Magda (Aurēlija Anužīte) and Juziks (Renārs Kaupers) spend a quiet moment on Midsummer’s Eve, hours after an ex-KGB agent nails Juziks’ hands to a cross. (Photo by Atis Ieviņš)

It is not often that I feel I have to watch a film more than once. Not because I missed some important plot point, but because I am not sure I liked or disliked the film. In the case of Vecās pagastmājas mistērija, I am still not sure. The films of Jānis Streičs have that effect on me.

Vecās pagastmājas mistērija (The Mystery of the Old Parish House) is loosely based on real life events that took place in Krimulda, Latvia. It tells the story of an aging KGB agent (Eduards Pāvuls) who is forced to live the rest of his life in a house in whose basement he had tortured and murdered people during the summer of 1941. Yet, the film itself is really about much more than that. It is about filmmaking and contemporary life and the notions of guilt and responsibility.

The film is told in three parts. The first, "Mea Culpa," is a film within a film. It is about the screening of the KGB agent’s story. In the film within the film, the KGB agent hires two construction workers (Renārs Kaupers and Andris Bērziņš) to brick up the door to the basement to prevent the ghosts of all those he had killed from coming after him. As the two workers discover the true nature of the job they resolve to avenge all those who had died by killing the Chekist, but eventually end up saving him from killing himself. Unfortunately, no one, other than the director (Artūrs Skrastiņš), likes the finished film and it is decided that additional scenes need to be shot to improve it.

The second part, "Agnus Dei," is about the shooting of an additional horror scene in which the ghosts, accompanied by a spectre of Jesus nailed to a cross, chase the Chekist. Unbeknownst to anyone, one of the people hanging around the shoot—a filthy, drunken bum looking for a free drink—is the real-life KGB agent. During a break in the filming, while no one is watching, he nails the actor (Kaupers) playing Jesus to the cross.

The last part of the film, "Tuba Mirum," is about the relationship between the young actor Juziks (Kaupers), the film’s producer, Hugo (Ivars Kalniņš), and Magda, the woman they both love (Aurēlija Anužīte).

It all comes to a head as the sadistic producer tries to rape Magda, Juziks comes to her rescue and—with the help of the ghosts of the victims of the old parish house—they triumph over all.

The major flaw of Vecās pagastmājas mistērija is that so much of the story is dependent on the fact that the film within the film is supposed to be flawed and we spend too much time watching a bad movie being made. It’s not that this is a bad idea. Films about bad films are not a new genre. I can think of two examples, Ed Wood and Living in Oblivion, that worked. However, neither of those films tried to focus on anything other than the basic premise. Streičs tries to reach far beyond that by also making Vecās pagastmājas mistērija about the true-life events of what happened to Latvia under Soviet occupation and all of the real and imagined scars that they left on the Latvian psyche. If he had focused on either story the film would have been much stronger. By trying to combine the two he succeeds in telling neither.

This is not to say that Vecās pagastmājas mistērija is a bad film. Many parts of it work and others are downright profound. Streičs’ combination of mysticism with realistic themes and execution show a great deal of talent and depth. The three parts all complement each other. You have layers upon layers of symbolism here. The real-life events are often more absurd and surreal than their celluloid representation. Reality and fantasy blur and complement each other to the point where you can’t tell them apart. All in all, while some of the parts might not work, the sum is greater than the whole.

Anyone who listens to a great deal of music, whether recorded or live, periodically encounters a musician who is not a “big name” or recognizable celebrity, but whose musicality and artistry belie their lack of international reputation.

So it is with the pianist Ilze Graubiņa. I listened to her recital program on this new compact disc with immense enjoyment and satisfaction, marveling I had heard so little of her before, and saddened that I will never have the opportunity to hear her play in person. She died at the beginning of this year just short of her 60th birthday, not long after this CD was released. Though familiar to many Latvians, she is not a household name. A daughter of the beloved Latvian composer Jēkabs Graubiņš (especially noted for his imaginative and elaborate choral arrangements of Latvian folksongs), her mother Ērika was also a pianist and her sisters are remarkable professional musicians as well.

A student of the noted Russian pianist and pedagogue Yakov Flier, among others, Graubiņa played with distinction at many international competitions, winning first prize at the 1964 J.S. Bach Piano Competition. She went on to record a number of discs for the Soviet Melodiya label and taught piano for many years at the Rīga Conservatory, with many successful pupils. She performed at many music festivals in the Soviet bloc during the Communist years, and in the last decade was able to tour abroad more widely, but never succeeded in establishing an international reputation.

A pity, for her playing is magnificent! On this recording she performs music from a variety of periods and styles. The program opens with an admirably clear rendition of J.S. Bach’s “Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue,” where she allows the music’s structure to unfold without fussiness. From the same period, but a world away in style, is the Italian-born Spanish composer Domenico Scarlatti. Graubiņa tosses off five of his elaborately ornamented sonatas effortlessly, easily matching the grace, poetry, and clarity of more renowned interpreters such as Pletnev and Pogorelich.

Also from Spain, though a century and a half later, is the music of Isaac Albeniz, represented here by the “Suite Espanola.” While its character has remained distinctive throughout many centuries of music history and has prospered under many approaches, the Spanish music of Albeniz’s late-Romantic sound-world is probably closest to most listeners’ sensibilities and affections. The poetic beauty of his evocations is superbly rendered by Graubiņa, and her playing concedes little to that grand dame of Spanish pianists, Alicia de Larrocha.

Closer to our own time, and in a completely different vein, is the “Ninth Piano Sonata” by Sergei Prokofiev, dating from the mid-1940s. With Prokofiev’s return to the Soviet Union in the late 1930s, his rather acidic and motoric style had mellowed into a lusher and more populist idiom, becoming even more nostalgic and gentler in the later 1940s. Listening to Graubina’s loving and sympathetic interpretation, I was struck by the transitional character of this sonata, straddling Prokofiev’s later styles. This work is also not as frequently heard as Prokofiev’s previous three piano sonatas, so its inclusion here is particularly welcome.

Recording quality in the Scarlatti, Albeniz and Prokofiev works is very clear and pleasant. The piano is well-balanced and clear but not overly bright, in a comfortable sound perspective. The Bach is somewhat more distant and muted—could this be a reissue of her earlier Melodiya recording of this work? No information is given on venue or dates for any of the performances. Packaging is utilitarian with notes on the performer, in Latvian and English, but not a word about the music.

As I said at the outset, an enormously enjoyable and satisfying program, pleasantly balanced and exquisitely played. This is a disc I will return to frequently with great pleasure, and with deep regret that this fine musician is no longer among us.