Over the Limit

 

‘‘Do you have any personal goals?’’

–  ‘‘We should push past our limits.’’ – Margarita Mamun

 

Over the Limit is a feature-length documentary by Marta Prus. It follows Russian gymnast Margarita (‘Rita’) Mamun as she undergoes training in the run up to the Olympics.

Rita’s mixture of humanity and toughness makes her a worthy subject. And she needs to be tough; throughout the film she endures a barrage of criticism from her two coaches, Amina Zaripova and Irina Viner. Zaripova functions both as coach and touchy-feely surrogate mother. This dual role means that her harsh comments sting Rita more than Viner’s permanent stream of insults. The feedback she receives on her performance alternates between affection and aggression (a classic dynamic of emotional abuse) – but, as we can see by Russia’s dominance in the sport, it’s a system that works. This mindset also challenges the notion that sport and health are linked: ‘there’s no such thing as healthy professional athletes’, Amina claims as she talks to Margarita about an injury.

We see Irina Viner as an outrageous and glamorous Disney villain of a coach as she strolls about the gym. Peering over the brim of her hat, she brings to mind a regal, bejewelled mole. You almost can’t see her beneath the costume: big dark sunglasses, hats, pearl earrings, necklaces, a fur shawl. She’s married to one of the richest men in Russia and is owner of the team, but the film doesn’t tell us this. She is also immensely successful at her job, having a near-perfect record of Olympic success. This reputation means she is under pressure to keep winning. Irina’s manner provides some moments of humour. She can be unintentionally comic; her facial expressions are gold. While watching, I felt an urge to make a compilation of all her ‘best bits’. Lines include, ‘go fuck yourself with your shaking’ and this exchange:

Amina: ‘When I’m annoyed, I’m very annoyed. Now I’m calm.’

Irina: ‘This type of calm is called rage’.

Just before the Olympics, Irina can’t be there in person to coach Rita, so she finds herself ‘alone’ with Zaripova. She’s practising her routine with the ribbons. Then we hear a voice barking instructions and Irina’s head appears on a giant screen. Of course she would never miss such an important training session. ‘This is your final practice’, she reminds her. For all of her larger-than-life qualities, it’s important to note that she does have passion and taste. Her astute insights often strike right at the heart of the problem.

Another fact not mentioned onscreen is that Amina Zaripova was once coached by Irina Viner. It perhaps explains their complex dynamic. This is the story behind what we see. The conflict between Irina and Amina is the most unexpected element of the story and it also provides moments of humour. Their bickering continues throughout the film. ‘These black knickers are awful. Amina, how’s this possible?’ Irina snaps. Later in the film, she walks away muttering ‘Losers, both of you’.

In contrast to the duelling coaches, there is very little outward rivalry between Margarita and Yana Kudryavtseva, fellow gymnast on the Russian team. They instead have a camaraderie forged through their shared experience. When we meet her in the film, Yana is the favoured gymnast who outperforms Rita with a sleek, fluid routine. Despite being compared unfavourably to Yana, Margarita pushes on with her rhythmic gymnastics training, where she perfects routines that, to the untrained eye, already appear flawless. It is an exacting discipline. At other times she is quick to admit failure: ‘it annoys me when she says I do it out of spite. Why would I? I just fail’. The oversized stack of trophies in Rita’s Moscow apartment certainly don’t suggest failure. Considering how far she’s come as an elite gymnast, her competitive side doesn’t show itself very often. She insists that she has a right to be emotional, saying ‘I am human’. ‘You’re not a human being, you’re an athlete’, comes the reply, perhaps the most memorable line in the film. Viner believes that she’s not a fighter. She asks ‘why the hell do we need her here?’ Zaripova fires back with ‘she’s a different type of fighter’.

If winning is not at the forefront of her mind, it is understandable. Midway through the film we learn that her father is dying from cancer. She anxiously takes phone calls during breaks in training, but she can’t do anything to help and is always far away. ‘As if practice sessions were the most important thing’. Amid all of the struggle, there are moments of joy. She runs laughing with friends on the beach. She is seen talking to her boyfriend (not in person of course, she’s far too busy for that.) She’s speaking to him through a computer screen while on a treadmill. Later, she meets him before the Rio Olympics (he is also an athlete) and her tired face softens and glows with love.

Prus’s documentary has a narrow focus. We are not given much context. Its slimness mirrors the insularity of Margarita’s life as a gymnast, her singular purpose. It’s almost a POV. The filmmaker wanted the piece to concentrate on a person and her journey, not necessarily on showcasing the sport. Routines are shown here, they’re just sidelined against the bigger human drama. Marta Prus also shows a great deal of respect for gymnastics and gymnasts. This shines through in artful shots which suggest the transcendence, rather than the mundanity, of gymnastics. Rhythmic gymnastics is arguably the most artistic of all the sports, or the most competitive of the arts.

And then the big day finally arrives. The choice to have the ending not show her Olympic routine feels a bit deflating. To build up to this moment and then not show it robs the viewer of some sense of closure. This feeling is alleviated by three panels of text at the end which explain the outcome of Margarita’s story. Each one feels like a punch.

 

 

Yorkshire Dales National Park

Went on another Big Day Out with the family, this time to the Yorkshire Dales. My aunt was driver, I was photographer, and my grandfather ate all the food. We work well as a team. I’ve been before (luckily we’re close enough to go there and back the same day), but even if you’re at the other end of the country it’s still a place worth travelling to.

I can’t name our exact route (my mother was designated map person) but we drove through most of Swaledale and our journey included Hawes, Leyburn, Reeth, Low Row, Healaugh, Muker, Thwaite, Keld, Wensleydale and Richmond. In the car we passed so many small, similar-looking hamlets that they all began to blend into one another. I do remember that in the lower Dales my favourite was Crakehall, a very smart and picturesque village with lots of that iconic stone. Dry stone walls were everywhere and we saw so many perfect, crumbly cottages that I would have bought straight away if anyone had been offering. At one old house, two sheep were peering in through the window, scarpering as the car approached.

‘But what do these people do in Winter?’ my mother asked, beginning a cycle of repetition that lasted the entire trip; she would ask that question at 30 minute intervals for the rest of the day.

If advertising is anything to go by, there’s certainly no shortage of cheese in North Yorkshire. One fish and chip shop was selling ‘Deep Fried Wensleydale Cheese’, which we decided not to try, and signs beside the road announced that the fabled cheese was nearby.

Being in the car with my family was less than joyful. My grandfather is a retired farmer who forgets he’s retired every time he sets foot in the countryside. For six hours we had a running commentary on the important subject of cows and cow breeds. Sometimes we’d be given a break when he would interrupt himself to discuss types of sheep instead. He was the only person who ever participated in these sheep lectures, but that didn’t seem to deter him.

‘What are those?’, asked my aunt, trying to change the subject.

‘Dove houses, I think.’

‘What did they do with all of those doves?’

‘I’m sure they used to eat them.’

‘No, I think they had a different purpose…’

‘What other things would you do with doves?’

And on it went for miles. We saw hikers, lead mines cut into steep hillsides, derelict cottages, a steam train. Climbing further up, we started to see dark purple patches of heather. At one point we had a close encounter with some bales of hay. My aunt had to reverse to let the vehicle carrying them through, but there were other cars behind her. We clutched our seats tensely as the bales loomed over the car and were very glad to see them drive off.

That was not the only near miss. Driving up Tan Hill, we got caught in a brief but heavy rainstorm. The road wound in narrow circles around the hillside and to our right there was a cliff edge where the land fell away.

‘I have vertigo’, my mother declared as we were nearing the summit.

‘You don’t?!’ replied my aunt.

‘No I don’t’, she said… ‘Actually yes I do’.

My aunt swerved to avoid a sheep and almost drove off the edge of the hill. I began to understand my mother’s vertigo problem.

The landscape became misty. I started to think romantic thoughts…Heathcliff striding across the moors…

‘That looks boggy down there’, says my aunt.

‘This would be a good place to bury a body’, my mother agrees.

‘Not body, boggy! Like a marsh.’

‘Whose body are you thinking of burying?’ I ask nervously.

‘I haven’t decided yet’, my mother replies matter-of-factly.

We all go quiet, except for my grandfather who’s still talking about cows.

We went over Buttertubs Pass and this set my mother off again:

‘My breasts are like butter tubs’.

‘I know how you feel. Mine are down to my knees’, my aunt lamented.

She joked with my grandfather (who needed to find a public toilet) ‘just open the door and point!’

‘I’ve got nothing to point anymore’, he replied sadly, forgetting the cows for a moment and joining in with the family’s new conversation topic.

I threatened to walk home if they didn’t stop their anatomical oversharing.

It was a great relief when we eventually reached the pub on top of Tan Hill. Its sign told us it was known for being ‘Great Britain’s highest inn’. We were impressed.

There were lots of good place names on our journey too. My favourites were: Crackpot, Shittlehope, Buttertubs Pass, Lovely Seat, Whaw and Booze.

Encounter with the bales.

Curious

The edge that my aunt nearly drove off.

Big cloud

Very green hills

More green hills.

We saw these unusual trees.

Assorted greenery through the car window.

 

Fifteen Days (Introduction)

Two weeks ago, my mother went into hospital. We thought she was suffering from flu or maybe pneumonia but as her condition worsened, she gathered more diagnoses and the situation suddenly became a lot more serious. I waved her off in the car, expecting her to return the next day, but in the morning I got a phonecall to tell me that she’d had a heart attack. This ‘heart attack’ changed to become ‘congestive heart failure’, in addition to suspected lung and bladder cancer.

I’ve been visiting her nearly every day since then. She’s in another town, so that meant spending 3 days living with my relatives, then returning home for 2 days to do essential tasks: washing, packing new clothes, etc. It’s been a huge upheaval, not least because all of this travelling coincided with some of the worst snowstorms the country has seen. Most schools were closed, buses were cancelled, people couldn’t make it into work.

This fortnight of snow and Arctic cold was the backdrop for all of these panic-filled events. Now my mother is in another, even less accessible hospital – an hour’s drive away. She is waiting to see whether her lung function permits her to have open heart surgery: she’s suffering from aortic stenosis (narrowing of the aorta) and the doctors termed it ‘critical’. At some point during the endless series of tests, they discovered she has emphysema, thus complicating the plans for open heart surgery. She was also found to have bladder cancer, but any treatment for this will be given after the operation: the heart condition takes priority.

What follows is my photo essay (admittedly more ‘essay’ than ‘photo’), in which I give a non-chronological account of the past fifteen days.

 

Core

Core

I grasp for that true

glue, that centre

behind all things,

the seed within seed

within seed of a

person. I want it,

that anchor, to heave

through igneous and

cry an infinite cry

of solidity, calm,

eternity.

There’s never a bad time for poetry. Today I got news that my mother had a heart attack. They don’t yet know the cause, so she’s being moved to the intensive care ward until more tests have been done. Tomorrow, I’ll be travelling to stay with relatives who live closer to the hospital. This has been one of the worst days of my life and I can’t quite say that digging out poetry I wrote years ago has really helped improve it. Nevertheless, blogging definitely beats sitting around panicking, i.e. what I’ve been doing for 90% of the day. (In case you were wondering, the other 10% has been spent on the phone…)

On second thought, I take back my earlier statement about there never being a bad time for poetry. I am beaming thoughts of health and comfort to my mother, but I will spare her the bad poems. I could bring my Sylvia Plath collection and do a reading in hospital but let’s be honest, nobody in intensive care wants that.

 

An Early Morning

Time for a Monday Poem. I just waved goodbye to my mother, who is on her way to the hospital in a nearby town. I’ve been doing everything I can to suppress the worry but nothing’s working. I’m waiting for the phonecall that will tell me what’s happening and until I hear back, my stomach will probably continue to lurch uncontrollably for the next few hours. This poem was written when I was about fifteen, but it’s appropriate for today’s weather – it’s been raining without interruption since early morning. It describes one of those eerie, misty mornings in the countryside, when a storm has hit during the night and everything in the landscape looks as though it has been rearranged by aliens.

An Early Morning

Against the seething wall of rain

Pelleted down into a crushed photo-frame

against a leaning, curling cat

in the window.

 

From the waking meadows

and the shutters daintily pressed together

I could see outlines of sheep on the horizon.

Tangible martian-like shapes

have visited in the night.

 

Trees are blown over

like pylons without the electricity

running through them.

And all around

the smell of the moors, the wind, the earth

and the remnants of the ghostlike moon

picking its way back

up and up into the residue of night.