In the middle of the Enguri River in a remote region of Russia, the floodwaters produce small islands that are capable of producing corn crops. An unnamed elderly man (Ilyas Salman) plants corn on the island and builds a small rustic hut where he spends his time tilling the crops and waiting for them to flourish. He is accompanied by his teenage granddaughter (Mariam Buturishvili). It is a rather dull existence for the pair, more so for the girl who has to go without the usual creature comforts. The river itself forms a border between Georgia and the breakaway republic of Abkhazia, and the two nations are involved in an ongoing conflict. Gunshots occasionally reach the pair from across the river on the mainland, a reminder of the civil war happening elsewhere. But the conflict doesn't really touch the couple until a wounded soldier washes ashore one night. They nurse him back to health while wary of the occasional boat patrol passing. Corn Island is a poetic and visually stunning story about the cycle of nature, of the human cycle life and death and of man versus nature. This slow burn and minimalist drama from Russian director George Ovashvili has little dialogue, and relies mainly on the spectacular visuals to tell the story. Corn Island has been beautifully filmed by Elemer Ragalyi, whose sweeping cinematography gives the film an epic scope.

About cinema it is said that sometimes images convey perfectly what words fail to express. When words are uttered they make sense only when they merely suit the situations for which they were spoken. This effect is shown in Georgian film "Corn Island" with utmost austerity as an old man and his young grand-daughter set foot on a small island in the middle of a river. Their sudden arrival sets off a climate of distrust in the minds of other people. This is the start of a difficult life for them as there are also others who would like to see them defeated in their mission. There are some films which develop at their own pace. It is likely that laymen would call them slow whereas true admirers of cinema would label them as poetic works of art. Corn Island is one such film which would immensely appeal anybody who appreciates cinema as a poetic art. One can see how the entire process of planting a seed until the final stages of agriculture is carried out. The origin of this poetic film can be traced back to a day in August 1992 when an Abkhazian person ordered Georgian director George Ovashvili to leave Abkhazian black sea coast. According to him the war had started.

Every spring the Inguri River, which forms the boundary between Georgia and Abkhazia, washes down rocks and soil creating tiny islands. Local peasants leave the riverbanks for the firm, fertile island soil to grow corn through the summer before they are eroded away by winter. Georgia's submission for Best Foreign Language Film Corn Islanddirected by George Ovashvili follows a nondescript ageing farmer and his naive granddaughter as they migrate to an island and cultivate a year's crop. During such time, border patrols from both Georgia and Abkhaz pass by, causing tensions to rise between each other while the protagonists are caught in the middle.Corn Island provokes an idea most memorable in the finale of Jean Renoir's The Grand Illusion – this illusion being the definitions of land ownership. Through nature's creation of a temporary island and then the Old Man's claim of his own little country, the film poetically points out the irrationality of conflict over differences from being born on different pieces of land. It's thoroughly profound, but one only teased in the otherwise sparse film. Ovashvili's approach is very reminiscent of the work of Ki-duk Kim, especially Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring, with the tranquil relationship with nature, meditative pace and limited dynamics, but equal in their beauty.The narrative is procedural, simply watching the characters build a hut, plant the seeds and farm the crop. It's lethargic, but engaging. For the most part, the characters are blank slates, but it's about what they represent. It's all about the elements, and they're always fragile and unbalanced, as the film works on the natural tension of impending and inevitable expiration. Tensions do rise when the soldiers pass by in the boats, and there is character development with the granddaughter, who's in the throes of puberty. As she catches their eye and they to her, her internal conflict about her desires for outsiders illustrates the fateful and fatal sparks between nations.The film's elegance is owed to the precise and impressive aesthetics. Veteran Hungarian cinematographer Elemer Ragalyi's serene gliding photography captures the world on a grand but desolate scale. In essence, the film is a soundscape, with no dialogue and hardly any score until near the end. The sharp sound work creates a palpable atmosphere like last year's All is Lost. The film does suffer in its rare moments of dialogue as Ovashvili is more confident in the naturalistic poetry of man against man and man against nature but those scenes don't drag the film down. Corn Island is a slow-burning but well-executed thought- provoking film that's worth watching, especially for fans of art cinema on the lookout for fresh faces.8/10Read more @ The Awards Circuit (http://www.awardscircuit.com/)

One of the main goals of art film is to depict life in its most pure, elemental state. Yet few art movies have managed to achieve that goal with as much grace and poetic depth as George Ovashivili's Corn Island. This immaculately composed film takes the viewers on a soul-touching journey into the desolate, breathtakingly beautiful wilderness of a small island in Georgia and perfectly captures the rhythm of nature and the relation between nature and the two main characters whose daily struggles are interweaved into the light, sound and motion of nature around them. Throughout the film, the viewer can't help but feel the life-like, natural quality of every picture and scene. There are no excessive details; everything is distilled into its most natural state. The image of the old man's granddaughter sitting on the boat with a bundle of shining reed under the crisp sunlight is a precise portrait of life itself. In essence, art has blended into life, and life into art. What is more remarkable is that the director has managed to convey this profound state of life without the help of dialogue. Perhaps one could argue that it is precisely the lack of dialogue that has made this film that much more powerful and moving. A scene in the beginning where the old man fondly looks at a little bird pecking at the wood conveys a sense of elegance that no language can easily convey. Even the intermittent gunshots we hear in the background and the discovery of a wounded soldier that temporarily disrupts the tranquility of the island do not lead the film to deviate from its original artistic path. On the contrary, the tension lurking in the background elevates the humanistic aspect of the film to a new height. In the end, every human gesture and activity is dissolved into the larger nature. What we are left with is a film that touches the depth of our soul with such simplicity and gracefulness that very few films can match.