“A striking piece of non-fiction filmmaking that resists categorisation.”

Diane Arbus, arguably one of the most important photographers of the 20^th century, once famously stated “a photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know”, which has often been used when discussing the importance and impact of the medium. What this statement didn’t account for is the message communicated when two photographs exist, seemingly in opposition to each other. This is something that Radu Jude and Adrian Cioflâncă (who had previously collaborated on two other documentaries exploring the storied history of their native Romania) use as the starting point for Shot Reverse Shot (Plan contraplan), their deceptively simple and deeply fascinating documentary where, in only 22 minutes, they tell an expansive story that touches on several very compelling themes. Their subject is Edward Serotta, an American journalist who travelled around Romania between 1985 and 1987, setting out to photograph the various cities and their residents, intending to capture the daily hardships of these people living under a Communist regime. He knew that he would be under surveillance for the entire trip, but perhaps didn’t quite understand the extent to which the government (particularly the Securitate) would be observing him, not realising that they too were photographing him all along. This film presents two perspectives: one by Serotta, the other by the unnamed government officials tracking him, and it tells the story primarily through the individual accounts, accompanied only by the photographs taken by both parties of one another during this period. In the forty years that have since passed the two sets of images have taken on entirely new meaning, with the directors editing them into a literal shot/reverse shot structure. This creates a dynamic and daring film, where cinema’s most fundamental grammar (the shot/reverse shot) becomes the source of historical and political debate in itself.

The structure of Shot Reverse Shot is built around the idea of presenting two distinct narratives across from one another, exploring how one image informs the other. Rather than creating a more expansive documentary with a multimedia approach, Jude and Cioflâncă take a far simpler direction, looking almost exclusively at the photographs produced by the two parties. Despite both sides engaging in the act of photography for the sake of documentation, we immediately notice the differences between them: Serotta’s images are curious and present a more intimate, poignant depiction of Romania and its people, being simultaneously stark and tender. Conversely, the images produced by the Securitate are cold, clinical and have a sense of bureaucratic distance. One is an act of artistic expression, the other simply a part of the procedure, highlighting the oppositional motivations that drove the creation of these images – one is to record reality, the other to assert control, both attempting to capture as much information as possible, whether for posterity or for potential political manipulation.  Beyond the narration (the first half includes verbal accounts from Serotta himself, the latter a voice-over representing the nameless Securitate officials in charge of tracking him), there is very little context given to these photographs – we don’t always know what we are looking at, but the images are striking enough that they explain themselves. This restraint is deliberate, since the absence of context becomes a powerful tool. The viewer is no longer just seeing images settle on the screen, but is forced to consider them more deeply, especially in the latter portions where we compare Serotta’s photographs to those produced by the state, creating a fascinating juxtaposition that reveals much more than any explanation ever could.

The act of creating tension through a visual back-and-forth is not an easy feat, but it’s something that Jude and Cioflâncă manage to execute quite effectively, and ultimately serves to reveal the deeper layers lingering beneath the surface of the film. The two distinct perspectives intertwine and reveal their purposes: one is an attempt to provide a detailed account of Romanian life in the final years of the Communist regime, captured by an outsider, whereas the other is an effort to assert dominance over those who could be seen as potential dissidents. Everything seen through the lens of Serotta’s camera is entirely ordinary: people going about their days, bustling streets, humble shop windows and domestic spaces. Yet it is through this that politics is often most prominent, since it plays into absolutely every image we see, even if it is not explicitly made clear. Interestingly, we can glean more information from the attempts to provide objective views into daily life than we can from the photographs produced by the state with the express purpose of meeting a particular agenda. The perseverance with which Serotta captured the people of Romania, as well as the candour with which he speaks about his experiences, showcases a quiet resilience, as well as the underlying message that states that true objectivity is impossible. The very act of creation, for whatever purpose, is inherently political. Both parties have their own agendas, and while Serotta had the freedom to choose what to photograph, the government officials trailing him were given a stricter assignment. Yet, their own efforts revealed their selectivity in choosing what to highlight, proving that they too were crafting a particular narrative. All of this is executed through a simple, direct presentation. The directors do not need to resort to elaborate editing techniques or additional components – one image contrasted against another, the effect being more cumulative than it is declarative, forcing the viewer to gradually recognise the lingering ideological tensions beneath the surface.

It’s not often that we find a film that tackles themes as deep and harrowing as life under Communism, political censorship and social imperialism while also being unexpectedly cheerful and playful – but this paradox is the reason Shot Reverse Shot is not only effective, but provocative. This is not a film solely about Romania in the final years before the fall of the regime, but a radical piece about perspective, power and the fact that political neutrality is an unrealistic luxury. Only someone with a unique vision and willingness to embrace the chaos could find potential for unexpected humour from authoritarian paranoia, and while it’s far from the off-the-wall satire of his other work, Jude does bring a slightly more ironic sensibility to the subject matter, especially since there is something quite peculiar in a story that is essentially about a photographer becoming the subject himself without ever realising it. This all plays into the inherent paranoia and feeling of a lack of control experienced by those who flirt with these draconian political systems and those who are tasked with enforcing and encouraging compliance, by any means necessary. Restrained and adamant in its refusal to dramatise the events or over-explain them, Shot Reverse Shot is a challenging and unconventional work that compresses so much information into only 22 minutes, telling a complete story about two distinct perspectives that interweave in unexpected ways, capturing the same moments from different viewpoints and for different reasons. Through this approach, where history is reduced to an exchange of images, the film makes a stark point about perspective and power, and the nature of truth as a whole. Moving with a distinct rhythm and focused on exposing the fragility of authoritarian control at a specific moment in Romanian history, Shot Reverse Shot is a striking piece of non-fiction filmmaking that resists categorisation and pursues some deep and unsettling truths that make for enthralling, provocative viewing.

(c) Image copyright – Edward Serotta