‘The Exalted’: Tallinn Review

Dir: Juris Kursietis. Latvia/Estonia/Greece. 2024. 93mins.

The third feature from Latvian filmmaker Juris Kursietis moves away from stories set on the margins of society to focus on the elite; specifically, a classical music superstar whose perfect life begins to crumble when her wealthy husband is involved in a corruption scandal. This bracing, sharp-toothed predominantly English-language satire brings a brings a stripped-back, almost Dogma-esque economy to its evisceration of tainted privilege and exploration of the culture clash between eastern and western Europe.

Bracing, sharp-toothed satire

The Exalted follows Kursietis’s debut Modris (2014), which premiered in Toronto and picked up prizes in San Sebastian and Tbilisi, and Oleg (2019) which launched in Cannes Directors Fortnight before collecting numerous awards during its festival run. Similarly, The Exalted’s malicious wit and use of top tier pan-European talent (the crew includes editor Yorgos Mavropsaridis, Oscar-nominated for Poor Things and The Favourite) should make it a title of interest for further festivals. And it could subsequently find a home with an arthouse distributor or bespoke streaming platform.

The screenplay, by Kursietis and his Oleg co-writer (and Modris composer) Liga Celma-Kursiete, initially sees German-born virtuoso organ soloist Anna (Johanna Wokalek) enjoying a rareified existence, celebrated by fawning fans and the music establishment alike. Adoration is her due, both professionally and from her husband, Latvian businessman Andris (Juris Zagars). Then Andris is questioned by anti-corruption police on suspicion of bribery. And the stress fractures start to show in Anna’s perfect life during her birthday celebration in their opulent country house in the Latvian countryside. 

Shot by Kursietis’s regular collaborator Bogumil Godfrejow, the film’s fractious hand-held camera is the film’s defining stylistic characteristic. It can feel a little agitated (motion sickness sufferers beware) but Godfrejow’s astute lens captures the micro-tensions and half-hidden anxieties in large groups of people with needle-point accuracy. In a lavish reception following a concert in Germany, the camera is caught up in the whirl of celebration, passed, like the triumphant Anna, from well-wisher to well-wisher. Later, during Anna’s birthday event – attended by her younger sister, her German agent, an arts journalist, a couple of Latvian friends and the thoroughly unreconstructed local priest – there’s an edgier, watchful quality to the camerawork. The lens hones in on the flickers of doubt that make the tributes and praise ring a little hollow.

In the hands of production desiner Laura Dislere, the couple’s home is a shrine to their enviable lifestyle. Andris is the archetypal Baltic alpha male, dismissing other parts of Europe as places where “men pee sitting down”, and he hunts enthusiastically. The mid-century Scandi-chic of the house’s décor is punctuated with extravagantly showy feature taxidermy – there’s a wild boar poised by the patio doors and a stuffed Eurasian lynx frozen in mid snarl next to the coffee table. In the grounds of the home, there’s a church, complete with an organ, that the couple is restoring for the community at their own expense.

Plied with champagne, and besieged by canapes, the guests for Anna’s birthday weekend are somewhat insulated from the unfolding drama of Andris’ scandal. But there are hints of a coming reckoning – Anna’s concert in Riga, which is sponsored by her husband’s business interests, has been abruptly cancelled. A local television news station flies a drone over their property (Andris shoots it down). A grim faced business associate from Denmark shows up unexpectedly during the birthday cake cutting. And in the film’s soundscape, there is the constant abrasive sound of chainsaws — a not so subliminal reminder of Andris’s troubles (he’s the CEO of a state logging company). Images of felled trees do double duty, also providing a sly symbolic reference to Andris’ stress-induced erectile dysfunction.

As realities of the case against Andris grow clearer, he tools up with guns and axes, barricading himself from the world outside. Anna, meanwhile, erects a psychological barrier. She clings to the belief that her status as an artist will insulate her from the scandal; that the stains currently besmirching her husband will not stick to her. A brutal finale argues that art is as morally accountable as any other aspect of society.