TRIBECA 2018 REVIEWS: Ioana Uricaru's LEMONADE is a reflection of our strife and a triumph for the power of great cinema

Ioana Uricaru’s LEMONADE — TRIBECA 2018 REVIEWS — is a reflection of our strife and a triumph for the power of great cinema

In the best of circumstances, a film will create a language for itself. An internal yearning in the artists involved, from the writer and director to the actors on screen, pushes for expression using the medium to its best advantages. It’s an exceedingly rare thing which requires not only honesty and careful creativity, but also a great deal of courage.

From before the first shot appeared on screen, it was already clear: first-time feature Romanian director Ioana Uricaru had forged such a language.

It’s a sound, a simple sound – that of pants being unzipped, against a black frame. Then, the lights go up. We meet our protagonist Mara, magnificently portrayed by Mãlina Manovici. Her face tells it all. Whatever she’s doing, she’s not comfortable with it.

At the same time, that face tells us clearly, she does it because she must.

Her pants are already off.

Now she takes off her bra, bearing her breasts for the camera for what is obviously a medical examination.

It’s all very quiet, framed as a simple medium shot.

She’s tired, yes, but determined.

There was also this instant sense that she saw us watching her from the theater seats, like she’s always being stripped and observed.

And two words popped into my brain: “She’s vulnerable.”

As if by magic, perhaps 7 seconds into the film, the artists had already provided me with the basic vocabulary for their filmic language. Yes, Mara is vulnerable, very, very vulnerable. And this very brave film, Lemonade, just keeps talking to the sublime consciousness from there in its own deeply empathic cinematic tongue.

 
The story is familiar.

Mara is a Romanian citizen in the United States on a temporary work visa. She married a man she seems to actually love, but also seeks to use that matrimony to get permanent residency. And she’s finally accomplishing her biggest goal: having her only son, just entering the tweener years, join her in America after being away for him for over a year. That reunion happens in the latter portion of the first act. But before we even get to that bit of overwhelming joy, we see just how much humiliation, frustration and indignity every little bit of happiness is costing Mara. Bit by bit, the banal petty cruelties pile up: from how hospital staff force a vaccine on her; to some early subtle digs from her otherwise loving husband; to her immigration officer’s strange demeanor and offhand remarks. At each one of these minor injustices, Manovici’s glances, head turns and slight posture changes transmit a wealth of visual language. She hurts, but doesn’t want anyone to see it. She knows she’s being wronged, but she would rather navigate through the storm than change course. She is crushed, but still moves forward. Complimenting this deceivingly languorous performance is the patient and precise camera Uricaru uses to capture each and every micro-moment with. Her directorial eye is a watcher, not an advertiser, one which trusts the people and events in the film to do the hard work which all the jump-cuts, fancy lenses and crane shots in the world could not come close to delivering as effectively.

 
Those critics who might glibly dismiss Lemonade as one of those “theater on film” movies are to be pitied, as their understanding for cinema is so incredibly limited, and so easily distracted by gadget gimmickry, as to be blind to such a sublime work. Progressing at a steady crescendo, each of Mara’s torturers go from being slightly cutting to outright dangerous.

But in between, she is fraught with dilemma and unfair irony traps. She wants her son to bond with her new husband, but when they do, it’s over a gun he owns. This, of course, leaves her very uneasy. Sure, she wants her son to accept this harsh transition leaving Romania behind. But letting a kid play with a gun? As always, Manovici’s face and posture communicate the tense divide between hope and fear. Then there is a moment where she inadvertently runs afoul of the police. Their treatment of her is typical of the institutional forces she encounters. Only this time, one of her persecutors is lecturing to her about how she needs to assimilate to American culture with his own very thick Hispanic accent. Such incidents multiply and snowball in consequence, none of it out of the scope of believability, growing organically for someone in such a precarious place in her life.

It’s a tough journey.

 
Lest audiences are wary of being overwhelmed with sadness and moral outrage at our unfair world, it must be pointed out that Lemonade is not a pity party for a heroine who cannot achieve redemption. To the contrary – Mara is a strong, strong woman. No, she’s not Wonder Woman. She doesn’t exact revenge with guile and grit. She survives. And while she does suffer a great deal of injustice and even some violence, still she refuses to give up, fights for every inch she can get. She doesn’t have the privilege of gender, nationality or super-strength to get her through her adversity. She’s actually a lot more like many of us. Mara understands her limits, but she takes risks anyway. That better life she seeks is worth a lot of sacrifice, but survival can also mean dodging compromises which are too much to bear. Don’t worry about a Hollywood happy ending – there isn’t one. But neither is there a nightmare awful last act. Instead, the last frame is the perfect visual epilogue to the positive potential and possible pitfalls of a future still unknown. Truly, a balanced clean slate of a frame. Because there are no guarantees in life, and we’re all just faking it till we make – if we make it – and do the best we can with the deck we’re holding. Lemonade is a tribute to everyday human heroics, a celebration of the endless crap we have to deal with, a lot of which can seem pointless.

But we do it anyway. Mara is a reflection of the strife we all go through and a true triumph for the power of great cinema.

Ioana Uricaru’s LEMONADE — TRIBECA 2018 REVIEWS — is a reflection of our strife and a triumph for the power of great cinema