SHORT FOCUS - Issue 3 by framelight

SHORT FOCUS The world’s premier short film journal.

Issue 3

‘Rio’ Apr-Jun 2021

www.framelight.org

#ShortFocus @framelightorg

It has been one year since the explosive outbreak of Covid-19, and the world has changed dramatically and irreversibly. The stability of several industries has been damaged, their resources depleted, with political and economical solutions placed under great scrutiny. The arts industry has been amongst the most severely affected, with cinemas, theatres, entertainment venues, and live events disappearing virtually overnight and for the best part of the last year. Many of these cultural establishments will never see the light of day again, with the lack of revenue, funding or support among the primary reasons. With a significant section of the population now working from home, learning new skills, and discovering new outlets for entertainment, it has become crucial for our industry to adapt to rapidly changing cultural practices. In the world of film, the home streaming trend has accelerated remarkably, as many blockbuster releases side step the cinemas and arrive straight to our television screens. There was a time when “straight-to-video” alluded to poor quality, where now it is a signal of necessity, of survival, of a “new normal”. This home-streaming trend has certainly proven fruitful for short films, with the medium finding unsuspecting champions and new platforms, lending it a resurging status of appreciation beyond the art house elite. It is an exciting time for short films in this respect, and we hope this appreciation for them continues to grow beyond our smart devices, laptops and televisions, and onto the big, bright and beautiful screens of the cinemas where they belong. It is a sad truth that the future of cinema remains uncertain, and perhaps programming practices might change to reflect the way we are beginning to watch films at home. Whether short form media will be a part of that revolution remains to be seen. One thing is certain: We believe in the power of short film. Editor: Dean Archibald-Smith Creative Directors: Dean Archibald-Smith, Aya Ishizuka Contributors: Michael K. Adler, Sam Briggs, Thom Carter, Alison Girault, Charlie Greep, Sally Roberts.

FLTV = Film is available to watch on FLTV. Advertising queries: info@framelight.org The online version of this journal is interactive. To engage with content, click on the title of a film review or the company logo of an advertisement. Where you cannot click on a title, there is no content available. Articles appearing within this publication reflect the opinions and attitudes of their respective authors and not necessarily those of the publishing or editorial team.

Published by FRAME LIGHT Group Ltd. 7 Bell Yard, London, WC2A 2JR Made with paper from sustainable resources. SHORT FOCUS is published quarterly.

ong after the bullets have stopped, the torment of warfare lives on relentlessly in the minds of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) sufferers desperate to escape a past enveloped by the barbarous violence of war. Hollow Tooth deals with issues that are mammoth, but on an intimate scale that grounds you in the emotional journey of its characters, as disgraced ex-military serviceman Jason’s fractious homecoming threatens disaster.

Hollow Tooth

Samuel Kaperski, France, 2019

As Jason’s military service comes to an unsavoury end, he returns to the home of his father, only to find familial support has been cruelly repressed by notions of toxic masculinity, an already fractured relationship deepened by his father’s shame. The warm embrace he so sorely craves withheld, Jason is told he must start work straight away as a farm hand if he is to gain respect and board at his father’s farmstead. But as the clear and obvious signs of PTSD begin to set in, Jason finds it difficult to hold down a job in his rural community, ghosts of his past returning to reap violent ends.

Nauseatingly extreme close-ups have the effect of sucking us into the minds or our lead characters, with the performances that director, Samuel Kaperski, draws from his actors consistently impressive. As Jason and his father mill around the festivities of their local town, their experience drips with authenticity, rural France becoming the centrepiece for our banquet of distress. The shame that father, Cyrille, feels for his son is palpable, their relationship decaying with every shared second of screen time. Cyrille’s approach to fatherhood is best described as distant, his approach callous. On his first morning back under his father’s roof, Jason is awoken by Cyrille undertaking target practice with live ammunition, a non-too-gentle reminder that, despite the geographical distance, Jason is still unable to outrun the torment of war.

Hollow Tooth is visceral and dark, haunting and invasive; its effect powerful, its impact colossal. It holds the indisputable achievement of portraying complex, shattered relationships in a light that is illuminating and truthful, the script, director, and actors working together to create a world that shines.

In Jason’s small town, reputation is everything, and when he learns of the contempt that many of the local farmers feel for him, his thin veneer of confidence begins to slip. Driven to posturing in an environment where masculinity reigns supreme, Jason craves validation. Asking a young boy if he can bum a cigarette, the camera frames Jason at the bottom of a shallow ravine, whilst the young child sits atop him at the crest of the hill. So desperate is Jason for approval that he asks the young boy, framed as if above him in the local pecking order, “Do you think I’m a weirdo?” and is clearly soothed when the child responds, “No.”

of gunfire. Such haunting noises return as Jason begins to drink, unable to fight off his inner demons, even as he seeks solitude down by the river. Add in the nondiegetic addition of air raid sirens, and our journey with Jason has become nauseating in the extreme. As a character study and societal critique, Hollow Tooth is a triumph, impeccable in its delivery and astounding in its clarity of vision. Over the course of several viewings, one runs out of superlatives for how impactful a short Hollow Tooth really is. Assuming the unenviable task of exorcising the horrors of war, it succeeds on every narrative and technical level, demanding re-watch after re-watch after re-watch...

Throughout, the horrors of war are never far from Jason’s mind. Strobe lighting highlights the contours of his bone structure, as a firework display cascades in the background, their echo sounding eerily like the racket

Sam Briggs

Fancy a Cuppa? Lotte Cassidy, UK, 2020

FLTV

cented gel pens, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air [USA, 1990-96] and unwrapping what seemed like endless Fruit Winders, while not universal, I’m sure that these fragments of my childhood would be reassuringly familiar to many who grew up in the late nineties.

Lotte Cassidy’s short focuses on her grandmother’s memories, told in no particular order, over a cup of tea. In just under three minutes, the recent graduate and winner of D&AD New Blood Ones to Watch 2020, and the Bronze Frame at Short Focus Film Festivlal 2020, triumphs in portraying memory’s ability to comfort, unite and, above all, change. What is instantly striking is the use of fluttering handdrawn shapes that shimmer and flicker in an everchanging patchwork of childhood echoes. No image is ever completely still. Cups flick to cats flick to clasped hands. Cassidy almost conceals her visual wit in blinkand-you’ll-miss-them moments (pay particular attention to the fish and chip shop scenes for a delightful splitsecond of can twirling, hot-footing haddocks). Not only does this make the film hugely engaging, but it also, paradoxically, captures the memories’ refusals to be captured, whole and in tact. See the shifting colours consistently perforated with the white background – no image is fully complete but remains in motion, constantly evading full clarity.

Sherbet lemons, train conductors, slippers and, of course, cups of tea are the features of this fluctuating format. In one sense, these mundane minutia weave together to make a hugely comforting blanket of familiarity. But one word immediately comes to mind with these recurring images and that is ‘English’ – everything is just so biscuit-dunkingly British; the film almost risks becoming victim to an overly sugary Cath Kidson-esque nostalgia. However, one gets the feeling that the hard-hitting traumas are not the target here. This is, instead, an affectionate homage to a much loved grandparent. What’s more, the slightest edge of frustration in the conversation about Turkish delight brings the film back from the brink of being too saccharine. In this short film, Cassidy manages to showcase not only her talents as an illustrator, but also her ability to handle the tricky topic of memory with sensitivity and humour. And who knows? Perhaps in fifty years we’ll all be sipping tea out of Cath Kidson mugs studded with cutesy Will Smith motifs, patterned in pastel with a nostalgic Nike ‘swoosh’. Sally Roberts

INTERVIEW A great British brew: An interview with Lotte Cassidy, director of Fancy a Cuppa? The following interview is a transcribed exerpt from a Q&A session as part of Short Focus Film Festival 2020. Dean Archibald-Smith: Fancy a Cuppa? is a very personal film with an innocent and minimalist quality. Before we go further into that, I just wanted to know if your grandmother’s seen the film?

on the iPad digitally, which I managed to do. And it was good for the dementia theme because you’re able to see the confusion with all the texture. It worked well with my kind of style.

Lotte Cassidy (pictured): No, she hasn’t. It’s quite sad actually, she died.

DA-S: Your films are essentially animated documents of British culture, and they do express a certain sense of nostalgia. I just wondered, where does that fascination come from, and why is animation integral to conveying those interests?

DA-S: I’m sorry. LC: No, it’s fine. She had dementia, which is what [the film] was about, and then she actually died when I finished it, which is quite sad. But she saw bits of it that I sent her.

LC: I don’t know why, I just really like British, tacky [things]. Like Martin Parr, he’s the big inspiration. I really love all of his tacky, beach, kitsch kind of stuff. And I’ve just graduated – I did a BA in Illustration and Animation – so I just wanted to use my animation and do something to do with dementia, but also have British [things] involved in it. And also because my grandma was from Newcastle... Newcastle’s quite a good place – up north – for that culture... like fish and chips!

DA-S: It’s nice that she at least got to see some of it in the making. LC: She knew I was doing it about her. I recorded her voice and she knew what I was doing with it.

DA-S: It’s a wonderful tribute to your grandmother.

DA-S: That’s also something I wanted to know. How involved was she in the process?

LC: She would have loved it.

LC: I interviewed her and the interview was an hour long because she just talks and talks, and she’s such a good storyteller. So it was quite hard to cut it down to two minutes from an hour. But I was just asking her what it was like growing up and all of that stuff, and then she just went on!

DA-S: I think so too, and it’s a wonderfully energetic piece of work. It’s really vibrant, colourful and full of joy. Is there anything else you’re working on at the moment? LC: Well, I’ve just finished uni so I’m adjusting, being at home. I’m just trying to find a balance of doing my own work but then trying to get a job and all of that stuff. It’s difficult; it’s a weird time.

DA-S: Even from those two minutes you really do get a sense of the fondness she had for those memories and stories, and obviously captured so well in her voice. But it’s captured really well with your illustrations and animation as well. Could you tell me a little bit more about your process, and how you arrived at that style?

DA-S: I wonder if being at home has allowed you more time to facilitate your creative process a bit more? LC: Yeah, I actually went to Newcastle last week, and I kept making little GIFs about ice cream vans because I kept seeing them. So... I don’t know why, I just like

LC: I do all of my drawings on my iPad on an app called Procreate, and because I quite like texture and a handdrawn, messy, scribbly kind of style, I tried to make that

making stuff like that – ice cream vans, British beaches. I don’t know... kind of satire.

an artful way. I think it really does jump out on the screen and I can see your love for it in those two minutes alone. So, please keep up the good work and thank you so much for sharing your work with us for the festival.

DA-S: I think you hit the nail on the head – the kind of ‘kitsch-ness’ of it, and there’s something very uniquely British.

LC: Thank you for selecting my film!

LC: I don’t know why I like that stuff. I just like neon, tacky colours! I don’t know where it comes from.

Fancy a Cuppa? was the winner of the Bronze Frame at Short Focus Film Festival 2020 and is available to watch at www.framelight.org/fltv

DA-S: It’s a very particular fascination, but I think it’s incredible that you’re able to express it in such

XCTRY

FLTV

Bill Brown, USA, 2018

ill Brown’s paean to the romance of the road is a wonderfully constructed visual journal and an artful document that elegantly captures a true sense of restlessness and loneliness. Shot on 16mm film, XCTRY is mostly presented as a moving triptych, with each separate image flickering between shots of expansive Midwestern vistas, neon hotel signs, storefronts and bridge crossings. Accompanied with subtitled journalistic musings and overdubbed radio broadcasts, the film works as a poetic experiment, as much an exploration of the self as of the rich and rugged American landscape.

XCTRY is a profound and contemplative video experiment from someone who appears to be constantly searching for meaning, finding solace and comfort in the idea that nowhere and everywhere is home. This really is an astonishing short film, quiet and understated in its delivery, making for a thought-provoking work of moving art that warrants repeat viewing, and was a deserving winner of the Jury Prize at Short Focus Film Festival 2018.

Except for one moment in this 6-minute short, the images are seen from the perspective of the protagonist, as we peer through the windscreen and windows of a moving car. Early on we gain some insight into the character’s nomadic preoccupations: “I was born in Ohio, but I told everyone in my 3rd grade class that I was born in England.” He interrogates this further, “England was far away and sophisticated, but what was Ohio? It was the Buckeye State. I had no idea what a buckeye was, but I didn’t like the sound of it.”

Michael K. Adler

it captures is unquestionable, benefitting as it does on many levels.

As romance blooms, the young couple at the heart of our story appear picture perfect. Together they ride in roof-down convertibles; sun on their skin, polka dot dresses hinting at a love that is timeless. Soon, however, the relationship sours, Cameron’s partner leaving him for reasons left undisclosed. Pining for his past love, Cameron finds solace in the bottom of a bottle, drinking himself into oblivion on desolate stretches of coastland. But as Cameron’s sanity slips, he is forced to face up to his demons, a surreal and perhaps sinister switch beginning to take hold.

The 1:33:1 aspect ratio is also a welcome touch, and one that will provide much appreciated variation when lining up alongside its competitors in film festival programmes. Likewise, the shaky handheld quality of the shots, forever associated with upcoming filmmakers making their work on the fly with minimal budget, corresponds well with the intimate feel of the piece. As viewers, we are brought in close to the action, made to feel disturbingly complicit in Cameron’s shame and suffering.

hough quick to ignite, once over, relationships can be difficult to extinguish; old flames destined to continue burning long into the night as embers. Memories of past connections haunt many of us, even as we convince ourselves they have been laid to rest. For the character of Cameron in Canadian filmmaking duo Spencer Hetherington and Jesse Ricottone’s Old Flame – A Super 8 Story, such a haunting proves all-encompassing. As his nostalgic longing for a past love wreaks a deepening psychological unrest, Cameron’s sanity slips, all captured masterfully on vintage Super 8 film stock.

Integral to the filmmakers’ telling of their story is the Super 8 camera, with all the grainy, nostalgic bliss that such a production method provides. As Hetherington and Ricottone attest, their desire was to tell a story that was “well suited to the medium, not just using it as a gimmick.” Utilising a camera and film stock immortalised by the youthful exertions of such directors as Steven Spielberg and Christopher Nolan, this 60s camera, with its reduced frame rate and grainy stock, provides an aesthetic that is hard to replicate. Its suitability for the story

Exploring one young man’s efforts to let go of his past, there is a slight irony in filming using what is now viewed as an archaic method. However, through the nostalgic viewpoint that Super 8 is so perfectly positioned to provide, it is able to communicate a longing for one’s past with utmost effectiveness. Indeed, there is something almost meta in its use, as just like scratches on an old record, the imperfect quality of the recording makes it hard to forget that you are in the process of watching a film, watching something with an unmistakable homemade quality.

The final edit is clear and polished, with several nice cuts segueing effortlessly into flashback sequences, directly communicating Cameron’s desire to keep holding on to his past flame. The sound design is crisp and well executed, both in its diegetic and non-diegetic moments, the all-round execution of the project belying the directors’ age and relative inexperience. As we close on the spectral image of a still smoking coffin, we are reminded that even as we grow and change, some old flames never truly burn out, destined to haunt us well into the future. Sam Briggs

Old Flame – A Super 8 Story

Spencer Hetherington & Jesse Ricottone, Canada, 2020

rom Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho [USA, 1960] to The Florida Project [Sean Baker, USA, 2017], motels have long dominated American cinema. Forever sites of the seedy and the sordid, they serve as the bed-bugged backdrops for the characters’ misdeeds and misfortunes. But what about those who never get to leave? In Rio, writer and director Zhenia Kazankina flips the trope on its head: the hotel and its staff are the consistent characters while the crimes and criminals make up their transient background.

Rio

Zhenia Kazankina, Russia/Finland, 2019

Set in a wintery border town, the bleak hotel seems to only be inhabited by its two young staff, Paulina and Nadia. When a tall, dark, handsome stranger arrives, it is clear that the hotel is mainly used for very specific purposes – ‘No one stays here longer than a night, it’s just ten minutes to the border’ says Paulina. Although we see him asking for a specific room and meticulously inspecting his car with plastic gloves, it is not clear exactly what his business is. In a refreshing swerve away from a predictable plot, the new arrival does not take over the story and instead the sibling style relationship between the two women takes centre stage. The portrayal of Paulina and Nadia’s life is successful not only because of well written scenes but also because of the chemistry between Liza Yankovskaya and Dasha Mureeva, who play Paulina and Nadia respectively. One particularly good example of this is the scene where they squabble over a highly outdated translating machine, turning from women to children in an instant. Their innocence and frivolity amidst their inescapably mundane daily routines gives the film an unexpected and playful contrast to the setting’s claustrophobic mediocrity. Further to this, for all its drabness the film is pervaded by a dream-like quality that seems at odds with, or

is perhaps born out of, the endless banality of their lives. First of all, the naked percussion that makes up the soundtrack – at times like a repurposed excerpt from Crash Bandicoot - seems more in tune with an exotic elsewhere than the small, snowy town. On top of this, Kazankina includes kooky cut away scenes such as the girls’ stonefaced dance routine and Paulina’s dive into the pool. This blur between reality and fantasy continues right until the end of the film: Paulina wakes up next to the man and steals a bag full of money, only to wake up again in a scene almost identical to the short’s opening. Whether the events of the previous night actually happened or not, we never know. Kazankina is clearly not one to give simple answers. But although the entire twenty minutes is submerged in mystery, at least two ideas rise clearly to the surface. The first: that the relationships we have make dead-end jobs bearable. The second: that money can mean freedom. The bag full of cash is emblazoned with the brand name ‘Rion’, obscured to say ‘Rio’ – it speaks of travel, adventure, and the money that is intertwined with these luxuries. Nadia and Paulina, however, remain confined within the empty hotel, escaping only through dreams. Sally Roberts

INTERVIEW Another day in paradise with Zhenia Kazankina, director of Rio. The following interview is a transcribed exerpt from a Q&A session as part of Short Focus Film Festival 2020. Dean Archibald-Smith: How did the idea for your film come about? Zhenia Kazankina (pictured): I don’t know, maybe it could sound like I’m crazy, but I had an idea in a moment, at once. I had a period of depression in my life, and I was thinking, “Okay, so now I will forget about the viewers, forget about my mentors in my film school,” (because this is my graduation film). So I was nervous about what it would be, because we were pressured in our film school like, “your film is your [calling] card, you should make it the best.” So, I was like, “Oh, my god! Oh, my god!” So then I just sat and forgot about everything and thought: what can I do? And this idea just came to my mind, and I started to think about who these characters were. Who are these girls? And I was collecting moments of their life, writing it down – what they are doing in that space, what they are thinking about. So it was like a collage, or a collection of their life moments. Then I just looked at, like, small cards with my notes and started to move them around, and then I was like, “Wow! Now I have the film.”

DA-S: So it was a bit of piecing things together and starting to form a story in a sort of jigsaw way? ZK: Yes, that method worked well for me, so now I’m writing another short film and this method really works. DA-S: With the characters, do you relate to them in any way, or have you maybe infused some of your own experiences into their lives and that story? ZK: Yes, of course. They are, like, not me at all, but both of these girls surely have some parts of my own character. And I was thinking about the idea of a dream of another world, something exotic, and they’re living with this dream in their heads. So, that is the main problem and the main question for me – when you live here and now, you’re not here and now, you are always with this idea of a dream of an exotic place where everything is well. So, for me, it is a coming-of-age film, because when you’re coming of age, you’re always thinking, “some time I’ll be grown-up and everything will be well in my life, I will have this exotic place, I will be there, and everything will be great.” So, that’s what the film is about and, for the characters, this is the main idea in their heads.

will be easier. So we had a month of rehearsals just to have these very comfortable moments of touching each other, when you don’t feel anything. So, I think this sense of freedom is because of the rehearsals.

DA-S: The film does seamlessly blend fantasy with reality, and I think the hotel setting really helps to capture that paradoxical sense, this idea of being ‘home away from home’. How important was it for the film to be set in a hotel, and did you imagine, perhaps, that the film could be set elsewhere?

DA-S: There’s a moment in the film when they’re speaking to each other, but there are no subtitles – could you explain more about that moment, what the meaning behind that choice was?

ZK: Yes, that was very important, and it was the main point that I wanted to shoot it in a hotel. But it was very difficult to find the location. In the film it’s really five locations, so for every place in the film it’s a different location. I was thinking that it would be very difficult, how we would find all of that, and I had an idea to shoot it in a sanatorium, because in Russia there are a lot of sanatoriums! You know, post-Soviet, very big houses with very different places and locations.

ZK: That was like a barbarian language, not a real language. The scene in the screenplay was very short and I gave it to my actresses, they read it. [Initially] everything was just with the small electronic vocabulary, and then suddenly they were switching languages, trying to speak different languages. Then in one moment in rehearsals, one of the actresses started to speak an unknown language and I loved that, and I decided to make that scene three minutes long!

But then I thought that’s connected to your health or medicine, or something like that. But I wanted this hotel to be near the border, this was very important for me, and I thought it was a little bit crazy for me to put the sanatorium near the border, like, “Oh! My god, it’s too much!” So I was looking for a hotel, and then decided to find and unite different locations to create this hotel.

DA-S: It works perfectly well, it really adds to that mysterious sense and quality of the film. What are you working on next? ZK: I shot my next short film this summer, so a month ago [August 2020] we finished shooting. We were shooting on film so now we are processing, developing, scanning, and doing all the post-production for the next short. And now, in parallel with the post-production, I’m writing another short film.

DA-S: The performances from the two girls are very naturalistic. I just wonder, are they professional actors, or were they maybe friends of yours? How did you find your actors for the film? ZK: They are young Moscow actresses, they’re both playing in big Moscow theatres, but they’re in emerging groups – every theatre has a small, emerging group of young actors – but I noticed them while watching their theatre spectacle, I had my screenplay and that was my chance to work with them.

DA-S: Excellent! Well hopefully we’ll see that work as well, please do keep in touch with us and let us know when that’s ready. We’d love to see that. Thanks again for sharing your film with us and with the world, it was lovely speaking with you today. All the best on the festival circuit.

We had a lot of rehearsals, and I think that this freedom we have in the shots and when we were filming was only because of rehearsals; they were together all of the time. And, I’m sure that when you can touch someone physically and you don’t feel that shy or uncomfortable moment when touching someone, after that everything

ZK: Thank you very much! Rio was the winner of the Gold Frame and an Audience Award at Short Focus Film Festival 2020

Spar

FLTV

Anthony Vander, UK, 2019

emale participation in male-dominated sports has been a routinely undermined issue for centuries, typified variously by perennially and largely fruitless debates. In more recent years, cinema has – with varying degrees of success – aimed to redress the imbalance of power and representation in both sporting and political spheres, seen in the likes of films such as Bend It Like Beckham [Gurinder Chadha, UK, 2002], Million Dollar Baby [Clint Eastwood, USA, 2004] and Fast Girls [Regan Hall, UK, 2012]. Following in their boundary-breaking footsteps, Anthony Vander’s dramatic short, Spar, tells the story of Isabel, who is training for the day in a London gym while her usual facilities are under construction.

Similarly to Million Dollar Baby, the sport in question here is boxing, Eastwood’s working class, Midwestern locale replaced by the gritty east London streets of Shadwell. The handheld camera frames Isabel from behind as she walks into her temporary new training facility alone, after turning down her friend Denise’s offer of moral support. It is a subtle but assured visual choice, that adds a docurealist veneer to the dramatic fiction that will unfurl. Entering the building, she is met with the sounds of aggressive huffing, and the slapping of leather upon leather as several sweat-drenched men pound their mitts into taped up punching bags. It is an immediately intimidating situation, and Isabel and Denise’s earlier trepidation seems justified.

intention to integrate her is undone by a clumsily delivered and very public introduction. As onlookers, some of the men gradually begin to reveal more individual attitudes about her; one of them, Marcus (Andre Fyffe), juvenilely teases her from a distance, while his friend, Anthony (Jordan Pitt), appears exasperated by his boxing buddy’s jibes. It is a moment marvellously underscored by, perhaps, the film’s best scene: a one hundred meter sprint shot silently and in slow motion, each of the men’s natures disclosed by their competitive exhibition of strength, endurance and mental focus. The scene concludes with Isabel suggesting a sparring session with Anthony, who appears threatened by the prospect.

As is too commonly expected, a trio of men ogle her, equally weighing up her sexual and sporting prowess. It might not seem like it on the surface but they, too, are intimidated. The boxing instructor’s well-meaning

A training montage ensues (an obligatory inclusion in any self-respecting sports movie), here declaring more about the filmmaker’s liberal leanings – a kind of multicultural roll call of characters – than any

only competitively but also politically, an understanding at least for Anthony, whilst the others continue to banter childishly, suggesting that, whilst some minds can be open to conversion, there is still some way to go.

real narrative progression. That the cast consists of decidedly assorted cultures and led by a mixed-race woman is not an issue that is flagrantly signposted or exploited for any dramatic benefit but, rather, quietly celebrated, comfortably addressing a poetic and historical absence of empowered black women on the big and small screen.

Spar is a strong piece of work, with authentic and unforced performances that render the characters flawed but redeemable. We are not dealing with stock heroes and villains, just flawed humans. The cinematography (by Eduardo Jed Camara) is unobtrusive and understated, and the score is delicate in its melancholic minimalism, which neatly matches the ambivalent surroundings that inform Isabel’s complex emotional state. These are all very specific and considered choices that temper what, in less skilled hands, could have been a clichéd and overstated melodrama, and prove Vander to be an intelligent filmmaker with a bright future ahead of him.

The montage leads us neatly to the central sparring match between the two leads, the silent sequence feeling more balletic than belligerent, with the classical piano score providing a solemn weight and sense of import to a moment that is less about competition and more about acceptance. There is, of course, a clear homage to Raging Bull [Martin Scorsese, USA, 1980] at play here, a referential touchstone that is virtually impossible to ignore within this territory. The sequence is crafted and performed convincingly, ending in a respectful embrace, which sees the two now on equal footing, not

Dean Archibald-Smith

Ghost of a Chance

FLTV

Manes Duerr, USA, 2019

ever give up on your dreams. Many of us are told this repeatedly from a young age well into adulthood. Following a soon-to-be father on the brink of achieving his childhood aspirations, Ghost of a Chance poses the seldom-asked question: when should you give up? The film stars Emily Labowe and Nathan Varnson as two expecting parents struggling to make ends meet. When the latter has to choose between helping his girlfriend through a worrying stage of pregnancy or taking a stab at professional car racing, all three futures are at stake.

The short is effectively shot, flashing between the racing track and the family home. This presents the imbalance in the relationship well, portraying what Labowe’s character is giving up and what Varnson’s won’t. As an expensive looking sports car zooms effortlessly around the track, the pregnant girlfriend talks about a recurring nightmare in which, “all you want to do is just go somewhere. You don’t move or run or jump.” The juxtaposition between this fear of stasis and the luxury of driving fast just because you can highlights often gendered inequalities in relationships. This image is emphasised when Labowe’s character lingers before a mounted deer head on the

wall, eternally housebound. Similarly, this technique works well in depicting the risk of pregnancy. As the image flips between the roaring racetrack and a hot bath, it seems obvious which of the two is risking their lives. But when the scene jolts to a halt, it is the woman who’s in danger. The tension this causes between the characters is well depicted by a blazing row. Electric acting from both Varnson and Labowe, as well as a scorching script, successfully express the high octane emotions.

Despite the fact that the story seems to be sympathetic to women’s issues, it might have been more refreshing not to have cast a female character as the nagging, dream-crushing girlfriend. Gesturing to the modest kitchen, she berates him: ‘None of this is ours’, but it’s not quite clear why that is. Perhaps exploring the back story to their current situation a bit more thoroughly would give more substance to the situation we find them in, which would, in turn, make the emotional friction even more resonant.

As the film closes, their relationship remains unclear, yet the gloomy palette of darkening greys, blues, and blacks combined with an ominous piano do not suggest a happy ending. This feels appropriate – it’s not a happy story and it doesn’t have a simple solution. In a mere ten minutes, Ghost of a Chance manages to convey the unsolvable complications and deep injustices that occur in our everyday lives. Sally Roberts

Juck

Olivia Kastebring/Julia Gumpert/Ulrika Bandeira, Sweden, 2018

he final film to screen in the Generation 14-plus short film section at the Berlin International Film Festival 2018, and the programmers might just have saved the best until last with this audacious, punky and empowering performance documentary from Sweden.

Juck is a movement in more than one sense. On the one hand, a dance movement comprising of a simple and repeated forward thrusting of the hips, evoking a typically masculine sexual gesture. On the other, it is a political movement, a feminist manifesto conceived by six young women costumed in matching school uniforms who provocatively thrust along train platforms, in playgrounds, through tourist spots and on social media in an intimidating and mesmeric cavalcade. We witness the interactive performance group, as they gather up an army of pelvis-thrusting females of all ages, races, shapes and sizes, in public and online, and perform the ‘juck’ together as a conceptual assault on the pervading dominance of a chauvinistic patriarchy, and that vies to reclaim the sexual space as their own.

This is girl power like you have never seen it. Exploiting the technologies of webcams, selfie sticks and social media, Juck announces itself as a modernistic revolution. Through the confident subversion of dance traditions, these women aim to completely annihilate old-fashioned notions of female inferiority and the burdens of abuse, be they sexual, racial, intellectual, or emotional. Ultimately, Juck exists as a simultaneous form of celebration and protest, combining expressive ingenuity with ferocious physical energy, shaking up the way we think about gender and sexual identity. This is an important and engaging piece of work that will leave you inspired, bewildered, joyous, and thrusting the moment the credits start to roll. Long live Juck! Dean Archibald-Smith

well-made and stylish short film, Moving On comes to us from director Nyasha Hatendi. Some films exist primarily to examine or evoke a specific feeling or emotion. In the case of Moving On it is the grief of losing a loved one.

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Moving On

Nyasha Hatendi, USA, 2018

The film’s plot concerns a man named Steve (played by Elvis Nolasco) waiting in a diner, alone with his grief after his father’s funeral. Eventually, a priest who has a bombshell to drop joins him. Steve’s grief is primarily portrayed by the ambient noise of the diner – the music, the TV, coughing from another customer – becoming oppressive and overbearing, the slightest noise exacerbating his grief. Cinematographer, Jason Oldak, deserves praise. The cinematography is fantastic, immediately establishing how disconnected Steve feels from the world, as well as the dinginess but familiarity of the diner. Hatendi’s experience in the film industry is also evident in the quality of the direction.

The camera often lingers on close-ups of the actors to allow them to really dig into what the characters are feeling. Nolasco is a great anchor for the film as Steve, and Marianne Jean-Baptiste and Chet Anekwe both give strong support in small but memorable roles. Moving On has the air of a story that is both very personal and, at the same time, very relatable, as most of us have lost someone important to us. It is a visually memorable and emotionally resonate film that is sure to stick with the viewer for quite some time. Charlie Greep

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he 2011 Japan earthquake and tsunami is the inspiration behind this technically mind-blowing and visually powerful short performance film. Inori (Prayer) utilises state of the art face mapping and projection technology to explore the harrowing effects of the colossal natural disaster from which Japan has yet to fully recover.

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Inori (Prayer)

Nobumichi Asai, Japan, 2017

The video begins with two faces in blank expression as (projected) black tears begin to run from their eyes. The stuttered repetition of the electronic score matches perfectly the movement of the light caressing the two women’s faces as they both gently wriggle their fingers and hands upwards, perhaps symbolising the suddenly toxic contamination of the atmosphere within which they are imagined. The tears morph into skulls, the dancers’ countenances now resembling moving x-rays as the innocuous white backdrop violently flashes to a striking blood red.

Here the creeping techno rhythm finds its tempo and the skeleton-like dancers throw shapes and glower to the camera with deathly expressionlessness, reminding us of the tragic effects of the horrific radiation leaks that occurred following damage to a neighbouring power plant in Fukushima. In just one minute, Inori (Prayer) manages to be provocative, innovative, and considerate in a way that many films would struggle to achieve in twenty. The film is an outstanding accomplishment and was a popular favourite in the Short Focus Film Festival 2018 programme. Dean Archibald-Smith

hat comes to mind when you think of bulldogs? Faded tattoos stretched across grizzled biceps, multiple-ringed hands wrapped around half-drunk pints of ale, and the murmur of collective grumbling in a pub replete with sports television and squalid toilets. The image is so hyper-masculine that it was even used to front a brand of skincare for men, balancing the presumed femininity of a good moisturiser. What an alpha dog.

Bulldog

Kieran Stringfellow, UK, 2020

In Bulldog, award-winning writer and director Kieran Stringfellow subverts preconceived ideas not only about this old school emblem of manliness, but also of rough sleepers. Jumping between the present and the future, the film successfully plays with the audience’s presumptions about the main character, a homeless man on the brink of committing a violent crime. It is a difficult film to write about without giving it all away, but to do so would be a great disservice to both the talented director and the uninitiated viewer, so I’ll proceed with caution. The short opens with a gritty urban palette of icy blues and chilly greys – a colour scheme that pervades throughout the majority of the picture, interspersed only with the blood red of a flashing alarm. We see a man, or rather, part of a man. With extreme close-ups of grubby hands, worn trainers, and the sliver of a face in a shard of broken glass, Stringfellow cleverly avoids giving the viewer the full picture. And yet, we feel we know the protagonist already. As he purposefully shoplifts a hammer, our minds are made up: he is certainly up to no good. Notably, this scene is filmed entirely from behind showing only the back of his head, which is further obscured by a hood. Bulldog is also completely wordless – the audience is denied almost any access to the character’s inner self. The film then flips between the present and the future, before and after the mysterious crime is committed. This is effective in portraying our foregone conclusions: judging by what we’ve already seen, he might as well be a criminal already. When his misdeed is finally revealed, we realise how wrong we are. The final scene is wonderful in so many ways. Firstly, its unexpectedness is testament to Stringfellow’s fine filmmaking. Using the techniques discussed above, he hoodwinks us with our own prejudices. Although, watch it again and you’ll find carefully laid clues. Secondly, the wordlessness of the film stops being a tool to distance the audience from the character and becomes an aid to the intimacy of this moment. Terror turns to a tenderness fully expressed by the actor’s (Louis Brogan) physical gestures. The love and care with which he carries his loot powerfully conveys its value to him more than words ever could. Bulldog fantastically flips our ignorant assertions about both homelessness and brute masculinity, fostering empathy and affection where before there was only hostility and suspicion. Stringfellow and his production team, Block B Films, have won multiple festival awards including the Silver Frame at Short Focus Film Festival 2020 and, given the subtle sophistication of this short, they are well-primed to win several more. Sally Roberts

INTERVIEW Chewing the scenery: In conversation with Kieran Stringfellow, director of Bulldog. The following interview is a transcribed exerpt from a Q&A session as part of Short Focus Film Festival 2020.

Dean Archibald-Smith: I just wanted to start really simply by asking how the idea for the film actually came about.

DA-S: There’s no dialogue in the film at all. Did you always envisage the screenplay this way and, if you did envisage it in that way, why did you make that decision?

Kieran Stringfellow (pictured): I basically moved to Manchester a few years ago after university, it was my first time moving to the city, and I was kind of looking for the next film I wanted to make. I’d just finished my graduation film, which was a very traditional comedy short film, and I wanted to make my next film something that was completely different, something that would be the complete opposite, in a sense. And I guess one of the first things that sparked me about Manchester was the big homeless issue. I think when you go, you realise – considering the size of the city – it’s very prevalent, the amount of homeless people that you meet.

KS: Yeah, that was always the plan really. My last film was a comedy – very dialogue heavy, four characters around a table, a traditional type of film in a sense, and I kind of wanted to go: can I do the opposite of that? Let’s completely get rid of dialogue. And can we make a film based purely off what cinema is – which is image and sound – and use the image to tell the story, and take the audience through this very visceral journey through this one event, through cinematography and sound design? That was always the plan for this film, just to do the complete opposite of what we last did, and then see how that works. I think for me it’s more of an indication of where I want to go next... more visually stimulating films.

The thing that stuck with me was my kind of assumption straight away about homeless people. Everyday you come across them, and I think I was a bit disappointed with how I would jump to a conclusion about who they are and where they are in life and what not. I would jump to these conclusions of it being their fault, or them not being the best people, for example. I was very disappointed about those very stereotypical assumptions. So I think that’s where the idea originally came from. How could I make a film that used those cinematic tropes from the thriller genre and make the audience jump to conclusions, and at the end of it be completely different? It was a weird challenge on my own assumptions, which I was wasn’t very happy with.

DA-S: The protagonist, Aaron, is also the only person seen onscreen throughout the film. How difficult was it to coordinate the production and get those shots of empty public locations? KS: It was a very small crew. I already knew the locations I wanted in mind originally, so I knew that essentially – apart from some of the more city centre shots – it was going to be quite quiet, and I kind of wanted him to feel he really is on his own throughout the whole film, that he was ostracised in a sense. In some ways it was quite natural really; it was a two-day shoot and we just went around Manchester. It was a small set-up, a very small camera, and a very small-budget ‘run and gun’ style, and just going around the city and some of the other locations and shooting. It was all quite natural and organic.

DA-S: The film itself is a stunning achievement in so many ways. It’s interesting you bring up the idea of thriller tropes – what films or directors inspired you? KS: I think one of them was You Were Never Really Here [Lynne Ramsay, UK/USA/France, 2017]. It was a film that I watched whilst I was in Manchester. It’s a film that I think, visually, and how it used certain thriller tropes, I was kind of blown away by it. And I just love the way that you can use a certain object, like a hammer, that when people see that kind of object in a film, straight away they’re thinking a certain thing. I love that. I think there’s a great way as a filmmaker to play with that and maybe bend what the audience is thinking, and then actually it’s the complete opposite. So, I’d say definitely that film was a big one. There’s a French film called Sauvage [Camille Vidal-Naquet, 2018] that I watched before we shot the film. Stylistically, it was very similar in terms of getting a real feel for what it’s like to live quite rough. So there were a few films that really inspired the style. And Good Times [USA, 2017] by the Safdie Brothers was also another that we looked to in terms of how, stylistically, you can make these kind of films.

DA-S: I think the film manages to express film language in a very economical way – of course we’ve already spoken about the fact that there’s no dialogue, there’s use of only one major character throughout the film, it’s obviously only a short film. It feels very cine-literate is what I suppose I’m getting at, and I just wondered where filmmaking really began for you and how you fell in love with the idea? I always loved films as a kid; it’s something I was always infatuated with. I never really knew that you could make films – I came from quite a working-class background and my mum never told me you could make films. So I think, for me, I wanted to be an actor, and that kind of never happened and I went down a whole different course. Then I found film again in my teenage years, and that was where it started really, just through the love of films. Even then, though, my knowledge of films was more mainstream, I guess.

It was when I went to university that it really broadened my horizons, in terms of what cinema is and what you can do with it, and the language of cinema and how you can use that to manipulate audiences. It was definitely university film school that really started to [make me realise] I could do that. So, it was one of those things that I never really knew I could do until my late-teens, where I thought that’s something I could do potentially, and discovering it all. DA-S: Is there anything else you’re working on? What’s your next project? KS: Yeah, it’s actually here! [Points to a pin board neatly filled with sticky notes behind him]. I’m working on a script for another short film – it’s called Tow Truck, and it’s a film I’ve wanted to make for quite a while. I wanted to make it originally when I left university. It’s quite a personal story in some respects. I didn’t feel ready to do it at that point, so that’s why we did Bulldog; it was a bit of a simpler idea that was more open. So I think now we are ready to use a bigger budget, so we’re getting a budget together now and we’re hoping to shoot next year. It’s a very personal story about mine and my mum’s relationship. My mum was bipolar, so it’s kind of about growing up with a bipolar mother and the weird complexities of [being] a single mum and all that stuff. So I feel like now it’s the right time to do it and to make that step. So that’s what I’m thinking about next. DA-S: It sounds very exciting. Obviously, we’d love you to keep in touch and let us know how that’s going. Thank you for spending some time with us. We wish you all the best with this film and your future projects as well. KS: The festival looks great. Hopefully next year I can come as an audience member. It’s a shame that we couldn’t do it properly this year, but I’m excited to watch the films. It’s going to be great. Thank you for selecting the film, it’s great to be involved. Bulldog was the winner of the Silver Frame at Short Focus Film Festival 2020.

Tracing Coyotes – A Dog Crosses My Way Theresa Grysczok/Eeva Ojanperä, Germany, 2016

racing Coyotes – A Dog Crosses My Way is a mesmerising display of ingenuity. An exercise in stop-motion photography, imagist poetry and abstract sound, the film ponders on ideas concerning existentialism, physicality, and the universe. Where do we fit in? What makes us human? How are we different from and simultaneously the same as all things? Are we truly connected or is there something that separates us all?

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These are some of the questions that arise from the film’s poetic prologue as we are hurled towards the cosmos – animated lines connecting constellations, which then breathe life into a pair of hands that play Cat’s Cradle with a looped string. The back of a woman’s head and shoulders lower gently into a soft bed of fur, her long hair swept to one side, as she then disappears through the surface. The jittery electronic score (provided by Tobias Zarges) wields itself back and forth along a two-tone scale that offers simplicity within its dissonant textures, which then opens out into a gentler ebbing of a wavelike motif. Coming from the Sticky Frames production stable in Germany, Tracing Coyotes – A Dog Crosses My Way proved to be a well-loved inclusion by our audiences at our first edition of Short Focus Film Festival, and we are very excited to see what Grysczok, Ojanperä and the Sticky Frames team dream up next. Alison Girault

he notion that time has the power to change and heal is one that often emerges closely after a point of prior destruction, damage or pain, an idea that sits in direct opposition to the, perhaps, more skeptical perspective that history has a tendency to repeat itself. It is the paradox that exists firmly at the centre of The Hidden Injuries of Dreams, a reflective and poetic documentary from Giacomo Ecce.

reject him as an ‘outsider’ once the country began to settle into post-war complacency.

This experimental short film looks at immigration in early 20th century America from the point of view of a daughter (Katherine McGavin) remembering her father. As the narrator of the documentary, she contemplates the meaning of hope and the invisible injuries experienced by the immigrants that dreamt of a better future in the ‘land of opportunity’.

The film consists of archive footage of the narrator’s father making his way through daily life against the backdrop of industrial workers, bustling streets and the modern machinery of wartime America. It is mixed in seamlessly with modern footage shot on scratchy 8mm film and giving the film a dreamlike, hazy, and genuinely historical feel.

The narration feels confessional and reconciliatory as she tries to make sense of the hypocritical attitudes of a country that embraced her father’s contribution to the war effort and industrial economy, only to

At one point, the stirring and primal free jazz of John Coltrane’s ‘Ascension’ thunders over images of mountain forests viewed from a moving train, and the foaming waves of the sea from a boat, whilst the narrator remembers happy moments shared between she and her father.

The Hidden Injuries of Dreams moves with a languid and elegiac poise, ending on an assured note of optimism and, with its fleeting running time, leaves you feeling as though having awoken from a vivid dream. Alison Girault

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The Hidden Injuries of Dreams Giacomo Ecce, USA, 2017

Moroccan Blue Richard Paske, USA, 2018

ichard Paske’s approach of using composited imagery to breathe new life into decadeold jazz recordings is one he is experienced in. Moroccan Blue features many of the same hallmarks as his other films, for example Straange Attractors [USA, 2018]. As with this earlier effort, Paske (a musician and multimedia artist) superimposes images in a shifting collage over a live jazz recording, on which he plays as pianist. Unlike Straange Attractors, despite the free-form nature of the jazz performance we hear, the images are much more controlled and subdued. The pace of their movements and their transitions are greatly restricted, thus giving the images of Moroccan Blue an intriguing juxtaposition in their relationship with the more erratic music.

Paske’s piece serves as an ode to jazz pianist and composer Randy Weston, who established the African Rhythm Club in Tangier, Morocco. Paske confesses that when he saw Weston perform in 2017 he said, “Now I can die and go to heaven. I heard Randy Weston play Little Niles live.” Despite the huge impression Weston’s work appears to have made on Paske, the images he has chosen to accompany the performance are not directly related to Morocco. The four images Paske utilizes include: palm trees in a Culver City Albertson’s parking lot, palm trees in Santa Monica’s Palisades Park, a trellis at a Los Feliz taco stand and, finally, a pool of water in an urban park in downtown Los Angeles. Undeniably, there are times when the interaction of these simple images is wonderful to behold, for example around the two-anda-half-minute mark, the mixing of water creates an image that looks almost like lightning striking across crocodile skin. Paske’s images were processed using Lightroom and composited using Cyberlink PowerDirector, two bits of creative software he clearly

has a great working knowledge of. The audience applause at the opening of the performance does a fantastic job of reminding us that the music was performed in a physical, spatial location even whilst the images to go alongside it offer something far less corporeal. Paske’s chosen images communicate effectively the light tone and feel of the music; the calming holiday feel of Paske’s Californian reality – palms, sunshine, and water. These light, summery elements interact well with the languid blue tones that predominate across almost all of the sequences. The musical performance we hear from Paske and his colleagues is a real delight, and certainly enough to justify this film for anyone with a taste for jazz. Whether or not the juxtaposition of the speed and texture of the free-form jazz works alongside the more languid images, is one aspect that is open for debate. Those who enjoy the format of composited images alongside recorded live jazz performance would do well to track down and observe Paske’s other works – including Straange Attractors – as his recent work never disappoints. Sam Briggs

José

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João Monteiro, Portugal, 2019

ne family, a silver necklace, a dustbin lorry, and an icy lake are arguably all equally important characters in João Monteiro’s short masterpiece, José. Although this is a film that evades easy interpretation, themes of secrecy, trauma, and mourning are clearly interwoven in a story laden with symbolism.

What stands out throughout the film is a disquieting feeling that something is being said and withdrawn at the same time. The combination of the characters’ reticence, and the cold imagery of silver and a wintery lake suggest that there is something lying frozen beneath the surface. The heart of the story feels as though it is layered in ice. “Remember what I never confessed in silence,” is one of the eloquently enigmatic lines that capture this liminal space between hiding and revealing. The sexual scene between the older brother and a much older man opens up a lot of questions. Notably, this is the only scene that eschews the chilly palette of the rest of the film and is instead flooded with warm reds and pinks. Whilst this suggests the warmth of affection and passion, its context of buried trauma and family history make it more complex and more disturbing.

Although much of the story remains shrouded in words unspoken, there is a sense of drowning at the end of the short. The necklace lies half submerged in murky waters, and the brother steps through a doorway to meet a woman wearing a mourning dress. They embrace in front of a deep turquoise wall, and it’s almost as if they have submerged themselves in the frosty lake that features so heavily throughout the short. José is a quietly mysterious film that definitely merits several viewings. Monteiro’s use of symbolism is effective in communicating without saying too much. This is a director who seems to respect their audience’s intellect enough not to spell everything out, and while this is by no means relaxing entertainment, it is a piece of engaging and sensitive cinema. Sally Roberts

Reclaiming the Negative Mike Beech, UK/South Korea, 2020

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ince the Korean war ended in 1953, approximately 31,000 North Koreans have defected, taking the perilous journey across the southern border. Such numbers are a stark indictment of citizens’ desperation to flee one of the world’s most barbaric and oppressive political regimes. In Reclaiming the Negative, we hear from one such defector, Eun-Ju Kim, and from the photographer, Tim Franco, whose portraits have helped to capture incredible stories of courage like hers. Together they offer a devastating insight into a journey borne from desperation, inspired by a longing for freedom.

Loosely split into two parts, Reclaiming the Negative begins with an interview with Eun-Ju Kim, whose own father died of malnutrition within the totalitarian state’s poverty-ridden borders. The second half details the work of French-Polish photographer, Tim Franco, as he outlines the themes present in his work, and the inspirations behind his decision to take large format portraits of North Korean defectors. Hers is a story unique and shocking, the work of a political regime laid bare in this most illuminating of interview segments. His is a fascinating step-by-step guide of a photographic process that revolves around the development of Polaroid negatives. The ghostly results offer a fitting parallel that, in his words, communicate the simple fact that, “North Koreans in South Korea are not supposed to exist.” Throughout, director Mike Beech is careful to elevate the importance of Franco’s photographic process amidst the film’s interweaving stories. The very first shots meticulously detail the setting up of Franco’s specialised large format camera, a complicated and exacting process, alluding to the onerous development he will have to undergo for his final Polaroids. The extreme close-ups used feel incredibly intimate, the shot choice mirroring the deep insight that portraits themselves aim to capture. Adeptly, Beech juggles his task of introducing us not only to Kim and Franco, but also to the specialised nature of the work that has brought them together.

documentary dealing solely with faces captured in portrait. Here, Beech allows the viewer to take pause, allowing for Kim’s words to sink in, and for vital introspection to take place. Beech takes similar care when closing off Franco’s section, thus providing a coda for the piece as a whole. Cutting to black, we flick leisurely through six of Franco’s other portraits. Theirs are stories unheard, yet through their status as defectors, we feel their connection to Kim, shared experiences encouraging us to read into the faces before us, teasing out histories previously hidden. The atmospheric music that guides our finale is contemplative, as is the speed with which we leisurely flick through the portraits. Rightfully, at the close, we rest on our final portrait, Eun-Ju Kim – the shattering impact of her story the most vital takeaway.

Throughout it all, the pacing of the documentary is carefully balanced. Upon the culmination of Kim’s interview segment, we rest silently – Kim wandering through the streets, the backgrounds behind her blurred, and our focus solely on her. This continuous shot captures Kim gracefully in profile, affording a much welcomed variation of angles, so much of the

To Reclaiming the Negative’s viewers, Kim’s shocking revelations of early life as a citizen in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, and of her subsequent journey to escape, will likely prove unshakeable. The details of her lived experience are undeniably appalling. Anecdotes of extreme famine, defectors being caught and executed, and of early life as a beggar on the streets, are utterly devoid of sentimentalism. Instead they are presented as simple facts, albeit facts from a life utterly unimaginable to those without first-hand experience of the DPRK. Such fascinating insights make for a truly compelling narrative journey.

the force of Kim’s. As a pairing they are well chosen, leaving us satisfied with our short-term stay as voyeurs of their lives and livelihoods. Reclaiming the Negative is a film certain to leave a lasting impression on its viewers. Parties interested to learn more of Eun-Ju Kim’s fascinating journey can purchase her book, A Thousand Miles to Freedom, whilst those charmed by Franco’s photographic chronicle can seek out Unperson, published through the Magenta Foundation. With a relatively short runtime of twelve and a half minutes, it is unquestionable that Reclaiming the Negative’s insights are manifold, and its impact colossal.

As a subject of our fascination and respect, Eun-Ju Kim is well deserving of every second of screen time she commands. The relatively soothing nature of Franco’s section, comes to provide us with a remedying tonic for

Sam Briggs

arrots encapsulates a feeling that is felt by a select few all over the country during every season of Love Island [UK, 2015–]. Bergur Árnason’s surrealist Icelandic short documents a man’s struggle against society’s all encompassing addiction to carrots. Everyone is talking about them. Everyone is eating them. Everyone, that is, except him. This film is a highly amusing, highly effective look at feelings of loneliness and isolation. Árnason’s offbeat combo of dry humour and pure lunacy works wonderfully to tell the story of rebellion, peer pressure and root vegetables. Sigurður Traustason’s deadpan embodiment of the downtrodden protagonist is integral to the film’s success. What he really triumphs at is not necessarily comic timing, but tuning into the subtle humour of the situation. His awkward encounters and loathing of the status quo could be compared to similarly surreal characters from literary history, such as Dostoevsky’s underground man and particularly Kafka’s unfortunate Joseph K. As well as casting, Árnason clearly has an eye for detail. Small comic hints can be found throughout the film, that exacerbate the inescapable obsession with carrots. After being harangued by a carrot-wielding colleague, the man escapes to a park to find an orange bench. Returning from an (orange) drink with his soon to be exgirlfriend, he walks among bright orange handles to find a seat on the bus. These carefully placed touches are not to be underestimated, and make what is already a cleverly devised film even more sophisticated. Although it is already bonkers to begin with, the plot soon slips the bonds of simple comprehension. Half reality, half television show, it is hard to work out has happened to our carrot hating hero. This is not necessarily a criticism: the film is evidently not aiming to merely go from A to B, and the obscurity of the story means that it lingers for a long time in the mind. Whatever conclusion you come to about the final scenes, what is certain is that Carrots is a humorous, thoughtprovoking and, above all, well crafted examination of an individual’s tormented existence on the fringes of society. Sally Roberts

Carrots

Bergur Árnason, Iceland, 2019

The Painting

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Boldizsár CR, Italy, 2018

These are renaissance spaces, carefully ornamented by a few stylistically apposite twentieth-century inductees: a rotary telephone, some faux-flame electric chandeliers, and the modern silhouettes worn by model Elisa Sednaoui – these from the Tory Burch fall-winter collection, a Marrakech-Chelsea inspired line featured here as per the film’s Vogue Italia-commissioned brief.

ewn from the drawing-room interiors and low classicist skylines of Venice, the images in Boldiszár CR’s  The Painting are immediately seductive. You even wish certain would linger longer, as with the opening wide framing of a drawing-room looking out over cathedral domes, terracotta roofs, and minarets, light through a stone balcony accenting the deep furnishing and gold-fretted wallpaper within. It elapses barely a second before being shuffled along in this procession of quiet, alluring pictures.

Sednaoui spends the time waiting for, then searching out, a mysterious painting, in a lightly avant-garde story she leads with subtle, languid range, that pairs Leon Jean-Marie’s persistent, curious, string-forward score. The denouement impels a reflective approach to beauty and desire, and is of apiece with the film’s construction, in which the simple raw materials of location, actor and costume are organized with delicate, leisurely affect.

Cinematographer Marcell Rev has much to work with and gets a tune and a half out of this already maniacally documented city. His widescreen compositions work fluently in interior spaces as bright sunshine invades luxuriously to glitter around lounge chair edges, or pick out the wire mesh details on a baroquely finished vent.

Thom Carter