Skip to main content

A Scene From "Once Upon a Time in Anatolia' by Nuri Bilge Ceylan

Roughly halfway through Nuri Bilge Ceylan's 'Once Upon a Time in Anatolia', after a long night in search of a body through remote Turkish hillsides, a weary parade of officials and the accused stop for sustenance.  Tiredness and confusion has muddled the mind of the suspect over the whereabouts of the body.  The search party, consisting of a police commissioner, doctor, prosecutor and driver, are all past the point of tiredness.  They've all written the night off and have resigned themselves to the fact that they're unlikely to return to town with either a confession or the missing body.  In the early hours of the morning, the  three-car parade stop for a break in a village and gather in the darkness of the local mayor's home.  All the men are physically and emotionally spent.  Even in the darkness, the stresses and strains of their working and personal lives are discernable through the shadows thrown on each of their faces.  Cracks are showing that may never go away.  These men are at odds with themselves as the night's seemingly endless objective serves as a macabre catalyst for deep introspection over an inner struggle.  They are all caught in this contemplation when the mayor's daughter - lamplit and dazzling in her youthfulness - enters the room unnoticed to serve drinks.  It is a scene almost completely free of dialogue as the light from the girl's candle illuminates each of the men's faces as she moves about the room.  The camera catches their reaction in turn as she serves each of them tea.  One man double-takes, one triple-takes, another wakes from a light sleep and looks at her as if she were just a continuation of his dream.  The girl's illuminated presence serves as a reminder to the men that truth and beauty can exist in the most ugly of circumstances, untangling their troubles by reducing them to their lowest common denominator.  Her presence has the most outwardly profound effect on the murderer, convincing him to make his confession before the search is recommenced.  It is an extraordinarily nuanced and expertly choreographed scene.




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

My Letter Carving Workshop is Now Open for Business!

Life-living letter carver, carve me a letter crisp on my headstone and fill it with wonder I'd like to carve it, but you would do better, for you stand above this earth and I am laid under. - Tom Wiggins My new letter carving workshop is now open for business.  Taking bespoke commissions such as memorials (including headstones and cremation tablets), opening plaques and heraldry.  If you're looking for fine hand-carved lettering designed and carved by a fully trained stonemason and letter carver, please get in touch.   I'd be very happy to talk you through the process from design stage right through to installation.  Telephone: 07791969667 E-mail: tomwiggins86@gmail.com Website: www.tomwiggins.co.uk A bit about me:  Born and raised in Gloucester, I now live and work as a letter carver in the beautiful market town of Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire.  My journey in stone began in 2013 with a three-year Diploma in Stonemasonry at The City of Bath College. Th...

Norman MacCaig: Poetry Hero

I cannot say exactly when I first discovered Norman MacCaig.  It may have been at the beginning of this year, but could well have been at the end of last.  I found him through a tweet.  Six months or more is a long time on Twitter, and when tweets get to a certain age, they're as stubbornly elusive as a missing person who wants to stay missed. But I know the tweet was left by poet  Jo Bell , the director of National Poetry Day, and whose wonderful blog can be found  here .  The link she left took me to an enthralling 25-minute interview with MacCaig.  I liked the man instantly.  I replied to Jo by saying what how charming MacCaig was.  He had a warm sparkle in his eye that only Scots seem to have access to.  He epitomised charismatic.  Unfortunately, embedding has been disabled on the video, but it can be found  here .  Fast forward to yesterday.  I was sat in Stanman's Kitche...

G-Dog Advises Me to Go Big on the Blackberries - a Tommy & Moon Story

It was a few weeks into autumn and I hadn’t had a hair cut since before the summer solstice.  My beard, long and straggly and in desperate need of trimming, was a week away from having birds nest in it.  I unpolished my boots and wore some old jeans that were ripped at the knees and dirty from digging a deep hole on a particularly wet day in Highgate Cemetery.  Hanging loosely over the top of those was a baggy grey jumper I spilt half a bottle of bleach over about three years ago.  I looked a bit of a state, but there was a method to my madness.  Today was the day I was going to ask Moon for a pay rise and I wanted to look as if I’d been trod on. On the morning I was due to ask him, my bike got a puncture not twenty yards down the road from my house. It wasn’t a polite slow puncture so that I might finish my journey on a squidgy but rideable front tyre; the thorn tore through that poor inner tube like a javelin through jelly and it had me riding on a stee...