REVIEW

It would be hard to overstate how thoughtful, poetic, and reflective “Cancer, Capricorn and Pisces” by Mariy Rosen is in its attempt to portray suffering and the path to deliverance from it. Rich in detail and suggestion, wrapped in a sense of magical realism, the story follows the mournful existence of a mother who has lost her daughter and is trying to move forward through the solace of art. Her fateful encounter with a little boy who has a turtle brings a spark of inspiration into her tormented existence.

What impresses me is when a visual narrative is allegorical and, at the same time, so delicate that it demands complete attention from the viewer for its entire duration. The dramaturgy, direction, and Radina Kardzhilova’s performance as the writer Yori carefully build a full picture of hopelessness and broken will, but in an authentic and measured way. There is nothing melodramatic in what you are about to see — quite the opposite. Through the heroine’s own behavior toward herself and her self-criticism, the viewer can clearly recognize the behavioral markers of a suffering state. What’s more, the film handles visual tropes wonderfully, allowing the emotional picture to take on multiple layers.

The writer Yori lives in two worlds. Her existence in the real one is isolated and stagnant; nothing much happens, because she herself has no strength to be reactive. The imaginary one, on the other hand, is fascinating, because it beautifully reflects her need for reckoning. In this vein, I love that in her first imagined meeting with the little boy, the writer Yori recognizes in him a rescuer of turtles that have flipped onto their backs. You can imagine just how hopeless a turtle is when it can’t get back on its feet — no different from Yori herself. It’s a clear visual metaphor that conveys more about the heroine’s inner ordeal than all the words I’ve written so far. The rest of the writing process, and what lies hidden behind it, is no less layered.

It seems to me that the whole image of the boy with the turtle is a kind of embodiment of the mother’s need to preserve the memory of her prematurely deceased little daughter. And if you’ve heard the folk beliefs about the healing properties of turtle blood, and hear what it fails to cure according to the boy’s experience, you’ll learn what tragedy has befallen the little girl directly, and her family indirectly — a tragedy whose consequences we, the viewers, witness. Beyond embodiment, Yori’s creative work is the only path to catharsis, to liberation from the shackles of grief.

Some losses mark a person for life; such is a parent’s loss. But art can transform memory into something enduring. Ever since humans gained consciousness, they have carried within them the need to commemorate the existence of the deceased. What else, if not the fierce desire to bring them back to life, to feel close to them, to go on experiencing life with them, could be at the root of this need? The theory that “Hamlet” was written as a result of Shakespeare’s grief over the loss of his only son carries nothing different from this same need — for a person to once again express their love for departed loved ones, just as Yori does. Indeed, the heroine manages to find the strength to fully continue her life and leave her own kind of confinement — the child’s room — only once the boy comes to live on his own within her story, his image feeling real enough to be loved.

“Cancer, Capricorn and Pisces” is a film one must watch with wide-open eyes and heart, because it is steeped in a sensuality and depth that can be missed even in the blink of an eye.