'Unburiable poetry' digs up little on '65 coup attempt

'Unburiable poetry' digs up little on '65 coup attempt

By Oren Murphy

JAKARTA (JP): Indonesian director Garin Nugroho's latest
endeavor in filmmaking Puisi Tak Terkuburkan (Unburiable Poetry)
sounds great on paper but ultimately disappoints as a film. It
tackles one of the most taboo subjects in modern Indonesian
history; the 1965 coup attempt and the bloody political cleansing
that took place following it. Set in the troubled province of
Aceh, it employs traditional Acehnese singing, didong, as a
vehicle for the expression of people's suffering. The protagonist
of the story is the jailed Acehnese poet Ibrahim Kadir who plays
himself in the film. Sounds fabulous, right? It isn't.

Exploring the events of 1965 is a daunting endeavor for any
filmmaker and Garin struggles with the enormity of the task. He
wisely chose to limit the scope of the work to just one
historical player, Ibrahim Kadir, and similarly, the film's
location has also been limited (not so wisely) to the interior of
a ramshackle prison cell, where Ibrahim is detained with other
prisoners.

The film strives to show the fear and uncertainty of the times
by presenting a myopic view of the events in one prison in Aceh.
We witness the days and nights of both male and female prisoners,
separated by a thin wooden wall, as they wait for their
executions at the hands of the Indonesian military. In the
process of waiting, they share memories, dance and sing to ward
off fear and pass the time. The singing that periodically
punctuates the story is the unburiable poetry of the film's title
and Garin relies heavily on this music to convey the struggle of
the prisoners.

Unfortunately, none of these memories or shared experiences
emerges as part of a holistic view of the atmosphere during the
political killings. The plot does not move in any purposeful
direction and, by the end of the film, the audience is left
knowing little more about Ibrahim Kadir or the 1965 coup attempt
than when they first entered. Although we are presented with a
variety of characters, none, including Ibrahim, are explored in
any depth. They largely remain cardboard cutouts of types (the
ideologue, the pious Muslim, the prison guard) and are rarely
given the chance to expand beyond the sum of their stereotyped
characteristics.

This is particularly unfortunate, since there is very little
beyond character development to hold the audience's interest.
Garin made a bold decision by denying the audience access to
events outside the prison cell, through flashbacks or through
following prisoners to their executions. In doing so, he has
forced the audience's attention solely on what transpires in the
cell, and frankly, not much happens there.

There are few obvious reasons (other than perhaps a limited
budget?) behind the decision to forego alternative shooting
locations. While undoubtedly the audience is viscerally exposed
to the tedium and mundanity of prison life, five to ten minutes
of exposure would have sufficed to set the mood. There is a
marked difference between making a film about tedium and making a
tedious film. The contrast provided by portraying life outside
the prison would have reinforced the bleakness of the prison
while simultaneously providing the audience with a much needed
visual break. Furthermore, forcing the audience to listen to
stories rather than see them via the camera seems a bizarre
rejection of filmmaking's primary power: the capacity to make
viewers feel as though they are witnessing events firsthand.

Garin's decision to locate the entirety of the film in the
prison causes one to wonder whether this story wouldn't have been
better served as a play performance, where the audience would at
least have been privilege to the emotional power that often
accompanies live performances. This impression is further
reinforced by the periodic soliloquies delivered by Ibrahim Kadir
while standing in an undefined black space. This theatrical
convention feels out of place in a movie and again, one senses
his emotion-wrought narrative would have better served as a
voiceover to a visual portrayal of the events he describes.

Garin, considered as one of the best young directors at home,
has won many international awards. Like his other films, Bulan
Tertusuk Ilalang (And The Moon Dances), Surat Untuk Bidadari
(Letter to An Angel) and Daun di atas Bantal (Leaf on a Pillow),
Puisi Tak Terkuburkan is successful in its camera work. There are
some beautiful moments where the camera slowly winds its way
across the jumbled bodies of the prisoners sleeping on the floor.
The prisoners' faces and bodies become landscapes of sorts,
explored by the camera's progress across them. There are also
great opening and closing shots of the actors performing the
Acehnese didong: singing in a circle while thumping on pillows
and clapping hands. Regrettably, these shots are not buttressed
by the powerful dialogue and compelling storyline they deserve.
Nor are they sufficient to break up the overall monotony of the
pace and location.

The script is at its best during its least formal moments.
There is an entertaining scene when the prisoners are waxing
nostalgic on how they courted their spouses in classrooms and
coffee plantations. Here the script feels spontaneous and less
melodramatic. Even during these lighthearted moments though, one
wonders why the director didn't capitalize on an opportunity to
film the pursuit of love amongst the coffee beans.

Puisi Tak Terkuburkan is the one of the first Indonesian films
to explore the dark chapters of Indonesian history. It makes a
valiant attempt, but doesn't quite succeed. The ill-defined focus
of the film is particularly regrettable as this subject, perhaps
more than any other, cries out for clarity and definition.
Unfortunately, the film remains a murky conceptual Frankenstein,
which never receives the bolt of lightning needed to bring it to
life.