Brussels already has a more vibrant cinematic legacy than most (it is the home of Jeanne Dielman, after all), but it has perhaps found its closest, most devoted and expansive film historian in director Bas Devos. After 2019’s spectacular screenings of “Hellhole” and “Ghost Tropic” — respectively, a solemn reflection on urban isolation in the wake of terrorist attacks and a thrilling nocturnal journey through its unloved fringes — the Belgian capital is becoming more summery and optimistic. Valentine’s Day is “here,” though he remains preoccupied with strangers in the city and far-flung attractions. In this case, it’s Brussels’ proximity to the natural world, whether via its parks, public gardens, or swollen riverbanks, that fascinates DeVos — and his two non-native characters, who connect through the unexamined riches of their immediate environment.
At just 84 minutes, and with a spare script that focuses on quiet, open encounters, DeVos’s fourth feature is the kind of work that is routinely described, even by fans, as “miniature,” even though it posits a broader, more comprehensive worldview. Of many larger art conversation pieces. Adjust your gaze to the director’s more nuanced perspective and Here’s simple gestures become seismic, her images of everyday life – a flick of moss blowing in the afternoon breeze, a scattering of indeterminate brown seeds falling into a man’s hand, a piece of dice – an iron pot of homemade vegetable soup on the stove – imbued with urgent emotional potential. A worthy winner of the Encounters competition at last year’s Berlinale, this should be the film that elevates Devos into the top tier of festival-favorite auteurs, which one hopes comes at little cost to his nuanced, complex vision.
Although in “Ghost Tropic” DeVos and his director Graeme Vandekerkhove shoot warm, tactile 16mm film, using mostly natural light, there is a fiery, iridescent quality to many of the film’s compositions that seems colored by the insistence that ordinary city scenes be seen anew: Tree, construction site, restaurant window illuminated in heavy rain. The magic hour occurs at all times of the day in Here, and this heightened sensory awareness is shared by characters whose unhappy isolation perhaps helps heighten their sensitivity to their surroundings.
“This is my house,” Romanian builder Stefan (Stefan Gutta) mutters to himself as he surveys his modest high-rise apartment in the half-light of early evening, his tone somewhere between wonder and question. He takes no space for granted, just as Vandekerkhove’s camera looks at the mundane chaos of his kitchen—the dirty kitchen cutting board, the empty Tupperware containers strewn on the counter—as if he were painting a static subject. Stefan has supposedly taken some time to make a home for himself in Brussels, and DeVos’s script leaves him in a state of uncertainty about whether or not he truly feels settled there. We first meet him as he leaves work before vacation: he’s scheduled to drive to Romania to visit his mother, and he’s not sure when or if he’ll return.
He cleans out his refrigerator for what may be the last time, and decides to make soup from the leftover vegetables, dividing them into containers to share with the people closest to him—an immigrant friend who works as a night receptionist in a luxury office building. A Romanian family friend fixes his car, and his tired, concerned older sister – as he makes his way on foot around the city, perhaps saying his farewell. But there are introductions too. While weathering a midsummer storm in a small Chinese restaurant, he strikes up a shy relationship with Shuxiu (Liyo Gong), a waitress who works by day as a bryozoologist (a botanist who specializes in the study of algae) at the local university.
When they bump into each other the next day—this time while Shuxiu is doing field work in a patch of suburban woods—the coincidence feels at once as natural and universal as everything else in Here. After all, Stefan approaches the city without intention or purpose: “I walk around, I go to places I’ve never been before, I see other people walking around, and when I’m tired I go home,” he says of his long walks. It consumes his free time. Tall and burly yet endearingly boyish in his thigh-baring shorts, Gatos absolutely wins as a man who doesn’t impose his curiosity in the world around him, on the world around him, though his subtle inner illumination when finding a potential kindred spirit is a pleasure to behold.
In this spirit, DeVos’s film gradually becomes an unsentimental paean to the connections and discoveries that emerge when you simply open yourself to what’s around you—animal, plant, or otherwise. There is something quietly radical in its celebration of the surrender of oneself to one’s environment, of human interactions that do not proceed according to the usual rules of social exchange, where you do not need to know someone’s name to share an intimate moment with them. In its most seductive moments, “Here’s” complex, multi-layered sound design blocks out streams of human-generated city noise to isolate rustling leaves, pesky wind turbulence, and water drips somewhere you can’t even see them — reminders of the natural world that endures our most aggressive disturbances, asserting itself Through streetscapes and sidewalk cracks, for anyone willing to notice.