Exploring Magical Realism in the Greek Weird Wave

Amalia Rizos

May 9, 2024

Final paper

2728 words

Exploring Magical Realism in the Greek Weird Wave

The Greek Weird Wave is characterized by surreal narratives and unconventional storytelling, offering a unique lens through which to examine the intersections of magical realism and migrant cinema. Through an exploration of Panos Koutras’ Xenia (2014) and Strella (2009), along with Elina Psykou’s Son of Sofia (2017), this paper aims to dissect the role of magical realism in expressing profound emotions within the migrant experience. By delving into moments of magical intervention in each film, we uncover the thematic richness that emerges when the mundane collides with the fantastical. In this moment of divergence, we will investigate what is gained and what is lost. Additionally, this paper will interrogate how these instances of magical realism serve as a narrative device to highlight the struggles and triumphs of immigrant characters within the Greek context, shedding light on themes of displacement, identity formation, and the search for acceptance. Through a comparative analysis of these films, alongside scholarly discourse on magical realism and migrant cinema, this paper seeks to elucidate the transformative power of magical realism as a narrative tool for marginalized voices, ultimately redefining notions of belonging and agency within the Weird Wave’s cinematic landscape.

The roots of magical realism lie in Cinema Novo. This wave of Latin American cinema surged in the 1960s, taking inspiration from the French New Wave and Italian Neorealism. Cinema Novo filmmakers sought to portray the harsh realities of their society while incorporating elements of fantasy and folklore. This convergence of the real with the magical allowed filmmakers to symbolically and poetically explore social issues. Alejo Carpentier first theorized “the marvelous real” (or “lo real maravilloso Americano”) to describe what he discerned as a singularly American take on Latin American magical realism, a genre already established through literature. Unlike European Surrealism, a 1930s French movement in which Carpentier had participated in, Carpentier’s “marvelous American reality” does not imply “a conscious assault on conventionally depicted reality but, rather, an amplification of perceived reality required by and inherent in Latin American nature and culture” (Huntington 76). Amplification is the perfect word for it, as magical realism allows the feelings that lie within to be embodied and displayed in the open air. As defined by Fredric Jameson, magical realism involves a narrative reduction that erases boundaries between the mundane and the extraordinary, often serving a political function by challenging dominant ideologies (Jameson 304). In the context of migrant cinema, magical realism becomes a powerful tool for expressing the complex emotions and experiences of displacement, belonging, and cultural identity. Films like Xenia, Strella, and Son of Sofia employ magical realism to evoke a sense of wonder and poignancy, inviting viewers to engage with the migrant experience on a visceral level.

Extending Jameson’s assertion that magical realism possesses a political angle, we can look to Vrasidas Karalēs’s book A History of Greek Cinema, where he explains how “if cinema in Greece loses its oppositional aesthetics, then it won’t be Greek any more” (Karalēs 283). Oppositional aesthetics go against the mainstream’s conventional aesthetics, and they allow for a symbolic resistance to social oppression and persecution. In this way, oppositional aesthetics are an avenue toward liberation. The Greek Weird Wave functions as a space to raise questions about culture, memory, history, class, gender, and identity rather than as national cinema typically functions as a means of affirming a sense of nationalism and unity. After Greece’s government-debt crisis in 2009, the ensuing austerity measures pulled apart the nation from its very core. The Weird Wave is, therefore, not here to bolster Greece’s ideologies or dogmas, it is here to make clear that, through film, resistance to oppression will be accomplished.

Thomas Elsaesser uses the term “productive pathology” to characterize non-normative subjectivities within control societies, carving out a new mode of subjectivity for viewers to better understand some of the characters they will encounter in these sorts of films (Elsaesser 8). In Xenia, Dany is stuck living in his own unique productive pathology as a queer Albanian immigrant in an acutely homophobic, xenophobic nation. The hotel in the film promotes this sense of confusion and confrontation, as it is named Xenia and is a space representing hospitality, yet the word itself includes “xene” which in the Greek language means foreigner or outcast. Here, two different ideas conflate into one: is this a hospitable space, or is it representative of a deeper exile? “‘Xenia’ is also the name of a chain of luxury hotels scattered around Greece. Built in the 1950s, they are now mostly abandoned, their crumbling walls mirroring the fate of the Greek economy” (Manganas 59). In the film, Dany and Ody celebrate in this abandoned hotel, ascribing their own meaning to the space, redefining it with their energy. Ody envisions renovating Xenia and becoming a highly successful hotel manager, thus carving out a new identity for himself with this dream. This endeavor proves the power of self-made queer subjects, able to redefine themselves and also their relationship to their fatherland. In this way, Ody is empowered through his radical self-creation. The decaying hotel serves as a poignant metaphor for Greece's faded grandeur, and as austerity measures have repurposed such spaces into artistic hubs, Ody’s dream contains not just personal ambition but also a hopeful nod to the potential for regeneration amid adversity.

The magical realism at play in Xenia allows viewers to track the emotional journey of bereavement Dany experiences at the loss of his white rabbit. This unfolds as the two brothers are simultaneously navigating the complexities of Greek, homophobic society as Albanian immigrants, and the depiction of Dany’s grief allows Koutras to highlight the more tender, human aspects of his character. One of the most striking instances of magical intervention is when Ody rips the bunny, upon Dany’s command, and violence immediately turns into whimsy. Up until this point, Dany has been playing with his darling white rabbit, loving it, convincing viewers that he has had Dido as a pet for quite some time. Viewers anticipate bloody death to follow Ody’s swift, strong tearing, but instant editing places Ody instead in a pleasant pile of feathers resulting from the torn-in-two stuffed animal. His surprise is only a result of his actual destruction of his brother’s childhood toy, rather than aghast in the horror of killing a living being, as we mistakenly expected. This editing is a shift in syntax, and also, coincidingly, a shift in meaning. Here, in this brief instant, our understanding of Dany as a character tectonically-shifts, syntactically shifts⸺all owing to the work of magical realism.

From this maneuvering, the rabbit henceforth serves as a manifestation of Dany's lost childhood and profound grief. Its nostalgic tenor reminds viewers that Dany’s father left him at a young age, so this pet rabbit Dido was a cherished companion. Through more magical intervention, the rabbit's presence, amidst other docile forest creatures, is reincarnated through a hopping animation, immediately offering a departure from the film’s stress-stricken plot. In this moment, the two brothers are rowing away from the police, so this chance meeting with the playful, animated pet feels like a soothing balm placed upon a burn, making space for a moment of respite and reflection. Dido still loves Dany, and their bond is carried into the afterlife. This use of magical realism not only adds depth to Dany's character but also underscores the film's

exploration of queer spaces, humanizing Dany in the face of his crime. Moreover, magical realism can offer catharsis and transformation for marginalized characters like Dany, as “[Koutras] redetermines the function of space itself by injecting Dany’s liberated imagination and the culture of camp” throughout the narrative (Phillis 194). Koutras’s queer reconquering of the “urban spaces of belonging is in line with that of street artists who have been exercising urban creativity in abandoned places since the emergence of the financial crisis in 2008,” thus proving the power of magical realism as an art form in and of itself. Xenia, in turn, becomes a haven for Dany and Ody, offering Ody the opportunity to reconfigure, reshape, and redefine himself and his future⸺an existential coup for a fatherless immigrant (Phillis 194).

Koutras extends his craft in Strella, letting magical realism carry an even more intimate and introspective tone in the film. Strella delves into the experience of a transgender sex worker, namely Strella, living out a complex, loving relationship with Yiorgos, her father. The father's visions, particularly those of the squirrel from his childhood toy, crop up throughout the film, so again the theme of lost childhood prevails. Through the insertion of the squirrel, Koutras explores the intersection of Yiorgos’ childhood dreams with his adult realities, highlighting the emotional complexity of his circumstances. Additionally, the squirrel’s presence promotes the awareness of queer identity within Yiorgos’ family dynamics, as the squirrel becomes a metaphor for Yiorgos journey towards self-acceptance and reconciliation while loving his daughter.

In conversation with Koutras, an explanation for the squirrel’s final cameo came to light. In the final scene, as the camera tracks back viewers immediately see that the squirrel is watching. Rock ‘n’ roll music plays, and the film ends on the positive, utopic panorama of Strella, her new child, all of her friends, and Yiorgos heartily ringing in the new year. Koutras explains, “The squirrel represents Yiorgos’ childhood, the childhood which was taken from him. The Buddhist notion of the past, the present, and the future all collide in this one moment.” Fleshing this out further, this moment features the squirrel as a token of Yiorgos’ past, as an audience member looking upon his present existence, and as a prescient allusion of the future to come, which will entail more of Yiorgos imagining the squirrel. It is a brilliant interweaving, achieved through the insertion of magical realism into the plot of the film, of everything that has passed and everything that is yet to come. Yiorgos says to Strella, in fact, “All the years that passed and to come are nothing but an instant,” eloquently commenting upon the ephemeral nature of all of life’s offerings. Koutras is making a grand philosophical point with the help of this tree-climbing squirrel, inviting viewers to meditate upon how everything that one can live for magically connects into one singular instant, passing in the blink of an eye.

In Strella, the need for being with each other overpowers everything. The squirrel comments on the need for family in the face of constant transience. As time whips by, it is paramount for Strella and Yiorgos to remain close to one another. Dimitris Papanikolaou emphasizes the film’s importance in new queer cinema in his article “Assemblage, Identity, Citizenship: Strella’s Queer Chronotopes,” explaining how the film handles the tragedy of abuse, taboo desire, and revenge and “retells it with camp aesthetics and idiosyncratic humour. As a style, it is firmly positioned in a world queer cinema canon, aligning itself with post-1990s new queer cinema, though, even in 2009, this was still quite a rarity in the Greek context” (Papanikolaou 207). A rarity indeed, for a film about a transsexual to have such wide audience reception in Greece was surprising in 2009. Koutras has humanized the face of a transsexual through his work, and the squirrel helps viewers break into the heart of the film and its steadfast commitment to deepening family bonds. Before this film, transsexuals in Greece were “outrageous creatures putting society in danger” according to Koutras himself. Through the execution of oppositional aesthetics, this close-mindedness has radically changed.

In Son of Sofia, director Elina Psykou crafts a hauntingly surreal narrative that properly blurs the lines between reality and fantasy. Misha has been displaced from his homeland of Russia to live with his mother and her elderly Greek employer who she has clandestinely married, Mr. Nikos. This man is an oppressive, authoritarian force in the home, forcing Sofia and Misha to only speak Greek, not allowing them to eat Russian food, and even insisting Misha go by the archaic yet classically Greek name Mihalis. Misha’s transition to Mr. Nikos home spotlights his personal encounter with diaspora, proving that dispersion away from one’s original homeland accordingly engenders feelings of isolation, nostalgia, and separation on behalf of the diasporic subject. In this case Misha is that subject, struggling to integrate in new places, because he experiences “double unbelonging” (Ballesteros 677). This term refers to what immigrants experience when they find themselves caught in the middle of two worlds, no longer fully belonging to their country of origin nor able to assimilate to their adopted homeland. Encapsulating the complex identity struggles faced by immigrants like Misha, his “double unbelonging” forcing him to grapple with feelings of alienation in both cultural spheres of his life. Another lens to consider this under would be Koutras’ Buddhist one: Misha’s past does not connect with his present, this fragmentation does not allow for the same level of ecstasy that inspired Yiorgos’ imagination to conjure up the approving image of a token squirrel to the beat of a confident rock song. Rather, Misha’s stagnant, stringent, and soundless existence allows only for nocturnal ensembles of animals coming out to play only at night. Misha’s magical realism is less disruptive, yet feels like a massive release. As it goes, coming-of-age films like Son of Sofia are very central to investigating the diasporic condition, as tension between a child and their parent is characteristic of these stories, furthering our understanding of Misha’s wanderings as a bear (Ballesteros 679). Misha's symbolic connection to the Moscow mascot explains why he is half bear in the film; this is his one tenuous connection to his home, his culture, and his life. The bear serves as a metaphor for Misha’s inner turmoil, entirely unspoken, and his constant longing for escape. The final scene is especially evocative of this silent desire of Misha to escape his displacement. He gets out of Mr. Nikos apartment by climbing up a big green beanstalk, and then being carried away into the sky by a batch of balloons. In one visual and thematic leap, Misha reclaims the fables of his patriarch––Mr. Nikos taught these stories to Misha in the same way Greece touts its Orthodox, conservative dogmas––to break free from the shackles of his condition. Through fantastical elements, Psykou is able to explore Misha’s oppression and manifest his resistance. This use of magical realism becomes a language of empowerment and agency for marginalized characters, offering a glimpse into Misha’s inner world and desires through the imagery of his costuming.

Exploring the workings of magical realism in the Greek Weird Wave films Xenia, Strella, and Son of Sofia provides profound insight into the migrant experience and the complexities of identity formation within a contemporary Greek context. Through the lens of magical realism, these films transcend conventional storytelling boundaries, inviting viewers to engage with themes of displacement, belonging, and cultural identity on a visceral, sentimental level. The use of magical intervention in each narrative serves as a powerful storytelling device, allowing for the expression of heavy emotions like grief, full circle moments like revelation, and alienated experiences caused from displacement. Furthermore, the incorporation of magical realism in each of these films demonstrates the transformative power of cinema as a tool for marginalized communities to reclaim agency and redefine notions of belonging. By reimagining urban spaces and familial dynamics through the lens of magical realism, filmmakers like Panos Koutras and Elina Psykou challenge dominant ideologies and offer alternative narratives that humanize and empower characters on the margins of society. Through an analysis of each of these films' deployment of magical elements, alongside scholarly discourse on contemporary cinema, it is evident that magical realism serves as more than just a stylistic choice—it is a political act of resistance against social oppression and persecution. The Greek Weird Wave emerges as a cinematic movement that not only redefines Greek cinema but also amplifies the voices of those who have been historically silenced.

As we navigate the intricate landscapes of migration, displacement, and cultural identity, Greek Weird Wave films stand as a testament to the enduring power of storytelling to transcend boundaries and foster empathy and understanding across diverse experiences. Dany’s rabbit, Yiorgos’ squirrel, and Misha’s bear cue us into these experiences. By embracing the marvelously real, these films remind viewers that resilience, creativity, and humanity often flourish most in the face of adversity, ultimately reshaping our collective understanding of belonging and liberation in an ever-changing world.

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