Going home. Depending on where and who that entails, these are two words that can either instill nostalgia and warmth or despondency and dread. In Pavel G. Vesnakov’s second feature film, Windless, it is somewhat a mixture of both. Shot in 1:1 aspect ratio, creating an intense and – at times – claustrophobic setting for this particular homecoming, the film explores personal and national relationships in small town Bulgaria.
Kaloyan (Ognyan Pavlov, also known as rapper FYRE) returns to his family home after the passing of his father. He and his mother have been living in Spain, building a new life for themselves. He is reluctant to deal with the situation at first, only too happy to pass all of the organisation over to the municipality. But as he relaxes into family dinners, and hears the stories of his father’s neighbours, his past quickly envelopes him in an unfamiliar but reassuring way.
Much should be made of the colour palette and framing, with Orlin Ruevski’s cinematography immersing you in Kaloyan (or Koko, as he is affectionately known to his family) and his grief. Our taciturn lead, himself, is dressed in a striking red tracksuit for the duration. His home town is tinged with burnt oranges, grey blues, and browns. Even the rolling hills and forests look somehow washed out. Row upon row of abandoned apartment buildings stand crumbling and blackened. Nowhere seems vibrant; it’s as if all of the life and liveliness of the place has gone. The framing, too, highlights both the claustrophobia and, conversely, the loneliness of such a location. Family dinners fill the entire screen to the extent that you feel like you’re jostling for elbow space, yourself. They are full of laughter and stories of old. In stark contrast, there is a beautiful scene in which Kaloyan sits in the middle of the floor in his father’s empty flat, framed only by a bare lightbulb and the marks on the wall where the furniture used to be. It’s a potent, lingering shot that captures the array of feelings he doesn’t dare to verbalise.
Ognyan Pavlov really drives the film. We are treated to plenty of close ups whilst he smokes a cigarette and contemplates life. He is someone who always seems to be thinking and observing, rather than talking. There’s intensity and layers to his performance that reveal themselves in his moments of solitude. He almost doesn’t have to say anything for us to know exactly what he is going through. He is a character torn between the reminisces and nostalgia of others and his own reality of growing up with a strict, distant father; his new life in Spain, and the traditions of old.
This notion of old versus new permeates the entire film. A loquacious uncle cannot understand how Kaloyan can be happy in Spain when he has nowhere to drain his cabbages or buy rakia. “I don’t get why you’re all rushing off to Western Europe,” he laments. When clearing out his father’s apartment, Kaloyan comes across “Christmas toys from the Communist era” and a shepherd’s crook, these, too, tied to a different life. Parts of the small town, including the cemetery and his father’s block of flats, are due to be turned into a leisure complex in a bid to create work and attract more people to the area. As he helps other residents clear out their homes, we see their loneliness laid bare in powerful close up. One elderly woman begs – directly into the camera – to be left to die. Another man, bleary-eyed from crying, remarks, “Today, it’s a casino. Tomorrow, it’s a highway. And in one hundred years, this town will be no more.” Change is resisted; mistrusted. The tossed out busts of Stalin and Lenin serve as a reminder as to why.
Loneliness is another theme that Vesnakov examines. Kaloyan is constantly reminded that his 
father was lonely and that he died alone; found days later. The residents he meets are also isolated, with no family around them. He, too, finds himself somewhat lonely back in his “old life” – he is too far removed from the small town and his father’s family to feel like a part of it all. This, too, is explored through poignant monologues or soul-bearing close ups. Vesnakov makes the most of every word; every inch of the screen.
Windless is a quietly striking piece of cinema that will stir up many different emotions. We, as the audience, get to live and express these in a way that Kaloyan never quite can. We are with him on this journey of reflection and introspection; this path back to yesterday.
Windless is showing at the Belfast Film Festival. Get your tickets here.
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