, it often created a singular point of view that conflicted with the special language of images and the depiction of reality as ambiguous and polysemic. Theatrical acting styles also collided with the directorial perspective, especially as directors gradually became more important than producers, actors, or screenwriters. The theatrical tradition dominated acting until at least the 1960s when movie actors didn’t really need to work in theater in order to make their living. After the 1970s, in a strange twist of history, theater became the final refuge of every failed cinema actor. After 1945, the industry, organized around relatively advanced studios, developed its own dynamic and its own codes and almost reinvented itself. The result was the neglect and the forgetting of earlier productions. This oblivion was accelerated in the category of art films, which emphasized the directorial view as the central element of a film. As the director’s vision became the central focus, early attempts to construct such a vision seemed primitive and irrelevant. The trend would continue at pace in the decades to follow, with Greek film eventually being dominated by the concept of the self-reflecting director as the auteur of the film, as expressed by Alexander Astruc’s “camera-stylo” concept in 1948. Meanwhile, as the studios flourished, the movies produced between 1910 and 1939 were almost completely forgotten, together with the names of their directors, photographers, and cameramen. Despite the fact that some produced their best work after the war, when technical facilities were available, Hepp, Gaziadis, Meravidis, Madras, and so many others were either thrown into oblivion or were looked upon with derision. Only in recent decades have there been coordinated attempts to restore and preserve these films, but still at a very slow pace.

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This restoration work, funded by the state through the Greek Film Center and the Greek Film Archive, has revealed the sustained and heroic attempts of those early film-makers to establish a cinematic language and tradition. Their films both need and deserve a contextual and situational understanding in order for modern audiences or scholars to comprehend the challenges they faced while trying to construct the dominant visual idiom of Greek cinema. Until the establishment of advanced studios with adequate technology, early silent Greek movies were in their essence “photo-plays,” struggling to capture the fleeting images of a turbulent reality, mostly through fusing the genres of documentary and fiction. Their photography was almost always blurred or faded, an indication of the cinematographer’s struggle with natural light. Their mise-en-scène was static and inflexible, immobilizing the camera while failing to produce widescreen compositions with emotive strength or dynamic motion. When the camera moved, the focus was almost lost and the scene became again a sequence of still photographs, mainly middle-shot portraits to the waist, leaving human form unexplored. The lack of funding, of organized and technically equipped spaces, of trained screenwriters, actors, and critics made early Greek cinema a heroic but doomed enterprise for those involved. The main quest in most productions was a growing awareness of the need for movies with “local character and color.” The need for the establishment of a Greek cinematic tradition was clearly the objective of the pioneering Gaziadis brothers. Although their quest remained unfulfilled, largely because of political instability and enormous technical problems, they planted the seeds of a distinct visual grammar that were to come to fruition under more propitious circumstances. One anomaly of the Metaxas regime of 1936 to 1941 and its powerful Committee for the Control of Public Spectacles was that it did not follow the examples of the German and Italian dictatorships. As early as 1931, Dimitris Gaziadis exclaimed in frustration, “The State cannot even understand the importance of cinema for propaganda purposes!”44 As we have seen, under Metaxas, only one feature film was produced. In addition to the restrictive law of 1937, the puppet Greek government under the Germans introduced a much stricter law that with a few subsequent minor alterations remained in force until 1980, officially changing only in 1986. The Committee of Cinema Control could ban a movie, “if, according to its opinion, there were reprehensible elements in it, that could possibly have a detrimental influence on the youth, or could cause social disorder if they propagate subversive theories or could defame our country from a national or tourist aspect, or could in any way undermine the healthy social traditions of the Greek people or could reproach Christian religion.”45 All scripts had to be submitted to this special committee consisting of army officers, police

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A History of Greek Cinema officials, and state bureaucrats. Marios Ploritis (1919–2006), a pioneer of cultural and film criticism, wrote as late as 1965: The censorship committees exclude the largest number possible of grand themes in cinema. Everything that has to do with our recent history, the Resistance, the State, the security forces, the Church, the social reality, and the problems of the country have been written off as permissible topics for our cinema.46

Consequently, after liberation, Greek cinema continued to develop through the vision and motivation of certain dedicated individuals, who worked in an empirical way, without formal studies or the support of institutes with trained people. For technical reasons, there could be no studio system to assist them, as in Italy and France, with its own code of practice and working ethos. Furthermore, the reality of learning on the job didn’t allow for the establishment of any form of theoretical self-reflection regarding the principles and effects of the cinematic experience as production, consumption, and viewing. In the absence of state assistance, production costs were raised through self-funding, personal loans from banks, or loans from wealthy friends. Cameras had to be imported and were extremely limited. As Stratos Constantinidis has noted: Ultimately, the issues regarding the infrastructure of the Greek film industry in the twentieth century and the struggle of Greek film-makers to find economic resources, cinematic languages, and “genuine” Greek images and voices were based on their desire to control their own image making.47

Against all odds, the period after the war was to become the Golden Age of Greek film-making, the period when the visual idiom of Greek cinema was gradually defined and its thematic representations crystallized in a popular almost populist iconography. As Aglaia Mitropoulou observed: In most films from this period you can find elements with a specific approach to frame and with a variety of levels and nuances in photography, which can be considered genuine technical and artistic achievements.48

When cinema was introduced to Greece there was no visual language that dealt with the modern architecture of space, the expanding urban landscapes or the variety of chromatic shades and colorations permeating modern visual practices. Cinema was the focal art of modernity and constructed new representations of collective and individual identities through images rather than “literary” (that is, verbal) means. Consequently, modernity in Greece signified a different way of dealing with the ambiguities of reality through the interplay of black and white and not through the grand historicism of

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the Greek language. Cinematographers had to invent a new visual idiom in opposition to what was customary in traditional ways of seeing, as in folk tradition or ecclesiastical iconography. Early Greek movies offer a prolonged exploration of the different hues of grey. They introduced chiaroscuro, which had only been peripherally employed by visual artists in the past. Cinematic language created a new way of depicting the depth, distances, and magnitudes of the urban and rural landscapes through a new visual perception of reality. The films thus offered a new vehicle for psychological sublimation and the “redemption” of social experience as individual and collective cultural memory.

Stamatis Polenakis, Ducce Tells How He Conquered Greece (1942). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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Chapter Two

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Constructing a Visual Language: 1945–1960

Rebuilding the Industry and Reconnecting with the Audience Af ter the end of the Second World WAR , and especially during

the Civil War (1946–1949), a significant number of movies were produced against all odds. Both break and continuity can be detected in the way the film industry reinvented itself through the ruins and the continuing social and political unrest. Good private studios were now in place and more were being constructed. Furthermore, during the first years after liberation, the legendary Finos Film Studios offered the opportunity to many cinematographers, old and young, to be involved in the production process in a creative and systematic way. With substantial technical innovations that synchronized sound and image, Finos Films made possible the rapid proliferation of movies that came over the next ten years. As a consequence, between 1945 and 1955, a new cinema culture emerged in Greece, despite the heavy presence of censorship and the persecution of most leftist intellectuals. Deep social changes also contributed to the formation of new audiences with increased demands, tastes, and social aspirations. The German occupation and then, especially, the Civil War, depopulated the countryside; waves of migration to the cities from all rural areas began, and continued well into the 1970s. The population of the city of Athens had already risen substantially with the influx of the Asia Minor refugees; by 1950, over 1,700,000 people were living in the wider area of Athens, a city that was constantly expanding without planning or infrastructural preparation. (In 1955, the population had risen up to 2,000,000, while by 1960 this had increased by another



44

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300,000.) The emergence of dense working class populations in Athens, Piraeus, Thessaloniki, Patras, Volos, and other cities created a need for mass entertainment. Until then, the majority of Greeks in rural areas had enjoyed the traditional shadow theater of Karagiozis, together with traveling theatrical groups, which had created a legendary subculture (affectionately called the “bouloukia,” the Turkish word for “mobs”). For decades also, mobile cinemas, with the projection machine and reels transported and housed on a truck, roamed the countryside, screening the latest films in the villages’ squares. Against the backdrop of the big city and given the long work days, the new urban working class went to the grand movie theaters with excitement and enthusiasm, especially on weekends and public holidays. The cinematic experience was their first initiation into the pleasures of urban life. On the screen they could see opulent apartments, houses, and villas; beautiful clothes; wonderful house interiors; large kitchens with refrigerators and even bathrooms with running hot water—that is to say, the spectacle of a decent “modern” family enjoying the ideal possessions and “comforts” of Western civilization. The theme of being “modern” permeated many films and became the implicit background of their sets and design. Despite strict censorship, between 1944 and 1947, all kinds of foreign films were screened. The main source remained Hollywood, while the import of French films declined dramatically, as the French film industry had collapsed during the war. In many ways, modernization meant watching the American way of life—a theme that was to be explored cinematically in the next decade. However, films from other countries were also extremely popular in this period. Greek audiences passionately watched many Soviet movies of socialist realism, such as Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin (1925), Mikhail Rohm’s Lenin in October (1937), Lev Arnshtam’s Zoya (1944) and Mark Donskoy’s Rainbow (1944); films which were banned soon after. The advertisement for Rainbow revealed the general feelings of the period: “The enthusiastic embracing of the Soviet movies certifies beyond any doubt that Greek audiences recognized in them what their psychological world longed for.”1 Meanwhile, political life became tangled and precarious. The March 1946 elections created a parliament that was dominated by moderate and extreme right-wing parties, after the Communist Leader Nikos Zahariadis, who had unexpectedly emerged from Dachau and who fancied himself the Greek Joseph Stalin, decided to impose abstention on left-wing voters. The new conservative government reinforced the country’s ties with the United States once it gained a complete majority. It also proceeded with the restoration of the monarchy after organizing a plebiscite in September 1946. The Communist Party boycotted the referendum and as a consequence King Paul and his new German bride, Queen Frederica of

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A History of Greek Cinema Hanover, returned to the country. The outcome of the elections and the plebiscite led to a belligerent polarization of political parties and to the entrenched ideologization of all social activities; soon after the elections, as a reaction to the rise and domination of extreme right-wing groups and militias, the Communist Party declared an armed rebellion against the government in Athens. The Communist Party’s stance led to civil war, which, from the very outset, was disastrously futile, as Stalin was not interested in helping the Greek communists, given his notorious secret “percentages” agreement with Winston Churchill. At the same time, the central government in Athens was the recipient of Marshall Plan support which gave it military superiority against the rebels. The rebellion was doomed from its inception. Stalin had conceded Greece to the Western sphere of influence and simply ignored the rebels, who found themselves in the mountains fighting for their socialist ideology with great conviction but essentially in a state of helplessness, without any assistance and as Quixotic and suicidal as desperados. The infighting between the communists themselves was equally fierce: armed communist militias exterminated all of Zahariadis’ opponents and those who disagreed with his decisions. Those who escaped to Eastern European countries were imprisoned, assassinated, or exiled to the remotest republics of the Soviet Union—a fate that Zahariadis himself was destined to share after 1956. In the context of such extreme political unrest in which citizens were pressured from all sides, going to the movies was unavoidably an act of political engagement; a political statement with consequences. Police informers were everywhere and young students were turned away by the police. The act of visiting the cinema to watch “un-patriotic” movies, especially under the grim circumstances of a country ravaged by political divisions, was a statement of civil disobedience and political defiance—an experience that lasted well into the 1970s. Needless to say, film production was extraordinarily difficult under such circumstances. After the Civil War, Queen Frederica imposed a new tax on all “public spectacles,” such as theater and cinema, in order to fund her special schools for orphans of the war. In 1952, additional legislation was passed which simply ignored local film production, imposing a new tax on the gross income of Greek films while offering full tax exemptions to all foreign films made in the country. One must also bear in mind, though, that during this period the Left was the most hospitable home for culture, especially after 1949, through its cultural associations and cinematic clubs, or journals and other publications. Conservative or right-wing parties showed distinct anti-intellectualism and a reluctance to address questions pertinent to the arts of modernity. Famous intellectuals of the Right, such as Constantinos Tsatsos and Yorgos

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Theotokas, who presented themselves as the custodians of liberal humanism, failed to transcend the limitations of their political ideology, in the way that, for example, right-wing parties succeeding in doing in France and Italy through the incorporation of influential intellectuals from the Left like André Marlaux. As a consequence, right-wing ideology, which was the official hegemonic culture of the Greek state, promoted an ideological construct that was founded on a confused political paradigm in which the autocratic Byzantine imperium coexisted with Athenian democracy. This unlikely symbiosis was held together by a volkish understanding of the ethnos as a continuous trans-historical entity, expressed through its popular culture, in the villages, or in the high culture of philosophy and art of the Greek intelligentsia. The peculiar thesis that Greeks were the “same” nation from antiquity down to the twentieth century failed to explore and problematize its foundational principle of “sameness” or to account for the differences in social organization, cultural habits and political systems that have created and recreated the historical experience, let alone the self-perception, of the people who have called themselves Greek over such a long period of time. Conversely, the Left privileged a more political, class-conscious understanding of the present or the recent past and favored representations of the “heroism” of common people in the cities as well as in the villages. Such representations were influenced by Soviet socialist realism, and to a lesser degree by Italian neorealism, presenting “positive” and “constructive” role models for their viewers. However, overall, even the official left-wing intelligentsia remained close to a similar model of historical “sameness”, transposing the agency for social change from the nation (ethnos) to the people (laos) and thus creating an equally confused cultural paradigm of colliding signifiers. Moreover, both right and left intellectuals were in a strangely cordial agreement regarding ethical issues, the position of women, sexual morality, and public “decency.” While mainstream cultural policy was in the hands of the official state and its apparatuses, intellectual and artistic production remained mainly in the hands of the Left and followed the “dialectical adventures” of its ideology during the next 30 years. The internal divisions of the Greek Communist Party (KKE) that had begun to appear after the death of Stalin in March 1953 and during the twentieth Conference of the Soviet Communist Party in February 1956 can be detected in the horizon of many developments in and discussions about art since the early 1950s, especially in the journal Art Review (Epitheorese Tehnis), which was the most important left-wing journal of the 1950s and 1960s. The divisions can also explain the negative attitude of many left-wing intellectuals towards everything “American” or “influenced by American models”—including films which we now consider quintessentially “Greek”, such as Michael Cacoyannis’ Stella (1955).

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A History of Greek Cinema For both political orthodoxies, cinema was a spurious “uncontrollable” art and industry, and not simply because of the thematic stories or the types of heroes it depicted. As complex and collective constructions, films could never elicit a singular and definitive interpretation; nor could the hybrid character of film-making (the camera documents reality while the story emphasizes aspects of individual experience) lead to a totalizing equation of the complexities and ambiguities of social life. On the other hand, the conservatives in power never produced a convincing or aesthetically interesting counter-proposal and were predominantly interested in controlling the film industry, institutionally and legally, mostly by banning “unpatriotic” movies, imposing heavy censorship on scriptwriters or even by exiling dissident film-makers. After the war, some important critics, like Yiorgos Makris, Aimilios Hourmouzios, Vion Papamihalis, Rosita Sokou, Aglaia Mitropoulou, Yannis Tobros, and especially Marios Ploritis, explored the connection between cinema and literature, usually privileging word over image, theater over movie screen. Most of them perceived cinema as the visual translation of the nineteenth-century novel structure and assessed films according to the conventions of traditional novelistic narrative, as in the French tradition of the “cinema of quality.” At the same time, they understood that the rules of cinematic representation were dependent on technology and acting. Ploritis, in particular, paid special attention to the cinematic enunciation of acting as public performance; he accused most actors of suffering from “theatrical infection” and thus over-acting. He also pointed out that the lack of technically equipped studios determined the nature of the movies produced—and accounted for their general inability to construct “Greek images” or indeed “cinematic images.” Despite his intellectual cosmopolitanism, Ploritis insisted that, “Greek cinema means a story happening in Greece with Greek types and Greek mentality.”2 Their criticism dominated film reviewing throughout the 1950s without ever articulating a coherent account of the meaning of the cinematic experience—despite some intuitively superb remarks regarding the nature of cinema by the two female critics we mentioned, Rosita Sokou (b. 1923) and Aglaia Mitropoulou (1929–1991). Sokou had a deeply empirical understanding of film-making and was interested in pointing out the virtues or the shortcomings of scripts. Mitropoulou, influenced by her French friend and associate Henri Langlois, was the first systematic historian of Greek cinema. Although her film reviewing is usually punctuated by personal ad hoc comments, she was a pioneer in understanding the importance of film history for the cultural memory of the country. Yet no one made the important leap from film reviewing to film criticism, to approach film viewing as a specific perceptual experience with its own codes, structure and forms.

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Meanwhile, the presence of censorship was strong and loomed as a serious threat over the whole production system. In order to avoid the nuisance of the state committees, many producers and gifted directors turned their attention to slapstick comedies, cosy boulevard pieces, or period dramas. New magazines appeared, such as Seventh Art (Evdomi Tehni, 1945) and New Art: Cinema, Theater, Music (Nea Tehni, Sinema, Theatro, Mousiki, 1946), and were published up until the 1960s, while many popular magazines, daily newspapers and literary journals featured pages on cinema, especially the burgeoning Greek popular cinema. With the exception of two popular Greek novelists, Mihalis Karagatsis (1908–1960) and Angelos Terzakis (1907– 1979), who produced two very interesting films Incursion (Katadromi, 1946) and Night Adventure (Nihterini Peripeteia, 1954) respectively, most members of the literary intelligentsia remained suspicious towards cinema and saw its popularity as a sign of decline and decadence, as a concession to the vulgar culture of the uneducated proletarian masses. After the Civil War, a wave of mass migration to the United States, Canada, Germany, and Australia began and impoverished further the intellectual capital of the country. Another wave of intellectual migration, especially towards Paris, had begun in 1946. Future philosophers such as Cornelius Castoriadis (1922–1997), Costas Axelos (1924–2010) and Costas Papaoioannou (1925–1981), musicians like Ianis Xenakis (1922–2001) and many other artists and intellectuals left the country through a program of scholarships offered by the French government, which essentially saved their lives (Xenakis had been sentenced to death in 1945). Most of these artists did not return to the country until 1974. Among them was the cinematographer Costa-Gavras (b. 1933), who, after leaving Greece, made some significant film noir films in France, and who later gained international fame with the political thriller Z (1968). Nicos Patatakis (1918–2010)—collaborator of Jean Genet, co-producer of John Cassavetes’ Shadows (1959) and the person who baptized Nico (Christa Päffgen), singer with the Velvet Underground—was also a diasporic Greek who returned to Greece only on two occasions in order to make two of the most important films in the history of Greek cinema—The Shepherds of Disaster (1966) and The Photograph (1986). There was also the distinct case of Adonis Kyrou (or Ado Cyrou, 1923–1985) who was one of the chief contributors to the film magazine Positif, the main intellectual opponent to the realistic and auterish Cahiers du Cinema in Paris. He wrote for the magazine Age de Cinema and became a famous theorist of cinematic art with his books Surrealism in Cinema (1952) and Eroticism and Cinema (1957). Kyrou evolved into a cinema theorist who understood the new art as an exercise in freeing the imagination from the shackles of particular material and historical circumstances—yet his

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A History of Greek Cinema own involvement with Greek cinema would deliver something completely different. After a victory of the Centre Left Party in 1963 when censorship restrictions were loosened, Kyrou made one of the most important movies in Greek cinema, The Roundup (To Mploko, 1965), a film of immense realistic force and historical precision.

Production Begins Again Film production started immediately after liberation, with some interesting melodramas about the ravages of war, and with their number increasing each year. During the immediate postwar years, production fluctuated because of the raging civil conflict and the scarcity of funds. Six films were made in 1945, only four in 1946, five in 1947, eight in 1948, seven in 1949, and seven in 1950. Yet the number was not insignificant given the strict censorship, police restrictions on moving around the country, and the lack of availability of film itself. Also, screening them was problematic: most cinemas showed only money-making Hollywood films. The directors themselves had to find time slots within the existing screening timetables in order to show a local film (having convinced the venue owners); only if that screening was a commercial success could it then be shown again. Despite all odds, certain Greek films slowly gained the confidence of the audience, especially in the cities. Among the successful films were The Villa with the Lilies (I Villa me ta Noufara, 1945) by Dimitris Ioannopoulos, Double Sacrifice (Dipli Thysia, 1945) by Yannis Hristodoulou, and Broken Hearts (Ragismenes Kardies, 1945) by Orestes Laskos and Nikos Tsiforos, all of which are of special interest since they were commercially successful melodramas and defined the atmosphere of nostalgia for a lost ideal, or a broken unity, which dominated most films until the mid-1950s. Double Sacrifice was an interesting exercise in film-making since it had been started before the war and was completed five years later: viewers could easily see the differences in the cityscape and the faces of actors. Vion Papamihalis’ Unslaved Slaves (Adoulotoi Sklavoi, 1946) was one of the best films of the period and depicts a group of young amateurs who try to stage Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream just before the German occupation. The popular musician Manos Hatzidakis (1925–1994), who composed the soundtrack for many acclaimed movies of the next decade, made his debut with this film. (It was in reality made by the critic Marios Ploritis who decided not to have his name credited.) In 1946, Yorgos Tzavellas released his Forgotten Faces (Prosopa Lismonimena), one of the best films of the period. As in his subsequent work, Tzavellas focused on the predicament of common people against the background of invisible yet omnipotent and large historical movements. A

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migrant from the United States returns to Athens where he discovers that his ex-fiancé has become a prostitute while her daughter is planning her wedding to a wealthy man. He tries to blackmail them but the burden of the double betrayal destroys him. The film was a box-office failure and Tzavellas himself considered it his worst movie. Yet it prefigured his mature works of the next decade, while showcasing his eye for detail in composition, lighting and set design. Marina (1947) by Alekos Sakellarios is also worth mentioning for its fusion of music and action in a strange musical melodrama with loose script and minimal action. It also introduced the new form of female star, in the mould of Katharine Hepburn, with the singer Stella Greca (1925–?), who sang more than acted, thus linking contemporary production to prewar film traditions and practices in an attempt to produce the first Greek film musical. This was also the first Greek movie in which a long and passionate kiss was recorded to the extreme consternation of moralists—from both left and right. Mihalis Gaziadis and Ioannis Philippou’s Anna Rodite (1948) was another interesting film set on the island of Rhodes (which had just been annexed to Greece) and which explored the tortuous relationship between Greeks and Italians. “Mussolini struggled for 20 years but Greeks remained Greeks. Now that fascism is dead, Greeks and Italians will be friends,” is the line that ends the film. The movie was a box office success and demonstrated the ability of the second brother of the Gaziadis family to make a good movie with a quick pace and decent script. Another good film was Nikos Tsiforos’ Last Mission (Teleutaia Apostoli, 1948), the first film to represent Greece at the Cannes Film Festival, in 1949. It was produced during the Civil War and with the Cold War emerging over the political horizon. No political references were made in the film nor were there any reflections on the recent past; only idealized representations of the ethical virtues displayed by army officers. Thematically, such war dramas that dealt with the resistance were compelled by censorship or indeed self-censorship never to mention anything about the “anti-nationally thinking” Left. Left-wing resistance fighters or rebels were represented as sinister shadows, reckless troublemakers or faceless Soviet agents. As the advertisement announced: “Watch this film: it contains magnificent stories of self-sacrifice and patriotism!” Stylistically, Tsiforos’ film introduced flashback as a technical device of narrative re-enactment, a device which was to remain dominant in many movies referring to the historical events of the 1940s. Flashback was an effective device with which to present the invisible survival of the past in the present. Only Angelopoulos’ The Travelling Players (1975), however, succeeded in making present and past contemporaneous, intertwining them in a continuous simultaneity. Tzavellas’ next film, Marinos Kondaras: the Corsair of the Aegean (Marinos Kontaras—o Koursaros tou Aigaiou, 1948) became the first Greek

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A History of Greek Cinema film to appear at an international festival, in Belgium. It was a historical drama filmed on the islands of Santorini and Paros. The script by Tzavellas himself was based on a short story and was effectively written with fastpaced action and expressive dialogue. The mise-en-scène was meticulously executed, with effective lighting and space arrangements in internal and external shootings through Jason Novak’s superb cinematography. Nikos Tsiforos’ Lost Angels (Hamenoi Angeloi, 1948), an urban drama about love and betrayal, depicted the unscrupulous domination of the social reality of the country by the nouveaux riches. Josef Hepp’s photography reached its artistic peak in this film, through well-structured interior settings and geometric architectural perceptions of spatial arrangements. On the basis of the filming of this movie we can clearly understand the technical progress that Finos Studios had made, especially in the synchronization of image and sound, an achievement that accelerated the production of films after the Civil War. Yet two films, made as the Civil War was still raging, presented a completely different take on recent history: Alekos Sakellarios’ The Germans Strike Back (Oi Germanoi Xanarhontai, 1948) and Yorgos Tzavellas’ The Drunkard (O Methistakas, 1948).

Nikos Tsiforos, Lost Angels (1948). Courtesy, Finos Films. Credit: DVD

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In both films we can admire the sculptural elegance of Hepp’s camera: the veteran of Greek cinematography explored, as the technology had by then become available, symmetrical frames and geometric arrangements of space in an ingenious manner that should be studied more closely. Within the “completely new studios of Finos Film,” the director and the director of photography were in control of the mise-en-scène, the lighting and ultimately of the acting itself. Hepp managed to control the lighting and arranged each shot in a way that framed specific angles; meanwhile, the camera easily followed the action through tracking shots or medium to long takes. The synchronization of sound and image was perfect both inside and outside the studio. Hepp’s camera explored both long shots and discreet close-ups in an imaginative and dynamic manner, employing double exposures, jump cuts, and dissolves that gave (especially in the first film) the nightmarish yet quirky atmosphere of the terrifying possibility of a German comeback. The Germans Strike Back was initially a play and Alekos Sakellarios made a functional adaptation to the new medium. It can be safely regarded as one of the best movies of Greek cinema. Its story was about the confusion of the common man in the face of the incomprehensible magnitude of history. The film had the subtitle “satiric nightmare” (satirikos efialtis) and was an unexpected, almost paradoxical movie for its time. It was based on a dream that the common man has that Hitler and the Nazis, having rearmed themselves, counterattack and conquer Europe and Greece again, at the moment when Greeks are fighting each other. Suddenly, the divided Greeks reunite against their conquerors. A group of them find refuge in a mental hospital and although they pretend to be inmates, are eventually arrested by the Germans. As they are about to be executed, the nightmare ends.3 Some lines from the dialogue still haunt Greek collective memory to this day: “Humans, humans, what is the purpose of so much hatred and mutual slaughtering? We are all humans. There is land for all, there is sun for all. We are all parts of a great universe . . .” and “The foundation of happiness is justice and love.” However, as the main protagonist discovers, superbly performed by Vassilis Logothetidis, these are the words of a madman and not of a “good” patriot! The shot of the Gestapo informer through an enormous keyhole was one of the most effective technical innovations of the film. The camera reconstructed a period of conflict and fratricide that could be expressed only through a mixture of comedy and tragedy, through an in-between confusion regarding the future of the country and an optimism about the possibilities of the medium. Sakellarios’ story was effectively translated into a unified metaphor, which synthesized codes and signs into a delightful black comedy which the audience liked but which infuriated state censorship, despite the very

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A History of Greek Cinema

Alekos Sakellarios, Germans Strike Back (1948). Courtesy, Finos Films. Credit: DVD

conservative ideology of its director. Nevertheless, it was extremely brave, in the middle of the Civil War, to preach unity, peace, and reconciliation, as though asking to fraternize with the enemy. After this, Sakellarios avoided “controversial” works and despite the fact that he was to direct some hilarious films, he squandered his shrewdness for comedies of manners on burlesque caricatures and eventually bad taste. Yorgos Tzavellas’ The Drunkard remained for a long time the most commercially successful movie of postwar Greek cinema (selling 300,000 tickets in its first week and thus proving the growing confidence of the audience towards local production). It depicted the consequences of war on individual psychology by presenting the ruined optimism of the generation which had fought against Italy only to find itself excluded and persecuted afterwards by the Greek state it had freed. Sombre colors, dark backgrounds, half-finished sentences: all markers of the atmosphere of fear and oppression that dominated the surrounding society—the human ruin was the epitome of a society in which there was no trust, gratitude, or recognition. Orestes Makris (1898–1975) gave the most accomplished performance of his career, acting with unassuming sensitivity and restrained dramatic intensity.

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Hepp’s photography constructed almost a third dimension of deep perspective by exploring the external landscape in a passionate and intrusive manner, zooming in and out and creating through effective lighting an atmosphere of urgency, confusion, and anxiety. In this film, the camera did not depict simple portraits in juxtaposition or collision, but complete and unified actions, and integrated narratives, an achievement that was to become Tzavellas’ major contribution to film-making. His style was on a par with Roberto Rossellini’s Umberto D. (1952) in its subversive depiction of social relations and class differences through the foregrounding of individual adventure and personal drama. With this film, Greek cinema moved towards exploring individual characters and psychological specificities, leaving behind its long tradition of presenting general types and stock images. Gregoris Gregoriou’s (1919–2005) directorial debuts with The Red Rock (O Kokkinos Vrahos, 1949) and Storm at the Lighthouse (Thiella sto Faro, 1950) were notable for his sustained efforts to construct a complete mise-en-scène using still inadequate technology. (Gregoriou didn’t work for Finos Films and produced his first films independently.) He observed that films were “dominated by technicians and not by directors,” and in his memoirs described his countless conflicts with the director of photography, the legendary Dimitris Gaziadis, who thought he was filming political events and not works of the imagination.4 Gaziadis wanted the camera to remain still while actors simply came and went in front of it. Yet the film was an excellent achievement of well-timed action and extremely “dark” individual psychology. The editing, which was done with ingenuity and feeling for tense drama, was probably its most important contribution to the renaissance of the film industry. Gregoriou superimposed shots and images in a “collage of collisions,” depicting psychological conflict and anxiety. External shots on the island of Zakynthos recorded the last years of an organic community and a traditional lifestyle. In 1953 a terrible earthquake totally destroyed the old

Yorgos Tzavellas, The Drunkard (1948). Courtesy, Finos Films. Credit: DVD

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A History of Greek Cinema architecture and this film became one of the few records of how Zakynthos used to be. In his second film, Gregoriou collaborated with Jason Novak and went completely in the opposite direction: the camera moved fast and without plan, in a frantic way that, as Gregoriou himself admitted, made viewers dizzy: I tried to juxtapose many diverse and heterogeneous elements, as a result of a thematic and visual greed which had taken me over during the shooting of the film. That was due to the complete freedom I had to film whatever I wanted, without self-control and a third critical eye. As a result, the film became a mosaic of different elements of Italian neorealism, American thriller, and French psychological drama or detective story.5

Gregoriou’s statements were emblematic of a period when the lack of technical expertise was still defining the grammar of visual language, with gaps in script, continuity, and style. At that time, Jean Cocteau happened to be in Athens and attended the shooting of the film; after watching all of these technical efforts he told Gregoriou with amazement, “But you are reinventing cinema from the beginning! Are you not wasting your energy?”6 Until his death, Gregoriou explored cinematic language in many genres and made some of the most important films of Greek cinema, and, despite his many concessions to ephemeral circumstances, he must be considered one of the seminal directors who constructed the mainstream idiom of Greek cinema after the war.

Discovering Reality in the 1950s These movies seemed to bid farewell to prewar societal patterns and, therefore, to represent elegies to a bygone era. Sakellarios’ The Germans Strike Back was dominated by the news transmitted on the radio, which had by then become the new symbol of communication and power. Tzavellas’ The Drunkard

Gregoris Gregoriou, The Red Rock (1949). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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delved into the immense background of a city under reconstruction, where rapid and relentless change was imposingly visible. Even Gregoriou’s Storm at the Lighthouse, with its expressionistic shots and blurred lines, created a completely different understanding of the visual experience. After the end of the Civil War in 1949 and the defeat of the communist rebels, Greek society turned towards a program of intense westernization and modernization, supported by the new superpower, the United States, through the Marshall Plan. However, despite ubiquitous state oppression, artists, critics, and audiences came together and established new associations for the promotion of cinema and the consolidation of cinema culture in Athens and other urban centers. Cinema Asty and the Cinema Club (Kinimatografiki Leshi) became the first venues to screen Italian neorealism, French poetic realism, American film noir, German expressionism, and the films of the Soviet directors of the 1920s and 1930s. In Thessaloniki, a city with a long cinematic tradition thanks to the Jewish intellectual presence, Pavlos Zannas (1927–1989) established in 1955 the Cine Club of Art (Kinimatografiki Leshi tis Tehnis) with similar goals. In these venues, young audiences and new directors were exposed to different forms of film-making; the experience of seeing reality from different angles and through diverse codes of representation had an immediate impact on the style of the movies produced. Yet it took almost five long formative years to establish a complete visual idiom that would make Greek cinema self-reliant and self-sufficient. After 1949, an ambitious new production company AnZervos, set up by Anthonis Zervos (b. 1930), started its implied antagonism to Finos Films. Such antagonism and the need for more movies created a new breed of actors specifically trained for the camera rather than the theater. More production companies, such as Novak Films, Piraeus Films, Pergantis Films, and the very important Spentzos Films, which supported new directors like Gregoriou, soon followed. From the early 1950s and onwards the most popular and talented actors were those who had learned to act in front of the camera. In order to meet the demand for more actors, the first school for acting was established by Lykourgos Stavrakas in Athens in 1948 and was recognized by the state as the only school for the performing arts in 1950. (Gregoriou also became one of its most important contributors.) Almost everybody who became involved in postwar Greek cinema was a graduate of this school—a mythical place for the cinephiliacs of the country, and to which the history of Greek cinema owes more gratitude than to the Greek state. Between 1950 and 1955, many changes had already taken place in order for film directors to be technically and aesthetically equipped to translate Greek reality into cinematic depiction. Italian neorealism was on the horizon, especially through films by Rossellini; Renoir’s works were also praised for their artistic merits; but many Hollywood movies, such as

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A History of Greek Cinema Michael Curtiz’s Casablanca (1942) and Charles Vidor’s Gilda (1946), were extremely popular and defined the ways in which Greek directors saw the relationship between camera and human form. During the late 1950s Indian films became popular too, especially Mehboob Khan’s Mother India (1957), and gave the story template for many Greek melodramas and the melodies for many popular songs. The main characteristic of the early 1950s was the growing number of movies in different genres. Urban dramas, period films, and comedies were equally represented together with rural stories and fustanella remakes. By the end of the decade, production was dominated by tearful melodramas and delightful comedies, which unfortunately proliferated so much that their initial freshness and sparkling wit were ossified into clichés and stereotypes. The articulation of a complete visual language can be attributed to a number of directors who need special mention, since they established the dominant genres of postwar Greek cinema. In 1951, Frixos Iliadis (b. 1931) released his Dead City (Nekri Politeia), which was the official Greek entry in the 1952 Cannes Festival and which received positive reviews. The film contained spectacular shots of the medieval city of Mystras and its ruined palaces. It was, however, a commercial failure that would haunt Finos Films for many years. In this film, together with Josef Hepp, the rising star of cinematography, Aristidis Karydis-Fuchs (b. 1925), made manifest the artistic sensibility that was to make him one of the finest cinematographers in the country in the decades to come. Unfortunately, after the commercial failure of this film at home, and after some attempts at comedies, Iliadis abandoned film-making for a long time and later made a comeback with superficial melodramas.7 Gregoris Gregoriou with his Bitter Bread (Pikro Psomi, 1951) infused Greek cinematography with new temporalities by accelerating narrative pace and by introducing neorealist forms to his depiction of social relations. The important contribution of this movie was that it finally constructed a complete narrative based on purely cinematic performances, which avoided the theatrical elements in acting and photography, despite occasional problems with transition scenes and the synchronization of sound with image and lighting. Both amateur and professional actors took part in the film with performances of authentic and refreshing simplicity. At the same time, Bitter Bread inaugurated the tradition of political movies with Marxist references, a tradition that was to be rediscovered in the 1970s. “The more wars happen, the more lame and cripple people will exist,” was one of the most inflammatory lines of the script, and it was removed by the censors. Thematically, this was also the first movie to depict the persecution of Greek Jews and the extermination of the Jewish community in the Nazi concentration camps. “You Jews are such clever people. They say that you gave birth to great minds—and Hitler hated you for that,” was another

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Gregoris Gregoriou, Bitter Bread (1951). Greek Film Archive Collection.

memorable line of dialogue. Despite the fact that it appeared only briefly, the figure of the Lord (Archon) implicitly dominates the film without saying a word: after his return from the concentration camp, he loses his mind, speaks to no one and stays in his room painting imaginary beings, otherworldly landscapes, and fantastic machines on the walls. Gregoriou represented the attitude of Greek society towards the Jew as the uncanny eternal stranger in an admirable way. The movie was heavily censored and was also viciously criticized by reviewers. Josef Hepp’s photography gave further proof of his mature style: stark concrete forms surfaced against the ruined and unmitigated background of the city. He focused on the deep contrast of black and white, which at times dissolved into a fluid and blurred expressionist confusion, effectively representing a city and family in ruins. Gregoriou continued to explore his neorealist aesthetics in The Big Streets (Oi Megaloi Dromoi, 1953), a film that failed commercially and forced Gregoriou to compromise himself within the growing trend of the commercial mainstream. Stelios Tatassopoulos’ Black Earth (Mavri Gi, 1952), a story based on the emery miners of Naxos, was another important yet uneven movie. It was praised for its “direct photography,” austere plot and suggestive cinematography. Also close to neorealism, the film explored working class conditions and economic exploitation with overt political references. The dialogue was minimal in order to avoid sentimentality, and the camera depicted with unembellished cruelty, as though in a documentary, the predicament of common people. The film was shot on location at the actual mines, mixing social documentary and fictional characterization in a way that is reminiscent of the British documentaries of the period and of Giuseppe de Sanctis’ Bitter Rice (1949). Gregoriou and Tatassopoulos explored the plight of the common man in a society that denied them voice and representation. It could be claimed

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A History of Greek Cinema that they represented the first appearance of “cinema povero” by elevating the common man as the central cultural hero of the cinematic tradition that was to dominate the 1950s. Unfortunately, after the financial failure of Black Earth, Tatassopoulos squandered his considerable talent on slapstick comedies, bucolic dramas, and finally populist television serials. One of the most important directors of the period, whose work developed under the shadow of the dominant male cinematographers, was Maria Plyta (1915–2006), the first female film-maker. Overall, she made 25 films between 1950 and 1971. Among them were The She-Wolf (I Likaina, 1951), Eve (1953), The Neighbourhood Girl (To Koritsi tis Geitonias, 1954), and The Duchess of Plakentia (I Doukisa tis Plakentias, 1955), all films which explored female presence as a disrupting irregularity within the continuum of traditional patriarchal representations. Plyta worked till the end of her long life to construct distinct representations for the downtrodden, the outcast, and the marginalized, articulating a very interesting and underrated variety of melodrama. Her films were characterized by a dark atmosphere of trauma and loss, and her photography was framed by an extremely sensitive, almost impressionistic, camera. She had an immense gift for representing the individual as the focal point of a crumbling social fabric—her empathy and humanism elevated individual stories into collective symbols of mutual recognition. She also paid meticulous attention to the interior settings and designs of her films, despite the fact that she always had to work within the constraints of very tight budgets. She also had to deal until the end of her creative life with constant prejudice and rejection: Filopimin Finos had declared in public, “Women cannot be directors!” Consequently, Plyta was not able to secure enough funds through established producers until the 1960s. Furthermore, Plyta had an intuitive knowledge of effective setting, interior lighting, and fast montage. As she had once admitted, she liked working on the moviola and reviewing dialogue and action while editing her films. She had a deep empirical understanding of how camera shots influence the mind of the viewer. “Melodrama,” she explained to Kay Angeli, “is not to be found in the story alone as a whole but also in the mise-enscène; if I wanted to show that somebody was angry I had to do a close-up of his clenched fist.”8 In The She-Wolf, Plyta created the first charismatic and independent female character in Greek cinema with marked neorealistic elements through a deliberately stylized and almost theatrical representation, which nevertheless went beyond the codes of pure neorealism. She also had clear ideas about the role of the director: “In each film, the director is to be dominant and responsible for everything; the director is the person who sees the whole movie on an imaginary screen, in all its details . . .”9 Eve was a provocative and confronting film for the morality of the period; the story was about a woman who returned to her husband after eloping with her young lover. Based on a script by Andreas Lambrinos, Plyta

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Maria Plyta, Eve (1953). Greek Film Archive Collection.

made a film full of sensuality, emotional cruelty, and sexual guilt, which could be aligned with Alf Sjöberg’s Miss Julie (1951) and Marcel Carné’s Thérèse Raquin (1952) in its relentless interplay between desire and moral responsibility. Her central female character was full of existential euphoria and ethical ambiguity, while the two central male figures were tormented by lust, insecurity, and self-hatred. “Why does love leave such a bad taste . . .?” Eva’s young lover asks, while her husband, in order to convince her to stay with him, says, “You feel disgusted by me . . . but I will stay with you till the end.” Plyta depicted her female character as a true-to-life human being, fallible, ambivalent, and seductive: no idealization, no promises of eternal love, no marital fidelity—the ultimate insult to the patriarchal establishment. Even the name Eve, with its religious connotations as the conduit through which evil possessed the human soul, was counterbalanced by the strange name of her young lover, Antinoos, the thoughtless youth, like Penelope’s arrogant suitor in Homer’s Odyssey. Eve was a “problematic” film, and the first major breakthrough in gender representation in Greek cinema, with realistic dialogue, convincing characters, and rhythmic narrative, paving the way for Cacoyannis’ Stella. Despite its sound problems, poor studio settings and problems in scene continuity, Eve is still worth watching and, indeed, must be rediscovered for its pioneering exploration of gender identity. After The Drunkard, Yorgas Tzavellas made Bloodstained Christmas (Matomena Hristougenna, 1952), which was the great commercial success of the year. It was yet another movie which imparted its message through implicit criticism. Some interesting subversions of gender roles in society appear, which the strict censorship at the time did not leave untouched. Despite its melodramatic character, the film addressed the question of women who had intimate relations with Germans—a viscerally repulsive issue in the polarized Greek society of the period.

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A History of Greek Cinema Between 1952 and 1955, a number of good releases seemed to put Greek cinema on the international map. During the same period, many of these films were again made in the advanced studios of Egypt, before their nationalization in late 1954. Some of these films were also international productions, common ventures with producers from, especially, Turkey and Egypt. Tzavellas’ next film was the blockbuster that gave him the opportunity and the producer’s consent to proceed with his artistic vision. Agnes of the Harbour (I Agni tou Limaniou) was the big commercial success of 1952/53. It was a loose remake of Marcel Carné’s La Marie du Port (1949), but Tzavellas infused his film with the intensity of spontaneous realism as he explored personal exile, the ethics of the underdog and the bitterness of social marginalization. The film proved his ability to take deep shots of the urban landscape while focusing simultaneously on individual episodes and significant details. The voice-over of an omniscient narrator sometimes becomes intrusive with its patronizing tone, but does give narrative continuity to the film. Tzavellas’ actors, especially the leading actress Mary Hatziaryiri, were also extremely effective in depicting a wide range of emotions and encouraging empathy for the characters. In this film, as in the next, the conservative director didn’t hesitate to foreground the female body in all its sensuality and voluptuousness and even to discreetly address the issue of sexual practices. Tzavellas’ comedies of the period were also interesting: The Jinxed Man (O Grousouzis, 1951), The Little Chauffer (To Soferaki, 1953), and The Jealous Man (O Ziliarogatos, 1956). The life of ordinary people is explored with frivolity, empathy, and humour. Tzavellas was the most conservative but, at the same time, the most compassionate humanist of Greek cinema, and in some respects his cinematic achievement stands close to that of Jean Renoir or early David Lean. However, the 1950s was a precarious decade which saw some promising young artists imprisoned, others leaving Greece, and others having turned to

Yorgos Tzavellas, Agnes of the Harbour (1952). Courtesy, Finos Films. Credit: DVD

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commercial slapstick comedies or cheap melodramas in order to survive. For those left behind, forced modernization came through the discovery of the immediate, the contemporary, the actual—and all of the compromises they entailed. Between 1945 and 1954, attempts to construct an altogether new cinematic language led to the elaboration of diverse visual strategies for the depiction of reality. Indeed, the quest for “reality” dominated the minds of film-makers; consequently, a hybrid form of realism was constructed, still close to the films of the 1930s but also influenced by English, Italian, and French models. This hybrid realism was based on accepted melodramatic conventions, which secured commercial success with script innovations necessary for the production of “quality” films. 1954 to 1956 became the wonder years of film production. They consolidated the visual idiom of local cinema, established its representational codes, and redefined its position internationally. In these miraculous years, four of the most important Greek films were made which not simply consummated cinematic language, but also established the stylistic and thematic prototypes for almost all films produced in the country until today. During this period, all efforts that went back to the time of Dimitris Gaziadis and the early Laskos for the construction of functional narrative, stylistic and technical threads finally came to fruition. The cinematic eye turned persistently and with curiosity to the new shanty neighborhoods of Athens and started exploring the life of ordinary people as they struggled to survive day by day. In the background, the ruins of a glorious past were really “non-places” for living human beings—meeting points only for tourists, pickpockets, and archaeologists. Even the war heroism of the previous decade was rather neglected. The anarchic reconstruction of the country gave rise to new issues that the movie camera was intentionally or unintentionally recording every time city life was filmed. For ordinary people, reality was concentrated in their job, their home, and their neighborhood—these were the spaces where life actually occurred. But these spaces were all under police surveillance and were being diminished by the constant expansion of the city, the construction of new “comfortable” apartment blocks, the proliferation of cars, and the rise of a new class, the petit bourgeoisie, which began to impose its own codes and practices on the public sphere. Most films explored precisely these shrinking communal spaces; spaces under attack by invisible and hostile authorities and the rise of the new class, which destroyed everything and everyone who reminded it of its origins.

The Wonderful Years of Masterpieces As for the efforts of other local directors, expatriates returned to help with the reconstruction. Among them was Gregg C. Tallas (Grigoris Thalassinos,

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A History of Greek Cinema 1909–1993), who spent most of his life traveling between Greece and the United States and who produced, with his trained cinematic eye and unflagging enthusiasm, his pioneering movie The Barefoot Battalion (To Xipolito Tagma, 1954). Tallas’ life was strange and unique. He came from Hollywood where he had worked with great directors in the editing of films such as Victor Fleming’s Gone with the Wind (1939), Jean Renoir’s The Southerner (1945), and the Marx Brothers’ A Night in Casablanca (1946); he then directed two technically accomplished feature films, Prehistoric Women (1949) and The Siren of Atlantis (1949), which are still minor cult B-movies. His first Greek film, The Barefoot Battalion, was characterized by a fluid poetic realism that depicted the German occupation through the eyes of 160 six orphans who roamed the city streets, stealing bread from the German soldiers, as though taking part in an innocent and exciting game. The camera followed their bare feet, constructing an elliptical image of a reality full of suspicion, fear, and tension. The children were forced to deal with moral dilemmas—and while they managed to do so effectively, instinctively implementing notions of justice and solidarity, the world of adults denied them everything they discovered. The dialogue was a masterpiece of vernacular as the script moved rapidly from scene to scene, creating an intense atmosphere of anxiety and suspense. The dilemmas were enhanced by Mikis Theodorakis’ score, orchestrated with wind, string, and percussion instruments, in an almost operatic style that amplified the emotive force of recollection, nostalgia, and trauma. The conflicting sounds of wind instruments and string harmonics created an atmosphere of heroic distance and yet of extreme urgency; the music transformed the children into symbols of a perpetual war against fear. Aglaia Mitropoulou praised Theodorakis’ music as a unique attempt to explore Eisenstein’s contrapuntal function between image and sound.10 Stylistically, the realism of the movie is densely organic, in the sense that the external emptiness of the urban landscape corresponds to bodily hunger and suffering. The film is also underpinned by religious fervor and strong “spiritual” symbols without ever veering off into the sentimental or the melodramatic. In a strange way, through subtle touches of humor and irony, Tallas’ movie is more akin to Carné’s Les Enfants du Paradis (1945) than to Rossellini’s Rome Open City (1945). In the movie, we can also see the first and probably only positive depiction of the American presence in the country—something that made Tallas a target of accusations of pro-American bias. Finally, we can also admire the mature camera work by the veteran of the previous era, Mihalis Gaziadis. He had used the same camera since 1924 and had only six projectors for lighting; yet his cinematic eye found its ultimate consummation in The Barefoot Battalion with a dense depiction of rich detail and nuance, in a constant interplay of shadows, through long shots and deep

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Gregg Tallas, The Barefoot Battalion (1954). Greek Film Archive Collection.

focus frames, documenting a ruined city and recording a shattered mentality in a way that could match any other similar achievement in postwar European cinema. Unquestionably, Tallas’ film was one of the best movies ever made in Greece and one of the most important in postwar Europe. Shortly after Tallas’ film, Tzavellas released his poignant melodrama The Story of a Counterfeit Pound (I Istoria mias Kalpikis Liras, 1955), his greatest cinematic work. In terms of the simplicity of its continuous linear narrative, the movie was the first major “formal” achievement of Greek cinema and arguably one of the best films ever made in the country. The director successfully staged a seamlessly unfolding storyline by intertwining four episodes in stylistically diverse ways. The film depicted a society that could still discover bonds and symbols of identification even in a worthless piece of nickel. Each episode had its own lighting, different music, distinct setting, and specific idiolect. The movie revealed a society already complex and diversified, with communal bonds still intact, but traumatized and in confusion, disguising insecurity and uncertainty with the melodramatic facade of frivolous incidents or sentimental exuberance. In the background, there still existed a city bustling with energy and constant activity. People appeared from everywhere searching for money and the ultimate security that wealth and material possessions could bring. Tzavellas was at his best within confined spaces, in the private interiors of ideal living rooms and modern houses. He was the master of set-design, costume, and internal lighting, depicting effectively how humans interact in the shrinking space of privacy and domesticity. Tzavellas’ style was a reflection of a deep empathy for the lonely individual in the urban reality of anonymity and depersonalization—and this was the central theme of all of his movies. He depicted a community still holding on to its values, but with the cracks and the ruptures imposed by the modern capitalist system becoming more obvious and destructive. The

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Yorgos Tzavellas, The Counterfeit Pound (1955). Courtesy, Karagiannis-Karatzopoulos. Credit: DVD.

four stories of the film were about likable outcasts who lived out their daily adventures alone and against a universe of negative presences and intrusive institutions; no political ideology or sexual passion assisted them in defining their identity and self-perception. An episode with a prostitute and a fakeblind beggar depicted with tragic poignancy and pessimistic humor the horror of commodified human encounters. Against the backdrop of a sinister state and an absent authority, Tzavellas’ heroes tried to make sense of reality and to find their place in the shifting sands of history. The protagonists resorted to deception or pettiness because something greater was missing from their lives. They risked their dignity because this was the only way to escape an existence without hope; they became ridiculous because they understood that feelings have become exchangeable commodities. “I want to paint not uncertainty, but the certainty of our love,” says the poor painter to his girlfriend in the last story. Yet their only certainty was based on a fake pound, on an illusion, a fraud. They will separate and live in silent despair, in subdued tragedy and affluent banality. “Our story is not fake,” says the narrator at the end of the film. “Only money is completely fake.” Tzavellas’ gaze tried to restore human emotions to their pristine pre-modern purity; but nothing stands the march of time and the stigma of poverty—all life ends in solitude. Social respectability and public acceptance became the most obvious manifestations of emotional despair and existential resignation. Through such “conventional” material, with clearly defined gender roles and class distinctions, society simply marched on, over the ruins of ordinary people. Tzavellas tried hard to believe that there are no class distinctions in Greek society and his films always end with some reconciliation and appeasement. Yet they also depict the dark shadows of a reality that simply does not care for the individual, in which individual life is a

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paradoxical aberration, “healed” through conventionalism and conformism: only by becoming “normal” does one gain the right to exist. The film was the first triumph of the new technologically advanced studio system of Finos’ competitors, AnZervos. Lighting was one of the great triumphs of its mise-en-scène; Tzavellas’ editing endeavored to create a suggestive atmosphere reminiscent of early silent films through juxtapositions, double exposures between inner spaces and outer realities, and slowly fading transition scenes. The richness of texture and the density of image make Tzavellas’ films parallel to those by Max Ophüls and Frank Capra. It was two newcomers, however, who consolidated the achievements of the American outsider and the accomplished storyteller. In 1954, after returning from exile, the young Nikos Koundouros released his expressionist Magic City (Magiki Polis, 1954). The movie was screened at the Venice Festival but was banned by Greek censors from officially representing the country. The movie started like Walter Ruttman’s Berlin, Symphony of a Great City (1927) and ended like Rossellini’s Germany Year Zero (1945). The story seemed to be used almost as a pretext so that the camera could record the modern ruins of Athens, the demolished buildings, the ruthless class that was taking over, the destruction of organic neighborhoods, the growing alienation between people, and the hostile nature of the state apparatuses. Old houses were being mortgaged in order to buy cars, the symbols of modernization, class, and distinction. The aesthetics of the urban landscape did not undervalue the human adventure in them: it is human misery, or human dignity, that interests Koundouros more than anything else. Neorealism was also present here, with references to Renato Castellani’s Due Soldi di Speranza (1952), which had received first prize at the Cannes Festival in 1952. The movie explored the oscillation of the city between the American boogie-woogie dances and the oriental belly dance—from distinct Greek traditional tunes to Hawaiian music—a chaotic confusion of the real and the imagined. The poor neighborhood was juxtaposed with the underground Magic City, the club where people sold drugs, bought love and organized heists. Viewers found themselves in the world of a moralist with distinct ethical principles and an aggressive moral agenda. The car became the ultimate symbol of alienation and anomy—modernity fell as an avenging angel into what was left of the old organic community. At the end of the movie, all of the inhabitants of the neighborhood collected enough money to pay off the car—this was an act of social solidarity that Koundouros, in his youthful idealism, thought that ordinary people still valued, even under such adverse conditions. Another newcomer appeared in the same year. Michael Cacoyannis (1922–2011) was born in Cyprus and during the war studied in England with the documentary school of cinematographers. His first film was Windfall in Athens (Kiriakatiko Xipnima, 1954), filmed partly in the studios

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Michael Cacoyannis, Windfall in Athens (1954). Courtesy, Karagiannis-Karatzopoulos. Credit: DVD.

of Egypt, which received the Prize of Merit at the Edinburgh Festival. It was a charming and fast-paced comedy, with convincing and likable positive characters emerging under the bright Athenian sky. The city itself was depicted as shining with optimism and ebullience. Elements of Lucciano Emmer’s comedy Domenica d’Agosto (1950) were present, as well as some interesting references to René Clair’s musical comedy Le Million (1931). From his debut, Cacoyannis established himself as the master of cinematic transcriptions and intertextual references as gestures to other films and directors, thereby developing the formal affinities and stylistic analogies that made his films dense and complex. Cacoyannis’ first film was produced by a new company, Milas Films, which seemed to give special attention to scripts focused on individual characters and their humanity. Indeed, Cacoyannis is the most Chekhovian of Greek directors. He is predominantly interested in representing complete human characters, with their internal life, dilemmas, and follies. The representation of individuals as “psychological beings” living in an internal reality of their own soul and making failed or successful attempts to communicate became the dominant theme in his films. A year after women were allowed to vote for the first time, Cacoyannis released Stella (1955), and this film was the culmination of the process of bringing Greek cinema to its maturity. Stella was a masterful, if somewhat unexpected, achievement. Until then, most Greek movies had failed to produce a complete character let alone a complete aesthetic for the representation of Greek selfhood, and, indeed, for a gendered selfhood, through cinematic images. Stella transformed feminine irregularity into a powerful moral presence by casting Melina Mercouri (1920–1994) as a superstar in the mould of Rita Hayworth in Gilda (1946) and Barbara Stanwyck in Stella Dallas (1937).

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With Cacoyannis, Greek cinema constructed a visual language that was in dialogue with the dominant traditions of the period, thus opening up its cinematic language to endless new potentialities and opportunities. His “Greek” gaze was built on the narrative strategies of Hollywood, the realistic precision of the British documentaries and the psychological complexity of French poetic realism. His cinematographic frame was also defined by an experimental use of frame through editing and intercutting reminiscent of both David Lean and Sergei Eisenstein. In Stella, there is an ingenious “transcription” of the famous piano scene from Casablanca. Instead of an assertive and desperate man however, a gloriously indifferent woman of dubious morals smokes and philosophizes with an enigmatic grin set straight into the camera—but not really at the camera. Another reference, to the famous kiss at the beach in Fred Zinnemann’s From Here to Eternity (1953), was used to present the first explicit depiction of eroticism in Greek cinema. Indeed, the film opened with a homage to Hollywood, when the

Michael Cacoyannis, Stella (1955). Courtesy, Michael Cacoyannis Foundation. Credit: DVD

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A History of Greek Cinema local singer tried to make her entry as a primitive Carmen Miranda (who had just died in 1955), and it remained to the end the most successful adaptation of Hollywood narrative strategies to the conditions of a specific country. Furthermore, Cacoyannis succeeded in doing something that no one else had achieved until then: he unlocked the mystery of human form and made the human face the ultimate map of reality. Mercouri’s radiant and spacious face added a new dimension to the cinematic depiction of femininity through its vast autonomy and self-reliance. Until that time, cinematic close-ups were basically replicas of traditional pictorial portraits, depicting their subject up to the shoulders or the chest through medium long shots and using material symbols in order to indicate the social position or the emotional state of the character. In very few samples of the existing visual culture, were the eyes, the skin or the whole face used as symbols of an inner world or of a psychological reality. In Stella the human face dominated the landscape and gave meaning and depth to a reality that wanted to deprive the individual of its own interiority. Cacoyannis constructed the first complete character in Greek cinema within her own social context and psychological realities; a character who was indeed an enigma, without a singular interpretation being able to exhaust her contradictions. She was at the same time, loud and vulgar, dedicated and individualistic, passionate and unfaithful. It was this very enigmatic quality in Stella that made her appealing, annoying, and challenging. The other female characters in the film were also quite interesting: her rival Anneta (played by Voula Zouboulaki, performing a proletarian role with imposing aristocratic elegance), who wants to have what Stella has, represents a provocative statement by Cacoyannis about the ambiguity of feminine desire. The second singer, played by the legendary prewar vamp, Sofia Vembo, accepted her inferior status, but dreamt of another life, of an escape into the world of her own mind, and of living her true life through Stella’s transgressions. Finally, the mother of the main male character was the ultimate proof of a self-alienated femininity: degenderized, passionless, archetypal—a human being that has lost its ability to resist and react. In the final scenes of the movie, a frantic dance between female and male took place, accentuated by a battle between foxtrot and rebetiko music; the camera dived into the human face and dragged the audience along with it: the camera was both the viewer and the character, the director and the anonymous person on the street. Cacoyannis’ editing through cross-cutting in the final scene suggested an ingenious symbolic marriage of minds and souls, at the deepest level of human existence and beyond social constraints and ideological imprisonments. By juxtaposing and contrasting images, Cacoyannis articulated a complex and ambiguous metaphor for social debates, individual identities and political agendas. Robert Peckham and Pandelis Mihelakis concluded their analysis of the film with the observation:

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The confrontation between Stella and Miltos at the crossroads draws on traditions as different as the Classical Greek tragedy and the American western. The final encounter is dramatized both as a rendition of the tragic revenge that anticipates the director’s subsequent interpretation of Euripidean drama, and as a showdown between gunslingers in Athens that has been emptied of crowds. While the crossroads becomes the stage set for the crossing of gazes, the space in front of the closed doors of Paradise frames the confrontation between the protagonists. The last scene underlines the ways in which space, narrative, and character are intertwined. In doing so, it encapsulates the film’s central preoccupation with irreconcilable perspectives and the pervasive conflict between forces of assimilation and resistance in Greece in the 1950s.11

Gender was of course at the heart of the film, but the film was also about the conflicting emotions that come with the freedom to choose. The internalized social and gender roles were turned upside down: the man was a prisoner of his dominant position and the woman was free to choose her life and her death. As Dimitris Eleftheriotis noted: Masculinity in Greek films of the 1960s unfolds and operates in this restricted domestic space. “Being male” involves a negotiation of the position that a man occupies in the domestic sphere, the extensive family, and the omnipresent neighborhood.12

In one of the most memorable dialogues in Greek cinema we hear the male protagonist of Stella (performed with passion and disguised insecurity by Yorgos Foundas), a victim of his masculinity as public performance, shouting at Stella what has since become a proverbial line: “Go away, Stella, I am holding a knife . . . Why don’t you go, Stella? I will kill you . . .” From a Freudian point of view, the knife itself becomes a substitute for something that Stella has taken from him: his manhood. Her independence and self-reliance, her ability to choose for herself, and her willingness to take risks castrate the man who cannot see the woman as a human being, with contradictory feelings and ambivalent behavior. Consequently, the conflict remains beyond resolution—she is killed by him as it seems that her death is the only way in which he can regain his masculinity. The film ends as if in a Greek tragedy with the neighborhood community mourning over Stella’s dead body, dwarfed by the vast long shot of the endless city as the camera moves ceremoniously away from the small personal drama to show the impersonal magnitude of an urban reality in which all are equally depersonalized. Manos Hatzidakis’ score, which is based on a suggestive fusion of traditional bouzouki sounds and modern popular music, foregrounds the social underpinnings of action: songs and music function as catalysts of action, as

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A History of Greek Cinema parts of the story. The song “Love, who became a double-edged knife” has the same impact as Gilda’s famous “Put the Blame on Mame”. It is hard to imagine the development of Greek cinema without Cacoyannis’ “sculptural realism,” which encapsulated the transition of Greek society from the organic unity of isolated neighborhoods to the impersonal order of an expanding urban space. After Stella, Greek cinema developed a new sense of filmic time and visual space, established distinct narrative codes to express the polarities between city and countryside and the introspective conscience of contemporary subjects, and explored gender issues or matters of sexuality in a subversive and somehow invisible manner. As Dan Georgakas observed: Stella is not a realistic character exploring a new sexual role for Greek women, but a poetic embodiment of the irresolvable conflict between absolute independence and the commitments associated with a permanent relationship.13

Yet when the movie was released, left-wing criticism was scathing: Vulgarity and obscenity are represented as heroism, machismo and aggression as bravery . . . How could they believe that the crude whore they presented, the woman who does not want to marry in order to be free to have fun in her life could be a character? How could her attempt, her “struggle” to defend an immoral and perverse permissiveness ever generate any sympathy or even admiration, or that her stabbing by a drifter could be a tragedy? 14

Cacoyannis constructed the first complete visual language in Greek cinema by liberating the camera from the static tradition of the prewar years and converting it into an active commentator on human emotions. In the liberation of the cinematic eye, we can clearly detect a political as well as psychoanalytic dimension, as the eye now enters forbidden spaces and peers into invisible realities. Nikos Koundouros in his next film represented another urban reality— that of the sinister underworld and of the dark shadows lurking beneath the official versions of prevailing order. In The Ogre of Athens (O Drakos, 1956), Koundouros explored the subtexts within Greek society, experimenting with form and space, reality and neuroses, madness and sanity to break down the morphological autonomy of Cacoyannis’ crisp realism and to create a cinema of fluid forms and illusory spaces. The story was rather common: the misidentification of a common man as a notorious criminal unravels the latent violence and aggression of a society of scared and frustrated people. The symbolism was too strong to be missed: the viewer understood that the police were after anybody, persecuting everyone and incriminating innocent bystanders.

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The script was by the most important screenwriter of Greek cinema, Iakovos Kambanellis (1922–2011), who had been imprisoned in the Mauthausen concentration camp. Koundouros was exiled to the Greek islands because of his political beliefs, where, as he says, he discovered “the power of the human voice.” Koundouros’ psychological realism constructed a demonic parable about Greek society: law-abiding citizens were in themselves morally perverse and therefore politically evil. The complacency of the middle class, the nouveaux riches, and public servants who worked for an oppressive state was the main root of the ominous and suffocating atmosphere of the movie. At the same time, the destiny of the solitary man in a lonely crowd became the central theme in Koundouros’ movies. In the final scenes of The Ogre of Athens, the underworld of criminals initiates a Dionysian orgiastic dance full of sinister homoeroticism. The barriers between the real and the illusory are demolished, all taboos vanish and the only thing heard is a primeval sigh of pain and suffering, an inarticulate scream from the nightmare of history. The sexual tension between men is confronting and, at times, shocking. The scene where the underground criminal mourns for the girlfriend he has lost to the supposed Ogre is an incredible depiction of an inflected, mediated, sexual encounter between them. Through irony and parody, Koundouros frames a revolutionary and liberating depiction of the hidden histories of the Athenian underworld, especially during a period of political persecutions. The Ogre of Athens combined two themes: Alfred Hitchcock’s recurrent innocent’s flight from arrest and Fritz Lang’s claustrophobic societies, as found in M (1931) and the Dr. Mabuse films. At the same time, Carol Reed’s The Third Man (1949) and Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane (1941) seemed also to belong to the referential subtexts of Koundouros’ noirish atmosphere. Actors looked at each other through mirrors because they knew that their society was a society of masks and disguises. Sexuality was ambiguous and diffused; it was another mask in a society of situated roles. The film was a political essay on surveillance and domination. Police were everywhere, and with them suspicion and fear: the camera floated over all shades of dark and darker—there was no horizon, no sky, no exit, and no escape from oppression and totalitarianism. The extreme theatricality of the state in its parades was a motif that recurred frequently in Koundouros’ films. Koundouros, however, spiced such dreadful reality with touches of carnivalesque surrealism, as if people were there but not really there; in a city without societal bonds, communicative codes, or meaningful encounters, the spirit of Luciferian rebellion lurks everywhere through the jokes, puns, and sarcasm of the persecuted and the marginalized. The scene of the Ogre’s arrest by the entire police force and a delirious public in front of a bra hanging on a clothes line is probably the most

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A History of Greek Cinema

Nikos Koundouros, The Ogre of Athens (1955). Greek Film Archive Collection.

diabolically funny shot of Greek cinema. Within its historical context, the film was a continuous coded message. Everything was said through secret patterns, cryptic rituals and invisible languages. The brother-making ceremony with the mixing of bloods was a magnificent rite of invisible scripts, as the heartbreaking Dionysian sighs of “Isn’t it a pity that we Greeks kill each other?” or “My whole life changes tonight!” or “I have my little brother dying of tuberculosis; help me Jesus to find money for the doctor!” erupt out of the primordial depths of human misery, dignity, and despair. As the lonely man dies, he utters the ultimate words of self-respect and nobility: “Thank you, leave me alone. All my life I have avoided attention!” The film remains to this day the most subversive and revolutionary text of Greek cinema: both formally and fictionally it reshaped the aesthetics of visual representation as a counter-style, in opposition to dominant forms of storytelling, which with their completeness and circularity confirmed

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the prevailing order of thinking. With Koundouros, oppositional aesthetics established their perpetual presence in Greek cinema as a complete and uncontested aesthetic statement. Cacoyannis continued his exploration of Greek society and human form in a number of path-making movies. The Girl in Black (To Koritsi me ta Maura, 1956) and A Matter of Dignity (To Teleftaio Psemma, 1957) depicted human form and its historical position in a unique and complex manner. In these films, Cacoyannis mastered the cinematic medium and constructed images of wider appeal which gained international recognition. His frames became converging points at which the individual and the collective intersected, thus establishing a convincing and believable metaphor about their subject matter. One could perhaps claim that Cacoyannis completed his cinematic vision through the cinematic eyes of the German-born English cinematographer Walter Lassally (b. 1926). Lassally’s camera simply made each character pulsate with a life of its own, establishing symmetries between human desire and the natural landscape while intimately exploring the social spaces where people interact and mingle. An accomplished cinematographer by 1957, Lassally worked with the Free Cinema movement in the mid-1950s and the British new wave in the early 1960s; the main premises of the Free Cinema movement became the ultimate aesthetic background of his collaboration with Cacoyannis and culminated in their great common accomplishments, Electra (1962) and Zorba the Greek (1964). Walter Lassally’s collaboration with Lindsay Anderson and Tony Richardson gave him the opportunity to explore the pragmatism of everyday life outside hegemonic metropolitan centers, as well as to delve into the radical undercurrent of the mundane and the quotidian.

Michael Cacoyannis, The Girl in Black (1956). Courtesy, Michael Cacoyannis Foundation. Credit: DVD

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A History of Greek Cinema

Michael Cacoyannis, A Matter of Dignity (1957). Courtesy, Michael Cacoyannis Foundation. Credit: DVD

The famous manifesto of the Free Cinema, co-signed in 1956 by Lorenza Mazzetti, Lindsay Anderson, Karel Reisz, and Tony Richardson, with Lassally and John Fletcher as its main cinematographers, expressed precisely the new perspective towards representation: As film-makers we believe that no film can be too personal. The image speaks. Sound amplifies and comments. Size is irrelevant. Perfection is not an aim. An attitude means a style. A style means an attitude.15

Cacoyannis made his Girl in Black as an exit from the suffocating reality of a depersonalized urban reality, and dived into the heart of “authentic” Greek life, with the pure morals and innocent intentions of “natural” people. Yet what he found there was neither pure nor innocent. Two friends from Athens go on holidays to the island of Hydra. They rent rooms in the imposing house of a deceased sailor. His family still lives there—a young boy and a girl, together with their mother. The local men with their macho mentality try to take advantage of the two women; as a friendship develops between the girl and the Athenian, they play a prank with a boat that then sinks, drowning five children. This simple story shows more than in Stella the power and the complexity of Cacoyannis’ vision. His script was written with fast and direct dialogue. The change of scenes has a peculiar rhythm of its own, starting slowly, then speeding towards a tragic dénouement and then ending ambiguously leaving only questions for the viewer. Walter Lassally started with this film his close collaboration with Cacoyannis and has stated: Michael Cacoyannis and I saw very much eye-to-eye in visual matters, and his script for the film was one of those rare ones where the scenes were already broken down into actual shots, making it into a shooting script which was both meaningful and practical.16

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The central actors, Elli Lambeti and Dimitris Horn, gave the script a tense and electrifying atmosphere: the power dynamics of the small village, the secret lives of the inhabitants, the internalized oppression of women, the phallic machismo of the male population—indeed, the lack of any sort of moral energy in the public life of the community—made this film radical in its critique of established order in Greek society. Lassally’s camera created an almost three-dimensional space, as it moved discreetly around the face and neck of Elli Lambeti, caressing her with sensuality and affection. The scene where the children drown is carefully structured, emotionally and stylistically; Cacoyannis’ neoclassical reserve and restraint rejecting all forms of sentimentalism. The silent and indifferent landscape testifies to the human drama after transforming people into amoral animals. Villagers are fatalistic and resigned. The story of the sexually active mother, indeed of an older woman having affairs with younger men, is probably the most interesting subtext of this film and will find its full treatment in Electra and Zorba. The fact that Cacoyannis avoided one-dimensional roles and depicted only moral ambiguities (there is something quite unsympathetic in most of his characters) made this film a prime text on sexual psychodynamics and gave it a peculiar position as a seminal text on repression and sexual inhabitations in the history of cinematic representations. Overall, The Girl in Black was probably one of best Greek movies ever made, with its sculptural vividness of human form emerging from the barren and timeless landscape, and with the power of its story, depicting the woman as an agent of moral and social change. The same can also be said of his next film, the urban drama A Matter of Dignity. If Tzavellas in his urban dramas and comedies was the Honoré de Balzac of Greek cinema, with this film Cacoyannis became its Gustave Flaubert. Cacoyannis returned to one of his main themes, that of a family in trouble, with a reckless mother gambling the family fortune away in order to keep up appearances with the rest of the Athenian rich and lazy, with a weak and sensitive father, and an obedient but unstable daughter willing to be sold to the wealthiest husband. Cacoyannis’ characters here are essentially good: they are unable to commit acts of bad intention or to act in bad faith. They are trapped in their social roles—they wear masks all the time which destroy them. Their tragedy is that they are fully aware of what happens to them, but they are unable to change their life. Around them, Cacoyannis explores both the mentality of the affluent urban class, which passes its time at parties and excursions, and the resilience of the poor villagers with their moral strength and directness. Lassally’s camera moves with impassioned vividness throughout the urban buildings, capturing Athens at night and at dawn with neoclassical luminosity, transparency, and clarity. On some occasions, each frame looks

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A History of Greek Cinema like an engraving full of texture and depth. Manos Hatzidakis’ music is distinct for its diverse rhythms, moving between jazz, tango, and rebetika in an imaginative fusion of sounds that underline the emotional references of the story. The scene where Elli visits the village and returns home by bus together with the commoners is one of the most eloquent social commentaries on Greek society. Even the much-criticized final scene where Elli takes her child to the island of Tinos to pray to the Mother of God for a miracle is composed and restrained. Cacoyannis’ film is an homage to Vittorio de Sica’s Miracle in Milan (1951) and to Roberto Rossellini’s Voyage in Italy (1953), indicating the transition from the stark realism of the previous period to the poetic realism of his next movie and the symbolic universe of his magnum opus. Additionally, with this work, Cacoyannis further explored the notion that films do not simply tell a story but inaugurate a dialogue with other films to construct a grammar of visual perception different from that of verbal communication. Indeed, with these films Greek cinema was not “reinventing” cinematic tradition, as Jean Cocteau had told Gregoris Gregoriou ten years earlier: it spoke with other filmic texts about the language of cinema, addressing for the first time questions about realism and its representational codes. Meanwhile, Koundouros flirted with the cinema of cruelty and selfdestruction, as is clearly seen in his next two movies The Illegals (Oi Paranomoi, 1959) and The River (To Potami, 1960). Both became “cursed masterpieces,” banned from being screened, for various reasons, with their scripts heavily censored to the point of rendering the stories incomprehensible, especially in The Illegals. Yet both were precisely about the absurdity and irrationalism of an oppressive and violent state, which destroys individuals to quash dissent and silence public discussion. In both films, Koundouros creates a poetic but bleak atmosphere, reminiscent of the early works of Pier Paolo Pasolini, full of emotional energy and violent tension. He replicates a photographic framing of action, making overt references to photographs of the Spanish Civil War. The films also reveal a tendency that was to make his later films somewhat dense and opaque: a tendency, that is, to create abstract symbols out of concrete situations. Ninos Fenek-Mikelidis observed about The Illegals something that can be applied to Koundouros’ later films: “Stylistically, Koundouros’ film depicts an unusual, attractive beauty, yet its images look so like static paintings in a work that it collapses under its own symbolism.”17 In all of their films, both Cacoyannis and Koundouros were aware of a latent violence in the fabric of Greek society, together with a profound existential panic in the face of history caused by the growing awareness of the presence of an external or internal other. Later, Cacoyannis’

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cinematic adaptation of ancient tragedy revealed the need for recovering a lost unity in an overwhelming synthesis of all ethical and metaphysical certainties. On the other hand, Koundouros explored the liminal conditions of self-determination through an expressionist cinema of fluidity and instability. From a historical and aesthetic point of view, Koundouros’ movies led to the emergence in the early 1970s of what has been called the New Greek Cinema. If Tzavellas, Sakellarios, Gregoriou, Plyta, and Tallas established the foundational visual language that became the basis of cinematic representation in the country, Cacoyannis and Koundouros reconfigured its principles by infusing it with new themes, narrative rhythms, and editing practices. We cannot really appreciate the new sense of filmic structure that entered Greek cinematography after 1965 without reference to their work. Both Cacoyannis and Koundouros, almost by themselves and in three miraculous years, brought Greek cinema to maturity and established a cinema of formal self-sufficiency, diversified aesthetics, and thematic complexity, constructing complete metaphors of the real, in the tradition of René Clair, Jean Renoir, Vittorio de Sica, Lucino Visconti, John Ford, Carol Reed, and Orson Welles. And both followed different pathways in their future development. Cacoyannis reverted to an almost academic style, while Koundouros radicalized his representations, flirting with avant-garde practices. Nothing can be understood in the subsequent history of Greek cinema without simultaneous reference to both of them.

The Proliferation of Films Between 1955 and 1967 many radical changes took place in Greek society. New production companies (including Spect Films, Millas Films, Tzal Films, Olympos Films, Karagiannis Films, Clearhos Konitsiotis Films, Klak Films) produced a remarkable number of films in many different genres. Such production was greatly assisted after 1957 by the construction of the best-equipped Alpha Studios in an implied antagonism to the AnZervos and Finos Film studios. Between 1955 and 1956, 22 feature films were produced; between 1957 and 1958, 28 films; between 1958 and 1959, 46 films; and in 1960, 63 films. The pace accelerated wildly, so that between 1966 and 1967 a total of 118 movies were released, not including short films. At a certain stage, the Greek film industry was producing annually more films per capita than Hollywood and was competing with Hindi cinema for world supremacy. All of the neighborhoods in the large urban centers had a remarkable number of cinemas for winter and summer screenings. By 1960, there were at least 350 cinemas in Athens, with another 140 in the working-class city

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A History of Greek Cinema of Piraeus. A similar number existed in Thessaloniki and other major cities, with the tendency to increase in order to cater for different audiences. For the growing urban populations, movie theaters became spaces of communal experience, public visibility, and social recognition. The need for more popular entertainment demanded the immediate production of as many new films as possible, especially of comedies, melodramas or, at the end of the period, erotica or soft-porn. Between 1955 and 1965, the act of going to the cinema was an experience of nation building with social and educational value. The urban masses that had just left their villages were in their majority illiterate (40 percent of a total population of about 8,300,000 people in 1960). Going to watch Greek movies was a socializing experience for them, as they were informed about the nation and its history through sanitized depictions of the War of Independence and, occasionally, of recent history. Audiences were thus implicitly conditioned regarding public morality, gender roles, and political ideology. With very few exceptions, these films perpetuated stereotypes by depicting one-dimensional characters without dilemmas or inner life. Their stories were also simplistic and formulaic, depicting either a lost “innocence” through fustanella dramas or the victimization of women in melodramas about poor girls falling in love with rich promiscuous men. Titles like I Sinned for My Child; Mother, I am Your Child; The Deviation of an Innocent Girl; Mother, I lost My Way; I Killed for My Child; After the Sin; Mother, Why Did You Give Birth to Me . . . have become proverbial phrases in the political vernacular when referring to silly sentimentalism and bombastic banality. Yet important and, on many occasions, great actors took part in such films, which were commercially successful. (Some of the revenue from these films was used to produce artistically ambitious films, especially by Finos Films.) From their titles, one could also notice the rise by the late 1950s and early 1960s of rather risqué movies, which expressed a preoccupation with sexuality and extramarital affairs. A number of films, such as Lust and Passion (1960), Desires in the Wheat fields (1960), Girls of Athens (1961), The House of Lust (1962), Sinful Hands (1963), and the notorious The Perverts (Oi Anomaloi, 1964), made by ephemeral directors, laid the foundations for a more explicit representation of sexual behavior, which, in the latter part of the same decade, led to the establishment of a thriving soft-porn industry. Consequently, the control of their production was of immense significance for the state—and despite the relaxation after 1960 and during the interlude of 1963 to 1967, the state kept a very strict control over film scripts and the dissemination of “nationally or morally dangerous material.” The period shows an increase in slapstick comedies, which made use either of good performances by significant actors or of topical events that caused some sensation. What they retained in immediacy and sincerity,

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however, they lacked in style and form. Most also lacked the moral and psychological complexity that would have created complete and believable characters. In a sense, these were grass-roots attempts to deal with the modernity that was reshaping Greek society by rapidly transforming it into a quasi-capitalist economy. During this process, the traditional ethics of communal bonds began to collapse, but no value systems emerged in their place. The new political establishment simply continued its opportunistic policies in economy, nation building, and social cohesion, based mainly on coercion, ideological conceptions of nationality and the systematic exclusion of “dangerous” ideas. The image of the “rascal” (katergaris) as a likable and sympathetic character became the central figure in these movies, a new variety of the common man dominant in earlier films. In this new representation, all urbanized villagers and the aspiring petit-bourgeois or middle-class audience recognized the compromises and the concessions they had to make in order to be accepted and become mainstream. Their transformation meant that they had to dispense with their villageois accent, their uncouth manners, and their existential innocence and organic unity with nature, in order to succeed in their new environment of class-conscious capitalist organization. They also had to ingratiate themselves to state power and its representatives, by concealing their thoughts, disguising themselves into those “acceptable” by the official state in the new urban reality. The image of the innocent villager who goes to the city and deals with the intricacies, contradictions, and pretensions of the new urban culture became the dominant theme in most comedies. In the beginning, they were delightful moral tales of self-empowerment, with witty dialogue and occasionally some extremely funny malapropisms (some of which have become standard expressions in the daily vocabulary). The attempts of uneducated low-class individuals to use sophisticated vocabulary and savoirvivre manners provoked genuine laughter together with the carnivalesque depiction of the local aristocracy. Certain movies that reflect the social tensions of the period should also be mentioned. Dinos Dimopoulos’ Jo the Menace (Tzo o Tromeros, 1955), and The Little Car (To Amaxaki, 1956) depicted the gradual transition to Americanized forms of commercial interaction in a still underdeveloped country: the juxtaposition of the prevailing traditional prewar mentality with the capitalist mechanized rules of modern urban realities provoked laughter by pointing out the contradictions and conflicts that existed in the minds of ordinary people. The mental tension explored here showed that, in these comedies at least, the individual was depicted with psychological depth and moral agency. Their comic stories caused an implicit psychological release not simply on a personal level. Dimopoulos (1921–2003) soon became one of the most prolific and uneven directors of the so-called Old

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A History of Greek Cinema Greek Cinema, and one of the central figures of the most successful period in film production in the country.18 Similar can be said about some other comedies made by Alekos Sakellarios during the 1950s, such as Music, Poverty and Pride (Laterna, Ftohia kai Filotimo, 1955), a hilarious carnivalization of stereotypical behavior, juxtaposing the urban mentality with the activities of wandering outsiders, the gypsies. During this period, Sakellarios (1913–1991), a lighter form of Frank Capra and Ernst Lubitsch, made a number of highly successful comedies dealing with the process of social transformation. Among them, The Coffee Oracle (I Kafetzou, 1956) was extremely funny and quirky, starring the most important comedian of the period, Georgia Vassileiadou (1897–1980), an actress who distinguished herself for her peculiar idioms and sparkling wit. In Auntie from Chicago (I Theia apo to Chicago, 1957), Sakellarios brought her together with the dramatic actor Orestes Makris of The Drunkard to create one of the most exhilarating, exuberant, and absurd comic situations: this was the Greek equivalent of Waiting for Godot, minus the existential angst, metaphysics, and gloom. With its whimsical contrasts, irreverent paradoxes, and spirited euphoria, the film explored the deep and irreconcilable dualities coexisting in Greek society that were to receive their inevitable denouement in the next decade. The terror of the new realities of capitalist commodification, urban alienation, and community dissolution can be seen in an amusing comedy by Tzavellas, We Only Live Once (Mia Zoi tin Ehoume, 1958), starring the great dramatic actor Dimitris Horn (1921–1988). The misappropriation of money from a bank by a low-level clerk in order to live out the passion of his life with a voluptuous woman (Yvonne Sanson, the first foreigner to appear in a Greek production) became the starting point for an exploration of the emerging capitalist class that was assuming power by imposing the exchangeable objectification of human emotions. Sakellarios’ A Hero with Slippers (Enas Iroas me Pantoufles, 1958), with its melancholic humor and sad irony, and starring the great theatrical actor, Vassilis Logothetidis (1897–1960), seemed like a farewell to an era and to a type of cinematic hero. In the same genre of good comedies, Tsiforos released his hilarious spoof on urban myths The Treasure of the Deceased (O Thisauros tou Makariti, 1959) with two great comedians Vassilis Aulonites (1904–1970) and Georgia Vassileiadou. The quirky humor of this film almost established a peculiar style in scriptwriting with unexpected puns and irreverent innuendos. It also farewelled a particular style in housemaking in Athens, as the old architecture with the courtyard in the middle was gradually replaced by fortified and privatized blocks of flats. After years of city life, innocence was replaced by compliance and complacency, and by the terrifying image of a citizen without moral responsibility or a civil conscience, an individualistic opportunist who would do

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anything and accept everything in order to “make it.” The cultivation of such an image became the dominant theme in these comedies which, despite the freshness of their vernacular and elegant simplicity of their plot, propagated a distinctly conservative and highly regressive ideological message. It must, however, be conceded that they managed to keep the industry alive, offer training in technical skills to young directors, and make the industry self-sufficient, so much so that after the 1960s a new wave of cinematic representations became possible. In 1956, Elias Paraskevas presented the first color movie in a rather faded Technicolor. The film was The Shepherdess’ Lover (O Agapitikos tis Voskopoulas) a fustanella drama that enjoyed a revival in such a period of social transition. As we have seen, back in 1932 Tsakiris had produced his own sound version of the bucolic drama written in traditional demotic verse—and the fustanella tradition with its reassuring clichés and assuaging stereotypes gave a sense of continuity and strength to the urbanized masses working in factories against the depersonalizing presence of state bureaucracy, urban anonymity, and capitalist mechanization. Two versions of the same story had appeared the previous year; one by Dinos Dimopoulos and a second by Dimis Dadiras. The latter became extremely successful thanks to the fresh and authentic innocence of Aliki Vouyouklaki (1933/4–1996), whose presence was to dominate the next 25 years of film-making. In 1957, Gregoriou attempted a modern adaptation of the ancient Persephone myth in The Abduction of Persephone (I Arpagi tis Persefonis). The film was set in two villages that feud about having the daughter of Dimitra, Persephone, amongst them. It was the most ambitious and most interesting work made by Gregoriou during this decade. He filmed it in a village outside Athens, forcing himself to abandon the written script and let his camera simply record the actual life of the villagers. He recollected: The camera became the all-seeing eye stealing scenes from the everyday life of ordinary villagers, forcing me to adjust appropriately the set scenes of the script, in a form of unpretentious following of actual life, dialogues, movements and reactions—as if there was no predetermined editing, but cinematic narrative followed objective reality.19

Gregoriou’s quest for realism soon ended, as his major films failed at the box office and reviews were particularly, and unfairly, negative. In the same year, Gregg Tallas made his own provocative and controversial Ayoupa (Bed of Grass, 1957), which took risks with narrative and storytelling, reminiscent of Tallas’ Hollywood days and of Howard Hughes’ The Outlaw (1943). The rather explicit and uninhibited sexuality of the film challenged the morals of a society that saw an enemy of the social order in the nudity of the female body.

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A History of Greek Cinema Another diaspora Greek returned to the country for an aborted experiment in mainstream film-making. The American avant-garde director Gregory J. Markopoulos (1928–1992) was invited by another GreekAmerican producer, James Paris (1921–1982), to direct a narrative film based on the famous Greek novel Serenity (Galini) by Ilias Venezis (1904–1973). The novel was about the predicament of Asia Minor refugees in their attempt to build a new life outside Athens. Markopoulos’ poetic take on the inner life of the characters through his depiction of their psychological yearning, trauma, and confusion in a series of dreamlike sequences was rejected by the producer; Markopoulos left before completing the film, which was not released at the time. However, what survives (about 65 minutes) is a strange hybrid of narrative cinema and avant-garde discontinuous images with classical music linking them as the deepest thread in emotional affinity. The colors of the film are variations of bright green, yellow, and blue, creating a surreal atmosphere of loss, absence, and expectation. Gregoriou, the director who was invited to salvage the project, considered Markopoulos’ work as incomprehensible rubbish and destroyed a substantial part of it. In 1958, Dimopoulos released one of his most interesting and leastappreciated movies, The Man of the Train (O Anthropos tou Trainou). For the first time, through an ingenious use of flashbacks, the German occupation was recreated almost nostalgically as a period of unity and solidarity. The story was not about the Germans, who appeared as dark and impersonal shadows, but about the Greeks: their moral dilemma between resistance and collaboration, action and apathy. Also, the female protagonist, played with aristocratic grandeur by Anna Synodinou, initiated lovemaking with the male lead, played with an engaging mysteriousness by Mihalis Nikolinakos. She was represented with agency, internal life, and personal moral codes, and ultimately as a human with a distinct personality. The movie introduced a film noir tradition to Greek cinema, a tradition which was continued by various directors throughout the 1960s. The final scene in which the unknown man is lost in the dark, with his steps echoing as if in a dream, remains one of the most suggestive and atmospheric achievements of Greek cinema. In the same year, Kostas Manousakis released his first feature film Love in the Sand-dunes (Erotas stous Ammolofous) with Aliki Vouyouklaki and the most popular male idol of the period, Andreas Barkoulis (b. 1934). The film contains explicit scenes of a passionate love affair between a young girl from a coastal village and a strange handsome man who arrives from the city. Nikos Gardelis’ photography works with deep contrasts of black and white—Manousakis makes here his first attempt to explore the crumbling structures of families. The risqué scenes and the controversial topic averted the far-seeing Vouyouklaki from ever appearing again in films of such bleak critical realism.

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Yorgos Zervos’ The Lake of Desires (I Limni ton Pothon, 1958), a melodrama about the love affair between a fisherman and a woman from the city and set in the shallow lake of the city of Missolongi, was a successful film of the same year. It won two international awards at the Cork Festival and was favorably mentioned at the festivals of Karlovi-Bari and San Sebastian. Andreas Lambrinos’ Bloodstained Sunset (Matomeno Iliovasilema) represented the country at the Cannes Festival in 1959 and established a very convenient myth for the tourist industry: a repressed Swedish woman goes to Greece in search of an ancient god but instead discovers a handsome shepherd—the actor who was to make an international career, Spyros Fokas (b. 1937). The story became almost a cliché in the 1960s when “the seduction of the Mediterranean” was one of the main campaign strategies of the tourist industry. Another female director whose work has been completely ignored is Lila Kourkoulakou (b. 1936). She directed an extremely controversial and groundbreaking movie, The Island of Silence (To Nisi tis Siopis, 1959), about a notorious and yet completely “silenced” leper colony on the small island of Spinalonga off the coast of Crete. The film was partly made on the island itself with real patients appearing, and had such an immediate effect that the colony was subsequently closed down. Kourkoulakou’s was another kind of Greece: not the sunny country with handsome shepherds, seductive women, and a glorious history; but a country of deformed people with unrepresented suffering, of hidden social groups whose history was not to be told and made visible. The story, by Vaggelis Hatziyiannis, also depicted a country whose people hated knowledge and thinking, preferring to be governed by superstition and a demonic fear of difference. The semi-documentary style of the film, a first form of docu-fiction, recorded real people in actual circumstances, thus producing a cinema of critical realism, which provoked and annoyed. The movie represented Greece at the Venice Festival, making Kourkoulakou the first woman director to participate in an international competition, but it had no commercial success. Kourkoulakou returned later that year with At the Gates of Hell (Stin Porta tis Kolaseos) and in 1965 with a fictionalized biography of the former prime minister Eleftherios Venizelos, one of the first attempts to cinematically reconstruct recent history, in a mixed form of original documentary and staged episodes (since no funding was ever available for lavish historical productions). She has made only short documentaries ever since. From 1959 onwards, film production was intensified and reached industrial proportions. One could claim that the line between good popular and bad populist cinema became blurred. Dinos Dimopoulos made his best fustanella film, Astero, with Aliki Vouyouklaki in an effective dramatic performance; the young director, Yannis Dalianidis, produced the refreshing

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Lila Kourkulakou, The Island of Silence (1959). Greek Film Archive Collection.

comedies Little Vixen (Mousitsa) and Commoners and Aristocrats (Laos kai Kolonaki); Alekos Sakellarios released his marvellous comedy about a dialectspeaking villager turned policeman in the city in his Ilias of the 16th Branch (O Ilias tou 16ou), and Dadiras his tense war drama The Island of the Brave (To Nisi ton Gennaion), which featured great performances by Tzeni Karezi (1930–1962), a sensitive actress with an intellectual performance style. Comedies and melodramas have been unduly underestimated from the perspective of the exploration of the social mentality surrounding the cinematic experience of the audience. Just as in Tornatore’s Cinema Paradiso (1988) and in all Mediterranean societies, going to the movies was a profound social ritual which tended on many occasions to compete with or even replace church-going. For the urban masses of the period, going to the movies was an experience of social bonding and status recognition, implicitly creating an alternative public sphere in which feelings and reactions could be externalized without fear of punishment. It also represented a space devoid of class divisions, a democratic spectacle, or illusion, of social equality—despite the fact that the luxury cinemas at the centre of Athens always enjoyed the privilege of the “first screening.” Furthermore, the villagers and the urban proletarians heard their own language on screen and not the austere and archaic idiom employed by the government. The demoticism of these films has to be studied carefully as an opposition to and parody of the official language of power, which seemed incomprehensible, hostile, and opaque to the audiences of the day. Yet, for each one of these, another five or ten facile and foolish films were made in all genres, sometimes by the same directors who were “prostituting” their talent for easy money and immediate success. It would suffice to mention the old neorealist Tatassopoulos who produced some of his worst patriotic melodramas and frivolous comedies during this period, but also Sakellarios, Laskos, Tsiforos, and others who, unfortunately, fell victim to the studio system, sometimes in full consciousness of what they were doing.

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Despite their social and cultural significance, both melodramas and slapstick comedies had a long-term effect: they domesticated modernity by de-radicalizing it. Indeed, most of the films in these genres constructed a rather naive and repressive image of modernity and its consequences. Buying a car, traveling to Europe, and changing manners did not mean moving into the modern world but taking the modern world back to the old. In these films, modernity was not represented as a break with the past, or at least as a rupture with certain past practices, but as compromise and accommodation; it was a style, without any radical potential, a simple decorative background and not an active reality with political implications. Consequently, most of these films functioned as confirmations of conservative values and practices, legitimizing them as modern and acceptable, since they were presented and disseminated through the focal art of modernity, the cinema.

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Chapter Three

❦❦

Glory and Demise: 1960–1970

The New Decade The 1960s for med the period when Greek cinema was so prolific that, according to anecdotal statistical evidence, the studios were releasing one and a half movies every two weeks. In 1961, the first attempts to establish a functional institutional framework were made by the state. The Nikolaos Martis Law, named after the minister who proposed it, had many positive aspects but was never implemented. (Director Lila Kourkoulakou was the special advisor on the new legislation.) Its articles prescribed the protection of local films, the investment of money in the industry from the profits of imported blockbusters, and screening sessions for Greek films—even a monthly screening for short films. Yet, as critic Vassilis Rafailidis remarked: The law of 1961 was abolished by itself because it approached and defined Greek cinematography as though it already was an industry, whereas in reality it was at its pre-industrial stage, and it could have developed into an industry not with the assistance of the legislator but of the bank manager.1

The missing link, therefore, was the funding to systematize production, establish its guidelines and create a long-term plan for local development. Elias Papadimitrakopoulos made a summary of the situation in the early 1960s: Two attributes generally characterize contemporary Greek cinema. First: it is not Greek. Second: it is not cinema. It is not Greek because it hasn’t succeeded in depicting (or it didn’t want) until today a single authentic Greek moment. And it is not cinema, because it is not art but a banal convention.2

Although there is some truth in such a bitter rejection of Greek cinema, as well as a lot of elitism, it overlooked the persistent attempts made by people

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such as Tzavellas, Gregoriou, Cacoyannis, and Koundouros to establish a visual grammar of themes and forms that would frame the cinematic representation of Greek society. Also, Plyta and Kourkoulakou constructed images of the rejected and the marginalized in a way that cannot be easily dismissed as inauthentic or banal. Indeed, today we are able to reassess their distinct gaze on history, identity, and society and form a better understanding of their artistic vision and accomplishment. Another important event took place in 1960; the inauguration of the Thessaloniki Film Festival. It started out as a week of Greek film but soon evolved into a major cultural event that still defines the development of cinema in the country as a showcase for its productions. The Festival immediately became a battleground between various film-makers, between the audience and the directors, between the critics and just about everybody else, and, of course, between the film-makers and the state. In spite of this, the Festival has generally played a benevolent role in the development of cinematic art and the formation of critical discourse around the cinematic experience. The proliferation of cine-clubs all over the country during the same period was also impressive. Throughout the decade, they screened world cinema from the past and the present while at the same time developing a special awareness of the Greek cinematic past. In 1960, the first history of Greek cinema was published by the director and critic Frixos Iliadis. Meanwhile in 1963, an institution which was continuing the Greek Film Club was officially established under the name Greek Film Archive (Tainiothiki tis Elladas), indicating the first attempts for the codification of the cinematic past, through the preservation of “filmic memory.” New journals like Cinema-Theatre (Kinimatografos-Theatro, in 1960) attempted to introduce the French New Wave and the English Free Cinema, while newspapers, such as the left-wing Democratic Change (Dimokratiki Allagi, 1964–1967), offered the freedom to a young generation of reviewers and cinema intellectuals not simply to evaluate films but to reflect on their identity, form, and structure. In 1963, a change in government led to fresh discussions about relaxing censorship laws and promoting the financial support of local production. However, film production itself was exhausting its expressive idiom through the proliferation of inane slapstick comedies, urban melodramas, and folkloric tragic idylls. The 1960s were full of strong contradictions; despite the gradual emergence of a new understanding in cinematic representation, influenced mainly by the Nouvelle Vague in France and a certain degree of Italian cinema, the superstar system became prevalent, arresting the development of the medium and undermining its social function. As they proliferated, new production companies wanted fresh faces in order to promote their merchandise. So, new “cute” and “attractive” actors

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A History of Greek Cinema were found and soon became the symbols of a populist cinema for the masses. The most famous of these eventually became Aliki Vouyouklaki, a local version of Doris Day or Brigitte Bardot, who, during the 1960s, was the cult idol for the aspiring lower middle class that looked for entertainment, escapism, and fun. Her movies (and from the early 1960s, they were essentially movies tailored around her) had immense commercial success and sold more tickets than all other movies combined, until her retirement from cinema in 1981. The truth is that Vouyouklaki’s own adventure in show business was equally interesting. As we have seen, she started as an aspiring and talented young actress in 1953 and played some very demanding roles in the early stages of her career, as in her first film, Tsiforos and Asimakopoulos’ The Little Mouse (To Pontikaki). Dimopoulos’ Madalena (1960) was a widely recognized ethographic film which gained international recognition at the Cannes Festival. It was an unpretentious representation of rural life, a fine example of a good “popular” movie, combining coherent narrative plot and wider ideological concerns within the simplicity of its story and the clarity of its depiction—not dissimilar to Visconti’s La Terra Trema (1948) but without its didactic political message. Furthermore, it presented Vouyouklaki as a consummate actress; her appearance in this rural drama marked the peak of her career as a performer. The film framed Vouyouklaki through the pulsating cinematic eye of Walter Lassally, the Englishman to whom we owe some of the most “authentic” Greek images ever made. The story is set on a small Greek island during the transition from the old sailing boats to the new passenger steam boats. Madalena and her family become victims of modernization and are on the brink of utter poverty; yet the film explores the death of traditional economies without melodramatic sentimentalism and with the directness of irrevocable change, as well as with a sense of optimism. With documentary-style precision and realistic complexity, Dimopoulos’ craftsmanship and Lassally’s cinematography transformed Vouyouklaki into a “tragic” heroine who for once did not impersonate herself as somebody else on screen. As Lassally observed: “Aliki’s Dinos Dimopoulos, Madalena (1960). Courtesy, Finos Films. Greek Film Archive Collection. character in Madalena was typical

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of the kind of part she loved to play—active, independent, cheerful and ‘lovable.’”3 Unfortunately, this was the most she could achieve as an actor: from then on she sacrificed her considerable talent for easy success and big money. In 1960, she also appeared in Alekos Sakellarios’ Maiden’s Cheeks (To Xilo Vyike apo ton Paradeiso), a hilarious comedy of manners about high school girls. The genuinely innocent story, the incredibly funny characters, and the memorable punchlines of the dialogue, together with the sweet melodious songs by Manos Hatzidakis, constructed some of the most interesting comic situations ever produced in film. The resounding success of this film, however, typecast Vouyouklaki to such a degree that until the end of her life she would play only “girly” roles, which confirmed gender stereotypes and re-articulated the feminine mystique as a life destined to be lived in the kitchen. The film itself was the most popular comedy ever made in Greece and became an international success in Turkey, Egypt, Mexico, and India. It can be enjoyed to this day as Vouyouklaki was surrounded by some of the best comedians of the time who effectively counterbalanced the excesses of her frivolous acting and narcissistic self-indulgence. The Journey (To Taxidi, 1962) by Dinos Dimopoulos was her last good film. It is a tragic story of love, betrayal, and sacrifice, as Vouyouklaki plays the lover of a successful married man (the sexy Nikos Kourkoulos), who decides to kill his wife in order to elope with her. However, the girl, tormented by guilt, saves the wife at the last minute while she herself is fatally wounded. The tragic end of the film determined its commercial failure since Vouyouklaki lost her real audience: “children.”4 It was a movie for grown-up people and for those who had taken the fatal step towards adulthood. Her artistic “development” was proof of the dangers of the star system; one that transformed good performers into opportunistic impersonators. As for the system itself, the producer Filopimin Finos understood perfectly the problem within the restrictions of a small market. In an interview in 1971 he commented that he created “stars” for a very simple reason: . . . Because of the non-existence of scripts. If I have a good script, I don’t need a star. A mediocre script, however, which is supported by a star, will make money. It is a necessary evil and there is no other way.5

The star system and the film industry converged with an unexpected movie, internationally produced, which was to create the most enduring cinematic legends of Greek cinema and Greek culture as a whole. Despite the fact that it does not belong to Greek cinema proper, it would be unfair not to mention the crucial contribution to the construction of “images about Greece” and their impact on film production in the country by the American expatriate, Jules Dassin (1911–2008).

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A History of Greek Cinema Before being blacklisted in the United States, Dassin had directed three great film noirs, one of which was The Thieves’ Highway (1949), based on a book by the Greek-Armenian A. I. Bezzerides.6 Dassin had to move to Europe, after the other Greek-American Elia Kazan, Dassin believed, testified against him during the McCarthy investigations into the presumed communist infiltration in Hollywood. While in Europe, he directed two significant films: in England the delirious film noir Night and the City (1951), and in France, Rififi (1955), two films of great suspense, tense atmosphere, and narrative force. In 1956 at the Cannes Film Festival, he met the star of Stella, Melina Mercouri, and discovered his emotional home in her existential euphoria and her motherland. The film which he directed for her and in which he also starred was Never on Sunday (1960). The film reinvented in a subtle yet subversive manner the way that “Greece” was represented in cinema. Instead of choosing a charismatic individual as its main character, it opted for a common prostitute from the industrial port of Piraeus. The script was a modern retelling of the story of Pygmalion, but was poorly written and utterly silly. Yet Dassin made the most of it and created an eloquent metaphor for the archaeological pretensions of the official historicism of the state, while, at the same time, focusing on the actual life of ordinary people. The naive and jejune story about pimps, prostitutes and petty thieves is set against the background of a bustling and vibrant city, where one could still discern the scars of war and the struggle of everyday people for survival. The crude retelling of ancient Greek tragedies by the main character Ilya depicts how differently from the official line unschooled people understand the history and culture of their nation. What dominates the plot is history as oral performance and as a parodic representation of accepted ideas and rituals. Classical ruins become the attractive backdrop for contemporary prostitution: the place itself becomes the psychological focus of the film;

Jules Dassin, Never on Sunday (1960). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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hence the very successful song about the children of Piraeus which appears so unexpectedly and without any real connection with the plot. The film became an international success after Mercouri received first prize at Cannes, (which she should have received for Stella) and the composer Manos Hadjidakis the Oscar for best song in 1961. Dassin was the first international director who not only made a number of films in Greece, but also attracted international funds and casts for films in the country. In 1962, on the island of Hydra, he filmed a modern adaptation of Euripides’ Hippolytus story in his much underestimated Phaedra, starring Anthony Perkins, Melina Mercouri, and Raf Vallone, which can be seen as one of the first trans-national films made by an expatriate struggling to find a new homeland. Some special movies have to be mentioned, especially as tentative but significant attempts towards film noir, which for Greece did not originate in Hollywood but was mediated through its French appropriation. In these films, the detective or the lonely policeman champions the “little man” against the abuse of power by the pillars of society or the delusions of the bourgeoisie. Under the story one can detect the very thinly veiled political criticism, which was not allowed to be articulated. Tzanis Aliferis’ Murder at Kolonaki (Englima sto Kolonaki, 1960) addressed collaboration with the Germans under the guise of a detective story in a powerful script by Yannis Maris, a Greek fusion of Raymond Chandler and Georges Simenon. The theme of treason became here an implied but not articulated subtext. Aliferis’ camera, framed by Aristidis Karydis-Fuchs’ complex cinematography, worked through stark black and white contrasts, as well as through the dark, ominous, and sinister streets of Athens, to create the nocturnal aesthetics that dominate the film. Kostas Kapnisis’ music was an exotic melange of diverse sounds that blended with the slow but atmospheric action in an organic way, foregrounding some of the most sensual and erotic scenes of the period. His music linked story and audience in an agitated and highly ingenious way. The critic Ion Ntaifas (b. 1927), an accomplished reviewer of movies, released his most important work as a film-maker with the film noir, The Killer Loved So Much (O Dolofonos Agapouse Poli, 1960). The film was based on a very good script, which addressed in an indirect way the illicit activities, during the German occupation, of people who later became powerful constituents of the Conservative Government. It opens with an insert incredible for the times: “This film is a tribute to the journalists who fight for justice and to the actors who struggle for high artistic ideals.” Despite its weakness in continuity, it is a powerful document of an era of persecution and fear, through its intense claustrophobic atmosphere and its expression of the untold secrets that were not allowed to be articulated.

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A History of Greek Cinema Another good film, indeed a must-see, in the same genre was Dinos Katsouridis’ Backstage Crime (Englima sta Paraskinia, 1960), one of the most atmospheric, expressionistic and dark films ever made in Greece, based again on a Yannis Maris detective story. The murder of a leading actress leads detective John Bekas to investigate people above suspicion and to uncover the guilt for crimes committed in the recent past. Its exploration of the Athenian underworld is masterfully depicted and suggestively underlined by the peculiar musical score by Mimis Plessas, a brilliant mixture of jazz, pop, and rock and roll. Katsouridis’ story unfolds through strange camera angles with frantic movement, rapid changes of scene, and an accelerating rhythm of narrative—this film brought Hitchcock’s style into Greek cinema. It was also one of the very few Greek movies which found distribution in the United States, and it can be considered one of the best artistic achievements of cinema in the country. Errikos Thalassinos’ Death Will Return (O Thanatos tha Xanarthei, 1961) was an incredibly intense film, made in the closed and confined spaces of a huge tower and set on the island of Cyprus. The scars of the Second World War and the betrayal of Jews play a considerable role in the unfolding of the story. Argyris Kounadis’ music underlines the agony and the claustrophobia of the strange story of repressed desire, revenge and hatred: in the final scene, piano music alternates with the police car siren, creating a tense atmosphere of frenzy and insanity. The best and most complex film of the genre came in 1961/62 when Errikos Andreou (b. 1938) released his debut movie Nightmare (Efialtis). This was an atmospheric and well-structured film noir about the double personality of a woman who lives isolated in a hotel: a mirror functions as the catalyst for her second, murderous, personality to emerge. Psychoanalytically, the film attempts the visual representation of the sexual panic that the female body causes in the masculine gaze. The oval-shaped omnipotent mirror resembles both the eye that looks into the realm of human motives and the depthless, cavernous vagina ready to devour the masculine intruder. Indeed, the film is about the desire of a woman to possess, or destroy, the male gaze, or the penis, as an instrument of violence, domination, and murder. The action is extremely tense and the psychological subversions highly challenging. Karydis-Fuchs’ camera creates an atmosphere of urban unreality full of illusions, reflections, and phantoms. The voodoo dance scene is probably one of the most evocative and impressive mise-en-scènes in Greek cinema, with real nudity and fascinating music. At the same time, the camera moves at a fast pace through an effective use of chiaroscuro, reminiscent of the original Scarface (1932) and Double Indemnity (1944). Mimis Plessas’ music, with its idiosyncratic melange of rock, jazz, and African tunes, made this film quite unique, a complex filmic text which needs more attention, especially for its possible psychoanalytic readings.

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Errikos Andreou, Nightmare (1961). Greek Film Archive Collection.

To the same genre belongs Gregoris Gregoriou’s Doubts (Amfivolies, 1964), a gripping psychological drama with tense gender psychodynamics overflowing with female sexuality. The subtexts of sexual abstinence and repression, foregrounded by Kostas Klavas’ jazzy music based on wind instruments and xylophones, creates a bizarre and dark film of considerable stylistic accomplishment and compositional depth. Finally, another interesting film noir must be included: Kostas Andritsos’ Scream (Kraugi, 1964), with its atmospheric dark settings, ingenious script by Nikos Foskolos and intricate subplots, all underlined by the bizarre juxtaposition of sounds by Yorgos Katsaros (incorporating train sounds with jazz tunes). This was narrative cinema at its best as it focused on the story itself and the atmosphere surrounding the action. The nocturnal expressionist aesthetics of mise-en-scène dominated the film, highlighting the sexual tension, displaced desires, and unconscious motives of its characters. A constantly postponed wedding, a tense relationship between brother and sister, an absent father, and a strange relationship between a younger man and an older woman (“Some say that I should be your mother”) made this film an exploration in sexual repression. Unfortunately, Andritsos never repeated this remarkable achievement. During 1961 and 1962, about 70 films were produced, mostly melodramas and comedies. However, political crisis and social unrest led to a new approach to authority and tradition. One can detect a deep interest in revisiting history and its legacy as an implied critique of the local political establishment. In 1961, Elli Nezeriti, released her only movie, The Stranger of the Night (O Xenos tis Nihtas), a war drama about a British soldier’s time in Mykonos during the Italian occupation. The director of photography was Giovanni Varriano, an Italian who stayed in Greece after the war and who contributed

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A History of Greek Cinema to the production of many films. Despite the fact that Nezeriti did not pursue her film career further, her movie depicted a solid and dynamic style. During the same year, we must mention the release of the first experimental, avant-garde film of Greek cinema, John Kontes’ The Hands (Ta Heria). It was a film without story or dialogue, based on the cinematic exploration of how human hands express emotions and states of mind. The magisterial black tragicomedy Hands Up, Hitler (Psila ta Heria, Hitler, 1961) was made by Roveros Manthoulis. It was a nostalgic look at the recent past as collective memory and, as such, an attempt to understand what happened during the German occupation. In a characteristic scene, the German soldiers who take photographs in front of the Parthenon chase away the redundant and ordinary “modern” Greek who is passing by. Yet the political implications for the present were obvious: at the peak of the mass migration to other countries, organized by the government, Greeks felt like strangers in their own homeland, like picturesque images for tourists and case studies for experts. A film that had a deep impact in 1961 was the historical documentary by Vassilis Maros released under the title The Tragedy of the Aegean (I Tragodia tou Aigaiou). It was a historical reconstruction of the greatest events of Greek history from 1900 to the end of the Civil War (1949). Maros (1929–2002) put together the most important reels filmed by the early cinematographers, such as Prokopiou, Hepp, Gaziadis, Loggos, and Finos. It was an unsettling critical look at the recent past, with an ironic and occasionally acerbic commentary, the first ever cinematic reflection on the experience of history not simply as political narrative but as felt reality by the common people. The predicament of these people is apparent throughout the film which, despite its documentary form, can be seen as a grand epic of hope and destruction and, as such, an indirect indictment of the political establishment which persistently and consciously betrays the expectations of its own citizens. Mitropoulou considers this film, which provoked fierce reactions and was heavily censored on account of its critical stance towards the ruling elite, as “the first historical and political film of Greek cinema.”7 Yorgos Tzavellas released the first attempt since 1927 to film ancient Greek tragedy in his multi-award-winning Antigone (1961), a film that established the international status of the actress Irene Papas (b. 1926). The cinematic translation of the quintessential ancient Greek tragedy was a risky and unpredictable experiment. Tzavellas was the master of internal spaces, bourgeois formalism, and introspective understatement. Here he had to reinvent his own visual idiom and create for Sophocles’ tragedy a cinematic public space by reconfiguring its structure. He filmed on location, giving the ancient chorus a powerful presence, using the language of the common people and transforming the solemnity of the tragic ritual into a vibrant and lively realistic confrontation. The film managed to balance naturalism and

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archetypal time. It is the most expressionistic of his works; soft focus and long shots create a sense of distance, indicating the mythic dimension of the story, and yet the tangibility of images and distinctness of human form articulate a relief-like depth. Irene Papas’ performance as Antigone was one of the best of her career, while Manos Katrakis (1908–1984) as Creon gave a mesmerizing performance of awe-inspiring terribilitas. In the same year, Cacoyannis produced the underrated poetic gaze of Eroica (1961), a film that depicted the indeterminacy of adolescent sexuality and the nostalgia for a lost childhood through the soft use of camera, sparse dialogue, and the slow pace of narrative. The film was a contemplative and imaginative recreation of the innocence and purity of youth before it is thrown into the world of adult social roles and taken captive by the cruelty of history. It was based on a popular novel by Kosmas Politis (1888–1974), which recreated the last years of growing up in Smyrna before the great Catastrophe. Its form is reminiscent of Dovzhenko’s Earth (1930), and Walter Lassally’s camera recreates with immense sensitivity and affection the motifs of lost innocence and lost homeland, intertwined through a magnificent use of slightly unfocused, hazy frames, which record a remembered past with empathy, reserve, and despair. It is certainly not irrelevant to see the connection between this film and Cacoyannis’ next, which was to become an international success, the ingenious and magisterial filming of Euripides’ Electra (1962). Cacoyannis’ Electra was a major formal achievement whose influence can be discerned in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Gospel According to Matthew (1964) and Medea (1969), and Miklós Jancsó’s Electra, My Love (1974). It is probably his ultimate cinematic masterpiece, a visual translation of ancient tragedy through the practices of Russian formalists and specifically Eisenstein’s and Dovzhenko’s theories of montage and editing. Walter Lassally’s contribution to this film cannot be understated. During the same period, he worked with Tony Richardson on films such as A Taste

Michael Cacoyannis, Eroica (1960). Courtesy, Michael Cacoyannis Foundation. Credit: DVD

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A History of Greek Cinema of Honey (1961), The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (1962), and Tom Jones (1963), which inaugurated the British New Wave. His cinematography, with its crisp pragmatism and preference for foregrounding the immediate and tangible, counterbalanced the symbolic, mythical, and archetypal story. With its strong tonal ranges of black and white, Lassally’s camera created dense contrasts and juxtapositions of forms through subtle movements that made the camera itself participate in the story; indeed, through its sensitive immobility the camera becomes the ubiquitous eye that guides the viewer through the intricate psychological complexities of the story. As Lassally explained: I chose to film all the day exteriors in Electra through a deep red filter, which gives a high contrast image with near black skies and we went for very formal and somewhat stark compositions that filled the frame to its very edges.8

Furthermore, it was a risky experiment to transfer the closed settings of the theatrical stage to the natural world of an endless sky. As critic Andonis Moshovakis observed, “The transfer of action to open nature” makes natural elements, the landscape, and weather patterns integral parts of cinematic representation.9 Cacoyannis himself elaborated: I didn’t try to reconstruct Electra in time, but to denude her of time. Searching for the common links between present and past, I didn’t look for a common quality but for a fundamental identity; I didn’t search for what survived but for what never ceased being alive . . . I started inevitably from the landscape, which through its unmitigated abstraction predetermined the most austere life measure for body and soul. I tried to penetrate time through the living perception of the past.10

Michael Cacoyannis, Electra (1962). Courtesy, Michael Cacoyannis Foundation. Credit: DVD

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For his part, Cacoyannis brought everything together: image, sound, and silence. Indeed, at the most crucial moments, silence takes over action, while the archetypal figures of tragedy emerges in the viewer’s subconscious in all their psychological force. Mikis Theodorakis’ music unsettles the viewer with its tense sounds, constructed by elemental instruments, mostly percussions, xylophones, and harpsichord, in an effort to create a ritual rhythm of solemnity and gravitas. The theme of the tragedy is matricide—a topic which is the ultimate taboo in all Mediterranean societies. A sexually active mother and her virile and promiscuous lover “castrate” both brother and sister, Orestes (Yannis Fertis) and Electra (Irene Papas), after the lovers kill their father. Such a psychoanalytic background creates the suffocating atmosphere of guilt and angst that permeates the film as the children struggle to avenge their father’s murder. They both feel disgusted by and attracted to the animalistic vitality of their mother’s lover (Fivos Razis), and want revenge from while at the same time being bound to their mother by the psychic bonds of their emotional umbilical cord. Love and hate struggle within them and they feel neutralized by their conflicting emotions. In a powerful scene, the mother (hauntingly performed by Aleka Katseli) is isolated in a dark and circular hovel where her son Orestes is lurking to kill her. The camera avoids showing the killing, but such ellipsis makes the act more horrible and blasphemous. In this Freudian scene, the ritual murder becomes a miasma, a horrible act that needs purification and atonement. Yet there is no redemption: the children destroy their maternal beginning and are condemned to an existence without a home to return to. This film consummated the ultimate themes of Cacoyannis’ cinema: troubled families, castrated children, and lost homelands. Obviously, the tragedy was an apt metaphor for the indeterminate realities of modern life. An “absent” father lurks in the background as the phantom of peace and stability. His children, dispersed and confused, struggle to come to terms with loss and trauma. At the same time, they know the cause of their loss, but their inability to act demoralizes them in a self-castrating way. The dominant mother, full of power and self-confidence, reduces them to a life of insignificance. When they act, they destroy themselves—a double exile awaits them, estrangement from their family hearth and from their country. The film was Cacoyannis’ response to Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (1956), a film about the silence of history and the death of God. (Interestingly enough, left-wing film-maker and critic Dimitris Stavrakas criticized Electra for its “Scandinavian photography” and “Babylonian costumes.”)11 It was a humanist’s answer to the major questions of postwar Europe and to the criminal mentality that seized power with the rise of totalitarianism. The criminals were the people we loved—our kin, our

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A History of Greek Cinema blood. How could ordinary people confront the terrible consequences of a knowledge that revealed the criminal as a family member and the crime as their birth certificate? It was no longer the silence of God or of history that rendered individual life meaningless, it was the absence of the will to act, the voluntary resignation from moral valuation through action, which destroyed all kinds of meaning. Electra was the masterpiece of anthropocentric morality, exploring the human ability yet reluctance to make rational choices in an era of existential anomie and amoral depersonalization. At the 1962 Cannes Film Festival, it won only technical awards competing with Robert Bresson’s The Trial of Jean d’ Arc (1961) and Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Eclisse (1961)—parallels with Bresson’s film can be easily drawn. A contrast with Tyrone Guthrie’s Oedipus Rex (1957) or even Pasolini’s Marxist Edipo Re (1967) or his Freudian Medea can show how more effectively Cacoyannis worked with ancient tragedy and the problems of representing its moral message today. With this great movie, as its dialectical antithesis and complement, one must juxtapose Nikos Koundouros’ Young Aphrodites (Mikres Afrodites, 1963). If in Tzavellas’ Antigone, as composed by the aristocratic sublimity of Sophocles, there were no common people, and in Cacoyannis’ Electra, as written by the rebellious mind of Euripides, there was only one good-hearted commoner, Koundouros’ movie was about only anonymous, unexceptional, and insignificant people. Neoclassicism had convinced everyone that ancient Greece was about the perfection of form and the grandeur of ethical virtues achieved by great men mostly and a few exceptional women. The plight and the life of the common people were always buried under the mythology of wisdom, temperance, and magnanimity usually associated with the classical worldview. With Young Aphrodites, Koundouros went against the trend of an idealistic and idealized understanding of the classical world. His film was about the life of ordinary folks as it unfolded around the grand histories of Oedipus and Troy: it unravelled a story that was never written and was never considered worthy of being told. Koundouros’ story, loosely based on Longos’ Daphnis and Chloe, is set in archaic Greece, around 200bc, where a group of nomadic shepherds settles for a few weeks close to the sea. Love affairs develop between two couples, only to be interrupted by the departure of the nomads, with one young man left behind broken-hearted. The script is skeletal and the dialogue minimal: the style of representation is sparse and geometric, with simple gestures, facial expressions, and costumes. The human body appears almost totally nude; no moral pronouncements are declared, and no rituals of redemption or catharsis are performed. Only the voice of desire, inarticulate, raw, and elemental permeates the film, as the couples try to explore their bodies, control their lust, and enjoy their mutual attraction.

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Nikos Koundouros, Young Aphrodites (1963). Greek Film Archive Collection. Credit: DVD

Koundouros’ cinematographer Giovanni Varriano was equally magisterial in the way he used deep and close-up takes, and the seamless transitions from one scene to the other, based on emblematic shots that framed evocative individual sequences—the image of the young boy holding the dead swan of equal size to him was probably the ultimate symbol of Koundouros’ poetic realism.12 This was a wonderful gesture towards Laskos’ Daphnis and Chloe, as reimagined by the radicalism of Kostas Sfikas who co-scripted Young Aphrodites with Vassilis Vassilikos, but technical progress and magnificent camera movement transformed the simple story into a brilliant exploration of the uncivilized self that lies beneath the veneer of social etiquette. As in his other films, Koundouros’ heroes were not on a pedestal or the Parthenon frieze, having won immortality through aesthetic perfection and stylistic elegance; they were eternal in their triviality and triteness, because of their earthy existence and attachment to the world of immediate objects and in their banal struggle for survival. The anonymous characters were people defined not by class, power, or status, but by their desires, bodies, and emotions. As Koundouros said, “This is a film about ideological nothingness . . . and its narrative is the narrative of silent films.”13 The archaic simplicity of space converted human forms into ideograms and “icons” through the denuding of the architectural composition of all emotional rhetoric. The bare geometry of forms, sounds, and movements with its hypnotic symmetries, like Pythagorean harmonics, against the canvas of a cruel, indifferent, and omnivorous nature made this film an extraordinary achievement of abstract lyricism and formal austerity. This was a film about the history of anonymity; full of warmth, empathy, and understanding, celebrating Koundouros’ one and only hero, Everyman. Yet the defining film of the 1960s, indeed of the whole of Greek cinema (for better or worse) was the international production of Zorba the Greek directed by Cacoyannis (1964). Because of its cast, production, and

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A History of Greek Cinema distribution, the film defined the international image of Greece, and its presumed social mentality still crystallize specific ways of looking at Greek reality to this day. Zorba the Greek is usually judged negatively; especially today when the image of the crafty and resourceful village philosopher or village fool that Zorba came to represent have imploded and all but vanished. Yet around this demonic figure, so ambiguously performed by a frenetic Anthony Quinn, Cacoyannis represented a universe of moral and psychological ambiguities replete with fear and panic. The adaptation of Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel is more or less successful as a cinematic translation of a work composed around philosophical dialogue, complex narrative structure, and highly abstract speculation. Cacoyannis totally ignored the central themes of the book, such as the strenuous intellectual effort of the Boss to write a play entitled Buddha. He also omitted altogether the stoic ethic of self-restraint and temperance that permeate the book in favor of the epicurean celebration of euphoric exuberance and sensual excess. The film is uneven, as it can be seen as a series of loosely connected episodes appearing out of nowhere in an attempt to move from the individual to the community and to construct a fresco of their interaction. Emanuel Levy notes that “the film is uneven due to Cacoyannis’ plodding direction, resulting in a structurally shapeless film, despite great on-location shoots and melodic score from Mikis Theodorakis.”14 Zorba is comically spectacular and dominates each scene with an almost Luciferian presence which often borders on the ridiculous; yet the episodic stories that unfold around him, like the widow’s assassination, the presence of foreigners, the influence of institutional religion, and the hidden reality of madness in small communities, are depicted with an accomplished and stark realism and through a puzzled and inquisitive gaze.

Michael Cacoyannis, Zorba the Greek. Courtesy, Michael Cacoyannis Foundation. Greek Film Archive Collection.

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These qualities are unfortunately underestimated if the movie is judged on the basis of its euphoric and somehow annoying syrtaki dance ending. Yet as Thanasis Agathos concluded in his study on the relationship between book and film, the movie’s continued success “confirms the dialogic character of a genuine work of art, through its endless and enchanting journey through time.”15 Like the book, the film was a fable about the human mind losing its certainties and expectations within a world of unpredictable occurrences and imponderable factors. The depiction of the organic unity of the village was almost Kafkaesque, as the monochrome photography by Walter Lassally created a composition of archetypal animism, dominating the minds of people who saw culture as a threat to the established “natural” order. Lassally used strong contrasts of black and white, but of different shades and hues, in such an ingenious way that some shots look like choreographed emotions— the stylistic unity he achieved was something unique and unsurpassed to this day.16 (Lassally won an Oscar for his cinematography in 1965.) Zorba marked a further step in Cacoyannis’ exploration of the human form: the camera moved from the face and the body, encircling the form and adding depth to the frame, elevating through its sculptural realism the completeness of the human figure to the level of a powerful symbol of presence and rationality. Within the context of a Greek society overshadowed by persecution and fear, the movie itself became a symbol of relentless resistance, optimism, and hope. At the same time, it further investigated the formal juxtaposition of the landscape and the human, exploring the structuralist duality of nature and culture in an extremely direct and powerful way. The absence of all religious sensibility or awe, feelings that permeated the novel, was another striking characteristic of the film, criticizing indirectly the ossified ritualistic and amoral practices of rural communities. The film also explored female sexuality in a world of masculine predators, frustrated sexual energy, and social hypocrisy. The ultimate symbol of decay and loss, the character of Madame Hortanse, so touchingly performed by the Oscar-winning Lila Cendrova, was one of the most humane and profound depictions of human mortality in world cinema and at the same time a powerful image of female sexuality as the cultural and corporeal other in societies where there is no place for otherness. The brief scene in the rain when the constantly confused Alan Bates offers his umbrella to the distressed widow, performed with elemental nobility by Irene Pappas, shows Cacoyannis’ extremely subtle and sophisticated attention to detail: redemption comes through such small acts of Chekhovian generosity and kindness. Through such well-hidden subtexts, Cacoyannis avoided statements about identity; exploring instead the visual language of a self that is neither in crisis nor deprived of its unity, but which struggles to balance itself over the thin line between rationality and insanity. Nature provided the

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A History of Greek Cinema indifferent and unsympathetic background for the unfolding of collective and individual tragedy: yet destruction is life too, the mind that falls into insanity is the mind that transcends its own madness through creative sublimation. Zorba was a film about the quest for certainty in an era of anxiety engendered by the silence of God and the death of all revolutionary projects: the only certainty that a human being can have is that of his or her corporeality. The stoic ethics of self-mastery as well as the epicurean ethics of sensual pleasure presuppose the primacy of the body. The euphoria of being alive and the meeting of some remarkable people compensate for the violence, horror, and chaos of history. Cacoyannis transformed this “mental psychodrama” into the representation of a heightened embodied presence by representing the invisible networks of undercurrent libidinal attractions, intense gestural expressiveness and the realm of post-linguistic communication. On the other hand, Mikis Theodorakis’ score reinvented the music industry in Greece and established a horizon of expectations for the “people” that Zorba supposedly represented. Undoubtedly, in the film there are more subtexts than its music has come to suggest. Unfortunately, the commercialization of its music has contributed to misleading interpretations of both film and novel. Indeed, the problem with this movie was its final outcome, which raised many important questions for the function of cinematic products in contemporary societies: for some inexplicable reason, the character of Zorba commodified the notion of “Greekness” and made “Zorba” the powerful money- spinning symbol of an amoral, noble savage, of an exotic phallocrat who titillated the senses of an international audience and excited the repressed sexual imagination of European and American housewives. As Robert D. Kaplan remarked, after this film, “Greece was where you came to lose your inhibitions.”17 The movie has been appreciated more from the point of view of the expectations of its audience and less on the basis of its actual structure. One could go so far as to claim that such commercial success worked against Cacoyannis’ overall cinematic achievement and culminated in his inability to do anything similar or of equal value later in his career. Artistically, it was a disastrous success and arrested Cacoyannis’ evolution as a film-maker. His subsequent films have been but pale reflections of a brilliant cinematic achievement that began in 1954 and ended ten years later when Zorba’s spectacular success gave him enough self-confidence to kill his eye for significant form and differentiating detail.

The Revenge of History: 1960–1965 Zorba’s international success turned the eyes of the world to the internal politics of Greece at a very peculiar and anomalous period. Between 1963

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and 1967, Greek society suffered an intense political crisis. The Conservative Government of ERE, under the leadership of Constantine Karamanlis, which had been in power since 1955, was increasingly unable to deal with the growing social tensions created by intense industrialization and unplanned urbanization. Greece signed up for the European Common Market in 1961, but democratization and liberalization were necessary prerequisites for the ultimate fruition of the project. (Greece eventually joined the EU in 1981.) The Communist Party, however, was still banned, while many political dissidents were either imprisoned or exiled. Secret, state-sponsored nationalistic and ultra-conservative militias kept society under strict surveillance and in a state of open terror. The notorious elections of “violence and fraud” in October 1961 gave the Conservative Party a precarious mandate to govern, which became untenable as the conflicts within the party itself intensified. The most infamous incident associated with such secret militias was the assassination of the deputy of the Left Grigoris Lambrakis in Thessaloniki on May 27, 1963. The truth about the culprits was revealed by the sense of duty, or simple personal stubbornness, of the local attorney, Hristos Sartzetakis, who would resurface in the 1980s, for the wrong reasons. The event was immediately transformed into a book by Vassilis Vassilikos and later adapted to the screen by the expatriate Costa-Gavras under the title Z (1968). Karamanlis himself was politically damaged by the inability of his government to control the right-wing extremists, despite his good intentions. In a moment of frustration, he uttered one of the most indicative cries of despair to have ever been expressed by a prime minister in a (quasi-) democratic society: “At last! Who is governing this country?” Continuing social unrest through strikes, demonstrations and open confrontations with the police made obvious the fact that society had turned against the state and its oppressive apparatuses, and that a deep division existed between the body politic and the institutional framework of a society as it was entering a phase of economic recovery. In November 1963, Karamanlis fled the country under a pseudonym and remained in self-imposed exile in Paris until 1974. The Conservatives lost the election in November 1963, and a new centre-left coalition under Yorgos Papandreou received the majority to govern. The period is referred to as “the Lost Spring,” as its optimism and great expectations floundered tragically with the coming of the military dictatorship on April 21, 1967. Internal divisive factions and external influences derailed the process of democratization. In February 1964, Papandreou renewed his mandate to govern, despite the interventions of King Paul and Queen Frederica, a looming crisis in Cyprus, and the CIA-sponsored subversion of his authority. At a critical moment, in July 1965, at the instigation of the new King Constantine and under the leadership of the future prime minister

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A History of Greek Cinema Constantine Mitsotakes, a number of Papandreou’s MPs defected in a notorious act which has been called ever since “the Apostasy”. As a consequence, the coalition lost its majority and was forced to resign. After this event, a number of weak governments appointed by the young and inexperienced King failed to gain a vote of confidence at the Assembly. Strikes and mass rallies became the obvious symptoms of a deepening constitutional crisis regarding the distinct authorities of the Parliament and the Monarch. After a year of anarchy, the Dictatorship of the Colonels was imposed in April 1967 which brought an abrupt but foreseeable end to the aspirations for social renewal and democratization. As such political dramas were unfolding, social reality was permeated by a profound instability. The Cold War and the Cyprus dispute created a prolonged crisis of political legitimacy for the Greek government. Meanwhile, the right-wing extremist Deep State was organizing provocation acts to undermine parliament’s authority to govern. The certainty that something surreptitious was taking place under one’s very nose was one of the permeating characteristics of the period. Furthermore, the social crisis involved a new sense of loss and displacement as hundreds of thousands of young people, especially from rural areas, migrated to the United States, Canada, Germany, Holland, Belgium, and Australia. Emigration had already started after the Civil War but it became a systematic state policy after 1954 through bilateral agreements with many countries, thereby depriving Greece of its most productive labour force at the most crucial moment of its reconstruction. The cultural production of the period expressed, together with the feeling of sinister presences, the reality of people leaving or people already gone to remote lands and abandoning a traumatized country as it was confronting its recent history and in the fluid process of renegotiating its cultural memory. It is estimated that around 700,000 people migrated during the 1960s from an average population of 8,300,000 between 1960 and 1970. The cultural imaginary of the period, in literature, popular culture, or cinema was permeated by images of empty villages, anonymous faces on transatlantic liners at Piraeus harbor, and an atmosphere of melancholia over the people who remained behind. The theme of exile became dominant again in the popular films of the period, especially those produced by Klak Films, as well as in the songs that made them successful and memorable. A rebetiko song from the 1950s by Markos Vamvakaris beautifully captures this theme in the lyrics, “Much have my eyes seen, and I’ve been through storms/ as I’ve travelled alone in foreign lands./ Always alone, no one was ever there for me/ who had so much trouble hidden in my heart.” As Stathis Gauntlett observed, “The already durable popularity of exile as a theme for Greek songs was thus extended at a time when Greek migration changed destinations but not intensity.”18

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Towards the New Greek Cinema The crisis in politics led to a revision of cultural memory, especially in the way that it interpreted the past. The revision was profound and led to a new role for cinema. The screen became the site of a revelation, of a disclosure and an unveiling, and, as such, it was a political act and intervention. That which permeated society as a suppressed and excluded knowledge found new forms of expression—not coded and implied, but transparent, immediate, and precise. The young directors of the 1960s had to invent a new kind of realism in order to address the urgent needs of such a volatile environment, as well as to depict the frightening ambiguities that had shattered a society struggling to free itself from the legacy of the Civil War and the oppression of the 1950s. This seemed possible only after 1963 when the centre-left government was elected. During the next three years, the government took critical steps to give incentives for Greek movies: it lowered taxation on ticket sales and reinvested a considerable amount of what was collected as tax revenue in the industry. These crucial years paved the way for the New Greek Cinema which would emerge and flourish after 1970. The central themes of the most interesting films of the early 1960s concerned the new urban reality mainly in Athens, the traumas of recent history, and the continuing waves of migration. Alekos Alexandrakis’ The Suburb of Dreams (Sinoikia to Oneiro, 1961) must be mentioned for its stark realism and bleak atmosphere and its depiction of the poverty and squalor dominating the Greek capital—one of best expressions of neorealism and one of the least recognized films of Greek cinema. The camera cleverly indulges itself over ruined houses, human misery, and the obscene wealth of the ruling class. It is a didactic camera, exposing and denouncing social injustice with moralistic passion. The film, in spite of its shortcomings, was

Alekos Alexandrakis, The Suburb of Dreams (1961). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema a call to rebellion through a rediscovery of the radical humanism in the working-class experience. It was a film of idealization by all means, indeed of a polemic against high culture, but its exploration of the ethical nature of the downtrodden and the marginalized offered a completely different social vision to the mainstream audience of the period. Maria Plyta’s brilliant work The Little Shoe-Shine Boy (O Loustrakos, 1962) depicted a strange and uncontrollable reality full of dark secrets and terrifyingly invisible structures, which revolved around a young character who simply tries to survive in a sprawling megalopolis. Alone, abandoned, and mistreated, the innocent child reverts to tears, thus recreating the mentality that dominated the violently urbanized populations—that of a defeatist victimization. The audience identified with such “little men,” since displacement was an overpowering emotion that disconnected them from the urban relations of a growing capitalist society, and which left them mourning their dead and grieving for those leaving as migrants. But now, however, Plyta had abandoned the strong female characters of the previous decade and made stylistic concessions to the dominant visual styles imposed by the studios. Unfortunately, as her style matured, the common themes of her melodramas lost their intensity and emotional force. Her last film, The Unknown Woman of the Night (I Agnosti tis Nihtas, 1969), was technically impeccable, but formulaic, trite, and dull. Afterwards, her melodramas were either forgotten or looked upon with derision. Gregoris Gregoriou released his underrated Brother Anna (Adelfos Anna) in 1963. The story was set in a remote monastery in which, according to legend, the first cross made by the Emperor Constantine after his conversion was held. Disguised as archaeologists, a group of thieves arrive at the monastery to steal the cross, but instead of stealing treasures of the past they discover the secrets of the present: the young boy entrusted with the secret is found to be a girl, indeed a Jewish girl who had been hidden in the monastery since the 1940s. A strange love affair blossoms between the girl and the leader of the smugglers, played with overwhelming emotional intensity by Petros Fyssoun. The film was heavily censored since religious morality was for the first time visualized with vague inferences of pedophilia and sexual abuse. Indeed, that was the original notion of an English journalist, who spent many months in the monastic community of Mount Athos—even the story of the Jewish girl was left unexplored because of the censorship. Overall, in its attempt to deal with the religious establishment and to address the commonly known secrets of the monasteries, the impact of the film became contradictory, as its story, while left incomplete and somewhat fragmented, still resonated with suggestive cinematography, anxious narrative, and evocative music. Amok (1963) was an extraordinary movie made by Dinos Dimopoulos with the directorial assistance of Pandelis Voulgaris (b. 1940), who was later to

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become one of the principal architects of the New Greek Cinema. Amok also featured Nikos Kavoukidis making his debut as director of photography. The movie inaugurated a less-terrified but deeply critical look at the recent past in an attempt to reassess it under the prism of the new political environment. The story is about a group of girls who escape from a reform centre and find refuge on a remote island. One of the girls, a Jew, has lost all her family in Thessaloniki. A group of Germans arrive, ostensibly to excavate for ancient ruins, but in reality only to discover the treasures of their Jewish war victims. The conflict between them escalates; the younger German falls in love with the Jewish girl and they escape together after his Nazi father is killed. The movie was censored and was considered “bold,” with nudity and scenes of brutal rape and ruthless cruelty. It was the first movie to overtly depict racism, sexual violence and anti-Semitism. It was also extremely successful in the United States, one of the very few Greek films which made a profit for its producer (Finos Films), selling for the unprecedented amount of $20,000. Kostas Manousakis’ (1935–2005) monumental Treason (Prodosia, 1964) uses the same theme. The movie was about the extermination of Greek Jews, told through the story of a German soldier who, after having discovered that his Greek lover was Jewish, betrayed her to the Gestapo. Through intercuttings between authentic footage from the German occupation and the narrative, Manousakis made one of the most successful movies of the decade on such a previously unexplored topic, and before any other Holocaust movie. It was criticized for its fascination with the military might of the Nazis, as reflected in its frequent use of clips from Leni Riefenstahl’s films. (Some critics even called it a “hymn to Nazism.”) However, Manousakis merely exposed the hollowness of such parades, juxtaposing the exhibitions of collective grandeur with the manifestations of individual meanness.

Dinos Dimopoulos, Amok (1963). Courtesy, Finos Films. Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema Furthermore, through addressing the extermination of the Jews, he explored the genocidal mentality and the subconscious ways in which Nazi ideology influenced human behavior after the war. The movie represented Greece at the Cannes Film Festival in 1965 and became commercially successful— showing that even controversial topics could reach wide audiences. Gregoriou continued with a brilliant historical epic, probably the only film of the period which deserves to be classified as such. The Expulsion (O Diogmos, 1964) was a monumental production linking the Asia Minor Catastrophe to the plight of refugees during the German occupation. A group of Greeks escape from the Germans and find refuge in Turkey. There they are compelled to wait at a detention centre until their deportation to the Middle East; the officer in charge of the centre is a greedy and sadistic individual who exploits them for money and jewelry. Yet he develops a fascination for a middle-aged woman who in the end is revealed to be his mother lost from the 1922 Catastrophe. It was a drama of recognition which attempted to investigate the predicament of common people who survive under conditions of displacement and psychological dislocation. The issue of identity and belonging became dominant in the film: “I am neither a Turk nor a Greek,” says the main character. “Do I belong to anything or to anyone?” The film’s representation of the Turks was ambivalent, both negative and sympathetic, with the main criticism aimed at those in authority.19 The Expulsion was produced by the Greek-American James Paris, who for the next ten years would become the main producer of patriotic melodramas. Gregoriou continued his work with some great melodramas that carried traces of neorealism and film noir, as in Desires in the Cursed Swamp (Pothoi ston Katarameno Balto, 1966), A Woman is Accused (Mia Ginaika Katigorite, 1966), and Red-light District 67 (Truba 67), before making some exciting films in the service of the dictatorship’s ideology. The most interesting movie of this revisionist trend, however, was made by the expatriate Adonis (Ado) Kyrou. In his brief return in 1964, Kyrou made his only Greek movie, The Roundup (To Bloko, 1965), touching on two sides of a very controversial issue: Greek resistance and collaboration with the Germans, a topic that was hotly debated in France, his adopted country, during the same period. Despite its minimal budget and technical faults, the film tried to deal with the lingering trauma of the German occupation through a kind of gritty, sombre and austere realism. On August 17, 1944, the Germans and their collaborators rounded up 20,000 men at the central square of the Athenian suburb of Kokinnia (meaning “the red area”) where many communists lived, and executed 300 people in front of the civilian population, while deporting 1,200 more who were to die later in German concentration camps. The events were so brutal and vile that they remained indelible in the memories of the people of Athens; all the more so because the Germans acted with Greeks, who,

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having concealed their faces beneath black hoods, singled out communists or members of the resistance for execution. Many of these collaborators were never punished and became wealthy and powerful, especially after the communist defeat. The film was the very first occasion that such exposure took place and it became an objectified representation in the public domain. It was also strange aesthetically, since Kyrou, as a French thinker, was famous for his criticism of realist cinema (as understood by André Bazin) and his preference for surrealist and erotic films. It seems that his unreserved endorsement of Andrzej Wajda’s Kanal (1957) inspired him to deal with the ghosts of his own youth and country. Kyrou praised Kanal “because it is neither bathed in blissful optimism nor false pessimism, because it sees both cruelty and the absurd, because it draws from this an immense joie de vivre.”20 Despite his anti-realist pronouncements, back in Greece the former member of the resistance directed one of the most gripping and fascinating realist movies ever made in the country and in Europe; a movie that certainly deserves further study. Kyrou filmed The Roundup at the location where the viewer could still see the disastrous marks of the past. At the same time, many collaborators during the occupation, now in high positions of power, could recognize themselves in the movie and could feel its political edge pointing to them. The movie belonged to a tradition of “cruel realism” which Greek audiences had not been permitted to see before. In one of its most terrifying scenes, men with their faces covered under black hoods point their fingers within a crowd of thousands to individuals who had participated in the resistance: the film was as real in its impact as were the real events themselves. Nothing similar had ever been depicted before: the horror was engendered by the image of Greeks betraying other Greeks, by the cruelty and the vulgarity of the Germans, by the banality and the immorality of the collaborators.

Adonis Kyrou, The Roundup (1965). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema In spite of all this, Kyrou depicted how life still goes on: a child steals food from the Germans, a German soldier breaks a mirror as he looks at his reflection, and a woman in love tries to make good coffee for the man she has lost to another woman. And at the end of the film we see a different brand of tragic chorus: the women whose relatives were executed search through the pile of corpses in absolute silence: no cries, tears, or any form of emotion. The tense and ominous silence is broken by the slow appearance of a child who approaches the camera and simply stares straight at the viewer. This is an homage to Francois Truffaut’s 400 Blows (1959) with its similar ending and a discreet response to his cinematic philosophy. The open ending made this film extremely uncomfortable for both sides of politics; for the right because no one was ever brought to justice after the war and for the left because it didn’t give any indication about the class consciousness of its director. By way of explanation Kyrou once wrote: Directorship must be realistic, must have the truthfulness of a document, but must at the same time give to lyricism the position which it has by natural right in a story of human passion. The Nazis in the movie will express the uniform dehumanization of an excessively organized totalitarian army; in contrast, the Greeks will be distinct for their individual human personality, which may or may not be heroic. The central massage of the movie will be the objective inability of contemporary man to remain inactive when great events take place.21

The Roundup was the revelation of a new aesthetic, akin to Robert Bresson’s A Man Escaped (1954) but without its existential and religious metaphysics; a movie about the contingency of reality and with deep reverence towards the concrete with the explicit intention of helping to heal the trauma of the period through its unembellished, direct, and confronting representation. The film’s striking simplicity amplifies the cruelty and brutality of the events depicted. At the same time, the unheroic depiction of the main characters, the shaken consciousness of the ordinary human being, the existential terror of death, and the obvious fear in the face of the ruthlessness of the German war machine make Kyrou’s movie one of the most consummate depictions of history within the context of moral drama, one of the best to have ever been produced in Greece. Another film dealing with the same topic was made in 1966 by Panos Glykofrydis (1930–2010) under the title With Glittering Eyes (Me tin Lampsi sta Matia). The film revolves around the decision of a father who has to choose which of his three sons would be saved from execution by the Germans. The film avoids all patriotic rhetoric and focuses instead on the dilemmas of the ordinary man who cannot fathom the immensity of the historical events around him. Through a demythologization of the past,

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Glykofrydis touched upon the idea of resistance itself by questioning official myths from all sides. The resistance against the Germans was the predicament and the duty of people who simply found themselves in the middle, unable to act or react, vulnerable, pitiable, and guilty. The final scene in which all young men are executed by the Germans while an empty boat is carried away by the river is one of the most powerful depictions of symbolic redemption and resurrection ever produced in cinema. In the same year, Kostas Manousakis released his final movie Fear (Fovos). This explored the psychological tensions within families living in the countryside and debunked the unity of a supposedly “authentic” Greek life by exposing the hidden immorality in its everyday realities and by criticizing the phallocentric structures of patriarchal masculinity. The story focuses on the attempts of two parents to cover up the murder of an innocent girl perpetrated by their mentally disabled son in a moment of sexual frenzy. Sexual repression, violence, and criminal collusion become the methods by which the core institution of society legitimizes its authority and perpetuates its power. The film represented Greece at the Berlin Film Festival in 1966 and unofficially at Cannes in the same year. Manousakis, then 31, never made another movie—remaining one of the most elusive personalities in modern Greek cinema. Together with his sudden departure, many things were changing in the country—or at least were about to. It was obvious that these films marked the full maturity of the old Greek cinema. They had perfected the art of narration, the grammar of images, the sonorities of music, and the subtlety of filmic subplots to a superlative degree of exactness and through their consummate integration. Their very strength, however, proved to be a precursor to the gradual demise of the language these films had created. Dimopoulos, Andreou, Glykofrydis, Aliferis, Andritsos, Dalianidis, Georgiadis, and Foscolos, among others, constructed solid and brilliant mythopoetic matrices which could be imaginatively reconstructed and reconfigured to tell a dramatic, melodramatic, or comic story. The tensions in them were sometimes obvious, as in the case of Foscolos and Dalianidis, but nevertheless the achievement was considerable and one must concede that if some of the films were made in Hollywood, they would have been recognized as the key texts of a radical movement for cultural emancipation, social critique, and individual empowerment. Just as in the previous decade, for every good film made, ten bad ones were produced, thus aping and depreciating its most expressive aspects. Consequently, successful style was gradually transformed into a catchy formula while a copied storyline was trivialized into conventional patterns and standardized truisms for immediate commercial consumption. It was inevitable that the industry would implode and the signs were visible both in some lonely figures as well as in the risks that several “commercial” directors started to take.

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The Solitary Case of Takis Kanellopoulos In the hiaitus between good commercial cinema and the new perception of filmic representation that was emerging there stands a unique film-maker whose work deserves closer study and recognition. A lonely auteur from Thessaloniki, Takis Kanellopoulos (1933–1990) made only seven movies, all independent productions, which are suffused with overwhelming poetic elements that surface in a narrative lyricism dealing with the trauma of war, human loneliness, and the magic of sensuality. He does not seem to fit any classifiable continuity, belong to any particular movement, or respond in a direct way to any of the immediate problems of his society. Kanellopoulos began his career with the ethnographic documentary Macedonian Wedding (Makedonikos Gamos, 1960), a film that can comfortably occupy a place next to the best achievements of the genre and which was created in the vein of Robert Flaherty’s The Man of Aran (1934) and Louisiana Story (1948). The cinematic eye recorded local customs and traditions, but not with the ideological bias of a Germanic Volkskunde that sought to justify preconceived notions about the noble savages inhabiting the mountains. On the contrary, Kanellopoulos explored human interactions, ritualistic patterns, and states of mind in an effort to foreground common spaces, gestures, and interactions where patterns of social cohesion and individual behavior converge. He repeated his achievement in his other two documentaries, Thasos (1961) and Kastoria (1969), descending into an unfamiliar Greece, replete with shadows, demonic presences, and dark primitive rituals, in an attempt to find the underlying emotional texture of human culture in its most pristine, pre-civilized authenticity. His first feature film, Sky (Ouranos, 1962), was one of the most peculiar anti-war movies ever made: based on recollections in the personal letters, stories, and diaries of veteran soldiers from the Greek-Italian war of 1940, it captured the fear of loss, the incomprehensibility of fighting, and the strange emotions of heroic self-negation and altruism. In the spaces between the anonymous heroes and the fear of death, Kanellopoulos depicted the complex realities of history, the immense beauty of the natural world, and the uncompromising moral resolve of the common people. The sheltering sky embraced everything and everyone, creating the mythic dome against which human anxiety could be projected, sublimated, and immortalized. Kanellopoulos was the first director who totally abandoned the luxuries and comforts of the studio, letting the camera roam in the open without a single point of reference or any sense of orientation. The use of widescreen deep focus and long sequence shots enabled the characters to fuse with the grand spectacle of nature and to become elemental forces themselves. Ironically, an Italian’s camera, Giovanni Varriano’s, framed with almost transcendental depth the otherness of creation, engulfing the grandeur of a human existence in agony and elation.

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With his first feature movie, Kanellopoulos explored humanity before the original sin by depicting the abiding innocence in the human soul, and in the process revealed himself as a unique film-maker whose vision was analogous to that manifested in Jean Cocteau’s The Blood of a Poet (1930), in Tarkovsky’s Ivan’s Childhood (1962) or The Mirror (1975) and even in Terrence Mallick’s The Thin Red Line (1998) and Alexander Sokurov’s contemporary cinema of transcendental contemplation. Like them, Kanellopoulos explored the extremely puzzling moral question of human goodness and kindness. “I believe in the goodness of humanity,” he said. “I believe in the saint, who is full of love and affection and nothing can change it.”22 Kanellopoulos produced only two more movies during the 1960s, both of which were distinct for their minimalist photography, sparse dialogue, and emotional subtlety; his Excursion (Ekdromi, 1966) is one of the most sensual visions of human relations ever produced, a celebration of ephemeral happiness, a mesmerizing exploration of the mystery of the human senses. Through the use of static shots, he creates a suggestive and illusive atmosphere, depicting how a passionate love triangle experiences the contradictions of desire and the dichotomies of the human heart. The story of two soldiers in love with the same woman and the questions of loyalty and friendship that this raises presents in its full maturity the central theme in Kanellopoulos’ film-making: love-trust-death. Kanellopoulos is one of the few directors who privileged image over word: he was not afraid to let silence dominate the screen and the story. With sporadic and minimal dialogue, woven together by the expressionist music of Nikos Mamagakis, the script of his movies followed blurry, hazy, and static images, creating an air of strangeness, distance, and awe. Kanellopoulos was able to transform the faces of actors into indecipherable fragments of a paradise remembered: and he became the only Greek director who confronted the Freudian uncanny as a diffused natural reality and as the primeval ground of existence, which could break through the conventions of civilized life. With Kanellopoulos, the most brutal experience, the experience of evil in war, was “derealized” by his empathic and compassionate camera. Through his work, cinematic experience received absolute unity, oneiric dimensions and profound density—one can indeed claim that he was the first director to explore the formal possibilities for a radically new aesthetic representation of the real. He was also the director with whom the crisis of representation that modernism had addressed in Europe with Nouvelle Vague and Antonioni found its first elaboration in the Greek visual tradition, but in a unique way which needs to be situated in the wider context of world cinema, especially next to Yasujiro Ozu and the experimental American tradition by Maya Deren. Kanellopoulos’ cinematic gaze was deeply introspective, perpetually turned towards the nostalgic recreation of a lost innocence in search of a state

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A History of Greek Cinema of grace. It was comprised of understatements, enigmas, and situations in abeyance. His last successful film was his underrated Parenthesis (1968). Based on the play Still Life by Noel Coward, it was the story of a man and woman who meet briefly at a station after their train breaks down. It is his most stylized and static film, since only two actors appeared for 84 minutes, expressing and experiencing the whole gamut of human emotion, from lust to sympathy, repulsion to empathy, and disgust to intimacy. As Kostas Karderinis wrote: His heroes do not have names or characteristics. They are not interested in such details, since they simply have six hours to share. That was the time that the train stopped for repairs in Thessaloniki, the city of the unknown man, the train that made them meet and the train that was going to separate them again, after this brief deviation in their life.23

The rest of the film is a long monologue by the female protagonist as she remembers and relives the lost experience: “You didn’t ask for my name neither did I . . . Now that the dream came into us and became our reality, I dreamed that I went back there, it was winter, but no . . . I didn’t find you . . . but I found that brief parenthesis that brought us together . . .” The film rests in the camera’s hovering over the minute details of objects, flowers, and images that made that experience possible and which are now an indelible part of the woman’s identity. Mamagakis’ music, based on the shrill sounds of the mandolin and the cembalo, provide a rich emotional background for such a transforming and guilt-laden encounter. Kanellopoulos’ later movies, The Last Spring (I Teleutaia Anoixi, 1972), The Chronicle of Sunday (To Hroniko tis Kyriakis, 1975), and especially Romantic Note (Romantiko Simeioma, 1978), unfortunately ossified his unique style into self-referential projects, which should have been short films

Takis Kanellopoulos, Excursion (1966). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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but which Kanellopoulos expanded in a desperate attempt to tell a story that simply no longer existed. In Romantic Note he dispensed altogether with plot line and used the camera as the eye of an innocent bystander, looking here and there, unfocused and unattached and salvaging from oblivion and trivialization only fleeting experiences. In 1980, Kanellopoulos released his last film Sonia, an elegiac farewell to a whole way of being and to a style that by then resembled a relic from the past. In an era of loud political statements, he abstained from all public declarations: the visual whispers were overpowered by the tumultuous rhetoric of ideologies. Yet the intimate theme of an ephemeral and affectionate love affair between a lonely young woman and a married middle-aged music teacher was treated with religious compunction, sympathy, and tenderness— and for this very reason passed unnoticed. After 1980, Kanellopoulos stopped making movies altogether and remained a man apart, a hermit whose vision of cinema as an individuating project was never realized; yet his early films belong with the best films ever made in the country. His style was unique and unparalleled, and explored its own possibilities in only a few movies, which when considered as a whole make the most complete and consistent oeuvre of Greek cinema, emulated only by that of Theo Angelopoulos.

Commercial Successes and Contested Aesthetics In the 1960s, a number of good and challenging films were made which deserve special mention. These are unclassifiable in the sense that they stand out from the hundreds of comedies and melodramas produced each year between 1960 and 1967 (about 450 films in total) for their unique aesthetics and social significance. They are also isolated cases because their directors, despite their considerable skills and vision, either abandoned cinema altogether, or fell into the traps of commercial cinema, and later of television, and never produced anything else of equal value. Some left the country after 1967 and made movies or television drama mainly in France, as was the case with Roveros Manthoulis and Dimitris Kollatos. Vassilis Georgiadis’ comedy Wedding Greek Style (Gamos ala Ellinika, 1964), with its effective script by Maria Polenaki, inventive cinematography, and sparkling music remains a classic. The film’s opening credits are some of the most artistic in the history of Greek cinema. Its story is about a young couple struggling to buy a “comfortable” apartment; around this a stinging satire of the middle class is constructed, with the main female character (Xenia Kalogeropoulou) struggling to reconcile the reality of an educated modern woman to the traditional role of women in the kitchen: “Why did I get married?” she exclaims in despair . . . “If they had told me from

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A History of Greek Cinema the beginning that instead of fine arts I would end up studying the art of cooking, I would never have believed it! I replaced my paint brushes with kitchen ladles . . . ” Gregoris Gregoriou’s 201 Canaries (Ta 201 Kanarinia, 1964) must also be mentioned for its ingenious structure, spontaneity, and hilarious wit. The film opened as a Brechtian “theatrical” exercise, for all characters entered the stage and presented themselves before getting involved in the plot. It was an unexpected experiment with theatrical and cinematic forms, fused through the ingenious jazz sounds of Yorgos Katsaros’ score and a script with punchy dialogue by Nikos Tsiforos and Polyvios Vasileiadis. Actors improvised and sang without making any attempt to hide their inability to sing. Despite its rather conventional ending, the film subverted the expectations of its viewers with respect to the acting by inviting them to become part of the action, with humor and exuberance, in one of the most radical reinterpretations of cinematic mise-en-scène. Two comedies by Dinos Dimopoulos must also be mentioned; Ms Director (Dis Dieuthintis, 1964), featuring a hilarious performance by Jenny Karezi, dealt with the issue of equal opportunity in the workplace. It was an exhilarating spoof on changing family values, expressing new perceptions of gender and social ideologies with ebullient wit and whimsical drollness. Dimopoulos’ next film, A Crazy Crazy Family (Mia Trelli Trelli Oikogeneia, 1965), was also a great comedy with riotously funny characters, sparkling wit, and unforgettable punchlines. Dimopoulos, working then for Finos Films, sent the movie to laboratories in France for the processing of its vibrant and almost pastel colors, which contribute to its “absurd craziness” and to the cartoonish quality of the characters themselves. Culturally, the film depicts how the conflict between the new morality of the 1960s and the traditional values of the 1950s led to a renegotiation of ideas, practices, and the limits of authority within patriarchal families. The always forgetful mother, a real “fruit-cake,” played superbly by the great actress of ancient tragedy, Mary Aroni, who could tolerate anything in order to be left alone with her friends, was one of the most complete and impressive characters ever produced in Greek cinema—a character out of a play by Oscar Wilde or even Eugène Ionesco. Also important is Dimopoulos’ psychological melodrama-thriller I Accuse Humans (Katigoro tous Anthropous, 1966), which used a gripping script by Nikos Foskolos, true-to-life photography by Nikos Kavoukidis, and magnetic music by Yannis Markopoulos. The film shows Dimopoulos at his best, full of narrative force and visual intensity. After the compelling realistic drama, Division (Dihasmos, 1965), Errikos Andreou’s Him and Her (Ekeinos kai Ekeini, 1966) was an unexpected cultural fantasy of sheer escapism, permeated by pagan sensuality, complex psychological conflicts, and emotional violence. Indeed, it was a strange

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Freudian parable about the conflict between ego and super-ego set on a hippy resort in Crete. A woman from the high bourgeoisie abandons everything for a simple life in a remote village close to nature and the elemental life of natural people, but after feeling “in danger” (expressed through dreams and hallucinations), returns to her boring and artificial existence. Karl Heinz Hummel’s photography, with its masterful alternation between color and black and white, creates an emotional commentary of the action, juxtaposing two opposing mental landscapes, and in some ways emulating Lassally’s Zorba. Yannis Markopoulos’ music counterbalances the sensuality of the images with folkloric warmth and tonal simplicity. Yorgos Skalenakis’ Queen of Clubs (Dama Spathi, 1966) was a fascinating psychological drama, suffused with the anxieties of the period, as two handsome men, played by the famous playboys of the 1960s, Spyros Fokas and Thodoros Roubanis, compete for the heart of a seductive woman (superbly performed by Elena Nathanael). The film, screened at the Chicago International Film Festival of 1969, is set in the medieval city of Nafplion and presents with reserve and distance the extremely tense sexual energy between three characters as the psychological triangulation blurs the objects of each character’s desire. Its slow pace, effective acting, and richly detailed photography make this film a good example of the balance between commercial cinema and art film made for the tourist industry, fusing the strong sensuality of the 1960s with the reserved mentality of mainstream values. It is quite remarkable for its concealments, inversions and evasions. Sokratis Kapsaskis’ The Hot Month of July (O Zestos Ioulios Minas, 1966), a film that spoke with neorealist directness, was a magisterial mise-en-scène of a strange love story between a hustler and a married woman. The film has one of the best scripts of Greek cinema, by Kapsaskis himself, and its dialogue is replete with punchy epigrammatic lines and highly suggestive, mostly sexual, connotations. It is an atmospheric film (not exactly a film noir), full of frustration and cynicism, reminiscent of many American films of the period especially by Samuel Fuller, and depicting the dark realities of human greed and desire that lurk beneath the glamorous veneer of the tourist island of Rhodes. Kapsaskis (1928–2007) was a unique case, who abandoned cinema after this film and turned to literature. Some of his comedies, such as The Bridegrooms of Eutichia (Oi Gamproi tis Eutichias, 1962), as well as his urban melodramas, such as The Last Temptation (O Teleftaios Peirasmos, 1964) and Bitter Life (Pikri Zoi, 1965), are minor classics. Special mention is deserved by his early film Love Stories (Erotikes Istories, 1959), based on three different stories, it is one of the best examples of psychological realism mingled with stinging social criticism. His Thirst for Life (Dipsa gia Zoi, 1964) was also an interesting but overinflated melodrama, the Greek Rebel Without a Cause, which explored family dynamics and gender identity. Despite their comic or

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A History of Greek Cinema melodramatic facade, most of his films have as their underlying theme the inability for communication and connection, implying a tragic vision of life in contemporary society, not unlike Antonioni’s in his early films. Roveros Manthoulis’ Face to Face (Prosopo me Prosopo), a biting social satire with a distinct visual idiom and disjointed narrative inspired by the French Nouvelle Vague and Jean Luc Godard’s films, was probably one of the best movies of this period. Released in 1966, one year before the dictatorship, it looked like an aesthetic and moral enigma in the development of cinematic art in the country. Manthoulis created a new filmic time which did not work with flashbacks but with the simultaneous juxtaposition of past and present, of the German occupation and the contemporary affluent society of the Athenian nouveaux riches, of Greek migrants in Germany learning German and Germans executing Greeks in 1943, of English soldiers shooting Greeks in 1944 and Greeks learning English 20 years later. Amid such temporality, an impersonal voice comments: “Oh, Greek food, how many German soldiers have you nurtured!” while an intertitle falls with the German inscription: “German soldier, do not give your food to the Greeks because they get strong and will strike you back!” The movie was a filmic experiment with time and space through a Godardian use of camera and narrative. After the film’s release, Manthoulis had to escape to France, and his cinematic contribution was put on hold for the next ten years. However, his movie paved the way for a new approach to filmic time, montage, and editing, something that the new generation emerging after 1970 will take seriously into consideration. Another important film from those two memorable years (1965 to 1967) was Dimitris Kollatos’ The Death of Alexander (O Thanatos tou Alexandrou, 1966). It was an independent production by Kollatos himself, who had already produced two short films. The story was about a young man dying of leukemia in hospital. As he is on his deathbed he asks his wife to make love to him, an act which becomes the catalyst for the emergence of memories from his childhood and adolescence. The film was one of the best explorations of mortality in Greek cinema. Through close-ups and static frames, Kollatos depicted death and its effects on the living, as the body deteriorated while the mind was still active and full of life. Yannis Markopoulos’ music with its stark austerity enhanced the painful emotions of the protagonist with subtlety and discretion. This was one of most humane and humanizing films ever made, a film that elicited genuine and authentic emotions from its audience through its depiction of the relentless cruelty of death as it affects an ordinary, unexceptional, common man. It was the cinematic equivalent of Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Illyich and represented another unique case in Greek cinema. Shortly after making the film, Kollatos fled to France where he became extremely controversial with his revisionist depiction of resistancialisme.

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Something new was undoubtedly crystallized with Alexis Damianos’ Until the Ship (Mehri to Ploio, 1966), the first movie to address the traumatic emotions of the migration experience through a camera of almost documentary vérité, full of cruelty, detachment, and brutality. Damianos (1921–2006) had not studied cinema, and his films seem to delve into cinematic representability rather than constructing clear forms of representation. With this film and the next he reshaped Greek cinematic language precisely because he explored the limits and the potentialities of the camera, infusing his stories with electrifying subtexts and challenging discoveries. With him, filmic representation lost its empathic and emotive expressiveness; it confronted the audience with uncomfortable images, tense conflicts, and unlikeable characters. As Maria Katsounaki wrote: He constructed his own idiom over the background of ethnography and melodrama. Merciless light, terrifyingly forceful images, phantasmagoria, and symbolism merge with wild naturalism. The elan vital of his films was based on earthy materials, and on cruel and unrefined poetry. He constructed his one cinematic syntax.24

Damianos’ movie introduced a new filmic temporality: narrative time was genuinely slow, silences punctuated the minimal and mostly trivial dialogue, the camera moved closer and closer to the human face, and the body became the symbol of an absent memory, unable to be self-aware and to fathom its historical moment. The film is about immigration and what is left behind while the great unknown of a new life in Australia looms before the characters as both hope and exile. Through three interwoven stories, Damianos explores the changing feelings of the protagonist as he moves towards a new life: the horror of what is left and the promise of the new are expressed through understatements, evasions, and silences. Damianos’ austere visual language avoids the sensationalism of a music score that

Alexis Damianos, Until the Ship (1966). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema enhances emotions and instead uses music sparsely in order to underline the silences in the dialogue or announce themes that emerge in the three stories that make the film. The film rejects all forms of emotional plethorism and naturalistic excess. Through its very simplicity it depicts the reality of displacement and loss, as the protagonist leaves an unfriendly home to emigrate to an unknown land. The last story brims with sensuality and sexual tension in some of the most explicit scenes of Greek cinema, and is underpinned by a deep sense of tragedy and despair. The emptiness of its settings and the geometrical lines of its composition make this film the forerunner of the cinematic style that was to reshape Greek cinema after 1970. A number of movies produced around the end of 1966 and with the intention of being released early the next year were not given permission by the dictatorship imposed in April 1967. Some were released after 1974 and are now considered among the best films made both for their de-centering of narrative and for their depiction of new forms of subjectivity. Among them was The Shepherds of Disaster (Oi Voskoi tis Simforas) by Nico Papatakis (1918–2010), an expatriate living in France. This was an important film with regard to its unmitigated and violent realism. A love affair in a Greek village between a shepherd and the daughter of the landlord leads to their public deaths after they elope during Easter. The film offered a ruthless representation of the oppressive family in a rural society, the class system, the hypocrisy of the Christian Church, and the internalized inferiority of the villagers. It was a powerful artistic statement of extreme and shocking realism, as the camera focused on every detail of brutal oppression and destruction, reminiscent of the Brazilian Glauber Rocha’s Marxist aesthetics, combining religion and folklore in a “revolutionary amalgam” of conflicts and contradictions. The second movie, Open Letter (Anoihti Epistoli), which was given permission in 1968 (and was screened in 1969), was by Yorgos Stampoulopoulos and received the International Critic’s Award at the Locarno Film Festival. (Walter Lassally was again the director of photography.) The story revolves around a love affair between a young man from the wealthy aristocracy of Athens and a radical young teacher whose dedication and idealism help the protagonist to grow up and mature. The simplicity of the narrative and the transparency of its composition made this film one of the first expressions, or intimations, of the New Greek Cinema. The third banned movie was Dimos Theos’ Kierion (1968), based on the assassination of the American journalist George Polk in 1948. In the film, an American journalist who goes to Athens to investigate the secret dealings between politicians and oil companies is found dead. His Jewish colleague who is incriminated is also found dead and then all witnesses who knew them. Another journalist tries to find answers while surrounded by a wall of secrecy and fear; yet nothing is revealed or exposed.

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The film was an atmospheric and bleak depiction of how a totalitarian regime operates—by hiding clues and by making reality miraculously disappear. Theos produced a Kafkaesque film, claustrophobic and opaque, in order to recreate the climate of fear that dominated Greek society as it veered towards the dictatorship. Photographed with expressionist intensity and sombre simplicity, the film was released after 1974 and ever since has been considered one of the most seminal texts on political oppression. The film that really had to be banned was Nikos Koundouros’ Vortex, or Medusa’s Face, which was to be released only in 1978. The film’s artistic experimentation and visual radicalism, however, place it firmly within the grand revolutionary movement that swept through the arts in the 1960s for a radical de-definition of artistic production both in European cinema and in the American underground. The story concerns three men and a woman who stay on a Greek island to wait for the fourth man of their group, who is missing and who they fear has been assassinated. The game of suspicions about who killed him makes their relationship tense, full of anger and violence and, at the same time, full of sexual panic. The face of the woman, who bears the Babylonian name Astarte (Ishtar), overpowers the male defense mechanisms and fills them with violent desire and guilt. In the film we see the first ever homosexual character being depicted with depth and sensitivity, as well as in an existential panic over the horrifying fear of rejection. The movie was also the first to film, with rather shocking innocence and alarming frankness, the heterosexual act in full transparency and complete nakedness. “Destiny?” asks one of the characters. “No,” the other replies, “simple geometry.” The aesthetics of the film are minimalistic, comprised of geometric lines converging and diverging, not unlike forms and lines in primitive art. The sexual energy exuded by the tense engagement between the actors pulsates from the first scene to the last.

Nikos Koundouros, Vortex (1967). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema It is strange how Koundouros managed to maintain such affective strength throughout the film with elliptic dialogue in English and outlandish music by Nikos Mamangakis. Koundouros very aptly summed up the aesthetic merits of his film when he observed: It was a totally esoteric movie, personal, closed, and more than any other film by me it resembles painting, to the point that the absence of external movement and the elliptic dialogue forces the viewer to find refuge in the reading of the image . . . Humans and walls, bathed in the blinding light, under the merciless sun, seem as though they have no contour . . .25

Undoubtedly, this is a “closed masterpiece” something between Andy Warhol and Pier Paolo Pasolini, an art-house film by all means, whose aesthetics upset and unsettle through its overt opposition to all forms of convention and conformity. After its release in 1978, it looked like an enormous alien meteorite thrown into the ocean of unimaginative political films that had swamped production—and obviously by then Koundouros had opened a new chapter in his cinematic language. Conversely, Michael Cacoyannis released his internationally produced comedy The Day the Fish Came Out (Ti mera pou ta psaria vyikan stin steria) starring Candice Bergen, which has to be remembered if not for its humor, then for its distinctly emblematic costumes and quirky retelling of a real incident. Some good films, however, were made under strict censorship after 1967. Iakovos Kambanellis, in collaboration with his brother, actor Yorgos, released the film The Canon and the Nightingale (To Kanoni kai to Aidoni, 1968), one of the most interesting works of the period. Based on three stories, two from the Italian and German occupation of Greece and another from Cyprus during the struggle against the British, the film was a moral fable about the futility of war, as well as a subversive exploration of what happens in the minds and hearts of the men who wear military uniforms. Girls under the Sun (Koritsia ston Ilio, 1968) by Vassilis Georgiadis was a sensitive and stylish depiction of how a Greek shepherd (played superbly by Yannis Voglis) falls in love with a Swedish girl (played with emotional and cultural distance by Ann Loberg). The music by Stavros Xarhakos is one of the best music scores ever composed, fusing traditional rhythms with electrical guitar sounds. The film paved the way for a number of good and bad imitations of its story, which eventually led either to promotional films about Greek tourism or to soft-porn adventures on Greek islands. Kostas Zois’ Silhouettes (1967) is a sensitive “private story” about the last day that a divorced woman spends with her child before her former husband takes custody. The film explores patriarchal authority, as implemented through the legal system, with immense softness and gentility, as though the story was shown through the eyes of the child.

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Another good film by a veteran was Gregg Tallas’ underrated spy action film Assignment Skybolt (or Spies in the Saronic Bay, 1968). Tallas displayed his talent and artistry in the relentless unfolding of the story through incredibly vibrant technicolor and a masterful movement of camera by Lassally. An international cast supported local actors and the film, being the last that Tallas made in the country, must be discovered as the last testament of a director who, unfortunately, was to spend the rest of his creative career (he died in 1993) making bad television serials and B-rated horror films. A unique film in the corpus of Greek cinema was Yorgos Skalenakis’ Byzantine Rhapsody, or Imperiale (1968). It won two Golden Globe Awards for best actress and best music, but despite this international recognition, did not sell many tickets at home. The main actors Theodoros Roumbanis, a stunning international playboy, and the sensual Betty Arvaniti recreated the last days of the world around the year 1000 in Byzantium. The enamored empress leaves her palaces and her emperor in Constantinople and finds refuge in the lonely tower of her lover, so that they can die together. But the end of time does not arrive and, reconsidering her folly, she returns to her imperial residence. The story is simple but effectively put together, with impressive costumes and a gripping dialogue, and set in authentically medieval castles. It was the first time we had a film about Byzantium that was devoid of idealization and characterized by considerable historical accuracy. It was unfortunate that Roumbanis’ project for more historical dramas from Greek history didn’t eventuate. Another Skalenakis film, The Island of Aphrodite (To Nisi tis Afroditis, 1969), was a fascinating historical drama set in Cyprus during the struggle for independence from Britain. Cypriot freedom fighters abduct a young and innocent British soldier in order to exchange him for one of their imprisoned comrades. It is an excellent political thriller with a magnificent performance as the Cypriot matriarch by the great theatrical actress Katina Paxinou (in her first and last Greek cinema appearance). The scene where two mothers, the Cypriot and the British, meet is one of the most touching moments in Greek cinema, as the nobility of motherhood and the emotional anxiety of both women break down the barriers of political circumstances and establish a perennial symbol for the suffering of the innocent. Mimis Plessas’ music score is epic in its orchestral polychromy and antithetical tonalities. At the end of the film, as the British execute the Greek freedom fighter and the Greeks liberate the British hostage, the emotional energy of the music explodes into a mournful monophonic tune of tragic magnitude. Vangelis Serdaris’ Robbery in Athens (Listeia stin Athina, 1969) was an accomplished and masterful attempt to reinvent film noir by infusing it with a new sense of filmic temporality through an elongation of time, a slowing down of action, and a prolonging of silences (not unlike Jules Dassin’s 1955 Rififi). In his film debut, Serdaris explores the underworld of Athens with

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A History of Greek Cinema remarkable honesty, psychological characterization, and impartiality. His camera discreetly pans in and out to capture an unpredictable contrast between internal and external space, employing expressionist techniques, which transform the urban landscape into a surrealist nightmare. Unfortunately, the film didn’t receive the attention it deserved, not even for its delirious music by Nikos Theodosiadis. Given also the fact that some of the most important representatives of the new cinema contributed to its making (Theo Angelopoulos, Pandelis Voulgaris, Dimos Theos, and others), one could claim that Serdaris’ movie was one of the main links between the commercial cinema of the 1960s and the aesthetics of the New Greek Cinema that was to emerge several years later. Petros Lykas’ The Girl of Number 17 (To Koritsi tou 17, 1969), which won all major awards at the Thessaloniki Film Festival that year, was a gripping psychological drama about psychiatric practices, sexual repression and the morality of the medical profession. Lykas’ film was an apt metaphor for totalitarian regimes and the authoritarian personality that classifies human types through abstract categories and societal expectations. In a sense, this was the most Foucauldian film of Greek cinema, as Andreou’s Nightmare was the most Lacanian. Sophia Roumbou, as the psychiatric patient Anna who, after being sexually assaulted by a male nurse, kills him and escapes to the city only to repeat the crime, gives a superb performance with introspection and restraint, and without uttering a single word. Plessas’ score effectively recreated an alarming atmosphere of fear, incomprehensibility and anxiety. Lykas was one of the most popular editing masters of Greek cinema; his approach to montage avoided emotional excess and stylistic affluence. In this film, he worked with extreme minimalism and simplicity, localizing a dominant social reality of neurosis and insanity. His montage and the photography by Hristos Mangos make this film a seminal text about representing madness and repression. Unfortunately, Lykas directed only one more film before being seduced by television. Stavros Tsiolis’ excellent film noir Panic (Panikos, 1969) must also be mentioned for its accomplished narrative rhythms, minimalistic settings, and great acting, especially by Spyros Kalogerou. It was a film in the best tradition of Henri-Georges Clouzot and Jean Pierre Melville, with strange subversions and inversions—and despite its strong melodramatic tenor, the film was made with subtle poetic sensibility, addressing the themes of moral choice Stavris Tsiolis, Panic (1969). Greek Film Archive Collection. and existential guilt.

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Vassilis Mauromatis’ Shadows on the Sand (Skies stin Ammo, 1970) was an interesting blend of detective story and love affair set against the backdrop of the Aegean islands and with a good script by Iakovos Kambanellis and an evocative music score by Yannis Spanos. Finally, Nikos Tzimas’ Astrapogiannos (1970) was about a folk hero fighting against corrupt landlords at the beginning of the twentieth century, and distinguished itself for its narrative force and dynamic confrontations (techniques that Tzimas would later employ in his left-wing political melodramas). Together with these films, we must mention the proliferation of short films and documentaries during the 1960s, which gave the opportunity to emerging directors to learn what they could from experience. The tradition of short films goes back of course to the beginnings of Greek cinema. After the war, Rousos Koundouros, Vassilis Maros, Yannis Panayotopoulos, Nestor Matsas, and others established a distinct visual morphology on social events, landscapes, local festivals, and historical personalities. In the 1960s, when filming became easier, many more followed; among them were Kostas Ferris’ Your Eyelids are Shining (Ta Matoklada sou Lampoun, 1961), Fotos Lambrinos and Demos Theos’ 100 Hours of May (Ekato Ores tou Mai, 1963), Dimitris Kollatos’ Olives (Elies, 1964), Dimitris Augerinos and Loukas Papastathis’ Occasions of No (Peritposeis tou Ohi, 1965), Lampros Liaropoulos’ Letter from Charleroie (Gramma apo to Charleroie, 1965), Pandelis Voulgaris’ Jimmy the Tiger (1966), Tonia Marketaki’s’ John and the Road (O Yannis kai o Dromos, 1967), Thodoros Angelopoulos’ Transmission (Ekpompi, 1968), Tonis Lykouresis’ The Mosquito (To Kounoupi, 1969), Mihalis Papanikolaou’s Medea 70 (1970), all quite distinct within a diverse production of at least 400 short films in less than ten years. Most were documentaries about recent historical events (Italian invasion, occupation, Civil War, and so on), but films with a story also had considerable presence. Immigration became a dominant theme in these short films, as well as the new urban landscape and the looming political crisis. Most of the films documented the history of the period, especially under the dictatorship, together with the changing urban realities, the destruction of old houses for the hasty construction of apartments, and the suburban sprawl on the outskirts of industrial cities such as Piraeus and Elefsis. Angelopoulos’ Transmission was distinct for its “quirky” use of “candid camera” while Papanikolaou’s Medea 70 recorded with almost clinical precision the deterioration of a couple’s relationship within a landscape of urban squalor, sexual frustration, and utter poverty. With so much creative energy diffused into so many different genres, it was obvious that something novel was emerging. The cinematic language constructed by Gaziadis, Tzavellas, and Cacoyannis was undergoing a profound visual crisis: the continuities of the story and the mis-en-scène were not simply questioned but on many occasions abandoned altogether.

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A History of Greek Cinema The aesthetics of closed form and the confined space as determined by the studio were now imprisoning the camera and withholding new potentialities of expression. The unity of image, word, and sound, which had been achieved over a period of 30 years, started to implode under the weight of its own completeness. Indeed, the critical issue with these films was that they had achieved an almost perfect form; as a consequence, the density of representation and the compactness of composition began to collapse. What was needed was an opening-up of form, a gradual but relentless dismantling of the achievement itself—and it was already happening. Drawing from Lucien Goldmann, we could suggest that cinematic language was undergoing a process of “de-structuration” due to the new mental structures that had emerged with society’s evolution towards its industrial stage. Koundouros blurred the distinct contours of forms; Kanellopoulos relocated action in the human mind; Kyrou depicted the indeterminate nature of human emotions; Manthoulis abandoned serial narrative altogether; Kollatos de-glamorized the moral pretensions of the nouveaux riches; Damianos reformed the representation of lived temporality; Theos attacked the Greek self-perception of a transparent and luminous reality. The makers of short films rediscovered historical reality and represented it as a highly imaginative construct, yet with immediate political consequences. Obviously, the codes of the past, of what was to be called Old Greek Cinema, were not simply questioned but blatantly rejected, and a new visual language was gradually forming that was still exploring its own representations, themes and spaces. Between 1964 and 1967, most cinematographers seemed to have abandoned the safety and allure of the studio; and all of them started filming on location again, under the strong Mediterranean glare, moving the camera in a lifelike manner and rejecting the entrenched achievements of the postwar golden age of cinematic production. And yet, although the accepted codes slowly collapsed and eventually lost their meaning, their dominance was secured with the rise and commercial domination of popular melodramas.

The Rise of Urban Melodramas and Musicals Greek melodramas had proliferated since the 1930s, but in their overwhelming majority they were emotionally numb and formally substandard. Nevertheless, some were interesting as social texts, because thematically they presented the perspective of oppressed women, orphaned children, and the elderly. Despite the fact that they ended by reaffirming the normative ethics of patriarchal society, as it was shaped by the ideological hegemony of the petit bourgeoisie, it is useful to remember that at the heart of these films there had always been the freedom of women, gender questions, and family issues.

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Melodrama was the preferred spectacle for the villagers who left their homeland and became displaced proletarians in the big city. In melodrama, urban masses discovered raw, unconceptualized and unreflective emotions, which expressed more than any abstract symbol or historical analogy their own feelings of rejection and marginalization. So, their directors avoided experiments with form or storyline, often dispensing with the editing room altogether. The movement of the camera was minimal and photographic, the frame was structured like a family portrait, and the space composition was without details or characteristic markers. There was only one dominant mode: that of the mournful elegy for a lost organic unity. However, as the visual crisis was intensifying through the continuous overexposure of the genre, Greek melodramas became extremely formulaic and dull; not simply derivative, but generic and lifeless. In the early melodramas, the viewer could identify with the story and empathise with the predicaments of its protagonists. The mass production of melodramas during the 1960s simply destroyed any sense of connection between the audience and the screen: the story was far below the expectations of the viewers who had been oversaturated with copies of the same story; the only thing that changed was the background: urban, rural, or historical. Such stereotypical repetitiveness had started to take its toll on the industry by the mid-1960s. Meanwhile, as more movies were being produced, audiences remained the same in terms of numbers. The comedies of the period lost their ethographic function of depicting a society in transition from the customs of a rural mentality to the structures of an urban and capitalist organization of time and space. Most of them regurgitated the specific image of certain actors or referred to previous movies by them. It was almost as if the continuous production of interconnected light-entertainment movies was preparing the way for the arrival of its main opponent, television, which was introduced in 1966 and which by the next year had started claiming its primacy for the dissemination of entertainment programs. The huge commercial success of melodramas forced one of the most important directors of Greek neorealism, Stelios Tatassopoulos, to produce his own When the Bells Toll (Otan Simanoun oi Kambanes, 1964), which was to inspire an impressive number of artificial, boring, and kitsch melodramas. As a genre, they promoted a cinematic language of soft “pseudo-realism” which, after the end of commercial cinema, found refuge in television. It was realism without any reality. Even when serious social issues such as drug addiction, madness, or police corruption were represented, the films left untouched the structures that had created them and failed to explore their impact on the character involved. Certainly, however, there were some notable exceptions to this rule. The central director of the genre was unquestionably Yannis Dalianidis (1923–2010). After his initial successful comedies, he started working with

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A History of Greek Cinema Finos Films in 1961. During his long collaboration with Finos, Dalianidis directed the best melodramas, comedies and the best and only musicals in Greek cinema. He made around 60 films and 15 television series, all of which remain extremely popular. He released his best melodramas during the 1960s, constructing an interesting narrative style, something between Douglas Sirk, Frank Capra, and Otto Preminger, but without their striking architectural space or stinging social critique. Nevertheless, in most of his good films Dalianidis was the quiet modernizer of cinematic iconography. He had an impeccable sense of camera movement. His long shots, close-ups, and jump cuts were among the best in Greek cinema; as well as his sensitive and sculptural understanding of spatial composition, black and white lighting, and the actor’s movement. He must also be credited with seamlessly incorporating rock and roll music into his films without succumbing to the dominant moralistic attitude about the alien origin of the music of 1960s youth culture. His films Downhill (Katiforos, 1961), Law 4000 (Nomos 4000, 1962), Vertigo (Illingos, 1963), Story of a Life (Istoria mias Zois, 1965), Stephania (1966), The Past of a Woman (To Parelthon Mias Ginaikas, 1968), and others distinguished themselves for their rapid emotional swings, fast narrative pace, effective alternation between internal and external spaces, evocative music scores, and, on most occasions, very good acting. His early urban melodramas exhibited the finest qualities of an accomplished director, who used the camera effectively, in soft and sensitive black and white shots, and who always remained in control of the story and its emotions. Vertigo was a film analogous to The Shock Corridor (1963) or The Stolen Kiss (1964)—with passionate performances by the unselfconsciously sexy Zoi Laskari, as the girl who escapes from home after being abused by her stepfather. With his early film noir, written by Yannis Maris, Without Identity (Horis Tautotita, 1962), Dalianidis was one of the very few directors who dared to explore the mystery of goodness in the human soul without sentimentality and pathos and through the unpretentious and sophisticated representation of guilt and redemption. In his films, there is no place for real evil—his bad characters are good in disguise. They behave badly out of a deep-seated inferiority complex or because they are naughty children. Dalianidis expressed a profound and religious humanism, enveloping all his characters as suffering sinners in affection, empathy, and compassion. Furthermore, he was the absolute master of effective storytelling: his films were both atmospheric and exciting, offering good entertainment and lucid thinking. But their real value lay in what they disguised rather than in what they disclosed. Laura Malvey once noted that through emotional identification and catharsis, melodrama functions as a “safety valve for the ideological contradictions centered on sex and family,” an observation that suits Dalianidis more than any other director.26 Most of the films mentioned

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explicitly dealt with adolescent sexuality, family oppression, violent sex, social exclusion, and internalized violence. In some, incest was implied, in others, homosexuality, and in most of them a crisis of authority was expressed through aggression, hatred, and self-loathing. Some of his films can be seen in the way that we watch Rock Hudson’s movies today: as feminizing men and masculinizing women, in a covert game of inverted sexual psychodynamics. Dalianidis’ tendency was to reverse everything: the delinquent boys in Law 4000 displayed an incredible sexual body-electric when they were together, while they looked cold and distant when in the company of girls. In Stephania, the female body was not simply sexualized and fetishized, but raped and violated. The representation of male animalistic sexuality here assumed almost neurotic proportions, showing the first serious change in the representation of masculinity in Greek cinema. The same can be said of his underrated Tears for Electra (Dakria gia tin Ilektra, 1966), a suspenseful and gripping modern retelling of the ancient myth of the Atreides house, with hauntingly neurotic performances by Mairi Hronopoulou and Zoi Lascari as mother and daughter. In The Story of a Life (1965), we find an almost Marxist visual essay on the social “sur-plus value” of the female body. Dalianidis’ dramatic musical Naked on the Street (Gimnoi sto Dromo, 1969) was a brilliant experiment with narrative and music while presenting a tragic story. Unfortunately, it was so unsuccessful that Dalianidis never experimented with the medium again. In his late war drama Those who Spoke with Death (Aftoi pou Milisan me ton Thanato, 1970) we can see his most ambitious and formally attractive work. The narrative pace was engaging, the characters complex, and the atmosphere tense. Dalianidis here foregrounded emotions and historical circumstances, creating an operatic extravaganza of sentimental profusion and overdramatized patriotism by

Yannis Dalianidis, The Story of a Life (1965). Courtesy, Finos Films. Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema using over-saturated colors and large fresco-like shots—yet in his usual secretive way, with strange erotic subtexts and repressed hysterias always looming in the background. Such subtexts were very strong, and permeate most of Dalianidis’ films, but due to censorship they could not be revealed. More importantly, the prevalence of these subtexts was also due to self-censorship, which was adopted as a defense mechanism in order to avoid controversy and not to provoke the dominant morality—since family audiences were the main target audience for his producers. His films were full of gender confusion, erotic symbolism, and tense sexual anxiety—and must be studied carefully. The consistent representation of submerged identities in his films must be seen as the continuing legacy to Greek cinema of this commercially successful director. In his later films, and in his so-called cult trilogy The Jackals (Ta Tsakalia, 1981), The Turn (I Strofi, 1982), and The Dangerous ones—A Protest (Oi Epikindinoi-Mia Diamartiria, 1983), Dalianidis allowed a sensitive, guilty, and lustful homoerotic gaze to wander over the half-naked body of handsome actors like Panos Mihalopoulos, thus creating a shadow theatre of the conflict between macho and feminized masculinity (as sensitively expressed by Stamatis Gardellis), with the women acting merely as catalysts for the valorization of contemporary patriarchal ethics. In his underrated last film Life Sentence (Isovia, 1988), the hidden themes of feminized masculinity, disguised gay identity, sexual violence, and especially phallic fear are more obviously manifested in the ambiguous masculinity of Nikos Papadopoulos. However, by that stage Dalianidis was more a director for television and his ability to establish frames for the big screen seemed to have been lost. The melodramas and television serials produced, scripted and directed by another popular film-maker, Nikos Foskolos (b. 1927), can be viewed from the same perspective. Foskolos wrote the scripts for many films by Dalianidis, Andritsos, and Georgiadis, as well as for his own films. His radio serials, especially those with an anti-communist message, were extremely popular in the 1960s. During the early 1970s, he directed television serials, one of which, The Unknown Warfare (O Agnostos Polemos), was the most popular program on Greek television with 90 percent ratings during its peak in the early 1970s. With his melodramas, Love and Blood (Agapi kai Aima, 1967), Zero Visibility (Oratotis Miden, 1968), I am Dying Every Morning (Pethaino kathe Ximeroma, 1969), and In the Name of the Law (En Onomati tou Nomou, 1970), Foskolos addressed the burning issues of Greek society and history through a stark, gritty, and sombre realism, and in suggestive black and white photography. His main themes were the castigation of government corruption, the exposure of fraudulent practices by the rich and powerful,

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and, finally, the unveiling of the entrenched social immorality. In Zero Visibility, he generated a memorable performance by Nikos Kourkoulos as he exposed the practices of ship magnates who, in order to make money, sank their old unprofitable cargo ships, while indifferent to the impact of their actions on the lives of the sailors. The famous scream, “No more coal!” expressed in one of the nightmarish hallucinations of the main character has acquired legendary status amongst the cinephiles of the country. In the Name of the Law was also one of the very few films that dealt with the plight of traumatized Greek soldiers who had taken part in the Korean War. The post-traumatic stress disorder that those forgotten soldiers suffered found in this film its most poignant and touching representation. Unfortunately, his scripts could be excessively didactic and lack ellipsis, which made dialogue too long and acting theatrical, as though performances were geared towards high school students. In Captives of Hatred (Aihmalotoi tou Misous, 1972), his most accomplished endeavor in color, Foskolos addressed post-traumatic issues for the repatriated Greek diaspora after the civil war in the Congo, with convincing psychological characterization through a well-written script, great camera work by Yorgos Arvanitis, and haunting music by Yorgos Hatzinasios. Zoi Laskari’s acting was admirable while Kostas Carras’ performance reached the heights of good tragedy. Foskolos’ greatest success came with the Vouyouklaki mock-epic Lieutenant Natasha (Ipolohagos Natasha, 1970). The film, while the most successful blockbuster in the history of Greek cinema, was highly spurious ideologically and extremely reactionary politically. In the story, Vouyouklaki, sent to Dachau by the Germans, manages to maintain her shining blond hair, glowing skin, and immaculate make-up. The whole film, almost 120 minutes, was essentially a vicious commercial advertising dyed blond hair! Lieutenant Natasha, thanks to Foskolos and Vouyouklaki, is the Pink Flamingos of patriotic movies. For some reason, verisimilitude never seems to work in this film; everything is artificial and contrived, nothing is commensurate with itself: it is a work of shocking insincerity and pretense—yet the most successful, commercially, to this day. Conservative in politics, Foskolos produced what the state privileged as official and mainstream “genuine” Greek mentality: exclusivist nationalism, traditional family values, and strong Nikos Foskolos, Lieutenant Natasha (1970). patriarchal authority. There are indicaCourtesy, Finos Films. Greek Film Archive tions that he understood the problems Collection. of his society; and, indeed, if there was

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A History of Greek Cinema sexual confusion in Dalianidis, in Foskolos we see a deep ideological bewilderment, expressed through regression to an imaginary universe of ethical certainties and moral absolutes. All family problems are overcome, social questions are solved, and personal conflicts resolved if people “give hands to each other;” if, that is, people consent to being reconciled under the banners of family, motherland, and dignity. His works were those of a reactionary moralist, who could not tolerate ambiguities, or see the gray areas of human nature—and, as such, they are very important samples of cultural texts that articulated the conservative reaction against the radical politics and subversive aesthetics of the 1960s and the 1970s—a position which he later reinforced with some of his most popular televisions soapies. Another important director of this genre was Vassilis Georgiadis (1921– 2000) who made about 20 films before working exclusively for television after 1974. Among them was The Mother’s Curse (I Katara tis Manas, 1961), a kind of folk opera (or a form of Greek western) with dramatic conflicts set in impressive locations. In Rage (Orgi, 1962), he explored family dynamics through the relationship between two sisters, but despite good performances, the film was rather incomplete and uneven. With Red Lanterns (Kokkina Fanaria, 1963), Georgiadis attempted something more ambitious and interesting, as he explored with romantic empathy and deep humanism the underworld of prostitutes and pimps in the brothels of Piraeus. The film represented Greece at the Cannes Film Festival in 1964 and was one of the few Greek films that found distributors for the United States. With his next work Blood on the Land (To Homa Vaftike Kokkino, 1964), he even reached Hollywood where the film was nominated as Best Foreign Film. It was an excellent production with an adventurous script by Nikos Foskolos, effective cinematography, and almost operatic music. There is still something appealing and attractive in this film in spite of its distressingly self-conscious acting. The Seventh day of Creation (I Evdomi mera tis Dimiourgias, 1966) ventured beyond the stereotypical commercial drama of the period and explored in an almost neorealistic style the everyday difficulties of a young couple as they decide to marry in a society plagued by unemployment and poverty. In his dream for a better life, the young man submits a development plan to the cement industry. He remains optimistic until his plan is rejected. He never says anything to his wife and every day pretends to go to work until an accident brings the dark illusion to its tragic end. Also, in Appointment with an Unknown Woman (Rantevou me mian Agnosti, 1968), one can admire an evocative sense of space, vivid photography, and realistic characterization. This is one of the very few dramas without a happy ending, exploring family dynamics with passion and empathy. Georgiadis’ Love for Ever (Agapi gia Panta, 1969) must finally be mentioned. With a script by two of the most important film-makers of the

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next generation, Stavros Tsiolis and Nikos Nikolaidis, the film grapples with class differences. Through the innocuous love story between a poor pianist and a wealthy woman, Georgiadis investigates class issues and social prejudices with subtle humor and penetrating psychological sensitivity. After his superb Amok, Dinos Dimopoulos released Lola (1964), a film with great performances by Jenny Karezi and Nikos Kourkoulos, with a moving script and memorable music. A number of his other films, like Society Zero o’clock (Koinonia ora Miden, 1965), Concert for Machine Guns (Kontsero gia Polivola, 1967), and Asphalt Fever (Pyretos Stin Asfalto, 1967) were really effective dramas with emotional conflicts and fast-moving narrative. Asphalt Fever, in particular, was an enthralling film noir, which explored the nocturnal aesthetics of a cityscape, with magnificent performances by Yorgos Foundas, Jenny Roussea and Spyros Kalogirou. The music by Mimis Plessas is still one of the most interesting scores composed for the screen, attaining the proportions of a grand symphony. In 1969, Dimopoulos started working with Aliki Vouyouklaki and made three unparalleled blockbusters: The Lady and the Tramp (I Arhontisa kai o Alitis, 1968), The Teacher with the Golden Hair (I Daskala me ta Hrisa Mallia, 1969), and The Fairy and the Brave Lad (I Neraida kai to Palikari, 1969). The more ambitious their projects, the less satisfactory seemed the final result—despite Dimopoulos’ sensitivity with colors and lighting, the choice of location, and the overall affectionate atmosphere surrounding his protagonists, there was a gaping hole at the heart of these films: by then, Vouyouklaki could not act! She was a victim of her own stardom and thus victimized everybody around her. All her films from this period were narcissistic postures in front of an imaginary mirror. Yet people loved her, watched her films, and made them the highest grossing in the history of Greek cinema. But the more successful she became, the less convincing became her acting, and, unfortunately, Dimopoulos was one of her most sympathetic casualties. Generally speaking, the central problem with these Vouyouklaki melodramas was that they condensed narrative time to such a degree that they created a completely artificial emotional response, a self-contained reflex reaction that evaporated with the finale of the movie. Such shortlived emotional responses were used by the censorship of the period in order to promote a new symbol of identification, the victim as a cultural hero (especially the female victim), thus reflecting the official version of “authentic” Greek cultural mentality. (The same symbol will return later under unexpected circumstances.) In 1963, another production company, Klak Films, was established, declaring that it would make films for the “Greek family.” Apostolos Tegopoulos (b. 1936) was the producer who chose the actor Nikos Xanthopoulos (b. 1934) to be the “beloved child (or artist) of the people.”

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A History of Greek Cinema They made many atrocious melodramas together, mostly about poor industrial workers, even poorer girls falling in love with cruel wealthy womanizers, or immigrants leaving behind their sweethearts, their mothers or their children; most of them achieved success at the box office through their sugary sentimentality, imitations of successful stories, and relentless use of heartbreaking mournful songs. (In 1968/69, Klak Films produced 12 films; in 1969/70, 13 before gradually decreasing towards its ultimate demise in 1972.) Tegopoulos’ The Odyssey of an Uprooted Man (I Odysseia enos Xerizomenou, 1966) was an overwhelming four-hour melodrama of Bollywood proportions about the Asia Minor Catastrophe. The film ridiculed the tragedy and pathos of the events surrounding the Catastrophe, as it represented them through a crude and facile primitivism, filling the gaps of the script with sentimental songs and bizarre improbabilities. (The scene where Xanthopoulos confronts a “bear” in a remote forest still remains one of the funniest moments in Greek cinema.) The link between the personal reality of the actor and his imaginary personas on screen forced Tegopoulos to cancel Xanthopoulos’ contract after the latter announced that he was getting married: the “child of the people” should belong to “mother Greece” and not to a specific woman, and that put an end to Xanthopoulos’ stellar career. His collaboration with Tegopoulos had managed, though, to construct a special understanding of national identity and masculinity. Dimitris Eleftheriotis stated: The “Greekness” of the national identity (certainly in its cinematic melodramatic form) did not revolve around a confident sense of belonging to a powerful and self-sufficient nation but depended on emotional bonds between people who “make do” under adverse conditions—as the song suggests, to be Greek (or Indian) means to possess a heart but not much more.”27

Tegopoulos reinvented his career after 1972 when he made a number of soft-porn films, like the highly successful The Fever of Pleasure (1974), which targeted not the morality of Greek Christian families but only the voyeuristic urges of their male members. The music scores in the movies produced by Klak Films in particular tended to detract attention from the story, and indeed from performance, and also failed to enhance the emotional response as music had, for instance in Stella or Lola. Their tunes were monotonous, their lyrics repetitive, while performances were stylized, manneristic, and lifeless. With the excesses of Klak films, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the movie melodrama itself had depleted the expressive potential of its structure and was in dire need of radical formal innovations in order to retain its audience. However, most popular melodramas today look like parodies of real movies and, as

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such, they can be used as models for a thorough analysis of how genres lose their semantic value through over-exposure, replication and excessive self-referentiality. Another interesting genre of the period was the musical. Lydia Papadimitriou has written a detailed study of the popular ones of the period.28 Some of these films presented interesting experiments with form and content. Papadimitriou points out that, “the formal and generic eclecticism of the Greek musical was paralleled by its cultural hybridity.”29 Some musicals are distinct for their expressive colors, spectacularly revealing costumes, and stylistic geometry. Dalianidis’ Something Sizzling (Kati na Kaiei, 1963), Rendezvous on Air (Rantevou ston Aera, 1965), The Blue Beads (Oi Thalassies i Chadres, 1966), and Marihuana . . . Stop! (1970), as well as Sakellarios’ My Aunt the Hippy (I Theia mou I Hipissa, 1970), depicted a country in marked transition, full of the contrasts and paradoxes of a traditional society which was crying out for new forms and means of expression. More than anything else, these musicals represented a cultural physiognomy full of heterogeneity and diversity. They juxtaposed different cultural experiences, responding to the demands of an equally diverse audience, experiences which on screen complemented each other instead of falling into an antagonistic disunity. Greek film musicals, like other musicals worldwide, seemed to stop being produced in the mid-1970s, but maintain their popularity to this day. Silicon Tears (2001) stands out as an attempt at a revival of the genre. However, as Papadimitriou stressed, “The films are ideal for pastiche appropriations and camp readings, and their multiple layers of cultural referencing render them pleasurable to revisit and reconstruct.”30 The proliferation of melodramas, though, did not produce a coherent visual language that could be modified to attract new audiences. As more foreign films that took risks with the medium (such as independent American films) were successful, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the general public, just as much as the intellectuals, was in growing discord with the film industry. The imposition of the dictatorship in 1967 postponed the eruption of such dissatisfaction for several years, not only through strict censorship, but mainly through the production of films that manipulated and capitalized on lingering collective traumas.

Under the Eyes of the Dictators The rulers of 1967 sponsored many populist works that glorified the army and its officers as the only protagonists that could change adverse realities by protecting the nation and its national territory. The citizen was the eternal victim while army officers endeavored to deliver the nation from its very many external and internal enemies. Most popular dramas during the dictatorship presented an atmosphere of fatalism, which supposedly permeated

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A History of Greek Cinema the historical adventures of Greek society. Everything was beyond the comprehension and the conscious (and responsible) action of the individual. The latter, devoid of agency and volition, emerged merely as a plaything of the blind and overwhelming forces of change. The dictatorship used cinema to promote the army officer as the single cultural hero, to disseminate a nationalist mythology about the recent past, and to idealize the army’s contribution to social stability. Many movies of the period did address social issues but only in an innocuous manner as individual adventures and minor episodes, which were redeemed by the “impartiality” of the state and the “benevolent” presence of the military authorities. After 1967, severe censorship was imposed on all public spectacles, with special emphasis on the strict adherence to “patriotic” scripts through anti-communist sagas and the production of films promoting a spirit of “ethno-conviction.” Most of the films produced in this period had war themes (56 movies over seven years) based on the Italian, German and Bulgarian invasions; but when they touched upon the occupation, all references to left-wing resistance were completely erased. Nationalist propaganda went hand in hand with anti-communism. Most films were mainly about the heroism of the Greek army that had fought against Germany, and the communists during the Civil War. In these films, army officers showcased all their self-sacrificing patriotism, superior moral virtues, and, ultimately, their messianic mission to save the nation. Espionage movies depicting the communist infiltration of the political system after the Civil War as undermining the country’s freedom and prosperity while destroying its close friendship with America were very popular. The Greek-American James Paris produced most of these patriotic films with the abundant financial and technical assistance of the Greek state. The main theme of Paris’ films was the perennial motif of betrayal, a motif that needs to be examined not only sociologically but psychoanalytically as well. The dictatorship’s censors perceived visualized history primarily as legend, as a de-historicizing exercise in the fabrication of memories through which the oppressed audiences of the period could find relief while discharging their repressed feelings of anger and frustration. Oppression also led to repression, emotional and sexual, and to an atmosphere of loss and absence that was filled with excessive sentimentalism and narcissistic self-victimization. Representations of women as the passive and “available” victims of rape by invaders, who maintained their inner dignity in the face of acts of violation by reciting patriotic verses, were so dominant that they later became stock parodies for comedy and satire. For, despite its masculine defenders, the nation was feminine by gender—so all Greek women had to be protected: by defending them, the nation remained unspoiled! Movies like Dimis Dadiras’ No! (Ohi!, 1969), Kostas Karagiannis’ The

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Brave of the North (Oi Gennaioi tou Vorra, 1969) or October 28th, time 5.30 (28 Octovriou, ora 5.30, 1970), and Georgiadis’ At the Battle of Crete (Sti Mahi tis Kritis, 1970) were propaganda films in the same way that British war movies were propaganda. They promoted, through schematic characterization and totally skeletal plot, a fanciful image of Greek history, full of evil invaders, sinister traitors, and conniving foreigners. The crux of the film was usually the moment when Greek soldiers died as heroes with epic music playing in the background, as in No!, or when Greek women were raped by invaders, as by Bulgarian irregulars in The Brave of the North. They were all twisted glamorizations of a death-cult mentality conveyed in a perverse and manipulative style—plus displaced sublimations of sexual violence and transgression in the mind of the audiences themselves. Rape scenes were much anticipated and evoked more and stronger emotional reactions than any other part of a film! Not all propaganda films, however, were crimes against good taste: Dimis Dadiras’ At the Frontiers of Treason (Sta Sinora Tis Prodosias, 1968) tried to create a Greek James Bond, bursting with sensuality, plot twists, and relentless action. Despite its obvious political agenda regarding double agents, femmes fatales and communist infiltrations, it is worth watching today as the ultimate testament to the official ideology of the dictatorship. The fact that the empty parliament building was used as a military courthouse was a very interesting statement about the way in which the dictators presented the memory of democratic institutions. The same can be said of Hristos Kiriakopoulos’ The Highway of Treason (I Leoforos tis Prodosias, 1968), which was about a communist double agent from behind the Iron Curtain whose twin brother was a virtuous and ethnoloving army officer. The film was a compelling political thriller full of fast action and plot impossibilities in totally fictitious historical settings. Later, it became the model for the most popular television series of the dictatorship, The Unknown Warfare, directed by Nikos Foskolos. Both this and At The Frontiers of Treason were subsequently parodied mercilessly. Gregoris Gregoriou’s The Last of the Commitadje (O Teleutaios ton Komitaztidon, 1970) was also another anti-communist film produced under the pretext of depicting the occupation of northern Greece by Bulgarian forces; yet it can be seen with interest to this day for its suspenseful story and passionate performances—strong proof of the aesthetic and political versatility of its director. Finally, the film that must not be overlooked as quintessential propaganda is Errikos Andreou’s Give Your Hands (Doste ta Xeria, 1971). The film’s plot revolves around the predicament of two childhood friends who find themselves on opposite camps during the Civil War. Their dramatic conflict is part of an enthralling storyline (as long as one does not take it too seriously) and is accompanied by magnificent music. The film ends with the

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A History of Greek Cinema proclamation, “We are Greeks and despite our ideology we must give our hand to each other for reconciliation and for a better life in our country.” Given the fact that many Greeks were at that time either in exile or in prison, such didacticism was highly superfluous! Overall, most films produced during the period were visual strategies for subjectification, especially as their “power and identity” war imagery formed part of a concerted and systematic policy to control and discipline dissent and difference. As Dana Nolan has argued in her study of American war movies, “The discourse of the war effort encourages a microphysics of power in which citizen spies on citizen, where everyone lives under the scrutiny of a relentless look.”31 The film which most consolidated, consummated, and, indeed, assassinated the army officer as a valued cultural hero was the widely popular The Brave Die Twice (Oi Gennaioi Pethainoun Dio Fores, 1973) by Takis Vouyouklakis. The film was absolutely shameless in its glorification of the virtues of army officers; however, it is historically important as it marks the transition from the big screen to television. By then, ticket sales had started dwindling dramatically. 1968 was the record year when film production reached its peak: 117 films were released (excluding shorts and documentaries) and an astounding 137 million tickets were sold. After 1968, when television was broadcasting nationally, attendance started decreasing by almost 15 percent annually. As Yannis Bakogianopoulos observed: In 1971, tickets to Greek movies were reduced by 30 percent in Athens alone. While in 1968 in the wider area of Athens-Piraeus and suburbs, around 20,000,000 tickets were sold, that number had fallen down to 1,500,000 by 1974. By 1977 it fell down to 400,000.32

Television entered the home of the working class and brought into its living room the air of contemporary life as represented in blockbusters mainly from the United States. In the early years of television, the most popular shows, together with sports events, were American serials such as Combat, Bonanza, Star Trek, Lost in Space, Mission Impossible, and The Fugitive. Mostly American films were screened while only one third of the program (six hours in the beginning and after 1969 twelve hours per day) was made up of Greek comedies, serials, and news bulletins. As the time frame was extended, progressively more and more directors were needed for the production of television series, game shows, and news programs. Nikos Foskolos, Yannis Daliannidis, Takis Vouyouklakis, Gregoris Gregoriou, Vassilis Georgiadis, and many others made the ultimate leap from the big screen to the small— with disastrous results in most cases. However, many film production companies were reluctant to make television programs: Filopimin Finos rejected television and denied any relation with it. Eventually, this denial led

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to the demise of Finos Films in 1977 and to the end of a whole era of film culture. While television was making its impact felt, film production continued unabated. Despite the pro-American policies of the dictatorship, American films were not commercially very successful between 1968 and 1974, as the Hollywood studio system was experiencing a structural crisis. The screening of “youthpix” films about campus revolutions and unorthodox lifestyles involving sex and drugs was not particularly liked by Greek censorship; so the movies were either banned or only allowed in limited venues in Athens or Thessaloniki. In a very strange twist of international movie trade, the second most popular melodramas of the period originated in the arch-enemy state of Turkey, despite the fact that, after anti-communism, the next pillar of the dictatorship’s nationalist ideology was staunch and relentless anti-Turkism.33 Between 1969 and 1974, the names of Turkan Soray and Hulya Kocyigit were as popular as those of Aliki Vouyouklaki and Martha Vourtsi among an extremely nationalistic Greek audience. Indeed, the differences in plot, performance, and setting were so minimal that even language did not seem to be a barrier between the common sensitivities that presumably divide the two people. (Turkish audiences had already been seduced by Vouyouklaki’s charm, with two of her most popular comedies dubbed into their own language.) Turkish melodramas depicted landscapes “familiar” to Greek audiences. For instance, the children of the 1922 refugees recognized the memories of their parents by seeing in cinema the places that for them were images of nostalgia, myth, and legend. The popularity of these films also indicated a crisis in cultural orientation, as the dictatorship, having no real domestic reaction was rapidly and without plan and social consensus industrializing the economy and unwittingly destroying traditional lifestyles and values. Furthermore, their popularity revealed a strange self-questioning about belonging, together with a distinct psychological ambivalence towards Turks themselves, inherent in the elusive identity of all post-Ottoman societies. The success of this Yeşilçam Cinema externalized the mixture of attraction and fear that Greek audiences felt towards the Turkish Other, given the fact that a substantial part of Greek historical experience cannot be understood without reference to the Turkish presence. It was a kind of narcissistic projection of the “I love you and I hate you” psychological ambivalence that seems still to dominate Greco-Turkish mutual perceptions. On the other hand, common cultural memory was enhanced by common structures in social organization and parallel cultural dilemmas regarding the issues of belonging and identity that permeated both cultures. These films encoded the same patriarchal ideology by enforcing stereotypes about feminine behavior and gender roles. As Gonül Dönmez-Colin observed, the

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A History of Greek Cinema films presented specific types of femininity: “Turkan Soray, the oppressed sexual woman; Hulya Kocyigit, the oppressed asexual woman; Filiz Akin, the well-educated bourgeois woman; and Fatma Girik, the honest ‘manly’ asexual woman.”34 As typical feminine characters, these can also be found in Greek cinema and sometimes in strikingly similar representations. Ultimately, these melodramas humanized the “bloodthirsty” Turk and presented an image of suffering and redemption that resonated with the deepest psychological needs of Greek audiences. They also framed strong “family resemblances” in the way that they represented social roles, like motherhood, ethics, and social class, questioning the patriarchal structure of Mediterranean societies. Greek audiences saw in Turkish dramas a reflection of their own image and that made them feel flattered and bewildered. It was a deep disappointment to everyone that when the events of July 1974 erupted with the Turkish invasion of Cyprus, following the Greek coup, the import of such films ended abruptly. Meanwhile, a whole new chapter in the history of Greek cinema was already in full swing.

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The Formalist Moment: The Inward Gaze and the New Greek Cinema (1970–1981)

Self-reflexivity and the Cinematic Eye: New Greek Cinema (1970–1974) W hen Theo ( Thodoros ) Angelopoulos’ Reconstruction (Anaparastasi, 1970) was released, the existing industry of commercial cinema lost its social and cultural legitimacy—and in a few years even its commercial success. Angelopoulos’ movie reinstated an oppositional way of looking at the new realities that had emerged within a society under political oppression; and he did so without reverting to explicit political melodramas, as CostaGavras had done earlier with his political thriller Z, or to any other form of Hollywood or French narrative structure. The film worked through its silences, subtexts, and the invisible structures that dominated a Greek landscape, which until then was screened as full of light and color, as a site of euphoric bliss and self-realization. It was as if cinematic language had abandoned the emotional empathy of classical cinema and had returned to the stark and almost abstract ideograms of the silent movies. Indeed, it was as if all formal representation had returned to the austerity, simplicity, and elementarity of archaic art. There was no montage, no obvious editing, no jump cuts, no tracking shots: the camera stood still as a recorder of what is, of the way it is, and of the way we see it. The unexpected sense of an obvious and self-evident truth being presented to us, as we experience it every day, was the ultimate moral revelation in Angelopoulos’ visual language in the first ever anti-illusionist film made in Greece.

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A History of Greek Cinema Its story was simple. A migrant returns from Germany to his village where his wife and her lover kill him and bury his body in the basement of his own house. People start asking what happened, the police intervene and the culprits are arrested. The final scene is one of the most impressive visual frescoes in cinema: the women of the village attack the wife with words and stones as she is taken away to prison. A Greek folk song is heard by way of a farewell. The story was a retelling of “Oresteia” (a myth that will recur in a grand scale in Angelopoulos’ masterpiece in 1975). The shock of the film’s simplicity, immediacy, and directness was so strong, that it demolished the aesthetics of the previous two decades and was reconnected with the visual language of the silent cinema. We are reminded here of the mountainous landscapes in Gaziadis’ Astero (1929). Vassilis Rafailidis called Reconstruction “the first ‘grown-up’ film of Greek cinema. The first that managed to transcend the stage of impulsive primitif experimentations or of an aesthetic borrowed from other arts.”1 Angelopoulos, indeed, introduced a new way of seeing the Greek landscape. The setting of the movie, a remote mountain, represented a radical departure from the blue and white extravaganza of the Aegean iconography, designed to attract bored intellectuals and inflate the sentimental romanticism of tourists. Dark shadows and black backgrounds made the actors move with fear and horror through an implied crime scene. With this film, individuals lost their depth, their psychological agency, and became an appendix to the invisible archetypes underpinning time, or were seen as animals crawling over a landscape of unfriendly, even cannibalistic, mountains. The chiaroscuro dominated all forms against the archetypal natural background, which simply stands there—immovable, emotionless, and indifferent. With its soft and almost imperceptible movement, Yorgos Arvanitis’ camera was like an innocent bystander to this small yet powerful drama. No sunlight fell on human faces; only rain and dark clouds covered

Thodoros Angelopoulos, Reconstruction (1970). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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with their eerie presence the scene of the original crime. Angelopoulos used only amateur actors in the film; they succeeded in creating an atmosphere of tension, anxiety, and fear without any sentimentality or pretension. The film, with its deceptive simplicity, slow action and unassuming settings, was a loud indictment, a Munch scream, against the death of community and the loss of the political. Angelopoulos’ images reformed almost instantly the mind of its viewers, who realized how artificial and false the whole cinematic idiom of the 1960s had been. Reconstruction marked “the formalist moment” in Greek cinema, since in this film we do not simply watch a story and a powerful “re-enactment” of a murder, but we are initiated into the experience of a cinema that reflects on its ability to represent reality without any of the devices of emotional rhetoric. Angelopoulos’ black and white movie made absent color an invisible commentator on the action. The simplicity of the story and its unique narrative structure gave the movie its radical formalism, which avoided the oratorical excesses of Eisenstein’s montage or the sentimental exuberance of the American tradition. In a sense, behind its austere language, a touch of magic realism could be detected, as the camera rolled over the landscape with a sense of strangeness, similar to the approach of Yilmaz Güney’s Umut/ Hope, released the same year in Turkey. As Gönül Dönmez-Colin argued about Guney’s film, “One may seek of magic realism in Guney’s preoccupation with images of borders and centers.”2 Angelopoulos took such a border to its extreme liminality by having the characters interact in the emotional vacuum of a timeless community. However, Angelopoulos’ movie only spearheaded the appearance of many more films that were to change the orientation of Greek cinema for good. This movement has been called the New Greek Cinema and it reinvented the art and the industry of film-making in the country. Reconstruction was followed by an explosion of a creative energy that accelerated the consolidation of the reform movement. Six years after his first movie, Alexis Damianos produced his masterpiece, Evdokia (1971). He transferred the new gaze onto the urban landscape and the new strange relations and emotions which had emerged after the industrialization and the abandonment of the countryside. As one critic noted, with this movie, “life entered relentlessly into Greek cinema.” Through scenes of brutal and unpolished realism, the camera intruded violently into the space of the actors emerging as one of the central “actants” of the plot. The private love affair between a prostitute and a soldier was watched and supervised from everywhere: even in their most intimate moments, these two young people were not alone. The invisible structures which defined their social position, and the expectations of their peer groups, were with them in their thought and desire. Beyond the symbolism of the story, the real protagonist in the movie was the barren and unfriendly urban

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Alexis Damianos, Evdokia (1971). Greek Film Archive Collection.

landscape of a society that knew no authentic bonds and which substituted emotions with social utility. Damianos’ camera was dangling as if in a state of constant dizziness and confusion. Society enacted its rituals of belonging according to accepted norms and roles: the young couple transcended them and so they were doomed. Shortly after their wedding, the soldier is forced to leave and the girl returns to her profession. The dream of union, mutuality, and love vanishes in the loneliness of the urban desert, into which they are both thrown, in silent despair. The film ends with a truck as it runs away in the dark slowly towards the carnivorous city. Evdokia represented another radical departure from the established language of Greek cinema with its austere clarity, narrative simplicity, and visual homogeneity. Damianos dissolved the cinematic gaze down to its geometry, focusing on the peripheral and the marginal, and narrating an alternative history of Greek society from below. The political background was absent and yet everywhere. The absence of politics was made manifest through a deep communication breakdown, covered superficially by ritualistic behavior, the perfunctory performance of social roles, and the inability to see the other as a living embodiment of desire. The characters reflected a society at a suffocating dead end, unable to act or even react; abandoned to face alone conventions, customs, and norms. Prisoners of their class and mentality, they remain trapped within a social structure without defense mechanisms, their individuality expendable in an impersonal social order of invisible normalizing structures. Damianos avoided sensationalism or sentimentality. Although the film is about a passionate love affair, there are no sex scenes; sex has become an alibi in the attempt at connection and reciprocation. Yet, just as in the last scenes of his previous film, it brims with sensuality, with the half-naked bodies of the man and the girl together, experiencing the innocence of Adam and Eve in their private space: their fall took place when they entered society. As John Papargyris observed:

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Evdokia is a film which is extraordinarily original and frank; it is an exceptionally straightforward film in that it displays obvious tendencies towards cinematic realism without actually demonstrating a coherent compliance with the axioms of this approach.”3

Its lack of compliance established the tradition of the open form in Greek cinema that was to become the dominant means of cinematic representation for the next 15 years until the death of the New Greek Cinema. Overall, Damianos’ movie was an impressive and provocative moral tale about Greek society—as Evdokia with Reconstruction together started a new chapter in Greek cinematic history. However, what both movies lacked was humor, and that was exactly what gave to Dinos Katsouridis’ What Did You Do in the War, Thanassis? (Ti Ekanes ton Polemo Thanassi?, 1971) its great popularity, commercial success, and, indeed, a different visual language of dramatic tension and comic catharsis. The movie was screened the same year as Evdokia and immediately became popular because of the emotional identification with the main character, the Greek John Doe, who, was struggling to survive day by day of the German occupation, through deception, mischief, or small acts of unremarkable heroism. This survival instinct made the character so lovable by bringing out the best and the worst of his mind. Thanassis Vengos (1927–2011), a great comic actor, a successful fusion of Buster Keaton’s profound humanism and Louis de Funès’ exciting hyperactivity, gave a face to the social mentality that dominated the urban middle class of this period: unreflective yet sympathetic, passive yet with a strange sense of justice, terrified but with the certainty that things will get better. Despite the many problems with censorship and the lack of any assistance from the state, the film was an accomplished metaphor for oppression and hope, one of the most important political comedies made in Greece after The Germans Strike Back.

Dinos Katsouridis, What Did You Do in the War, Thanassis? (1971). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema Katsouridis’ camera, based on the nostalgia of soft black and white contrasts, reconstructed a historical period, with very obvious contemporary parallels, in which a sense of moral concern dominated the minds of ordinary people: even if they were hungry, they were not going to deceive anyone; even if they were tortured, they were not going to reveal names; even if they were to be executed, they were not going to lose faith in humanity. As Stratos Constantinidis observed: “The struggle for freedom is presented by Katsouridis as a daily affair in a series of ‘little’ acts of defiance (as by Froso) and ‘great’ acts of endurance (as by Thanassis).”4 The film was the great commercial success of the year and, although Katsouridis does not belong to the New Greek Cinema, his film captured the atmosphere of foreboding and anxiety that permeated Greek society during the years of the dictatorship. Meanwhile, between 1970 and 1974, the New Greek Cinema came into being like a fully armored Athena. Despite ubiquitous censorship, a number of extraordinary movies were made. Angelopoulos’ Days of 36, (Meres tou 36, 1972), Pavlos Tasios’ Yes, Certainly, But . . . (Nai Men Alla . . ., 1972), Pandelis Voulgaris’ Anna’s Engagement (To proxenio tis Annas, 1972), Tonia Marketaki’s The Violent John (Ioannis o Viaios,1973), Kostas Aristopoulos’ The Place of The Skull (Kraniou Topos, 1973), and Kostas Ferris’ The Murderess (I Fonissa, 1974) spearheaded a gradual transition to a cinema of formal self-questioning by depicting complex characters and indeterminate situations formed within ambiguities and contradictions. Young producers, educated and politically minded, like the wealthy art-lover Yorgos Papalios, provided the new directors with the funds and the freedom to experiment with the medium. With their personal style and iconography, the new directors reinvented cinematic culture, creating a distinct cultural movement around the production, dissemination, and experience of films while inaugurating a new politicized interpretation of films as “social artifacts” with a strong political “message”. Within these five years such “political” cinema took over film production while competing with the rising popularity of television and the plethora of soft porn movies. These political movies were to dominate film culture for the next ten years, imposing their own hermeneutical principles on the whole history of Greek cinema. New Greek Cinema not only introduced new themes and new styles to the making of films. It also changed the way a story was filmed by establishing new camera angles, settings and mise-en-scène. The camera took on a new role and reorganized the visual space of action. Instead of simply recording a story told through continuous images, the camera took risks, fragmented the story through jump cuts and fast editing and by elongating diegetic time, while indiscreetly entering the act of representation itself. Music became minimalistic, settings were out in the open, while acting avoided verisimilitude by incorporating the Brechtian techniques of

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defamiliarization and distancing. Theatrical elements in acting resurfaced through stylized and self-conscious performances; the directorial point of view became the totalizing unifier of action and, finally, scriptwriters provoked reactions with their irreverent dialogue, challenging established institutions and ideas, targeting in their critique institutions like the family, church, and state apparatuses. Depending on the different directorial styles, their approach is eclectic and somehow impressionistic. Angelopoulos, for example, insisted on master shots, lengthy takes, and minimal montage, while Voulgaris worked with faster narrative, medium takes, and heavier editing. Marketaki consciously re-created the conventions of film noir, in Hitchkock style, as reinvented by Claude Chabrol. The same can be said about Dimos Theos, especially in his “police documentary” Kierion, while Tasios and Ferris rearranged naturalist settings and linear narrative by introducing fast transitions and camera experiments that intensified the emotional energy of their stories. Finally, it seemed that the French auteur approach to cinematic production was becoming the dominant principle in the interpretation of the film’s message. Certain films from the period established and consolidated the new movement by investigating stories and themes that had been forbidden until then. Angelopoulos’ Days of 36 explored, from within the oppression and persecution of the 1967 dictatorship, the political machinations leading to the oppression and persecution of the 1936 Metaxas fascist regime. The film was slow and insular, almost detaching the viewer from any empathy with its story. Angelopoulos used every narrative and stylistic device to present the fear and horror of a society without freedom. After the assassination of a union leader, suspicions fall on an ex-police informer who is in disfavor with the regime. He reacts by holding hostage a politician of the right, but the police and political establishment under absolute secrecy assassinate him, without allowing him to defend himself. The movie’s atmosphere was claustrophobic, gloomy, and foreboding; the colors cold and unsympathetic; the use of music ironic and distancing. Angelopoulos, one of the few Greek directors to have reflected on and talked about his visual aesthetics, noted in response to a question on the elliptical style of his movie: It’s one way to go beyond naturalism, as Dreyer used to say. The ellipse is a tremendous option for the spectator to become the film-maker’s partner in the creative process. It also offers a kind of “Brechtian alienation” that depends not only on the position of the camera, but also on the structure of the film. Every film is made up of a number of individual blocks that— to use Brecht’s definition—are autonomous, but they really depend on each other. The point, evidently, is to follow an almost naturalistic course in order to better underline the realism of each sequence.5

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A History of Greek Cinema Angelopoulos created a new style of constructing political films, in opposition, as he noted, to Costa-Gavras’ Z, which was distinct for its clear demarcations between good and bad with no gray areas of ambiguity. “My films,” Angelopoulos said, “are trying to be more hybrid, without a beginning or an end. I attempt to introduce a sort of ‘anti-suspense’ ritual, something of the kind Oshima created in Death by Hanging . . .”6 Indeed, Oshima’s style fused effectively with Jean-Luc Godard’s visual idiom and the sense of filmic temporality that we meet in Antonioni’s early works converged in order to create one of the most innovative and radical attempts to represent a story on screen. Even though audiences did not respond at the box office, Angelopoulos’ contribution was immense in breaking down the pretentious artificiality and ossified mannerisms of classical cinema, as inspired by Hollywood and even the Soviet montage tradition. It was the looming crisis of representation that Angelopoulos’ style addressed, and, despite its excessive introspection, Days of 36 is a film that experimented with cinematic language and paved the way for new forms of storytelling. Tasios’ film Yes, Certainly, But . . . is an underrated work, a psychological thriller with fast pace, sexual tension, and effective dialogue. The film has a more traditional structure and unfolds a story through flashbacks with immediacy leading to an emotional catharsis. The story is about a divorced man exposed to pornography and sexualized images of women, who, as a consequence, cannot make love with affection and intimacy to his lover and has lost all connection with his ex-wife. In his despair, he tries to rape her, but she resists and he kills her. The end comes with his suicide as he jumps off a tall building. The lucid colors and clear frames of the film show Tasios’ skill in composition and editing. His film implicitly criticized a perception of masculinity that dominated Greek society by presenting its protagonist (the sensitive and introspective Phanis Hinas) as a man in despair, a

Pavlos Tassios, Yes, Certainly, But . . . (1972). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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prisoner of the social persona of the normal macho heterosexual that he could not be. The imprisoned male animal didn’t project his frustration and anger against the world but against himself—the only way out of the prison is to destroy the mind that constructed it. The film has strong psychoanalytic references and could be analyzed for its critique of masculinity and heteronormativity. Tasios is one of the few directors with explicit moral concerns throughout his career. His next film, The Protectors (Oi Prostates, 1973) was an interesting biography of the greatest modern Greek painter Konstantinos Parthenis, which focused on the human aspects of an artist’s life and the problems it generates especially as his “legal” family shuts into a mental asylum the girl who gave him love and inspiration. We must also mention his melodrama The Rivals (Oi Antiziloi, 1968) for its vertiginous narrative pace, strong homoerotic subtexts, and frenetic music by Hristos Mourabas; a film that deserves more attention and study. The movie Anna’s Engagement by Pandelis Voulgaris (b. 1940) entered private space and broke down the barriers between inside and outside, articulating a political statement out of it. In this film, family became the imprisoning institution, the focal point of all authoritarian power, and the birthplace of all neuroses. The young servant girl who wants to marry an outsider is convinced by her adopted family not to do it, so, she returns to the family home to experience security through self-imprisonment. The film subtly explores the transformation in her mind as she begins to understand what is happening around her: the realization of her position in her immediate social environment emphasizes her internalized oppression and inferiority. Voulgaris’ camera is discreet and pensive, entering cautiously into the mind of his character. His protagonist, played with impressive austerity by Anna Vagena, unveils her own personal history as an aborted rite of passage to maturity. She is also a symbol of a generation dominated by the authority of the great and imposing “myths” of the past, as she becomes a willing victim to an autocratic reality which destroys her dignity and selfhood—an apt metaphor for Greek society as understood by the New Greek Cinema. Tonia Marketaki’s strange film noir The Violent John dealt with “the problematic hero.” It also problematized the ways in which power and insanity go hand in hand, depicting a universe of delusional criminal darkness in which the individual is totally lost, depersonalized through self-alienation and thus turning to crime in order to survive its own insignificance. The film was a mixture of noir aesthetics and documentary style, indicating for the first time the new aesthetics of television presentation. Marketaki was the first director to attempt a creative fusion of the two codes. With slow pace, in suggestive black and white, the film explored not simply the mind of the violent criminal, but also the violence that society imposes on his mind. It was both a political and a psychoanalytic film,

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Tonia Marketaki, The Violent John (1973). Greek Film Archive Collection.

exploring the epistemic regimes that a repressive society uses in order to control and dominate. The mind of the violent criminal epitomized the structures of a society permeated by violence, frustration, and internalized horror. The existential anomy represented by the protagonist was not a conflict between him and his environment: anomy was born out of his inability to meet the expectations of his society and confront his feelings of inadequacy and insufficiency as he experienced his self in the context of a drab and soulless city. In Kostas Aristopoulos’ The Place of the Skull, Jesus’ journey to Golgotha is employed to present the contemporary predicament of an abandoned village as people stage a passion play. Aristopoulos’ low-budget film was his response to Pasolini’s The Gospel According to Matthew (1967) and probably his Oedipus Rex (1968), and employed Brechtian defamiliarization techniques in order to foreground the political aspect of Jesus’ crucifixion. Instead of being crucified at Golgotha, the villager who impersonates Jesus enters the new place of crucifixion, the factory. Despite the many awards at the Thessaloniki Film Festival, the film was banned after the reactions of the Greek Orthodox clergy. Nikos Zervos and Thanassis Rentzis’ Black-White (Aspro Mauro, 1973) was a film based on the contrast between the easiness of the totalitarian regime, which the silent majorities prefer (black) and the rebellion against it (white) as experienced by the young people of the day. The film was uneven but crucial for the consolidation of the aesthetics of the new cinema. Thodoros Marangos’ Take Your Places (Lavete Theseis, 1973) was another important exploration of the drabness and the insipid routine of everyday life as experienced by factory workers. The film employed mostly neorealist techniques to explore the deep feelings of alienation and self-estrangement, giving special emphasis to the militarization of everyday life. Most of these films had as their principal theme contemporary situations and current issues. Prompted by an urgent need to explore the immediate

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and pressing actualities of the ordinary, New Greek Cinema established an almost documentary style to depict urban realities and political oppression. Kostas Ferris had started his career by making some interesting comedies, but after he moved to Paris, where he met Volker Schloendorf, Werner Hertzog, Barbet Schroeder, Nicholas Ray, Samuel Fuller, and others, he accepted a more experimental and radical form of film-making. His first major film was the adaptation of one of the greatest Greek novellas by Alexandros Papadiamantis, The Murderess (1974). The book is about an aged woman who in a moment of “heightened awareness” decides that infant girls should be killed after their birth so that they will never experience the injustice and oppression of their patriarchal society. Such a Dostoevskian story was predominantly a mental drama, a tragedy that took place mostly in the mind of the woman, who played God, giving and taking back life. Ferris explored the inner mental space as his camera penetrated borderline states of mind. The cinematic eye delineated a mental process, zooming in and out the mind of a deranged individual trapped in circular self-justification without redemption or catharsis. Ferris transformed a story set in the nineteenth-century Greek countryside, when the practice of female infanticide was a common secret, into a parable about a desperate individual’s reaction to the overpowering forces of society. His use of color and deep focus to enter the mind of his protagonist adds another level of signification to the filmic text itself. It was the mental image of a distorted reality. It was not the mind that was distorted; it was the reality itself, as social and political construct imposing distinctions based on gender and determining destinies for individuals without their consent. Furthermore, his experiments with camera angle, color (as the movie oscillates between black and white and natural color images), and the blurred borders between illusion and reality make this film one of the most

Costas Ferris, The Murderess (1974). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema innovative and radical adaptations of a literary classic—a discreet fusion of classical storytelling and avant-garde aesthetics. Maria Alkaiou, as the murderess, gave an almost metaphysical depth to the depiction of mental madness, as though madness itself was the divine law punishing her crimes. Furthermore, the New Cinema movement brought radical changes to the production, dissemination, and social function of film-making. Most films were not made at the studios of major production companies. They were independent productions privately funded—sometimes by wealthy friends as in the case of Angelopoulos—without any state assistance and outside the main distribution system. Even their screening at cinemas was mostly due to personal connections and affiliations. Yet from 1973 their presence in the public sphere, especially after they started winning major awards at the Thessaloniki Film Festival, started becoming obvious and undisputed. These films enabled the director to replace the producer or the star actor as the main “gaze” behind the movie. The dominance of the auteur tradition became more prominent; the director became the omniscient eye behind the narrative threads of the film. Consequently the filmic text encoded a personalized view of the world, focusing on the dissemination of power at all levels of social life, as a conscious attempt to negate the official mainstream “collectivist” understanding of social experience, cultural memory, and identity politics. By representing the structures of power that permeated the consciousness and the unconscious of their characters, the new directors wanted to raise awareness of and even to denounce established “truths” and to incite action. By doing so, they avoided all forms of psychologization, melodrama, or emotional plethorism. The conflict between a human being and its social environment was depicted in its ordinary manifestations: as an inability to find personal fulfillment, emotional reciprocation, or interpersonal understanding rather than as grand moral dilemmas, heroic acts or superhuman virtues. The anti-Hollywood aesthetic of the movement would be its dominant parameter until its demise. Furthermore, the new cinema framed a completely new “hero”: not the common man or the sympathetic rascal, but the unintentional criminal, the confused bystander who rejected the positive values of society and felt existential dysphoria within the negative values of his subconscious. From Angelopoulos’ assassins to Ferris’ transcendental murderess, it was the conditions around criminal behavior that interested the new directors. It was not the criminal as a human being, but the crime as the end result of many imponderable factors beyond the understanding or control of the specific character that the directors wanted to represent. Within the scope of such films, the auteur practice was not an extravagant eruption of individualistic sensibility or the personal fantasy of a gifted artist. On the contrary, it externalized the individual’s struggle

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against political oppression and the one-dimensional uniformity of capitalist commodification and mass depersonalization. At the same time, most of the films of the New Greek Cinema, while carrying by all means the stamp of their individual director, were collaborative projects, as groups of people worked together to contribute to each other’s efforts under extraordinary circumstances. Theos’ Kierion and Marketaki’s The Violent John are the ultimate examples of such collaborative work which redefined the production style of cinema, until the state took over production in the 1980s. Furthermore, the directors brought the filming process out into the open. Despite the fact the in the 40s and 50s the absence of studios was the main obstacle to the consolidation of the industry, by the late 60s, studios had imposed their own code of practice on the creative process and had stifled the imaginative use of space, sound, and form. By bringing the filming process outside, the new directors rediscovered new landscapes, chromatic atmospheres, and sonic moods in which to place their stories and contest official versions of social and cultural perception. Angelopoulos, for example, discovered the rainy, lush, mountainous Greek inland, especially in Epiros, Macedonia, and central Peloponnese. The urban landscape now created a dark and foreboding atmosphere and state of mind rather than being an actual architectural setting. The expectations of the audience also changed; the oversaturation of cinemas with slapstick comedies, war melodramas, and fustanella stories, seemed to have led to their ultimate demise. On the other hand, so much warmongering and hero worship at the cinema formed a stark contrast with the totally unheroic and completely farcical social reality defined by the dictators: there was nothing grand or noble in the administration of the Greek state or in its leaders. The only heroic achievement that each citizen could aspire to every day was to hold a job, provide his or her family with the necessities of life, and have sex. The New Greek Cinema talked about these mundane and prosaic things of life—their attainment and/or their absence. The new directors based their vision on their daily experience of their lived reality of endless humiliation. And although they invested their efforts with theoretical schemes and ideological discourses, the central truth of all of their works was the lack of freedom of expression, in political, sexual, and existential self-determination. The core theme of the New Cinema was what such absence determined in terms of personal and social identity as preconditions for living. Certainly, we should not make the error of elevating the director as the only force behind these changes: film culture as a whole had changed. Furthermore the function of cinema as a socializing space, and as an alternative public space, was coming to an end with the rise of television. The privatized vision of the world introduced a much more personal view of history and society, an individuated re-enactment of lived experience and personal identity.

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A History of Greek Cinema Directors like Angelopoulos, Voulgaris, Damianos, Marketaki, and Theos responded to the new conditions of production by reinventing the cinematic eye, each one in their own way, and despite the fact that their selfreflexivity sometimes indicated a certain intellectualism and elitism, their contributions renewed and reinvigorated the film-language of oppositional aesthetics. Their diversity and openness articulated a mature and pluralistic visual idiom that was to be appropriated by individual directors over the next 20 years as their common semantic code of reference—even when they rejected it. Together with the new movement, a number of important more traditional films were produced up until the fall of the Junta. Michael Cacoyannis, living outside Greece, released his sumptuous production of Euripides’ tragedy The Trojan Women (1971) as an international co-production with a mixed cast starring Katherine Hepburn, Vanessa Redgrave, Irene Papas, and Genevieve Bujold. Despite all intentions, this was one of his weakest films: great shots, effective editing, and suggestive close-ups, but overall the mixture of stylized movements and pictorial naturalism did not support the solemnity and gravity of the story. As Pauline Kael observed in an interesting review about “the makeshift style of the film”: The movie appears to be impoverished and stagy . . .Everything in The Trojan Women is outdoors, and yet the movie is claustrophobic, because the locations . . . have no connection with each other, other than they were stage sets replacing each other.”7

Nor did the photography have the structural depth or rich texture we found in Electra. Katherine Hepburn’s Hecuba does not have any emotional depth, while Bujold as Cassandra is lacking in awe. The naturalism of strong and vibrant colors simply undermines the emotional impact of the tragedy, while the chorus is inactive, with most actors not knowing what to do. Cacoyannis inundated a classical tragedy with Hellenistic, almost Roman, sentimentalism—by simply betraying his own sublime abstraction of Electra. Errikos Andreou’s Papaflessas (1971), a historical drama about the life and death of one of the most popular heroes of the War of Independence in 1821, was the closest that the Greek film industry has come to a big Hollywood blockbuster. It was a lavish co-production by Finos Films and James Paris and was shot on location, in opulent studio settings, and with magnificent costumes. The film had distinct narrative patterns, and avoided sentimentality and jingoism, despite the fact that it was very “patriotic”, as the dictatorship would have demanded. The story of how an idealistic revolutionary priest is transformed into a manipulative bureaucrat while having an illicit love affair was rather risqué from its inception. Furthermore, his death by the Egyptians looks more like an act of personal despair than of

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military defeat. Very good performances were given by Dimitris Papamihail and Katia Dandoulaki, together with the rest of the cast—even Turkish characters are shown with empathy and respect. Kostas Kapnisis’ score, with its operatic, almost Wagnerian tunes and complex orchestration, deserves more attention. Yannis Dalianidis’ historical drama The Rebellious Commoner (O Epanastatis Popolaros, 1971) successfully reconstructed the past on the island of Zakynthos in a fascinating social drama. Nikos Foskolos’ Abuse of Power (Katahrisi Exousias, 1971) had a good narrative pace and an excellent performance by Nikos Kourkoulos. Vassilis Georgiadis’ That Summer (Ekeino to Kalokairi, 1971) was also a sensitive depiction of a love affair between a divorced couple, as the woman is dying of a terminal illness, with suggestive music by Mimis Plessas. Finally, Yorgos Zervoulakos’ Lysistrata (1972) is one of the best film adaptations of ancient Greek comedy, with a fast narrative pace, an irreverent sense of humor and implied criticism of the “militarization” of Greek society. The music by Stavros Xarhakos is also an interesting fusion of diverse sounds from the film tradition, modern rock, pop, and classical motifs. In 1971, Maria Plyta released her final film The Unknown Woman of the Night (I Agnosti tis Nihtas), and Stavros Tsiolis his gripping social melodrama The Urban Jungle (I Zougkla ton Poleon), before abandoning cinema for many years. Panos Glikofridis also released his comedy with Thanassis Vengos, Holidays in Vietnam (Diakopes sto Vietnam) which was severely censored and banned. The same fate awaited Dinos Katsouridis’ Thanassi, Take Up Your Gun (Thanassi, Pare to Oplo Sou, 1972), a sequel to his previous film, with an overtly political message that provoked strong reactions from the dictatorship. Vagelis Serdaris’ A Matter of Life and Death (Zitima Zois kai Thanatou, 1972) was an absorbing thriller, based on a detective novel by Yannis Maris, which despite its non-political character, was distinct for its artistic mise-en-scène and pacy narrative development. Dimopoulos’ Marshland (O Valtos, 1973) must also be recognized as an impressive work of traditional cinema, with passionate performances, a complex script, and frantic music by Yorgos Hatzinasions. We must also mention the cinematographer Yorgos Arvanitis (b. 1942), who, despite his initial involvement with commercial cinema would work almost exclusively in the new cinema as expressed by Angelopoulos. Every year between 1970 and 1974, an average of 70 to 80 films were produced; most of them melodramas, comedies, and the rising industry of the period, soft porn. It was clear that Greek cinema was declining, and the commercially successful films were using and abusing a well-tested formula. Aliki Vouyouklaki was on the front line of this demise; with her films becoming more repetitive, self-indulgent and formulaic, she gave audiences an excuse to remain at home and watch television serials. Despite

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A History of Greek Cinema its commercial success, her Maria of Silence (I Maria tis Siopis, 1973)8 by Dalianidis brought an end to the commercial industry. The New Greek Cinema didn’t produce any box office successes, but it was to these works that the urban audiences turned for renewal and change. When the dictatorship collapsed in July 1974, the creative explosion that had been restrained by censorship and persecution resulted in strange and long-term consequences. Meanwhile, in its contradictions, the dictatorship had amended the existing laws going back to 1961, and with new legal arrangements in 1973, gave more emphasis to the artistic aspect of film-making over the industrial one. It divided films into two categories: protected and subsidized films. It also gave incentives for the production of quality films by returning part of its taxes to the producer while at the same time subsidizing films to cinema owners for public screening. The existing legal entity within the industry ministry for cinema was renamed the Greek Film Center, and its director was the great but retired Giorgos Tzavellas. It remained under the Ministry for Industrial Development until 1978.

A New Discourse about Film Culture By now, educated urban middle-class audiences were ready for a deep change in their cultural habits given that television had started producing serial melodramas like The Unknown Warfare (O Agnostos Polemos, 1971–1974) and The Unknown Traveller (O Paraxenos taxidiotis, 1972–1973) with immense success. Their popularity, however, proved to be their doom as well. Plots were sketchy and characters abysmally one-dimensional. Such facile and crass realism turned the audience’s attention to new ways of representing reality. The break with the dominant idiom of commercial cinema was rather inevitable as the new film-makers were articulating their conceptual categories in an almost programmatic way. In the meantime, international pressure forced the dictatorship, after 1971, to relax some of its censorship laws and to give a certain degree of freedom to the film industry to start major experiments with form, scriptwriting, and cinematography. It was the first time that under conditions of limited freedom, a new discourse on cinematic experience and production was established in specialized journals and newspapers with a momentum that was to last for many decades. Indeed, one could claim that the existing conceptual forms that dominate cinematic discussions today had their origin in this period. Urban audiences now turned to the New Greek Cinema, which had already started to have an impact on the industry. The middle class, which was well-established by then in the cities, was exposed to ideas from France, the USA, Germany, and Italy in regard to the social function of cinema and its status as art. Together with the cine clubs established in the early 1950s, new

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art cinemas like Studio and Alcyonis screened contemporary world cinema with retrospectives on all genres and by directors from all over the globe. Newly founded film journals like Contemporary Cinema (Sihronos Kinimatografos, 1969–1982) presented the reflections of contemporary European film-makers and provided the forum for some extremely interesting and, unfortunately, often personalized debates about cinema. This particular journal gave birth to and consolidated an intellectual momentum that became more intense after the fall of the dictatorship in 1974 and continued for decades. It was written by specialized critics who could appreciate film as a distinct and autonomous artistic expression with its own vocabulary and principles. Critics like Vassilis Rafailides, Tonia Marketaki, Yorgos Korras, Kostas Sfikas, Lakis Papastathis, Frida Liapa, Maria Gavala, Theodoros Angelopoulos, and Mihalis Dimopoulos were at different times on the editorial board of Contemporary Cinema and their contributions changed the way that films were understood and evaluated. The journal promoted a sharp difference and antagonism between “commercial cinema” and “creative cinema” or “the politics of the creator;” advocating predominantly the auteur tradition, although in a rather ad hominem way, since, from the directors of the movement only Angelopoulos could be seen as belonging to such a tradition. In this respect they carried on with the debate from the 1960s which identified, as Maria Chalkou points out, there are: Four vital elements as prerequisites for a valued Greek national cinema: the “quality”/“artistic,” “real,” “popular,” and “national,” which were inextricably linked and resulting in one the other. Greek national cinema should be “quality” in terms of content and technique as well as of authorial view; “real” in its thematics and representational styles; “popular” in its content and familiarity to the audience; and finally “Greek” in its theme and, if possible, form.9

Despite their exposure to French theory—more of André Bazin and less of their contemporary Christian Metz—the contributors to the journal never articulated a comprehensive theory about the cinematic creator. At the same time, they rejected almost everything else produced by “bad commercial” cinema, in a manner that verged on the pathology of a provincial elitism. Nikos Kolovos (1938–2005), one of the most prominent theorists of Greek cinema, observed: It is paradoxical, but since the beginning of the 70s till the end of the 80s when New Greek cinema was born and matured, the theory of the creator (auteur) was never appropriated, discussed, or analyzed systematically in Greece . . . Instead an inarticulate and empirical understanding of “the politics of the creator” was adopted by many representatives of the new cinema . . .10

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A History of Greek Cinema However, as Hristos Vakalopoulos observed: The journal Contemporary Cinema . . . refused to become an agency of interpreters. Its efforts moved towards the construction of a discourse parallel to that of the film, something extremely difficult.11

The journal also, under Vassilis Rafailidis, applied to the Ford Foundation in 1971 for a grant and received the substantial amount for the time of 3 million drachmas. With the funds, the journal purchased cameras and other equipment. These offered a unique opportunity to new film-makers to produce their short films with modern machines, and indirectly contributed to the promotion of the new movement. As Rafailidis wrote, justifying the donation from a suspected agent of the CIA: We made ten short films, participated in the production of two feature films by Marketaki and Sfikas, and more importantly we purchased a complete series of expensive machinery necessary for makings films.12

However, the grant itself raised a furious debate about the “moral legitimacy” of accepting money from the imperialist Americans and the hateful class enemy, preparing a wave of vulgar populism that was to dominate the public domain after 1981. After 1974, Thanasis Rentzis’ Film was also a theoretically inclined journal with its distinct format and a radical reinterpretation of the filmic experience that brought to the discourse the experimental mode of Russian formalism and futurism. Rentzis, one of the most innovative thinkers on the production and interpretation of films in the country, theorized on “how poetic transformation and political struggle go side by side.”13 In 1978, Makis Moraites published the journal Cinema, which under different editors and content emphasis continues to be published today. In Thessaloniki, Screen (Othoni) appeared the next year, followed by Cinema Notebooks (Kinimatografika Tetradia). Journals like Camera (1984), Cine Fantastiko (1983), Metropolis (1985), Anti-Cinema (1992), and Cinema and Communication (2000) kept the debates about the social function of cinema alive during a period of marked decline in audience attendance and the transformation of discussions about cinematic experience into incomprehensible theoretical jargon. Ideas from many sources, filtered through the newspapers and journals, ended the rather impressionistic, more or less political and ad hoc film reviewing that had dominated film criticism for decades. At the same time, these magazines gave to official institutions such as the Thessaloniki Film Festival a set of alternative aesthetics which was to be heard through the audiences’ and critics’ awards. Most of the contributors to the journals were influenced by the ideas of the French Cahiers du Cinema, but also by American cinema or Russian formalism, and grafted onto the empirical

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tradition of mainstream reviewing some extremely interesting theoretical questions about film-making—not only with regard to its content, but also to its form, genres, and codes of representation. Psychoanalysis and semiotics became popular after 1975; but overall, film criticism in Greece, as everywhere else, is an eclectic and anarchic hybrid of many different approaches. Special mention must be made of Vassilis Rafailidis’ theoretical contribution with what he called “cine-construction” (filmokataskeue), which he defined as his own method of reading a filmic text. His approach is summed up by the following statement: A film is either good or bad not just because we like it, but because its form reveals an easily diagnosed constructive intention on behalf of its creator. The “architectural plan” on which the film is based is embodied in the film itself and this is what we must find.14

Also important is Nikos Kolovos’ work on the sociology of cinema and his more theoretical approach to cinema, with his main thesis that, “fiction and documentation in cinema do not copy reality; they reduce it to filmic image, sound and speech; to a fragment of a different order of things.”15 But the personality that stands out in the field is that of the historian Yannis Soldatos, with his sustained and meticulous dedication to all aspects of Greek cinema. His work, despite its very personal character and the fact that it is based on the interpretation of cinema through its historical evolution, should be the starting point for any further exploration of the field. His publishing house Aigokeros has been the single most important research centre on cinema in the country, a veritable university in film studies, saving from oblivion important works of Green cinema. Newspapers had and still have their own film review section with influential reviewers like Tonis Tsirbinos, Kostas Stamatiou, Ninos FenekMikelidis, Yannis Bakogiannopoulos, and the younger generation with Michel Dimopoulos, Hristos Bramos, Dimitris Koliodimos, Andreas Tyros, Achilleas Kiriakidis, Tasos Goudelis, Vassilis Kehagias, Vaggelis Kotronis, Ilias Kanellis, Yannis Fraggoulis, Maria Katsounaki, Dimitris Haritos, Yannis Zouboulakis, Thodoros Soumos, and Thodoris Koutsogiannopoulos, all of whom approach movies as art-works in themselves and not as byproducts of other arts dependent on technology, personalities, or funding. Special mention is deserved by the cosmopolitan reviews and essays by Pericles Deliolanis. The contribution by Yorgos Tzitsios through the journal Cinema is also noteworthy. Dimitris Koliodimos’ work on the history of Greek cinema is of permanent value. Finally, of special importance are the passionate and idiosyncratic film reviews by Dimitris Danikas. Each critic naturally gives emphasis to different aspects of a film and its evaluation—there are no common ideological or aesthetic trends among them. Some focus on what is depicted in terms of social relations, gender

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A History of Greek Cinema issues, and sexuality; others on representational forms and on the script, acting, or mise-en-scène. Yet one must stress that quite often many reviewers judge films in black and white terms that do not allow for a creative dialogue between them and film-makers. Some great films have many faults and shortcomings, while many bad films contain many good aspects and cinematically functional elements. For example, many films by Angelopoulos, especially from the 1980s, give the impression of a hasty or even clumsy exploration of a new cinematic language, but overall, through their “architectural plan” they form a complex unity that transcends their partial limitations. Unfortunately, as happened with Rafailidis, many critics seize the opportunity to entertain spectacular musings about Greek identity and history, and films are used to prove a point or to convey a specific interpretation of a real or imagined Greek experience, in a way that encases their meaning in a singular rhetoric, thereby excluding ambiguity and difference. Until recently, many films of popular cinema were looked upon with contempt, ignoring the very important socio-cultural significance that “bad” actors, like Aliki Vouyouklaki for example, or “bad” films, like the comedies by Thanassis Vengos or many films by Dalianidis, might have. As cultural artifacts, Dalianidis’ films deserve closer study with regard to their ideology and aesthetics. The same can be said of the propaganda films made between 1967 and 1974 which must be taken more seriously as political documents and ideological statements. Fortunately, in recent years a more positive approach has been taken to the old commercial films and their genuine humor, carnivalesque exuberance, naïf aesthetics or latent socio-cultural encodings. In 1976, films critics established the Pan-Hellenic Union of Cinema Critics (PEKK), whose chief aim was to build bridges between film-makers and their audiences. It publishes an annual review of all Greek films, organizes retrospectives, and assists cine clubs throughout the country in promoting Greek and international cinema. It has also established a special prize at the Thessaloniki Film Festival. Despite its turbulent ideological inner conflicts, the union has played a positive role in making discourse about cinema relevant to the social changes in the country. Only recently, academics have started to take a serious interest in cinema history and aesthetics within the framework of film studies or media studies programs. But it is imperative that a tertiary education institution on Greek cinema should be established for a more systematic research into its history, personalities, and audience. Worthy of mention however are certain academic works on the history of Greek cinema by Professor Eliza-Anna Delveroudi and especially her massive study on the representation of young people in popular postwar movies (Young People in the Comedies of Greek Cinema). We must also

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mention the studies on the relationship between public sphere and cinema by Maria Komninou, the research on representations of history by Maria Stassinopoulou, the exploration of sexual diversity by Constantine Kyriakos, the studies on New Greek Cinema by Yannis Skopeteas, the subversive “queer’ reading of specific films by Dimitris Pananikoloau. Finally, the relationship between history and cinema has been explored with passionate dedication for many decades through important historical documentaries and films by Fotos Lambrinos, a director of considerable distinction and achievement. In the last ten years, a substantial part of film criticism and reviewing takes place in blogs and other websites, which give ample opportunities for a more holistic approach to the cinematic experience by including film clips, or engaging in a dialogue with other viewers, and making criticism still more democratic and inclusive.

The Rise of Soft Porn The great antagonist of the New Greek Cinema was not the totalitarian state but something closer to the experience of the cinema mystique. Sexuality was always forbidden in Greek cinema, as in most countries after the 1950s. Hollywood had already introduced in 1934 the famous Hays Code, which hindered cinema as a whole from dealing overtly with the question of sexuality. General Metaxas’ laws prohibited sex scenes as much as they prohibited political themes. Of course, Greek cinema had had its nude moments since Laskos’ Daphnes and Chloe (1931), while Tzavellas’ Counterfeit Pound (1955) also had a scene with full female nudity. As we have seen, Greek male audiences were intimidated by female nudity yet attracted to it, since women were nearly always represented either in a sublimated fashion, as angels who suffered in purity and dignity, or as fallen angels, who in depravity and squalor longed for a male redeemer, to domesticate them in the kitchen. However, some films from the late 1950s and early 1960s started questioning this state of affairs. Tallas’ Ayoupa (1958) confronted the audience with explicit sexual provocations; yet his attempt to depict female sexuality as part of personal identity was too far ahead of the standards of a society in which women could only be perceived as victims. So the representation of a woman taking sexual initiatives was soon relegated to the depiction of sexually active women as whores, whose bodies were the easy prey of the male gaze. Yorgos Zervos’ The Lake of Desires (1958) contained bold and violent sex scenes that caused considerable problems to its distribution. Both films inaugurated a long tradition of low-budget movies with very explicit content which caused many intellectual headaches for left-wing ideologists, and just as many problems for the censors.

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A History of Greek Cinema The system that was implicitly accepted was that of limited release in selected venues, which in the long run screened only “sexually explicit” movies under the rating “Strictly Inappropriate.” Such labels functioned as a further stimulus to the male population to watch such “inappropriate” films, especially in suburban areas. During the 1960s, prestigious luxury cinemas, like Rosi-Clair—which was one of the first cinemas built in Athens— gradually screened only porn films in order to compete with the rising dominance of television, while porn cinemas existed in specific suburbs, submerged in the anonymity of populous cities. Another undercover system was concocted by producers and cinema owners in order to “enhance” the sexual content of the films but avoid the restrictions of the censors. Soft porn films, or skin flicks, were screened as rated by state censorship; but, during the screening itself, some extra scenes were added with more explicit material, with different actors and in different settings. This addition (tsonta in the vernacular) became the main characteristic of these films and as an extension of the cinema venues themselves.16 From 1970 until the early 80s, when the industry itself evolved to hard-core porn, with violent sex scenes, rape, incest, bestiality, and more; around 180 movies were made which became legendary for their titles, their actors, and their dialogue. Lust and Passion (Kiriakos Mauropanos, 1960), The House of Lust (Yorgos Zervoulakos, 1960), The Perverts (Kostas Stratzalis, 1963), The Nets of Shame (Errikos Andreou, 1965), The Sinful Women of the Night (Dimitris Galatis, 1966), Gabriela the Whore of Athens (Yorgos Papakostas, 1966), and Sinful Gypsy Women (Lakis Kazan, 1969) paved the way for an unexpected proliferation of sexually explicit movies which thrived under the stern and strict supervision of the dictatorship. From 1969, an average of 20 to 30 films were made each year, some of them box office successes. For example, in the most political year of 1975, Angelopoulos’ and Koundouros’ groundbreaking films were selling fewer tickets than the venerable Women Lusting for Sex, Honey on Her Body, My Body on Your Body and Her Lustful Body! In these films, the script was more or less nonexistent and the acting was appalling. They were usually filmed on an island in order to be sold internationally, and their cost was extremely low. The actors were of diverse origin, background, color, and sexual orientation; some, like the voluptuous Gizela Dali, the carnivorous Tina Spathi, the demanding Anna Fonsou, and the insatiable Kaiti Gini were professional actors or singers. (Some of them later became fanatical Christian nuns to atone for the sins of their careers.) Among the studs ruled the semi-divine Kostas Gousgounis who became a household name for two generations. His shaved Telly Savalas-like head (though he was presented as the Greek Yul Brynner), his famous surreal (and totally unrelated to the action) punchlines, his abysmally bad acting, and

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Costas Gousgounis in In the Trap of Crime (1972) Credit: DVD

his animalistic sexuality transformed him into a legendary figure, a peculiar “subcultural” personality, with style of his own and a distinct performance of vernacular humor. His famous movies Sex at Thirteen Knots (Sex 13 Mpofor, 1974) and The Pervert (O Anomalos, 1975) have been elevated to cult status and are screened today at special festivals or conferences as examples of authentic popular culture. Other men worked under pseudonyms like Tely Stalone (the “biggest” Greek ever recorded, the Athenian John Holmes), Kostas Bokolis (the local Ron Jeremy), Pavlos Karanikolas (the “longest Greek” ever), or were imported like the African-American Jimmy Belarike, a black stud whom no one ever saw naked; the French stallion Georges Christof, with a predilection for anal pleasures; and the elusive Bob Belling who made cinematic history with his lustful penetration of a little goat! The main director was Omeros Efstratiadis, who had produced some heartbreaking melodramas in the previous decades. Efstratiadis’ soft porn films were made for the international market and were released in two versions. One was for local consumption, without explicit sex, but with lots of titillation, and sometimes starring important mainstream actors. Another version, with explicit sex scenes, was made for markets like Denmark, Sweden, the United Kingdom, Turkey, Germany, and the Greek cinemas in Astoria, New York. (Of course, most of them were reimported, sometimes dubbed in other languages.) His famous film Diamonds on Her Naked Body (Diamantia sto Gymno kormi tis, 1972) has been elevated to cult status, if not for its silly script, for the famous actors from classical theatre taking part. Efstratiadis’ films offered what the tourist industry had named “the three Ss” (summer, sex, souvlaki), and were made on Greek islands with international casts from Germany, Denmark, the United States, Canada, and Brazil, thereby establishing the market of sex tourism that was to flourish throughout the 1970s until the arrival of HIV/AIDS.

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A History of Greek Cinema The actors were mainly heterosexual, but after the mid-70s, male homosexuality became fashionable, as men were “experimenting” more, while lesbian stories seemed to be the ultimate aphrodisiac for some heterosexual men. In homosexual porn films the “passive” partner was depicted as an effeminate screaming queen with an insatiable thirst for rough sex with hairy, oily, and foulmouthed Mediterranean men. Another characteristic of these soft porn films is that they never depicted full male nudity; with the penis penetrating everything and everyone, but without ever being seen. Only in the early 1980s did such nudity become acceptable and desirable for the mainly heterosexual audience, especially after the import of films of John Holmes, Ron Jeremy, Lexington Steele, and other legends of the genre. At that point, a strange figure appeared as the key director, producer, distributor, and pimp, who remained not only anonymous but totally unknown, using the nickname Berto, as homage to Bernardo Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris.17 His obscure personality (nobody has been able to identify him with certainty to this day), is in itself material for cinema. “The Great Berto” made most of his commercially successful films with his own production company, Elite Films, for the home-video market and as such it was impossible to rate them officially or even to measure their success. As they were made for private consumption, they became more hard-core, lacking in the sparkling humor that had made them acceptable as “cult” pleasures until then. This change led to the death of the skin flicks and the popular culture surrounding them. Certainly we must see the proliferation of porn films within the wider context of sexual liberation that engulfed the industrialized world from the 1960s. Greek porn films belong to the golden age of the genre worldwide and were “inspired” by the success of films like Boys in the Sand (1971), Deep Throat (1972), Emmanuelle (1974), and later the cult classic Debbie Does Dallas (1978). Their titles have become proverbial: I Accuse My Body (1969), The Circle of Viciousness (1971), Mirella, the Flesh of Pleasure (1973), Perverts Since Their Birth (1974), Lesbian August (1974), Naked Sting (1975), Playing in Two Beds (1975), Mikaella, the Sweet Temptation (1975), Six Pervert Women Ask for a Murderer (1976), and more. Some of these films deserve attention with regard to the “cultural encasement” of sexuality they encode and for what appears incidentally in them. The financial success of some of the films is rumored to have funded the production of the good films of the period, thus indicating the indirect ways the margins can assist mainstream culture. Together with their provocative depictions of homosexuality, transsexuality, and lesbian sex, some also had a tongue-in-cheek sense of humor and self irony. On other occasions, explicit sex disguised an implicit social message or ridiculed specific government policies. The funniest parts in these films were parodies of mainstream movies or actors. The first explicitly

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soft porn film made by the respected director Vangelis Serdaris, The Girl and the Horse (1973) with Anna Fonsou, is considered the most “artistic” film of the genre, with lots of psychological conflicts and an attempt to connect it to the myth of Phaedra and Hippolytus. On the other hand, many venerable and artistic actors and actresses of mainstream cinema and theatre seem to have been involved in soft porn films—it is rumored that even the epitome of sexual innocence, Aliki Vouyouklaki had taken part in a film that has never been found. The Greek soft porn industry was also an attempt to deceive censorship and to entertain the sexually repressed male population. The allure of transgressive sexuality is always present in the psychodynamic horizon of patriarchal societies. The representation of the female body as an open field for the aggression of the male gaze was the ultimate outcome of the unwanted realization that women could be sexually proactive. As such, the commercial success of the porn industry should be seen as the anxious male reaction to the female emancipation movement and the rise of new ethical codes of soft masculinity. It also must be seen as satisfying the phallic curiosity of heterosexual men, the hidden desire to see another penis, as a personal affirmation of masculinity and virility. Dimitris Koliodimos observes that” Many porn films foreground “pure sex” and present a “repressed” sexuality by the bourgeois patriarchal society . . . that is a sexual act which is considered as “perversion,” “irregular,” or “unhealthy.” In these cases such representations take on, without being necessarily “positive,” a special character for the viewers who enjoy such pleasures and express similar sexual behaviors in their lives.18

The phallocentric aesthetics of these films and the absence of a feminist critique of their consumption are some of the contextual parameters for understanding the code of practice of this industry. Yet no one can deny the extremely funny, ironic, and sarcastic, almost carnivalesque celebration of sexual pleasures that some of these films encoded, in a society that struggled officially to regulate sexuality and control desire. The religious sensibility of Orthodoxy avoided demonizing the body or condemning sensuality; but it did its best to disguise and conceal its nudity. These films exposed the body and revealed its allure. They situated the private in the public realm of illicit consumption and underground enjoyment. Overall, we could suggest that these films are more or less irreverent Aristophanic comedies structured around the subcultural use of language rather than porn films. Nico Mastorakis’ Island of Death (or Cruel Destination, or The Devil’s Children, 1975) must be mentioned here because it highlights another trend in the sexual psychodynamics of the period. In it, male and female perverts from Western Europe visit pristine Greek islands, exterminate all other intruders, and meet with retarded local shepherds, realizing their inner

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A History of Greek Cinema fantasies of being ravaged by a modern Satyr. The film was notorious for the scene in which the English pervert, painfully performed by Bob Belling, penetrated a goat, in order to commune with the elemental purity of natural life. The movie demonstrated the androcentric character and sexist ideology of pornography, and especially of the enfant terrible of Greek television Nico Mastorakis.19 Whereas the camera stripped naked and raped the female body, the penis was never exposed. (Perhaps because the actors were very shy!) As with most Greek porn films of that early period, the film fetishizes the female but de-eroticizes the male body and retains its phallic mystery and narcissistic self-satisfaction. Overall, early soft porn films exude a kind of strange innocence, and the actors seemed to really enjoy what they were doing on screen. Behind the sexual buffoonery and the verbal absurdity, viewers can see a certain jouissance, a mixture of pleasure and pain, as, through their sexual excess, these films acted out the guilt and joy of transgression. It was a rebellion not only against the “system,” or religion, or tradition, but against themselves, manifested through a sense of the guilty pleasure offered by a freedom privately won in the dark. In the cult classic The Voyeur (O Idonoblepsias, 1984) we see two macho males—one of them the deity called Gousgounis— greeting each other before their shared sexual escapades begin: “Master,” the younger man says, “you taught me everything . . . In my glorious sexual career I learnt everything through your films which I watched at Rosi-Clair!” The master with cool, gusto, and pride responds, “Oh yes, those were the days; pure and ethical, when all porn films were based on Christian tradition and patriotic Greek ideals!” In a sense, his pronouncements were a worthy farewell to an industry that had served the motherland well in more than one way . . .

The Fall of the Junta After five years in power, the declarations of the dictatorship regarding social stability and prosperity became painfully meaningless and, in the end, dangerous. Their slogan “Greece of Greek Christians” (Ellas Ellinon Christianon) had lost its nationalistic appeal even for the most conservative parts of the population. The inefficiency of military men to govern, the internal squabbling between low- and high-standing officers, and ultimately the persecution of all opponents through imprisonment, torture, and exile made the military government lose its credibility domestically, despite its populist economic policies (loans to all without interest, abolition of existing debts for farmers, expansion of public sector, and so forth). In an attempt to regain trust and legitimacy, the colorful dictator Yorgos Papadopoulos initiated a cautious return to parliamentary democracy. In May 1973, a rebellion of naval officers, mostly faithful to the exiled King Constantine, provided Papadopoulos with the justification to abolish

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the monarchy, organize a plebiscite requesting approval for a presidential democracy, and appoint the decommissioned politician Spyros Markezinis (a former film critic) as the prime minister, giving him the mandate to prepare a new constitution and organize multi-party elections. Meanwhile, Papadopoulos’ refusal to assist the Americans in their support of Israel during the Yom Kippur War in October 1973 alienated him from his protectors, while the oil embargo of the same month created for the first time serious financial problems for a regime that had proudly advertised its economic achievements. At the same time, the looming international crisis of the stock market crash, high inflation and a collapsing monetary system in the US after the Watergate scandal, destabilized the Greek economy. As a remedy or a distraction, the new constitution was drafted, but the people’s growing dissatisfaction intensified the opposition to the dictatorship. On November 14, 1973, students took over the Polytechnic at the centre of the Greek capital and held a rebellion which lasted for three days—an event that was to assume legendary dimensions and create a mythology of relentless “resistance” against the dictatorship. Especially after its fall in 1974, the new political establishment used its imagined or infrequent real resistance (antistase) to the regime as the main credential for accessing power—while in reality the most important members of the resistance either found themselves politically homeless or were persistently ignored, or finally out of self-respect retreated in the background. In a state of panic, the dictatorship sent in the army with tanks and an indeterminate number of students (around 50, according to the most reliable sources) were killed. The ensuing havoc gave the opportunity to hardliners within the army to overthrow Papadopoulos and impose their own rule for a period of nine months. During this period, nothing happened in the country while the international scene was undergoing dramatic changes. The new dictators, inexperienced, ignorant, and incompetent, simply intensified their persecution of the opposition and fanned nationalist emotions, especially against Turkey. Yet they desperately needed a “national victory” to restore confidence in the regime. Their opportunity was found in Cyprus, an independent republic with two main communities, which had coexisted with considerable unease since 1964. The import of nationalist ideologies, and of aggressive activists from both Greece and Turkey, had led to war in the previous decade, when the Turkish-Cypriots were by force restricted to exclusive enclaves. By 1973, an uneasy truce existed between the two communities, despite the attempts by the president of the Republic Archbishop Macarios to find a solution acceptable to both communities. The feeling of imminent disaster in Greece began to consume the public. In July 1974, the inability of the army to govern evolved into a real tragedy,

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A History of Greek Cinema with their insane intervention in Cyprus. In early July a coup was organized by the Greek army and Macarios’ presidential palace was attacked, with the explicit intention of assassinating him. He escaped, but the Athens Junta imposed as the new president Nicos Samson, a paranoid and murderous nationalist who, after exterminating his Greek opponents, was planning to massacre the Turkish-Cypriot minority (15 percent of the population) and declare the desired union with the Greek motherland. This gave the pretext to the Turkish government, it too in search of a “national victory”, to invade the island, completely annihilate the unprepared Greek-Cypriot defense, expel 200,000 people from their homes and divide the island, thereby creating a major political anomaly for European integration to this day. Meanwhile, on the mainland, the terrified dictators and “heroic” army officers simply vanished or took the first airplane out of the country. For several days there was no government until the old right-wing former prime minister Constantine Karamanlis was invited to return from Paris as the “saviour” of the country, the new “ethnarch” who was to create order out of chaos. The Restoration of the Republic with the reinstatement of parliamentary democracy in July 1974 is the most important political event in postwar Greek history and deeply affected the development of cultural life and, of course, of cinema. Despite recurrent financial problems, the period after 1974 has been the most stable, peaceful, and creative era since the establishment of the Greek state. The Restoration instigated an incredible fermentation of creative forces which had remained dormant until then. Censorship was relaxed, the Communist Party became legal again; while the return of exiles made possible the establishment of a mass cultural movement reluctantly supported by the state but overwhelmingly endorsed by the majority of the population. Film clubs proliferated and cinemas enjoyed the last years of their immense popularity, although by this stage they had already lost a considerable percentage of their viewers to television. The social energy generated by the fall of the dictatorship lasted for almost ten years and created some of the best movies of Greek cinema, boosting local production in all kinds of cinematic genres.

1974 and the Great Transition The Thessaloniki Film Festival of 1974 was a landmark in the country’s film history. It was called the “Festival of Rebellion” and ended with the absolute denunciation of its value by audience and participants alike. Yet it was an occasion for both radical explosion and celebration of newly won freedom. For the first time, film-makers felt that they were in control of their art and that they could take the medium wherever they wanted. Banned movies were screened freely, while new artistic tendencies became obvious and

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demanded recognition. The first year after the dictatorship was so dominated by documentaries and experimental films, it seemed as if narrative movies had become instantaneously obsolete and spurious. After 1974, we see a remarkable collapse of narrative representation even in commercial cinema, a collapse which reflected the questioning of all narratives that had until then legitimized the social and political structures of the country. In most documentaries, there was no script or set of questions; the camera moved and recorded almost unintentionally how ordinary people understood political upheavals, social tragedies, and finally themselves. Most were brilliant cinematic achievements by any standards. It was the first time that social formations were not seen as ethnographic case studies or as prettified innocent relics of archetypal realities, but as class structures, as relations of power and control, as configurations of invisible yet powerful communicative networks between individuals and their conditions—individuals who struggled to define themselves and determine their position within the larger picture of Greek political and social economy. The representation of ordinary people taking their destiny into their own hands was in itself an act of emancipation from the oppressive and suffocating past as well as from preconceived notions about national, cultural, and personal identity. For many months after July 1974, one could see in action what Cornelius Castoriadis called the “instituting radical imaginary,” as the collapse of the dominant social order led to the search for new significations and new symbolic languages regarding the articulation of historical experience, personal identity, and cultural memory. Many artists stopped looking at reality as a metaphysical given to be imitated, reproduced, and represented. By breaking away from such restrictive and “closed” understanding of creative action, they explored imaginative constructs which allowed the emergence of new patterns for the visual schematization of experience. Although many efforts focused on the de-institution of old and dominant significations, by criticizing their ideology, a number of these new “propositions” struggled to constitute radical reinterpretations of history and society. They employed not rationalist conformity or ideological cohesion, but imaginative recreations of temporality, space, and collective experience through the singularities of their own individual being. Nikos Nikolaidis, Theo Angelopoulos, and Costas Sfikas, as well as Thanasis Rentzis, Antouaneta Aggelidi, and Tonia Marketaki, drastically rearticulated the methods of visual perception that had dominated cinematic language until then. They established the imaginative schemata that brought to prominence undisclosed aspects of experience by elucidating them and rendering them signifiable. Unfortunately, this imaginary eruption lasted only a few years, as the new conservative government, which won three successive elections,

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A History of Greek Cinema didn’t break with the past but found a comfortable accommodation with it, replicating its ideological obsessions and reinventing its oppressive mechanisms. The institutionalization of cultural production suppressed the radical reimagining of collective and personal identities which had emerged when the authoritarian state had collapsed. Furthermore, left-wing parties, in particular the newly legalized Communist Party, contributed greatly and gravely, to this process of institutionalized control over creative action, indeed over the rebellious subjectivity, by imprisoning individual imaginary within the confines of ideological dogmatism and party allegiance. The willingness of many artists to conform raises questions about them and their work, while the consequences of such conformism were to become apparent in the next decade. The documentaries of the period nonetheless presented a radically new thematology. Soon after July 1974, Yorgos Tsemperopoulos and Sakis Maniatis released their political documentary Megara (1974), a challenging experiment in cinema direct. Takis Hatzopoulos screened Gazoros Serron (1974), a documentary about the life of tobacco workers in Macedonia in the tradition of cinéma-vérité. In 1974/5, documentaries were made on the Polytechnic uprising in 1973, on the Cyprus tragedy, the dictatorship and the Restoration of the Republic. Among them, Cacoyannis’ Attila 74 must be mentioned as one of the best documentaries on such a contentious issue, as it presented in a balanced way what happened in Cyprus during the Turkish invasion. Koundouros’ The Songs of Fire (Ta Tragoudia tis Fotias) and Leuteris Haronitis’ July 24th, 1974 (Eikosi Tesseris Iouliou ’74) must also be included as they encapsulate the immense optimism and rebellious spirit of the period, particularly during the first weeks after the fall of the dictatorship. Significant political documentaries were also made by the so-called “Group of 4,” consisting of K. Hronopoulos, Y. Hrissovitsianos, S. Zahos, and Th. Skroubelos, entitled The New Parthenon (O Neos Parthenonas, 1974); and by the “Group of 6” (D. Gannikopoulos, I. Zafeiropoulos, G. Thanasoulas, Th. Maragos, F. Oikonomides, and K. Papanikolaou), called The Struggle (O Agonas, 1974), both about social and political conflicts in the country from the 1950s to 1970s. Nicos Kavoukidis’ documentary Testimonies (Martyries, 1974) was also an emotional recording by the film-maker himself of the three days of student uprising in 1973. Within the same climate of opinion, Jules Dassin’s Rehearsal (Dokimi, 1974) was an experimental re-enactment of the uprising. Dassin constructed a cinematic tragedy by recreating the actual events through a documentary style punctuated by narrative, songs, and commentary—an extraordinary achievement, a vanguard visual essay on historical reconstruction. Together with the highly political documentaries of the period, a number of unexpected experimental films also appeared. Kostas Sfikas

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(1927–1999) released his totally abstract movie, his “visual philosophical essay,” as he called it, Model (Montelo, 1974). The film had no story or script and explored how capitalism transformed humans into machines, taking inspiration from Marx’s Capital. It was a stunning visual experiment given the very limited technological means of the period. Sfikas rejected cinematic representation and aspired to create what he called “dialectical materialistic cinema.” Later the same year, he released his most ambitious and accomplished work Metropolis (1974), which explored the way in which great cities were taken over by the capitalist system, gradually creating false consciousness in the mind of their inhabitants. The film structure was based on the reworking of still photographs, explained through narrated texts by Rainer Maria Rilke and Marcel Proust, with background classical music juxtaposed with the synchronicity of cultural memory. Sfikas replaced motion with immobility and explored the meaning of cinematic experience through spaces that framed nothingness and stillness. The film was a dazzling display of non-narrative cinematography, based on stills from the old French journal Illustration, constructing an almost apocalyptic cosmology on the effects of capitalism on civilized life. Sfikas should be considered as one of the most important experimental film-makers worldwide, whose films must be placed alongside those by Andy Warhol and Jonas Mekas. In the same genre, Thanasis Rentzis released his Bio-Graphy (1974), which explored the rise and triumph of the bourgeoisie in the nineteenth century through the cultural privileging of individualism. Double exposures, heavy editing, jump cuts and the montage of collisions, based on old gravures and etchings, made this film a seductive surrealist extravaganza. Costas Ferris also made his Prometheus in Second Person (Poromitheas se Deftero Prosopo, 1974), a hyper-real exploration of the creative imagination through the themes, language, and images of Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound. The most interesting film of the year came from the most anti-political director of the period. Nikos Panayiotopoulos’ The Colours of Iris (Ta Hromata tis Iridos, 1974) was a bold statement against political movies and the first surrealist experiment with narrative and color in Greek cinema. In the midst of the ideologization of everything, Panayiotopoulos boldly declared that all political directors were “ideological smugglers” and that his film depicted another kind of “cinematic realism.” He said: I make a film in which the encounter with reality does not take place through realistic places, realistic personalities, or realistic situations, but through cinematic places, personalities, situations. In brief, I make a cinematic film which aims at grafting realism onto life.”20

In the same vein, Nikos Nikolaidis (1939–2007) released his Euridice B.A. 2037 (1975), which explored the Underworld into which Euridice was

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A History of Greek Cinema thrown to wait for Orpheus; “B.A. 2037” was her code number in the Underworld where she could not remember anything or anyone, even Orpheus, despite all his efforts. This was another anti-realistic film which paved the way for Nikolaidis’ mature works. Nikolaidis and Panayiotopoulos were unique voices raised in opposition to the domination of the political over the existential. Throughout their careers they shaped new forms of oppositional aesthetics that were to disrupt the post-Restoration optimism about what constituted cinematic language and the role of cinema in contemporary societies. More importantly, both directors, together with other experimental creators, “problematized” the dominant narrative about reality by constructing “non-logical” narrative idioms, permeated by the surrealist “marvellous” and by a special concern for non-linear forms of representation. In the same direction, although released the next year, Andreas Thomopoulos’ masterful and jocular Aldebaran constructed an imaginary city with inhabitants from social margins. The movie was a poetic and surrealistic exploration of the Athenian landscape through the eyes of a “hyper-lexist” poet, a rock musician, and a prostitute, and introduced fantasy and imagination as the principles of the cinematic visual space—a totally different way of looking at the reality of the urban centre with the strange subcultural communities living between the cracks of social legitimacy. Two feature films of stark realism from 1974 are also worth mentioning. Tasos Psarras’ For Insignificant Reason (Di’ Asimanton Aformin) was about the lives of tobacco workers in the 1950s as they struggled to establish their union. This was film of dire and austere realism depicting social conflicts with sensitivity and powerful images. As an unexpected oddity from the past, Panos Glikofridis’ The Trial of the Judges (I Diki ton Dikaston was a good narrative film, despite its strong theatricality, about the trial of the leader of the Greek Revolution Theodoros Kolokotronis in 1834. The film was released after the fall of the dictatorship at a very opportune time, when

Andreas Thomopoulos, Aldebaran (1976). Greek Film Archive Collection.

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court cases against the dictators were being raised. Court procedures against the officers who tortured citizens and the leaders of the dictatorship itself later became documentaries by Theodosis Theodosopoulos with considerable box office success. The year of the Restoration of the Republic was permeated by euphoric chaos, irrational hopes, and uncontrollable optimism. All kinds of cinematic genres were tested and radical experiments with the medium were taken. It was as though in six months Greek film-makers were attempting to construct their own Nouvelle Vague, Cinema Novo, Czech New Wave, New German Cinema, and the American Underground, among others, all at once. The camera abandoned the safety of the studio, the director, the security of a stable script and actors, the assurance of an accepted style of performance; and in unison asked, indeed demanded, the audience to abandon their own viewing conditioning and the friendly aesthetics of commercial cinema, the Hollywood tradition, and the French Cinema du Qualité, and to immerse themselves into inaccessible and sometimes incomprehensible avant-garde creative outbursts. In the beginning, audiences seemed to respond—moderately. But such creative frenzy could not last long and could not be consumed by everyone. Furthermore, the Herculean labor of reforming aesthetic regimes and viewing habits by homogenizing all cinematic idioms into a singular “political” unified language had strong elements of a looming cultural autocracy by a specific kind of artistic representation and its corresponding hermeneutics. In the beginning, the prospect looked appealing. If we look at the sales of 1974, from an overall production of 34 films, four from the traditional “commercial” cinema sold a considerable amount of tickets. Filippos Fylaktos’ war melodrama Pavlos Melas had 432,989 admissions (heavily promoted by the dictatorship; the film disappeared after July); Glikofridis’ The Trial of Judges had 98,299 admissions; Dalianidis’ comedy My Love Wua-Wua (Agapi Mou Oua Oua) had 94, 945, and Thallassinos’ A Law Abiding Citizen (Enas Nomotagis Politis) had 69,100. Errikos Andreou’s Soul and Flesh (Psihi kai Sarka), with 89,000 admissions also made a moderate international career employing the Hollywood tradition of a gripping political thriller spiced with electrifying sexuality. The rest were all soft porn, which dominated both production and consumption that year: 21 porn films were screened with 800,000 admissions overall.21 This seemed to have only slightly changed in the next year. Despite the dominance again of porn films (six erotic films are among the ten most successful in 1975), a strange political film had more admissions than any other production. Theo Angelopoulos’ The Travelling Players (O Thiasos) topped the list with an impressive 205,000 tickets. Its success was unexpected because the film was almost four hours long, its narrative was complicated and slow, and it seemed to present its subject matter from a specific left-wing perspective. No

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A History of Greek Cinema other political movie of the New Greek Cinema would ever be as successful. Its legacy was to overshadow the development of Greek cinema in a way that is both admirable and puzzling. In a way, The Travelling Players synthesized all experimental efforts and traditional practices of Greek cinema and converged them into a unified language, which was dense, solid, and self-sufficient.

1975: The Year of the Masterpiece While still working under the dictatorship, Theo Angelopoulos managed to get permission to make a film based on Aeschylus’ tragic trilogy Oresteia. The topic looked very patriotic, and despite its usual “tragic” themes of betrayal, patricide, and matricide, the censors found it to be a perfectly good Greek project. What Angelopoulos had in mind of course was something unexpected and, to a certain degree, unpredictable. It was filmed with the assistance of the Greek army and the local police who thought throughout that they were contributing to the production of an ancient tragedy. Angelopoulos screened his four-hour grand epic The Travelling Players at Cannes and received the Critics’ Award, since the conservative Greek government thought it too left-wing to represent the nation. The movie was a challenging consummation of experimentation in form and content and introduced a Bergsonian temporality which seems to have permeated Angelopoulos’ other movies. It was also the film that made Greek cinema noticed for the first time internationally and which made Theo Angelopoulos a European director, quite often compared with Miklós Jancsó, Michelangelo Antonioni, and Andrei Tarkovsky. Angelopoulos’ gaze was not simply a visual idiom confined by locality and circumstances, but indeed a totally new language for the representation of history, which incorporated Bertolt Brecht’s theatrical concept of “distanciation” within the Aristotelian poetics of telling a complete story that leads to psychological catharsis. Despite its considerable length, which caused skepticism when it was released, it was an incomparable achievement, probably the best European film of the 70s, when experimentation with form and representation was prevalent, while American Cinema was undergoing a similar transition through the new cinema of John Cassavetes, Martin Scorsese and the early Francis Ford Coppola. The film is a hybrid epic, something between Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915) and Miklós Jancsó’s Red Psalm (1971). It reinvented narrative practices by fusing past and present timelines, interrupting action in order to report what happened in the past, fragmenting all forms of linear story development—essentially demolishing official versions of history with narrative discontinuity. Yet it is probably the most difficult-to-like masterpiece in world cinema—opaque, introspective, and dense. It created its own specular reality, a film apart from all others—slow, didactic, and frosty.

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Theo Angelopoulos, The Travelling Players (1975). Courtesy, Theo Angelopoulos. Credit: DVD

Angelopoulos did his best to break down all conventions of representing history, reality, and characterization on screen. He employed long takes, abolished montage, immobilized the camera, slowed down action, and made dialogue artificial, self-conscious, and almost superfluous. Space became one-dimensional and depthless. Angelopoulos forced the camera to move slowly, either across the scene or panning away from it with an indifferent solemnity and icy detachment. Stylized acting and overt theatricality made the viewer unable to empathize with the characters or the story, although somehow the representation of collective suffering became itself a powerful symbol of contagious emotional energy. Angelopoulos also used cold and distancing colors to instigate a further Brechtian de-identification between his viewers and his actors, and indeed between the actors and their roles. Colors erected a barrier between action and audience and expunged any notion of empathy or compassion. A consciously theatricalized movie, it rejected all forms of psychologization and individualized versions of collective experience. In one incredibly icy scene, the fascist youth takes off his clothes and poses naked in front of the camera. His nudity is not sexualized or even erotic; it is one of the most embarrassing and awkward representations of the human body ever depicted in cinema. No desire can be projected onto his body; no desire is exuded from his body. It is the mortification of all feelings imposed by power, hidden under impeccable uniforms, which underpins such scenes. Angelopoulos is one of the very few directors, Tarkovsky probably another, who totally rejected Freud’s interpretation of human history as the corporeal self-awareness which leads to Hollywood style individualism. In an unexpected way, this is the masterpiece of structuralism, since everything is reduced to omnipotent and imperceptible structures that are imposed by power or by the desire for domination.

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A History of Greek Cinema Angelopoulos added another dimension, the mythological, by structuring his movie around the ancient myth of Aeschylus’ Oresteia, both as a pretext and as a hyper-text. So, his movie, while corresponding to a lived experience of recent history, also functioned at the level of mythic symbol. It is about the trauma of history, and the consciousness of history as a constant loss of innocence. “I came from Ionia, over the sea, where did you come from?” one of his main characters asks before being executed by the Germans. The interplay between history and fiction made the film equally puzzling. Despite everything being meticulously researched and based on actual events, the characters create a stage and the whole film takes place on a stage or in front of one. The underpinning idea of history as performance is one of the most important suggestions we find in the film. Robert A. Rosenstone observed that: Angelopoulos may provide a kind of invented history, but taken together his films are . . . works of enormous complexity that are at once meditations on the past and explorations of what has been repressed by official discourse.22

Angelopoulos suggested a totally new way of representing and understanding history as collective experience and felt temporality, and not simply as events linked by causation. The polarity between the innocence of human existence and the guilt about the structures created by humans is a deep and somehow confusing antinomy in Angelopoulos’ works. His reluctance to give any psychological depth to his characters makes them lose their historicity, and they are transformed into ideotypes and detemporalized forms: they have a topos, but their time is ahistorical. This antinomy becomes more obvious later when Angelopoulos turns to individual histories in order to examine the

Theo Angelopoulos, The Travelling Players (1975). Courtesy, Theo Angelopoulos. Credit: DVD

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historical experience of the common people. But in this early period, his characters do not develop any emotional strength or inner life—they are not characters but historical forces, agents of action and energy, catalysts that move the story in different directions. They are so in order to deal with the lingering traumas and tensions of the past. As Aimilia Karali aptly concluded: In his Travelling Players Angelopoulos becomes the rhapsodist of memory (of a memory forbidden, rejected, stubbornly preserved, morbidly believed, of a memory that should have been forgotten. He used it in his film in diverse forms: cultural (myths, popular theatre, folk painting), active (songs, narrations, confessions, proclamations), subjective (recollections, convictions, individual and collective fantasies). His main aim was the activation of memory as a factor in the present and not as antiquarian remembrance. As an artistic work, The Travelling Players constitutes a political act which does not relate solely to the historical time it talks about, or in the time when it was made. It belongs, as Spyros Asdrahas, has said, in the “genealogy of our contemporaneity.”23

Almost 40 years later, the film retains its radical aesthetics in a way that begs for more detailed and closer analysis. It seems that Angelopoulos has brought together the great experiments with time and space, from Bresson, Antonioni, Tarkovsky, Ozu, to Welles, Godard and Jancsó, by rejecting montage and editing, and by letting his camera simply “attest” to the events. It was, as Bresson said, “production of emotion determined by a resistance to emotion.”24 Today, one could also add a layer of irony that we find emerging from the idealism of a generation that sacrificed everything to the altar of failed gods, in a way analogous to the other Marxist phantasmagoria of the period, Bernardo Bertolucci’s 1900 (1975). At the end of The Travelling Players, the defeated revolutionary recites verses by the famous Greek anarchist poet Mihalis Katsaros, while overlooking the city: “I will remain in my rags, as the French Revolution bore me, as you my mother Spain gave birth to me, a dark conspirator.” He speaks with force and despair about the “submission to the dreadful power” and that “an ordered life” is a nightmare while they were promised “a lame freedom again.” We must ask today whose power he was referring to: the coercive force of the capitalist system or the terror of Stalinist Soviet Union? The film was a revolutionary reflection on the forces of history, an exploration of the social utopia that had to remain an imaginary homeland. Instead of attempting to glorify the endurance of the Civil War fighters, this was a film about the necessary projects of political renewal and social regeneration and the sacrifices they entail. It was a film stating principles, like the Declaration of Human Rights, and as such it remains one of the

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A History of Greek Cinema most important political statements ever made—in the age of late capitalism, the era of generalized conformism—through cinema. In a society without opposition, this film completed and consummated the tradition of oppositional aesthetics that undercut cinematic production in Greece. Finally, Angelopoulos’ film was one of the very few Greek films which have had an international impact; it consolidated some of the central principles of the Third Cinema and its postcolonial self-articulation as well as of art cinema around the globe. Dennis Hanlon explored “dialectical transculturation,” describing what he called: . . . thematic similarities between Angelopoulos’s film and Javier Sanjinés’ Clandestine Nation. Both films look back on traumatic periods of dictatorship and attempt to rescue and reconstruct a national history and identity. In The Travelling Players, Angelopoulos presents a history of the left in Greece between 1939 and 1952 that had been erased from the record by a succession of right-wing governments. Sanjinés gives visibility to the indigenous majority of Bolivia whose presence is effaced by the dominant discourse of meztizaje.”25.

As Andrew Horton stated, “Angelopoulos’ dialectical vision is one of a multiplicity of realities existing within each single image, moment and character.”26 Because of its density, the film has to be dismembered to gain accessibility and wider recognition, but if there ever was a film to express more than anyone else Gilles Deleuze’s “chronosigns” and their semantic networks, this must be it. The circular time of Angelopoulos’ film establishes completely different semantic fields within the actual image, not for their reference to reality but as a “function of remembering, of temporalization: not exactly a recollection but ‘an invitation to recollect.’”27 As such, this is a world-cinema film, providing an alternative understanding of history for the autonomous subaltern in its struggle for distinct visibility and singular voice.

1975–1981: Uneasy Days of Freedom As we have seen, political liberalization gave almost complete freedom to directors to experiment with cinematic form and content, despite the fact that laws relating to cinema changed only after 1981. It also revealed a wide variety of idioms that vied for funding and popularity in a contest that sometimes, because of factionalism and personal rivalries, degenerated into the loss of common ground that had unified film-makers regarding their common enemy—state censorship. Censorship still remained in this period, but it relaxed its grip on production and scriptwriting. This gave opportunities to established directors to revisit accepted or imposed perceptions regarding the lingering traumas of the recent past, such the Asia Minor

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Catastrophe, the Civil War, and the invasion of Cyprus, and to younger filmmakers to experiment with form and script in unprecedented ways. As a consequence, the conflict between commercial and art cinema resurfaced in the mid-1970s and unfortunately led to the demise of both. Audiences turned to television more and more. By 1980, cinemas had lost 50 percent of their audience, and the production of movies was reduced substantially despite state assistance through the Greek Film Center. Indeed, state assistance was so extensive that Rafailidis observed that between 1975 and 1985 film production “de facto 100 percent belonged to the state.”28 As the state controlled Greek Film Center started receiving more funds for the production of new films, the old independent studio system was dying out. In January 1977, Philopimin Finos died. He had produced the most important commercial movies in the postwar period, and he had staunchly refused to make any programs for television.29 His death was to mark the end of an era in production, distribution, and exhibition patterns in the film industry. However, a new independent production company was established by the ambitious businessman Mihalis Lefakis, Greca Film-Lefakis, which was to make some of the best films in the following 15 years. Between 1976 and 1980, a number of interesting films were released, although their number was gradually decreasing. At the same time, the differences were starting to become obvious. Angelopoulos took his idiom in unpredicted directions, whereas Voulgaris was soon to develop a new style reminiscent of a more traditional narrative cinema. Marketaki produced very few movies and one television serial while Tasios turned to a more “popular” cinema with strong ethico-political agendas. Damianos was to withdraw for almost 20 years. Despite their “intellectual” dominance, the directors of the New Cinema never produced a big commercial success while, due to the growing competition with television, film production decreased rapidly. Fewer than 10 feature films were made in 1976, 7 in 1977, 12 in 1978, 11 in 1979, and 14 in 1980. Each year meanwhile, at least 30 to 40 porn films were made, as well as a number of documentaries and short films. Ticket sales for these films were extremely low: the first in sales were porn films, followed by slapstick comedies. Some “unusual” films, for example the last two by Kanellopoulos, were never released to cinemas. In 1976, eight films in the top ten list of commercial success were porn movies. Only Pantelis Voulgaris’ Happy Day with 61,000 admissions and a comedy by Thanassis Vengos with 248,000 can be found on that list. In 1977, five of the top ten were porn, while Angelopoulos’ The Hunters topped the list with 105,000 admissions. In 1978, a number of good films appeared on the list, namely Panayiotopoulos’ The Lazy People of the Fertile Valley with 117,000 tickets, but all other films had very limited commercial success. The next year was dominated by slapstick comedies and porn films, with the

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A History of Greek Cinema exception of Andreas Thomopoulos’ A Laughing Afternoon with 136,000 tickets and Nikolaidis’ The Wretches are Still Singing with 47,000 tickets. In 1980, the top ten was dominated by comedies and porn, with the exception of Tzimas’ political thriller The Man with the Carnation, which sold the startling number of 620,000 tickets, and Tasios’ Request with 200,000 tickets; whereas Angelopoulos’ grand epic Megalexandros had fewer than 70,000 admissions.30 It was obvious that ticket sales were plummeting and with them the number of films produced, despite the hefty assistance provided by the state, after 1978, with the new framework of funding and administration for the Greek Film Center. One could also wonder on whether the success of certain political films was only circumstantial due to the strong politicization of the period, which rejected with disdain everything that the old cinema had produced. Such atmosphere did not seem to tolerate any non-political films or even any non left-wing, Marxist inspired aesthetics. Such deep politicization would soon take its toll. Meanwhile, these five years were extremely crucial as new styles were tested and new representations became dominant. Pantelis Voulgaris’ Happy Day is a movie that, through the starkness of its photography and the barrenness of its landscapes, is probably to this day the best cinematic rendering of the sterility of the dictatorship. The film was also commercially successful, despite its slow pace and detached narrative. Its success captured the need of the era to objectify its traumas and discuss them in the public sphere, as it explored with empathy and compassion the brutalization of prisoners by their guards and the gradual loss of their humanity. Also in 1976, Tasos Psarras’ May reconstructed the events of the great strike by tobacco workers in May 1936 and their brutal suppression by the Metaxas regime, with historical accuracy, albeit with a strong melodramatic tenor. A number of good documentaries must also be mentioned, especially Lambros Liaropoulos’ The Other Letter (To Allo Gramma), and Lambros Papadimitrakes and Theklas Kittou’s Cyprus, The Other Reality (Kipros i alli pragmatikotita). Also two experimental films were of critical significance: Demos Theos’ The Process (Diadikasia), a political allegory about rebellion and suppression, and Kostas Aristopoulos’ Letter to Nazim Hikmet (Gramma sto Nazim Hikmet), an illustrated letter to the oppressed people of Turkey and other countries. The great comedian Thanassis Vengos released Thanassis in the Country of the Slap (O Thanassis stin Hora tis Sfaliaras), a film made in two “contrastive” parts by two different directors (Dinos Dimopoulos and Panos Glikofridis) which explored with humor and satire the life of ordinary people under the two dictatorships of 1936 and 1967—it was the most commercial film of 1976. In 1977, three great documentaries were released which reassessed social realities in the country. Yorgos Antonopoulos’ Mantoudi Euboia

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’76 (Evia Mantoudi 76) explored the causes of the long strikes by factory workers. Maria Papaliou’s The Struggle of Blind People (O Agonas ton Tiflon) presented a major expose of the way that institutions affiliated with the state and the church, exploit the predicament of blind people. Pope Alcoule’s Women Today (Oi Gynaikes Simera) was the first ever sociological investigation of the position of women in Greek society through interviews and in-situ research. The experimental film Studies on the Same Theme (Parallages to Idio Thema) by Antouaneta Aggelidi explored the significance of representation itself, especially the representation of women, in an attempt to investigate the impact of images on the human mind. After receiving a huge amount of funding and technical assistance from the Greek state, Michael Cacoyannis adapted Euripides’ tragedy Iphigeneia (1977) which completed his trilogy, but, unlike his Electra, was heavy with the Hollywood aesthetic of the grand spectacle, loud performances, and hyperbolic emotional conflicts. It was the last Greek film to be nominated for an Oscar until Dogtooth in 2010. Manousos Manousakes’ The Archons (Oi Arhontes) was a surreal and absurd parable on the oppressive mechanisms employed by a ruling elite of politicians, army officers, priests, and diplomats. In it, ordinary people experience and define themselves not as citizens but as inferior subjects reacting against their status only in their dreams or in borderline states of social and personal conflict. Drama and comedy converge in this film, which despite its cinematic crudeness, was emblematic of the debates of the period. It won the special prize in the Anti-Festival of Greek Cinema which was organized for the first and last time against the official Thessaloniki Film Festival in 1977. A similar film which caused a political uproar when it was screened on television was Nikos Alevras’ Bullets fall like a hailstorm (and the wounded artist sighs) (Peftoun oi sfaires san halazi kai o pligomenos kallitehnis anastenazei). Its bizarre and provocative hallucinations explored in a surrealist manner the alienation and complacency that were to dominate Greek society in the years to come. A good film of gritty but optimistic social realism was Pavlos Tasios’ The Big Shot (To Vari Peponi). The film explored the gradual alienation of an innocent young farmer from his self and those around him as he struggles for success in the big city. His gradual disconnection from reality makes him live in an illusory world, which collapses after he gets married and must work to earn his living. This simple story about an ordinary individual was a fascinating morality tale about personal identity, social commitment, and self-perception. The film continued the ethical project which was unfolding in all of Tasios’ films, by depicting the moral nature of all decisions when humans succeed in recognizing each other’s existence. Angelopoulos screened his mystifying political film The Hunters (Oi Kinigoi), which received the first prize at the Chicago Film Festival in 1977.

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Theo Angelopoulos, The Hunters (1977). Courtesy, Theo Angelopoulos. Credit: DVD

The new democratic government denied him funding, a practice that was to become characteristic of all parties in power, who controlled the Greek Film Center. With this film, Angelopoulos inaugurated his practice of co-productions, especially with television channels from Italy, Germany, and France, a practice that would soon elevate him to the status of a major European director. His film was an extraordinary artistic achievement in so far as it extended the visual language of The Travelling Players and reinvented “historical verisimilitude” by establishing new camera angles, rearranging photographic composition, and recasting styles of acting. The plot was made around a simple premise: celebrating New Year’s Eve, a party of wealthy hunters discovers in the mountains of northern Greece, preserved in ice, the dead body of a communist fighter from the Civil War. The body becomes the catalyst for the fantasies, phobias, and panics of the bourgeois class to emerge and be re-enacted as if on a theatrical stage, showing the “inauthenticity”, the “heteronomy,” and the “unreality” of the Greek political establishment. The most interesting aspect of the film was its visual style; based on yellow, green, and ochre colors, it created a cold distance between the viewer and the story, a chilly separation from any kind of empathy or identification with the characters. It was as if Angelopoulos deliberately kept his viewers away from the film, as its story unfolded in an icy remoteness. This is essentially a director’s film, a compact visual laboratory for all aspiring film-makers who need to study such bold experiments before attempting any form of filmic representation. One could claim that a new theory of visual perception is needed in order to make justice to the fundamental antirealism that we encounter in this film. It was also the film that ended Angelopoulos’ so-called “history trilogy”, which explored the history of modern Greece, as the topos of a profound disparity between society and state, as the space of an ongoing conflict between the negativity of government and the constant resistance of the

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people against the absence of projects of renewal. Angelopoulos exposed the nature of the Greek state as predominantly a set of mechanisms for social control, surveillance, and oppression, and not as a form of social organization establishing conditions for the “pursuit of happiness” or the enhancement of freedom for its citizens. Dinos Dimopoulos reappeared in 1978 with an accomplished adaptation of the novel The Sun of Death (O Ilios tou Thanatou) by Pandelis Prevelakis, which redeemed him from the sins he had committed with Vouyouklaki’s melodramas. According to him, the film expressed the quintessential “colors of Greekness” and explored the “authentic Greek tradition” as encountered in the remote villages and the pre-modern way of living. It received ample funding from the Greek Film Center; yet despite its great photography, luminous colors, and suggestive atmosphere, it theatricalizes cultural identity, transforming it into an ostentatious visual performance without vestiges of historicity. The idea that Greekness was an archetype transcending history, self-consciousness, and change remained one of the central beliefs of all conservative film-makers. On the other side in the same year, Nicos Panayiotopoulos’ The Lazy People of the Fertile Valley (Oi tempelides tis Euforis Koiladas) was another symbolic anti-political statement, a parable about the life and days of the Greek bourgeoisie, who governed an absent community, deprived of agency, initiative, and creative force. The script was based on the 1948 novel Les fainéants dans la vallée fertile by the Egyptian writer Albert Cossery which proclaimed the anarchist right to be lazy. But Panayiotopoulos brought the story upside down and constructed an apt parable about the absence of creative capacity among the ruling elite of the country. The film approached Marco Ferreri’s The Grande Buffe (1973) and Liliana Cavani’s The Cannibals (1969), and expressed the anarchist aesthetics of exposure and denouncement through overstatements and satire. Certainly there was a lot of optimism in the belief that the ruling establishment of the country suffered from suicidal tendencies. At the same time, as with his first movie, Panayiotopoulos’ film recorded “the first cracks in the unofficial group called New Greek Cinema.”31 In 1978, Nikos Koundouros produced his monumental film 1922, addressing the ur-trauma of the Asia Minor Catastrophe without evasions, phobias, or pretexts. It was the first time that the magnitude of the disaster received visual representation as an imaginative event, seen through the eyes of a lost youth. The reality of being violently and mercilessly uprooted, the inability of the common people to react to and comprehend what happened or who is to blame, and ultimately the destiny of ordinary people within epochal changes in history were expressed through cold colors and powerful images, in an attempt to objectify the pain and horror of the depicted reality. The depiction of the confrontation between the defeated Greeks

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Nikos Koundouros, 1922 (1978). Greek Film Archive Collection.

and the triumphant Turks was not as nationalistic or defensive as some critics argued. Koundouros empathizes with the Greeks not because they are Greeks but because they are defeated: the destiny of the victims at the hands of a victorious army interested him just as much as the trauma of the Catastrophe itself. The dramatic structure of the film, which started with a kitsch theatrical performance about the glory of Greece and ended with the inarticulate scream of the traumatized refugees, must be one of the most effective ever made in Greek cinema. The farcical and ridiculous official understanding of the “nation” was gradually dismantled by the nightmare of history. The politicians were gone, the official state vanished, and the only ones left were the ordinary people, the believers, struggling to survive. More than any other target, the film castigated, condemned, and caricatured the Greek state, always absent when monumental events took place and always incompetent at protecting its own citizens. It must be mentioned that the film was effectively banned by the conservative government (as the Film Center would not distribute it), allegedly to be sacrificed on the altar of the friendship with Turkey. In reality of course it was because it was the most passionate, angry, and violent plea against those responsible for the Catastrophe—the local political establishment, which in order to avoid been accused, blamed everything on the Turks, even the banning of the film! Overall, despite criticism by both sides of the political spectrum, the film stands out as a unique attempt to deal with the recent past without melodrama, idealization or self-victimization. One could even say that it was Proustian, like Time Regained, an attempt to make sense of loss and absence by re-collecting the memories of the past and giving them artistic unity. Two documentaries of the same year also explored recent Greek history: Dionysios Gregoratos’ Performance for a Role (Parastase gia ena Rolo) and Takis Papagiannidis’ The Age of the Sea (I ilikia tis Thalassas) which put together a considerable amount of original footage of historical

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events between 1917 and 1977. Despite their honesty, both works explore history from the narrow point of view of the Left, presenting historical life as the result of external conspiracies and internal cabals, an approach which characterized most documentaries of the period, and presenting Greek people as lacking in agency and judgement. Kostas Ferris made Two Moons in August (Dio feggaria ton Augousto), a strange love story between a music teacher and a girl. Dimitris Makris’ Iron Door (Kangeloporta) was a successful adaptation of a dark Kafkaesque novel. Tonis Lykouresis’ The Golden Haired Girl (Hrisomalousa) must also be included for its suggestive reconstruction of village life in a state of transition and for the great performance by Vera Krouska. The exploration of provincial life with its amoral conservatism, xenophobia, and ossified traditionalism makes this film a unique text of New Greek Cinema, a visual complement to Angelopoulos’ Reconstruction. The ultimate defeat of the teacher who wanted to perform a traditional theatrical play, the departure of his lover for Germany, and the triumph of the established authorities offered a completely new representation of the “authenticity” of Greek village life. In the same year, Jules Dassin released A Dream of Passion, which represented the country at Cannes and was nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Foreign Film. It was a modern rendering of the story of Medea, as a cinema star—performed passionately by Melina Mercouri—tries to empathize with the ancient heroine, by contacting a mother, hauntingly played by Ellen Burstyn, who had murdered her children to take revenge on her husband. The film explored emotional complexities and mental borderline states in a magnificent and powerful style that both shocks and attracts. An interesting subtext was the psychology of the artist and how she related to her own role as she discovered its objective realization. The acting styles of Mercouri and Burstyn are so different that the whole film hangs on a precarious balance, occasionally upset by Mercouri’s overacting or Burstyn’s internalized subtlety. Unfortunately the film was under-appreciated by critics who expected a more antiquarian rendering of the ancient tragedy. Yorgos Panousopoulos’ Honey Moon (To Taxidi tou Melitos) was one of the most stylish movies of the following year. Panousopoulos explored with affection, sensitivity, and compassion the world of aging people in one of the best films of the period for narrative pace, photography, and characterization. In the same vein, Andreas Thomopoulos’ A Laughing Afternoon (Ena Gelasto Apoyevma) explored the common memories of a divorced couple, as on their last day together they face a terrorist action, with touching sensitivity and ingenious subtlety. Hristophoros Hristofis Wandering (Periplanisi) was one of the most poignant reflections on the destiny of the Greek Diaspora. Rafailidis noted that the film was “the result of a serious reflection on the grave Greek past and its uncertain historical destiny . . . Wandering is the first and to this moment the only ‘national’ Greek movie.”32

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A History of Greek Cinema Other notable movies of 1979 were Vassilis Vafeas’ Eastern Province (Anatoliki Perifereia), an honest film about the transition from a rural mentality to the contemporary capitalist multinational work ethic expressed with stark and cold realism. Dimitris Mavrikios’ Lamore was also a visually remarkable film, with poetic feeling and violent passion, which won international recognition and made known the great actress Katerina Helmi (b. 1939). Kostas Ferris’ Exile on Central Avenue (Exoristos stin Kentriki Leoforo) also addressed the new kinds of trauma that the post-civil war generation experienced; unable to conform and be accepted by either right or left ideologies. The most consummate film of the year was Nikos Nikolaidis’ The Wretches are Still Signing (Ta Kourelia Tragoudan Akomi). It presented a marginal, apolitical group of four friends from the 1950s as it clashed with the growing paranoia of a society filled with vacuous grandiloquent statements and the collectivist oblivion of the individual. Instead of political declarations and visionary pronouncements, the movie revolved around the wonderfully meaningless statement: “Evil began in 1957 after that moron, Perry Como, sang ‘Glendora’!” The movie was full of sparkling wit and subtle humor; a dark comedy, parodying, and yet celebrating, the cinematic memories of a generation that avoided political commitment and developed its own subcultural codes of communication through American movies, underground morality, and rock and roll music. The storyline was driven by its own vibrant and basic colors, as nostalgia for the innocence and the purity of youth was gradually transformed into madness and self-destruction. Its dialogue also constituted another parody of the dominant discourse of belonging, identity, and power—a subversive language full of irony, sarcasm, and vulnerability. Nikolaidis introduced a new language of visual representation to Greek cinema using bright colors, American “decadent” music, filmic references, and intricate plot devices

Nikos Nikolaidis, The Wretches are Still Singing (1979). Courtesy, Nikos Nikolaidis. Credit: DVD

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that make this film a primary cinematic text foregrounding the “hidden histories” of forgotten generations. Within the atmosphere of marginal groups reclaiming visibility, one must include Dimitris Stavrakas’ short film Betty, a documentary on the life of a transsexual. Without cheap voyeurism, the film confronted Greek audiences with an uncomfortable view about male sexuality and with an exceptional individual enjoying every moment of her life with passion and responsibility. Finally, two important experimental films should be mentioned; Maria Gavala’s Narrative/Adventure/Language/Silence (Afigisi/ Peripeteia/Glossa/Siopi), a strange and haunting investigation into the meaning of cinematic language itself. Thanassis Rentzis’ Corpus was a visual illustration of how the human body has been depicted in seven historical periods through narration and double exposures of corporeal representations by various artists. The arrival of the new decade gave rise to new hopes that cinema could fight back against television and bring audiences back to the movies. A number of lavish productions were made, together with the production of slapstick comedies based on the continuing appeal of popular actors and directors. Aliki Vouyouklaki returned to the studios, seven years after her last movie, with the boulevard comedy Cunning Female . . . Rascal Woman (Poniro Thiliko . . . Katergara Ginaika), but the film enjoyed a very moderate success. A number of mildly successful comedies by Thanassis Vengos and Costas Voutsas lampooned the forthcoming participation of Greece in the European Union. Also, there was a remarkable decrease in porn films, as the free import of hard-core porn from other countries was finally allowed. Within the context of local production, a number of films stand out. Voulgaris’ Eleftherios Venizelos (1980) was an ambitious attempt to reconstruct the life of the most prominent Greek statesman, depicting him as an agent of historical change and as the politician who took risks with the nation’s life. With this film, Voulgaris made his first move away from the styles of New Greek Cinema through attempts at characterization and psycholigization structured around a linear narrative. Thodoros Marangos also worked with Thanassis Vengos in the comedy Thanassi, tighten your belt (Thanassi sfixe ki allo to zonari sou, 1980); despite its commercial success, the film failed to renew interest in comedies (which had started reappearing in various forms) and bring audiences back to cinemas. Nikos Panayiotopoulos’ Melodrama? (1980) introduced the theme of existential angst which was to become dominant in the following decade, as Greek film-makers became more and more self-conscious. A number of very good existential dramas were made during this period. A realistic exploration of a subculture was given with Paulos Tasios’, Request (Paragellia), which represented the psychodynamics of the macho subculture with shocking realism through an unembellished narrative. The

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A History of Greek Cinema story was based on true events that took place in the early 70s, when two brothers requested a song at a night club—an indication in these circles of social status and more importantly, respect. At the same time, Tasios transformed the true story into a tense re-enactment of the lives of disturbed individuals as they unfold within a complex universe beyond their understanding and control. The film was one of the very few attempts at gritty realism and austere visual pragmatism, exposing the glamorized vulgarity of the ruling middle class. The commentary throughout the film by the anarchist poet Katerina Gogou is probably one of the most unforgettable sound tracks in Greek cinema; and her verse, “There will come a time when children will choose their parents . . .” amplified profoundly the crisis of family and familial authority that Tasios depicted, a theme which would be explored by a number of new directors later in the decade. Yorgos Stampoulopoulos’ And It Goes to Glory Again (Kai xana pros tin Doxa Trava, 1980) was a hilarious parody of popular culture in its triviality and truth focused on the life and career of the popular singer Yannis Floriniotis. The highest grossing film of the decade was Nikos Tzimas’ The Man with the Carnation (O Anthropos me to garifallo). It was a brave and unambiguous attempt at the visual biography of the famous left-wing politician and intellectual Nikos Belogiannis who was executed by the state in 1954. It was also a gripping and fascinating political melodrama made with all-Hollywood narrative techniques, emotional conflicts, and fast transitions—and, as such, it sealed the end of the political films as understood and promoted by the New Greek Cinema. However, the greatest movie of the year was again made by Angelopoulos. His historical epic Megalexandros (Alexander the Great) was a grand narrative farewelling all grand narratives, a magnificent recapitulation of his cinematic scripture in a way that both puzzled and inspired. The film received the Golden Lion of experimental cinema at the Venice Film Festival (while the Golden Lion went to Louis Malle and John Cassavetes). It is almost four hours long and could be seen as Angelopoulos’ reply to Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible (1944 and 1945). It explored power and its corrupting influence on charismatic personalities, which in certain historical moments linked past and present by focusing social energy and political activism. As Dan Georgakas remarked: With Alexander the Great, Angelopoulos upped the cinematic and political stakes by shifting from specific historical events to take on national mythology with techniques that were even more demanding than in his previous films.33

The story was based on the infamous Dilesi Massacre of 1872, when brigands abducted a number of British tourists and demanded ransom. As the ransom

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was not given, the bandits killed the tourists. Angelopoulos relocated this incident at the beginning of the twentieth century as a folk hero, calling himself Alexander the Great, establishes a counter-community of rebels and outcasts. Power makes him cruel, inconsiderate, and tyrannical. At the end of the film, a ritual of theophagia (god-eating) takes place as the leader is devoured by the community. The final scene shows the only child of the community escaping, and a voiceover announces almost didactically, “This is how Alexander entered the cities . . .” The film remains one of the most underrated by Angelopoulos because of its dense symbolism, opaque and sometimes impenetrable references, and its archaic anthropology. For those who don’t know much about Greek history and folk culture it can be seen as an exercise in pure style with the dominance of neo-platonic optics of representation and their cosmological correspondences. But the references to contemporary realities can be seen as it depicts the tense atmosphere of the political messianism of a deranged individual who sees himself as having been given a special mission by history or God, like the personality cult of Jim Jones in Jonestown, which had come to its tragic end the previous year. The strong Freudian background, with the subplot of incest, adds a complex layer of references to the character. At the same time, the submerged homoeroticism within the closed community of soldiers living with imposed abstinence, obedience, and self-control around the leader opens another dimension towards the libidinal undercurrents that energize the story. Visually, Angelopoulos explored the multiple perspectives of folk painting, especially of the naive painter Theophilos, and the spatial arrangements of Byzantine iconography, with the slow movement of camera, offstage action, and the use of deep earthy colors to explore the psychopathology of authochthonicity that dominates such blood-and-soil movements.

Theo Angelopoulos, Alexander the Great (1980). Courtesy, Theo Angelopoulos. Credit: DVD

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A History of Greek Cinema Hristodoulos Halaris’ music with its rural sounds from windpipe instruments, added an animistic depth that was both seductive and terrifying. The descent into self-delusion of a political leader was to become an extremely relevant issue in the new decade, as the up-and-coming socialist leader Andreas Papandreou presented himself as the savior of the country, in messianic terms, full of the dynamism that was to liberate the country from the demonic oppression of the right-wing conservative autocracy. With its new themes, Megalexandros both farewelled the period of extrovert optimism and greeted the dawning period of grand illusions, which, just as in the film, was to end in an immense disenchantment from all projects of social renewal. The tendency towards psycholigization shows that by then the New Greek Cinema had begun to morph into something different, gradually abandoning the overtly political orientation of the recent past while continuing its formal legacy: long takes, slow narrative pace, suggestive lighting, and the discreet rejection of montage by privileging a realistic representation in plot, location, and character. Most films in this transitional period were moving between realism and magic realism in an attempt to find new ways of visually articulating the changing reality and, most importantly, the changed intellectual and political atmosphere. It was obvious that the explosion of the creative imaginary that had taken place after the Restoration was anything but dormant. The institutionalization of all cultural activity through state apparatuses stifled collective projects of social renewal and relocated the creative impetus into the private sphere. The early 1980s were a period when the auteur tradition became densely introspective. At the same time, television serials and productions for video led to a certain revival of commercial cinema which had by now lost its communal appeal and had instead become a private entertainment at home. Most cinema venues were closing down, while only slapstick comedies and soft porn films were screened at the few remaining theaters. Great actors took part in them for financial reasons and many talents were destroyed by overexposure in vulgar and cheap productions, with rudimentary plots, inane dialogue, and pornographic voyeurism. But the promise of a new era was on the political horizon as the conservatives had run out of steam after seven years in power, and the Socialist Party, full of rhetorical ebullience, ideological fanaticism, and infectious enthusiasm was likely to win the upcoming elections in October 1981.

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The 1980s: Hope and Disenchantment

The Socialist Government and the Promise of Change In 1979 / 80 , under the conservative government of Constantine Karamanlis, an institutional change took place with immense consequences for Greek cinema. Film production was transferred from the Ministry of Industry to the Ministry for Culture. A new legal framework was established, securing sufficient funding and relative freedom as censorship was relaxed but not abolished. Furthermore, a new prominence was given to the Greek Film Center, which was to play a pivotal role in film production, with generous funding and extensive subsidies for various cinematic genres, including feature films, documentaries, television series, and experimental films. In early 1981, Greece joined the European Union; a membership which would allow film-makers to participate in co-productions with European organizations, especially television channels. However, with the noticeable exception of Theo Angelopoulos, it took several decades to make use of the new possibilities opened by the new political and cultural project of a unified Europe. Initially, participation in the EU, instead of opening up Greece to transnational trends and opportunities, seems to have led to forms of parochial ethnocentrism, cultural exclusivism, and demoralizing introspection. This was enhanced by the election of PASOK, an ultra-socialist party, to government in October 1981. It propagated the isolationist slogan “Greece belongs to the Greeks, and not to the West.” As historian Richard Clogg points out, the “heavy mix of nationalism, populist demagogy, and socialist rhetoric” used by Andreas Papandreou to win the 1981 elections became the hallmarks of his rule until 1989.1

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A History of Greek Cinema Certainly, the “change”towards the Left was inevitable. Karamanlis’ government had already proceeded with the nationalization of important sectors of the economy, (banks, transport, heavy industry, for example), in a trend aptly called “social-mania,” thus preparing the way for a complete takeover of economic activity by the state. “Change” had already taken place in France with Francois Mitterrand, and Spain was to follow. The new superstar politician-cum-playboy, an annoying mixture of privilege and populism, Andreas Papandreou, had promised with his grandiose slogans radical changes in political structure, economic development, social welfare, foreign policy, administrative ethos, public life, censorship, new roles for the police and army, meritocracy, a new function of the government, and inexhaustible financial support and institutional renewal for cinema. He had promised this extensive list of changes, through “Allagi,” in his much celebrated “Contract with the People” and his irrevocable “Appointment with History.” The list of promised changes was long, seductive and, depending on his audience, multiplying ad infinitum. After 50 years of right-wing rule, the election of the youthful Socialist Party gave rise to many hopes for a renewed Greek political life, free of the endemic corruption or oppression of previous decades. It also generated many hopes for a renaissance in Greek cinema. Given also the fact that the star of Stella, Melina Mercouri (1920–1994), became the lifelong minister for culture, most film-makers expected that more funding and support by the state was at hand. One of the first things that the Socialist government did was to abolish the 1942 law which had imposed strict censorship on the film industry—and which, generally speaking, showed an overprotective approach to the artistic aspect of film production. Art films became privileged by the state ideology while commercial cinema was considered mere entertainment without artistic merit. Yet, the committees established by the new government were made up of staunch “party” members with anti-right credentials and with the paradoxical understanding of history as an endless persecution of socialists. Their entrenched ideology forced the government to prolong negotiations with industry unions over working rights, special privileges, technician quotas per movie, holidays, and special welfare benefits—to such a degree that the proposed new legislation took over six years to reach parliament. Within this atmosphere, the psychological syndrome of the “underdog cult” became the dominant mythology of the new elite, who fancied themselves as persecuted at the moment when they had unrestricted power, authority, and inexhaustible resources at their disposal. However, with protection and funding came complacency and conformism. It was as if the lifting of the last censorship restrictions and the unlimited financial support institutionalized a “culture of complaint”

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without inaugurating a creative dialogue with the audience, indeed not even a dialogue with the cinematic past. In a strange reversal of the established practices of either indifference or control, after 1982 the state would fund almost every proposal for film submitted to the Greek Film Center, providing, of course, it conformed to its ideological agenda. The idea was that by producing more films, it was more likely that more people would go to see them; consequently, some would be commercially successful and so repay their expenses. This practice was not unlike Papandreou’s pseudo-Keynesian economic policies, which were based on the concept that by increasing salaries and government spending, more cash will flow into the market and as a consequence more money will be generated. The rationale behind the policy was an American interpretation of Keynes’ theory that government could use “the budget to manipulate consumption levels.”2 The implementation in Greece, however, took place without a corresponding increase in productivity, thus leading to rapid inflation and soon to huge deficits that needed heavy external borrowing in order to balance the annual budget. Papandreou thought of Greece as “. . . a country that is European while partaking of the characteristics of the Third World . . .” and which needed a “special kind of intervention.”3 Consequently, when he was elected he used the country “as an experimental field for democratic decentralization and self-government that was to place economic planning under social control and free the ‘people’ from capitalist exploitation.”4 Papandreou’s simplistic formula of managerial economics from above led to the destruction of just about everything that had been achieved in the country during the postwar years. In the end, the socialist government had to disguise everything under the heavy ideological mantle of belligerent rhetoric and heroic theatrics against the “privileged” in a continuous class war, oblivious to the fact that, after 1982, they belonged to the privileged class. As John Koliopoulos and Thanos Veremis observed, “What PASOK did was to develop a populist mode of rallying the masses of the disenchanted around a suitably vague project of ‘change.’”5 Furthermore, in its failure to deliver the promised socialist “eutopia,” PASOK evolved into a harrowing and authentically third-worldish cult of the leader, propagated by state apparatuses with an almost religious fervor and fanaticism. The grand disenchantment with the socialists’ failure to establish a true civil society can be detected in the cinematic codes of the period, especially after 1985, with the radical rejection of all projects of social renewal and the growing withdrawal from public engagement. However, the whole process was deeply political: Papandreou started as a modernizer and ended up a parochial mixture of Benito Mussolini and Juan Peron. The body politic, and film-makers, reacted by rejecting all grand discourses about the past and embracing micro-narratives of individual fall and redemption.

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A History of Greek Cinema With so much money invested, however, there was an explosion of all kinds of films in different genres addressing what now became the dominant ideological stratagem of the government, the abeyant traumas of the past, and only peripherally current issues. The central concern remained the fatal decade of the 1940s, as understood and imagined by the governing party and its followers. The middle class that gained power with the socialists had its origins in the persecuted communist Left of the Civil War and the 1950s. Its rise to power was not just a kind of historical justice and retribution; soon it became obvious that it had escalated into a one-sided and ruthless revenge, without any attempt at genuine reconciliation and critical assessment of historical experience. Many films, and television series, were made to recreate the history of political persecutions of dissidents and the common people. Some were melodramatic, others idealistic, others simply kitsch, but in one way or another, they tried to heal the painful vestiges of a suppressed collective memory. Some extraordinary movies were made during the 1980s; most, however, were mediocre, self-content, and smug, recreating an atmosphere either of populist superficiality or of existential claustrophobia. The explosion of creative work addressing the traumas of the past was something long overdue, but by 1985 it had already lapsed into parochialism and was simply out of touch with the new generation which hadn’t experienced the Civil War and which didn’t know much about the dictatorship either—except as a school holiday. Furthermore, the representatives of the resistance generation proved to be more opportunistic than their conservative counterparts, and soon discredited through their cynicism, careerism, and self-indulgence all projects of political renewal and reform. Furthermore, it was quite paradoxical to talk about state oppression while being fully supported and funded by the state or even seeing those who took part in the resistance against the dictatorship being transformed in less than a year into professional politicians and highly paid television stars. The Socialists, until their last day in power (in 1989), talked constantly as though they were in opposition or a persecuted political fringe, whereas they were in government, took decisions, and actually persecuted many fringe groups. Their incredible denial of their actual position for an imaginary location outside history discredited everything that people had believed until then. The self-perception of Greek society with its new orientation towards the European Union became another dominant issue. The slogans of the Conservatives and the Socialists about belonging indicated a crisis of national identity and of political orientation that was to throw creative activity into a state of confusion, melancholia, and introspection. The question of cultural belonging and of cultural identity, called “Greekness,” became one of the most self-indulgent pastimes in cultural debates of the period. It neutralized creativity in its attempt to singularize and homogenize Greek identity, which

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throughout its history was polymorphous, transformative, and polycentric. The Socialists’ slogan “Greece belongs to the Greeks,” created a culture without points of reference and without external testimonies about its semantic codes—therefore it created a culture in self-imposed isolation. In 1985, such isolation became almost an ideological obsession, after the new president, the famous judge of the Lambrakis affair, gloriously immortalized in Costa-Gavras’ Z, Hristos Sartzetakis, declared, with his bizarre, soporific prose, that Greeks were a “brotherless” nation (anadelfon ethnos)! After the issue of cultural identity was “solved” by the socialists, religious affiliation became a dominant issue. The Orthodox Church had enveloped Greek popular culture so completely that it was transformed into a folk religion, structured around liturgical rituals and archaic ceremonies: this form of nationalized Christianity, which “helped the nation survive,” became an important defense mechanism, especially during periods of crisis. Such self-referentiality was doomed to become an instrument of ideological manipulation in the hands of the government, and a discourse of cultural exclusivism among the state-sponsored intellectuals. Unfortunately, almost ten years of rapid global change were wasted in debating imaginary issues in what Freud termed “the narcissism of minor differences.” Through such narcissism, the Socialists constructed the image of a culture “under siege,” stressing its uniqueness, peculiar position, and specificity. Greece willingly accepted the idea that, within the wider context of European countries, it was determined to remain an “exception,” expressing its exceptional status of a unique historical destiny in near religious terms, reminiscent of the cheap and facile populism of fascism.6 Finally, the social question seemed to have somehow receded as a theme and representation. Indeed, a multiplicity of visual languages was developed which in itself showed that it was impossible to construct in the 1980s a collective narrative that would mean common things to the audiences of an affluent, optimistic, and highly politicized society. The popular directors of the previous decade continued to work and produce some remarkable movies. Yet new realities became visible, beyond the stories of political persecution, party politics, and ideological martyrdom. Many hidden histories of Greek society started to find their visual transcription; histories which, although they looked decadent and reactionary to the ideological orthodoxy of the Left, or decadent and morally sick to the Right, brought to the fore the existence of minority sub-groups and shed light on hidden micro-communities unknown to mainstream society. Overall, as Mihalis Adamomoulos observed in 1981: The greatest disadvantage of Greek cinema in all genres [was] that it didn’t know, or it could not tell a story, or develop a complex narrative. It showed a preference towards formalistic quest, stylization, empty narrative

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A History of Greek Cinema sequences, the framing of space and of objects instead of producing characters, individuals or of developing a grand narrative . . . As a consequence, the only thing that matters is the composition of the frame, the atmosphere, the form, but never the story, or the narrative.”7

During the incoming decade, this formalist tendency would transform itself into another manneristic device meaning anti-commercial, intellectual, and introspective cinema—which ultimately meant boring and self-indulgent stylistic exercises that drove audiences away from the cinemas.

New Films for the New Regime and the Death of New Greek Cinema Together with the election of the Socialist Party, in October, another significant event took place in 1981—the last film made by the superstar of the sixties Aliki Vouyouklaki. A Spy Called Nelly (Kataskopos Nelly) was released and withdrawn after three weeks. Very few tickets were sold and Vouyouklaki abandoned cinema altogether after this humiliating failure. It proved that the old cinema, its values and stars had become irrelevant and that the New Greek Cinema of the 70s had finally triumphed; the only name that survived the demise was the comic genius Thanassis Vengos, who over the next two decades would reveal the sublimity of an authentic tragic self under the popular comic mask. At the same time, a new way of distributing films through video started becoming so popular that it soon developed its own mode of production and dissemination. Many films were made exclusively for the video market. Most were low-budget slapstick comedies, or soft porn, which became really popular as VHS technology was spreading and cinema ticket sales were falling. Many movie theaters closed during this period, despite the new government’s attempt to fund and promote film clubs throughout the country. Film production started dwindling dramatically, and by the end of 1985 it looked as if it had almost vanished, with fewer than 20 artistic feature films being produced each year. There were some interesting contributions to film production, however, produced against the background of countless populist comedies, porn films, and silly melodramas about drugs in schools, prison life, and sexual perversions in the judiciary. Nikos Veryitsis’ Stories of a Honey Bee (Istories mias Kerithras, 1981) brought a new sensitivity to film-making as well as an insight into artistic sensibility with the visual exploration of the life of actors beyond the walls of the studio. Thodoros Maraggos’ Study My Son Study (Mathe paidi mou grammata, 1981) was a stinging satire on the value of education in a materialistic, affluent, and oppressive society, as a provincial teacher forces his children to study. Things become complex when politics intervene,

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showing both the liberating and the destructive aspects of education. The film expressed the looming anger of ordinary citizens, as educated people remained politically suspect and mostly unemployed: “Six year in primary school and 6 years in high school, makes 12. Plus 6 years at the Polytechnic school—18 in all. Another 6 years abroad, 24 . . . Where did my life go?” It was the most successful film of the year and became extremely popular as a satire of the contradictory policies of an oppressive state which promoted education as a mechanism of obedience and conformism. Tasos Psaras’ The Factory (To Ergostasio, 1981) was a realistic depiction of the growing changes in economic production and their consequences. Yorgos Panousopoulos’ A Foolish Love (Oi Apenanti, 1981) was an accomplished depiction of the desire for communication and connection between people living in modern apartments, as presented in the illicit love affair between a middle-aged woman and an adolescent. Betty Livanou’s performance was majestic while the emotional realism that Panousopoulos employed to unfold his story was engaging without becoming melodramatic. Frida Liappa’s The Ways of Love are Nocturnal (Oi Dromoi tis Agapis einai Nihterinoi, 1981) was probably one of the best and most interesting attempts to reclaim the primacy of the individual adventure against the grand collective narratives that dominated the populist aesthetic of the period. Liappa’s female gaze searched for what constituted emotional truth in the desperate existential quest for fulfillment and reciprocity. Lakis Papastathis’ In the Time of the Hellenes (Ton Kairo ton Ellinon, 1981) was a strange and somehow “revisionist” film which inaugurated a new understanding of “national identity” as the distorted perception of the ruling class regarding the “authentic Greek tradition.” Set at the beginning of the twentieth century and dealing with a topic similar to Angelopoulos’ Megalexandros, it is interesting to notice the differences in approach, style, and storyline between them. Papastathis (b. 1943) showed a distinct sensitivity for the details in the reconstruction of the period, in language, costume, and settings. However, the suggestion that “authentic” Greece was to be found in the behavior of the brigands, as if there was somewhere an “inauthentic Greek tradition,” made this film ideologically spurious. On the other hand, Thanasis Rentzis’ Electric Angel (Ilektrikos Angelos, 1981) was a significant non-narrative experimental film, exploring the mystery of eroticism as manifested throughout the twentieth century in dreamlike sequences full of sensuality and hypnotic music. The first full year of socialist government saw a number of good films produced. Hristophoros Hristofis’ Rose (1982), with the Polish actors Andrej Severin and Daniel Obrinsky, was a nostalgic meditation on the predicament of displaced political refugees, through poetic realism and fragmented narrative. The story is about these refugees as they meet at a famous hotel in Trieste during the Greek dictatorship, the same hotel where Rosa Luxemburg

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A History of Greek Cinema had stayed during her exile. Dinos Mavroidis’ The Happy Face of Leonora (To Eutihismeno Prosopo tis Leonoras, 1982) was an opaque attempt to explore the rise to power of the new middle class, after years of persecution: closed in an isolated house, the successful members of society narrate the ghosts of their past and reveal the betrayal of their idealistic youth. Vassilis Vafeas’ Break (Repo, 1982) was another interesting satire about the lower-middle-class mentality that dominated Greek society. Dimitris Makris’ The Dam (To Fragma, 1982) presented a dense allegorical film with a Kafkaesque atmosphere and allusions, based on a famous Greek novel. On the other hand, Tony Likouressis’ The Blood of Statues (To Aima ton Agalmaton, 1982) was a poetic reflection on the meaning of symbols, as a group of youths escaping from a provincial reform school find refuge in a new archaeological museum. The depiction of a society that privileges antiquarianism at the expense of the living was probably one of the most interesting sub-themes emerging in this period. Tasios released his Stigma in 1982; the first film to explore with honesty, sincerity, and empathy families with children suffering from Down’s syndrome. It was an unexpected social drama that tackled a controversial issue that was to become current decades later. The story revolves around the decision of a young couple to perform euthanasia on their child and how this decision leads to their separation. It was a tale of moral empowerment with serious ethical issues raised on voluntary death, abortion, and medical principles. Tasios structured the various reactions of the married couple towards their child as well as those of the social environment with emotional austerity and starkness; he never became sentimental or evasive. The protagonists Olia Lazaridou and Antonis Kafetzopoulos, performed with reserve and passion. The film was a good example of the new “themes” which had begun to emerge in the 80s, referring to issues of personal responsibility. Furthermore, Tasios was one of the very few directors who managed to create characters with distinct individual psychology. In the same vein one must see Kostas Zois’ documentary The Rejected (Oi Azititoi, 1982), about the mental hospital on the island of Leros and the treatment of people with mental disabilities. The film explored social realities associated with “madness” and exposed collective prejudices and personal tragedies. Yorgos Karypidis’ Confrontation (Anametrisi, 1982) was an incredibly dense film noir full of literary references and a story that blurred the boundaries between illusion and reality. A lonely man— played superbly by Aris Retsos—falls in love with a mysterious movie star who is then found dead. His reading of Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville, and Dashiel Hammett inspire him to search for her killer. In his mind, literary references become confused with real clues until he finds out that she died in an accident. The film was an apt exploration of solitude and introspection

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in a world of illusions and shadows confronted by the brutal indifference of everyday life. Nikos Perakis’ Mish-Mash (Arpa Kolla, 1982) was a hilarious parody of the way in which the new government wanted history to be depicted. It was also a wonderful critique of the bureaucratic party insiders who were taking over Greek cinema at the time and the new mythology about the past of the Left that they wanted to fund, as long as you were a member of the Socialist Party. In 1984, Perakis would release a sequel. Loafing and Camouflage (Loufa kai Paralaggi) was another successful parody of the myth of the resistance against the dictatorship, which under the socialists had become almost fetishized ideology. But the most “political film” of 1982 had a completely different agenda. The 80s were a period of intense diversification in Greek cinema. The abolition of censorship presented new thematic challenges for screenwriters and directors who had begun to sense the audience’s fatigue with the political dramas that had dominated since 1974. Political cinema finally started receding after 1980 and ultimately vanished before the end of 1985. However, a new understanding of the political began to replace the established view promoted by the state as political history. Now the political was gradually converging with the social, and both were problematized and finally interrogated about their most central values and constructs. The questioning of historical memory was gradually extended to the core values of its dominant tradition, as determined by the structures of patriarchy and masculinity. It is very interesting to note that left-wing critiques only infrequently touched upon the “core values” of the political establishment; for instance, on gender roles and their position within the power system of society. And while femininity was to a certain but not sufficient degree reassessed, masculinity, with its implied codes of behavior, forms of representation, and patterns of self perception, was never interrogated seriously in any form of intellectual discussion. Indeed, after the 80s, a marked crisis of masculinity was often found in Greek films. Most questioned the ideological domination of an androcentric discourse and presented masculinity as an unstable social role with an anarchic, ambivalent, and ambiguous sexual desire—expressed on many occasions through self-destructive or psychopathological behavior. Tasios and Marketaki had alluded to male sexual impotence not as a physical problem but as a failure to fulfill societal expectations; however, they left psychology out and explored male aggression as a socially constructed reaction to the feelings of inadequacy and inferiority. But the crisis of masculinity had as its consequence that homosexual and transgender identities found for the first time their narrative elaboration in an honest and creative way, which the middle-class conservative crowds had to confront and accommodate into their political, ideological, and aesthetic horizon.

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A History of Greek Cinema Most left-wing ideologues had never thought of gender as a political issue; even feminist ideas were treated with hostility by Marxist intellectuals. Given also the fact that because of the dictatorship, Greek society never experienced the sexual liberation movement that shook the establishment elsewhere in the 60s. The Left was always reluctant if not suspicious towards ideas that questioned the heroes’ and social realists’ masculinist and phallocentric discourses of mainstream Soviet-inspired Marxism. In the 80s, such ideas were challenged through new representations and new stories that were real and, beyond all expectation, were happening for decades at a grassroots level. The film that inaugurated a new “gaze” for understanding and representing masculinity was Yorgos Katakouzinos’ Angel (Angelos). It explored the fate and public perception of homosexuals in Greek society—a reality that until then had remained taboo, represented only as a caricature in slapstick comedies, commonly a campy hairdresser, tailor, sinister petty criminal, or sexual predator. With the exception of Koundouros’ Vortex, there was no other “positive” representation in Greek cinema of homosexual characters and homosexuality. Angel introduced the new theme of sexual violence in Greek society, and presented a society within a society—that of the underground sexual outlaw who had nothing to do with expressions of ideological dissent or political activism but with the struggle, both internal and external, for the free expression of one’s individual sexual identity. Angel was based on real events and actual personalities and confronted the inability of Greek society to deal with the sight of masculinity deprived of power. A shy and terrified young man—underplayed by Mihalis Maniatis— fell in love with a macho domineering crook—overacted by Dionisis Xanthos. Soon he is forced to dress up and prostitute himself in order to bring him money. After years of exploitation, the explosion happens and in a frenzy of despair and passion, the transvestite slits his lover’s throat and is condemned

Yorgos Katakouzinos, Angel (1982). Courtesy, Yorgos Katakouzinos. Greek Film Center Collection.

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to life imprisonment. The reaction of the public was ambiguous: sympathy mixed with repulsion, since the film exposed masculinity as a “constructed” social role, with its use of the phallus for domination, sexual pleasure for extortion, and the overt exploitation of sex for control. In the film, Angelos, the main character, is seen in the morning exercising with other soldiers, learning to swear and use weapons in order to become tough and defend the motherland; and on the same night he is transformed into a voluptuous transvestite prostituting himself to repressed married men who pick him up in order to experience some “real” moments of sexual bliss. The homosexual as a human being was a rather confronting spectacle for a homophobic society that understood such sexual behavior either as perversion or as the whim of great men—to such “charismatic” men, homosexuality was forgiven, but not so when seen in the common man. Suddenly seeing the homosexual as an ordinary person, the son of your neighbor, indeed your own son, was a little too much to bear. The film was ruthlessly criticized from both sides of the political spectrum; but it revealed the nagging suspicion that macho mentality was at its core an insecure masculinity, full of phallic phobias and a self-hating desire for the male body. With this movie, identity and gender politics became prevalent themes in Greek cinema; and sexuality, exposing a masculinity in a deep and irredeemable crisis, found its first ambivalent representation. Simultaneously, urban melodramas became popular again. Nikos Vergitsis’ Revenge (Revanch) and Yorgos Tsemperopoulos’ Sudden Love (Xafnikos Erotas) were two of the commercial successes of 1983 for the simple reason that both were good films: they had an effective script and presented their characters with direct realism, unpretentious simplicity, and healthy self-irony. Yorgos Stampoulopoulos’ Look Out Danger (Prosohi Kindinos) explored the heterosexual side of sexual aggression through incest and murder. The film was a grim and brutal depiction of paternal masculinity as violence and coercion. Apostolos Doxiadis’ Underground Trajectory (Ipogeia Diadromi) was also a prescient exploration of the machinations within a socialist government through factional conflicts. In this film the “legends” of the generation of the Polytechnic Uprising in 1973 started being debunked and indeed ridiculed—something that was already occurring beyond the screen as presumed members of the “resistance” squabbled about who had resisted more than the other. With his Sweet Bunch (Glikia Symmoria), Nikos Nikolaidis went even further: he constructed a counter-grand narrative, a deliberate anti-Angelopoulos aesthetic, which challenged dominant perceptions of history, identity, and normativity. His movies were, as he stated, “dedicated to a generation that didn’t believe in politics but in friendship, love, and independent thinking.” Sweet Bunch depicted the great fatigue that creative film-makers started to feel towards the paternalistic role of the state, and almost predicted

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Nikos Nikolaidis, Sweet Bunch (1983). Courtesy, Nikos Nikolaidis; Credit: DVD

the death of a generation which supposedly took on the “historical responsibility” of changing society and its foundations. The film sang an elegy and farewell to the innocence of a forgotten generation through poetic realism and colorful expressionism. A conscious response to Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (1969), the film explored the other side of violence by depicting its victims. As the socialists were consolidating their power base within the state apparatuses, it was becoming increasingly apparent that there was no intention of reconstructing Greek society in their applied politics—and the disenchantment with political ‘engagement’ started to become obvious. Furthermore, Nikolaidis indicated that the film “was about the rise of modern world fascism” and this could also refer to the new role of the state in his own country with its inflated populism and the paternalistic embrace of cultural activity. Also released in 1983, Nikos Zervos’ The Dracula of Exarheia (O Drakolas ton Exarheion) was a marvelous example of trashy, non-sensical, outrageous, raw, and freakish cinema, in the manner of Ed Wood, celebrating the anarchist culture of an Athenian suburb through parody, satire, and overt ridiculing of national symbols. The movie was exceptionally bad, the script was horrible, and the performances abysmal, but precisely because of these “shortcomings,” the film was the sanest commentary on the erratic and ultimately disappointing way in which the socialists governed the country. By contrast, Yannis Smaragdis’ The Journey of Return (To Taxidi tis Epistrofis) was an accomplished exploration of the repatriation of a migrant from Sweden and the changes that he encounters. Despite its voguish theme, Smaragdis avoided sensationalism through poetic realism and dream-like sequences. But the year belonged unquestionably to two of the most important films made in the country. The first was the film adaptation of a Greek novel written at the beginning of the twentieth century by Konstantine Theotokis;

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the second another kind of epic, a counter-epic, monumentalizing the life, culture, and music of the rebetika underground. Tonia Marketaki’s The Price of Love (I Timi tis Agapis) is probably one of the most accomplished achievements of Greek cinema, viewing history from the perspective of women, and acting as a therapeutic to the dominant stereotypes of feminine passivity and fatalism. One can discern Marketaki’s persistent attempt to define what constituted Greek experience, especially for women, and how it could be represented visually. The film received a number of international awards and it stands out as one of the greatest formal achievements of Greek cinema. Through bright glaring colors, Marketaki recreated funeral masks to render a lost era and the humans that shaped it. With this film, she became the Gustave Courbet of Greek cinema with her lack of sentimentality, her savage honesty and formal realism. For the first time, the past was neither idealized nor beautified; it was reconstructed as class reality, as the brutal conflict between social forces and the alienated individuals that fall into the cracks of the social divide. Women here lost their archetypal eternity as mothers or lovers and became real people with needs, desires, and dreams. Men were depicted as being trapped in the role of the dominant oppressor, reacting only through drinking and frolicking, like spoiled children. The central female character insists, “Whom do we need? We have our hands to work and that’s enough! Let’s go away . . . we will win.” Women were shown as having agency and class consciousness. They appear in control of themselves and of their lives, unlike men who are lost to the allure of power and domination. Marketaki’s realism was distinct for its attempt to reconstruct cinematically the actuality of the visible. It also indicated a profound understanding of historical experience as the rational outcome of human activity and the result of deliberate action by ordinary people, as they defined their everyday lives against the oppressive presence of a hostile, negative, and alienating power. Her film stands close to Paolo and Vittorio Taviani’s Padre

Tonia Marketaki, The Price of Love (1983). Greek Film Center Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema Padrone (1977) and Ermanno Olmi’s The Tree of Wooden Clogs (1979) for its reinvention of neorealism as a radical exposure of the oppression of ordinary people, in an era when even human misery tended to look cosy and chic. The quest for identity—gender or social—inevitably led to the search for origins. As we have seen, Nikolaidis turned to the study of marginal groups whose presence in Greek history was strong, but whose voice was sanitized and domesticated. One of these groups was the rebetes, the songwriters and singers, who lived and created in complete illegality until they became “national” and “political” symbols of resistance and opposition during the 1960s, through sanitized and mainstreamed translations of their work. Kostas Ferris produced his epic narrative Rebetiko (1983) which presented in a semi-fictional and semi-documentary form the predicament of the rebetes and their tormented personal and collective history. The movie unfolded as a “spasmodic” narrative with many gaps in the script, but was kept together by the powerful music of Stavros Xarhakos which, reviving the tradition going back to Stella, wove a non-visual thread through action and dialogue, enhancing their emotional impact. Its main axis was the life of the singer, presumably the legendary Marika Ninou, who escaped as a refugee from Smyrna to Piraeus and who sang some of the most popular rebetika songs, before her death from cancer at a very young age. Her life, career, and death became the pretexts through which Greek history was represented from below, from the perspective of the ordinary people who suffered the disastrous upheavals of political life. The movie was uneven, as Ferris entered a world which, despite its unconventional and “abnormal” behavior, wanted to be accepted and become “normal;” unlike the “outcast” heroes of his movies up to then, who were unable to belong and be accepted. The incongruity was striking: the narrative idealized and abstracted situations that could only be deemed tragic and horrific. Despite the inclusion of original footage from major historical events, the film has something artificial and contrived. It is almost as if Ferris was trying hard to find a redeeming element in the life of the rebetes; but in doing so, he aesthetisized their adventure and humanity and made them look like schematized forms instead of real human beings. A comparison between Ferris’ Rebetiko and Francis Ford Coppola’s The Cotton Club of the same year would be extremely enlightening. Coppola was not afraid to touch upon the violent and illegal character of the very same people who were the creative geniuses behind jazz music. Ferris on the contrary prettified everything by not showing the very obvious and sometimes horrible shadows in the consciousness of the rebetika singers. Yet the movie revealed an incredible adventure of loss, death, and exploitation which marginalized groups suffered for a long time and which resonated with audiences still remembering the persecutions that followed major historical upheavals.

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Costas Ferris, Rebetiko (1983). Greek Film Center Collection.

One can only see such “grand narrative” as a farewell to an era, mentality, and understanding of social experience and cultural memory; indeed a visual eulogy on the life of a subculture which by then had become an industrial commodity to be celebrated as a tourist attraction and to be disseminated as “authentic” Greek culture. The deviance, rebelliousness, and deathwish that dominated such subcultural groups—the drugs and prostitution, the violence and exploitation—were barely touched upon. Instead, Ferris depicted their “personal authenticity” as their main redeeming feature, thus transforming them into cultural icons. Such incommensurability though belonged to the wider social realities of the period. By 1984, it had become apparent that the government, despite its revolutionary rhetoric, was simply “modernizing” the functions of the state without making the necessary structural and institutional changes, so that all social forces could realize their potential. In the same year, the collapse of the last political legacies of the New Greek Cinema also started to become obvious. It was generally considered as the year when Greek cinema entered into a prolonged creative coma, when most Greek films were screened in empty theaters—with the most successful selling fewer than 20,000 tickets. The most popular films were hastily made for the video market (and included slapstick comedies or porn films by the mysterious Berto), and there are no reliable statistics to account for their commercial success. Statecontrolled television was gaining more viewers with lavish productions of failed socialist sagas such as The Lavrion Strikes or imported soaps such as Dallas, The Love Boat and Fame. Meanwhile a strange idea emerged in the new patrician establishment of the Socialist Party: all commercially successful films were bad and “reactionary.” A new elitism of incomprehensible abstractions about the people, revolution, and socialism became the dominant mantras of Prime

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A History of Greek Cinema Minister Papandreou, who decided that it was better to govern through slogans than through policies. Such vacuous and populist rhetoric was translated by the party apparatchiks into peculiar cultural projects that deeply influenced the production and distribution of the few films produced. The official ideology was about a people (laos in Greek) who fought heroically for its freedom against the Italians, Germans, and their collaborators; the British; and finally the Americans and their cronies, the dictators. It was another “idealized” version of historical experience, with the representation of a laos in a state of perpetual resistance against all foreign intruders. Indeed, it stood as the state-sponsored representation of a totally “fantasized community” of resistance fighters without historical conscience, individuality, and interiority. Even the Communist Party and the Left played a strange role in this. According to the official ideology, Communist Party members were “good” patriots, but their leadership, was one of “historical errors.” The de-historization of both the people and the left ideology through secular hagiographies, political legends, and quasi-religious rhetoric created not simply a genre and an aesthetic for the cultural production of the period, but also imposed the cultural hegemony of the ruling Socialist Party on the official understanding of history: what had previously been hidden and repressed by the conservative ideology, was now venerated and idolized. From being present but not represented, it became represented but not present. It was transformed into an ideological construct full of nostalgia, innocence, and idealism without any reference to the actual realities of the day or discussion about the methods with which historical memory was manipulated by the government. Unfortunately, the conservatives lacked a counter-discourse and were unable to construct their own narratives, insisting on nationalistic clichés, religious platitudes, and parochial family values. Consequently, the monopolization of culture by the Left, as appropriated by the Socialist Government, imposed its rules on the cultural and political debates of the decade, creating an imaginary past and an ideological theater of history without historical events and acting individuals. In 1984, Nicholas Gage (b. 1939), the Greek-American writer, journalist, and executive producer of The Godfather III, requested permission to film his book Heleni (1982) where it actually took place, on the mountains of Epirus. The story was about his mother, who was executed by the communists during the Civil War. The government refused permission for purely political reasons and Peter Yates filmed it in Spain. The movie, starring John Malkovich and Linda Hunt, was not very good, but its rejection showed the lack of any political dialogue or debate, especially in the art world. Another rejection took place the same year. When Elias Kazan asked to film in Greece parts of his autobiography Beyond the Aegean, Minister Melina Mercouri, who was married to Jules Dassin—blacklisted by McCarthy after Kazan’s

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testimony—rejected the request. This would have been Kazan’s last film, but he never made it.8 In the season of 1984/85 a number of interesting films were released. Nikos Panayiotopoulos’ Varieté was about the existential impasse of a director while his own constructed characters experience genuine emotions. It was a highly personal film, which struggled, somewhat unsuccessfully, to transcend narrative cinema. In Vassilis Vafeas’ Ulysses’ Love (O Erotas tou Odyssea), Costas Voutsas, a comedian of the old commercial cinema, was transformed into an emblem of urban solitude and psychological isolation. After he is sacked from his job, Ulysses walks aimlessly through the streets of Athens following an unknown woman whom he is only able to approach at the end to whisper to her, “I love you.” He then returns home to family happiness and safety. Hristos Siopahas’ The Descent of the Nine (I Kathodos ton Ennea), based on a novel by Thanasis Valtinos, was a popular film on the desperate heroism and idealized martyrdom that the Left and the government promoted. The strange story about nine communist insurgents escaping invisible enemies was proof that Greek cinema of the period was all but dedicated to lost causes, expressing the self-indulgent nostalgia for excitement and adventure of a well-fed bourgeoisie. Panos Papakyriakopoulos’ Final Countdown (Antistrofi metrisi) presented another nostalgic take on the heroism of the Left’s fighters as reconstructed by a political exile returning from France. By watching the film, you cannot really tell if this is about lost youth or the failure of ideology. Andreas Thomopoulos’ Ostria expressed another perspective on the intellectual and emotional hibernation of the period. Three couples camping on a remote beach meet a beautiful woman who destroys their psychological balance and personal relations. Andreas Tsilifonis’ The City Never Sleeps (I Poli pote den Koimatai) explored generational change as a man returns after 20 years’ exile to investigate the death of his younger brother. Instead of ideology and war, young people died of drug addiction and shady dealings with the underworld. Social injustice and exploitation assumed new forms and were being implemented through different methods. Most of these films, wavering between realism and magic realism, in one way or another were nostos stories—homecoming tales about displacement and dislocation. The film that monumentalized such homecoming to a remembered paradise lost, the ultimate Greek Heimat story, was Theo Angelopoulos’ Voyage to Cythera (Taxidi sta Cythera)— one of the best films of the decade and one that put an end to the epic cinema that Angelopoulos had produced until then. The film received the Firesci Award at the Cannes Festival in 1984. Its story was very topical, as, the year before, the government had allowed the unconditional repatriation of all political refugees of the Civil War from Eastern Europe. In the film, the political refugee returns home from the Soviet Union after

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Theo Angelopoulos, Voyage to Cythera (1984). Courtesy, Theo Angelopoulos. Credit: DVD

25 years to find everything and everyone changed. His home is in ruins, his wife only vaguely recognizes him, and his children want to get rid of him in any way possible. Finally the state intervenes, but since no country recognizes him as its citizen, he wis left in the middle of international waters with his wife. The film was a wonderful parable about what constitutes belonging, identity, and memory. It investigated imaginative methods used by displaced individuals to deal with the upheavals of history and their sense of being uprooted. They could not stop history from changing nor that by then they represented uncomfortable reminders of a forgotten past. Manos Katrakis played with biblical grandeur the out-of-place-and-time repatriate. The same can be said of the comedian Dionysis Papayannopoulos, who until then had appeared only in slapstick films. The music by Eleni Karaindrou elevated the story into a strange landscape between dream and reality. The anthropocentric morality of the film showed the new direction that Angelopoulos took during the 1980s, exploring individual psychology and the dilemmas of human interiority. The next year must be seen as a turning point in the history of New Greek Cinema, indicating its ultimate demise. The most successful film of 1985, and indeed one of the most commercially successful of the last 30 years, was made by one of the architects of the New Cinema. In Stone Years (Petrina Hronia), Pandelis Voulgaris incorporates a personal story into the grand narrative of collective history, and avoids (only just) sentimentality and pathos, despite the fact that Stamatis Kraounakis’ music sentimentalizes even the most political moments. Voulgaris succeeded in producing an enduring story of dedication and commitment, somehow close to the dramas of the American cinema, through a renewed Hollywood aesthetic that in reality was in direct contrast to his earlier films like Anna’s Engagement and Happy Day. As such, this film gave the final coup de grâce to the New Greek Cinema.

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Pandelis Voulgaris, Stone Years (1985). Greek Film Center Collection.

The story was about the life of a political exile starting after the Civil War and ending with his liberation in 1974. At the same time, it depicted the dedication and love of his wife—superbly performed by Themis Bazaka. The film was a political melodrama, with a linear narrative which explored the indefatigable spirit of left-wing fighters. Stylistically, it seemed to deny everything that the New Greek Cinema stood for: understatements, ambiguities, and openness. Voulgaris achieved a precarious balance between the emotional restraint that he had shown until then and an overflowing romanticized nostalgia. Yet as Dan Georgakas stressed, despite its shortcomings, the film “wanted to bring the old conflicts to some kind of closure.”9 Conversely, the surrealist extravaganza Bordello by Nikos Koundouros explored a world of irrational impulses and repressed desires. In the labyrinth of history, there is no redemption except the one that comes through the explosive liberation of desires—only through perversion and

Nikos Koundouros, Bordello (1985). Courtesy, Nikos Koundouros. Greek Film Center Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema excess can human history and nature be understood. This film, set during the Cretan Revolution of 1897, showed Koundouros as an angry romantic reducing history to its elemental beginnings: desire and death. Yorgos Panousopoulos’ Mania was another sensual bacchanal celebrating the liberation of the senses in a symbolic garden dominated by animalistic deities. The human body, the corporeal conscience, remains the only certainty that contemporary humans can possess in an era without visions of renewal or reform—the era of ossification and stagnation. Takis Spetsiotis’ Meteor and Shadow (Meteoro kai Skia) was a biography of the homosexual poet Napoleon Lapathiotis through a poetic realism that both fascinated and confused. Yorgos Korras’ The Children of Saturn (Ta Paidia tou Kronou) explored psychological and sexual triangulation, especially bisexuality, as a way of rethinking human relations and, more specifically, family values. The dynamics of family as a repressive and coercive institution leading to madness were chillingly explored in Stavros Tsiolis’ Such a Distant Absence (Mia Toso makrini Apousia) who, after 15 years, made his first movie in a completely new genre. Dinos Mavroidis’ Scenario must also be mentioned as a parody of old Greek cinema and its clichés; yet the film revisited the forgotten Greek cinema with affection and admiration, preparing the revival of the 1990s. Two more films from 1985 must also be included: Stavros Konstantarakos’ Floating (En Plo), an earnest attempt to explore the remains of the Civil War; and Maria Gavala’s Violet’s Fragrance (To Aroma tis Violetas), a low-budget film presenting human relations through the feminine gaze, something that is both upsetting and inspiring. Also, Antouanetta Angelidi’s Topos explored the interiority of the female existence as it unfolds before a dying woman as her life parades in front of her eyes like a spectacular kaleidoscope. The film borrowed its iconography from paintings by Giorgio De Quirico and the masters of the Renaissance to create a visual explosion of colors, forms, and abstract geometries. It was an impressive and haunting visual meditation on human mortality, gender, and destiny, with magnificent visual juxtapositions and music. With the exception of Voulgaris’ Stone Years, which enjoyed moderate commercial success, box office sales were dominated by slapstick comedies and facile remakes. By 1985, the mythology of the Civil War seemed to belong to remote and somewhat fairy tale days long gone. By being adopted by power, the rhetoric about the traumas of the past made these stories lose their subversive function. They had become aesthetisized landscapes and mythological images proving the spirit of resistance and rebellion that every “true” Greek felt. Soon, such rhetoric had developed into a particular self-conscious style, full of religious fervor and the desire for martyrdom. Consequently, it lost its historical and political edge; it became an alibi and an excuse for the state and its ideologues to impose their undisputed control

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over cinematic and cultural production. Meanwhile, cinema’s main theme was by now developing in a more fatalistic direction. The characteristic of almost all films about Civil War heroism was the depiction of the left-wing fighter as the perpetual victim of incomprehensible historical forces, through conspiracies, secret cabals, and hidden centers (mostly organized by America). Indeed, modern Greek identity could be defined only through victimhood, which seemed to have become the main element in recent historical experience. Such representation was not referring to any specific individual: these films (we can even add many historical documentaries) depicted a collective victimhood as the result of a collective failure and defeat. Postwar identity, therefore, was defined as lack and privation, loss and shrinkage—an identity totally different from the one constructed by the great narrative directors of the 50s and 60s. Indeed, Papandreou’s overcompensating and histrionic rhetoric indicated a profound inferiority complex which ultimately led to a denial of existing realities and the numbing of creative imagination. The general atmosphere in most films was of melancholia and mourning, in the purest Freudian sense. The gradual disenchantment with the socialist project of “change” established mourning as a continuous “work” defining the social imaginary and its representations and further consolidating itself to the end of the decade. The content of movies like Stone Years, The Descent of the 9, Voyage to Cythera, Rebetiko, Rosa, and many others, was that of a profound grief for something lost, and might be articulated in the terms of Jacques Derrida as “a work working at its own unproductivity.”10 In fact, most films, especially after 1985, simply abandoned all communicable networks and reverted to introspective “closed” forms that deprived them of all social function and ultimately of the audiences themselves.

A Poet’s Interlude: Stavros Tornes 1985 also marked the most important cinematic work by one of the most unexpected and most paradoxical film-makers of the country, Stavros Tornes. In his short life (1932–1988), Tornes produced some of the most challenging movies of Greek cinema. He started by depicting a minority group, the Romas, in Balamos (1982) and used their own language without translation in order to question the singular aesthetics of a “national cinema.” In the Roma language “Balamos” is the eternal wanderer, and in this film, a dreamer searches for a horse through the realms of vision, hallucination, and fantasy. Tornes made only three more movies. The first, Karkalou (1984), is a stunning visual extravaganza of surrealist cinema. Danillo Trelles (1985) is a suggestively nonsensical drama. With the pun in its title (trelles means “insanities”), it is a deranged comedy about the missing codes for common

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A History of Greek Cinema meaning. “Where is Danillo Trelles?” asks Tornes, trying to “localize” the mysterium tremendum. “Why are they looking for him in the mountains of Epirus? Why do Roberto and Pupo use a rooster to entrap the Fox-Man? What is the relationship between the African Shaman Deedee and the Eleusinian Mysteries? What hope does the English blues player Bee have of finding the Andalusian music of Danilo Trelles? . . . Where can Danillo Trelles be found?” The comedy was a string of unrelated snapshots, so it would be totally wrong to attempt an explanation of their associations and possible symbolism. Finally, he released his extraordinary parable A Heron from Germany (Enas Erodios apo tin Germania, 1987) in which he made concessions to narrative while maintaining a hypnotic and almost transcendental visual iconography, in one of the most haunting masterpieces of experimental cinema. In all his movies, Tornes explores the secret histories of Greek society, the groups without voice and representation, and which are lost in a homogeneous social ideology. His visual idiom is subversive, based on minimal script while the main protagonist before his camera is the human body as an archetypal cipher, an ideogram, inscribed within an imaginary yet sensual landscape. His films celebrate embodied time in all its uncontrollable euphoria and existential sadness. He declared: Cinema is the eternal apology of Being. Cinema is a Society reproduced under one condition: by letting the Cosmic Being emerge under the forms of reason . . . Cinema is the Promise-Threat: the return of the Inconceivable, the Audacity of the Unpredictable.11

He never cared at all for commercial success, although his films were moderately successful. Tornes explored a pagan spirituality expressed through warm colors, the worship of community and sensual choreography—creating a cinematic

Stavros Tornes, Balamos (1982). Courtesy, Stavros Tornes. Credit: DVD

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mix that cannot be easily described or classified. Tornes’ movies, despite their flaws and excesses, constitute a complete oeuvre, similar to that by the other lonely auteur, Takis Kanellopoulos, and which can placed next to Maya Deren’s and even the musical iconographies of Gregory J. Markopoulos and the insane humor of Alejandro Jodorowsky.

Towards the Bankruptcy of an Era: 1986–1991 It was increasingly obvious by the mid-1980s that one of the emerging realities was a profound distrust of the Socialist Government and its ideology. As we have seen, the failure of the Socialist Party to fulfill its promises and reform society by responding to the challenges of modernization, led to a period of intense disillusionment and disenchantment with politics and all visions of collective renewal. This soon led to a generalized crisis which was manifested on all levels of petit-bourgeois life: family values, masculinity, religious authority, and, of course, the legitimacy of the state. Greek cinema seemed to enter then its postcolonial phase as it began to cater for the needs of specific social groups, avoiding the commodified images of “Greece” as a singular unity that had dominated international and national representations after Zorba the Greek. National stereotypes seemed to have imploded and new iconographic possibilities emerged which were explored in all directions and genres. One could claim that in the 80s, generic lines simply vanished and allowed hybrid forms of representation to emerge. Together with this, the movement of New Greek Cinema became obsolete, since the images, representations, and patterns of power criticized by its advocates became relics of the past. (Or indeed because most of its representatives had become members of the ruling bureaucracy distributing funding and positions.) After 1985, a period of limbo was entered, which ended almost ten years later with the emergence of a new cinematic movement with new heroes and stories and with the emergence of new technologies that were to democratize production and distribution. However something unexpected happened between 1985 and 1995 which accelerated the repudiation of the past. On New Years’ Eve 1983, with his usual narcissistic rhetoric of “healing the wounds of the Civil War,” Prime Minister Papandreou announced the unconditional repatriation of all political refugees living in Eastern European countries. Thousands of people from remote Soviet republics such as Kazakhstan, Abkhazia, Georgia, and Armenia, and from Central European countries, such as Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and Romania, were given permission to return if they wished to. Their numbers were completely unpredicted: 200,000 people were estimated to have been living behind the Iron Curtain. Yet, over a period of four years, their numbers swelled and a serious change took place in

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A History of Greek Cinema the social structure of the country. The “repatriated” Greeks were given tax deductions and hefty financial assistance mostly in the form of cash. They were also given incentives to build houses in designated areas as satellite villages around cities like Athens and Thessalonica, or other areas in Thrace and Macedonia. But the infrastructure was not prepared to receive such an influx of people at once. The lack of effective infrastructure combined with the endemic corruption of Greek bureaucracy transformed good intentions into a logistical and social nightmare. Soon, the inadequacy created a new underclass of outsiders, some of whom could not speak the language, and many of whom didn’t know how capitalism worked and didn’t understand the modus operandi of the Greek state. Unexpectedly, it also created another problem which became a nightmare for the state and its ideologues. According to the laws of 1983 and 1985, the political refugees had to be given back their lost property and assets; but who could be easily be classified as “Greek” among them? As it was claimed in 1989, if the law was to be applied to all there was the danger of “allowing into the country non-native minorities (allogenon meiotiton)” meaning Slav-Macedonians who had escaped from Yugoslavia. This caused considerable identity-anxiety, a psychological condition to which the Greek state has always reacted badly and wrongly (as is always the case when “evil” foreigners question the continuity between ancient and modern Greeks!). Soon the designated areas became ghettos that sheltered crime, smuggling, and prostitution, as the newcomers showed a marked resistance to all attempts at assimilation. At the same time, mainstream society, feeling stressed and threatened, started to react to such “foreigners” and the oriental presence among them, which inevitably stressed the eastern and non-occidental elements in popular culture (in music in particular). Within ten years, repatriates became so well established that they found voice and representation in the mainstream of Greek society. As Ferdinand Braudel concluded, “demography is destiny,” and this sudden change in demography was understood by many people as indicating a deep transformation in the self-perception and the self-representation of contemporary Greek experience. Furthermore, during 1986 and 1987, an attempt at rapprochement with Turkey took place, and the Greek government, sensitive to issues relating to Greek minorities in other countries, discovered that there were certain invisible minorities within its own territory. First, there was the Turkish, or Muslim, minority in Thrace. Second, were the Macedonians, or Slav-Macedonians, a group which was going to cause considerable anxiety to the Greek public by claiming ownership of none other than Alexander the Great, a popular Greek hero for centuries. For the first time, the idea of a homogeneous national territory was questioned, and Greek society—so conditioned by official education into identifying nation and state territory— began to experience a cultural and political panic which was magnified by

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the generation of reporters who became journalists on the basis of their high school certificates. The panic was expressed not simply in the rise of isolationist nationalism—masterfully manipulated by the socialists who were leading the economy to bankruptcy—but also in the rise of the Orthodox Church as a major cultural and political presence. On most occasions, Orthodoxy was transformed into Orthodoxism, a peculiar melange of nationalized religious ideology, which saw the Eastern Church as under relentless attack from underground conspiracies, perfidious allies, and sinister cabals— organized by evil Catholics, colonialist Protestants, and the ubiquitous Jews. Secular forces were never very strong in Greece. The state and the church remained in close alliance in their struggles to defend the nation against the communist threat and other numberless enemies. Unfortunately, the Orthodox Church never developed an intellectual discourse capable of holding a dialogue on the questions of modernity (in the way that the Catholic Church was forced to with the Second Vatican Council). Isolated into a Byzantine self-declared “liturgical spirituality,” it ignored history and the historical adventures of the community, supporting the prevailing political ideology of the Greek state, of anti-communism, but in more general terms, of anti-modernism. The failure of politics in the 1980s gave rise to religious belief as the inalienable “minimal self ” who remained untouched by the challenges of modernity and the disenchantment of social engagement—especially when “moral” enemies appeared like the rise of sexual liberation in the mid-80s, linked with the AIDS epidemic. Between 1985 and 1989, around 35 films on saints and martyrs of faith were made by Elpis Films. One of them, by Yorgos Hondrokostas, Family as the Protector Against AIDS (I Oikogeneia Frouros kata tou AIDS, 1986), shows the political agenda of its producers. Another, by Kostas Hatzikostas, Universal Government (Pagosmia Kivernisi, 1985), was about the global conspiracy to convert Greek Orthodoxy to other faiths, in this case Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the irreparable damage this caused to the family, the individual, and, of course, to the motherland. These films were never successful commercially but their sheer number within a few years indicates a wider cultural problem also reflected in mainstream art films.

1986–1994: The Limbo Years Many films of this period are situated within the context of cultural and identity wars that created a tense atmosphere of crisis in Greek society. The crisis had begun to dismantle all accepted genres and styles. Moreover, films were screened in virtually empty theaters. In 1986, more Greeks watched Top Gun, Platoon, and Crocodile Dundee than any Greek films. Theo Angelopoulos called 1986 “the zero-year of cinematography in Greece!”

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A History of Greek Cinema After 1986, Greek cinema seemed to have totally collapsed. All films were produced by the Greek Film Center, bound by the clientelistic policies of the Socialist Party. The official ideology declared that “democratic forces” had to win the war against the reactionary ideas of the conservatives, the “accursed right-wing party” (eparatos dexia), as the prime minister announced through the state-controlled media. After four years of wrangling between unions and various ministries, Melina Mercouri brought the new legislation to parliament. After the legislation was passed in 1986 (revised in 1988), the problem of establishing “genuine” criteria for funding became one of the main reasons for factional rivalry, personal squabbling, and generalized conformism. Very few independent productions were made, and most of those were either experimental or short films. But even with funding, the Greek Film Center did not have the appropriate mechanisms for promotion and distribution of its own films. Even after establishing its own international distribution agency, Hellas Films, in 1984, the response was minimal. Many local films were sent to international or local festivals, but very few could find their way to ordinary venues. Max T. Roman observed: The Greek Film Center was hurt by a distrust of private initiative and help, so that those in charge of GFC, trying to carry out Mercouri’s brilliant ideas for a strong Greek cinema, pointedly snubbed all private investment or co-production proposals (some did not even want to see the films sold to the United States), and withdrew into a cocoon, eventually isolating the films that were made from the larger public.12

With very few exceptions, the years between 1986 and 1994 were the most insular in the history of Greek cinema. Good films were made, and some superb experiments with the medium appeared, but the audience was lost, and the communal socializing experience of going to the cinema became a memory. People went to the movies only when there was nothing “good” (reality shows, games or soaps) on television. By the end of the decade, private television channels were established which challenged the state’s monopoly of the airwaves. The proliferation of these channels took more and more people away from cinemas and essentially isolated the industry from the wider community. Although the testimony of the box office is not the only sufficient argument for the appeal of a movie, many movies produced by previously successful film-makers were commercial failures. In 1985 and 1986, the great legend of the old commercial cinema Alekos Sakellarios released his last movie, with the star of the 60s, Rena Vlahopoulou, but the film failed even to be noticed. Dalianidis also produced his charming comedy for home video, Come In, Give Us a Kiss, You are Done (Peraste, Filiste, Teleiosate)—another colossal failure. Both represented the return of “zombie” cinema, totally

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disconnected from the new audience. It seemed as if the audience was lost for Old and New Greek Cinema alike. A significant experiment with the medium must be mentioned. Kostas Sfikas’ Allegory (1986) was a visual extravaganza in a highly stylized, one-dimensional yet cubist, Byzantine-like landscape. The film explored the ways in which power creates its own mystique and imposes it on its subjects. The story emerged on two levels of articulation: through a moving eye and over a world spinning like a wheel. Both classical and biblical references make this polychromatic frenzy a strange and alluring commentary on the desire for freedom and individuality. Sfikas made three more films: The Prophetic Bird of Paul Klee’s Sorrows (1995), The Enigmatic Mr Jules Verne-Nemo-Allegory II (2002), and Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis (2007), constructing an anti-representational space for cinematic language, taking film-making back to the wildest experiments of Eisenstein. Together with Stavros Tornes and Dimos Theos he constituted a challenging countercinema tradition which deserves more attention and study. Pavlos Tasios released his psychological comedy of manners Knock Out in 1986. It added nothing to his previous works—the theme of friendship which could have been explored from a moral perspective was totally lost. Yet the film did include a strange new element: a sense of humor and self-irony that greatly enriched Tasios’ visual style. Also in 1986, Frida Liappa’s It was a Quiet Death (Itan Enas Isihos Thanatos) depicted existential impasse and personal loss in an opaque and rather impenetrable style. Dimitris Makris’ Shaven Heads (Oi Kekarmenoi) was an emotional and sensitive exploration of how army service influenced the lives of four friends from different social classes. Dimitris Panayotatos’ first feature film, Night with Silena (Nihta me tin Silena), was another existential quest along the blurred borders between illusion and reality, and an attempt to Hellenise cinéma du look. An interesting take on loneliness and isolation when fantasy and reality collide was presented in Stavros Tsiolis’ Regarding Vassilis (Shetika me ton Vassili). The film was an urban road-movie, with amateur actors and only a provisional script, which created an atmosphere of experimental strangeness and impermanence. Two films of the year seemed to belong to another era: Good Homeland, Comrade (Kali patrida, Sintrofe) by Lefteris Xanthopoulos about Greek refugees in Hungary, and Caravan Serai by Tasos Psarras, a period film about refugees during the Civil War. Despite their good intentions, and decent scripts, both films seemed to tell stories that no one was interested in any more, except the professional ideologues of the party establishment. It would be an oversight not to mention the entrancing visual experiment by Dimos Avdeliodis, especially in The Tree We Wounded (To Dentro Pou Pligoname), which established a cinematic form of folk opera, with music and image working together to represent the elemental beauty of

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Kostas Sfikas, Allegory (1986). Greek Film Archive Collection.

Dimos Avdeliodis, The Tree We Wounded (1986). Greek Film Center Collection.

ordinary pre-modern life—in some ways reminiscent of Markopoulos’ Serenity (1958) with its analogous use of classical music, while making intellectual gestures to Stavros Tornes’ visual language. It was based on a succession of visual episodes, mostly without dialogue, which recreated the innocent gaze of a lost childhood—a primordial innocence that seems to have become the main quest of Abdeliodis’ camera over the years. In the same year, Theo Angelopoulos released his strangest and perhaps weakest film, The Beekeeper (O Melissokomos), with Marcello Mastroianni, Serge Regiani, and the young Nadia Mourouzi. This film too is about existential loneliness, ideological disenchantment, and psychological loss. Spyros, a teacher, takes his honey bees around Greece “following the pathways of Spring.” On his travels, he meets a young girl who rekindles in him his older self and the lost dreams of his youth. In despair, he will let himself be killed by the stings of his bees while tapping on the ground the old coded messages from his imprisonment after the Civil War.

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It was a strange film, a somewhat awkward attempt to explore psychological trauma and loss that leaves everything in abeyance. The script was rather weak, and Marcello Mastrogianni was not really there. On the other hand, it inaugurated a mesmerizing dialogue between the camera and the landscape, between photography and the natural elements. The long, slow takes seem to capture natural phenomena as monumental events in a succession of still photographs, as though the camera wants to stop the flow of time. Great cinematography by Yorgos Arvanitis and ecstatic music by Eleni Karaindrou enhance the feeling of emptiness and absence that permeates the story. Angelopoulos himself saw this film as a direct reference to the missed “appointment with history” that Greek society was experiencing at the time: it was a missed opportunity that led to what he considered “the silence of history.” Because of this silence, he claimed: . . . we are all trying to find answers by digging into ourselves, for it is terribly difficult to live in silence. When there is no historical development, one is tempted to focus on oneself, in the context of this crisis that has interrupted historical continuity. For our generation, having taken an active part in keeping this continuity alive, this is very sad, the kind of disappointment that is very difficult to express.”13

The film falters in construction and characterization as its auteur oscillates between an existentialist cinema and one of collective destiny. It is a transitional film, linking his previous work to the next—Landscape in the Mist (1989)—and creating the iconography of the new stories that were to occupy him after such disenchantment with politics. The film of the year—indeed one of the very best films of the postdictatorship period—was made by the expatriate Nico Papatakis, who returned for the second time to make his greatest cinematic achievement, The Photograph (I Fotografia). After making his controversial Gloria Mundi (1975) in France, Papatakis directed with visual starkness and stylistic simplicity one of the most ambiguous and tragic Greek films. The storyline was simple. During the dictatorship, a young man—performed with infectious asthmatic angst by Aris Retsos—escapes to Paris where he finds protection with a distant relative trading in furs—played with incredible calm and elusiveness by Hristos Tsangas. He carries with him the photograph of a popular singer which he presents as a picture of his sister. His protector falls in love with the girl in the photograph and a vicious circle of deception and lies begins. When they decide to go back to Greece so the man can marry the sister, the young man kills him before they reach the remote village. This psychological thriller was structured around the uncontrollable escalation of an initially innocent lie. As things get out of control, both men sink into their own fantasy worlds, depending more and more on each other

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A History of Greek Cinema for reinforcement. The film has been read as a visual translation of the Hegelian Master-Slave dialectic, since the young man depends on the older and thus has to satisfy his desires in order to maintain his position while making the master dependent on him. Despite the heterosexual story, there is a strong undercurrent of homoeroticism, expressed superbly by Papatakis in the routine of common meals and the deflected verbal expression in letters supposedly written by the sister. Even behind that, the men’s inability to communicate is fatal. As Chrysanthi Sotiropoulou observes, “Both heroes pay the price for the absence of human contact. Imprisoned within their dreams, they are unable to experience their own friendship. A friendship which is real and significant.”14 The colors are bland and icy, the dialogue ambiguous and evasive, the settings, especially in Paris, claustrophobic and alienating. The last scene as the two men drive through mountainous roads towards the village is something between Hitchcock and Melville. At the very end, the young man turns to the camera, and, like the moral conclusion of a tragedy, tells his viewers: “I killed him because I loved him . . . Yerasimos Tzivas is gone, expecting everything from happiness; and before realizing it through a horrible death. May my action inspire people to think of all those who around the world abandon their country searching for destinies that do not belong to them, looking for them persistently, and without ever succeeding in achieving them.”

This was a profound philosophical meditation on the destiny of the diasporic people who cling onto elusive memories from the past while experiencing reality through reflections and substitutes, unable to deal with the challenges of the present. At the same time, the film delved with brutal honesty into the character of the Greek “common man” as he finds himself unable to deal with historical

Nikos Papatakis, The Photograph (1986). Courtesy, Nikos Papatakis. Greek Film Center Collection.

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pressures, reverting to a fantasy world full of displaced emotions and repressed feelings. Patatakis’ film avoided idealization, auterism and folklore, and depicted with disarming psychological depth the silent tragedies in a society devoid of freedom and therefore moral resistances. 1987 also showed a meagre production of about 30 films (features and shorts). Most of them were again produced by the Greek Film Center which seemed simply to have displaced other producers. A number of interesting films were made in various genres with some good directors from the past exploring new directions, although most had minimal commercial success. Nikos Nikolaidis released his science-fiction post-apocalyptic thriller Morning Patrol (Proini Peripolos) which introduced a new iconography to his work. The film had an elaborate yet simple script, superb cinematography by Dinos Katsouridis and an odd score by Yorgos Hatzinasios. It was a film of strongly contrasting moods, as a lonely woman wanders through the ruins of a destroyed city where she will meet a lonely man in despair, eventually finding with him the ultimate link between love and death, a theme that Nikolaidis would explore in his later films. Dimos Theos produced a historical biography of a resistance hero from the Ottoman period in his epic Captain Meidanos, the Image of a Mythical Fighter (Kapetan Meidanos, I Eikona enos Mithikou Oplarhigou). His film seemed to rekindle attempts to revisit the past and reassessed the historical experience of Greek people through effective storytelling with fast narrative rhythms and suggestive photography. Fotos Lambrinos’ Doxobus went even further back in history. Byzantium, the period in which Greeks formed their contemporary identity, seems otherwise absent from the cinematic tradition (with the exception of Yorgos Skalenakis’ underrated Byzantine Rhapsody from 1968). Lambrinos’ film was an unexpected experiment in the reconstruction of the heretical history of late Byzantium during the Civil War of 1341. Lambrinos, an accomplished theorist of cinema history, constructed one of the most interesting visual hypotheses about the interpretation of the past. Through this low-budget movie, he demonstrated that recreating the past was not simply a matter of funding or special effects. As represented in its strange otherness, the Byzantine period appeared as a totally alien space, a peculiar thrown into a strange temporality, and was an apt parable for the disintegrating pseudosocialism of the country and of Eastern Europe. Lambrinos explored how religion transformed people into irrational fanatics and hunted animals, destroying in them all the forms of ethical considerations behind responsible action. On the other side of politics, Lakis Papastathis with his Theophilos attempted a (somewhat uneven) depiction of “demotic temporality” in Greek cinema based on the life of the most important naive painter of the country. However, his project remained incomplete, as the film exuded a

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A History of Greek Cinema sense of agrarian folkishness, melodramatic sentimentalism, and humorless pre-modern nostalgia, which audiences found parochial and conceited. The film looked little more than a succession of moving cartoons, without depth or perspective, and with the actor Dimitris Katalifos performing almost absent-mindedly. In the same atmosphere belongs Terirem by Apostolos Doxiadis which explored the predicament of a shadow theater player whose wife is mute and suffering from cancer. Yet the attempt to visualize Christian Orthodox religiosity, or spirituality, seemed somehow contrived and affected. Unfortunately, there are no successful “religious films” in Greek cinema. Christian religion has always been seen as a cultural tradition, as folklore and ritualized customs and not in any way as the mysterium fascinans or the mysterium tremendum in their epiphany through the mundane, trivial, and ordinary. Kostas Koutsomitis’ The Noose (O Kloios) dealt with the first airplane hijacking in Greek history, when a group of communist youths took over an airplane during the Civil War and escaped to Yugoslavia. The film, based on actual events, was made as a good Hollywood thriller and was successful at the box office. Kostas Vrettakos’ The Children of Helidonas (Ta Paidia tis Helidonas) was another investigation into the impact of the Civil War on the lives of ordinary people over many decades, achieved mostly by great performances, especially from the star of old Greek cinema, Mairi Hronopoulou. Yorgos Kantacouzinos’ Absences (Apousies) was a period piece about the lives of three daughters after the 1922 Catastrophe, each one following a different path, as their class lost its social prestige and became their own prison. Together with the story of the three girls, so consummately photographed by Aristeidis Karydis-Fuchs, Kantacouzinos explored the changing realities in family dynamics with the image of a prodigal father squandering all prestige through a meticulous reconstruction of the past. Nikos Veryitsis’ The Archangel of Passion (O Arhangelos tou Pathous) explored the need for a transforming passion in a world of lost ideals and frustrated desires. Finally, Vassilis Vafeas’ 120 Decibels (120 Desimpel) also delved into the lost connections within the organic unity offered by common ideals and shared experiences, as friends and relatives gathered around a wounded man in a hospital. This simple story expressed a game of memories and lost ties that offered a sense of common direction and destiny. In the next year, 1988, even fewer films were made—a total of 20—as television channels started multiplying, some of them screening popular comedies and Mexican, Brazilian, and American soaps. Pandelis Voulgaris’ depiction of a football player, The Shirt With No 9 (I Fanella me to Ennia), was one of his least successful works. Nikos Panayiotopoulos’ The Woman Who Saw Dreams (I Ginaika pou Evlepe ta Oneira) was an imaginative

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attempt to explore the dreamworld of a married couple in crisis. Stavros Tsiolis’ Invincible Lovers (Akatanikitoi Erastes) was a deeply humanistic and compassionate film about a young boy who escaped his village and met with a girl who later disappeared. The scene of his return to the village, defeated and confused, is probably one of the most poignant moments in Greek cinema. Yorgos Karipidis’ In the Shadow of Fear (Stin Skia tou Fovou) was a gripping film noir, full of psychological complexities and dramatic conflicts, and great cinematography and music. Dionysis Grigoratos’ The Polk Case (O Fakellos Polk ston Aera) revisited the investigation into the murder of American journalist George Polk during the Civil War—it was the most commercially successful film of the year. Yorgos Korras and Hristos Voupouras released their underrated The Deserter (O Lipotaktis) which explored the sexual dynamics of the Greek countryside, as the protagonist (played with reserve by Hristos Mainas), a homosexual and an outsider, escapes Athens to find refuge in a remote village. There he is attracted to a virile and vulgar macho man who had deserted the army and lives by exploiting men and women through his sexual favors. The film explored the undercurrents of convention, hypocrisy, drug addiction, and violence hidden in relations in which people are unable to communicate feelings and live in the despair of existential self-imprisonment. The linear narrative and the genuine simplicity in representing the realities of the Greek countryside were enhanced by Eleni Karaindrou’s discreet music. Within an era of inane comedies and self-indulgent auteurism, this was a gem of a film which deserves a closer look. Special mention must be made of Dimitris Kollatos’ Life with Alkis (I Zoi me ton Alki), a touching and cathartic autobiographical “essay-film” about the life of a father with an autistic child. The film reveals the semiotic confusion in the communication between autistic children and their parents, while mapping out the strange codes and unexpected signs that a father who loves his child invents in order to communicate with him in the loneliness of autism. However, the film of the year came again from Theo Angelopoulos. Landscape in the Mist (Topio stin Omihli) was one of the most visually hypnotic, stylistically challenging, and philosophically dense films ever made in Greece; a metaphysical road movie, as two children leave their shadowy mother and get a train to Germany with the hope that there they will find their absent father. However there is no father, no destination, no way out of the shadowy land of an invisible mother. The children escape to nowhere. In the final scene, a lonely tree appears surrounded by mist, and nothing else. It is one of the most ambiguous endings in Greek cinema: is this the tree in the garden of Eden or the luminous tree at the end of Andrey Tarkovsky’s Sacrifice?

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Theo Angelopoulos, Landscape in the Mist (1988). Courtesy, Theo Angelopoulos. Credit: DVD

The story can have many interpretations, as the film is punctuated by religious symbols and Christian and classical references. It can be seen as a fairy tale or a parable, about the quest for origins, or the journey to the ultimate home of humanity. Angelopoulos filmed his personal book of miracles and wonders with a slow but steady narrative, a tense psychological atmosphere, and unexpected “epiphanies”: a white horse running loose in an empty city, snow falling in absence of clouds, staircases going upwards without end, a huge marble hand pointing at the children, and a seductive young man who takes them into the underworld of dark discos, brightly lit national highways, and easy pleasures. Yorgos Arvanitis’ cinematography created incredible contrasts of light and darkness, sensitively exploring the human face and the deep world of human eyes with curiosity and compassion. Eleni Karaindrou’s music almost de-realizes the action, offering a sublimating depth to the script. From the 20 movies produced in 1989, only a few are still of interest. Hristos Vakalopoulos’ Olga Robarts was a strange film about a female serial killer and the efforts of a curious burglar to expose her identity. The film was a fascinating thriller with great touches of humor and wit. Patris Vivankos’ Xenia was about the escape, connection, and destiny of a woman from Greece and a man from France who both find refuge in Andalusia. The anxiety for communication and yet the fear of personal exposure makes this first feature by Vivankos an interesting example of existentialist cinema. Vassilis Vafeas’ The Red Daisy (I Kokkini Margarita) was the story of a middle-aged man being seduced to his demise by a young woman. It is a modern version of von Sternberg’s The Blue Angel (1930), but without any risks with the medium or the story. Finally, Costas Ferris’ Oh Babylon was a surrealist rewriting of Euripides’ Bacchae, as the sacrificial victim celebrates his birthday by inviting the most improbable and unlikely

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people. The film showed the best and worst in Ferris’ cinematic art: the rampant imagination that remakes reality into a spectacular extravaganza around the timelessness of the unconscious, and, at the same time, the aesthetics of excess that overwhelm and overpower the viewer with an oblique personal mythology. Next year, only 16 feature films were released due to immense political unrest, fiscal problems, and the continuing bickering within the main production company, the Greek Film Center. Soon, the change in government would also mean a change in the director of the Center—something that led to major confrontations with unions and directors alike. New and old themes seemed to dominate the very meagre and uneven production in 1990. Yorgos Tsemperopoulos’ So Long (Ante Geia) was a decent melodrama with subtle music by Manos Hatzidakis and great performances by the veteran comedian Kaiti Pananika and the handsome youth Alkis Kourkoulos, in a love story between a middle-aged married woman and a younger man. Dimitris Panayiotatos’ Lovers in the Machine of Time (Erastes stin Mihani tou Hronou) was an interesting fantasy about different timelines and confusion of parallel moments in the personal history of a couple. The film received a special prize at the Avoriaz International Fantastic Film Festival and its technical effects show the rise of new technologies in the film production. Stavros Tsiolis’ Love Under the Date Tree (Erotas stin Hourmadia) was a funny film about two friends who try to find a date tree in the middle of Greece as proof of the fidelity or infidelity of their lovers. Vassiliki Iliopoulou’s first feature film The Passage (Perasma) was an impressive thriller about two friends who return from the army. One of them is killed in a brawl with a policeman, and the other kills his friend’s murderer. His attempt to escape from the country, with the help of a female truck driver, makes this chase movie a fascinating thriller with lots of wit and humor. Another first feature film, by Tasos Boulmetis, Dream Factory (Biotehnia Oneiron), explored a futuristic city in which people have lost the gift of dreams and where they have to buy their own dreams through invisible and omnipotent agencies. The film was atmospheric and tense and used a fast, gripping narrative. Dimos Avdeliodis continued with The Victory of Samothrace (I Niki tis Samothrakis), a film in which his poetic imagination made many concessions to narrative realism. The film was rather uneven but showcased Avdeliodis’ ability to create a film without protagonists and characters. It was also distinct for its peculiar humor, based on movement and expression more than conversation, and thus reminiscent of silent films, such as those of Charlie Chaplin and even Commedia dell’arte. Elements of the showdown puppet theatre of Karagiozis can also be detected, emphasizing the surreal character of the story. Classical music transforms the Athenian landscape into a peculiar topos of anachronistic juxtapositions.

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A History of Greek Cinema However, the strangest and most controversial film of the year, and probably of the whole of the 90s, was Nikos Nikolaidis’ Singapore Sling: the Man Who Loved a Corpse (Singapore Sling: o Anthropos pou Agapise ena Ptoma). The film signaled a new direction in Nikolaidis’ film-making, as now sex, fetishism, sado-masochistic orgies, and madness were converging in a rather precarious way which sometimes veers off to the explicitly pornographic. A lonely private detective is looking for a woman who had disappeared four years earlier. In the dark, he sees two women, an insane mother and her nymphomaniac daughter, try to bury a man alive. The women take him prisoner and inflict on him sexual torture, rape, and endless humiliation without any hope of escape. The film would have imploded within its own imagery but is saved by its quirky black humor, magnificent cinematography by Aris Stavros and the hilariously “insane” acting of the female leads, Meredith Harold and Michelle Valley. Nikolaidis created a palimpsest of cinematic references, from Gene Tierny to Sylvia Kristel, from Otto Preminger to Marco Ferreri, from Nagisa Oshima to Louis Buñuel, with underlying philosophical discourses on eroticism, necrophilia, perversion, and the “the divine filth” by Georges Bataille, and with the sublime immorality of the Marquis de Sade. It was a shocking film that indicated an existential and probably cinematic impasse, a visual “liminal experience” exposing sexual violence and corporeal humiliation in an ambiguous way, as though Nikolaidis was deeply fascinated and attracted to the dark, asocial, and animalistic tendencies of the unconscious.

Towards a Transnational Greek Cinema: 1991–1995 The impasse was not just a personal affair for one of the most euphoric representatives of the defunct New Greek Cinema. The inability of the socialists to govern, the extensive corruption of the state apparatuses, and the general political instability led to two elections, in June and November 1989, which resulted in hung parliaments. An atmosphere of real or rumored scandals was corroding civil and political order. The new decade opened with this profound crisis in Greek society, as finally a new conservative government, under the leadership of the 1965 “apostate,” Constantine Mitsotakis, won the April 1990 election with a one-seat majority. In its agenda of political reform based on economic rationalism, it struggled hard to curb the influence of unions, privatize crucial industries, and bring the culprits of past financial scandals to justice through the so-called “catharsis.” Unfortunately, the reforms started from the last point, which immediately gave the impression of a political witchhunt. Of course, since some conservatives were themselves involved in such shady activities, the prosecution was limited to the former prime minister Andreas Papandreou and some key ministers, with tragic results: one died

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of a heart attack in front of the television cameras; while Papandreou, with his usual respect for legality and democratic institutions, ignored the court summons—he was finally acquitted by one vote. Meanwhile, seeing the demoralizing impasse in production, the Greek Film Center introduced a new program of funding called the “New Gaze” (Nea Matia), which was available to new directors with fresh ideas for experimental projects. Through this scheme, some of the most important new directors would make their debuts after 1993. At the same time, multiplex cinemas made their first appearance in the country. Local municipalities, in their fight against the dominance of television, started to fund their own cinema theaters, screening mostly art house films, organizing retrospectives, and convening public discussions on the future of local cinema. A total of 14 movies were made in 1991. Nikos Kornelios’ Equinox (Isimeria), Takis Spetsiotis’ Ravens (Korakia), and Dimitris Giatzouzakis’ St Fanourios’ Cake (Fanouropita) expressed with humor and levity the emerging tendencies, as the final farewell to political cinema and the mythologized past. Special mention must be made of a short film by Alexis Bistikas, The Necktie (I Gravata) about a romance between two men from Greece and Britain, with the tie being the symbol of their union and separation. Tassos Psarras made the first serious film about AIDS with The Other Aspect (I Alli Opsi), which unfortunately, despite its honesty and sincerity, ended with a moralistic didacticism about family values and monogamy, ignoring the complexities of the disease as a social phenomenon. The strangely impressionist movie Two Suns in the Sky (Dio Ilioi ston Ourano) by Yorgos Stampoulopoulos must be mentioned too for its ambivalent depiction of the Orthodox Church in its struggle to destroy the last remnants of pagan theater in early Byzantium. The film was also an exercise in historical reconstruction, depicting a collision of mentalities and world views. Stampoulopoulos recreated a period of historical transition by employing a visual language of expressionistic qualities and theatrical settings that brought to life the era and its tense atmosphere. Pandelis Voulgaris’ The Quiet Days of August (Isihes Meres tou Augoustou) was a beautiful, introspective, and sensitive meditation on loneliness, old age, and friendship. It was structured around three stories, a style which seems to suit best his directorial command. Frida Liappa’s The Year of the Heatwave (I Hronia tis Megalis Zestis) was a thoughtful and gentle exploration of existential solitude, as an actual heatwave becomes the external symbol for internal silence and emotional numbness. Liappa died shortly after the film’s release, abruptly ending a career with several reflective films from an existentialist tradition, which also deserve more attention. Unfortunately, the same fate awaited another important female director, Tonia Marketaki (1945–1994), who, although among the early representatives of the New Greek Cinema in the 70s, became more interested in complex

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A History of Greek Cinema and ambitious films. The culmination of her work before her untimely death was her dreamlike Crystal Nights (Kristallinies Nihtes). The film was a bold, Borgesian attempt to recapture time lost, through mystical ceremonies, arcane reincarnations, and resurrected souls. Set in Thessaloniki’s populous Jewish community before the Shoah, it opened with a love affair between a gentile woman and a young Jewish man. The death of the man leads the woman to bring back his soul, but now only as a lifeless and selfish zombie. The narrative is extended in time to explore what happened after the war and ends with a suggestive reflection on the nature of love and life. Despite the improbabilities of the script and the impenetrable esoteric character of its symbols, Marketaki’s final film was a visually mesmerizing experience, full of sensitivity and fragility, and touching on the most inhuman incidents of recent history, with empathy, affection, and a sense of guilt for the victims, their lost lives, and happiness. It was a film about lost innocence, and the continual traumas of history, which can never be healed or atoned for. Two further films from 1991 must also be included. Lefteris Xanthopoulos’ The Fugitive (or, Master of the Shadows) (O Drapetis) was a touching depiction of the life of a shadow theater player (Karagiozis) and the fate of his art as it became obsolete by the rise of modernity in the form of cinema. Thanassis Skroubelos’ Johnny Keln, My Lady (Tzonys Keln, Kiria Mou) revisited the stories about brothels, pimps, and prostitutes from the old Greek cinema of the 60s, exploring the communal bonds between underground people. In the same year, Angelopoulos released the most “prophetic” of his movies, The Suspended Step of the Stork (To Meteoro Vima tou Pelargou), the first part of a trilogy exploring borders and divided people. As the communist world collapsed and the borders that divided Greece from its Balkan neighbors became irrelevant, Angelopoulos visited the concept of the border and what it meant in the contemporary world. Marcello Mastroianni and Jeanne Moreau find themselves again in a “sequel” to Antonioni’s La Notte (1961) as they struggle to reconnect with each other as well as with the history around them. Bridges, dividing lines, and interrupted roads express the highly symbolic climate of the film, culminating in a silent wedding on opposite sides of the border—one of the most startling and unsettling scenes in the film. The film was about the new forms of communication and interaction between people who leave behind the divisions and conflicts of the old world. It explored the new frontier of human development, by depicting the interstitial realities in what Manuel Castells called “the space of flows.” In the last scene of the film, technicians install wires like the notations of an inaudible music score, transcending borders and divides, and ending the dangerous realities of the collapsing nation state. Electronic networks of communication demolish barriers against human interaction and mutual

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Tonia Marketaki, Crystal Nights (1992) From the Greek Film Centre Collection

Theo Angelopoulos, The Suspended Step of the Stork (1991). Courtesy, Theo Angelopoulos. Credit: DVD

understanding: new invisible grammars of communication emerge. This optimistic ending was in stark contrast to the looming Balkan wars of the early 90s. Angelopoulos ended the movie with an ominous statement, however: “If I stay still I am here. If I lift my foot I will be elsewhere,” as the main character stands at the line that divides three countries. The film was a magnificent meditation on the end of exclusivist selfperception and self-justifying mythologies, and expressed the transition from an introverted national culture to the new condition of transculturality as the central mode of self-articulation and self-understanding. Only 11 movies were released in 1992, a number indicating the looming crisis of legitimate authority in the country together with intense squabbling among film-makers as the new government started to implement a program of economic rationalism. Among these films, Angeliki Antoniou’s Donousa stands out as an honest effort to depict the mores of a closed traditional society on a remote island, by exposing incest and sexual violence. With a good script, the film depicts with austere realism the law of silence that undermines

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A History of Greek Cinema communal bonds and human relations—and beyond that, it explores the crisis within the nuclear family and its patriarchal structure. Stavros Tsiolis and Hristos Vakalopoulos’ Please Women, Do Not Cry (Parakalo Ginaikes Min Klaite) was a hilarious comedy of manners and mores as two fake hagiographers, employed to renovate a church in a remote village, use the opportunity to spy lustfully on naked women with their telescope. It was a really funny film with very serious subtexts, and a biting social critique. A powerful film of historical revisionism, Byron, the Ballad for a Demon (Byron, i Mpalanta enos Daimonismenou), was made by Nikos Koundouros. Irrespective of the negative reviews and its box office failure, this was a superbly atmospheric film which encapsulated some of the recurring themes of his work: the lonely individual, the hostile society, and the inability to find common ground for communication. But nobody liked seeing the darling of Romantic Philhellenism, the idealist who sacrificed his life so that “Greece might be free again,” being depicted as a cynical beast, a lustful desperado, and a raving sodomite. Koundouros’ Byron is angry, resentful, possessed by animalistic lewdness and moral despair; all caused by his own inability to find meaning in anything that he does: sex, revolution, poetry, or even in life itself. The film was superbly photographed, in dark, ominous, and menacing colors by Nikos Kavoukidis, while Manos Vakousis, an actor of comic roles until then, presented a poet in a collapsing state of mind with empathy and subtlety. During this period, Koundouros was indeed the only director who resisted conformism and complacency; the only director who continued the oppositional aesthetics of good Greek cinema, criticizing, subverting, and debunking established myths, ideologies, and implied “truths.” At the same time, Koundouros’ fellow traveller Michael Cacoyannis, after years of silence, released his smug and pompous comedy Up, Down and Sideways (Pano, Kato kai Plagios) with a good cast, headed by a

Nikos Koundouros, Byron, the Ballad for a Demon (1992). Courtesy, Nikos Koundouros. Greek Film Center Collection.

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screaming Irene Papas. Nobody could believe that such an atrocious crime against taste was committed by the great director of Stella. However, the film was solid proof of the end of an era—and of a specific way of making movies. In 1993, 25 films were made, most of them funded by the Greek Film Center. There are some interesting explorations of the emerging crisis in Greek society. Nikos Grammatikos’ The Time of Assassins (I Epohi ton Dolofonon) was a fascinating psychological thriller about contract killers, with a great script, exciting music, and superb costumes. Kostas Aristopoulos’ Starry Dome (Enastros Tholos) was an allegorical modern retelling of the story of Antigone. The cinematography by Stamatis Yannoulis and the costumes by Anastasia Arseni create a symbolic atmosphere of archetypal references magnificently enhanced by the music of Berlioz, Mozart, and Cherubini. Dimitris Kollatos’ independent production I Plucked a Red Rose for You (Kokkino Trantafillo sou ekopsa) was a touching autobiographical meditation on the suicide of the director’s wife and how he lived with his autistic son, trying to regain lost time by watching the old films they had made together. Nikos Panayiotopoulos’ I Dream of My Friends (Oneireuomai tous Filous Mou) was an emotional exploration of the past life of a man, starting in Berlin in 1965 and unfolding through time. Although the script was rather too introspective, the outstanding performance in the lead role gave Lefteris Vogiatzis firt prize at the International San Remo Festival. Dinos Dimopoulos’ last film, The Little Dolphins of Amvrakikos (Ta Delfinakia tou Amvrakikou) was a touching and optimistic take on human relations, focused around the emotional rite of passage for three children, photographed with gentle subtlety and warm intimacy by Walter Lassally’s eye for Greek luminescence. It is one of the best films ever made about children, and won major awards in Cairo, Vienna, Italy, and that of Best Film in New England’s Children Film Festival in 1995. Yannis Papadakis’ White Red (Aspro Kokkino) depicted the violent dynamics of subcultural characters with passion and directness. Markos Holevas’ Eyewitness (Autoptis Martis) explored with psychological suggestiveness and narrative strength a strange series of murders that lead the main character to a lethal confrontation with a homeless man. Patric Vivankos’ Happy Life (Zoi Harisameni) was a fascinating exploration of the relations between six middle-aged friends as they go searching for money in Colombia. There, differences come to the surface and a “game” of mutual extermination begins. Only one of them makes it back home. From the overall production of 1993, however, three films stand out. Alexis Bistikas’ The Dawn (To Harama) was a touching “popular” melodrama about the career and personal life of two singers in a traditional singing club. Their hopes, ambitions, and conflicts are superbly depicted in a film which could have been made by Douglas Sirk, with catchy popular music

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A History of Greek Cinema by Hristos Nikolopoulos and great performances by Stavros Zalmas and Katerina Kouka. Unfortunately, Bistikas (1964–1995) died of AIDS after this film, ending a promising way of working in which the realism of setting and the stylization of acting indicated a sophisticated aesthetic, yet still in embryonic form. Bistikas made a number of short films, one of them with Derek Jarman, in which one can admire his cosmopolitan vision and radical realism against the current aesthetics. His homosexual gaze, focusing on nuances, subtexts, and hidden details, subverted accepted practices by infusing the main story with sensual energy and explosive tension. He was one of the most promising film-makers of the post-New Greek Cinema period, one who, from within the aesthetics of British experimental underground cinema, made films about low-class singers, barflies and ordinary commoners. The film that received most awards in the year’s Thessaloniki Festival was Pericles Hoursoglou’s Lefteris Dimakopoulos. It was the simple story of the homecoming from Germany of a successful engineer. Back in the motherland, he is reconnected with his old friends, and they relive their youth and recollect their love affairs under the dictatorship. The film was an uncomplicated narrative about loss and love, but it lacked the magic touch of imagination. It indicated the strong cultural tendencies for an escapist return to a youth full of promise and hope before all went wrong. Yet its simplicity is also its central problem: the characters are lacking in depth and the story in scope. The film that can be seen today as the forerunner and herald of a new representational style in Greek cinema was Sotiris Goritsas’ From the Snow (Apo to Hioni). It won a number of prestigious international awards (Pestoia and Amien, as well as the award for best film by Fipresci, the International Federation of Film Critics). The story concerned three Albanians who enter Greece illegally and, after a cruel journey, reach Athens and struggle to survive in the strange and inhospitable city. In their ultimate misery one falls to his death from a building and the others return to Albania. Around this story, Goritsas (b. 1955) explored the alienating invisible forms of capitalist society, the bewilderment of the local middle class before such unexpected strangers, and police brutality against defenseless and desperate people. As Goritsas said to Petro Alexiou: The subject of forced exile, the subject of the “foreigner” is, I think, closely tied to modern Greek history. Only this time we’ve found ourselves on the other side, not with the “foreigner,” but as the host to the “foreigner.” And it appears that we’ve quickly forgotten our previous life, our past suffering, our identity.15

The film becomes a hybrid between documentary and fiction, its actual realities and imagined situations framed by stark and austere photography

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by Stamatis Yannoulis. The only characters moved by the strangers are the persecuted and the marginalized—Goritsas presented the stranger as a domestic category: there were so many strangers in Greek society that the newcomers only made exclusion policies obvious and visible. The film explored the unknown back alleys of the Greek capital, giving for the first time a clear image of the squalor and misery of many homeless people, local or immigrant—and, at the same time, it opened up the self-sufficient and self-referential forms that had dominated Greek cinema since the early 1980s. A new “work of mourning” emerged then; not for lost ideological certainties but for what was being perpetrated at that very moment, with the indifference and collusion of normal citizens, against hopeless, miserable and terrified people living in their midst. The “opening-up” of form that Goritsas achieved inaugurated the process of a cinematic renaissance full of dynamism and violence within the five years that followed. Seventeen feature films were made in 1994. The most successful, and one of the most interesting films made after 1974, was the first feature film by Antonis Kokkinos, End of an Era (Telos Epohis). Set in dictatorship-1969 at a school where students want to perform Ionesco, the main story revolves around a new student who comes from the countryside to the big city. Here, he confronts oppression, falls in love, and experiences rejection as rites of passage to adulthood. The film, in black and white, was funny, subtle, and sensitive. It resonated with the emotional memories of a whole generation as it recreated with nostalgia and empathy the paradoxical era of the dictatorship, the confused era of their adolescence. Three women directors released films that continued the traditions of Liappa and Marketaki. Lagia Giourgiou’s House in the Countryside (Spiti stin Exohi) was a riveting detective story about a writer who tries to write

Sotiris Goritsas, From the Snow (1993). Courtesy, Sotiris Goritsas. Greek Film Center Collection.

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A History of Greek Cinema his book as a couple is accused of killing his neighbor. He is fascinated by their story, but as he unravels its mystery he helps the police in their search. Katerina Vassilakou’s Jaguar (Iagouaros) was an enthralling psychological exploration of the relations between two women—one having married the other’s brother, who was executed by the Germans in 1944, and then moving to Boston with her American lover. In their relationship, the secrets of the past become painful reminders of an imagined happiness and unity. Finally, Lukia Rikaki’s Quartet in Four Movements (Kouarteto se Tesseris Kiniseis) was a powerful exploration of family dynamics as the ordered life of a middle-class couple is destroyed by the entrance of a handsome and ambitious musician. Among other films Thodoros Marangos’ The Lunar Fugitive (O Drapetis tou Feggariou) was a magical fairy tale based on folk stories and legends. Dimitris Athanitis’ Goodbye Berlin (Antio Verolino) was a strange thriller about the anxiety of a young director as he struggles to make his first film but gets involved with the underworld and is assassinated. Special mention is deserved by Takis Spyridakis’ The Garden of God (O Kipos tou Theou), which depicted life in prison and the ways in which four youngsters struggle to survive it. The brutal and monotonous life in prison was explored with sincerity and empathy—the four inmates escape to the sea only to find a tragic death. The film was both witty and bleak, a very atmospheric contemporary film noir with redeeming touches of humor. Panos Karkanevatos’ Borderline (Metaihmio) was a big production with international funding about two brothers, one of whom is considered lost until the other starts searching for him. The film follows twists and turns by showing the changes on his life and psychology, until the ultimate moment of recognition. A similar story of a quest for true identity was explored in Nikos Typaldos’ Terra Incognita, a film with haunting cinematography and a fast narrative pace. Yannis Smaragdis’ Cavafy was a remarkable yet uneven attempt to depict the biography of the great poet—a film that tried to reconstruct visually the temporality of his poems through an introspection which, in a strange way, resisted the challenge of Cavafy’s homosexuality. Through its over-aestheticization, the film undervalues the male body as the ultimate hypertext in Cavafy’s poems. Sensuality without sexuality makes the film somehow a middle-class exercise in mainstreaming Cavafy’s eroticism. Actor Dimitris Katalifos gave a compelling performance full of sensitivity and reserve, although occasionally he looks lost and bewildered, showing that something greater was happening in the mind of the poet at the very moment when he was enjoying his sexuality. Alexis Damianos also released his third and final movie Charioteer (Iniohos) in 1994, which was something of a swan song to the vitality and mythopoetic strength of the New Greek Cinema. Unfortunately, the film was

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so densely textured that it imploded and became inaccessible to contemporary audiences who left wondering what the whole thing was about. As it was made over a period of many years, narrative gaps are obvious and off-putting. With so many major crises having taken place in Greek society after the 80s and, more importantly, with the social changes that followed the demographic alteration, contemporary audiences questioned the relevance of the film about the Civil War and the 40s when a new (undeclared) social and political war was raging in the country. Nevertheless, despite its opaque form, Damianos’ movie was an epic achievement, both artistically and visually, which could be admired if not enjoyed. Meanwhile, the 90s seemed to have fulfilled Angelopoulos’ prediction regarding the end of all borders in the most alarming way. By the end of 1991, communist regimes had collapsed across Europe and a mass wave of migrants, mostly illegal, entered Greece. In a few years, the social landscape of the country changed dramatically, with new problems emerging in the relations between the established Greek population and the newcomers. Albanian, Bulgarian, Romanian, Ukranian, and Polish immigrants radically reformed the country’s structure and culture. After 1991, many new people entered Greece, legally or illegally, who never professed to have had any affinity with its national history, as had the repatriated Greek refugees from the Civil War several years earlier. The great transformation from a homogenous nation-state to a heterogeneous multicultural society was both a challenge and a shock to the political and ideological conditioning of the Greek population. By 1995, Greek society had undergone an unpredictable and unprecedented transformation which stressed its multiple traditions, social diversity, and cultural in-betweenness. Angelopoulos’ great epic from this year, Ulysses’ Gaze (To Vlemma tou Odyssea) is the cinematic landmark that separates periods and mentalities, identities and allegiances, illusions and realities—and it addresses the newly found conditions of self-articulation and self-representation that Greek society found itself in after the change in its demography. Trying to modernize the institutional framework for cinema, changes were introduced to the Greek Film Center and the Thessaloniki Film Festival by the conservative government. In 1992, an important reform took place in organizing the Thessaloniki Film Festival. Instead of solely Greek, the Festival became international again in an attempt to attract films from other European countries, especially the Balkans, and from world cinema. The change was needed because of the increase of international exchanges, the rise of global cinemas, and a need to attract funds from various sources. Presidents of the Festival’s international committee became prominent directors, like Wim Wenders, Otar Ioseliani, Miklós Jancsó, and John Boorman. The change gave new life and prestige to a local festival which,

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A History of Greek Cinema in its splendid isolation, had been a plaything of various governments and was used by coteries to give prizes mostly to mediocre films made by their friends. With a new impetus now given to the supposedly renewed government, it seemed a new era of great promises was emerging. And after Melina Mercouri’s death in 1994, new policies started being discussed in order to break down the effective monopoly of the Greek Film Center over film production and to attract new funds from the European Union. So far, only Angelopoulos had managed to attract sponsors from other countries (Italy, Germany, France, and Spain) together with internationally known actors. It seemed that after 1995, assisted by the New Gaze, a new generation of film-makers was emerging with new forms of representation, and, more importantly, with entirely new stories to tell.

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Chapter Six

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The Polyphony of the Decentered Gaze: The Other as Cultural Hero (1995–2010)

General Themes and Trends If the 1980 s wa s the period of search for identity and cohesion, the 1990s was almost exclusively dedicated to the exploration of difference and diversity. In the 80s, attempts were made to heal the traumas of the past by consolidating a unified self-perception, a society with homogeneity and unity; and, in the socialist rhetoric of the times, by creating a society with a “common destiny”. However, as the demography changed, difference emerged as the new cultural reality dominating debates of the post-socialist period. Difference raised the prospect of diverse identities within mainstream Greek society, particularly of identities based on gender, self-definition, and class. At the same time, new and different identities emerged as immigrants and locals intermingled and a new generation started to crystallize during the late 90s. Consequently, the cinematic gaze lost its singular centre, mainly that of Greek historical memory, and opened up to a diversity of histories that made their presence felt after the collapse of communism in a heterogeneous society searching for new points of reference and equilibrium. Cinematically, such a search seems to have inaugurated a new kind of gritty and grim realism, which became dominant after 1995 when a new generation of directors appeared. As Hallam and Marshment observed on a European scale, such realism pushed “hitherto neglected groups onto the screen [and] the speaking of previously unheard truths and unexpressed attitudes.”1 While famous directors like Theo Angelopoulos continued producing films in their own distinct styles, albeit with different storylines and points

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A History of Greek Cinema of departure, new approaches gradually emerged from young people who grew up in a society which struggled to “modernize” itself. The visual and aural landscape of the country had changed dramatically within five years. Monolingualism and monoculturalism were replaced by a diversity of languages and cultures coexisting with tension and unease in an unstable state shaken by repeated political scandals, financial problems, and administrative corruption which on many occasions led to direct confrontation with the people. Furthermore, the film industry itself was experiencing a transformation. The Greek Film Center, which by then had become almost the single film producer in the country, had been badly influenced by the financial crisis of the late 80s. New policies were introduced which favored multiple sponsorship from many sources—private, state, and international—and which were to become dominant in the new millennium. Meanwhile, the film market was dominated by American blockbusters which totally eliminated local films. Very few people watched Greek films, which were gradually becoming art-house films screened only during festivals, expos, or retrospectives. Moreover, disillusionment with politics and political films was one of the most permeating characteristics of the new film-making. Young directors matured after the ultimate loss of moral authority and civil legitimacy of the Greek state. They also experienced the loss of the greatest legacy that the history of Greek cinema had inherited: its oppositional aesthetics. After its lethal and patronizing embrace by the state in the 80s, all kinds of political ideologies in films were indications of an ugly and amoral conformism, expressed through complacency and collusion with organized power and the vested interests of the media moguls supporting it. Professionally however, most of the new directors worked for private television channels and directed either short series or video clips. In many respects, the logic of television dominates most of the movies produced over the last 20 years. Indeed, the televisual mode was and still is the dominant way of visualizing action. Consequently, the dividing line between the camera making images for the big screen and for television, the cinematic and the televisual, became rather blurred or even totally vanished. Since the late 1980s, after television channels multiplied all over the country at an uncontrolled pace, the need for more directors who could put together low-budget but commercially popular programs became increasingly pressing. The introduction of the handheld camera and then of digital technology changed the landscape of film production with the creation of a wide variety of mainly short films, in different genres, which explored a society in a deep existential, political, and civil crisis, while at the same time examining the potential of these new technologies. But the lack of a rejuvenating political vision was obvious in the mood

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of most filmic representations. From the early 90s to this day, political and historical issues have been replaced by personal anxieties, private fantasies, and individual phobias. Despite several films being made about the critical representation of the past, new directors seem to be more interested in depicting contemporary social realities through the lens of cynicism, emotive humanism, or indifference, revealing a profound ambivalence towards their own society. In other films, community tensions are mostly represented through a gloom-and-doom, morose, and depressive perspective that create a constant juxtaposition to the jocular atmosphere of films from the golden age of Greek cinema, which, shown on television, have started becoming symbols of a lost communal unity (which of course may have never existed). Overall, different films started being made for different communities from the body politic: mainstream, diasporic, queer, transgender, and so on. The ideological construct of a single nation, of the Nation, was deconstructed into its constitutive micro-communities which, in their turn, sought representation, voice, and visibility. The persistent attempt to “compile” a post-national imaginary can be found in most works of cultural production of the latest period. Consequently, new micro-histories are now being represented, especially of the new migrant minorities and their predicament in a society which doesn’t know how to deal with its own citizens. The invisible people at the margins gained their visibility at the moment when all projects that inspired previous generations collapsed, especially projects that privileged the political and existential adventure of Greek citizens in search of meaning and self-definition. “All Greek movies today are about Albanian immigrants,” is said melancholically in Vangelis Seitanidis’ Under Your Makeup (Kato apo to Makigiaz sou, 2009). It is almost as though the Greek experience has lost its right to be represented; or even as though contemporary Greek directors refuse to deal with the Greek experience and use the mirror of the immigrant in order to depict the crisis of meaning, authority, and purpose that seems to dominate social life, without ever admitting that they themselves are the immigrants we see on screen, strangers in their own land. Indeed, the “stranger” is the new cultural hero in these films—the stranger from outside and the stranger from within, represented now as the “human” uncanny that fascinates and unsettles. For these new cultural heroes, new forms of realism are gradually being constructed—a process that is still under way today and which is constantly reconfigured in a society in rapid and unpredictable fluidity. The dominant form of representation might be called episodic realism, as a reaction to the symbolic grand narratives of reconstructed past of the previous decades—although Pandelis Voulgaris’ Deep Soul (2009) and Theo Angelopoulos’ The Weeping Meadow (2004) seem to insist on such reconstruction. Now the camera usually focuses, with anxiety, anger, and horror,

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A History of Greek Cinema on episodes of everyday life full of the banality and triviality found in the ordinary, the pedestrian, and the habitual. Most movies magnify the prosaic and the common in an attempt to unearth the implied subtexts of a society that has lost all vision of renewal and change. Indeed, the absence of political or social vision is painfully obvious; nevertheless no criticism of the function of Greek democracy is attempted, or of the official ideologies about history and the past. It is as if the prolonged social crisis has created an emotional numbness and intellectual confusion that have established a visual discourse of discontent devoid of moral considerations. Most of the films after 2005 shed fresh light on the common experience but absence of communal bond by foregrounding individual alienation and the loss of shared values. Indeed, they depict a society dominated by the pseudo-events promoted by the media, without moral dilemmas and ethical concerns, privatized and insular, almost consumed by doubt, disbelief, and self-loathing. The actions of specific individuals in a society without bonds, collective memories, or a sense of destiny now become the axis of most films; but such individual praxis is neither an exercise in individualism nor in secluded privatization, as the ideologues of the past would have accused it of. On the contrary, it is the constant reminder of a missing societal bond, of a lost togetherness, which has thrown the individual into a whirlwind of ambiguities and uncertainties which cannot be resolved. The central theme of the most important films after 1995 is the helplessness of human beings within a political system of depersonalizing structures; a system divested of its moral legitimacy and which imposes a perpetual state of existential anomie on lonely and homeless people, especially those who try to survive as strangers in a society without bonds. It is a new cinema that emerged, the cinema of the narrow path, being pressured from all sides and struggling to construct a way out of the crisis by looking outside accepted mainstream centers. Some call it the New Greek Current, and see a great challenge to the “boring and repetitive cinema of the 80s” as well as the cinema of the 70s. As Orestis Andreadakis stated in a recent research of 77 new directors: We use the word “Current” because this movement does not have the inflexible characteristics of an entrenched school and does not function on ideological or aesthetical manifestos like “Dogme 95.” The creators who constitute this current let themselves free within its own dynamic with a peculiar jocular predisposition and deny all parochial groupings. However, they clearly manifest some common elements. They are united by audacious boldness, for example, they are interested in reality and have substituted symbolism with the subversions generated by the conflict between pop and realism.2

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After the early 1990s, the cinematic gaze lost its center: instead of looking back on its history with the conscious attempt to heal the traumatic memories left by instability and division, it looked around and discovered something only occasionally and unexpectedly observed in its development. Greek society had ceased being a society that sent migrants outside its borders. Domestic and international migration created an immense nostalgia for a paradise lost in the archetypal organic serenity of the village, of the topos of origin. After the 90s, however, the national space itself was inhabited by “aliens,” genuine refugees, escaped criminals, Muslims, women and men from other cultures who, after the collapse of communism and during continued unrest in the Middle East, flooded Greece, either passing through to western Europe or staying and making the country their new home. So the gaze that looked with nostalgia towards the past discovered the Other in the immediate present and in the adventure of the newcomers for whom Greece was a place of both hope and exile, of promise and despair, of stability and anxiety. Culturally, as the borders fell after 1991, not only Balkan neighbors entered Greece, but Greece itself was reconnected with its immediate environment. Immigrants, especially Albanian, helped Greeks to rediscover their common Balkan heritage and their long historical bonds with the other nations of the region which had been severed by the Iron Curtain and the Cold War. Even the common bonds with Turkey became frequent cinematic material, as Turkish cinema, especially that by Yilmaz Güney, was respected and admired by Greek cinephiliacs. Angelopoulos’ Ulysses’ Gaze contains a scene on the mountains between Albania and Greece where hundreds of faceless people try to escape through the snow and freezing cold for a better life in the south. The landscape full only of snow resonated with the whispers and sounds of an entrance into history together with all of its consequences: the trauma of birth and the endless primal scream that cannot be appeased, since there is no maternal presence to alleviate it. For the film-makers, the immigrant appeared at a very paradoxical moment; when politics had been discredited and grand statements had become suspect. Together with them, the aesthetics of populism dominant during the 80s was also discredited as parochial and dangerous. New senses of filmic time emerged through the creative osmosis between old films screened on television and the actual timing of television programs. After 1988, the airwaves were deregulated. This led to the proliferation of independent channels with their own programs which competed with state-owned channels. At first, new channels introduced quality programs and independent news, plus more working positions for technical staff, actors, and directors. But the spring of good television and independent information lasted for very few years. Soon, trash television took over and the promise of renewal died within the amoral populist aesthetics of the

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A History of Greek Cinema decade. Indeed, the aesthetics of cheap melodrama and sexual titillation took over and dominated television production through its sensationalism and the cult of the lowest common denominator in information, criticism, and programming. A whole generation of young film-makers didn’t just grow up in this environment, but also enjoyed cinema classics on television; and they watched them in 15-minute slots between commercial breaks. The decline of art cinemas and cinema clubs was dramatic, and the associations and municipalities which were funding them closed them one after the other, suffering the arrival of the DVD player. The destruction of old cinemas, which had for decades been symbols of common experiences and communal bonds, also undermined the culture surrounding film itself. The loss of communal connection transformed such social rituals into individual experiences, or indeed into private worlds. Soon the sense of community had all but vanished, and the production of new movies turned its attention to the alienated and lonely heroes within an antisocial urban crowd. Homelessness, withdrawal, and isolation became the dominant moods in the scripts of the new period—with the new cultural hero being the immigrant and the stranger. However, most films do not simply depict their hero out of context, they depict the image of the immigrant who wants to belong to a society that the Greeks themselves do not really like. Such paradoxical ambivalence can be felt in all movies produced since 1995. The cinematic gaze frames not only the difficulties of the migrant in being incorporated into Greek society, but the inability of the society to accept difference and divergence. Greek films are sites of deep structural conflicts: they depict the unwelcome stranger against the backdrop of an undesired reality. Stylistically, most directors employ television techniques and, more importantly, the filmic time befitting television series in order to unfold their stories. Indeed, most of these movies resemble television news bulletins, either as self-conscious parodies or as genuine stratagems used to achieve harsher realism. The self-reflexive style of the New Greek Cinema with its slow pace, long takes, distantiation techniques, and elliptic editing has been replaced by fast, linear narrative full of jump cuts, moving camerawork, and heavy editing—in direct opposition to the monumental style of Angelopoulos’ films. Stylized acting is abandoned in favor of highly emotive and challenging performances. (Only in the recent Dogtooth, 2009 by Dimitris Indares do we find certain reflections of the old elaborate miseen-scène.) On many occasions, especially in the comedies which resurfaced with immense success during the late 90s, viewers feel that narrative is structured around television programs, music videos or commercials. Episodes in the story are short and punchy, jokes sound like advertising slogans, and whole films are made of a series of loosely connected episodes. Most of these comedies can be enjoyed at home on DVD or computer

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because they are made specifically for the small screen. Probably the main challenge of contemporary cinematic poetics is to find a solution to this urgent question: how can the experience of the big screen be transferred to the small screen of home television or to the even smaller computer screen? Most film-makers really do try to find a solution to this in an attempt to make movies relevant to the generation which goes to the movie theater only infrequently and only to watch American special-effects blockbusters—as the only movies that perpetuate the magic and allure of the big screen. Most of the new directors are still trying to find their way with the medium and within the market forces that determine its development, nationally and internationally. The most important goal is to bring audiences back to the cinemas—something that is looking more and more utopian. Good movies sell very few tickets, whereas a comedy like Mihalis Reppas and Papathanasiou’s Safe Sex (1999), co-produced by a television channel, sold over 1,400,000 tickets, superseding Aliki Vouyouklaki’s old record for Lieutenant Natasha (1970). The comedy itself is technically accomplished, with good dialogue, and hilarious episodes. On television, each story could have been expanded to a full episode of about 30 to 45 minutes; in the cinema, the episodes look sketchy and brief. Yet it revived the tradition of good comedies and brought the audience back to the cinema in a spectacular fashion, thereby proving that cinema is still possible! It seems that this is the only way to rekindle film culture and to revive the industry; the production of good popular cinema, using the most advanced technology, and based on the hybrid aesthetics of the small and the big screen. The challenge, therefore, is not simply the production of quality films, but the very survival of cinema film as a distinct art in a society that has lost interest in stylistic experimentation. The challenge is for the production of “good” films in all genres, covering a wide range from “commercial” cinema to what has been considered self-reflexive and formalist.

Entering the New Millennium: the Context In the October 1993 election, the Socialist Party won again after four years of failed and turbulent conservative rule. In 1996, the Socialist leader Andreas Papandreou finally succumbed to his many ailments thus liberating his party from his dynastic, and by then farcical, presence. Quite symbolically, Papandreou died the same year as the superstar Aliki Vouyouklaki and the seemingly ever-rejuvenating composer Manos Hatzidakis, all of them having influenced Greek cinema in different ways. New political leaders emerged with more technocratic credentials, like Costas Simitis who promised to modernize politics in the country. His slogan for “modernization” (eksinhronismos) meant the introduction of mild economic reforms, distancing himself from the populist extravaganza

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A History of Greek Cinema of the previous decade, in order to “rationalize” economic activity, reform public administration, and rekindle political participation. The Socialists won again in 1996 and 2000, promising austere fiscal policies, a fight against corruption, and transparency in administration. It was a period of prolonged and deep optimism. Thanks to the austerity measures, the country balanced its books, cut down public spending, and reduced its deficit—necessary prerequisites for membership of the European Monetary Union and the introduction of the Euro as official currency. This meant that geographic and political isolation would in effect be over and Greece’s economic destiny would be linked with that of major European countries. The political slogan of the day which expressed such optimism and self-confidence was: “Greece is not any more a Balkan country in Europe, but a European country in the Balkans!” However, the problems created by the attempts to solve the structural deficiencies of the economy were greater than expected—and the modernizers had to revert to spurious and clandestine dealings with international corporations or even ally themselves with the old party establishment. Major scandals of mismanagement, such as that of the Stock Exchange bubble in 1999 (when thousands of people lost their money in search of nonexistent profitable investments), began to cast their shadow on a period of conspicuous consumption, grandiose construction works, and reckless spending. Yet in 2002, Greece became one of the core members of the European Monetary Union, joining its economy to those of the more advanced European countries, for better or worse. In order to achieve such a goal the Socialist Government basically deceived the European Union by presenting false statements about its actual debt—a mortal sin that was to be paid heavily by the people seven years later. And participation in the monetary union made the country vulnerable to international speculators and other profiteering organizations, as it exposed its structural problems and created new challenges which, as a peripheral and weak economy, it didn’t know how to confront. After achieving his goal, Costas Simitis made an unprecedented and spectacular move in 2003: he was the first prime minister to resign while in office and allow the party to elect a new leader. Not surprisingly, the preferred candidate was the son of the previous prime minister, Yorgos Papandreou Jr., who, with his knowledge of international politics, perfect English, and experience of computer technologies, was convinced that he could create a new Greece ready to face the challenges of the twenty-first century. However, most Greeks were certain that their democracy was evolving into a hereditary rule of two family dynasties, Karamanlis and Papandreou. The feeling that there was something fundamentally wrong with the democratic model introduced after 1974 permeated the atmosphere of

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many films in the first decade of the new century. The caricaturing of politicians, the representation of state apparatuses as hostile mechanisms, and the critique of the official version of history that we see in these films reflect this atmosphere of decline and corruption, of radical distrust and faithlessness towards the Greek state. Despite the message of perpetual modernization and the considerable successes of the previous nine years, the Socialists lost the 2004 election to a supposedly dynamic Conservative leader, yet another Costas Karamanlis, nephew to the previous prime minister and president, who promised the “re-establishment of the state” (epanidrisi tou kratous), but to whom soon was to be attributed the honorary title of most incompetent politician in recent memory. Creative accounting, public sector increases, and dodgy deals about construction works laid the foundations for the ultimate collapse that was to follow. Meanwhile, the young prime minister kept himself busy by globetrotting and allowing party factions to destroy the state machine. As Koliopoulos and Veremis state, “By the end of the twenty-first-century’s first decade, the Greeks appear to have lost their sense of direction.”3 The period between 2000 and 2005 was a period of affluence and excess—two grave errors that were to cost the ordinary people dearly several years later. The eudaemonistic atmosphere was mainly created by the presumably endless European Union “funding packages” which were mostly wasted on shady agreements and clientelistic policies. The boom of economic activity was also due to the cheap labour that countless illegal immigrants provided and the air of psychological confidence that such affluence created—for all the wrong reasons as it came out later. Another reason for optimism was the selection of the country to host the 2004 Olympic Games—a major event which, according to many hopeful predictions, could completely reinvigorate the Greek economy through international investments. (Unfortunately, it simply contributed further to the loss of money and the corruption of the bureaucracy which, in 2008, through the conscious inertia of a completely impotent government, brought Greece to near bankruptcy once again.)

New Iconographies and Stylistic Challenges During this period of political epigones, in which the anaemic and opportunistic successors seemed simply to vie to repeat the mistakes and excesses of their paternal figures, a new generation of film directors emerged, struggling to consolidate its voice and articulate its principles. Most of the new directors turned to independent producers, international investors, and the existing programs of the European Union in order to make mostly low-budget but technically impeccable films. The absence of good scriptwriting continued to be noticeable. Meanwhile, contemporary Greek cinematographers seem to

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A History of Greek Cinema have abandoned the studios altogether and have their cameras (sometimes handheld digital cameras) out in the streets filming works of intense imagination as if they were actual documentaries. On the streets they find incredible new stories and people: the immigrants, junkies, social outcasts, and, more importantly, they witness the cruelty, indifference, and apathy of the mainstream petit bourgeoisie towards those unlucky people. Certainly, they were already in front of them for quite some time, but they now gained a new visibility and a new gravity. They turned the attention of the camera away from the political theater, or the representation of the past as ideological theater, towards the exploration of actual spaces of interaction. As Pierre Sorlin had already detected after the early 1990s: Unlike documentaries, feature films did not describe the condition of the immigrants, but played with the uncanny, the unexpected, thus stressing the new features, the new “visibility” introduced by the strangers. For it is in this field, in the realm of images, that cinema tells us something regarding the common vision of the world around us.4

On the other side, the “strangers” are depicted almost as wild and unruly intruders, bewildered and confused, experiencing “a labyrinth in which they have lost all sense of their bearings.”5 The fusion of documentary and fiction gave rise to many films belonging to the hybrid genre of docudrama, establishing new representational codes for the newcomers. As we have seen, the beginning was made by Sotiris Goritsas with From the Snow in 1993. Most directors explore the Balkan dimension in Greek society and cross the borders to discover a cultural continuum that both shocks and amuses. At the same time, as they followed their erratic odysseys, they unexpectedly discovered the Greek countryside and the ways of life that dominate the heartland of Hellenism. In many films made after 1995, the main characters abandon the big city and find or at least try to find refuge in the village. After the immigrant, the escape from the city is the second dominant theme of the New Greek Current. Most films, like From The Snow, The Edge of the City, Hades, The King, The Guardian’s Son, articulate a negative discourse about the capital city, which until recently was the only center of political authority and cultural legitimacy. Anthropologist James Faubion has called this new discourse “the Athenian negative” and defined it as follows: The Athenian negative is at once a recirculation of commonplaces and an ever-new pronouncement of insight and discovery; it is at once formulaic and filled with the freshest of pathos. It is a paradox, but a paradox that

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has the precise form of ritual, which in its effective expression is always a union of the formulaic and the deeply felt.6

In the past, the persecuted and the outcasts had found refuge and protection in the grand anonymity of the big metropolis, hiding their presence under the ruins of the past or in the human hyperactivity of the present. By the end of the 80s, however, Athens was transformed into a “negative” place of “civic alienation,” according to Faubion. This new reality was thematized by many films—dramas and comedies—with the added tragedy of the alien immigrant, who couldn’t be concealed any more. The Athenian negative as a cultural discourse dominates the mythography of the new film-makers who frame urban reality as a space of dramatic re-enactment of the ongoing conflicts without redemption or catharsis. After Goritsas, the director who tries intensively to fuse these two modes of representation is Constantine Giannaris (b. 1959). He is not the only one. A number of new and imaginative directors, like Panos H. Koutras, Dimitris Indares, Yannis Oikonomidis, Stratos Tzitzis, Angelos Frantzis, Yorgos Nousias, Yorgos Lanthinos, Vardis Marinakis, Syllas Tzoumerkas, and Athena Tsangari, replace identity politics with psychodynamics of difference in an attempt to capture the fluidity of personal identity, social belonging, and cultural memory, through a transcultural cinematic eye and ultimately a European, if not a global, cinematic gaze. As cultural critic Ilias Kanellis stated: The independence and the extrovert attitude of certain older cinematographers is the tradition of the living stage against which the most competent younger directors, create thanks to the new technologies and the internationalization of the cinematic market, by now totally free from the state.”7

All new directors have a new “take” on cinematic representation, forming a loose movement of individuals who are eclectic, independent, and heterogeneous. Each has a distinct visual style that is still evolving and exploring its potential. Women directors play an important role. Antouanetta Angelidi (b. 1950) remains the most distinguished representative of experimental cinema who, after her mesmeric Topos (1985) produced two of the most interesting and least classifiable experiments in visual language, Hours (Ores, 1995) and The Thief of Reality (O Kleftis tis Pragmatikotitas, 2001). Stella Theodoraki— an accomplished theorist of cinematic experience, after a number of short films, released two features, Close . . . So Close . . . (Para ligo, Para Ponto, Para Triha, 2002) and Ricordi Mi (2009), in an innovative fusion of illusion and reality. Peny Panayotopoulou, Angeliki Antoniou, Lagia Giourgou, Aliki Danezi-Knutsen, and Margarita Manta have in different ways renewed narrative cinema with an impressive number of stylistic and thematic innovations based on a trans-generic fusion of various visual approaches and representational codes.

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A History of Greek Cinema Meanwhile, the great names of the past continued to make their own contributions to Greek cinema. After 1995, the attempt to reconnect with the geopolitics of the Balkans and Eastern Europe became one of the dominant concerns of Greek cinema. The Yugoslav wars had already started in 1991, and were rekindled in 1993 and in 1995. The destruction of the historic Old Bridge in Mostar by Bosnian-Croat forces in November 1993 was an incident symbolic of the escalating violence and brutality. In July 1995, the Srebrenica massacre took place in which Serbian paramilitaries exterminated 8,000 Muslims. It seemed that history had gone back to the wars of the nineteenth century and the internationalist union was not a utopian dream but a horrible illusion. Angelopoulos’ 1995 epic Ulysses’ Gaze (To Vlemma tou Odyssea) was a landmark that inaugurated a new era in Greek cinema, by constructing a monumental funeral for the past. Angelopoulos finally took the first step to look outside Greece: Ulysses’ Gaze is a visual testimony of what he saw. The film depicts the journey of a Greek-American director (played with intense awkwardness by Harvey Keitel) through the Balkans until he reaches Sarajevo at the moment of its brutal siege by Serbian paramilitaries. Once there, he finally discovers the original reels taken by the Maniaki brothers in the early twentieth century. The journey becomes a symbolical descent to the originary gaze and to the source of cinematic transcription of history, a regaining of the “authentic gaze.” At the moment, however, when the reels are produced by the Jewish memory keeper, the director’s friends are murdered. With tears in his eyes, he cannot see anything: having lost his innocence, there is nothing to be seen of the innocent world that the original gaze recorded. All other films of that year pale into insignificance vis-à-vis the scope, breadth, and story of Angelopoulos’ movie. Unquestionably one of the best films of the decade in Europe, it is a trans-historical road movie under which we can see the archetypal journey of Ulysses towards a new hearth—that of the collective memory encapsulated in cinematic images. The film received the Critic’s Award at the Cannes Festival and its iconography, music, and story have permeated many films ever since. Ulysses’ Gaze can be seen as a mythical journey, a personal quest, or as a cultural exploration. It can also be interpreted as an attempt to reconnect Greek cinema with its past and the original innocence of the Manaki brothers before borders separated communities and people. There are so many aspects to this film: it is a journey—the archetypal odyssey—to the origins of Balkan cinema, to the original gaze of unity and authenticity so savagely lost after the collapse of the last “internationalist” project—the grand utopia of communist brotherhood and unity. The broken gigantic statue of Lenin, offered to the real god of Europe, the bloodline of all its civilizations, the river Danube, is a funeral of all ideologies that go back

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Theo Angelopoulos, Ulysses’ Gaze (1995). Courtesy, Theo Angelopoulos. Credit: DVD

to the beginning of cinema, coinciding with the beginnings of social questioning and unrest. In other films of 1995, Pandelis Voulgaris’ Acropol attempted a musical commentary on political life of the 50s and 60s. Yorgos Panousopoulos’ Free Fall (Eleftheri Katadisi) explored the return to the native village of a young man who flirts with two women, one of whom is his half sister. Stavros Tsiolis’ The Lost Treasure of Hursit Pasha (O Hamenos Thisauros tou Hoursit Pasha) was a delightful comedy about 11 fugitives from prison who try to find the legendary treasure as they travel through the Peloponnese. Stelios Haralambopoulos’ Hades (Adis) was an evocative descent into the underworld of the Greek countryside as an Athenian lawyer leaves the city to find a missing person in a northern Greek province. The katabasis into the unknown world of the “other” is finally attempted by his wife who, as another Alcestis, “descends” to the countryside to retrieve him. The film uses a slow pace full of long takes, deep spatial compositions, suggestive lighting, and symbolic dialogue, in an attempt to represent a modern tragedy of loss, redemption, and restoration. Yorgos Kantakouzinos’ Life (a beautiful butterfly) (Zoi, mia oraia petaloyda) was a gruesome depiction of a passionate love affair which ends with the murder of the woman by her husband; while Thanassis Skroubelos’ Hawaii dived into the world of a famous male brothel of the 1960s as two transvestites fight for the attention of their debauched pimp. Dimitris Indares’ Like the Prairie Cock of Wyoming (O Tsalapeteinos tou Wyoming) which bears the subtitle “An Adventure of Emotions,” explored three intertwining stories about love, growing up, and confusion. A 20 year old struggles to become an adult while he is disoriented by the late pregnancy of his mother to an unknown man, and his boss’s hopeless love affair at 55. His confusion is made worse by his own two love affairs and his story becomes more convoluted as he attempts the big leap from adolescence to adulthood.

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A History of Greek Cinema Nikos Triantafillidis’ Radio Moscow brought new, fresh air to comedy using an international cast and an old legend: Kostas Gousgounis. The film explored the many faces of love as an old stripper from Russia and an officer of the Red Army Choir strive for their reunion in the hostile territory of Greece, where the woman is harassed by sexual assaults and love proposals by lustful men. Dimos Theos’ Eleatic Stranger (Eleatis Xenos) must be mentioned for its tense atmosphere of ambiguity and mystery. Theos based his film on a dangerous and hopeless quest, as a German woman goes to Greece on the pretext of archaeological excavations, to find her lost and unknown father. In Greece she finds out that her presumed father was assassinated and as she delves into his life she is killed herself by those who killed him for his large fortune. The juxtaposition between the archaeological past and the sinister present, between what is present in its absence and of what is unreal in its existence, transforms this film into a strange exploration of the confused Greek social imaginary. Eleni Alexandraki tackled a similar topic in her subtle, sensitive, and poignant Drop in the Ocean (Stagona ston Okeano). A simple love affair between an actress and a fugitive gives Alexandraki the thread for the exploration of the contradictory feelings generated by love. The failed affair is only a drop in the ocean, an episode that is and will be re-enacted everywhere forever. In 1996,in the same vein of a critique of emotions, Nikos Grammatikos’ The Absentees (Oi Apontes) was a touching film about the changes in Greek society between 1986 and 1994 and their impact on the emotional connections between a group of friends. It was also one of the first films to deal with the wasted decade of the 1980s, exploring the anxieties and the dedication of a group of people who sacrificed their youth on the altar of the socialist delusions which returned to undermine their love and destroy their friendship. Olga Mallea’s The Cow’s Orgasm (O Orgasmos tis Ageladas) was a feminist and comic take on sexuality; while Maria Iliou’s Three Ages (Treis Epohes) was an existential reflection on time and gender. Vassilis Boudouris’ Business in the Balkans (Biznes sta Valkania) and Yorgos Kyrras and Hristos Voupouras’ See You (Mirupafsim) were honest and interesting investigations of the immediate cultural and social surroundings of Greece. The first is a hilarious take on the new opportunities for making money in such a strange place as the Balkans, which came suddenly under the domination of aggressive capitalism. The latter offers a rare glimpse into the reality of post-communist Albania, with documentary frankness and without any pretensions of cultural superiority or the colonialist aesthetic of an “advanced” society. Voupouras’ gaze is fascinated but puzzled by such an incredible society and depicts the bizarre juxtaposition of parochialism and modernity that constitutes the social and natural landscape of contemporary Albania. Finally, Andreas Pantzis’ The Rooster’s Slaughter (I Sfagi tou Kokora) explored the emotional cruelty within a homosexual couple, as, after

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their separation, one of them blackmails the other. Despite its conventional ending, the film expresses a confronting view of hidden sexual behavior. Within experimental cinema in 1996, Vassilis Mazomenos’ The Triumph of Time (O Thriamvos tou Hronou) should be mentioned for its ingenious use of computer animation to explore the intellectual trajectory of Don Quixote through the eyes of Charlie Chaplin in what the critic Babis Aktsoglou called “a filmic opera.”8 Mazomenos (b. 1964) had appeared with his first experimental film in 1995 with Days of Wrath—A Requiem for Europe (Meres Orgis—Ena Rekviem gia tin Evropi), an eschatological visual exploration of the last days of Europe, based on the classical myth of Deadalus and the science-fiction idea of establishing a utopian society through coercion and torture. In 1997, Goritsas’ Valkanizater presented a comic fantasy that delved into the new realities that emerged after the collapse of the Balkan borders. Vangelis Serdaris’ Vassiliki was also an interesting film by a veteran director, with a gripping story from the Civil War. Despite its rather parochial story, the critical look on the past and the exploration of human emotions between ideological enemies was probably the characteristic that differentiated this film from the heroic martyrology of the 80s. Renos Haralambidis’ No Budget Story was a strange tragicomedy in black and white of a young director who joins forces with a porn producer who promises funding for his first movie as long he smuggles drugs in videotapes. Antonis Kokkinos’ My Brother and I (Adelfos mou ki Ego) fell short of his previous achievement with End of an Era; while Panayiotopoulos’ The Bachelor (O Ergenis) was a film that showed the continuing shortage of good scripts and how it could lead to easy sensationalism using sex and more sex as its alibi! Hoursoglou’s The Gentleman in Grey (O Kirios me ta Gri) was a sensitive depiction of a love affair between two elderly people. Special mention is deserved by Sophia Papahristou’s The Golden Apples of Hesperides (Ta Hrisa mila ton Esperidon), Nikos Kornelios’ The Innocent Body (To Athoo Soma), and Symeon Varsamidis’ The Fragrance of Time (To Aroma tou Hronou)—all were atmospheric and surreal dramas with great performances and brilliant scores and showed the increased interest of the new directors in enhancing filmic experience by emphasizing sound and visual effects. But 1997 belonged again to the highly personal, almost autobiographical film made by Angelopoulos, Eternity and a Day (I Aioniotita kai mia Mera) which received First Prize at Cannes the following year. One can see this film as an elegy to a lost sensitivity and as a nostalgic recreation of a humanistic tradition which had tried to visualize a cinematic response to the great questions of human mortality. (Angelopoulos made the film after the death of his mother.) Long takes make for a poignant psychological device to explore the mind of a dying poet: his life is ending but life still goes on. An Albanian boy

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A History of Greek Cinema comes his way and for a while he feels again the impulse for living. Around this simple encounter, Angelopoulos builds a complex narrative about the life of illegal immigrants, their dreams and predicament in a hostile land, their exploitation by Greeks and Albanians alike, in a slow and introspective narrative, which must be seen as a poetic incantation for the appeasement of death. The ghost of the Greek poet Dionysios Solomos, who spent most of his life “searching and buying unknown words,” appears and vanishes in the film, showing the only immortality people can aspire too: the deathlessness given by language and art, the ultimate justification of life as an aesthetic phenomenon, created by tragedy, sacrifice and loss. The scene where the Albanian children burn the meagre possessions of their dead friend is an authentic anthropological ritual. Another scene with people hanging over the wired fences of the borders is parallel to Dante’s infernal descent. Finally, the long take about the poet’s birth, growing up, falling in love, having children, maturing, aging, and finally dying, entangled throughout his whole life in the waves of language and the sea, is a magnificent contemplation of the meaning of life, in a way that was lost after Ingmar Bergman and Andrey Tarkovsky. The next year, 1998, can be seen as the year of minor achievements. Stavros Tsiolis’ Let Women Wait (As Perimenoun oi Ginaikes), Olga Malea’s The Discreet Charm of Males (I Diakritiki Goiteia ton Arsenikon) and Yannis Soldatos’ The Enigma (To Ainigma) were brilliant works with a new sense of social realism and comic relief. Menelaos Karamagiolis’ Black Out was an absorbing drama of jealousy and perverse religiosity. Something totally new broke out with Constantine Giannaris’ From the Edge of the City (Ap’ tin Akri tis Polis), the film that created a whole new genre of urban drama, with its fast editing, electrifying music, and relentless action. This is the most accomplished formal attempt to incorporate two technologies and styles: the televisual and the cinematic. Giannaris has fused the two modes of representation in a functional way: bringing together the fast pace of television news bulletins and the long takes of cinema drama. Giannaris started his career with the production of three interesting gay short films which questioned masculinity and femininity as normative models. His early movies are about transgression and subversion—they deny the legitimacy of normative practices by imbuing their “deviant” heroes with inner moral struggle and internal life. His heroes do not simply have sex, since sexuality is the battleground where most social tensions are negotiated. Sex becomes a painful reminder of a missing unity. It is neither vulgar nor obscene: it is the living proof of a mechanical and depersonalized existence, without perspective and hope. The migrant is his cultural hero in a series of half-documentary half-fiction movies that explores the predicament of the new “ethnics” at the margins of society, at the edge of the cities.

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Constantine Giannaris, From the Edge of the City (1998). Courtesy, Constantine Giannaris. Credit: DVD

Occasionally reminiscent of Mathieu Kassovitz’s La Haine (1995), the film depicts the misery and squalor, violence and frustration, desire and disgust that immigrants feel in a hostile country. Yet the dream sequences in Kazakhstan are shots of sublime magical realism, and of transporting emotional strength. Giannaris’ empathy is the redeeming feature of this film: it captures—with an eye of deep understanding and affection—the anguish, horror, and panic of the immigrants as they confront a huge impenetrable social machine of exclusion and stigmatization. Giannaris constructs a new visual language for contemporary cinema: a fast narrative pace, structured around strong chromatic contrasts, with an intrusive boldness in his camera that explores an underworld of unwilling criminals. The narrative flow is also interrupted by the main character talking directly into the camera and indirectly to us. The film is a dialogue between the characters, their director, and us, the invisible protagonists in the context around the film. As Dimitris Papanikolaou has argued: From the Edge associates itself with a “new queer” aesthetic instead of conforming to a poetics of national culture. Decidedly post-nationalist, framed by desire and the fluidity of identities, the films adopts an aesthetic code that allows it to expose and critique the dominant narratives of repatriation, migrant return, and homogeneous modernization.9

The Russian families living on the outskirts of the city, suspended between the nostalgia for their childhood and the negative realities of their actual life, give Giannaris the ultimate metaphor for contemporary life. They all experience interstitial realities, hovering between the real and the imaginary, constructing identities that perform a social role while experiencing another identity in the mental world of their true existence. Sex, drugs, and illegality are the only means by which they can make their true existence emerge, and be touched by something that transcends their misery and their muzzled

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A History of Greek Cinema ability to communicate. In such lawlessness they express the anomie of their existence and thereby realize their humanity: their anomic existence is their life. Such subversion of social expectations and patterns of normality makes Giannaris’ film a seminal text in the New Greek Current and one of the best films produced in post-1991 Europe. Another movie that excelled in 1998, in a traditional storytelling manner, was the unexpected It is a Long Road (Ola Einai dromos) by Pandelis Voulgaris. In this movie (dedicated to the memory of Takis Kanelopoulos), Voulgaris avoided his usual temptation of powerful melodramatization. Instead, he made an exceptional film that revolves around three stories, each with their own particular style and characteristics, by understating emotions through an expressive ellipsis which is discreet, tempered, and precise. Furthermore, it explored the hidden physiognomy, landscape, and mentality of the country with stark candidness and conscientious sincerity, without embellishments and without losing control of camera filters. The first story about a soldier who commits suicide as his archaeologist father (superbly performed by Dimitris Kataleifos) discovers an ancient tomb, is shot through tamed colors that vibrate with earthiness and tangibility. The emotional energy in the scene as the father visits the place where his son killed himself explodes from the screen with almost religious pity and fear. The second story, about the last duck of a very rare variety in the wetlands of a big river, shows the comedian Thanassis Vengos in the most sublime performance of his career with reserved passion and disciplined emotion as he silently shoots in despair the man who killed the last duck. The final story, “Vietnam,” is probably one of the most repulsive explorations of the vulgarity of the nouveaux riches in the Greek countryside—a story of despair and angst, it is expressed with reserve and composure by Yorgos Armenis. The story depicts the self-destructive nihilism that takes

Pandelis Voulgaris, It is a Long Road (1998). Greek Film Center Collection.

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over a society devoid of ethical values, or indeed devoid of any values whatsoever, and the human tragedies that this nurtures. The empathy of Voulgaris’ gaze is fused in every scene, take, and color of the film. The discreet music by Stamatis Kraounakis and the suggestive photography by Yorgos Frentzos are magisterial in bringing out the compressed emotional energy. The silences that dominate the film reach out to the ineffability of the sublime. Vassilis Mazomenos released his mesmerizing and terrifying apocalyptic phantasmagoria Money—A mythology of Darkness (Hrima, mia mythologia tou skotous) in 1998. A visual essay on the impact of money on humanity, it is a film that deserves more attention and which proves the potential of new technologies in the creation of a new kind of cinematic language. With this film, Mazomenos created a trilogy of philosophical essays by means of visual experimentations. His later films Remembrance (2002) and Guilt (2010) received many positive reviews and international recognition; especially the last in which Mazomenos explored narrative cinema through a nightmarish and confronting story. In 1999, Dimos Avdeliodis released The Four Seasons of the Law (I Earini Sinaxis ton Agrofilakon) which some critics consider as one of the finest Greek movies. Avdeliodis’ depiction of the rural, pro-modern community of the island of Chios was both magical and touching, generating a sense of nostalgia and longing for a homeland lost in another time. However, the strange contrapuntual depiction of a pre-modern rustic atmosphere with the highly sophisticated music of Vivaldi leave the movie in semantic limbo about the intentions of its director and its overall atmosphere. The film is structured around the four seasons, each filmed by a different director of photography and accompanied by Vivaldi’s music. It unfolds like a cinematic dream, in an associative way, with the small rituals and the great dreams of everyday life in a small village in 1960. Every shot is ambiguous, every episode inconclusive; every form in an interstitial existence between pre-modernity and modernity, surrounded by invisible elemental spirits emerging through an extravaganza of colors that help the narrative unfold, with the music animating every object and natural phenomenon. Vassiliki Tsitsopoulou interprets the film “as a parable on the origins of Greek authoritarianism.”10 However one might also see it as expressing the inability of authority to understand or to “attune” itself with autochthonous existence thus establishing a constant and confusing dissonance between people and their social realities. The film is more accessible than Avdeliodis’ earlier ones, through many concessions to narrative by nostalgically reconstructing a world of childhood dominated by innocence and awe. It can be seen as a suggestive serenade to a world of signs and wonders doomed to be lost under the corrupting influence of history and politics. In a sense this is a cinema of religiosity, of eco-psychism

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A History of Greek Cinema and folk piety, of animistic terrestrial magic, through the childlike eyes of a camera experiencing a state of sinlessness, and pre-lapsarian beauty, while occasionally veering off to the picturesque and the pretty. Costas Kapakas’ Peppermint looked back at an idyllic childhood in the early 1960s with affection and humor; while Panayiotopoulos’ This Night Remains (Afti i nihta menei) gave a new dimension to the urban melodramas of the 60s by reviving the effective fusions of music and image from the best musical tradition. Nikos Koundouros’ The Photographers (I Fotografoi) explored the cruelty of history through an apocalyptic landscape of civil conflicts in border areas between countries and entrenched identities, and was loosely based on the ancient myth of Antigone. Photographers follow the cruel leader of the avengers as his soldiers destroy every living thing around them. Visually, it is one of the best films of contemporary Greek cinema, although Koundouros immerses himself into an obscure mythology of interstitial spaces where homeless refugees live suspended between territories and societies. It is at the same time a powerful film, exploring violence and war with moral indignation and humanistic rage. Panayiotis Karkanevatos’ Soil and Water (Homa kai Nero) was another exploration of the Greek countryside as it hosted illegal immigrants after the changes that took place at the heartland of tradition. Dimitris Makris’ Original Sin (Propatoriko Amartima) was a gritty film about sexual violence, incest, and patricide—an extremely bleak psychological thriller about family dynamics. Dimitris Stavrakas’ The Canary Yellow Bicycle (To Kanarini Podilato) was an affectionate and humorous attempt to explore the influence of education on the shaping of young minds. Nikolaidis’ I Will See You in Hell, My Darling (Tha se do stin kolasi, agape mou) belongs to the very personal, almost hermetic, works of an important director, a self-conscious film noir which fantasizes about inner private spaces and satanic rituals with a necrophiliac nostalgia for times lost or wasted: it was the darkest of Nikolaidis’ films, made with only three actors, and with haunting music by Nikos Touliatos and great photography by Yorgos Argiroiliopoulos. It has exceptional cinematic accomplishments, but seems to be a perfect exercise in style, a private fantasy and a personal paradise, mostly refining the cannibalistic atmosphere of his previous Singapore Sling. Vassilis Kehagias notes the “post-world” in the film as it frames a space “out-of-here, a cinematic external field in which the viewer’s fantasies and the gaps in the film converge separating us from the tasteless here and now.”11 Three international co-productions must also be mentioned; Katerina Filippou’s The Boys (Ta Agoria) was a gripping psychological thriller about the murder of a boy that happened in 1972 during the holidays of an English school in Greece. Kostas Natsis’ Innocent (Athoos) was a drama set in Paris, as a man, after release from prison, tries to live and rekindle interest in life working as a taxi-driver. Finally, Michael Cacoyannis’ The

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Cherry Orchard, starring an impressive international cast, received mixed reviews. Cacoyannis was in his own universe of dysfunctional families and hidden motives, of subtle gestures and sensitive words. The film represents the ultimate consummation of his theatricality, transforming the stage into a parable about something larger; as David Jays observes: “Although Cacoyannis never elides the family’s irresponsibility, he also shivers with a class on the verge of dissolution.”12 Panos Koutras’ The Attack of the Giant Moussaka (I Epithesi tou Gigantiaiou Mousaka), a Hellenic adaptation of the cult movie by Irvin Yeaworth, The Blob (1958), was a hilarious and campy lampooning of politicians, with quirky transgender representations that exposed the amorality of mass media through a creative pastiche of inter-filmic references, subversive gender roles, and a caustic social commentary. The depiction of gender and sexuality as public spectacles is tongue in cheek, as it shows the new trends in sexual morality in Greek society. Thematically, the film foregrounded gender as social performance, sometimes seen by the gender-benders themselves in the imaginary mirror of their narcissism. The film was an interesting stylistic melange of American films from the 1950s and the wittily explosive works by Pedro Almodovar, and introduced a new sense of crackling serious humor, through self-irony, parody, and sarcasm. It was so refreshing to watch a film that, within such negative social context, didn’t take itself too seriously and spoofs its own message. “We are all that moussaka,” says one of the characters—meaning, we are all edible, digestible, and totally excremental! The revival of comedies which became instant box office successes can be seen with the release of a substantial number of them over the next ten years. Papathanasiou and Reppas’ Safe Sex was followed by Perakis’ Female Company (Thiliki Etaireia), Nikos Zervos, Female Vices (Vitsia Ginaikon, 2000), Olga Mallea’s, Rissoto (2000), and more importantly PapathanasiouReppas’ Silicon Tears (To Gelio Bgike apo ton Paradiso, 2001) were the most successful productions commercially, reviving the old tradition of comedy blockbusters which succeeded in bringing the audience back to the cinema, just like the good old days. Yet most of these films were in a renewed form of erotic skin flick, titillating the senses of an audience which, despite its presumed sexual liberation, felt repressed and sexually undernourished— unless this is an indication of perpetual sexual stimulation or of a disguised sexual insecurity. As for their scripts, most of them were extended television films, which produced lots of laughs but had no real sense of humor.

The First Years of the New Century The first year of the new millennium started with an increased number of films in production. Around 45 films and documentaries were released in 2000 and 2001. From the documentaries, Philippos Koutsaftis’ Unsmiling

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A History of Greek Cinema Stone (Agelastos Petra) was an extraordinary and haunting work on the city life of the ancient Eleusinian mysteries. Among the fiction films, Vangelis Serdaris’ The Seventh Sun of Love (O Evdomos Ilios tou Erota) was a suggestive and poignant historical drama about an army officer who returns to his village mutilated from the Asia Minor campaign. The tense exploration of the personal traumas of war is presented with affection and sensitivity, with the music of Mikis Theodorakis adding emotional depth. Athena RachelTsangari’s first long experimental film The Slow Business of Going explored the effects of the society of spectacle as a woman belonging to a fringe political group travels the world recording experiences and passions. Maria Iliou’s Alexandria is probably one the best films of the decade. It tells the story of a mother and daughter as they discover the indelible marks on their lives made by the past when they visit the city of the mother’s youth. With visual force and sensitivity, Iliou constructed a Proustian narrative about the recollection of the past through the eyes of two women in the legendary city where ancient traditions and modern realities converge. Vassilis Boudouris’ The Apple of Discord (To Milo tis Eridos) was a sensitive exploration of the hidden emotions between two brothers as a woman comes between them. Angelos Frantzis’ musical comedy Polaroid was a pioneering experiment with the new handheld cameras, almost an experiment with cinema direct. The story is about a group of friends who put together a musical as they are running up and down the empty streets of Athens, at the moment that all its inhabitants are transfixed in front of the television sets watching the 1998 Mundial. Constantine Giannaris released his August 15th (Dekapentaugustos) in 2001, exploring the fears and insecurities of the petit-bourgeoisie as an illegal immigrant invades the sanctum of their conventional bliss, the myth of the previous decades, their comfortable and object-crammed apartment. The story is about the exodus of a family from Athens during the religious holiday dedicated to the Dormition of the Virgin Mary towards their village. In their empty house, the unwanted stranger, the uncanny intruder, takes possession of everything they have acquired and enjoys some hours of humanizing luxury. The film satirizes one of the main rituals of contemporary urban Greece with bitterness and empathy. Despite the latent anxiety and fear, Giannaris infuses his story with unusual subtexts and references, exploring the emotional bond between mother and child (the real meaning of Mary’s life), adding an uncanny religious innocence to the incomprehensible ecclesiastical ritualism. In the same year, Lakis Papastathis produced his eerie and fascinating adaptation of a short story, The Only Journey of His Life (To Monon tis Zois tou Taxidion), an accomplished and majestic recreation of the late-nineteenth-century Ottoman Empire, with Greeks and Turks living side by side under the shadow of a declining sultanate. The film was an

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international production, and deserves more attention, since it is here that Papastathis actually constructs an apt and evocative representation of the elusive authentic “Greekness” that he had been struggling for in his previous films. But now, instead of depicting a defensive Greek identity, an identity under siege, he represents it as coexistence and interdependence, as mutual differences converging within common spaces through binding rituals and shared memories. The short story by Yeorgios Vizyenos (a legendary literary figure, who died in a mental asylum) is intertwined with the personal story of the writer as he remembers his early life and the formation of his artistic conscience in a confusion between reality and madness. The comedian Ilias Logothetis gives one of the most emotionally charged performances in Greek cinema. The elegiac atmosphere of a lost unity is magnificently recreated by Yannis Daskalothanasis’ cinematography. Papastathis himself calls it “optic nostalgia for an era he hadn’t lived,”13 and the film constructed a magical fairy tale of love and loss in the imaginary land between sanity and madness, in an Ottoman Empire of illusions and dreams. Andreas Pantzis’ The Promise (To Tama) set in Cyprus in 1940 explored notions of religious devotion and faith—an international production with excellent cast and great cinematography by the Bulgarian Nikolay Lazarov. Thanassis Skroumbelos’ Aliosha must also be also mentioned for its superb use of jump cuts and fast editing to construct the story of a Russian assassin and his Dostoevskyan inner battle, as he discovers that he has been contracted to kill his own mother in Greece. Yorgos Tsemberopoulos’ The Back Door (I Piso Porta), Sotiris Goritsas’ Brazileiro, Andonis Kafetzopoulos’ Stop Man (Stackaman), Dimitris Giatzouzakis’ Pink Forever (Roz Olotaxos), Nikos Zapatinas’ Lump Sum (Efapax), and Renos Haralambidis’ Cheap Cigarettes (Ftina Tsigara) show the sustained attempts to reclaim audiences with good comic narrative films that revived the tradition of the old commercial Greek cinema. Certainly, 2001 was the year of successful comedies, especially with the huge success of Mihalis Reppas and Thanassis Papathanasiou’s The Silicon Tears (To Klama Bgike apo ton Paradiso), a highly imaginative parody of the various genres that dominated cinema in Greece. In 2002, Penny Panayotopoulou’s Hard Farewells, My Father (Dyskoloi Apoheraitismoi, o Pateras Mou), Nikos Panayiotopoulos’ I am Tired of Killing My Lovers (Kourastika na Skotono tous Agapitikous mou), Nikos Nikolaidis’ The Loser Takes Everything (O Hamenos ta Pairnei Ola), and Yannis Oikonomidis’ Matchbox (Spirtokouto) distinguish themselves within a set of mediocre films that explore emotional violence and loss of innocence in an era of vulgar affluence. The proximity of realistic representation to a distorted and grotesque form of documentary-naturalism found in the last film its most extreme and

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A History of Greek Cinema crude depiction. In most of these films, we see an autobiographical mode dominating the narrative, an element that gives them, even when they are using confronting language, an existential authenticity which was missing from Greek cinema. Katerina Evangelakou’s You Will Regret it (Tha to Metanioseis) explored the new freedom that women desire to experience and demand to achieve. Maria Paradeisi observes that, through a discontinuous narrative and using “a light comic tone, Evangelakou presents the different nature of female and male desires, by focusing on women’s fear of facing the unknown and overturning familiar situations.”14 Nikos Perakis’ comedy The Bubble (I Fouska), set in the stock exchange of Athens before the scandal of 1999, explored the ruthlessness and the superficiality of the big investors. A special film was Nikos Grammatikos’ The King (O Vasilias), an attempt to explore the secretive and insular society of a Greek village as a young man returns to start anew after escaping his former life of drug addiction and urban squalor. The suspicion, fear, and malice of a society that has no place for the stranger (in this film the social outcast is the stranger) are explored through a realistic cinematic language reminiscent of Lars von Trier’s visual idiom—yet fierce social criticism and a deep empathy for the outcast stops the film short of pretension or self-indulgence. The main character (superbly performed by Vangelis Mourikis) moves through the claustrophobic village, the topos where presumably authentic Greek hospitality abides, with horror and detachment, unable to achieve the transforming redemption through interaction with the purity of natural life. The outcast discovers that the village is the ultimate infernal punishment for his inability to take control of his self and act with responsibility. Through unstable shots, constant camera movement and unnerving close-ups, Grammatikos constructs a story against the background of burnt forests and abandoned houses, creating a tragic atmosphere of absence and lack. The film stands out as the new parable of the character of the Greek countryside, depicting it as a place of imprisonment and exile. Just as many films in 2003 struggled to win audience support with various stylistic elaborations of a renewed realism. Some special contributions among them, such as Marital Hibernation (Gamilia Narki) by Dimitris Indares, Eyes in the Night (Matia stin Nihta) by Pericles Hursoglou, and Oxygen, or Blackmail Boy (Oxigono) by Reppas and Papathanasiou, created high expectations, especially in the way they struggled to fuse the cinematic and the telefilmic. Elisavet Hronopoulou’s feature debut A Song is Not Enough (Ena Tragoudi Den Ftanei) represented the dichotomies in the female heart between social engagement and family life, in a story set during the dictatorship. Hronopoulou structured her story on a fragmented narrative

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divided into two timelines and explored the difficulty of “coming to terms with the past.”15 The most successful film of the year, which gained international distribution and much praise, was Tasos Boulmetis’ A Touch of Spice (Politiki Kouzina). It is a film that wavers between decent melodrama and sugary sentimentalism and which, despite its technical artistry and interesting story, fails to construct a convincing narrative about the destiny of the Greeks who were expelled from Istanbul in 1963. Despite some good moments in the script and superb cinematography, the movie fizzles out into cute episodes and pretty landscapes unable to create atmosphere and mood. The year of the Athens Olympics, 2004, was particularly interesting for Greek films. Thirty-two feature films were made, two of them international productions which indicated a growing appeal to find sponsors outside the country and to make films that could suit international audiences. The most successful film was Pandelis Voulgaris’ The Brides (Oi Nifes), an international production under the supervision of Martin Scorsese. The film sold 700,000 tickets in Greece alone and won a number of prestigious awards at the Thessaloniki Festival, but it is rather weak and sentimental and fails to stand next to Elia Kazan’s America, America (1963) or even Emmanuelle Crialese’s Golden Door (La Porte d’Or, 2008), a film also produced by Martin Scorsese. Nevertheless, it was an elegant and welldesigned melodrama, occasionally corny and vapid, but with stunning colors and a dreamlike atmosphere of wonderment and strangeness. Angelopoulos’ The Weeping Meadow (To Livadi pou Dakrizei) was the other highly ambitious film of the year, which failed however to win international acclaim. It has great visuals and stunning cinematography by Andreas Sinanos, but the film suffers from a rather complicated script and a strange oscillation between epic and lyrical modes of representation. When Angelopoulos becomes personal, as in the beginning of this movie, his visual language pulsates with intensity and power. When he reverts to his old monumental style, a certain incommensurability emerges between the form and its significations. The personal is the new mode to have emerged in the latest films by Angelopoulos. After the overtly autobiographical mode in Eternity and a Day, the mode of the emotionally charged melodrama invites the viewer to participate in an empathic union with the story and its characters—an unexpected gesture on his part towards the tradition of the much-excoriated Hollywood. Ilias Giannakakis’ Alemagia was a poignant film about the Greek diaspora returning from Ethiopia, while Denis Iliadis’ Hardcore was a revealing exposé of the Athenian brothel culture and its interaction with the reality shows that dominate Greek television. Yannis Soldatos’ documentary on the great comedian Thanassis Vengos, A Man for All Times (Anthropos Pantos Kairou) is also worth mentioning for its sincere exploration of the

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A History of Greek Cinema life and drama of a great actor. Eleni Alexandraki’s The Nostalgic Woman (I Nostalgos) was a successful adaptation of a literary classic by Alexandros Papadiamantis made with a meticulous regard for atmosphere and settings. Dimitris Athanitis’ Planet Athens (I Poli ton Thaumaton) was a charming multinational drama set in Athens during the Olympics—when a variety of characters from all over the world search for their personal miracle which sometimes does arrive. Kostas Zappas’ Uncut Family was a film about family psycho-sexual dynamics, while Panousopoulos’ Testosterone was an interesting social allegory with strange sexual obsessions. Lakis Lazopoulos’ My Best Friend (O Kaliteros Mou Filos, 2001) and R20 (2004) were charming and delightful comedies with a strong existential message, made by a master comedian. Finally, Panos Koutras’ Real Life (Althini Zoi) was a surreal and complex psychological drama of reversed roles and uncanny fantasies about death and destruction. The scene with the burning Acropolis is definitely one of the most memorable in recent Greek cinema. However, another film by Constantine Giannaris was the most significant contribution of the year. Earlier in the decade, a frustrated young immigrant from Albania hijacked a local bus and, with the threat of a gun, demanded to be taken to the border. On the bus, he held almost 30 people hostage and the whole incident became a media circus until they reached the border, where the young man was killed by the police. This real incident became the basis for Giannaris’ film Hostage (Omiros) which explored the lethal interplay between genuine problems in society, their spectacularization through the media, and the inability of the state to communicate effectively with its own people. The story retained a strong psychoanalytic undercurrent, as it is implied that the Albanian youth Elion, who had an affair with the wife of a policeman, was sexually abused by the latter at the police station: the gun, the hostages, and the return to his motherland was a desperate and self-destructive attempt to retain his violated masculinity. Stathis Papadopoulos seems totally immersed in the role, radiating with anger, agony, and frustrated sexuality. Theodora Tzima excels as his confused and overwhelmed mother. Despite some problems with technique, largely due to the restrained space of a bus, the film explores the Other as a psychological agent, and constructs a narrative about what happens in the mind of an outcast when everything and everyone are against him. This is a not a facile film about xenophobia and racism; it is a complex story about a community of people which, despite its new network of communication—the media—is unable and ultimately unwilling to establish common communicative codes. With Giannaris’ film the absence of a culture of dialogue and consent in Greek society receives its most striking representation. With all of these films it was becoming obvious that a new movement, an

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innovative gaze full of curiosity, ingenuity, and contradiction was gradually crystallizing and that the new directors had totally abandoned the excesses of auterish and commercial traditions alike, and had formed distinct styles of their own. A renaissance of independent cinema, uncontrolled by state bureaucracy, was well under way. A distinct narrative language was slowly being put together based on a new hybrid style of representation, intermingling documentary and fiction, combining elements of burlesque and pastiche, and paying homage to the great names of world cinema, while showing both continuity with and departure from the conventions and certainties of the past. Now the whole world becomes the studio, as the camera moves everywhere without stylization or illusionist techniques. The openness of space has created a roaming camera, insatiable and curious, discovering elements of a new cinematic language in the most trivial and insignificant details of everyday life. Thodoros Soumas concludes that: The cinema of this generation is primarily fictional and narrative, following the accepted narrative rules (usually of the American narrative cinema, classical or independent). It is mainly a cinema with films based on characters and situations . . . The movies of the new film-makers are open and accessible, improve the relationship between cinema and its audience, aspiring to establish a closer connection with it and to express its distinct pulse.16

2005–2010: Social Collapse and Cinematic Renewal After the successful if hugely over-budget Athens Olympics in 2004, the winning of the football UEFA Cup, and—the ultimate boon of European popular culture—victory in the 2005 Eurovision Song contest, it seemed that throughout the world “Greece was the word!” Stathis Gourgouris defined such “spontaneous Hellenomania” as: . . . purely mythological, utterly explosive, and all embracing, unorganized, and unguided by any political force, unreflective of any grand image or ‘great idea,’ [carrying] in the depths of bliss, a sense of the miraculous.17

Meanwhile, as appearances never deceive, the Greek government was confident that it had the economy under control, had managed to avoid a racist backlash regarding the increasing number of illegal immigrants entering the country, and had prevented social unrest by satisfying union demands for salary increases. It even acted against its own declarations by granting tenure to part-time or epochal workers, thus inflating even further the public sector; salaries were increased despite the fall in productivity, industrial activity, and investment. Society was having a great time, with enormous public spending and private wealth amassed through tax

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A History of Greek Cinema evasion, black-market activities and nefarious business with legal and illegal investors. The seemingly endless funding packages from the European Union continued in defiance of all common sense: the idea that Greece for some reason was still an exception and a special case which placed it beyond criticism and obligations seemed to dominate the political decisions and the economic practices of the Union. Soon, the underlying social crisis exploded. Vast bushfires in the Peloponnese in the summer of 2007 proved the inability of the bureaucracies to coordinate themselves against natural disasters. In December 2008, the assassination of a youth in the center of Athens by two idle macho policemen showed that the government was not in control of the state apparatuses either. Soon after, massive confrontational demonstrations against a terrified, impotent, and totally neutralized government erupted with immense force, violence, and destructiveness. Nobody had seen anything similar since 1973; and now it was not only the students, but the overwhelming majority of the population which expressed its suspicion and distrust of a prime minister who dedicated most of his time to computer games and lavish banquets. Stathis Gourgouris aptly observes that: The deeper historical and political significance of the December insurrection may still elude us, though there is no doubt that this event will remain a key reference in radical history and in the history of youth movements worldwide. The hermeneutical work in this case is made harder by the fact that the insurgent actors demanded precisely that we dismantle our ways of interpreting and representing the world.18

The conservatives understood that the social uprising was beyond their ability or willingness to control and avoided claiming responsibility for what had happened. The Greek political establishment has imposed a culture of historical irresponsibility on the social reality and mentality of the country. But the worst was still to come. After the global economic meltdown in 2008, all the disguised deficiencies of the Greek economy transformed overnight the affluent society into a panic-stricken community of beggars. The establishment that controlled all political processes since 1975 suddenly found itself accountable, not to the Greek people whom it could manipulate and mislead through the collusion of media, but to the European Union and the international markets. It could no longer hide its frauds and deceptions. Under the pressure of the global financial crisis, all the concessions that had been made for decades in order to help the Greek economy adjust to the international environment simply became irrelevant and dangerous for the other members of the Eurozone. Since the ruling party was once again unwilling to take responsibility, it declared elections in October 2009, which it lost with a massive swing away of 15 percent, securing first immunity from prosecution

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for all its ministers—a principle on which both main ruling parties seem to be in amicable agreement. The socialists returned triumphantly to power, under the leadership of Yorgos Papandreou Jr., the son of Andreas and grandson of Yorgos, who appointed as his main ministers the people who had first created the problem and who by now were miraculously considered “reformed” and thus capable of solving it. By the end of 2010, the country essentially was supervised by the International Monetary Fund and the European Union as an implicit recognition of the failure of both conservatives and socialists to govern. And the tragicomedy continues to this day with the new “socialist” government trying to solve economic problems by implementing the most Thatcherite policies ever concocted—policies that have deeply influenced not simply the funding but the production of films made in the country. Until now, 2011, Greece comes closer and closer to declaring once again, “Regretfully, we are bankrupt!” as it did back in 1892. While the Papandreou family and the Socialist Party came to power again, as the messianic saviors of the country, a new element emerged: the abstention vote rose up to almost 30 percent, something quite unimaginable in such a politicized society. This period of unrest, frustration, and disenchantment with politics and politicians succeeded the previous ten years of growth, affluence, and irresponsibility—and many were left wondering if Papandreou Jr. wanted to save the collapsing economy or the corrupt, incompetent, and dangerous post-1974 political establishment. Under such a period of a presumed economic boom followed by a total collapse, Greek cinema continued its own independent and lonely path. Between 2005 and 2010 a number of interesting and challenging films were made, probably because of the co-sponsorship by the European Union or, on some occasions, by the national and private television channels, which invested part of the prescribed 1.5 percent of their profits in making films. An average of 20 to 25 films was produced every year for the last five years, through multiple sponsorship and international productions, and with a rather diverse audience in mind. For the first time, Greek film-makers try to reach out and make movies for international audiences, by exploring themes and constructing stories which touch upon the wider questions of national and personal identity under the new conditions of globalization and transculturality. In 2005, Yannis Diamantopoulos’ The Blue Dress (To Galazio Forema) presented a rather weak subversion of the masculine stereotypes of Greek society with the facile Freudianism of its story, but it is an interesting movie if only for its ingenious use of inner space to depict the psychological claustrophobia that permeates social reality. The central character of a transsexual indicates a completely new “cultural hero” emerging from the ashes of all great heroes of the past. All ideologues, political activists, and ambitious

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A History of Greek Cinema reformers of social life converge in the new image of a masculinity that does not know what to do with its body and disposes of its phallus. Nikolaidis’ The Zero Years was another hermetic and highly personal film, reminiscent of Pasolini’s Salo (1975) and Buñuel’s Belle de Jour (1968), as four women living in a state-owned brothel act out their sado-masochistic fantasies with willing clients. If there was to exist something that might be called “Mediterranean baroque,” it can be found in Nikolaidis’ later films. Gratuitous violence, kinky yet mechanical sex, and great cinematography create a strange melange which simply repeats what he has done before—this film confirmed the fossilization of a visual style which had transformed itself into a self-conscious manneristic extravaganza. Lioumpe by Lagia Giourgou is a frank and honest exploration of the theme of the stranger within a society that worships convention and conformism. Yannis Oikonomidis’ Soul in the Mouth (Psyhi sto Stoma) “documents” the latent violence permeating Greek society as an abuse of meaning and verbal communication—it is an edgy experiment although it somehow seems to implode within its own gritty and stifling realism. Yorgos Nousias’ The Evil (To Kako) is an ambitious experiment with storyline and digital effects. Dialogue that sparkles and is full of humor makes this film unique as it consciously parodies Hollywood B-movies with a minimal budget yet highly infectious and fascinating sense of action. Makis Papadimitratos’ Tweet (Tsiou) is a strange film about a group of junkies struggling to find drugs in the underworld of Athens—good cinematography, akin to Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting (1996), and good acting, but the film’s sense of time shows it to have been made for television and that it was rather overstretched for screening in cinemas. Nikos Grammatikos’ Vigil (Agripnia) is a well-paced story about the reconciliation between two brothers, one a corrupt policeman and the other a priest; very good acting and a good script lead to a climactic ending. Yorgos Lanthimos (b. 1973) made his debut with Kinetta, with minimal budget and very few actors, in a Kafkaesque suspense story in which a policeman investigates a number of killings at a tourist resort. Lanthimos said: “All elements are realistic but the end result looks totally unrealistic: at the moment you film reality it is transformed into something else.” Maria Katsounaki observes that this was a film: . . . wavering between something artistically extreme and narratively indeterminate. A handmade, unembellished film .  .  . The deliberate unnatural movement of bodies creates an interesting relationship between space, bodies, and characters in front of the camera.19

This is a new style in Greek cinema, obviously influenced by Dogme 95 principles, which would eventually bring international recognition to Lanthimos with his next movie (Dogtooth).

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Renos Haralambidis’ The Heart of the Beast (I Kardia tou Ktinous) is an effective adaptation of a contemporary novel in an attempt to revive quality commercial cinema—unfortunately, as on many occasions the script was rather weak, based on repeated punchlines and overused witticisms. Kafetzopoulos’ Women are Cruel People (I Ginaika einai Anthropos Skliros) was a funny comedy on sexual morality and contemporary advertising practices. Within the same genre Nikos Perakis released his highly successful Sirens in the Aegean (Seirines sto Aigaio) which nonetheless failed to reach the heightened comic sense he had achieved in his early films. Angeliki Antoniou released her award-winning Edouart in 2006; the story of an Albanian immigrant who, after committing a crime, takes responsibility for it. The film is an international production and presents a new understanding of the threatening presence of the illegal immigrant. By exploring the interiority of his mind, the film represents the ultimate fear of Greek middle-class respectability, the Albanian immigrant, as a moral agent, as an autonomous individual with an existential understanding of what is right and wrong. Dimitris Koutsiampasakos’ The Guardian’s Son (O Yios tou Filaka) was a sensitive depiction of life in the country as young people leave urban centers and return to their family homes in the villages. The exploration of the memories that they unearth there and the impact of these on their own minds is skillfully and aptly represented in the film. Yorgos Stamboulopoulos’ Pandora revisited the post-Civil War period through the memories of an old man recollecting the secrets of the time when a GreekAmerican woman had come and unsettled their rural peace. In 2007, Yannis Smaragdis released his much-anticipated and discussed El Greco, which was a commercial success, despite the fact that it is lacking in narrative rhythm, character delineation, and effective script. The attempt to “Hellenise” such a European, cosmopolitan but, most importantly, universalist Christian artist dwarfed his stature and diminished his artistic legacy into a picturesque provincial caricature. Goristas’ Friendships (Parees) was a melancholic exploration of the relations between five friends as they find themselves entangled in a web of suspicions about a murder. A strong element of autobiography gives this otherwise weak film great emotional strength. Filippos Halatsis released his macabre slasher horror Razor in English, full of gore, effectively underscored by Panayotis Xanthopoulos’ music, and with great special effects by the Alafouzos brothers. Straightstory was a campy and quirky reversal of the “natural order” made by Efi Mouriki and Vladimiros Kyriakidis. In a dream, the whole world is made by the values, institutions, and principles of homosexuality. Men like men, and women like women. They only mate for procreation and are not allowed to form heterosexual emotional bonds. Society is organized on homo-normativity—heterosexual bonds are not only illegal but considered morally and aesthetically abhorrent. The story about a boy developing

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A History of Greek Cinema feelings for a woman and the persecution he suffers at the hands of his two fathers is both the funny and tragic element of the film: because when he wakes up from this dream, he sees that it is the heterosexual oppression that persecutes him. In 2008, two films by the old masters dominated interest. Angelopoulos’ The Dust of Time (I Skoni tou Hronou) starring William Dafoe, Bruno Ganz, Michel Piccoli, and Irene Jacob, was one of the most ambitious experiments with narrative time we have seen in Angelopoulos’ career. Its melodramatic, almost Sirkian mode, emerged dominant with emotional conflicts, performed with Stanislavkian empathy in pure Aristotelian poetics. Despite the film’s over-plotting (the converging storylines are confusing in many ways), the film problematizes memory and reality within a cosmopolitan environment with new elements, such as an explicit love, not simply for the generation of socialist ideologues, but for the new generation which wastes itself in drugs and self-destructive behavior. Angelopoulos has expanded his narrative language here to incorporate the new tragic realities, in a world without borders or revolutionary projects. Yet one who has followed his cinematic development still remembers the exquisite simplicity and lucid linearity of Reconstruction with nostalgia. However, in an era of cynicism, resentment, and scorn, the emotional power—even the sentimentalism—of this film functions as an antidote, reminding its audience of a quality of being somehow forgotten or deferred. The other grand master, Voulgaris, released his new vision of the Civil War with Deep Soul (Psihi Vathia), using an emotionally overinflated story as two brothers find themselves on opposite sides during the Civil War. The performance of Thanassis Vengos makes the film explode with intense emotional energy and psychological tension. However, the strange lighting, bizarre camera filters, and Hollywood editing make the film rather uneven, as the superb technique overtakes the tragic reality of the story. Vangelis Seitanidis’ Under Your Makeup (Kato Apo to Makigiaz Sou) is a simple personal story about a woman’s life spiraling out of control after her involvement in a traffic accident. The interesting dialogue and poignant story lead to certain improbabilities and oversimplifications in the script which is kept together only through the good performance by Ariel Constantinidis. Nikos Cornelios’ The Music of Faces (I Mousiki ton Prosopon) is an independent film with next to no budget, totally made on digital handheld camera, which explores the mystery of the human face through the stories of different young people from dawn to dusk. There is no script, only the free improvisation of actors who extract meaning from the random interconnection of small and grand ideas and actions. “The film, says Cornelios, is about the noisy crowd that each one of us carries within.” Two comedies were also box office successes: Argyris Papadimitratos’ Bank Bang and the remake of the 50s comedy Ilias of the 16th Branch (O

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Ilias tou Dekatou Ektou) by Nikos Zapatinas. Both films have a distinct and contemporary sense of humor. Mihalis Reppas and Thanassis Papathanasiou’s Strictly Appropriate (Afstiros Katallinon) is another outrageously insane film, which depicts the story of two young art directors who, after failing to produce a classical love story as their first feature, end up with a producer of ancient porn films. The simultaneous production of hard-core porn and an art film on Phaedra, Madam Bovary, and Anna Karenina creates scenes of great comic explosions. Tonis Lykouresis’ Slaves in their Prison (Sklavoi sta Desma tous) was an evocative adaptation of a literary classic, by Konstantinos Theotokis, with great performances and a successful reconstruction of early twentiethcentury Corfu. The film must be seen in contrast to Marketaki’s The Price of Love (1983), if only to detect the new theme of political impasse that dominates the story of a family doomed to self-destruction, unable to move on and unwilling to accept change. The false “communitarian” feeling created by the socialists in the 1980s finds here its ultimate debunking: the fall of the family is the fall of all amoral familialism, of all familiocracy, of the most powerful institution that dominates Greek politics. As Lykouresis stated: I am not interested in directing a period piece, dedicated in the antiquarian depiction of an aristocratic family and representing the manner codes of the period. I want to elucidate the personalities and the psychological states of heroes from within a modern interpretive style, knowing that similar aspirations and conflicts mark our contemporary life.20

Despite the meticulous precision in reconstructing a bygone era, Lykouresis avoided naturalism through an impressionistic abstraction based on painterly colors and nuances, reminiscent of Paul Cézanne, that make this film an eloquent parable of the political and social morass dominating contemporary Greek society. In 2009, Panos Koutras’ Strella (A Woman’s Way) also dealt with masculine stereotypes and the new queer identities that gradually replaced them. The film is both liberating and shocking, exhilarating and blasphemous, confronting Greek society and especially paternalistic masculinity with its own phobias and insecurities. Released after 15 years in prison for murder, Yorgos meets and has sex with a transsexual prostitute. Soon he will discover that the transsexual Strella (a compound name comprised of Stella and trella—“madness”) is his own son who has changed gender. Koutras’ camera captures—in super-16mm film which enhances color— the squalor and the poetry of everyday life and, at the same time, the need for genuine communication and the sublime humanism exhibited by the marginalized outcasts of contemporary life. The depiction of the dying transsexual (so irreverently performed by the legendary transsexual Betty),

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A History of Greek Cinema with its inspiring absence of fear and euphoric celebration of life till the last minute is one of the most exhilarating and encouraging images of this film. Koutras takes Greek cinema out of the closet, by showing its dirtiest laundry—yet he does so with love, empathy, and compassion, totally rejecting guilt-ridden introspection and opaque self-referentiality. As Dimitris Papanikolaou concludes: Strella puts things back again in their place, morally aesthetically, pedagogically . . . From this point of view, the movie does not simply suggest a model for a new family structure: by tracing the trajectories of desire that keep it together it becomes the fairy tale that brings the new family to the same table. So Strella becomes the complete homology of what in the past we used to call with certainty “a film for the whole family.”21

The story explores the sexual labyrinth of normal families and problematizes normality as a mechanism of psychological sterilization and emotional death. Of course, it leaves many issues unanswered: despite Koutras’ statements, incest has been the most powerful taboo throughout human civilization. Whenever it was transgressed, all values collapsed; this is the story in, for example, Luchino Visconti’s The Damned (1969). You cannot have sex with your father and then throw a party to celebrate new forms of family structure! The intensity of tragic transgression, even of a conscious and deliberate tragic transgression, is lost in the film. Even at the level of intentionally personal symbols, liberation should be followed or indeed be preceded by moral responsibility—otherwise the mistakes of parents will simply haunt the children. The film ends somehow awkwardly, since the immense complexity of the issues raised are left unanswered. The sacred hill of the Acropolis is full of fireworks and confetti in celebration of the new year. The optimistic note about new practices and new forms of social organization emerging from the margin of contemporary society proves once again the truth that art offers hope even at the gates of Hell.

Panos Koutras, Strella (A Woman’s Way) (2009). Courtesy, Panos Koutras. Credit DVD

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Yorgos Lanthimos’ Dogtooth (Kinodontas) is a bleak parable about the family as the locus of disseminating power and meaning. The film illustrates the extreme forms of domination that family structures can impose on their own offspring, creating the “iron cage” of the future. It gained wide international recognition and expressed something quite different: a culture dominated by the incommensurability between public and private discourse. In a confined isolated private space, language is re-signified and manipulated; reality becomes unreal and the unreal a valid form of communicative interaction. Boyd Van Hoeij called the film “an eternal Big Brother house as designed by Lars von Trier.” And he continued: The ingeniously constructed screenplay also shows how wrong or irrational teachings can quickly spiral out of control, with increasingly disturbing humor used at first to leaven the proceedings before making us laugh at the painfully logical conclusions to all the preceding lies.22

It is obvious that Lanthimos is becoming an internationally acclaimed director as he succeeds in constructing a language that is not reducible to its cultural particulars. His visual idiom is transferrable and translatable, his images can easily be interpreted and absorbed by audiences who know nothing about Greece, while his stories strike a chord with the international quest for a radical re-signification of tradition. Another interesting film from 2009, by Philippos Tsitos, Plato’s Academy (Akadimia Platonos), has the indicative subtitle: “You will never become Greek” taken from a notorious racist slogan by ultra-nationalists. The story is simple: a disgruntled and frustrated Greek turns his anger against all foreigners, especially Chinese and Albanians, until his mother, after a stroke, starts speaking only in Albanian. The world of certainties and rewards surrounding his identity is then shaken and gradually collapses. Despite the shortcomings of its script, Tsitos’ film captures the new urban landscape,

Yorgos Lanthimos, Dogtooth (2009). Courtesy, Yorgos Lanthimos. Credit: DVD

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A History of Greek Cinema filled as it is with unfamiliar symbols of cultural otherness, and records a spatial reality punctuated by strange presences. The old reality of a singular space for all has been transformed into an exclusivist club that keeps out difference. The film depicts the atmosphere of an insular mentality and uses a new form of gritty photographic realism to deal with a society in obvious painful decline. Made in the middle of the worst economic meltdown of 2008/9, when the conservative government was simply plundering the country, the film implicitly reflected the great fear of every modern Greek citizen: that within Greek society the great unknown is the Greek himself. Given also the fact that it is the mother that rediscovers her original language, one can easily understand the allegory: we don’t really know much about the motherland, her history, her origins, and her language. Finally, Margarita Manta’s first feature film Golden Dust (Hrisoskoni) explores what the director calls “the war between memory and oblivion.”23 After the death of a mother, the son wants to sell the maternal home, one sister wants to keep it as it is, and the other sister wavers between emotion and self-interest. The film dives into the Athenian negative, investigating the plurality of selves struggling for visibility and domination. It is also a film imbued with nostalgia for the ideal home, in which by now only death and absence exist. More recently, in 2010, Syllas Tzoumerkas’ first feature film, Homeland (Hora Proeleusis) is about the conflict between three generations of a family and offers a challenging exploration of the crisis in family values, paternal authority, and the new family structure emerging in periods of social crisis when secrets are revealed and the edifice of lies and pretensions collapses. In the film’s assets is the music by the group Drog_a_Tek, a strange melange of techno and Greek popular music, and Pandelis Mantzanas’ camerawork, which captured social crisis with immediacy and directness. The film encapsulates par excellance the looming crisis in Greek society that exploded through mass demonstrations and conflicts with the police in late 2008, through a semi-documentary style, with bland colors and ironic references to the ideas encapsulated by the Greek national anthem. Athena Rachel Tsangari’s Attenberg explores after Dogtooth the emotionally disturbed world of children from overprotective families. The film shocks and puzzles with a 23-year-old girl’s initiation to sex and decay. The film received a number of international awards and frames the ultimate target of most films made during the last ten years in Greece: the sinister character of contemporary family. Finally, although recent production has intensified after the success of some films previously mentioned, we must mention Yannis Oikonomidis’ Knifer (Mahairovgaltis), a film that explores the limits of realism and of realistic representation, as a lumpenproletarian moves from a village to

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Athens where he gets involved in a triangle of sex, violence, and hatred. The film is made in black and white with the brief emergence of color through the theatrical illusion of a play as a commentary on a life eclipsed by the absence of direction and hope. In early 2011, Argyres Papadimitropoulos and Jan Vogel released Wasted Youth, a portrait of Athens during a heatwave. The depiction of a young skateboarder on the verge of a mental breakdown is framed by the incredible negative energy, aggression, and violence that dominate the tense social conditions of the city. The directors explain that the film: . . . is also about the real existence of adolescence with the vivacity and the energy that silently burns in it. It is also a film about a young man who struggles to do what all young men struggle to do, without knowing that maybe their future will be wasted—and as it happens it is wasted indeed.24

Later in the year came Panayiotis Kravvas’ The Death I Dreamed of (O Thanatos pou Oneireutika), an original feature film of supernatural horror based on a true story of a Satanist cult that caused a major scandal several years earlier. The film is made with fast editing, handheld cameras and with all the techniques of a music-video culture as it is shaped by contemporary social networks and the internet. It received two awards at the Los Angeles International Underground Film Festival and by June 2011 was enjoying a moderate commercial success. Finally, a number of commercially successful films were released between 2009 and 2011 for which their producers are preparing sequels or even remakes: Hristos Dimas’ Island (Nisos), Stratos Markidis’ I Love Karditsa, Panayiotis Fafoutis’ The Heiress (I Klironomos), Yannis Xanthopoulos’ All Goes Well (Ola tha Pane Kala) and Nikos Karapanayiotis’ I am Dying for You (Pethaino gia Sena). Many tickets were sold, while the new trends show that local films have managed, to a considerable degree, to gain the trust of cinema-goers—perhaps for the wrong reasons, but nobody can really tell: under the current critical circumstances, even the wrong reasons are good enough for bringing the people back to movie theaters.

The Horrible Language of Numbers As we have seen, a number of successful but formulaic comedies were made between 2000 and 2010—they were the real blockbusters and moneyspinners for the industry offering renewed hope for its survival. Art-house movies remained unpopular and neglected—even Angelopoulos’ movies, despite their international acclaim, became grand failures at the box office. It is estimated that most Greek films sell an average of 30,000 to 40,000 tickets—and that makes them successful in the local market. Comedies sell more (Dimas’ Nisos sold 350,000 in two weeks) and the dominance of this

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A History of Greek Cinema genre shows another strong trend in the overall production scheme, a trend that privileges well-written populist films which, although they seem to parody social maladies, are pure entertainment. Angelopoulos’ Eternity and a Day sold 200,000 tickets in 1998 while his Weeping Meadow in 2003 only 40,000. His latest movie, A Dust of Time in 2009, sold even fewer than that and was taken off only three weeks after its premiere in Athens. The two other great blockbusters of the decade were the very Hollywood-like productions A Touch of Spice (Politiki Kouzina, 2003) by Tasos Boulmetis with 1,600,000 tickets, and Voulgaris’ Brides (Nifes, 2004) with 700,000—neither is the best moment of its director. Overall, it is still hard to distinguish between movies made for television and movies for the cinema—and this suggests that cinema seems to be losing ground. In 1999, a new experiment started with Angelos Frantzis’ Polaroid, a successful musical comedy made with handheld cameras and computer technology for a minimal budget. The experiment gained wider support and many films are totally independent productions made with tiny budgets and almost entirely without complicated studio technology. In 2005, Yorgos Noussias released his cult zombie film The Evil (To Kako), made with almost no money (less than €10,000) and featuring amateur actors in blood-soaked gory action and sparkling dialogue. It was a major success at the box office and brought Noussias more money (€150,000) to produce its 2009 sequel Evil in the Time of Heroes (To Kako tin Epohi ton Iroon) with Billy Zane as the only professional actor. Both films are parodies of Hollywood splatter movies and elicit genuine laughter and “zombie-terror,” similar to the New Zealand film Black Sheep (2006) by Jonathan King, each spoofing the franchise symbols of their country: merino sheep in the case of New Zealand and the ancient Greeks in the case of Noussias’ films. During the last ten years, radical changes have been taking place in film culture and its organization. In 2010, there were about 400 cinemas in Greek national territory; most of them multiplexes with restaurants, cafés, game-stations, and other recreational facilities. Only ten percent of cinema venues belongs to independent entrepreneurs who continue the old culture of art cinemas opening in either winter or summer. Most multiplex cinemas belong to international companies (Village, AudioVisual, Odeon AE, and so forth) which import and distribute films from countries with a large production, mainly from the United States, with some from, for example, France, Germany, the UK, and Australia. Greece is a very small market and its ticket sales are not substantial enough to attract international investment. The recent financial crisis and high levels of electronic piracy through the internet and illegal DVDs have further marginalized the market. At the same time, the multinational distribution companies release only films that they anticipate will be successful;

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so the most significant films of independent cinema from the United States are only infrequently released and are mostly commercial failures. Despite the continuing production of local feature films (around 20 to 30 every year with an average budget of €300,000), the most commercially successful are American films. The biggest box-office successes of the last ten years have been Titanic, the Harry Potter movies, and Avatar. Of the Greek films after Safe Sex, the most successful were A Touch of Spice (2003), Sirens in the Aegean (2005), El Greco (2007), and Deep Soul (2008)—all of them actively promoted by the distribution agencies of multiplex cinemas (as international productions). Village also produced Alter Ego (2007) with the pop idol Sakis Rouvas, but with no great success. The most successful was Smaragdis’ El Greco, with almost 800,000 tickets, despite its well-deserved bad reviews. All other films usually sell very few tickets, and most of them, even films by prominent directors such as Koundouros and Angelopoulos, have received limited release. In an era of diminished expectations, an average of 20,000 to 30,000 tickets makes a film “successful,” although it won’t be enough to recoup its production costs. On the other hand, we don’t know much about the makeup of the viewers during the last ten years. Since the demography has changed significantly, who goes to the movies today? There is certainly a solid and dynamic audience base of cine-literate people in all major cities who go to the cinema on all possible occasions. They also act as a dynamic and effective focus group, through their attempts to purchase abandoned old cinemas, revive them and use them as cine-cultural centers. But what is happening with the immigrants? A substantial 15 percent of the population is “non-Greek” and it would be interesting to know if they ever go to the cinema and what kind of films they like watching. Do these new citizens have access to existing artifacts and institutions of both high and popular culture in the country? Have they established their own cinemas? Are there any policies in place to attract these new citizens to watch Greek movies so that filmgoing could function as a socializing space and the topos of communal cohabitation? Also, more studies should be conducted on the relationship between ticket prices and average wages and to investigate how much money an average worker can afford in watching movies each year. What is the leisure time relative to that of working hours dedicated to filmgoing? It is estimated that approximately 13,000,000 tickets are sold every year (based on data for 2009 with a projected increase of 4 percent for 2010). This means that it is almost one ticket to each inhabitant per year against four tickets per inhabitant in France and three in Italy and Germany. An overall income however of €100,000,000 was grossed by the industry between 2009 and 2010. Yet investment in the production of new films has been minimal. Of the gross amount assigned by the state to cinema, less

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A History of Greek Cinema than 20 percent is invested in new films; the rest is spent on administration costs, festivals, digitalization, and so on. An existing law from 1989 stipulates that private television channels should be investing in film production, something that has happened so far only infrequently and for specific genres—comedies. The same legislation, as revised in 1992, prescribed that the National Broadcasting Corporation (ERT), and all nationally broadcasting private mass media, should invest 1.5 percent of their income in the production or co-production of films—something, again, that happens only infrequently and then far below the prescribed percentage, although it remains to this day one of the persistent requests from film-makers. In a strange way, Greek films that gain recognition in international festivals have received minimal funding by the state and the Greek Film Center. Yet the institutional framework prescribes a special levy on public spectacles that has to be collected by the state in order to be reinvested in the industry—something that does not happen either, and while under the current fiscal crisis is rather unlikely to happen any time soon. Recently, 45 new and old film-makers established a movement called Cinematographers in the Mist attempting to change the institutional framework and restructure the system of production, exhibition, distribution, and funding of films in the country. Fresh negotiations were undertaken in December 2010 during the discussion of a new law on funding cinematic production, but under the current situation of near bankruptcy of the country, any vision of more state funding is a mere illusion. (With the new legal framework, the funding of films through the Greek Film Center was given back to the Ministry for Finances, instead of that for Culture, while the famous 1.5 percent was lowered to 0.75!) These unfortunate financial circumstances, however, may generate a unique opportunity to decentralize and de-bureaucratize the system of funding by establishing independent centers in cities other than Athens, thus ending the homogenizing and hegemonic role of the capital. In November 2009, an independent Greek Film Academy (Elliniki Akadimia Kinimatografou) was established, consisting of many important film-makers, producers, and actors in an attempt to counterbalance the continuing heavy presence of the state, the Thessaloniki Film Festival and the Greek Film Center. It is a self-funded organization, attracting money from private sponsors and individuals and giving its awards every year on the basis of what film-makers themselves decide without any political or union interference. In a sector which has been so bedeviled by political factionalism and narrow-minded unionism, the Academy has the potential of radically changing film culture in the country. The Academy actively works to promote and enhance film culture in the country and abroad by meticulously and systematically studying the history of Greek cinema, its adventures and transformations. The study must

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be as wide-ranging as possible, starting with the great films and continuing with the mass of melodramas, comedies, and war movies. No cinematic work should be excluded—they all reveal something of the historical development of Greek cinema in terms of its technological infrastructure and distribution system and its aesthetics and ideology. And as we have tried to show in this book, in studying its history, scholars of Greek cinema must pay attention to Laskos’ melodramas, Koundouros’ parables, Sakellarios’ hilarious comedies, Cacoyannis’ mythic characters, Kanelopoulos’ symbolic skies, and Angelopoulos’ epic landscapes, as well as Dalianidis’ gritty urban stories, Foskolos’ didactic manuals, Nikolaidis’ decadent worlds, and Marketaki’s oneiric dramas. Furthermore, only through the creation of local centers, new studios, and new locations for film culture can a proper and creative “competition” be inaugurated among different “cultural centers” which will challenge the monophony and uniformity of the Athenian domination which has endured throughout the twentieth century. Unfortunately, after 1974, and despite its declarations to the opposite, the Athenian capital has imposed a singular view from the centre, constructing a visual history through the ideological mechanisms of a conservative, conformist, and patronizing state that ignored regional specificities, alternative versions of historical experience, or perspectives from peripheral points of view. The over-centralization that has created an immense state bureaucracy has also totally dimmed local voices and darkened regional visibility. In the early days of Greek cinema, a number of interesting films were made outside Athens—this tradition must be revived, through independent productions outside the control of the state. Gradually, film-makers seem to have accepted the self-evident truth that the Greek state sponsors only what privileges the hegemonic culture of its political and social establishment. It is not simply a matter of a malfunctioning and sluggish bureaucracy which controls funding, distribution, exhibition, and promotion. It seems imperative for the state to perpetuate its control over the production, even without financial inducement. But ticket sales show that such “culture” is not endorsed by the great majority of filmgoers any more. This accounts for the continuing popularity of the old commercial cinema, especially of comedies and melodramas, and of course the distinct preference for American movies, especially blockbusters with spectacular digital effects and formulaic storylines. People are not watching American movies because they are stupid or brainwashed but because most of the American films are better films. After decades of sterile Eurocentric elitism, contemporary Greek directors no longer dismiss the Hollywood tradition. Greater knowledge of and more exposure to American films, especially by independent producers, have shown the complexity and richness of their visual language. Moreover,

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A History of Greek Cinema they can see how the ideological and aesthetic battle lines along which American culture fights for the representation of identity, gender, and sexuality have evolved and can thus appreciate more the achievements of both classical and new American cinema. Even in Angelopoulos’ films we can clearly detect the psychologization of colors as found in Vincente Minelli and the choreographed emotions of Stanley Donen. Just as the best producers and directors in the past have done, it would be more appropriate to revive the private independent sector, in the way that happened with Finos, Zervos, Karagiannis, and Milas in the 1950s. It would be the only way to inaugurate a new “Golden Age” of Greek cinema, with production diversified through various genres, catering for different audiences and co-funded by multiple sponsors in different centers and through a healthy competition. European Union programs such as MEDIA Plus and Eurimages, television channels in France, Germany, Italy, Spain, and many other countries invest in international productions. Greek film-makers should find ways of attracting these funds: the “cultural” potential for good films does exist, and they must abandon the introspective culture of complaint and look for the support and acceptance they deserve. (Koutras, Giannaris, and Antoniou among others have been very successful in attracting foreign sponsors.) Organized promotion and co-productions seem to be the two main strategies for gaining international recognition and acceptance. In a globalized economy, a film may respond to the questions of many different societies. In this sense, today there are no “national cinemas” any more; one could even claim that there are no European cinemas either, only world cinemas. Language, instead of being a barrier, might as well further enhance the rediscovery of local traditions or contribute to the reinvention and internationalization of “local knowledge.” Local stories must be told for the local communities, but in styles defined by global discourses and the challenges of a technology developed in different contexts and for diverse needs. The medium does not determine the message although it confines its limits of response; a medium that is constituted by differentiated signifiers is more likely to find responsive audiences outside the communities that produced it. Unfortunately, the legacy of the post-1974 period of inflated statism is still strong and the people who consolidated it are still in power. The excessive expectations of the state led to the demise of Greek cinema in the 80s and to its provincialization ever since. The ties with that period of excess and nothingness should be severed—the indifferent and hostile state of the postwar period was simply succeeded by the conformist and unimaginative control of a party bureaucracy that destroyed the creative dynamism and social energy surrounding cinematic art. The hegemonic role of the state can be seen in the fact that, despite the supposed “social”

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nature of most films, none of them is about political figures and their political actions, the way we have seen in Italy with, for example, Nanni Moretti, Paolo Sorrentino, Mimmo Calopresti, Paolo Virzi, Guido Chiesa, and Gianni Amelio. There are no films about recent political events, not even about the endless sexual and financial scandals which could have inspired great comedies. (The Papandreou clan, for example, can be seen as the Adams family of gratuitous gore and moral irresponsibility!) It seems that most filmmakers, especially after the New Greek Cinema, have internalized a sense of obedience to the state, through self-imposed censorship; meanwhile, the current political establishment has maintained its rhetoric of opposition while in government since 1981. They have imposed a culture of complaint, but not a culture of critique. Every interesting Greek film produced since the 1950s articulated a very strong subversive and adversarial message in political terms: from Stella to The Travelling Players, from The Ogre of Athens to The Wretches Still Sing, from Evdokia to The Edge of the City, and from The Sky to Strella. Many recent films seem to restrict themselves in depicting the misery and the confusion of contemporary life, the suffering of immigrants and the inability for effective communication in a domesticated and sanitized way that makes their social critique irrelevant and their political intervention harmless. Instead of revealing to the viewer what happens, by foregrounding the radical potential within the real, this new episodic realism fizzles out into either inconsequential fragments or cute micro-histories by wasting its energy on incomprehensible screams or doleful complaints. Film-makers of the 80s were satisfied with making movies about the heroism of the Left and the oppression of the Right in clear-cut distinctions between right and wrong. Yet no film touched upon the structures and forms of oppression implemented by the state apparatuses in their time that imposed ideological and political uniformity; or even upon the structures that made the Left behave the same way as the Right when in power, squandering all forms of moral and political legitimacy. Their critique of history was naive and superficial and their understanding of the past was antiquarian and romanticized. Consequently, they lost the new generations for whom the past was a totally strange country; but the same young people, through their exposure to diverse representational strategies, were sensitive enough to understand that they were deliberately deceived. Together with them, the whole cultural memory of the country was manipulated in an attempt to control the minds of their generation. There is no question then as to why, even at the height of the ideological delusions of the 80s, most people preferred watching American films: they were not only well-made but audiences also knew they could consciously see them as sublimated fantasies and modern fairy tales.

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After the Future It seems that, despite its structural, ideological, and institutional problems, Greek cinema does possess a solid creative capital which manifests itself even under the most unfriendly conditions. Despite the lost battle with television, an average of 15 to 20 feature films is produced every year, together with a considerable number of short films and documentaries. Productions for television channels have also proliferated and give the opportunity to many new directors to make their living, gain popularity and notice, and sometimes self-fund their films. Internationally, most of these films gain recognition not at the box office but as art-house films in festivals and retrospectives. However, some, like Koutras’ Strella (2008) have the potential of becoming cult films of international appeal, within specific communities at least. Lanthimos’ Dogtooth (2009) has already won international acceptance among cinephiliacs for its bizarre vision of human reality; Athena-Rachel Tsangaris’ Attenberg (2010), which won first prize for acting in Venice, is another production of international standards. In the overall production however, there are nearly always problems with the script, since there are no classes at tertiary education level which teach “applied” cinema—and most cinema people still work with the romantic notion of a “genius” writer who can conjure up a good script. In reality, teams of people are needed working on a script collectively. Moreover, the abiding sin of Greek cinema is its ongoing inability to construct a complete human character—an achievement that would express a cohesive vision of human nature rather than, as was superficially claimed by Marxist critics, a glorification of bourgeois individualism. In any case, it will be interesting to see whether the plans will succeed in bringing domestic audiences back to cinemas and revive the film culture which contributed so much to social cohesion in the past. The future looks interesting precisely because it is paradoxical. Cinematic art is morphing into something new and strange. New technologies allow young cinematographers to make their films on shoestring budgets, to promote and even distribute them on the internet without mediation or agents. The trend will simply gain momentum and in the near future cinematographers worldwide will be able to screen their films on individual computers directly from the production room to the consumer (sometimes even while in the process of being made). Many young people already upload their irreverent and unclassifiable films as messages in a bottle thrown into the oceanic pluriverse of cyberspace. These films may not be as “good” as the ones we have been used to; but the medium is new and its potentialities unexplored. YouTube, Myspace, Facebook and so many other social networks offer the opportunity for the new art form to grow and mature by negotiating its potential and testing its limitations.

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The new “primitiveness” that one sees in many new films today is probably the best way of renewing the narrative structures and the visual languages of cinematic production, which has been suffocating for far too long under the achievements of the New Greek Cinema; achievements which by now are more or less cultural clichés, hagiological relics, and aesthetic archaisms. It may also become the only way in which to escape from subservience to the state and its powerful mechanisms of control and domination: if cinema in Greece loses its oppositional aesthetics, then it won’t be Greek any more. A new political cinema is what is most needed at the moment: de-centralized, anti-hegemonic, pluralistic—and it is indeed what has started emerging in the last 15 years. As Petro Alexiou so succinctly observed: The “new current” of films is characterized by tighter scripts and direction, faster pace, less introspection and theorizing, more focus on relationships and family dynamics, hybridity in genre and style, acute awareness of the codes of popular culture and indifference to the issue of Greekness or large political statements. They are realist in the sense that they probe contemporary social realities in innovative ways.25

Encouragingly, the new film-makers who are shaping the New Greek Current are well aware of the pitfalls of the past, and struggle to avoid the complacency that destroyed Greek cinema at the most critical moment of its development. They also discard the parochial questions about where Greece belongs, dispense with all antiquarian discourse about Greekness, and are totally liberated from the delusional megalomania for socialist utopias and communist paradises. In a world dominated by “the rise of insignificance,” they have the courage to take on lost causes. They experience a challenging cultural and aesthetic syncretism and want to represent their existential adventure to the best of their abilities. They don’t suffer from inferiority problems and they haven’t internalized the feeling of having been left behind. They do not pretend to be who they are not and that is a profound and inspiring feeling. They are neither heroes, nor ideological fighters, nor model citizens; they have nothing to do with the classicist fantasies of the state-fed intellectuals, or the Orthodoxist exclusivism of a supposed pure and authentic Christianity. They struggle to be themselves: individuals who express an individual vision of the world without pretension, posturing, or self-exoticization. They also struggle to be contemporaneous with their own era—and, by exploring the fluidity and unpredictability of the present, they create new territories for the cinematic gaze. As Orestis Andreadakis concludes: “Reaching the end of the first decade of 00s we can clearly see that the New Current transcends the film-makers themselves and propels them all into continuous explosions.” (my emphasis)26

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A History of Greek Cinema The current situation of Greek cinema is not just promising; clearly a distinct renaissance is shaping up, which, breaking through the barriers of language and introspection, constructs a significant new chapter in the history of European and global cinemas. Let us hope that the current economic crisis will not destroy, at the most sensitive moment of their crystallization, the wonderful efforts of so many creative people.

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R e ca p i t ula t io n

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“In the End, There is No End” “Ultimately, only the screen talks!” Filopimin Finos

The story of Greek cinema is one of complex diversity and chaotic pluralism. Its main virtue has been the irresistible capacity to regenerate itself under all and any circumstances; its main impediment, a strange reluctance to reach out and share its achievements. Despite the fact that not all genres were developed by the film industry, the film culture was always open, receptive, and sensitive to new ideas, practices and suggestions. Like Greek society, Greek cinema has always been a space of contrasts and juxtapositions, indeed, a space where contested truths coexisted in an uneasy and sometimes paradoxical interdependence. Also, just as with the country’s political life, the Greek film industry was always inward-looking, withdrawn and lonesome, locked into a series of dilemmas that led to a hermeneutics of doubt directed towards its own self. But it was introverted without being introspective; it avoided making comparisons and analogies, thus remaining unable to locate its position within European and global cinemas. It also avoided establishing a theoretical critical discourse on its own principles and values, staying firmly within the realm of symptomatic criticism, ad hoc reviewing, and circumstantial self-loathing or childish self-depreciation. In reality, many good films were produced in the country and some of them could be safely and comfortably labelled as “great films” in the European or even global canon. What has always been noticeably absent from their promotion and, consequently, reception is the appropriate and commensurate contextualization. On most occasions, Greek films were framed and interpreted either through the nefarious quest for an elusive “Greekness” or through the perspective of national political instability—the social, formal, and, one might say, anthropological claims that were articulated in Greek movies were overlooked and lost. The truth is that very few Greek directors dealt explicitly with the quest for “Greekness,” and then only in periods of crisis or self-indulgence. 285

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Recaptulation The historical narrative presented here suggests that cinema in Greece has been one of the most prolific, successful, and creative appropriations of the central medium of modernity by a traditional, logocentric, and non-perspectival culture. There were so many “cinematic” events which occurred in the country over a short period of time and which have escaped the attention and care of most scholars. Early Greek film-makers taught the public another way of seeing by establishing a new visual language based on different visual perception: they had to re-thematize reality according to a distinct and novel form of pictorial schematization. Such re-thematization managed to construct its grammar of tropes and syntax of configurations only after the 1950s when modernity as cultural experience and historical reality had reshaped Greek society. The transition had to sever visual representation from the traditional, pre-modern, non-perspectival visual principles derived from Byzantine and post-Byzantine pictorial space. Through the cinematic medium, Greek culture confronted the Renaissance perspective and the invention of photography simultaneously. As an achievement in reinventing visual perception, Greek cinema is of major cultural significance. Important directors, producers, actors, and cinephiles transformed social limitations and political restrictions, and established a thriving film culture, which deserves more recognition and credit. The visual language of the Greek national cinema was constituted through the efforts of many locals and outsiders who worked with great dedication and persistence. Alongside Dimitris Gaziadis, Michael Cacoyannis and Nikos Koundouros one must place Josef Hepp, Walter Lassally and Giovanni Varriano in order to understand the full extent of the transnational character of the film industry. Furthermore, Greek cinema has always been a space of convergence of different cinematic styles, diverse modes of expression, and conflicting visual strategies. It has also always been a locus where all of these facets fused in order to facilitate a dynamic and inquisitive exploration of new codes of representation for an unstable social reality that defined itself in the cinematic eye in terms of trauma, loss, and absence. It is certainly true that, with very few exceptions, no risks were ever taken with the medium. It is also true that the technological infrastructure of the country did not foster the production of radical reinventions of formal representation, or even a critical reflection on its potential and limitations. Such intellectual negligence was rather inevitable for the people who created this new visual culture. They were so preoccupied with technological, political, and practical problems that they never reflected critically on their own achievements. On the other hand, the state, with its intrusive censorship and later with its paternalistic hegemony, had only one purpose: to control production and to disseminate an ideology of oppression, selfmarginalization, and folkloric exceptionalism. The most effective strategy

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Recaptulation 287 for the control of the public sphere was always the promotion of the idea of a unique and “brotherless” nation with an exclusive destiny and mission. By abolishing history and moral responsibility, the political establishment controlled cultural production. Greek cinema was at the forefront of the battle against such de-historicization. It looked at class, gender, and identity as fundamentally social realities, as individual and collective experiences, through a stark and austere (even in its melodramas) “stylistic pragmatism.” The social reality, also with its political instability, oppression, and insecurity, never promoted a prolonged and sustained dialogue with various social forces and classes. However, Greek cinema remains the most exemplary cultural activity, thus indicating the heterogeneity, pluralism, and diversity of social structure in opposition to the official versions of “Greekness” from a naive and parochial nineteenth-century historicism. Greek cinema explored and depicted the nations at the margins of Greek society in direct opposition to dominant discourses. In this, one can see the permanent presence of what we have called “oppositional aesthetics.” Greek film-makers (even the most conservative like Yorgos Tzavellas, Michael Cacoyiannis and Yannis Dalianidis) depicted realities that undermined official ideologies and confronted their audiences with uncomfortable truths. However, despite being a heroic endeavor, Greek cinema is the ultimate space where the compromises that Greek society has made in its history could be easily seen and framed. Only during the last 20 years, when a break between society and state has become glaringly obvious, can we see attempts at social dialogue and social consent. Unfortunately, the Greek state, even when motivated by good intentions, had a negative impact on the development, dissemination, and promotion of Greek cinema. Gaziadis had already in 1929 protested that the Greek state did not understand the propaganda that cinema could play at. It also did not understand the cultural effects of cinema or even its industrial and technological aspects. When it did finally comprehend the power of the medium in the 1980s, it endorsed an elitist and ideologically charged role of cinematic production that essentially destroyed and annihilated production by parochializing and provincializing it. In the 1990s, a markedly changed Greek society simply followed its own path by establishing new cultural spaces outside the state-sponsored zones of production and promotion. In the 1920s, when Greek cinema first organized itself, film representations expressed the traumas of national catastrophes, political frustrations, and social regression. In the 1940s, they expressed the confusion and disorder of constant warfare and fratricidal irrationalism. In the 1950s, movies contributed more than any other cultural activity to social cohesion and the establishment of social identities. In the 1960s, films questioned the precarious balance achieved during the decades of urban sprawl and industrial development. In the 1970s, they radically opposed a political system

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Recaptulation of coercion and oppression. In the 1980s, films lost their edge and became martyrological visions of a lost mythology. In the 1990s, they articulated the rebirth of history through the influx of strangers after the collapse of communism. In the first decade of the new century, they reinvented new imaginary significations and new imaginative representations in order to articulate new realities: the loss of paternal authority, the crisis of family, the collapse of a defensive national identity, the emergence of new gender codes and new sexualities, and the opening up of form and aesthetics to the fluctuating ambiguities of the contemporary world. The “dream nation” of the nineteenth century, as Stathis Gourgouris has demonstrated, was transformed into the “dreaming communities” of the twentieth—and their dreams are compensation, therapy, and redemption. Greek film-makers confronted, often unintentionally, the nation with its own image. Sometimes what was depicted was not particularly flattering. On other occasions, it was confusing and bewildering; the new and the old coexisted on the screen, leaving the audience with a sense of a deferred integration and a constantly postponed identity cohesion. In other instances, movies confronted the nation with its worst fears by challenging established rituals and authorities, as expressed in its conformism and lack of agency. The mirror reflected the person in front of it—the person changed only when the holder of the mirror started to think on his/her self.

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Notes

Chapter One 1. In Arkolakis, p. 212. 2. Gallant, p. 108. 3. Some scholars argue that these reels were staged at Méliès’ primitive studios; not taken in situ. 4. Hepp, p. 307. 5. There are four forms of the name: Manakis, Manakias, Manakas and Maniakias. The Greek death certificate reads Ioannis Manakias. 6. Christodoulou, p. 179. 7. Ibid., p. 180. 8. Lindsay, p. 76. 9. Florensky, pp. 201– 72. 10. Their archive is in Skopje, Macedonia. 11. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 35. 12. Georgakas, “Greek Cinema for Beginners,” pp. 2–8. 13. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 2. 14. Fraser, p. 208. 15. Xanthakis, pp. 104–5. 16. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 121. 17. Existing scenes from Gaziadis’ film will be incorporated by Vassilis Maros into his documentary, The Tragedy of the Aegean (1961). 18. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 48. 19. Nirvanas, Volume 5, p. 445. 20. A complete copy of the silent movie was found and restored in 2004. 21. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 67. 22. Delveroudi, p. 368. 23. Soldatos, Volume 4, pp. 45–6. 24. Hess, p.24. 25. Hestia, 6 Oct 1929. 26. Dönmez-Colin, Turkish Cinema, p. 24. 27. In 1969, Laskos produced a remake of Daphnis and Chloe, but it was a pale and rather silly imitation. In 1966, one of the few pioneer female directors, Mika Zaharopoulou, released her only film, Daphnis and Chloe, stressing the subtext of pederasty that Laskos had omitted from the original Longos story. In her version, Daphnis was seduced by a wealthy homosexual who abducted him to Paris. Daphnis and Chloe meet years later as adults.

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Notes 28. Kazantzakis, pp. 72–4. 29. Ibid, pp. 72–4. 30. Mitropoulou, p.135. 31. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 83. 32. Makris, “Recent Films,” p. 926. 33. Makris, “Films,” p. 805. 34. Soldatos, Volume 1, p. 48. 35. Theodosiou, pp. 194–6. 36. Ibid, p. 197. 37. Makris, “Film Reviews,” p. 647. 38. Makris, “Greek Films,” p. 1094. 39. Rouvas and Stathakopoulos, Volume 1, p. 53. 40. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 146. 41. Gregoriou, p. 26. 42. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 151. 43. Ibid, p. 151. 44. Ibid, p. 46. 45. Soldatos, Volume 1, pp. 52–4. 46. Ploritis, p. 20. 47. Constantinidis, “Greek Film and the National Interest,” p. 4. 48. Mitropoulou, Greek Cinema, p.103.

Chapter Two 1. Andritsos, p. 22. 2. Ploritis, “The ‘Notorious’ Greek Cinema,” p. 20. 3. A similar story, but with a communist invasion was Alfred Green’s Invasion USA (1952). 4. Gregoriou, p. 59. 5. Ibid., p59. 6. Ibid., p. 86. 7. Iliadis also wrote the first short history (Greek Cinema) in 1960. 8. Angeli, p. 87. 9. Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 317. 10. Mitropoulou, p. 127. 11. Peckham and Michelakis, p. 74. 12. Eleftheriotis, “Questioning Totalities,” p. 238. 13. Georgakas, “Stella,” p. 15. 14. Moshovakis, “Stella,” p. 112. 15. Anderson, p. 45. 16. Lassally, p. 36. 17. Fenek-Mikelidis, p. 26. 18. Dimopoulos made 46 films and 2 documentaries, wrote 7 scripts and 12 literary books. 19. Gregoriou, p. 155.

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Chapter Three 1. Soldatos, Volume 1, p. 167. 2. Ibid, p. 290. 3. Lassally, p, 85. 4. Dalianidis, p. 92. 5. Kamvasinou, p. 264. 6. Strangely enough, some peculiar Greek characters appear in almost all his films made before 1955. 7. Mitropoulou, p. 339. 8. Lassally, p. 90. 9. Moshovakis, 1997, p. 31. 10. Cacoyannis, p. 75. 11. Stavrakas, p. 753. 12. Varriano, Lassally, and Hepp are the three great “outsiders” who created “authentic” Greek images. 13. Soldatos, Corporeal Odysseys, p. 125. 14. Levy. 15. Agathos, p. 166. 16. Despite their differences, we can easily detect striking similarities with Tony Richardson’s Tom Jones, for which Lassally was also director of photography. 17. Kaplan, p. 253. 18. Gauntlett, p.275. 19. The story is similar to Yesim Ustaoglou’s Waiting for the Clouds, especially its questioning of identity. 20. Kyrou, “Kanal,” p. 47. 21. Kyrou, Cinematic Star, p. 14.

22. Quoted in Soldatos, Volume 4, p. 487. 23. Karderinis, p. 56. 24. Katsounaki, “Alexis Damianos.” 25. Soldatos, Corporeal Odysseys, p 164. 26. Malvey, p. 75. 27. Eleftheriotis, “A Cultural Colony of India,” p. 108. 28. The Greek Film Musical. 29. Papadimitriou, p. 141. 30. Ibid, p. 144. 31. Polan, p. 78. 32. Bakogiannopoulos, pp. 12–14. 33. Bouloukos, p. 55. 34. Dönmez-Colin, Turkish Cinema, p. 143.

Chapter Four 1. Rafailidis, Greek Cinema, p. 25. 2. Dönmez-Colin, “Umut/Hope,” p. 47. 3. Papargyris, p, 104.

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Notes 4. Constantinidis, “What Did You Do in the War, Thanassis?,” p. 93. 5. Fainaru, p. 12. 6. Ibid, p. 13. 7. Kael, p. 304. 8. The film was based on Jean Negulesco’s Johnny Belinda (1948). 9. Chalkou, p. 62. 10. Kolovos in Aspects of New Greek Cinema, p. 24. 11. Vakalopoulos, p. 262. 12. Rafailidis, “Ford Foundation in Greece” 13. Rentzis, p. 28. 14. Rafailidis, Film-Construction, p. 124. 15. Kolovos, Essays, p. 10. 16. The term tsonta originates from the Italian word giungere (guinta) which means “addition and interpolation.” Vassos Giorgas and Dimitris Koliodimos released their documentary Cinema Nude (To Cinema Gymno, 2010), with interesting interviews by the protagonists of the industry. Some of the views expressed in the film are incorporated here. 17. Dimitris Koliodimos identified him as Nasos Spyris, an erstwhile actor and scriptwriter. However, it seems that even this might have been a pseudonym. 18. Koliodimos, “On Pornography,” p. 22. 19. Nico Mastorakis is an interesting case. He was the producer of Angelopoulos’ first short film, Transimission. He collaborated with the Dictatorship of 1967 and later left Greece to become the producer of Z-rate movies in the US. 20. Kousoumidis, p. 227. 21. Rouvas and Stathakopoulos, Volume 2, p.108. 22. Rosenstone, p. 116. 23. Karali, p. 183. 24. Bresson, p. 126. 25. Hanlon, p. 362. 26. Horton, p. 105. 27. Deleuze, p. 109. 28. Rafailidis, Greek Cinema, p. 94. 29. He produced a total of 186 films: 28 were co-productions; 78 in colour. 30. Statistics from Rouvas and Stathakopoulos, Volume 2, passim. 31. Panayiotopoulos, p. 95. 32. Kousoumidis, p. 241. 33. Georgakas, “And Behold a Pale Horse,” p. 110.

Chapter Five 1. Clogg, p. 189. 2. Clarke, p. 167. 3. The first quote is from Papandreou, p. 56. 4. Karalis, p. 262. 5. Koliopoulos and Veremis, p. 162.

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6. Papandreou was nicknamed Monsier l’Asteriske, because of his quaint habit of adding footnotes about Greek reservations to just about anything. 7. A[damompoulos], M[ihalis], p, 23. 8. Schickel, pp. 446–7. 9. Dan Georgakas, “Stone Years,” p. 222. 10. Derrida, p. 144. 11. Soldatos, Volume 2, p. 232. 12. Roman, p. 23. 13. Fainaru, p. 58. 14. Sotiropoulou, p. 224. 15. Alexiou, “An Interview with Sotiris Goritsas.”

Chapter Six 1. Hallam and Marshment, p. 47. 2. Andreadakis, p. 44. 3. Koliopoulos and Veremis, p. 200. 4. Sorlin, p. 215. 5. Schutz, p.105. 6. Faubion, p. 182. 7. Kanellis, p. 47. 8. Aktsoglou, p. 71. 9. Papanikolaou, “Repatriation on Screen,” p. 266. 10. Tsitsopoulou, p. 253. 11. Kehagias. 12. Jays. 13. Papastathis, p 57. 14. Paradeisi, p. 132. 15. Ibid, p. 139. 16. Soumas. 17. Gourgouris, “Euro-Soccer and Hellenomania.” 18. Gourgouris, “We are an Image of the Future.” 19. Katsounaki, “From Sfikas to Lanthimos.” 20. Lykouresis. 21. Papanikolaou, “Strella,” p. 24. 22. van Hoeij. 23. Quoted in Kagios. 24. See the directors’ note at myfilm.gr/8328. 25. Alexiou, “Greek Cinema.” 26. Andreadakis, p. 44.

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Bibliography A[damopoulos], M[ihalis], “The Grand Misery of Greek Cinema,” Cinematic Notebooks, vol. 5, Oct–Nov 1981. Agathos, Thanasis, From the Life and Works of Alexis Zorbas to Zorba the Greek. Athens: Aigokeros, 2007. Aktsoglou, Babis, “On the Experimental Cinema of Mazemenos,” Athenorama, 18 April 2002. Alexiou, Petro, “An Interview with Sotiris Goritsas,” Senses of Cinema issue 9 at sensesofcinema.com. —“Greek Cinema, Emerging form a Landscape in the Mist: the 51st Thessaloniki International Film Festival,” Senses of Cinema issue 58 at sensesofcinema.com. Anderson, Lindsay, Never Apologise—The Collected Writings, ed. Paul Ryan. London: Lexus Publishing, 2004. Andreadakes, Orestes, “Introduction,” Cinema, winter 2011, vol. 219. Andritsos, Yorgos, Occupation and Resistance in Greek Cinema (1945–1966). Athens: Aigokeros, 2004. Angeli, Kay, “A Conversation with the First Greek Female Director, Maria Plyta,” Film Women and Cinema special issue, vol. 17, no. 79. Arkolakis, Manolis, Greek Cinema (1896–1939), Comparison in Mediterranean and European Context, Mechanism of Dissemination and Production. Greek Open University, 2009. Bakogiannopoulos, Yannis, “A Brief Account,” Aspects of New Greek Cinema. Athens: Center for Optical and Acoustic Studies (Optikoakoustiki Koultoura 2), 2002. Bouloukos, Stathis, History of Greek Television. Athens: Aigokeros, 2008. Bresson, Robert, Notes of a Cinematographer. Copenhagen: Green Integer, 1997. Cacoyannis, Mihalis, “Electra,” Epoches, vol. 2, 1962. Chalkou, Maria, “Towards the Creation of ‘Quality’ Greek National Cinema in the 1960s” (Ph.D.). University of Glasgow, 2008. Christodoulou, Christos K., The Manakis Brothers, The Greek Pioneers of the Balkanic Cinema. Thessaloniki: Organization for the Cultural Capital of Europe, 1997. Clarke, Peter, Keynes, The Twentieth Century’s Most Influential Economist. London: Bloomsbury, 2009. Clogg, Richard, A Concise History of Modern Greece. Cambridge University Press, 1997. Constantinidis, Stratos E., “Greek Film and the National Interest: A Brief Preface,” Journal of Modern Greek Studies, vol. 18, no. 1, May 2000. —“What Did You Do in the War, Thanassis?” in Dina Iordanova, The Cinema of the Balkans. London: Wallflower Press, 2006. Dalianidis, Yannis, Cinema, Personalities and I. Athens: Kastaniotis Publications, 2005.



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Deleuze, Gilles, Cinema 2, The Time-Image, translated by Hugh Tomlinson and Roberta Galeta. London: Continuum, 2007. Delveroudi, Eliza-Anna, “Greek Cinema” in Hristos Hatziiosif, ed. History of Greece in the 20th Century, 1922–1940, vol. 2a. Athens: Vivliorama Publications. —“Young People in the Comedies of Greek Cinema,” History Archive for the Study of Youth, IAEN, no.40, 2004. Derrida, Jacques, The Work of Mourning, ed. Pascale-Anne Brault and Nichael Naas. University of Chicago Press, 2001. Dönmez-Colin, Gönül, “Umut/Hope” in Gönül Dönmez-Colin, ed. The Cinema of North Africa and the Middle East. London: Wallflower Press, 2007. —Turkish Cinema: Identity, Distance and Belonging. London: Reaktion Books, 2008. Eleftheriotis, Dimitris, “Questioning Totalities: Constructions of Masculinity in Popular Greek Cinema of the 1960s,” Screen, 36:3, Autumn 1995. —“A Cultural Colony of India, Indian Films in Greece in the 1950s and 1960s,” South Asian Popular Culture, 4:2, 2006. Fainaru, Dan, ed. Theo Angelopoulos’ Interviews. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2001. Faubion, James, “Hyperreal Athens: Phantasmatic Memory and the Reproduction of Civic Alienation” in Vrasidas Karalis, ed. Modern Greek Studies (Australia and New Zealand) Culture and Memory special issue, 2006. Fenek-Mikelidis, Ninos, 100 Years of Greek and Foreign Cinema. Athens: Maniateas Publications, 1997. Florensky, Pavel, Beyond Vision, Essays on the Perception of Art, comp. and ed. Nicoletta Misler, translated by Wendy Salmond. London: Reaktion Books, 2002. Fraser, Sir James George, Garnered Sheaves: Essays, Addresses and Reviews. London, 1931. Gallant, Thomas W., Modern Greece, A Brief History. Oxford University Press, 2005. Gauntlett, Stathis, “The Diaspora Sings Back: Rebetika Down Under” in Dimitris Tziovas, ed. Greek Diaspora and Migration Since 1700. Farnham: Ashgate, 2009. Gaziadis, Dimitris, How I Can Play in the Cinema. 1926. Georgakas, Dan, “Greek Cinema for Beginners: A Thumbnail History,” Film Criticism, XXVII, 2, 2002. —“. . . And Behold a Pale Horse and His Name Who Sat on Him was ‘Alexander,’” Arena, Anarchists Film and Video, ed. Richard Porton, 2009. —“Stella” and “Stone Years” in Iordanova. Gourgouris, Stathis, “Euro-Soccer and Hellenomania” at lsa.umich.edu/modgreek. —“We are an Image of the Future: The Greek Revolt of December 2008,” Journal of Modern Greek Studies, vol. 28, Oct 2010. Gregoriou, Gregoris, Memories in Black and White, Volume 1. Athens: Aigokeros, 1988. Hallam, Julia and Marshment, Margaret, Realism and Popular Cinema. Manchester University Press, 2000. Hanlon, Dennis, “Travelling Theory, Shots, and Players: Jorge Sanjines, New Latin American Cinema, and the European Art Film” in Rosalind Galt and

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Bibliography Karl Schoonover, eds. Global Art Cinema: New Theories and Histories. Oxford University Press, 2010. Hepp, Zozef, “Pioneers of Greek Cinema and Greek Theatre” in Soldatos, Volume 4. Hess, Franklin L., “Sound and the Nation: Rethinking the History of Early Greek Film Production,” Journal of Modern Greek Studies, vol 18, 2000. Horton, Andrew, The Films of Theo Angelopoulos, A Cinema of Contemplation. Princeton University Press, 1997. Iliadis, Frixos, Greek Cinema. Athens: Tahidromos Publications, 1960. Jays, David, “The Cherry Orchard,” Sight and Sound, Feb 2000. bfi.org.uk/ sightandsound/review/527. Kael, Pauline, “Helen of Troy, Sexual Warrior,” Deeper into Movies, Atlantic Monthly Press Book. Atlanta, 1973. Kagios, Pavlos, “Margarita Manta about Her First Film,” Ta Nea, 14 Oct 2008. Kamvasinou, Marikaiti, Finos Film. Athens: Orfeas Publications, 2005. Kanellis, Ilias, “The Class of 2010,” Cinema, Winter 2011, vol. 219. Kaplan, Robert. D., Balkan Ghosts. New York: Picador, 1993. Karali, Aimilia, “The War Decade on Screen, from The Unknown Warfare to The Travelling Players,” Utopia, vol. 67, Nov–Dec 2005. Karalis, Vrasidas, “The Socialist Era in Greece (1981–1989) or the Irrational in Power,” Modern Greek Studies (Australia and New Zealand), vol. 14, 2010. Karderinis, Kostas, “Parenthesis (1968)” in Demosthenes Xifilinos, ed. 50 Years of Film Festival, the Movies We Loved. Thessaloniki: Erodios Publications, 2009. Katsounaki, Maria, “Alexis Damianos, the Great Amateur of Greek Cinema,” Kathimerini, 9 May 2006. —“From Sfikas to Lanthimos,” Kathimerini, 26 May 2009. Kazantzakis, Nikos, 400 Letters to Prevelakis. Athens: Hestia Publications, 1985. Kehagias, Vassilis, “The Post-World of Nicos Nicolaidis,” Macedonia, 21 Nov 1999. Koliodimos, Dimitris, The Greek Filmography: 1914 through 1996. Jefferson: McFarland and Company, 1999. —“On Pornography and Greek Porn” in Aris Dimitriou, ed. Strictly Forbidden. Athens: Oxy Publications, 2007. Koliopoulos, John S. and Veremis, Thanos M, Modern Greece: A History Since 1821. London: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. Kolovos, Nikos, Essays on the Theory and Criticism of Cinema. Athens: Kastaniotis Publications,1993. —Aspects of New Greek Cinema. Athens: Center for Optical and Acoustic Studies (Optikoakoustiki Koultoura 2), 2002. Kousoumidis, Marinos, History of Greek Cinema. Athens: Kastaniotis Publications, 1981. Kyrou, Ado in Cinematic Star, 12 Aug 1965. —“Kanal (They Loved Life)” in Michel Ciment and Laurence Kardish, (eds) Positif: 50 Years. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2004. Lassally, Walter, Itinerant Cameraman. London: John Murray, 1987. Levy, Emanuel, “Zorba the Greek” at emanuellevy.com/review/ zorba-the-greek-1964-6.

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Index Proper Names and Film Titles in English

(1966) 164 100 Hours of May (1963) 127 1900 (1975) 179 1922 (1978) 185–6 201 Canaries (1964) 118 400 Blows (1959) 112 Abduction of Persephone, The (1957) 83 Absences (1987) 223 Absentees, The (1996) 252 Abuse of Power (1971) 157 A Crazy Crazy Family (1965) 118 Acropol (1995) 251 Adamopoulos, Mihalis 197, 293 A Dream of Passion (1978) 187 Adventures of Villar, The (1926) 11 Aeschylus 173, 176, 178 Agathos, Thanassis 103, 291 Age of the Sea, The (1978) 186 Aggelidi, Antouaneta 171, 183, 212, 249 Agnes of the Harbour (1952) 62 A Heron from Germany (1987) 214 A Hero with Slippers (1958) 82 Akin, Filiz 142 Aktsoglou, Babis 253, 293 Alafouzos Brothers 269 A Laughing Afternoon (1979) 182, 187 Alcoule, Pope, 183 Aldebaran (1975) 174 Alemagia (2004) 263 Alevras, Nikos 183 Alexandraki, Eleni 252, 264 Alexandrakis, Alekos 108 Alexandria (2000) 260 Alexiou, Petro 234, 283, 293

Aliferis, Tzanis 93, 113 Aliosha (2001) 261 Alkaiou, Maria 153 Allegory (1986) 219 All Goes Well (2010) 275 Almadovar, Pedro 259 Alter Ego (2007) 277 A Man Escaped (1954) 112 A Man for All Times (2004) 263 A Matter of Dignity (1957) 75, 77–8 A Matter of Life and Death (1972) 157 Amelio, Gianni 281 America, America (1963) 263 Amok (1963) 108–9, 135 Anderson, Lindsay 75, 76, 290 And It Goes to Glory Again (1980) 190 Andreadakis, Orestis 241, 283, 293 Andreou, Errikos 94, 118, 126, 139, 156, 164, 175 Andritsos, Kostas 95, 113, 132, 134 Andritsos, Yorgos, 45, 290 Angel (1982) 202–3 Angeli, Kay 60, 290 Angelopoulos, Theo xiv, xv, xix, xx, 8, 117, 126–7, 143–5, 148, 149–50, 154, 155–7, 159, 162, 171, 175–85, 187, 190–1, 193, 199, 209–10, 217, 220–1, 225–6, 230–1, 237, 238–9, 241, 242, 244, 250–1, 253–4, 263, 270, 275–7, 279–80 A Night in Casablanca (1946) 64 Anna Rodite (1948) 51 Anna’s Engagement (1972) 148, 151 Antigone (1961) 96–7

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300 Index Antonioni, Michelangelo 100, 115, 120, 176, 179, 230 Antoniou, Angeliki 231, 249, 269, 280 Antonopoulos, Yorgos 182 Apaches of Athens, The (1930) 22 Applauses (143) 35, 37 Appointment with an Unknown Woman (1968) 134 Arbuckle, Roscoe “Fatty” 7 Archons (1976) 183 Argiroiliopoulos, Yorgos 258 Aristopoulos, Kostas 148, 152, 182, 233 Arkolakis, Manolis 289 Armenis, Yorgos 256 Arnshtam, Zev 45 Aroni, Mary 118 Arseni, Anastasia 233 Arvanitis, Yorgos 133, 144, 157, 221, 226 Asdrahas, Spyros 179 Asimakopoulos, Yorgos 90 A Song is Not Enough (2003) 262 Asphalt Fever (1967) 135 A Spy Called Nelly (1981) 198 Assignment Skybolt (or Spies in the Saronic Bay, 1968) 125 Astero (1929) 17–19, 23, 144 Astero (1959) 85 Astrapogiannos (1970) 127 Astruc, Alexander 40 A Taste of Honey (1961) 97 Athanitis, Dimitris 236, 264 A Touch of Spice (2003/4) 263, 276–7 Attack of the Giant Mousaka, The (1999) 259 Attenberg (2010) 274, 282 At the Battle of Crete (1970) 139 At the Frontiers of Treason (1968) 139 At the Gates of Hell (1959) 85 Attila 74 (1974) 172 August 15th (2001) 260 Auntie from Chicago (1957) 82 Avdeliodis, Dimos 219, 227, 257 Avgerinos, Dimitris 127 Avlonitis, Vassilis 82 Away from the World (1929) 20 A Woman is Accused (1966) 110

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Axelos, Kostas 49 Ayoupa (Bed of Grass, 1957) 83, 163 Bachelor, The (1997) 253 Back Door, The (2001) 261 Backstage Crime (1960) 94 Bakogiannopoulos, Yannis 140, 161, 291 Balamos (1982) 213 Bardot, Brigitte 90 Barefoot Battalion, The (1954) 64–5 Barkoulis, Andreas 84 Bataille, Georges 228 Bates, Alan 103 Battle of Mafeking, The (1900) 3 Battleship Potemkin (1925) 22, 45 Bazaka, Themis 211 Bazin, Andrè 111, 159 Beekeeper, The (186) 220–1 Behatoros, Kostas 8 Belarike, Jimmy 165 Belle de Jour (1968) 268 Belling, Bob 165 Belogiannis, Nikos 190 Ben’s Kid (1909) 7 Bergen, Candice 124 Bergman, Ingmar 99, 254 Berlin, Symphony of a Great City (1927) 67 “Berto” 166, 207 Bertolucci, Bernardo 166, 179 Betty (1979) 189 Betty 271 Bezzerides, A. I., 92 Big Shot (1977) 183 Big Streets (1953) 59 Bio-Graphy (1974) 173 Birth of a Nation (1915) 176 Bistikas, Alexis 229, 233–4 Bitter Bread (1951) 58 Bitter Life (1965), 119 Bitter Rice (1949) 59 Black Earth (1952) 59–60 Black Sheep (2006) 276 Black-White (1973) 152 Blob, The (1958) 259

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Index Blood of a Poet, The (1930) 115 Blood of Statues, The (1982) 200 Blood on the Land (1964) 134 Bloodstained Christmas (1952) 61 Bloodstained Sunset (1959) 85 Blue Angel, The (1930) 226 Blue Beads (1966) 137 Blue Dress, The (2005) 267 Bogris, Dimitris 34 Bokolis, Kostas 165 Bombardment of Monastiri, The (1916) 5 Boorman, John 237 Bordello (1985) 211–12 Borderline (1994) 236 Boudouris, Vassilis 252, 260 Boulmetis, Tasos 227, 263, 276 Bouloukos, Stathis, 291 Boyle, Danny 268 Boys, The (1999) 258 Boys in the Sand (1971) 166 Bramos, Hristos 161 Brave Die Twice, The (1973) 140 Brave of the North, The (1969) 139 Brazileiro (2001) 261 Break (1982) 200 Brecht, Bertolt 176 Bresson, Robert 100, 112, 179, 292 Bridegrooms of Eutichia, The (1962) 119 Brides, The (2004) 263 Broken Blossoms (1918) 27 Broken Hearts (1945) 50 Brother Anna (1963) 108 Brynner, Yul 164 Bubble, The (2002) 262 Bujold, Genevieve 156 Bullets fall like a hailstorm (and the wounded artist sighs) (1977) 183 Bumbach, Erich 7, 20 Buňuel, Luis 228, 267 Burstyn, Helen 187 Business in the Balkans (1996) 252 Butler, David 22 Byron, Lord 232 Byron, the Ballad for a Demon (1992) 232 Byzantine Rhapsody (1968), 125, 223

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301

Cacoyannis, Michael xiv, xvi, xix, 47, 61, 67–70, 72, 75–9, 89, 97–9, 100–4, 124, 127, 156, 172, 183, 232, 258–9, 279, 285, 287, 291 Calopresti, Mimmi 281 Cameron, James 277 Canary Yellow Bicycle, The (1999) 258 Cannibals, The (1969) 185 Canon and the Nightingale, The (1968) 124 Capra, Frank 67, 82, 130 Captain Meidanos, the Image of a Mythical Fighter (1987) 223 Captain Scorpion (1943) 32 Captives of Hatred (1972) 133 Caravan Serai (1986) 219 Carne, Marcel 61–2, 64 Casablanca (1942) 58, 69 Cassavetes, John 176, 190 Castellani, Renato 67 Castells, Manuel 230 Castoriadis, Cornelius 49, 171 Cavafy (1994) 236 Cavani, Liliana 185 Celebration of King George I (1908) 3 Cerdova, Lila 103 Cezanne, Paul 271–2 Chabrol, Claude 149 Chalkou, Maria 159, 292 Chandler, Raymond 93 Chaplin, Clarlie 12, 15, 35–6, 227, 253 Charioteer (1994) 236 Charlie Chaplin Arch Bandit in Arachova (1927) 15 Chase, The (1946) 40 Cheap Cigarettes (2001) 261 Cherry Orchard, The (1999) 258 Chiesa, Guido 281 Chistof, Georges 165 Christodoulou, Christos 5 Christodoulou, Christos K. 289 Chronicle of Sunday, The (1975) 116 Churchill, Winston 46 Cinderella (1899) 3, 7 Cinema Paradiso (1988) 86 Circle of Viciousness (1971) 166

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302 Index Citizen Kane (1941) 73 Clair, Rene 68, 79 Clandestine Nation (1989) 180 Clarke, Peter 292 Clogg, Richard 193, 292 Close . . . So Close . . . (2002) 249 Clouzot, Henry-Georges 126 Cocteau, Jean 56, 78, 115 Coffee Oracle, The (1956) 82 Colours of Iris, The (1974) 173 Come In, Give Us a Kiss, You are Done (1985) 218 Commoners and Aristocrats (1959) 86 Como, Perry 188 Concert for Machine Guns (1967) 135 Confrontation (1982) 200 Constantine I (King) 9, 10 Constantine II (King) 105, 168 Constantinidi, Ariel 270 Constantinidis, Stratos xiii, 42, 148, 290–1 Coppola, Francis Ford 176, 206 Corpus (1979) 189 Cossery, Albert 185 Cotton Club, The (1983) 206 Courbet, Gustave 205 Coward, Noel 115 Cowie, Peter xiii Cow’s Orgasm, The (1996) 252 Crialese, Emmanuelle 263 Crystal Nights (1991) 230 Cunning Female . . . Rascal Woman (1980) 189 Curtiz, Michael 58 Customs and Traditions of Macedonia (1906) 5 Cyprus, The Other Reality (1976) 182 Dadiras Dimis 83, 86, 138–9 Dafoe, William 270 Dali, Gizela 164 Dalianidis, Yannis xv, 85, 113, 129, 130–2, 134, 136, 140, 157, 162, 175, 279, 287, 291 Dam, The (1982) 200 Damaskou, Olympia 8

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Damianos, Alexis 121, 128, 156, 181, 236–7 Damned, The (1969) 272 Dandoulaki, Katia 157 Danezi-Knutsen, Aliki 249 Dangerous ones-A Protest, The (1983) 132 Danikas, Dimitris 161 Danillo Trelles (1985) 213–14 Daphnis and Chloe (1931) 25–7, 163 Daphnis and Chloe (1966) 289 Daphnis and Chloe (1969) 289 Daskalothanassis, Yannis 261 Dassin, Jules xvi, 91–2, 125, 172, 187, 208 Dawn, The (1993) 233–4 Day, Doris 90 Days of 36 (1972) 148, 149–50 Days of Wrath—A Requiem for Europe (1995) 253 Day the Fish Came Out, The (1967) 124 Dead City (1951) 58 Death by Hanging (1968)150 Death I Dreamed of, The (2010) 275 Death of Alexander, The (1966) 120 Death Will Return (1961) 94 Debbie Does Dallas (1978) 166 Deep Soul (2009) 241, 270 Deep Throat (1972) 166 Deleuze, Gilles 180, 292 Deliolanis, Pericles 161 Delphic Celebrations, The (1927) 16 Delveroudi, Eliza-Anna 21, 162, 289 Demetriadis, Tetos, 23 Deren, Maya 115, 215 Derrida, Jacques 213, 293 Desires in the Cursed Swamp (1966) 110 Desires in the Wheat fields (1960) 80 Diamante, Virginia 8 Diamantopoulos, Yannis 267 Diamonds on Her Naked Body (1972) 165 Dimas, Hristos 275 Dimitrakopoulos, Spyros (Spyridion) 7 Dimopoulos, Dinos 81, 83–5, 90, 91, 118, 135, 157, 182, 185, 233, 290

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Index Dimopoulos, Mihalis (Michel) 159, 161 Discreet Charm of Males, The (1998) 254 Division (1965) 118 Dogtooth (2009) 183, 244, 268, 273–4, 282 Domenica d’Agosto (1950) 68 Donen, Stanley 280, 291 Donousa (1992) 231 Donskoy, Mark 45 Dorizas, Michael 14 Double Indemnity (1944) 94 Double Sacrifice (1945) 50 Doubts (1964) 95 Dovzhenko, Alexander 97 Downhill (1961) 130 Doxiadis, Apostolos 203, 224 Doxobus (1987) 223 Dr. Epaninondas (1937) 32 Dracula of Exarheia (1983) 204 Dream Factory (1990) 227 Dreyer, Carl 149 Dreyfus Affair, The (1899) 7 Drop in the Ocean (1995) 252 Drunkard, The (1948) 52, 54, 56, 61 Ducce Narrates How he Conquered Greece (1942–5) 35 Duchess of Plakentia, The (1955) 60 Due Soldi di Speranza (1952) 67 Dust of Time, The (2008) 270, 276 Dönmez-Colin Gonül 142, 145, 289 Earth (1930) 97 Eastern Province (1979) 188 Edipo Re (1967) 100 Edison, Thomas 3 Edouart (2006) 269 Efstratiadis, Omeros 165 Eisenstein, Sergei 22, 29, 45, 64, 69, 97, 145, 190, 219 Eleatic Stranger (1995) 252 Electra (1962) 75, 97–9, 156, 183 Electra, My Love (1974) 97 Electric Angel (1981) 199 Eleftherios Venizelos (1980) 189 Eleftheriotis, Dimitris 71, 136, 291

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El Greco (2007) 268, 277 Emmanuelle (1974) 166 Emmer, Lucciano 68 End of an Era (1994) 235, 253 Engagement with Problems (1937) 32 Enigma, The (1998) 254 Enigmatic Mr Jules Verne-NemoAllegory II, The (2002) 219 Equinox (1991) 229 Eroica (1961) 97 Ertugul, Muhsin 24, 25 Eternity and a Day (1997) 253–4, 263, 276 Euridice B. A. 2037 (1975) 173–4 Euripides 97, 156, 183, 226 Evdokia (1971) 145–7, 281 Eve (1953) 60–1 Evil, The (2005) 268, 276 Evil in the Time of Heroes (2009) 276 Evil Way, The (1933) 24 Exchange of Captives in Asia Minor, The (1923) 14 Excursion (1966) 116 Exile on Central Avenue (1979) 188 Expulsion, The (1964) 110 Eyes in the Night (2003) 262 Eyewitness (1993) 233 Face to Face (1966) 120 Factory, The (1981) 198 Fafoutis, Panayiotis 275 Fainarou, Dan 291, 293 Fairy and the Brave Lad, The (1969) 135 Family as the Protector Against AIDS (1986) 217 Fantazis, Loros 29 Fate of Maroula, The (1917) 9 Faubion, James 248–9, 293 Fear (1966) 113 Female Company (1999) 259 Female Vices (1999) 259 Fenek-Mikelidis Ninos xiv, 78, 161, 290 Ferreri, Marco 185, 228 Ferris, Kostas 127, 148–9, 153–4, 173, 187, 188, 206–7, 226

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304 Index Fertis, Yannis 99 Fever of Pleasure, The (1974) 136 Filippou, Katerina 258 Final Countdown (1984) 209 Finos, Filopimin XVII, 33–4, 36, 37, 60, 91, 96, 140, 181, 280, 285 Fist of the Cripple, The (1930) 23 Flaherty, Robert 27, 114 Flemming, Victor 64 Floating (1985) 212 Florensky, Pavel 289 Floriniotis, Yannis 190 Fokas, Spyros 85, 119 Fonsou, Anna 164, 167 Ford, John 79 Forgotten Faces (1946) 50 For Insignificant Reason (1974) 174 For Whom the Bell Tolls? (1943) 40 Foskolos, Nikos 95, 140, 113, 118, 132–3, 139–40, 157, 279 Foundas, Yorgos 71, 135 Fox Follies (1929) 22 Fraggoulis, Yannis, 161 Fragrance of Time, The (1997) 253 Frantzis, Angelos 249, 260, 276 Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis (2007) 219 Frazer, Sir James George 9 Frederica, Queen of Greece 45–6, 105 Free Fall (1995) 251 Frentzos, Yorgos 257 Freud, Sigmund 177, 197 Friendships (2007) 269 From Here to Eternity (1953) 69 From the Edge of the City (1998) 254–5, 281 From the Life of the Little Princes, (1911) 4 From the Snow (1993) 234–5, 248 Fuller, Loie 1 Fuller, Samuel 119, 153 Funès, Louis de 147 Fylaktos, Filippos 175 Fyssoun, Petros 108 Gabriela the Whore of Athens Gage, Nicholas 208

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Galatis, Dimitris 164 Gallant, Thomas 289 Gance, Abel 22 Ganz, Bruno 270 Garbo, Greta 23 Gardelis, Nikos 84 Gardelis, Stamatis 132 Gauntlett, Stathis 106, 291 Gavala, Maria 159, 189, 212 Gavras, Costa 49, 105, 143, 150, 197 Gaziadis, Anastasios 10 Gaziadis, Mihalis 51, 64 Gaziadis Brothers 15 Gaziadis Dimitris 16–20, 22–5, 28, 29–30, 40, 41, 55, 62, 96, 127, 144, 286, 289 Gazoros Serron (1974) 172 Genet, Jean 49 Gentleman in Grey, The (1997) 253 Georgakas, Dan xiii, 8, 72, 190, 211, 289, 290, 292–3 George I (King) 2, 4 Georgiadis Vassilis 113, 117, 124, 132, 134–5, 138, 140, 157 Georgiadou, Mirella xiii Germans Strike Back, The (1947) 52–4, 56, 147 Germany Year Zero (1945) 67 Giannakakis, Ilias 263 Giannaris, Constantinos xiv, 249, 254–6, 260, 264, 280 Giannikopoulos, Dimitris 172 Giatzoudakis, Dimitris 229, 261 Gilda (1946) 58, 68 Gini, Kaiti 164 Giorgas, Vassos 292 Giourgou, Lagia 235, 267 Girik, Fatma 142 Girl and the Horse (1973) 167 Girl in Black, The (1956) 75–7 Girl of Number 17, The (1969) 126 Girls of Athens (1961) 80 Girls under the Sun (1968) 124 Give Your Hands (1971) 139 Glikofridis, Panos 113, 157, 174–5, 182 Glytsos, Michael 8

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Index Godard, Jean Luc 120, 150, 179 Godfather III 208 Gogou, Katerina 190 Golden Apples of Hesperides, The (1997) 253 Golden Door (La Porte d’Or, 2008) 263 Golden Dust (2009) 274 Golden Haired Girl, The (1978) 187 Goldmann, Lucien 128 Goldwin, Samuel 33 Golfo (1914) 8 Gone with the Wind (1939) 64 Goodbye Berlin (1994) 236 Good Homeland, Comrade (1986) 219 Goritsas, Sotiris 23–5, 248, 253, 261, 269 Gospel According to Matthew (1964) 97 Goudelis, Tasos 161 Gourgouris, Stathis 265–6, 288, 293 Gousgounis, Kostas 164, 168, 252 Grammatikos, Nikos 233, 252, 262, 268 Grande Buffe, The (1973) 185 Great Train Robbery, The (1903) 7 Greca, Stella 51 Greece of 1938 Speaks . . . (1938) 33 Greek Miracle, The (1922) 16 Green, Alfred 290 Gregoriou, Grigoris 37, 55–9, 78, 79, 83–4, 89, 95, 108, 110, 118, 139–40, 290 Griffith, D. W. 15, 17, 27, 176 Grigoratos, Dionysis 186, 225 Guardian’s Son, The (2006) 269 Guazzone, Enrico 6 Guilt (2010) 257 Guthrie, Tyrone 100 Gypsy Girl of Athens, The (1922) 13 Gyzis, Nickolas 6 Güney, Gilmaz, 145, 242 Hades (1995) 248, 251 Halaris, Hristodoulos 191 Halatsis, Filippos 269 Hallam, Julia 239, 293 Hammett, Dashiel 200 Hands, The (1961) 95

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Hands Up, Hitler (1961) 95 Hanlon, Dennis 180, 292 Happy Day (1976) 181–2 Happy Life (1993) 233 Haralambidis, Renos 252, 261, 269 Haralambopoulos, Stelios 251 Harbor of Tears (1929) 17 Hard Farewells, My Father (2002) 261 Haritos, Dimitris 161 Harold, Meredith 228 Haronitis, Lefteris 172 Hatziargiri, Mary 62 Hatzidakis, Manos 50, 71, 78, 91, 93, 227, 245 Hatzikostas, Kostas 217 Hatzinasios, Yorgos 133, 157, 223 Hatziyiannis, Vaggelis 85 Hatzopoulos, Takis 172 Hawaii (1995) 251 Hayworth, Rita 68 Heart of the Beast, The (2005) 269 Heinz-Hummel Karl 119 Heiress, The (2009) 275 Heleni (1984) 208 Helmi, Katerina 188 Hepburn, Katherine 156 Hepp, Josef xv, 4, 7, 9, 11–12, 14, 20, 29–30, 40, 52–3, 55, 58–9, 96, 285, 291 Hertzog, Werner 153 Hess, Franklin L. 23 Highway of Treason (1968) 139 Him and Her (1966) 118 Hinas, Phanis 150 Histoire d’un crime (1901) 3 Hitchcock, Alfred 40, 73, 94, 149, 222 Hitler, Adolf 58 Hoeij, Boyd van 273, 293 Holevas, Markos 233 Holidays in Vietnam (1971) 157 Holmes, John 165, 166 Homeland (2010) 274 Hondrokostas, Yorgos 217 Honey Moon (1979) 187 Horn, Dimitris 77 Horton, Andrew xiv, 180, 292

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306 Index Hostage (2004) 265 Hot Month of July, The (1966) 118 Hourmouzios, Aimilios 48 Hours (1995) 249 Hoursoglou, Pericles 234, 253, 262 House in the Countryside (1994) 235 House of Lust (1960) 80, 164 Hrisovitsianos, Yorgos 172 Hristodoulou, Yannis 50 Hristofis, Hristoforos 187, 199 Hristomanos, Constantinos 8 Hronopoulos, Kostas 172 Hronopoulou, Elisavet 262 Hronopoulou, Mary 131, 224 Hudson, Rock 130 Hunt, Linda 208 Hunters, The (1977) 181, 183–4 Hush! (1971) 35 I Accuse Humans (1966) 118 I Accuse My Body (1969) 166 I am Dying Every Morning (1968) 132 I am Dying for You (2009) 275 I am Tired of Killing My Lovers (2002) 261 I Dream of My Friends (1993) 233 Iliadis, Denis 263 Iliadis, Frixos 58, 290 Ilias of the 16th Branch (1959) 86 Ilias of the 16th Branch (2008) 270 Iliopoulou, Vassiliki 227 Iliou, Maria 252, 260 Illegals, The (1959) 78 I Love Karditsa (2009) 275 Incursion (1946) 49 Indares, Dimitris 244, 249, 251, 262 Innocent (1999) 258 Innocent Body, The (1997) 253 In the Name of the Law (1970) 132–3 In the Shadow of Fear (1988) 225 In the Streets of Istanbul (1931) 25 In the Time of the Hellenes (1981) 199 Invasion USA (1952) 290 Invincible Lovers (1988) 225 Ioannopoulos, Dimitris 36, 50 Ionesco, Eugene 118

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Ioselani, Otar 237 Iphigeneia (1977) 183 I Plucked a Red Rose for You (1993) 233 Iron Door (1978) 187 Island (2009) 275 Island of Aphrodite, The (1969) 125 Island of Death (or Cruel Destination, or The Devil’s Children, 1975) 167 Island of Silence, The (1959) 85–6 Island of the Brave, The (1959) 86 It is a Long Road (1998) 256–7 It was a Quiet Death (1986) 219 Ivan the Terrible (1944 & 1945) 190 Ivan’s Childhood (1962) 115 I Will See You in Hell, My Darling (1999) 258 Jackals, The (1981) 132 Jacob, Irene 270 Jaguar (1994) 235 Jancsò, Miklos 97, 176, 179, 237 Jarman, Derek 234 Jays, David 259, 293 Jealous Man, The (1956) 62 Jeremy, Ron 165 Jimmy the Tiger (1966) 127 Jinxed Man, The (1951) 62 Jodorowsky, Alejandro 215 John and the Road (1967) 127 Johnny Belinda (1948) 292 Johnny Keln, My Lady (1991) 230 Jones, Jim 190 Jo the Menace (1955) 81 Journey, The (1962) 91 Journey of Return (1983) 204 Journey to the Moon (1902) 7 July 24th, 1974 (1974) 172 Kael, Pauline 156, 292 Kafentzopoulos, Anthonis 200, 261, 269 Kagios, Pavlos 293 Kalogeropoulou, Xenia 117 Kalogerou, Spyros 126, 135 Kambanellis, Iakovos 73, 124, 127 Kamvasinou, Marikaiti 291 Kanal (1957) 111

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Index Kanellis, Ilias 161, 249, 293 Kanellopoulos, Takis 114–17, 128, 181, 215, 256, 279 Kapakas, Kostas 258 Kaplan, Robert D. 104, 291 Kapnisis, Kostas 93, 157 Kapsaskis, Sokratis 119 Karagatsis, Mihalis 49 Karagiannis, Kostas 138 Karaindrou, Eleni 210, 221, 225–6 Karali, Aimilia 179, 292 Karalis, Vrasidas 292 Karamagiolis, Menelaos 254 Karamanlis, Constantine 105, 170, 193–4 Karamanlis, Costas 246, 247 Karanikolas, Pavlos 165 Karapanayiotis, Nikos 275 Karderinis, Kostas 115, 291 Karezi, Tzeni 86, 118, 135 Karkalou (1984), 213 Karkanevatos, Panos 236, 258 Karydis-Fuchs, Aristidis 58, 93–4, 224 Karypidis, Yorgos 200, 225 Kassovitz, Mathieu 255 Kastoria (1969) 114 Katakouzinos, Yorgos 202, 224, 251 Katalifos, Dimitris 224, 236, 256 Katrakis, Manos 97, 210 Katsaros, Mihalis 179 Katsaros, Yorgos 95, 118 Katseli, Aleka 99 Katsounaki, Maria 121, 161, 268, 291, 293 Katsouridis, Dinos 94, 147, 157, 223 Kavoukidis, Nikos 108, 118, 172, 232 Kazan, Elia 92, 208–9, 263 Kazan, Lakis 164 Kazantzakis, Nikos 28, 102, 289 Keaton, Buster 147 Kefalas, Anastasios 15 Kehagias, Vassilis 161, 258, 293 Keitel, Harvey 250 Kemal Mustafa 10 Keynes, John Maynard 195 Khan, Mehbood 58 Kierion (1967) 122, 149, 155 Killer Loved So Much, The (1960) 93

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Kinetta (2005) 268 King, Jonathan 276 King, The (2002) 248, 262 Kiriakidis, Achilleas 161 Kiriakopoulos, Hristos 139 Kiss me Maritsa! (1930) 22 Kittou, Thekla 182 Klavas, Kostas 95 Knifer (2011) 274 Knock Out (1986) 219 Kocyigit, Hulya 142 Kokkinos, Anthonis 235, 253 Koliodimos, Dimitris xxi, 161, 167, 292 Koliopoulos, John 195, 247, 292–3 Kollatos, Dimitris 120, 127–8, 225, 233 Kolokotronis, Theodoros 174 Kolovos, Nikos 159, 161, 292 Komninou, Maria 163 Konitsiotis, Klearhos 79 Konstantarakos, Stavros 212 Kontaratos, Apostolos 3 Kontes, John 96 Kornelios, Nikos 229, 253, 270 Korras, Yorgos 159, 212, 225 Kotopouli, Marika 24 Kouka, Katerina 234 Koundouros, Nikos, xiv, 24, 27, 67, 72–4, 78–9, 100–1, 123–4, 128, 164, 172, 185–6, 202, 211, 232, 258, 277, 279, 285 Koundouros, Roussos 127 Kourkoulakou, Lila 85, 89 Kourkoulos, Alkis 227 Kourkoulos, Nikos 91, 133, 135, 157 Koutras, Panos 249, 259, 264, 271, 280–2 Koutsafis, Philippos 259 Koutsiompasakos, Dimitris 269 Koutsogiannopoulos, Thodoros 161 Koutsomitis, Kostas 224 Kraounakis, Stamatis 210, 257 Kravas, Panayiotis 275 Kristel, Sylvia 228 Krouska, Vera 187 Kybele 24 Kyriakidis, Vladimiros 269

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308 Index Kyriakos, Konstantinos 163 Kyrou, Adonis 49–50, 110–12, 128, 291 Kyrras, Yorgos 252 Lady and the Tramp, The (1968) 135 Lagiarni (1930) 23 La Haine (1995) 255 Lake of Desires, The (1958) 85, 163 Lambeti, Elli 77 Lambrakis, Grigoris 105, 197 Lambrinos, Andreas 60, 85 Lambrinos, Fotos 127, 163, 223 Lamore (1979) 188 Landscape in the Mist (1989) 221, 225–6 Lang, Fritz 16, 21, 73 Langlois, Henry 48 Lanthimos, Yorgos 249, 268, 272, 282 Lapathiotis, Napoleon 212 L’Arrivée d’un Train 1 Laskari, Zoe 130–1, 133 Laskos, Orestes 25–7, 30, 39, 50, 62, 86, 163, 279, 289 La Sortie des Usines Lumière 1 Lassaly, Walter xvi, 75, 77, 90, 97–8, 103, 119, 122, 125, 233, 285, 291 Last Mission (1948) 51 Last of the Commitadje, The (1970) 139 Last Spring, The (1972) 116 Last Tango in Paris (1971) 165 Last Temptation, The (1964) 119 L’Atalante (1934) 27 Law 4000 (1962) 130, 131 Law Abiding Citizen (1974) 175 Lazaridou, Olia 200 Lazarov, Nikolay 261 Lazopoulos, Lakis 264 Lazy People of the Fertile Valley (1978) 181, 185 Lean, David 62, 69 L’Eclisse (1961) 100 Lefakis, Mihalis 181 Lefteris Dimakopoulos (1993) 234 Le goûter de bébé (1895) 1 Le Million (1931) 68 Lenin, Vladimir 250 Lenin in October (1937) 45

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Leons 3 Lesbian August (1974) 166 Les Enfants du Paradis (1945) 64 Letter from Charleroie (1965) 127 Letter to Nazim Hikmet (1976) 182 Let Women Wait (1998) 254 Levy, Emmanuel 291 Liappa, Frida 159, 199, 219, 229, 235 Liaropoulos, Lambros 127, 182 Lieutenant Natasha (1970) 133, 245 Life (a beautiful butterfly) (1995) 251 Life Sentence (1988) 132 Life with Alkis (1988) 225 Like the Prairie Cock of Wyoming (1995) 251 Limelight (1952) 35 Lindsay, Vachel 6, 289 Lioumpe (2005) 268 Little Agnes (1939) 32 Little Car, The (1956) 81 Little Chauffer, The (1953) 62 Little Dolphins of Amvrakikos, The (1993) 233 Little Mouse, The (1953) 90 Little Shoe-Shine Boy, The (1962) 108 Little Vixen, The (1959) 86 Livanou, Betty 199 Loafing and Camouflage (1984) 201 Loberg, Ann 124 Loggos, Gabriel 8, 11, 96 Logothetidis, Vassilis 53, 82 Logothetis, Ilias 261 Lola (1964) 135, 136 Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, The (1962) 98 Longos 25–6, 100 Look Out Danger (1983) 202 Loser Takes Everything, The (2002) 261 Lost Angels (1948) 52 Louisiana Story (1948) 114 Loumos, Ioannis, 23 Love and Blood (1967) 132 Love and Waves (1928) 17 Love for Ever (1969) 134–5 Love in the Sand-dunes (1958) 84

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Index Lovers in the Machine of Time (1990) 227 Love Stories (1959) 119 Love Under the Date Tree (1990) 227 Lubitsch, Ernst 16, 82 Lumières Brothers 1, 7, 16 Lump Sum (2001) 261 Lunar Fugitive, The (1994) 236 Lust and Passion (1960) 80, 164 Luxemmberg, Rosa 199 Lykas, Petros 126 Lykouresis, Tonis 127, 187, 200, 271, 293 Lyon, les Cordeliers (1895) 1 Lysistrata (1972) 157 M (1931) 73 Macedonian Wedding (1960) 114 Madalena (1960) 90 Madras, Ahilleas 12–14, 20, 40 Magic City (1954) 67 Magician of Athens, The (1931) 13 Maiden’s Cheeks (1960) 91 Mainas, Hristos 225 Makarios, Archbishop 48, 169–70 Makris, Dimitris 187, 200, 219, 259 Makris, G. N. 29, 34–5, 289 Makris, Orestis 54, 82 Malkovich, John 208 Malle, Louis 190 Mallea, Olga 252, 254, 259 Mallick, Terence 115 Malti, Loukia 26 Malvey, Laura 130, 291 Mamangakis, Nikos 115–16, 124 Manaki Brothers 4–6, 250 Mangos, Hristos 126 Mania (1985) 212 Maniatis, Mihalis 202 Maniatis, Sakis 172 Man of Aran, The (1934) 114 Man of the Train, The (1958) 84 Manousakis, Kostas 84, 109, 113 Manousakis, Manousos 183 Manta, Margarita 249, 274 Manthoulis, Roveros 96, 117, 120, 128 Mantoudi Euboia ’76 (1976) 183

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Mantzanas, Pandelis 274 Man with the Carnation, The (1980) 182, 190 Marangos, Thodoros 35, 152, 172, 189, 198, 236 Maria of Silence (1973) 158 Maria Pentagiotissa (1928) 13 Marie du Port, La (1949) 62 Marihuana . . . Stop! (1970) 137 Marina (1947) 51 Marinakis, Vardis 249 Marinos Kondaras (1948) 51–2 Maris, Yannis 93, 94, 130, 157 Marital Hibernation (2003) 262 Marketaki, Tonia xix, 127, 148–9, 151, 155, 159–60, 171, 181, 201, 204–5, 229–31, 235, 271, 279 Markezinis, Spyros 29, 169 Markidis, Stratos 275 Markopoulos, Gregory 84, 215, 220 Markopoulos, Yannis 118–19, 120 Maros, Vassilis 96, 127, 289 Marshland (1973) 157 Marshment, Margaret 239, 293 Marsyas, Apollon 26 Martelli, Filippo 7–9 Martis, Nikolaos 88 Marx, Brothers 64 Marx, Karl 173 Mastorakis, Nico 167, 168, 292 Mastroianni, Marcello 220–1, 230 Matchbox (2002) 261 Matsas, Nestor 127 Mavrikios, Dimitris 188 Mavrodimakis, Evangelos 3 Mavrodimakis, Harilaos 7 Mavroidis, Dinos 200, 212 Mavromatis, Vassilis 127 Mavropanos, Kiriakos 164 May (1976) 182 Mazomenos, Vassilis 253, 257 Mazzetti, Lorenza 76 Medea (1969) 97, 100 Medea 70 (1970) 127 Megalexandros (1980) 182, 190–2 Megara (1974) 172

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310 Index Mekas, Jonas 173 Meliès, Georges 3, 7, 289 Melodrama? (1980) 189 Melville, Herman 200 Melville, Jean-Pierre 126, 222 Meravidis, Dimitris 16, 26, 29–30, 33, 35, 40, Mercouri, Melina 68, 70, 92–3, 194, 208, 218, 238 Metaxas, Ioannis 31–3, 41, 149, 182 Meteora (1923) 14 Meteor and Shadow (1985) 212 Metropolis (1927) 21 Metropolis (1974) 172 Metz, Christian 159 Michael is Completely Broke (1923) 12 Michael Michael 12 Michael’s Dream (1923) 12 Mihalopoulos, Panos 132 Mihelakis, Pandelis 70 Mikaella, the Sweet Temptation (1975) 166 Milas, Petros 280 Minelli, Vincente 280 Minotis, Alexis 40 Miracle in Milan (1951) 78 Miranda, Carmen 69 Mirella, the Flesh of Pleasure (1973) 166 Mirror (1975) 115 Mish-Mash (1982) 201 Miss Julie (1951) 61 Mitropoulou, Aglaia xiv, 42, 48, 64, 289, 290, 291 Mitsotakis, Constantine 106, 228 Mitterand, Francois 194 Mizrahi, Tongo 31, 32 Model (1974) 172 Money—A mythology of Darkness (1998) 257 Moraitis, Makis 160 Moreau, Jean 230 Moretti, Nanni 281 Morning Patrol (1987) 221 Moshovakis, Andonis 98, 290–1 Mosquito, The (1969) 127 Mother India (1957) 58

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Mother’s Curse, The (1961) 134 Mourabas, Hristos 151 Mouriki, Efi 269 Mourikis, Vangelis 262 Mourning Becomes Electra (1947) 40 Mourouzi, Nadia 220 Mr Arkadin (1955) 40 Ms Director (1964) 118 Munch, Edward 145 Murder at Kolonaki (1960) 93 Murderess, The (1974) 148, 153–4 Murnau, F. W. 27 Music, Poverty and Pride (1955) 82 Mussolini, Benito 31, 51, 195 My Aunt the Hippy (1970) 137 My Brother and I (1997) 253 My Love Wua-Wua (1974) 175 Naked on the Street (1969) 131 Naked Sting (1975) 166 Napoleon (1928) 22 Narrative/Adventure/Language/Silence (1979) 189 Nathanael, Elena 119 Natsis, Kostas 258 Necktie, The (1991) 229 Negulesco, Jean 292 Neighbourhood Girl, The (1954) 60 Nets of Shame, the (1965) 164 Never on Sunday (1960) xvi, 92–3 New Parthenon (1974) 172 Nezeriti, Elli 95, 96 Nico (Christa Päffgen) 49 Night Adventure (1954) 49 Night and the City (1951) 92 Nightmare (1961/2) 94, 126 Night Without Dawn (1939) 34 Night with Silena (1986) 219 Nikolaidis, Nikos 135, 171, 173–4, 182, 188, 203–5, 223, 258, 261, 267, 279 Nikolinakos, Mihalis 84 Nikolopoulos, Hristos 234 Nirvanas, Pavlos 19, 23–4, 289 No! (1969) 138 No Budget Story (1997) 253

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Index Nolan, Dana 140 Noose, The (1987) 223 Nostalgic Woman, The (2004) 264 Notorious (1946) 40 Nousias, Yorgos 249, 267, 276 Novak, Jason 56 Novak, Maurice 33 Ntaifas, Ion 93 Obrinsky, Daniel 199 Occasions of No, (1965) 127 October 28th, time 5.30 (1970) 139 Odyssey of an Uprooted Man (1966) 136 Oedipus Rex (1957) 100 Ogre of Athens, The (1956) 24, 72–4, 281 Oh Babylon! (1989) 226 Oikonomidis, Fivos 172 Oikonomidis, Yannis 249, 261, 267, 274 Oikonomou, Heraclis 28 Olga Robarts (1989) 226 Olives, The (1964) 127 Olmi, Ermanno 206 Only Journey of His Life, The (2001) 260–1 Open Letter (1968) 122 Ophüls, Max 67 Orfanelli, Alevize 32 Original Sin (1999) 258 Oshima, Nagisa 150, 228 Ostria (1984) 209 Other Aspect, The (1991) 229 Other Letter, The (1976) 182 Outlaw, The (1943) 83 Oxygen, or Blackmail Boy (2003) 262 Ozu, Yasujiro 115, 179 Padre Padrone (1977) 206 Panayiotatos, Dimitris 219, 227 Panayiotopoulos, Nikos 173–4, 181, 185, 189, 209, 224, 233, 253, 258, 261, 292 Panayiotopoulos, Yannis 127 Panayiotopoulou, Penny 249, 261 Pandora (2006) 269 Pangalos (General) 21

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Panic (1969) 126 Panousopoulos, Yorgos 187, 199, 212, 251, 264 Pantzis, Andreas 252, 261 Papadakis, Yannis 233 Papadantonakis, Tonis 34 Papadiamantis, Alexandros 153, 264 Papadimitrakis, Lambros 182 Papadimitrakopoulos, Ilias 88 Papadimitratos, Argyris 270 Papadimitratos, Makis 268 Papadimitriou, Lydia XIV, 136–7, 291 Papadimitropoulos, Argyres 275 Papadopoulos, Nikos 132 Papadopoulos, Stathis 264 Papadopoulos, Yorgos 168–9 Papadoukas, Yannis 35 Papaflessas (1971) 156 Papagiannidis, Takis 186 Papahristou, Sophia 253 Papaioannou, Costas 49 Papakostas, Yorgos, 164 Papakyriakopoulos, Panos 209 Papalios, Yorgos 148 Papaliou, Maria 183 Papamihalis, Vion 29, 38, 48, 50 Papamihial, Dimitris 157 Papandreou, Andreas 191, 193–5, 207, 213, 215, 228–9, 245–6, 293 Papandreou, Yorgos, 105–6 Papandreou, Yorgos Jr. 246, 267 Papanika, Kaiti 227 Papanikolaou, Dimitris 163, 255, 272, 293 Papanikolaou, Kostas 172 Papanikolaou, Mihalis 127 Papargyris, John 146, 291 Papas, Irene 96–7, 99, 103, 233 Papastathis, Lakis 127, 159, 199, 223, 260–1, 293 Papatakis, Nikos 49, 122, 221–2, 223 Papathanasiou, Thanassis 244, 259, 261–2, 271 Papayannopoulos, Dionysis 210 Paradeisi, Maria 293 Paraskevas, Ilias 83 Parenthesis (1968) 116

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312 Index Paris, James 87, 110, 138, 156 Parthenis, Konstantinos 151 Pasolini, Pier-Paolo 78, 97, 100, 124, 152, 267 Passion of Jesus, The (1916) 9 Past of a Woman, The (1968) 130 Pastrone, Giovanni 6 Pathe, Charles 3 Paul, King of Greece 45, 105 Pavlos Melas (1974) 175 Paxinou, Katina 40, 125 Peckinpah, Sam 204 Peekham, Robert 70 Peppermint (1999) 258 Perakis, Nikos 201, 259, 269 Peresiadis, Spyridon 8 Performance for a Role (1978) 186 Perkins, Anthony 93 Peron, Juan 195 Pervert, The (1975) 165 Perverts (1963–4) 80, 164 Perverts Since Their Birth (1974) 166 Phaedra (1962) 93 Philippou, Ioannis 51 Photograph, The (1986) 49, 221–2 Piccoli, Michel 270 Pickford, Mary 6 Pink Flamingos (1972) 133 Pink Forever (2001) 261 Place of the Skull (1973) 148, 152 Planet Athens (2004) 264 Plato’s Academy (2009) 273 Playing in Two Beds (1975) 166 Please Women, Do Not Cry (1992) 232 Plessas, Mimis 94, 125–6, 157 Ploritis, Marios 42, 46, 50, 290 Plyta, Maria xv, 60–1, 78, 89, 108, 157 Poe, Edgar Allan 200 Polan, Dana 291 Polaroid (2000) 260 Polenaki, Maria 117 Polenakis, Stamatis 35 Politis, Fotos 9 Politis, Kosmas 97 Polk, George 122, 225 Polk Case, The (1988) 225

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Porter, Edwin S. 7 Prehistoric Women (1949) 64 Preminger, Otto 130, 228 Prevelakis, Pandelis 28, 185 Price of Love, The (1983) 205, 271 Process, The (1976) 182 Prokopiou, Yorgos 11, 96 Prometheus in Second Person (1974) 173 Promio Alexandre 1 Promise, The (2001) 261 Prophetic Bird of Paul Klee’s Sorrows, The (1995) 219 Protectors, The (1973) 151 Proust, Marcel 173 Psaras, Tassos 174, 182, 199, 219, 229 Psychoule Brothers 1 Quartet in Four Movements (1994) 236 Queen of Clubs (1966) 119 Quiet Days of August, The (1991) 229 Quin, Anthony 102 Quirico, Giorgio de 212 R20 (2004) 264 Radio Moscow (1995) 252 Rafailidis, Vassilis 88, 144, 159, 160–2, 181, 187, 291–2 Rage (1962) 134 Ravens (1991) 229 Ray, Nicholas 153 Razis, Finos 99 Razor (2007) 269 Real Life (2004) 264 Rebellious Commoner, The (1971) 157 Rebel Without a Cause (1955) 119 Rebetiko (1983) 206, 213 Reconstruction (1970) xv, 143–5, 147, 270 Red Daisy, The (1989) 226 Redgrave, Vanessa 156 Red Lanterns (1963) 134 Red-light District 67 (1967) 110 Red Psalm (1971) 176 Red Rock, The (1949) 55 Reed, Carol 73, 79 Refugee Girl, The (1938) 27, 31 Refugees (1916) 5

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Index Refugees of War, The (1921) 12 Regarding Vassilis (1986) 219 Regiani, Serge 220 Rehearsal (1974) 172 Reisz, Karel 76 Reject Child of Destiny, The (1924/5) 14 Rejected, The (1982) 200 Remembrance (2002) 257 Rendezvous on Air (1965) 137 Renoir, Jean 29, 57, 62, 64, 79 Rentzis, Thanassis 152, 160, 171, 173, 189, 199, 292 Reppas, Mihalis 244, 259, 261–2, 271 Request (1980) 182, 189–90 Retsos, Aris 200, 221 Revenge (1983) 202 Revolution of 1821 (1926) 15 Richardson, Tony 75–6, 97, 291 Ricordi Mi (2009) 249 Riefenstahl, Leni 109 Rififi (1955) 92, 125 Rikaki, Lukia 236 Rilke, Rainer-Maria 173 Ripley, Arthur 40 Rissoto (2000) 259 Rivals, The (1968) 151 River, The (1960) 78 Robbery in Athens (1969) 125 Rocha, Glauber 122 Rohm, Mikhail 45 Roman, Max T. 218, 293 Romantic Note (1978) 116 Rome Open City (1945) 64 Rooster’s Slaughter, The (1996) 252 Rose (1982) 199, 213 Rosenstone, Robert 178, 292 Rossellini, Roberto 55, 57, 64, 67 Rotha, Paul xii Roubanis, Thodoros 119, 125 Roumbou, Sophia 126 Roundup, The (1965) 50, 110–12 Roussea, Jenny 135 Roussopoulos, Yorgos & Yannis 35 Rouvas, Angelos xiv, 289, 292 Rouvas, Sakis 277 Ruttman, Walter 67

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Sade, Marquis de 228 Safe Sex (1999) 245, 277 Sagiannou, Mary 23 Sakellarios, Alekos 39, 51, 56, 82, 86, 91, 218, 279 Salo (1975) 250 Sanctis, de Giussepe 59 Sanjinés, Javier 180 Sartzetakis, Hristos 105, 197 Savalas, Telly 164 Scarface (1932) 94 Scenario (1985) 212 Schickel, Richard 293 Schloendorf, Volker 153 Schroeder, Barbet 153 Schuster, Mel xiii Schutz, Alfred 293 Scorsese, Martin 176, 263 Scream (1964) 95 See You (Mirupafsim) (1996) 252 Seitanidis, Vangelis 241, 270 Sennett, Mack 11 Serdaris, Vangelis 125–6, 157, 167, 252, 260 Serenity (1958) 84, 220 Settle Down with the Thunders (1946) 35 Seventh day of Creation, The (1966) 134 Seventh Seal, The (1956) 99 Seventh Sun of Love, The (2000) 260 Severin, Andrej 199 Sex at Thirteen Knots (1974) 165 Sfikas, Kostas 101, 159–60, 171–3, 219, 220 Shadows (1959) 49 Shadows on the Sand (1970) 127 Shakespeare, William 50 Shaven Heads (1986) 219 Shepherdess’ Lover, The (1932) 23 Shepherdess’ Lover, The (1956) 83 Shepherds of Disaster, The (1966) 49, 122 She-Wolf, The (1951) 60 Shirt With No 9, The (1988) 224 Shock Corridor, The (1963) 130 Sica, Vittorio de, 78–9 Silhouettes (1967) 124

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314 Index Silicon Tears (2001) 137, 259, 261 Simenon, Georges 93 Simitis, Costas 245, 246 Sinanos, Andreas 263 Sinful Gypsy Women (1969) 164 Sinful Hands (1963) 80 Sinful Women of the Night (1966) 164 Singapore Sling: the Man Who Loved a Corpse (1990) 228 Siopahas, Hristos 209 Siren of Atlantis, The (1949) 64 Sirens in the Aegean (2005) 269 Sirk, Douglas 130, 233 Six Pervert Women Ask for a Murderer (1976) 166 Sjöberg, Alf 61 Skalenakis, Yorgos 119, 125, 223 Skarabaiou, Iris (Elli Igglesi) 17, 28–9 Skopeteas, Yannis 163 Skroubelos, Thanassis 172, 230, 251, 261 Sky (1962) 114–15, 281 Slaves in their Prison (2008) 271 Slow Business of Going, The (2000) 260 Smaragdis, Yannis 204, 236, 269, 277 Social Decay (1932) 24 Society Zero o’clock (1965) 135 Soil and Water (1999) 258 Sokou, Rosita 48 Sokourov, Alexander 115 Soldatos, Yannis xiv 31, 161, 254, 263, 289–91 Solomos, Dionysios 254 So Long (1990) 227 Something Sizzling (1963) 137 Song of Parting, The (1939) 33–4 Songs of Fire, The (1974) 172 Sonia (1980) 117 Soray, Turkan 141–2 Sorlin, Pierre 248, 293 Sorrentino, Paolo 281 Sotiropoulou, Chrysanthe 222, 293 Soul and Flesh (1974) 175 Soul in the Mouth (2005) 268 Soumas, Thodoros 161, 265, 293 Southerner, The (1945) 64

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Spanos, Yannis 127 Spathis, Tina 164 Spathopoulos, Kimon 15, 25 Spetsiotis, Takis 212, 229 Spyridakis, Takis 236 Spyridion Baby (1912) 7 Spyridion Chameleon (1912) 7 Spyridion, Quo Vadis (1911) 7 Spyris, Nasos 292 Stalin, Josef 45–6 Stalone, Telly 165 Stamatiou, Kostas 161 Stampoulopoulos, Yorgos 122, 190, 203, 229, 269 Stanwyck, Barbara 68 Starry Dome (1993) 233 Stassinopoulou, Maria 163 Stathakopoulos, Hristos xiv, 289, 292 Stavrakas, Dimitris 99, 188, 258, 291 Stavrakas, Lykourgos 57 Stavros, Aris 228 Steele, Lexington 166 Stella (1955) 47, 61, 68–72, 76, 93, 136, 281 Stella Dallas (1937) 68 Stephania (1966) 130–1 Sternberg, von Josef 226 St Fanourios’ Cake (1991) 229 Stigma (1982) 200 Stolen Kiss, The (1964) 130 Stone Years (1985) 210, 212–13 Stop Man (2001) 261 Stories of a Honey Bee (1981) 198 Storm, The (1930) 20, 23 Storm at the Lighthouse (1950) 55, 57 Story of a Counterfeit Pound, The (1954) 65–7, 163 Story of a Life (1965) 130–1 Straightstory (2007) 269 Stranger of the Night, The (1961) 95 Stratzalis, Kostas 164 Strella (2009) 271, 281–2 Strictly Appropriate (2008) 271 Struggle (1974) 172 Struggle of Blind People (1976) 183 Studies on the Same Theme (1976) 183

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Index Study My Son Study (1981) 198 Suburb of Dreams, The (1961) 107 Such a Distant Absence (1985) 212 Sudden Love (1983) 202 Sun of Death, The (1978) 185 Suspended Step of the Stork, The (1991) 230–1 Sweet Bunch (1983) 202–3 Synodinos, Yannis 3 Synodinou, Anna 84 Tabou (1931) 27 Take Your Places (1973) 152 Tallas, Gregg C. 63–5, 79, 83, 125, 163 Tarkovsky, Andrey 115, 176–8, 225, 254 Tasios, Pavlos 148–51, 181–3, 189, 200–1, 219 Tatassopoulos, Stelios 24, 29–30, 59, 60, 86, 129 Taviani Brothers 205 Teacher with the Golden Hair, The (1969) 135 Tears for Electra (1966) 131 Tegopoulos, Apostolos 135–6 Terirem (1987) 223 Terra Incognita (1994) 236 Terra Trema, La (1948) 90 Terzakis, Angelos 49 Testimonies (1974) 172 Testosterone (2004) 264 Thalassinos, Errikos 94, 175 Thanasoulias, Yorgos 172 Thanassi, Take Up Your Gun (1972) 157 Thanassi, tighten your belt (1980) 189 Thanassis in the Country of the Slap (1976) 182 Thasos (1961) 114 That Summer (1971) 157 The Apple of Discord (2000) 260 The Children of Helidonas (1987) 223 The Children of Saturn (1985) 212 The City Never Sleeps (1984) 209 The Descent of the Nine (1984) 209, 213 The Deserter (1988) 225 The Four Seasons of the Law (1999) 257 The Fugitive (1991) 230

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The Garden of God (1994) 236 The Happy Face of Leonora (1982) 200 The Lost Treasure of Hursit Pasha (1995) 251 The Music of Faces (2008) 270 Theodoraki, Stella 249 Theodorakis, Mikis 64, 99, 102, 104, 260 Theodosiadis, Nikos 126 Theodosiou, Nikos 290 Theodosopoulos, Theodosis 175 Theophilos, (1987) 223 Theophilos 191 Theos, Dimos 122–3, 126–8, 149, 155–6, 182, 219, 223, 252 Theotokas, Yorgos 47 Theotokis, Konstantinos 204, 271 The Passage (1990) 227 The Photographers (1999) 258 Thérèse Raquin (1952) 62 The Ways of Love are Nocturnal (1981) 198 Thief of Reality, The (2001) 249 Thieves’ Highway, The (1949) 92 Thin Red Line, The (1998) 115 Third Man, The (1949) 73 Thirst for Life (1964) 119 This Night Remains (1999) 258 Thomopoulos, Andreas 174, 181, 187, 209 Those who Spoke with Death (1970) 131 Three Ages (1996) 252 Three Greeks From Amerika (1929) 33 Tierney, Gene 228 Time of Assassins, The (1993) 233 Tobros, Yannis 48 Tolstoy, Leo 120 Tom Jones (1963) 98 Topos (1985) 249 Tornatore, Giusepe 86 Tornes, Stavros xix, 213–15, 219, 220 Touliatos, Nikos 258 Tragedy of the Aegean, The (1961) 96, 289 Trainspotting (1996) 268 Transmission (1968) 127, 292

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316 Index Travelling Players, The (1975) 8, 51, 175, 176–80, 184, 281 Treason (1964) 109 Treasure of the Deceased, The (1959) 82 Tree of Wooden Clogs, The (1979) 206 Tree We Wounded, The (1986) 219 Trial of Jean d’ Arc, The (1961) 100 Trial of the Judges (1974) 174 Triantafillidis, Nikos 252 Triers, Lars von 262, 273 Trikoupes, Charilaos 2 Triumph of Time, The (1996) 253 Trojan Women (1971) 156 Truffaut, Francois 112 Tsakiris, Dimitris 23 Tsangari, Athena-Rachel 249, 260, 274, 282 Tsangas, Hristos 221 Tsatsos, Constantinos 46 Tsemperopoulos, Yorgos 172, 203, 227, 261 Tsiforos, Nikos 50–2, 86, 90, 118 Tsilifonis, Andreas 209 Tsiolis, Stavros 126, 135, 157, 212, 219, 225, 227, 232, 251, 254 Tsirbinos, Tonis 161 Tsitos, Philippos 273 Tsitsopoulou, Vassiliki 257, 293 Tsouf (1969) 35 Turkish Prisoners (1912) 5 Turn, The (1982) 132 Tweet (2005) 268 Two Moons in August (1978) 187 Two Suns in the Sky (1991) 229 Typaldos, Nikos 236 Tyros, Andreas 161 Tzavellas, Yorgos 36–7, 50–2, 54–6, 61–2, 65–7, 77, 79, 82, 89, 96, 127, 158, 163, 285, 287 Tzima, Theodora 264 Tzimas, Nikos 127, 182, 190 Tzitzios, Yorgos 161 Tzitzis, Stratos 249 Tzoumerkas, Syllas 249, 274 Ulysses’ Gaze (1995) xv, 237, 243, 250–1

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Ulysses’ Love (1984) 209 Umberto D. (1952) 55 Umüt/Hope (1970) 145 Uncut Family (2004) 264 Underground Trajectory (1983) 203 Under Your Makeup (2008) 270 Under Your Makeup (2009) 241 Universal Government (1985) 217 Unknown Woman of the Night, The (1969) 108, 157 Unslaved Slaves (1946) 50 Unsmiling Stone (2000) 258–60 Until the Ship (1966) 121–2 Up, Down and Sideways (1992) 232 Urban Jungle (1971) 157 Ustaoglou, Yesim 291 Vafeas, Vassilis 188, 200, 209, 224, 226 Vagena, Anna 151 Vakalopoulos, Hristos 160, 226, 232, 292 Vakousis, Manos 232 Valkanizater (1997) 253 Valley, Michelle 228 Vallone, Raf 93 Valtinos, Thanassis 209 Vamvakaris, Markos 106 Varieté (1984) 209 Varriano, Giovanni xvi, 95, 101, 114, 285, 291 Varsamidis, Symeon 253 Vassilakou, Katerina 236 Vassileiadis, Polyvios 118 Vassileiadou, Georgia 82 Vassilikos, Vassilis 101, 105 Vembo, Sophia 32, 70 Venezis, Ilias 84 Vengos, Thannasis 147–8, 157, 162, 181, 182, 189, 198, 256, 263, 270 Venizelos, Eleftherios 7, 9, 10, 22, 85 Veremis, Thanos 195, 247, 293 Vertigo (1963) 130 Veryitsis, Nikos 198, 203, 224 Victimes de l’alcoolisme, Les (1902) 3 Victory of Samothrace, The (1990) 227 Vidor, Charles 58

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Index Vigil (2005) 268 Vigo, Jean 27 Villar (Nikolaos Sfakianos) 11 Villar in the Women’s Bath of Faliron (1920) 11 Villa with the Lilies, The (1945) 50 Villiers, Frederic 3 Violent John, The (1973) 148, 151–2, 155 Violet’s Fragrance (1985) 212 Virzi, Paolo 281 Visconti, Luchino 79, 90, 272 Visit of Sultan Mehmet V to Thessaloniki and Monastiri, The (1911) 5 Vivankos, Patris 226, 233 Vizyenos, Georgios 261 Vlahopoulou, Rena 218 Vogel, Jan 275 Vogiatzis, Lefteris 233 Voglis, Yannis 124 Voice of the Heart, The (1943) 36, 37 Vortex, Medusa’s Face (1967), 123–4, 202 Voulgaris, Pandelis 108, 126–7, 148–9, 151, 156, 181–2, 189, 210–12, 224, 229, 241, 251, 256–7, 263, 270, 276 Voupouras, Hristos 225, 252 Voutsas, Kostas 189, 209 Vouyouklaki, Aliki xix, 83–5, 90, 91, 133, 135, 140–1, 157, 162, 167, 185, 189, 198, 244, 245 Vouyouklakis, Takis 140 Voyage in Italy (1953) 78 Voyage to Cythera (1984) 209–10, 213 Voyeur (1984) 167 Vratsanos, Dimos 9, 11, 14 Vrettakos, Kostas 224 Waiting for the Clouds (2003) 291 Wajda, Andrey 111 Wandering (1979) 187 Warhol, Andy 124, 173 Wasted Youth (2011) 275 Wax Doll, The (1915) 8–9 Wedding Greek Style (1964) 117

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Wedding of Michael and Concetta, The (1923) 12 Weeping Meadow, The (2004) 241, 263, 276 Welles, Orson 73, 79, 179 Wenders, Wim 237 We Only Live Once (1958) 82 What did you Do in the War, Thanassis (1971) 147–8 When the Bells Toll (1964) 129 When the Husband is Away (1938) 32 White Red (1993) 233 Wild Bunch, The (1969) 204 Wilde, Oscar 118 Windfall in Athens (1954) 67–8 Wind of Hatred (1954) 32 With Glittering Eyes (1966) 112–13 Without Identity (1962) 130 Woman Who Saw Dreams, The (1988) 224 Women are Cruel People (2005) 269 Women Today (1976) 183 Wood, Ed 204 Wretches are Still Singing, The (1979) 182, 188–9, 281 Xanthakis, Alkis 289 Xanthopoulos, Lefteris 219, 230 Xanthopoulos, Nikos 135–6 Xanthopoulos, Panayiotis 269 Xanthopoulos, Yannis 275 Xanthos, Dionysis 203 Xarhakos, Stavros 124, 157, 206 Xenakis, Iannis 49 Yannidis, Kostas 31 Yannoulis, Stamatis 233, 235 Yates, Peter 208 Year of the Heatwave, The (1991) 229 Yeaworth, Irvin 259 Yes, Certainly But . . . (1972) 148, 150–1, 159 Younaris, Dimitrios 11 Young Aphrodites (1963/4) 27, 100–1 Your Eyelids are Shining (1961) 127 You Will Regret it (2002) 262

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318 Index Z (1968) 49, 105, 143, 150 Zafeiropoulos, Ioannis 172 Zahariadis, Nikos 45 Zaharopoulou, Mika 289 Zahos, Cleanthis 3 Zahos, Spyros 172 Zalmas, Stavros 234 Zane, Billy 276 Zannas, Pavlos 57 Zapatinas, Nikos 261, 271 Zappas, Kostas 264 Zecca, Ferdinard 3 Zero Visibility (1968) 132–3

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Zero Years, The (2005) 268 Zervas, Markos 36 Zervos, Anthonis 57, 280 Zervos, Nikos 152, 204, 259, Zervos, Yorgos 85, 163 Zervoulakos, Yorgos 157, 164 Zinnemann, Fred 69 Zois, Kostas 124, 200 Zorba the Greek (1964) xvi, xix, 75, 101–4, 119 Zouboulaki, Voula 70 Zouboulakis, Yannis 161 Zoya (1944) 45

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