The first feature film from writer-director Jacqueline Lentzou, Moon, 66 Questions tells the story a young woman, Artemis (Sofia Kokkali), who cares for her father Paris (Lazaros Georgakopoulos), who’s suffering from a long-term neurological disorder. The film largely takes places in a sunny, artful, yet coldly modern home, which suits Artemis’ equally cold father. She has never been able to communicate with Paris; Artemis described to a stranger, in an unseen conversation that opens the film, how she could never get her father to acknowledge her. This lifelong estrangement becomes even more stark as her father’s speech and movement are greatly impeded by his sudden stroke. She finds herself alone and abandoned by other family members, suddenly caring for her ailing father. We see her struggle with this broken relationship, until a revelation about her father in the last portion of the film brings a new layer of understanding that helps her see her father and his emotional limitations in a new light.
Throughout the film, we see Artemis’ inner turmoil acted out in the quiet, emotionally fraught moments she spends alone in her father’s house. Grappling with caring for her father and the wounds she carries from his neglect, Artemis appears socially odd and almost childlike at times. She’s intense and moody, sometimes dramatic. She acts out imaginary scenarios when on her own, sometimes laughing, sometimes staring into space, sometimes weeping like a child. Sofia Kokkali’s acting is physical, expressive, silent and primal. She moves her whole body, her face a suppressed mask that sometimes explodes in reactivity. The importance of physicality and movement to express what is unspoken, is also mirrored in her father’s emotionlessness. He was never an expressive person, and his stroke has rendered him sometimes mute. It is hard to tell when he is avoiding interaction and when he is struggling with his body. Every movement and action is difficult. Several long sequences of him attempting to walk contrast with Artemis’ movements. She wriggles, distorts, lunges, while he shakes and struggles. Georgakopoulos does a lot with his body and subtle expressions of his face. Both characters carry repressed, inward feeling, and both actors convey their emotional turmoil through their bodies, their faces able to express pain in micro-moments.
The film utilizes certain visual themes and metaphors to structure the story in a dreamy, distant separateness. Artemis and her father are isolated in his home. The other characters who come in are often filmed as if separate, without interacting with Artemis or her father in the same frame, often opposite of them. There are sequences filmed on VHS, showing random scenes with narration from Artemis’ journal. She speaks as if she exists in another reality. Images of tarot cards segment the film into parts, creating an otherworldly feel of displacement and destiny.
Much of the film is told in slow, repeated sequences without much dialogue. Artemis stares, dances around the house with an intense expression. Her father ignores her. They move around the same house, over and over. Much of this repetition and lack of grounding can distance the viewer. We don’t know anything about Artemis or Paris. We are watching these strangers, repeating the same daily cycles in the same space. Of course, the subtle dynamics and repressed pain are present, but we are sometimes given too little to anchor us. The details similar to the ones we receive in later portions of the film would have potentially been helpful in revealing more to us throughout the film.
However, when we get to the final act, the emotional weight of the story reaches a fulfilling climax. The repression unfolds into acceptance and vulnerability. A secret about Artemis’ father reveals a new truth and potential in their relationship. At the end, the slow restraint and repetitiveness of the film allows the end to reach its true purpose and potential.
Photo courtesy of Film Movement
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