Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 26/5/2011)

On leaving Greece around 530 BC, Pythagoras took up residence in the Calabrian colony of Croton and the countryside surrounding the picturesque villages of Caulonia and Alessandria del Carretto provides the backdrop to this dissertation on the indivisibility of animal, vegetable and mineral matter. It opens with smoke billowing out of a traditional scarazzo charcoal mound and drifts on to the verdant hillsides before alighting upon an old goatherd (Giusepper Fuda), as he guides his flock over the rough terrain with his faithful dog.

Each night before he goes to bed, the veteran mixes some grey powder into a glass of water to counteract a niggling cough. However, he is running low and, next morning, ventures to the local church where the housekeeper (Iolanda Manno) exchanges a sachet of church dust for a bottle of milk. As the herder returns to his humble home, the priest (Isadoro Chiera) arrives in the road outside to rehearse the woman playing Veronica in the forthcoming re-enactment of the Stations of the Cross. But the wizened peasant has no time to stand and watch, as he has to take his goats to pasture and he passes the afternoon in gathering snails, which he places in a large pot on his kitchen table with the lid weighed down with a stone.

Sustained by his nightly dose of dust, the herdsman makes his milk deliveries the next day, as the charcoal seller parks his truck in the adjoining street. However, in answering a call of nature out on the slopes, he drops his medicine and ants swarm over the magazine page in which it is wrapped with a freneticism that contrasts with the slow progress made by the snails that have escaped from the pan and slithered across the table top.

At bedtime, the old man realises he has lost his tonic and hastens to the church to procure some more. But nobody answers his knocking in the dead of night and the scene shifts to a small truck pulling up outside his cottage the next morning and three charcoal burners dressed as Roman soldiers get out. Veronica arrives soon afterwards on the back of a scooter and the air is filled with the sound of trumpets and drums as the procession passes, followed by a small crowd of worshippers.

Aware that his master is ailing, the goatherd's dog desperately tries to attract attention by barking at the milling throng. But he is chased away by one of the soldiers and hides in the hedgerow until they have gone. Charging back up the dusty road, the dog corners a straggling altar boy (Cesare Ritorto), who throws stones in order to facilitate his getaway. But the creature refuses to give up and pulls away the stone stopping the truck from rolling down the hill, sending it crashing into the paddock gate. The goats disperse, with one getting into the kitchen to knock over the pot of snails, while others congregate in their owner's bedroom, as he takes his last breaths.

The funeral is not as well attended as the procession. But, in the true spirit of Pythagorean transmigration, the sealing of the wall tomb is match cut with the birth of a white kid, who bleats plaintively as it struggles to its feet under its mother's gentle encouragement. As weeks pass, it becomes more confident and frolics around the empty pen with an inquisitive mischievousness that leads it to scare its companions by knocking over a broom and compete for hegemony in a game of `king of the castle' on an upturned tank.

However, when it is finally allowed to join the grown-ups in the great outdoors (after having its nose tied with string), the kid gets stuck in a shallow trench and the rest of the flock has long gone by the time it manages to clamber free. Bleating piteously, it roams the woods and bounds through the tall grass before finally finding shelter for the night beneath a large fir tree.

Having rigorously avoided anthropomorphism, Frammartino refuses to clarify whether the kid is sleeping or deceased in the ensuing dawn shot and cross-cuts to the tree standing proudly in both the winter snow and the spring breeze. But it is also part of the endless cycle and it is cut down to be carried into the nearby village and shaped into a totem to be scaled by competitors at a well-attended festival. However, the pole has yet another purpose and it is chopped into logs which form part of the scarazzo constructed by three carbonari (Nazareno and Bruno Timpano and Artemio Vellone), who cover the intricate wooden framework with straw and earth that they compact with a patting of spades that rings out like a heartbeat across the locality, as the wisps from the fire smouldering at the centre of the pyre are carried away on the wind.

In the closing scene, the charcoal truck passes the goatherd's seemingly abandoned premises as it makes its way into the village. Smoke curls from a chimney over the red rooftops and disseminates the particles that will doubtlessly gather as dust on the church floor. Life does, indeed, go on. Adopting a quasi-documentary approach that enables him to meld observation with imagination, Frammartino captures the essence of a tightly knit community, while also coaxing the viewer into musing upon faith, folklore, nature, ritual and tradition. Each composition is a pastoral masterpiece, with cinematographer Andrea Locatelli particularly excelling during the Tatiesque Good Friday sequence, which was shot in a meticulously staged single take. However, Daniel Irribarren's sound design is equally impressive, as it combines the noises of nature with silences that suggest both isolation and peace.

The non-professional cast is supremely natural on camera. But it's the goats who steal focus, as Frammartino presents the hircine recalcitrance of their perspective in contrast to the docile humility of the eponymous donkey in Robert Bresson's Au Hasard Balthazar (1966). But, as in György Pálfi's Hukkle (2002), there is also plenty of gentle humour in this captivating hybrid of rural realism and poetic purity that succeeds brilliantly in making complex philosophical concepts seem accessible, while also lauding life and drawing death's sting.

The week's other actuality pales by comparison. But Anne Linsel and Rainer Hoffmann's Dancing Dreams still has enormous value, as it proved to be the last study of choreographer Pina Bausch at work before she succumbed to cancer just five days after the 68 year-old was diagnosed in June 2009. Coming so soon after Wim Wenders's Pina, this may seem like an opportunistic release. But the pictures complement each other perfectly, with the often chaotic workshops that Bausch supervised prior to a Wuppertal youth company's production of Kontakthof contrasting with the more polished performances presented in Wenders's heartfelt 3-D tribute.

The auditions and rehearsals were largely conducted by Bénédicte Billet and Josephine Ann Endicott, who had danced in the original Tanztheater production in 1978. But Bausch made regular visits to the theatre and her insight and enthusiasm came to inspire the 40-odd kids from the town in Germany's industrial Ruhr heartland, the majority of whom had never danced before.

Aged 14-18 and from a range of ethnic backgrounds, the likes of Kim Christin Lörken, Rosario Tavano, Maria Färber, Ramona Rexfort, Jonas Quatour, Lennard Pfennig, Alexandros Sarakasidis, Anastasia Friesen and Jaqueline Palilla initially struggle to take the project seriously and find jettisoning self-consciousness extraordinarily difficult. But, as blonde Joy Wonnenberg and Bosnian gypsy Safet Mistel emerge as the most natural (if not always the most reliable) talents, the rest get swept along by the encouragement of their tutors and the excitement of playing to a live audience.

The transformation is remarkable, as the awkward stomping of the early sessions becomes confident strutting, as the teenagers take their places in a dance hall and begin eyeing each other up before enacting a series of courtship rituals that emphasise the deceptiveness of display, the fear of rejection, the perils of peer pressure and the fleetingness of pleasure. But while Bausch's choreography is mesmerising and her interventions often prove decisive, this is much more about the dedication and trust that Endicott and Billiet invest in the unknowns and their determination to show to themselves (and, in some cases, doubting family members) that they can amount to something in a society that often dwells on the negative aspects of youth.

Filmed over a year, the mix of talking-head and gyrating body is as nimble as Hoffmann's camerawork. Moreover, he and Linsel are sensitive to the cast's physical and emotional maturation and, while they stress the `journey' aspect of the creative process, they never present it in the mawkish manner of a talent-based reality TV show. Consequently, it's fascinating to see how the gauche wannabes learn to control and project their movements and expressions and learn much about themselves in the process.

Lilo Mangelsdorff recorded the senior citizen version of Kontakthof in Ladies and Gentlemen Over 65 and it's to be hoped this also finds its way to our screens. However, the focus this week remains firmly on the younger person's perspective in both Xavier Dolan's Heartbeats and Oliver Schmitz's Life, Above All.

Confirming the good impression he made with his debut feature, How I Killed My Mother, the 21 year-old Dolan also takes the lead in his Montreal variation on François Truffaut's Jules et Jim, as he competes with vintage-wearing gal pal Monia Chokri for the affections of new-in-town hunk Niels Schneider. Seething with catty lines and camply hip visuals that owe as much to François Ozon and Christophe Honoré as the nouvelle vague, this achingly stylish paean to unrequited lust peppers the action with vox pops to emphasise its dramatic points. But it's the fond rivalry between Dolan and the excellent Chokri that makes this such a vibrant insight into twentysomething attitudes to life, love and loyalty.

Bored by the same old faces at yet another trendy party, Dolan and Chokri are busy bitching when they spy Schneider through the crowd. Trying to play it cool, they mosey over to make his acquaintance and immediately begin a game of one-upmanship that sees them researching his every move so they can accidentally bump into him in restaurants, discover what he wants for his birthday and arrange secret rendez-vous that they hope they other will never find out about.

However, neither takes the trouble to get to know Schneider or what he wants from their friendship. Indeed, they don't even know whether he is straight or gay and, by the time they eventually see past his floppy blonde bangs and ripped torso, they have disgraced themselves during a weekend in the country by coming to blows in the woods. But, having decided that Schneider was unworthy of their devotion, Chokri and Dolan look set to make the same mistakes all over again when Louis Garrel walks into the room at picture's end.

Although Chokri gives a supremely confident display that rivals similarly engaging work in Trieste Kelly Dunn's in Aaron Katz's Cold Weather, this is very much Dolan's film. He is flightily amusing as the gadfly incapable of anticipating the consequences of his actions. But he is supremely in control as his own screenwriter, production designer and editor. The script zings with a wit and pace that is so often absent from Mumblecore comedies, while his manipulation of colour and Stéphanie Anne Weber Biron's camera angles enable him to pastiche both Jean-Luc Godard's Le Mépris (1963) and Wong Kar-wai's In the Mood for Love (2000) with a precision that's as witty as it's reverential.

The only misstep, however, is the recurrent inclusion of street interview musings on the pain of unrequited love, the frustration of missed opportunities and the pain of being dumped by e-mail. As in Hsiao Ya-chuan's debut feature, Taipei Exchanges, these feel more like padding than Greek chorus-like comments on the central storyline. But Dolan does more than enough here to suggest he has matured considerably in eschewing the melodramatics that similarly compromised the otherwise impressive How I Killed My Mother.

The form is less significant than the content in Life, Above All, Oliver Schmitz's thoughtful adaptation of Allan Stratton's acclaimed novel, Chanda's Secrets. Handsomely photographed by Bernhard Jasper to capture the harsh beauty of the countryside around the township of Elandsdoorn, this could easily be accused of toning down such contentious issues as poverty, infant mortality, child prostitution and the South African's government's continued failure to face up to the gravity of the AIDS pandemic. But Schmitz and screenwriter Dennis Foon could also be lauded for trying to alert the wider world to the Rainbow Nation's very real problems.

Twelve year-old Khomotso Manyaka always thought her neighbours would do anything to help each other. But when her baby sister dies, she discovers that nobody is willing to assist her make the funeral arrangements. Indeed, all anyone wants to discuss is her HIV+ stepfather Aubrey Poolo's drinking and mother Lerato Mvelase's declining health. Realising she already has a task on her hands raising troublesome half-siblings Mapaseka Mathebe and Thato Kgaladi, Manyaka confides her worries to Keaobaka Makanyane, an orphaned classmate who has incurred the wrath of the church congregation by abandoning her studies to become a prostitute at the nearby truck park.

When the local sangoma witch-doctor declares that Mvelase is suffering from a curse, the chorus of disapproval grows so loud that community elder Harriet Manamela persuades her to leave for her Tiro home in order to make amends with sister Tinah Mnumzana, who has never forgiven her for turning down an arranged marriage to elope with Manyaka's father. However, on seeing the hatred that these supposed Christians extend towards Makanyane after she is beaten up by some clients, Manyaka realises that ignorance of AIDS and not compassion had prompted Manamela's suggestion and she sets out to find her mother and bring her back where she belongs.

But, having endured the prejudice of her aunt and grandmother, her return only enrages the hypocritical gossips, who insist that Mvelase is stoned. However, Manamela is so ashamed by her behaviour that she shares the secret of her own son's death with Manyaka and they stand together in the face of prejudice and fear.

Schmitz largely eschews sentimentality in telling his tale with a simplicity that, while never subtle, is certainly affecting. The debuting Manyaka is splendidly spirited as the devoted daughter, who cannot understand why people who proclaim goodness act in precisely the opposite way. She is ably supported by Mvelase, Makanyane and Manemela, as well as by the shiftless Poolo, who forever props up a bar with former lover, Kgomotso Ditshweni, before he succeeds in posthumously doing something to benefit his family.

The triumph of humanity over religious extremism and ignorant bigotry is entirely predictable, while some may find the tone preachy and the uplifting finale a touch contrived. But how else would either the caring and intrepid Manyaka find the strength to go on or the film hope to make an impression, particularly on the South African viewers who desperately need to heed its message.

Finally, the tone changes markedly for Michele Placido's Angels of Evil, which draws on two volumes of autobiography for its uncompromising account of the murderous 1970s career of Milanese mobster Renato Vallanzasca. Reuniting with Romanzo Criminale (2005) star Kim Rossi Stuart, Placido has produced an often frantic chronicle that recalls Jean-François Richet's Mesrine duology. But no film with eight credited screenwriters can be wholly immune from issues with structure and characterisation.

Raised by respectable middle-class parents (Gerardo Amato and Adriana De Guilmi), Vallanzasca first fell foul of the law when he freed a circus tiger as a boy. However, following a stint in borstal and the violent death of his older brother, he began selling stolen goods and embarked upon a life of armed robbery after knocking over a supermarket as a 21 year-old.

Dandily dressed and quick with a quip for the press, Vallanzasca always insisted that he adhered to a gentlemanly code in committing his subsequent heists, kidnappings and killings. However, the families of the cops he dispatched tried to prevent Placido's picture from being made and it's easy to see why they would have objected to what is essentially the glamorisation of a brute into a charming rogue.

In his dealings with childhood friend Antonella D'Agostino (Paz Vega) and Banda della Comasina confederates Enzo (Filippo Timi) and Sergio (Moritz Bleibtreu), Vallanzasca is maverickly magnanimous. He even forgives Consuelo (Valeria Solarino), the mother of his son, for deserting him for a respectable businessman during his first jail term. But he regards rival crook Francis Turatello (Francesco Scianna) as fair game and muscles on to his territory with a cockiness that is frequently fuelled by narcissism, cruelty and cocaine.

He also shows little pity to confederates who let him down, including Nunzio (Lino Guanciale) who kills a cop after being caught using Vallanzasca's driving licence at a roadblock. Yet he forges an unexpected alliance with Turatello after they find themselves sharing the same prison. Indeed, the latter even serves as best man when Vallanzasca marries one of his many female admirers (Federica Vincenti) in a ceremony designed as a show of strength to their rivals .

But Turatello perishes in a wave of vendetta killings that also accounts for Enzo, who paid for his collaboration with the police and even more cowardly intimidation of of Vallanzasca's parents in the hope of finding his stashed loot. Yet Vallanzasca survives and makes an audacious escape from a ferry during a transfer. Having fallen in love with Antonella during her increasingly frequent prison visits, he hides out with her before falling asleep in his car beside a phone box after arguing with a caller who had objected to his interview with a Roman radio station.

The freakish nature of Vallanzasca's downfall contrasts starkly with the hideous deaths of Beppe and Fausto - who were respectively crushed by a reversing getaway car and gunned down by the cops when a plan to rob the main tax office was rumbled before it could even begin - and the prison assassinations carried out with ruthless efficiency by an unnamed associate (Lorenzo Gleijeses). Yet in flashing back from a 1980s maximum security cell, Placido merely strings events together rather than delving into Vallanzasca's psyche or placing his reign in its socio-political context.

The story is undoubtedly compelling and Rossi Stuart is dangerously genial. But the tickbox linearity and sketchiness of the secondary characters imposes a superficiality that is exacerbated by the perfunctory staging of the blags, shootouts and gaolbreaks and the bombast of the Negramaro score. Arnaldo Catinari's harsh imagery adds a veneer of authenticity, while Consuelo Catucci's sharp editing bolsters the propulsive pacing. But this is slick instead of steely and in thrall instead of enthralling.