As indicated by previous cop and sentenced ruffian Davud, an old legend about directing cranes home through dim woods with painstakingly positioned lamps serves as a snare for trackers to find them. That is an adept analogy for the two characters and Crane Lantern (‘Durna Cıragı’) itself, Azerbaijani essayist chief Hilal Baydarov’s second delivery in approximately a year, after the Venice bow of In Between Dying in 2020.
Mexican producer Carlos Reygadas and entertainer Danny Glover return as makers on some genuinely recognizable material. In case it weren’t at that point clear from his initial two elements, Crane Lantern concretes Baydarov’s place among current film’s generally ethereal, existentially engaged specialists, one who forcefully controls the other way from direct story. Baydarov has rapidly made a filmic brand (for absence of a superior word) as far as himself might be concerned, motivated by his previous educator Bela Tarr and set apart by stories established in legend (like the Siddhartha story from Dying), heroes named Davud, long static shots of Azerbaijan’s scarred earth and graceful voiceovers that many would excuse as vainglorious. Similarly as many would call Baydarov’s work fantastic and convincing, and that will convey Crane Lantern to too much celebrations after its reality debut at Tokyo.The plot, all things being equal, is a painstakingly developed series of semi vignettes, where law understudy Musa (Elshan Abbasov) inspects the instance of a ruffian, Davud (Baydarov customary Orxan Iskandarli), in care for snatching four ladies, none of whom need to squeeze charges. The gatherings between Musa, Davud and his apparent casualties unfurl against faultlessly formed timberland idylls, sparkling, grasshopper-specked oil fields, rough focal Asian deserts and neglected structures that frequently reflect interior considerations and feelings, however whose musings and feelings they reflect stays hazy.
The ladies Davud grabbed are likewise the courses through which the film’s large thoughts are inspected, thoughts going from wrongdoing, equity and discipline to the idea of the real world (engraved on pretty much every shot), love and humankind — itself an implicit inquiry, communicated by practically every one of the characters when they present lines from a stanza: “I’m human, and nothing about being human is unusual to me.” There’s a smoothness to their personalities; just some are recognized by name, loaning an all inclusiveness to the topics. Baydarov pairs down on this shared trait by coordinating his entertainers — Nigar Isayeva, Sada Hasanova, Aytakin Mirisova and Rana Asgarova — higher than ever of shared despairing, every now and again shot in iridescent close-up. They’re persuaded Davud has improved their lives some way or another, even as he exists on the fringe of their recollections.
The showiness of Baydarov’s picked spaces and the successive poetical thoughts join to make a practically supernatural tone that obscures the line among truth and hallucination, and definitely brings up the issue of whether Davud is a con or on the other hand in case there’s some level of astuteness in his philosophical ramblings. Is it accurate to say that he is genuinely illuminated here and there that Musa and his hostages are not?