To discuss the minimalist aspects of a film like Nuri Bilge Ceylan's Uzak (2002), it is necessary to define what minimalism is. Minimalist films attempt to capture the realities of life including the awkward pauses in conversation, the moments in which "nothing" is happening and the mundane details of simple everyday tasks. This sense of "real life" is accomplished by reducing the intrusion of obvious filmmaking techniques. Editing is kept at a minimum to prevent drawing attention to the camera and music is not used as a manipulating force as it is in regular Hollywood films. There is nothing outlandish in this sort of film. There are no elaborate action sequences or special-effects laden images. Minimalist film is more interested in the kind of situations one might record on a camcorder at home.

With this idea in place, how minimalist is Uzak? The opening scene immediately answers this question. The film opens with Yusuf (Emin Toprak) walking across a field covered in snow. He is far off in the distance and continues walking for a very long period of time. Whereas a Hollywood film would have shortened the sequence, Uzak allows for Yusuf to walk the distance in the same kind of time it would take him to do in "real life." This idea of recorded life continues with scenes where characters simply go about regular tasks such as eating, watching television and walking around the city. Often these scenes have little to no dialogue and the only sound is the sounds of clinking dishes or footsteps in the snow. In fact, only with this emphasis on recording life can an audience get the odd situation of watching a film in which a character is watching a film for a good ten minutes. How minimalist is Uzak? The film is the very definition of the term.

Within the agonizing snail’s pace of the first act, it is easy to see why some might be tempted to walk out of the theater or turn off the DVD player upon viewing Turkish film director Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s film Uzak (hereafter, Distant). The piece takes an unapologetic approach to story telling that may leave many wanting for more than just seemingly unconnected montage-like scenic shots of unemployed, Turkish, rural transplants roaming around Istanbul . However, a jaded American-biased view of another’s cinematic use of minimalism, with respect to dialogue, is simply unfair. In fact, in an artistic and scholarly sense, it could easily be viewed as simply a valid, alternative approach to filmmaking.

The first thirty minutes of Distant can seem unpalatable and even unsavory should it be expected that the film will mimic the typical Hollywood style: better-than-life action and drama, backed with complicated twists and turns, carried by dialogue. Conveying the setup mostly through action without words, and mise-en-scène (i.e., the rural Turkish countryside, and the bustling metropolis of Istanbul ) can be risky at best, but pay attention closely—the story is not lost in its lack of dialogue.

Essayist Robert Stam speaks out on the matter of varying approaches:

Do films have a natural “vocation” for realism, or for artifice and stylization? Should technique call attention to itself or be self-effacing? Is there an ideal style? A correct way of telling a story? A correct approach to image and mise-en-scène? What is filmic pleasure? (257)

The question to address at this juncture is: Why would a filmmaker want to create a piece that utilizes a minimalist approach? Perhaps that question comes naturally to an American point of view with respect to film, rather than from a Mediterranean mindset. It is entirely possible that several attempts are at work here to change a convention to filmmaking that is commonly held by the West. Perhaps it is simply an experimental approach in order to “break out of the box” and convey a story through mostly action and mise-en-scène. On the other hand, it’s possible that the minimal amount of language in the film is an attempt to appeal to a multi-cultural, film-going base—to be specific, the West. If such were the case, it would certainly explain why the film portrays offices and cafes in such a western style (i.e., jazz plays as a backdrop in the café [a purely American form of music]; a new stylish, DaimlerChrysler economy car [Smart] is owned by the main character [actually, the director’s car used in the film]; and an expensive, flat-screen computer sits on a home desk.) Items such as these are certainly not common accountrements in an economically deprived place as Istanbul (as it is portrayed in the film).

Pretending that the filmmakers are trying to appeal to western ticket-buyers, the question remains: Is their attempt to draw us in with their minimal technique working? Proof positive: this film can be rented from such places as Blockbuster Video. However, don’t be surprised that there will only be one copy of Distant located in the New Releases section.

To properly answer the question, “why do minimalist cinema?” the question of what minimalist cinema accomplishes must first be addressed. Minimalism on screen strives to create a static composition through which sublime emotions can surface. Characters talk very little. Most “dialogue” is accomplished by subtle changes in mood, which are usually brought about by character movements within an unblinking frame.

A proper simile for minimalist cinema in relation to popular cinema would be to compare it to the difference between sculpture and performance art. A sculpture attempts to capture a particular mood and emotion. By viewing the sculpture, the viewer’s mood may either conflict or agree with the mood of the represented body. The mood of the viewer may and usually will subtly change. In performance art, a mood is aggressively argued. The viewer must immediately confirm or confront the emotions forced upon them. This is the self-same difference between minimalism and its popular alternative.

In Uzak (2002), mood plays an important role. The mood either main character carries with him as he walks into a room becomes more important then any line of dialogue either will speak. As such, the conflict does not arise through any tangling of words but rather a tectonic like grinding when one character gets to close, spatially, to the other. The fact that one of the characters (Mahmut) is a photographer further enforces the minimalist “spatial tension” idea. Photographers are attuned to the composition of shots. We see Mahmut arranging certain still shots for the tile company that employs him. He takes the utmost care in selecting and placing the objects. However, during one arranging session, an egg rolls out of place. This egg is important because it represents the crux of conflict and disturbance in minimalist cinema (as well as in Mahmut’s life). When a shot, a scene, or even a life is so rigidly set up that there is no room for happenstance, the slightest corruption of that placid frame is like an earthquake. When everything is so tenuous that the slightest wind could cause a catastrophe, that is when minimalist cinema works.

Put simply, the reason to ‘do’ minimalist cinema is to convey to the audience a mood that is so strong it is deafening yet so slight that every breath is a threat to its existence.

Throughout the Turkish film Distant, director Nuri Bilge Ceylan utilizes minimalist cinema in order to emphasize a deep sense of loneliness that pervades the characters’ inner emotions. Primarily through subtle camera shots and movements, Ceylan conveys profound feelings of sadness and despair in both of the main characters; Mahmut (Muzaffer Ozdemir) and Yusuf (Emin Toprak), cousins from two dichotomous worlds, both suffer from neuroses and hopelessness, and Ceylan captures these feelings through his minimalist style.

After Yusuf first arrives in Istanbul to stay with Mahmut, we immediately see the cousins’ distance from one another; they often do not speak to one another, and when they do the conversation does not possess any importance, never going deeper than warnings about staying clear of the mouse paper. Yusuf obviously does not feel at place in the apartment, and Ceylan makes this apparent when he shoots Yusuf right before he goes to bed. The scene contains no extra-diegetic music, and Yusuf quietly walks into the bedroom, shuts the door and slumps down onto his bed, which is located on the floor. Here Ceylan uses a long shot that encapsulates Yusuf’s entire body and makes him appear desperate, lonely and bored. Yusuf’s body positioning and placement tell the entire story in this shot, and it could easily be mistaken for a photograph, because Ceylan holds this shot for an extended period of time. This scene is a perfect example of minimalist cinema, for nothing really happens, but the audience knows exactly how Yusuf feels at this moment.

Yusuf is not the only cousin with loneliness issues; Mahmut suffers from a strong sense of loss, especially after learning his ex-wife is leaving for Canada with her new husband. Ceylan depicts his despair through multiple shots highlighting Mahmut’s insignificance and diminutiveness in a large, cold and uncaring world. Right after Mahmut learns about his ex-wife’s plans, he goes to the river by his house. He stands by the guardrail on the riverbank, and Ceylan shoots him alone with a long shot. No other characters enter the shot, and Mahmut appears small and helpless against the large and empty, yet imposing landscape. Later, Mahmut sits in his study alone, and Ceylan repeats the type of shot seen earlier. Ceylan once again shoots Mahmut from relatively far away, and the bookshelves that stand behind Mahmut appear to dwarf him, making him seem infinitesimal and utterly helpless. Nothing really happens in this scene, but the audience easily recognizes Mahmut’s problems.

Ceylan uses minimalist cinema in Distant because it allows him to perfectly illustrate the despair and loneliness of the main characters, whose issues convey the film’s primary theme. This style of directing emphasizes human emotion by downplaying traditional film elements, and in Distant, Ceylan does so effectively.

At first glance nothing about Distant (aka Uzak, 2002) would suggest play or anarchy, two qualities associated with postmodernism. But the film couldn’t be more postmodern in its ‘narrative of silence,’ a technique also reflected in Jim Jarmusch’s film, Stranger than Paradise. The director of Uzak shuns Hollywood hegemony in many ways: agonizing long shots with minimal dialogue, lack of the required two beat/page structure, minimal production design, no big stars.

The minimalist style provides a perfect backdrop in which to explore serious themes of poverty, loneliness, dejection, and hopelessness. Mahmut’s insulated, emotionally disaffected lifestyle contrasts Yusuf’s—the down-on-his-luck, lower-class friend. Gone are all the frills that would mediate a viewer’s experience; the film couldn’t be more about “the process.” The film is process. . .an endless tour of people we can’t invest in because we don’t care about them.

While Uzak offers a somewhat visually stimulating landscape to observe, it is filled with randomness. . .and therefore, chaos. The camera captures two women walking arm in arm on the street; Yusuf watches them. Mahmut watches television (we watch him watching TV—how postmodern can you get?)—there might be dialogue, there might not be. At this point porn (and we don’t even get that) would be a welcome diversion.

There is nothing to deconstruct because there are no symbols to decode; the film approaches, like Joyce’s “Ulysses,” perfect anarchy. . .a day in the life of a man—two men doing nothing. Character development happens at the level of acting, not dialogue: Mahmut not only sprays deodorizer into Yusuf’s shoes, but tucks them away in a cupboard; he (the parent) follows errant Yusuf (the child) around, turning off lights. Not unlike a spoiled kid who has everything, Mahmut refuses to share; he commands “bedtime” and clicks off the TV when Yusuf continues to stand behind him.

It would be a mistake to assume that because the universe of Uzak appears to be bland and ordered that it isn’t an anarchical text. This is chaos in disguise; no, there are no punks rebelling in Sex Pistols fashion, no one has a yellow Mohawk, but it screams “fuck you and your expectations—Hollywood or otherwise” all the same.

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Last update: 2/22/2005