In the City of Sylvia
I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a film like José Luis Guerín’s In the City of Sylvia (2007). The director himself mentions F.W. Murnau as an inspiration, which is true, as this film has the emotional purity of a masterpiece like Sunrise (1927). But Guerín’s film also recalls more avant-garde filmmakers like Chantal Akerman. The opening sequence of Sylvia, showing a few objects around a hotel room, all of which carry a great deal of weight simply by the way Guerín films them, recalls a short film Akerman made in 1972 titled La chambre, consisting entirely of a single shot of a room not unlike that of our hero here.
Alas, however, the most important point of reference for Sylvia may be Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958). Hitchcock’s film, like Guerín’s, is about male obsession, although let’s remember that the former had to distill his extremely sophisticated ideas regarding time, memory, and the effect both have on the mind into a narrative Hollywood film. Guerín, however, has no such limitations, which allows him to develop his somewhat different aims in a wholly original way.
Guerín’s Jimmy Stewart here is Xavier Lafitte—Él (he) in this film, yet another nod to Murnau—an actor who wonderfully embodies the mysteriously good-looking artist he is playing. As the film opens, he goes to a café in Strasbourg, where he is looking for a girl he met six years ago. So, then, picture Richard Linklater’s Before Sunset (2004), except Celine doesn’t exactly remember Jesse, or she may not be Celine at all. This, however, makes Sylvia sound much more plot-oriented than it is. The film, instead, unfolds at a beautifully deliberate pace. The first extended sequence takes place at a café. After establishing the scene with a medium shot, Guerín begins his exploration of the gaze—both our hero’s and a more objectively subjective cinematic gaze. He sits, drawing an assortment of young women in his sketchbook, all of whom are oblivious to the excruciating amount of attention he is giving them. This particular scene has to be one of the most hypnotic I’ve ever seen. The director, through his otherworldly photography and brilliant editing, does something not completely unlike building a Gothic cathedral using only Legos.
After drawing several women (though none really distinguishable), he spots the unspeakably beautiful Pilar López de Ayala—the Ella (she) of the film. Although we can’t be certain, she could very well be the Sylvia whose city this is. She walks out of the café; he follows her, and so begins the real film. For the better part of thirty minutes, he follows her around Strasbourg, completely unaware that she realizes what he is doing and begins trying to lose him. At one point, he calls out to her—“Sylvie”—but she doesn’t respond. Apparently not registering this, he follows her still.
It would be impossible to write the “meaning” of these scenes. What they mean, for one thing, is the sound the actress’ shoes make on the cobblestone streets; they mean the way Guerín films it all in such a knowing way, turning their chase into a series of Tatiesque gags. With that said, though, I suppose it is clear Guerín is speaking out against our hero’s actions—losing yourself in the male gaze—and as someone who fell for the actress long before she even spoke, I guess I’m guilty of it, too.
In the City of Sylvia casts a spell. All you can do is turn yourself over to the experience.
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