Review: “Here We Are”
This film will be the focus of discussion tomorrow night, Thursday, September 11, in the Synagogue Zoom Room. The time is 7:00 p.m. and all you have to do is type in 918 583 7121 on the Zoom platform. On October 16 we’ll discuss Sarah Silverman’s new concert stand-up film, PostMortem, and on November 6, we’ll take a look at Auction, a French film about Jewish-owned artwork looted during WWII.
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Here We Are, by director Nir Bergman, is a film of almost suffocating intensity. The plot is a sequence of familiar elements: an isolated father, an autistic son, and the labor of love that sustains their lives. Aharon (Shai Avivi) knows his son’s wants as well as his own, from a fetishistic taste for little star-shaped pasta to the color of the shirts he puts on in the morning. One of the most touching aspects of this intimate relationship is that Aharon functions as a kind of encyclopedia for Uri (Noam Imber), who relies on him to confirm what he likes. “Do I like yellow,” Uri asks his father. “Yes, Uri, you like yellow.”
They live in a cocoon of mutual love, separated from Tamara, Aharon’s former wife. She treats Aharon with simmering impatience but is respectful of the bond between father and son, and supports both of them as the working parent. The implication is that Israel, like many societies, offer a financial safety net to a disabled young man, but doesn’t cover all the bills. Since Aharon wears his grievances like a crown, he has long since abandoned his career as an artist. It means that Tamara wields the financial power in the family.
The real problem here is posed by Uri’s age. When the movie starts, he is clearly in his late teens. According to the state, shelter must be found to prepare for the day that Aharon and Tamara are no longer alive. Tamara finds an enlightened group home, but Aharon will have none of it and improvises an escape. By train and bus, he takes Uri south, a journey he hopes will make them untraceable for Tamara.
The rest of the movie is an agonizing buddy film. Tamara squeezes the impractical Aharon by freezing the funds set aside for Uri. We learn that Aharon has alienated everyone, fastening himself to Uri as a shield and a buffer. Caring for Uri means that he is wholly preoccupied and is not required to engage with others. Bergman’s achievement is showing us a relationship that looks like the suffering of a self-sacrificing father but is actually a portrait of mutual benefit. Uri gets his father and Aharon gets a pass. He no longer has to participate in a world that is, for him, a slush of imperfections.
There is, of course, a kind of resolution. Aharon breaks, Tamara bends, and Uri is finally allowed to sample life in the group home. Watching Shai Avivi in these scenes is a privilege, a master class in subtle performance. There are no cheap theatrics or florid shows of emotion, just the slow realization that Uri has changed and that he belongs in a place of increased independence. Avivi plays all of this as a flicker of understanding by simply parting his lips and lightly touching Uri’s head.
But it is Uri who holds our attention throughout. Imber’s performance is a miracle of simulation, recognizable to anyone who has paid attention to autism and knows the life of families on this part of the spectrum. Uri is tormented by sudden fears and wants, and cannot fit himself to the rhythm of other lives. The only exception is his steadfast father.
He holds himself together with tremendous force, but even he is powerless in the face of sexual awakening. Imber’s parents were professionals who worked with autistic children, but there seems something innate about the high level of his performance, from the tilt of his head to the crimp in his hand. Whatever may be predictable about Here We Are, Imber’s performance is a revelation.