Merman ★

There is one episode of triumphant revelation in Ana Lungu’s cinematic catalogue, comprised of a vast collection of self-shot 8mm films left behind by her late uncle, Alexandru Popovici. Apparently the sturdy elderly man seen in a few of these snippets, partly color, partly black-and-white, was by profession a music teacher and occasional composer. The original title, Triton (a musical interval composed of three whole tones), of this semi-biographical slide show alludes to his profession. However, according to the Romanian filmmaker, Popovici was also an informant with the secret service and “Triton” his code name. At least that is either what Lungu believes or what she wants the audience to believe. 

Part of the very purpose of her film, for which she herself provides the narration, seems to be to craft a fictional life story for said uncle. If he indeed was a member of the Securitate, then her meticulous, though often meandering, memento should have been decidedly more interesting and informative. If Alexandru P.’s life, as told by the film, is largely fictional, then it should have been much more exciting and emotionally resonant. But the vast collection of images is neither particularly relevant nor visually engaging. Many of the grainy and shaky images are vaguely reminiscent of the willful filming by people who treat their film camera like a novelty item. 

It’s not about filming anyone or anything particular, but producing moving pictures with this curious gadget. At least up until that one moment, when Lungu catches the attention of the audience again for a short while. Whoever uncle Alexandru might have been and how clumsily he might have handled his camera, he did discover the advantages of capturing intimate moments for personal pleasure. A small number of images show a private strip show from a female friend. It is really the most harmless nudie show, mostly resembling an underwear catalogue. But it is worth noting among all the street scenes, family gatherings, and travel recollections. 

The mere fact that this elderly guy had some mildly pornographic stuff hidden in a box is not that remarkable. Even under Nicolae Ceaușescu’s terror regime, erotica – officially banned – circulated. That Alexandru took care to not show the faces of his female models might well have been to protect them from consequences for crimes of indecency. All the more intrusive does it feel that Lungu adds faces and personalities, possibly by pure speculation, to these secretive shots. The filmmaker seems pleased about at least one discovery, after her lengthy research in the CNSAS (Romania’s National Council for Studying the Securitate Archives) brought nothing to light. This leaves an impatient irrelevance to the visual fragments of a mundane mosaic. 

It states that the protagonist was an ardent communist, composer, and Casanova. Only rarely does he turn the camera back at himself, and there is little insight into why he felt a seemingly strong inclination to filming. Stylistically, the structure is as volatile and as disconnected as it is dramatically. Some images are in black and white, some in the slightly oversaturated shades of low-grade early color film. There is no artistic ambition or theoretical exploration of the fictional element in a work that at the same time immortalizes her uncle and erases him by overwriting his life story. What remains is a (im)personal palimpsest of merely antiquarian interest.