SHORT FOCUS - Issue 4 by framelight

SHORT FOCUS

The world’s premier short film journal.

Issue 4

‘The Lonely Orbit’ Jul-Sep 2021

www.framelight.org

#ShortFocus @framelightorg

The notion of isolation has dominated our collective conscious for the best part of the last year, and the coronavirus pandemic will be justifiably singled out as the culprit. But it would be preposterous to suggest that this sense did not exist previously; it has simply been magnified. For instance, convincing evidence of technology’s divisive effects is clear – cyber warfare, internet trolls, the dark web, video and music piracy, and an endless catalogue of media platforms that tend to serve as a breeding ground for social and psychological disorder. But, of course, we must not forget the flip side of the virtual coin, the wonders that technology has gifted us too – one-click shopping, cloud storage, space travel, streaming, global networking, virtual reality, artificial intelligence... The list goes on. Whether positive or negative, microcosmic or macrocosmic, the impact of technology on our lives has been profound. Our featured short, The Lonely Orbit (p. 20), smartly and beautifully explores this very sentiment, capturing the fraught contradictions of a world equally fractured and sutured by humankind’s scientific interventions. Although coincidental, many of the films featured in this issue appear to understand and be informed by the contradictory structure of our increasingly technologised democracy, coaxing out our fears, paranoia, anxieties, and desires, and surfacing them publicly, betraying the premise of privacy, convenience and security upon which many of our gadgets are designed. Amongst our team here at FRAME LIGHT, you will certainly encounter your fair mix of luddites and technophiles, but one thing does unify us: We believe in the power of short film. Editor: Dean Archibald-Smith Creative Directors: Dean Archibald-Smith, Aya Ishizuka Contributors: Sam Briggs, Wendy Brooking, Fung Ying Cheng, Mia Parnall, Sally Roberts, Will Whitehead.

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.

Gum

FLTV

Jacob Reed, USA, 2020

magine stumbling onto an idea, an idea for a consumer-based product so ubiquitous that it has the potential to change the consumer landscape forever; a product ready to steamroll through the economy, creeping into the houses and the pockets of every family in every country, in every continent of the world. Now imagine that that idea is gum. And, with no one on the planet having ever put these minty chews into their mouths before, it’s time to pitch the idea.

In this hilariously improvised romp, entrepreneur, Anne, has the intimidating task of selling her latest creation to Silicon Valley big shot, Becky. So, what’s the catch? Well, the catch is that despite her apparent engagement and openness to being converted, this particular mogul is struggling to wrap her brain around how this mysterious new product (chewing gum), really works. And frankly, who can blame her?

archetypal head in the cloud’s dreamer contrasting nicely with the effortless ease of Drysdale’s success story businesswoman, Becky, everything about the pair’s joint performance feels natural. Whilst Barrett’s manic hand gestures betray both her nervousness and boundless enthusiasm, Drysdale’s languid demeanour hints at a businessperson comfortable in a world of six figure salaries.

Gum is hysterical from start to finish, the decision to work from an entirely improvised script paying instant dividends. Performers, Suzi Barrett and Rebecca Drysdale, as Anne and Becky respectively, make for an irresistible pairing who contrast splendidly in their chosen performance styles. With Barrett’s Anne as your

The quality of the performances on display should really come as no surprise, as between them they have penned and starred in some of America’s most successful modern television comedies, including Arrested Development [2003–], How I Met Your Mother [20052014], and Key and Peele [2012-2015]. Borne straight

driven home through the closing credits. One after another we cycle through different graphics, utilising the font, colouring, and designs that have come to embody the world’s most recognisable chewing gum brands. Whether it be the iconic green 5 of ‘5’ gum, the green, yellow, and red zebra of ‘Fruit Stripe’, or the doubleended arrow of Wrigley’s ‘Doublemint’, it seems clear this passion project has been borne from a team who both revere and detest fresh breath-inducing, pavementstaining gum. Gum has the potential to bring laughs to any film festival programme. Its dialogue is exquisitely funny, causing unflattering guffaws to involuntarily leave your mouth at every newly improvised line. In her desperation to gain desperately needed financial backing, Anne bellows, “the world is the market!” an assertation that is sure to give film festival selection committees the world over something to chew on. out of theatre improv 101, Becky is continually receptive to Anne’s pitch, despite the apparent ridiculousness of the attempts to pitch a kind of “minty, rubber cement.” Relentlessly, Anne attempts to successfully explain a product that’s “like food, but it’s not food,” much to the bemusement of its potential suitor. Together, Barrett and Drysdale effortlessly feed off each other, bringing a unique angle to director Jacob Reed’s inspired farce.

Sam Briggs

Stripped down to its bare bones, it becomes hard to fully comprehend how a product that “sounds cold”, you can’t swallow, and that doesn’t come in Becky’s requested flavour of pasta, can really have come to have taken off so universally. The scale with which chewing gum has come to truly dominate the market is lovingly

Strangers

FLTV

Kevin Lombardo, USA, 2020

ew York City is a well-loved subject for cinema, and the video directed by Kevin Lombardo for singer Mallory Merk’s new single Strangers [USA, 2021] is rich with the aesthetic weight of hundreds of other visions of the iconic locale from times gone by. Fire escapes, intersections, and other mundane spaces take on a poetic quality in this ode to the transitory nature of love and life in the city.

Composed of shots of passing trains, wide urban vistas, and impressionistic close-ups of the singer herself, the film flirts with intimacy as much as it does alienation and distance. The city is all atmosphere, with the streets lit alternately by a cold sunlight and the bluered glow of neon signage. Heavy with nostalgia, the grain of Kodak film conveys the potency of air flavoured with moisture, electricity, and smog.

And yet the film speaks principally to the elusive feeling that the landscape of a restless city inspires – where possibilities for intimacy present themselves, but pass one by just as quickly. Merk sings of the sweet anxieties of slowly letting oneself be perceived by a new lover, while the camera approaches her often rather shyly, peeking through silhouettes of strangers, shop signs or market stalls. Graphic, Hitchockian aerial shots become dramatic zooms that home in on the singer walking down a busy road or in a crowded park. The presence of this phantom ‘look’ materialises the memory of past meetings and entanglements which, for all its agitated motion, the familiar corners of the city can’t seem to shake.

Documenting the kind of encounters made possible by the structure of the city, Lombardo’s film and its accompanying song paint quietly and poignantly a picture of romance without rootedness, laced with the fragile hope of something stable surviving in a fast-paced world. Mia Parnall

The Pearson Twins

FLTV

Jonathan Braue, USA/UK, 2019

t is often said that twins carry a special bond of sorts. The eponymous duo of this documentary short have that alongside a rare genetic disorder called neurofibromatosis. Whilst they both have type 1 neurofibromatosis, they have been affected in different ways. Adam is facially disfigured, while Neil has short-term memory loss and epilepsy. Together, they are the main focus of The Pearson Twins, which not only highlights how the genetic disorder has affected them as brothers, but also how their experiences have encouraged them to be their best selves as individuals.

The documentary short follows Adam and Neil from the large South London town of Croydon. At the beginning of the film, director of photography, Cody Cochran, often pairs them together in each frame as they do many activities such as playing pool, walking around their hometown, or just having a laugh. These shot compositions emphasise the ordinariness of their lives amongst many others living in contemporary London. It is when the subject of neurofibromatosis eventually comes into the frame that the differences between the two become more apparent; as the documentary dives deeper into their pasts, the twins start to become more separated not only in the framing, but also in their lives. Editor, Joseph Talbot, skilfully interweaves glimpses of childhood photographs with individual interviews, Neil and Adam’s recollections of their past, adolescence, and adulthood unveiling the various challenges they’ve each faced in spite of their shared history. This is compounded by interviews with their mother, Marilyn, who has witnessed the effects of neurofibromatosis as her sons grew up and how it affected her as a parent. In these moments the music is noticeably absent, providing an approach that is not only respectful to their history but also allows them to present their lives in a matter-of-fact way. This is a sensible decision by Chent Steinbrink as the use of music could have easily swayed the frank moments of the family’s history into melodramatic territory. So, when the music does kick in, it bookends moments of triumph both personal and shared, rather than overshadowing them.

Within Neil and Adam’s separate interviews, their differing personalities also come to light. Adam appears to be the more talkative and extroverted brother as noted by the clips of his public appearances included in the documentary short. Some may also recognise him as one of the actors in Johnathan Glazer’s Under the Skin [UK, 2013]. Neil is quieter, often providing a perceptive outlook when detailing his lived experience, while thinking of his brother. One of the most memorable sections of the short is where the camera focuses upon different parts of their faces in extreme close-ups. While the impact of neurofibromatosis on Adam is more apparent at first glance, the short also reveals the unassuming effects the genetic disorder can have upon Neil’s experiences. As Adam says, “This is the kind of bizarre thing about NF, which is why all this research is really important, but there’s no kind of one-size-fits-all model.” Overall, this documentary short and the people in it are both informative and inspiring. The Pearson Twins brings attention to neurofibromatosis through the perspectives of Adam and Neil, acknowledging that while they share the same surname and DNA, they are not simply homogenised by what they have in common. Rather, it illuminates their individuality both in what they’ve been through in their past, but also how Neil and Adam have set their own individual paths moving forward. Fung Ying Cheng

Being Michael

FLTV

Joseph Taylor/Jamie Tahsin, UK, 2020

oseph Taylor and Jamie Tahsin’s Being Michael is a riveting watch, exquisitely portraying the mundane peculiarity of celebrity impersonation. Its subject is simple – a character study of Jay Styles, a Michael Jackson tribute act attempting to find work following the Leaving Neverland [Dan Reed, UK/USA, 2019] documentary – but the filmmakers find incredible depth in the psychology of not only Styles but the world in which he performs. Being Michael opens the door to a world that is equal parts tragic and triumphant.

contradictory nature of celebrity impersonation. The filmmakers allow this contradiction to permeate the film, never quite settling on how exactly to portray Styles: is he a delusional narcissist, or a born performer? Both are equally present, and both are allowed room to coexist.

Being Michael is essentially a fly-on-the-wall style film, following Jay Styles as he prepares for an audition to perform at a holiday camp. Although this premise has room to be somewhat comedic (as it would be in a The Office-style mockumentary), the camera does not mock Styles. In fact, it succeeds primarily by allowing Styles to speak for himself. The filmmakers are off-camera, only rarely heard interjecting or asking questions. This hands-off approach works wonders for understanding who Styles is as a person, instead of seeing him simply as an impersonator. He is funny and incredibly genuine, with Taylor and Tahsin’s documentary style allowing him to express himself in a way that doesn’t feel forced or loaded. The strange contrast between the way Styles sees himself and the way we see him is never a cheap joke, but a fascinating insight into the inherently

With this paradox in mind, the moments where Being Michael truly soars occur when Styles performs. We initially see, in horrible clarity, the cheap setups and empty venues he is booked into, but the negative connotations melt away as he takes to the stage. For a few seconds, Styles transcends and we transcend with him, experiencing his work with dreamy reverence and allowing him to become Jackson. The incredible camerawork in these moments, following Styles out onto the stage and swirling around him, accentuates the

The film’s central premise – studying the impact of Leaving Neverland on Styles’ career – hangs over the film, initially brushed off but ultimately rearing its head in an almost fatalistic manner. It is not central to the film however, and is definitely not where the beauty of Being Michael lies. Instead, the strange contrast between Styles’ self-image and his reality forms a complex and emotional study of belief and ambition, which is at once ordinary and enormous. Being booked at holiday camps is like a stadium tour for Styles, and the film makes it impossible not to share his genuine passion for the art. The pathos and honesty with which Taylor and Tahsin approach their subject matter ensure that Being Michael does the performer justice, because for Styles, being Michael is not about fame or wealth, but about love.

magic of his performance. Jay Styles truly believes in himself, and as a result, we believe in him too. Despite the apparently depressing reality of his life – playing half-empty working men’s clubs and generally garnering ambivalence from the public – he thinks of himself as a star. In allowing him to indulge in those fantasies, never once questioning the fame Styles thinks he has, Being Michael brings us around to his way of thinking. The oddities of his personal life peppered throughout the film – his agent doubling as his landlord, his apparent nonchalance towards Michael Jackson himself – add to the rich, complex tapestry of a deeply interesting man. The hugely generative and astute interviews with Styles ensure not a single minute is wasted, and every single thing Styles says is fascinating and in some way revelatory.

Will Whitehead

The Lonely Orbit

FLTV

Benjamin Morard/Frederic Siegel, Switzerland, 2019

n the exquisitely animated The Lonely Orbit, Fredric Siegel and Benjamin Morard explore the debilitating impact of vast interconnectivity on basic human relationships. This short and sweet film is expertly crafted, radiating powerful emotion in every aspect of its creation and leaving warmth and compassion in its wake.

The film follows a satellite technician who lives and works in solitude, experiencing social life through old videos on his phone and working silently alongside his co-workers who also do not talk. He is responsible for the wellbeing of a single satellite, which is part of a global network of communication, a responsibility that is essentially no different to any office job. One day, the satellite malfunctions after the technician leaves work, and crashes to earth. In the resultant fallout, the network collapses and the technician sees his friends in person again.

We are immediately made aware, as the title card disappears and is replaced with the expanse of outer space, of a sense of enormous loneliness. The expert sound design by Noisy Neighbours, Kilian Vilim and Thomas Gassmann, is rich and immersive while on earth, but wisely cuts to complete silence in the establishing shots of space. The juxtaposition between the sounds allows us to experience the chasm of separation between Earth and space, and introduces us to a central analogy: the cosmic isolation of outer space as a reflection of the protagonist’s personal alienation.

protagonist rewatches the video of his friends on his phone during lunch, a small red glow from the screen encircles his face, creating a microcosm of joy and happiness. We then cut to a wide shot of the canteen, where enormous data graphs of space are playing on impossibly huge screens. The score swells, and although everything suggests that this ought to inspire awe, a sense of emptiness pervades the scene. The joyful glow of our protagonist’s phone is lost, and an overwhelming nothingness replaces it.

As Luc Gut’s emotional score kicks in, we watch the satellite in operation and understand that the film is not a testament to the glory of science, but to the melancholy of the modern world. The satellite, with its watchful eye, feels almost human in its endeavours, and we can’t help but feel sorry for it. Cutting to our actual human protagonist, we see that there is a symbiosis between him and the satellite. Both are alone, at an enormous distance from everything around them, and reliant on one another. The protagonist’s screen mirrors the satellite’s closely, and here the animation by Morard and Siegel smartly and subtly suggests congruence between the two without overtly stating the case. This kind of visual storytelling abounds in The Lonely Orbit, enriching its narrative and demonstrating the directors’ skill. For instance, as the

Colour is used magnificently throughout The Lonely Orbit, despite the limited palette, with its reds and blues coexisting at times, and at others diametrically opposing one another. When the satellite malfunctions, the scene is draped in dark, cold blues. The sadness we feel as its camera searches desperately for contact is exacerbated

a figurine of the bleak, depressed Marvin the Paranoid Android from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy [Garth Jennings, UK/USA, 2005] on the protagonist’s desk, a symbol of resolute cynicism in the face of technological wonder. This subtle reference reminds us that technological progress does not equate to human happiness, and that satisfaction must be found beyond the remit of science. Indeed, the satellite itself is granted a kind of human emotion, transcending its machine status in its desire to embrace the Earth. The distinctly emotional core of The Lonely Orbit suggests that we can find happiness despite technology’s omnipotence, not as a result of it. Even in the face of alienation and isolation, there is hope for compassion.

by the unforgiving and almost monochromatic world around it. We truly feel its isolation. Conversely, in one of the film’s most emotional scenes, the background becomes entirely red as the broken satellite imagines embracing the Earth. The red here signifies a kind of connective warmth, evoking the exact opposite emotions to those cold blues earlier in the film. Siegel and Morard’s mastery of colour here informs and expands the film’s themes, elevating the piece emotionally. The Lonely Orbit is a compassionate film, using the framework of science fiction to highlight the value of human interaction. It is science fiction a la Andrei Tarkovsky, demonstrating the tangible negative impact scientific progress can have on human relationships. The film plays with the genre almost ironically, employing its signifiers and tropes perversely. For instance, there is

Will Whitehead

INTERVIEW Lost in space with Frederic Siegel, codirector of The Lonely Orbit. shaping our behaviour and actions today! So for us it feels more like a psychological drama, telling an intimate story about a human issue, where it just happens that the main characters are a satellite and its operator. In addition we included fantastical and abstract elements to the film, basing the story more in surrealism and fantasy.

Will Whitehead: The Lonely Orbit feels quite timely, with its themes of isolation and distance. How did this project come into being? And why now? Frederic Siegel (picured left): Actually, I developed this story shortly after graduating from Lucerne School of Art & Design in Switzerland with my short film Ruben Leaves in 2015, so way before the Coronavirus crisis hit the globe. I realised how hard it was to keep friendships alive over a distance. After being together almost everyday during our studies, me and my friends suddenly followed our own paths, moving on to new lives and different cities. Most of our communication automatically shifted into the digital realm. Somehow this made me feel like a satellite; being constantly connected in a virtual sense, but actually separated over huge distances. I’m figuratively floating in an orbit around my own friends, who are holding me close with their gravitational pull and I’m anxious not to cut the digital cord, which is tethering me to them.

Visually we are very much inspired by sci-fi though. We are both huge space geeks, paying homage to some of our favourite stories that are based in space. The beautiful, larger-than-life imagery of space was just perfect to emulate this feeling of loneliness we were trying to convey.

I went on developing the script with Benjamin Morard (pictured right), and together we tried to visualise this feeling in the story of a satellite operator and his satellite, both trapped in their literal and metaphorical orbits, longing for real, physical connections. The film had its festival premiere in 2019. So the connection to the Coronavirus pandemic is purely accidental.

WW: The film seems to suggest that as long as technology dominates our lives, we are alienated from one other. Is that fair? With that in mind, do you think that The Lonely Orbit ought to be seen as a political text?

WW: There are references to science fiction in The Lonely Orbit - I saw a Marvin the Paranoid Android figure and an Apollo 13 poster. Do you think of the film as science fiction? FS: We think The Lonely Orbit is a mix of different genres, with science fiction actually being the least relevant. Science fiction is usually trying to predict a future that is shaped by a certain kind of new technology. The technology of smartphones and digital communication in The Lonely Orbit are already present and thriving,

FS: I don’t know if it’s fair or not, it’s just my observation of what’s happening to me and the people around me right now. Technology started dominating our lives long before the Coronavirus crisis. With the rise of smartphones, communication technology created an urge in humans

to be permanently and globally connected, developing a need to grow and maintain a bigger and bigger social circle through social media and messaging apps. I think the bigger these circles get, the harder it gets to maintain meaningful friendships, nurturing the mentioned feeling of alienation. Nonetheless, I love that everyone I know

red, blue, and white specifically?

basically lives in the palm of my hand right now and I can reach out to them anytime I feel lonely. On the other hand, I never felt that a digital conversation is a replacement for a real-live, loosey-goosey exchange of thoughts over a few beers in a smokey pub. With that in mind, I don’t see The Lonely Orbit as a political text.

cinematic blue, orange and white palette, additionally inspired by the dawn of computer graphics, where restricted colour palettes had to be used, due to the low amount of memory capacity. In general, I always try to play with colours and use them in an unfamiliar way. In The Lonely Orbit for example, we use a warm, dark blue for the usually cold, pitch-black space setting, to make space feel like a welcoming, cozy place. In the satellite control-room on the other hand, the clinical

The concept of limited colours is initially based on my previous film Ruben Leaves, where I used a bold blue and yellow colour scheme. For The Lonely Orbit we tried to create a softer and more graceful look with a more

WW: The animation is gorgeous, and I love the use of colour. What made you restrain the colour scheme to

white colour is dominating in order to create a sterile, impersonal environment. WW: The sound design and score complement the film so well that they feel inseparable from one another. What was the process like for achieving this? FS: From the beginning, sound and music played a crucial role for us. We started working with our sound designers Kilian Vilim & Thomas Gassmann and our musician Luc Gut in the very early stages of production, asking them to add first drafts of soundtrack while we were still editing the animation. This way we were able to have kind of a back-and-forth conversation, responding to each others edits, reacting to each others ideas numerous times during the whole period of production. This was a great way to perfectly balance all the three elements (film, sound, music). In general, sound plays a very important part in the film. Most of all, the mix of voices on the satellites channels and in the control room on earth. They convey the overstimulation of digital communication, while the absence of sound really emphasises the loneliness of both the operator and the satellite, when they lose their connections. For the music, we agreed early on that we want to have a very minimalistic, synth-based soundtrack, inspired by electronic music pioneers like Laurie Spiegel. The simple and repetitive sounds mimic routine and the cold side of the story, while also having a warm and melodic sub-tone to represent human connection.

from their expertise. It’s great to work in a group, where everyone brings another strength to the table, benefitting the whole team. In the case of The Lonely Orbit it was great to produce the film with our own production studio, working with Marwan Eissa, our friend and collaborator at Team Tumult. We already built up a lot of trust and good communication.

The final track is actually an existing piece of music called “Seabed Meditation“ by Norm Chambers, which we discovered in an early stage of the development process. We fell in love with the song and decided to use it in the film, as it fits the ambiguous, melancholic climax just perfectly.

WW: What would you like audiences to take away from watching The Lonely Orbit?

WW: Team Tumult is a very collaborative and communal studio. How has collaboration informed and shaped your work?

FS: The initial aim of the film was to make people more aware of their use of modern communication technology and the impact it actually has on their behaviour. On one hand everyone can feel permanently connected and loved, on the other hand the connections are very fragile and superficial and can’t really satisfy your need

FS: The best thing about working in a collective is being able to share your personal knowledge and skills with the other members and in return being able to profit

for real human connection yet. It seems that especially young people started to think about this, as the film was screened in a lot of youth programs and received a bunch of awards from youth juries. I think we need to realise, now more than ever, that digital connections are not replacements for real connections. They are just supposed to be handy tools, helping us to stay in touch with a real human on the other end. They are not the connections themselves. They are not keeping us from feeling less lonely.

It’s a story about two police officers, investigating weird incidents happening in an apartment block, triggered by a little boy’s excessive TV consumption. I’m writing and directing it by myself and it will be produced by Marwan Abdalla Eissa at Team Tumult again.

WW: Finally, is there anything in the pipeline we can expect from Team Tumult or either of you individually?

The Lonely Orbit is available to watch at www.framelight.org/fltv

Benjamin is dedicating his time more on commissioned film projects and developing new business strategies of how to combine passion projects and commissioned work in the future of Team Tumult.

FS: I’m in the middle of developing a new short film, for which we received development fundings in Switzerland.

ll hail the greasy spoon! This is the message of Rolfin Nyhus’s charming six-minute short, Two Down. Set in a classic London café, three men try to solve a crossword clue amidst the pleasant fug of chip fat and frying bacon. Brilliant acting and an unexpectedly fabulous use of labels made this short one to look out for at the Short Focus Film Festival 2019.

Two Down

Rolfin Nyhus, UK, 2019

The opening credits are a treat of pastel coloured symmetry, as the crew and cast’s names flash up amongst offers of full fry-ups and corned beef. Who knew that liver, bacon, chips, and peas for £4.25 could ever look so good? Diggsy (Chris Anderson) and Derek (Richard Stephenson Winter) are wonderfully and fittingly drab. It is almost as if the grease from the food has seeped into their skin, hair, and Derek’s old, battered coat. These two endearing characters are part of the film’s integral triumph: the perfect encapsulation of the greasy spoon atmosphere. Ryan Laccohee is also fantastic as the surly builder and unexpected font of knowledge.

As each character enters the café, the relations between them change ever so slightly – note Diggsy’s boyish nerves as a sophisticated young woman orders the Mediterranean platter, or Derek’s rise to a great British pedant when his intellectual prowess is challenged by the builder’s expertise on martial arts. This gives a loveable rendition of the loose relations between strangers in cafes, not only in London but all around the world. The simplicity of Nyhus’ short works incredibly well and, what’s more, it is set off by the loveliness of the kitsch setting and brilliant onscreen chemistry. What a fitting love letter to a long unsung pillar of British culture. Sally Roberts

eabreeze is a poignant and heartbreaking glimpse into the immediate aftermath of tragedy. The film, depicting the breakdown of a drugaddicted woman who has recently miscarried, is shot sensitively but unflinchingly. Drenched in atmosphere and beautifully shot, director Fatty Soprano draws the viewer in, placing them directly in the centre of a sympathetic and powerful depiction of a woman in crisis.

FLTV

Seabreeze

Shawn Vasquez & Fatty Soprano, Canada, 2021

As the film opens, we are immediately treated to what feels like the warmest nostalgia. The credits overlay beautifully composed shots of an autumnal city, all filtered to look like grainy, 1970s film stock. The use of Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune’ in this opening sequence, however, brings the film’s emotions to the surface immediately and leaves them there, threatening to spill over at any moment. We are immediately struck by the contrast between beauty and sadness, a motif which characterises Soprano’s film. The suffering present in the film unravels itself through stark images and quick cuts, fragmenting the events that led up to the present moment. Switches between colour and black-and-white suggest perhaps memory, perhaps fantasy. The short scenes of the mother’s miscarriage and drug addiction are brutal and crystal clear, forcing us to confront their horror. A particularly striking moment sees the mother walking a dark street, blood covering her face. She initially maintains a neutral expression, but helplessly dissolves into sobs. Each of these moments contribute to the sense of being overwhelmed and the impossibility of escape. Vasquez and Soprano’s wonderful direction and editing place us inside the mother’s mind, confused and grief-stricken, looking for a way out.

The return of ‘Clair de Lune’ at the film’s climax emphasises the bittersweet nature of the hallucinated meeting between mother and daughter; a moment of beauty tinged by the sadness of its inevitable collapse. This final scene is where Shelby Handley shines, her emotion understated but tremendously impactful. There is a palpable ache in their conversation, a desperate desire for things to be different, that encapsulates the heartbreak of the film. The possibility of something better, something beautiful, that can never be. In this brief scene, the film expertly navigates the denial of grief and the hopelessness of clinging to an alternate reality. The ending verges on sentimental at times, but wisely avoids becoming too bogged down in the interaction between mother and daughter. The directors are not interested in exploiting sadness, wringing it out and hitting the audience in the face with it, but in the devastating “almost” of a miscarriage. Seabreeze is a difficult watch. Equal parts beautiful and horrifying to behold, Vasquez and Soprano place us directly in the centre of grief. We empathise wholly with the mother, experiencing her suffering as if it is happening to us, and wishing with her that everything had turned out differently. Vasquez and Soprano do well to involve us so directly, navigating tricky subject matter delicately without ever condescending to the viewer or to the mother. Seabreeze deftly depicts the melancholia of imagined happiness in the face of death, leaving us with a desire to cherish the joy of life and to empathise with those who can’t. Will Whitehead

or countless generations artists have borrowed liberally from the work of their predecessors, creatives grateful to stand on the shoulders of giants in their personal pursuit of artistic perfection. Maj Jukic’s latest short film, Dear Mr. Burton, is no different, offering a passionate ode to some of America’s modern literary horror greats. Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft, for example, are given respectful nods, referenced continually in the creation of this coming-ofage fairy tale. But as our young protagonist, Tim Malloy, wades through a lonely tide of teenage hormones, a special place is reserved for modern gothic fantasy lynchpin, Timothy Walter Burton.

Dear Mr. Burton Maj Jukic, UK, 2020

Tim Malloy is like countless misunderstood and slightly peculiar children, hormonal and dramatic – baggy handme-downs cloaking a brooding emo’s heart. A disturbed young creative, Tim exists predominately in a world of his own creation, inserting his own drawings and stories into an environment he feels is absent of meaningful connection. Tim’s abhorrence for the very idea of love is further exacerbated as he struggles to marry his nihilistic outlook with his growing infatuation for one Hermione Bloom. Scared to leave his comfort zone and confront his feelings, Tim continues to retreat deeper into the fantasy worlds he has created. That is until one day, an ocean breeze carries his heartfelt sketches into the path of the butter-wouldn’t-melt Hermione, the antithesis to our moody Tim. Reeling from the embarrassment, Tim channels his feelings of despair further into his art, until he discovers his most revealing work may well have been received differently than he had led himself to believe... Between young actor, Joe Smith, and director, Maj Jukic, a highly believable account of adolescent anguish has been created. A mirror held up to the experience of teenage years spent on the peripheries of infantile playground culture. Tim is a sullen and introspective child, and Smith’s bony, almost elven face makes him well suited to such a morose performance. From a directorial standpoint, well timed use of the iconic dolly zoom effect, when Tim’s drawings are first seen by others, grants us a captivating insight into his all-consuming humiliation. Likewise, Tim’s inner turmoil is brought further to life through editing. As Tim wanders through his seaside town, overlays of his face serve to blur the vision, indicating how Tim’s world has been rocked by the monumental disgrace of having teenagers of the opposite sex lay eyes on his illustrations.

be ravens’ feathers as a nod to Edgar Allen Poe, “drink me” potions as a curtsey to Alice in Wonderland, or a copy of Alan Moore’s Batman: The Killing Joke as suggested additional reading material.

Dear Mr. Burton views somewhat like an origin story for the godfather of the modern-day film fairytale, and the king of family friendly spook, Tim Burton, notable for works such as Beetlejuice [USA, 1988], Edward Scissorhands [USA, 1990], and Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street [USA/UK, 2007]. It is through its impressive array of intertextual references that many lovers of Burton (and the gothic fantasy genre more generally) will find the most satisfaction. Many of the allusions are instantaneously digestible, whether it

In all, a veritable who’s who of American modern gothic royalty has been displayed for our eyes and minds to gorge themselves on. Add to this the usual trimmings of moody organ music, sinister skulls, and unexpected lightning strikes, and we are left with a truly rewarding

collage of gothic iconography. The most detailed labour of love, however, comes from the film’s unmistakable similarities to Tim Burton’s majestic though macabre short, Vincent [USA, 1982]. Here we find all the expected hallmarks of German Expressionism, from chiaroscuro lighting to seemingly physically impossible set design. Appropriating from this source material, Jukic borrows a great deal of character design, donning Tim with the horizontal black and white striped hoody, originally exhibited by Vincent some forty years previous. More eagle-eyed viewers may also notice Vincent and Tim’s shared last name, “Malloy”. Significantly, the two shorts also possess a shared use of narration. Utilising rhyming couplets, the shorts embody their dour stories with a lightness of touch, binding together dark and troubling tones. Whilst Dear Mr. Burton’s scripted poem is thrillingly delivered

by Brian Blessed, Vincent’s was voiced by famed American horror actor, Vincent Price, as a loving tribute from Burton. Whereas in Vincent, we witness a boy who is “considerate and nice, but he wants to be just like Vincent Price,” in Dear Mr. Burton the adoration is heaped heavily onto the head of the director’s apparent idol, Tim Burton. Dear Mr. Burton is a jubilant celebration of the oeuvre of one of the shining lights of modern gothic fantasy, doing a superb job of marrying a real appreciation for its chosen genre with a deeply personal story that allows it to stand tall as a work on its own. It is a film that both borrows liberally and takes great creative risks, leaving us with one all-important message: “Do never let fear interfere with your art, and show to the world what is inside your heart.” Sam Briggs

an returning to the places from whence our memories came ever truly satisfy deep nostalgia? Are “the strings that tie us to places” better left unplucked? Or can revisiting the sites of the moments that have forged us become a vital part of our healing process? Writer/ director Kate-Lois Elliott’s debut film offering, Below the Hills, seeks to answer such questions, acting as a cathartic journey back through the murky waters of a distant shared experience. With a decidedly poetic feel, this short confronts directly the inevitable loss of memories, even as they slip tantalisingly from our grasp.

Below the Hills Kate-Lois Elliott, UK, 2020

As two friends return to a key location from their childhood (a house on The Downs), they hope to gain some insight into their longing for the past; for some illuminating light to be shone into the darkest recesses of a place once so present and significant, now little more than dwindling memories. Accompanied by a voice-over that is at times poetic, at others almost conversational, the friends roam back through the landscape, grappling against the inevitable turn of time. As we are led on a visual exploration of The Downs and of an old cottage that sits proudly atop its hills, it becomes apparent that the setting (lensed beautifully by Doug Elliott) is truly this short’s leading star – the natural glory of the rolling country hills, cows grazing nonchalantly on grass, and cold winds blowing restlessly across still pond water, becoming central to Below the Hills’ principal appeal. But if such rural splendour provides the body for this tale, then the well-loved cottage itself, provides its beating heart. As woman and planet intermingle, vines can be seen to stretch up the cottage’s ancient walls, the two young women tracing pictures in the condensation forming on the inside of its panes of glass.

The precise sticking points of the pairs’ relationships with their location, and of the exacting events that have passed under its roof, are left unspecified. Far from being a frustration, it allows the piece to feel universal, to fit neatly into each individual viewer’s own rose-tinted account of a time and place in their distant past. In truth, the entire piece has a wholly unified feel; that rich and beautiful, yet slightly unquantifiable achievement, when a real sense of shared purpose and vision can’t help but shine through, creating a product that feels distinctly like this team’s own. Every detail, from the rousing, yet deeply melancholic score, to the soothing tone of our narrator’s voice, hint at a creative environment in which all participants are pulling, egoless, in the same direction. No single technical element of the film seeks to upstage another. Instead, each are allowed to stand tall, given the time and respect to harness the power of their own medium, adding in their own way to this richly textured tapestry, clinging to the walls of collective memory. Below the Hills delivers a meditation on what it takes to be present in one’s current situation, to truly let go of the ties that bind us to our pasts, granting us the freedom to “drift seamlessly into life’s current.” Sam Briggs

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Staff Pick

Mitchell deQuilettes, USA, 2021

hat is the fastest way to get an indie film onto a streaming site’s featured list? Mitchell de Quilettes’ Staff Pick offers four playful answers to this very question, as four stories knotted into a mindbending mise-en-abîme portray four different filmmakers’ attempts to produce a hit short film. However, in a crosshatch of imagination and reality, each film is revealed as merely the fictional subject matter of the next.

What begins as the story of a man sheepishly exploring his sexuality after a drunken night out becomes the story of a film being made of the event, characters becoming actors and settings becoming sets. Staff Pick unravels as these budding auteurs, from a narcissistic NYU grad and his troubled girlfriend, to two young writers fuelled by Adderall, cigarettes, and an endless bank of pop culture references, infringe upon each other’s cinematic visions. Staff Pick boldly takes on the challenge of satirising the mindfuck genre itself – “the self-aware, fakemeta bullshit,” which pervades contemporary filmmaking, as one character comments. The regularity and abruptness with which the film reveals itself as a fiction lends it an almost metric rigour, as every emotional climax – be it sexual intensity, a lover’s quarrel, or even cathartic violence – is reliably interrupted by a shout of “Cut!” from one of the film’s many directors. Stylistically, the film’s fractures and disjoins are smoothed over by chromatic harmonies and a rich nocturnal lighting, lending its distanced irony a sense of the oneiric. Still, more so than dreams, its restless quality evokes aborted plans, and the film’s rabbit-hole structure seems to comment on the difficulty that young filmmakers lacking resolve, resources, or inspiration have in finishing projects in today’s distracted world. There is something of the constant task-switching of the millennial brain in the film’s jump from plot to plot, with stories cut short before reaching any resolution.

The hyperactive state of today’s cinema has been subject to scrutiny by none other than Martin Scorsese who, in a recent article for Harper’s Bazaar, laments the transformation of cinema into ‘content’, designed to deliver reliable results to the masses. Staff Pick too is playfully cynical towards the content-focused thinking of the contemporary film landscape, as the filmmakers optimise their story for the algorithms of streaming sites like Vimeo – each one dealing in a shallow and tokenistic way with ‘trending’ topics, yet lost as to their deeper significance. The film is an omnibus of buzzwords – LGBTQ themes, toxic masculinity, childhood trauma, and abusive exes – and yet what the ever-unfolding film is ‘actually about’ none of the characters can put their finger on. Indeed, Staff Pick as a whole resists being ‘about’ anything, and thus being subsumed into the mill of content. Yet its most refreshing aspect is that it knows – it turns the ‘self-referential’ genre into a trope in itself, conscious that its slick selfawareness could simply file it along with the Charlie Kaufman-esque flicks under the ‘Offbeat’ tag on Netflix. Scorsese has a right to complain: today inventive cinema is hard to achieve, and even harder to market as such. However, with this film that remains stubbornly difficult to pin down, deQuilettes conjures up something like it, using the raw material of cliché itself. Mia Parnall

INTERVIEW Mitchell deQuilettes, director of Staff Pick, isn’t resting on his laurels. Mia Parnall: As much as it satirises the creative process, there’s also a certain amount of affection for your fellow directors and their visions. What made you want to get into the movies? Mitchell deQuilettes (picured right): It means a lot you noticed that intention. I’ve been in the Los Angeles film scene since 2012, and I’ve seen all types of filmmakers pursuing their dreams, and every person has their own way of pushing through its competitive world. It’s a tough gig out here, especially because a filmmaker has to believe in themselves in order to have others believe in their work. It’s quite a psychological struggle. I’ve been interested in filmmaking since I was twelve. I’m from a rural lake town outside of Seattle, Washington, and there wasn’t much to do other than sports and sports. Even though I partook and never really felt like I belonged. My parents were divorced, and my Indonesian father was the “fun” dad on the weekends and we’d watch ‘R’ rated films together to connect. He showed me films like True Romance [Tony Scott, USA/ France, 1993], Ghost in the Shell [Mamoru Oshii, Japan, 1995], Fight Club [David Fincher, USA/Germany, 1999], and The Matrix [Lana Wachowski/Lilly Wachowski, USA/ Australia, 1999]. One time, he took me to the theatre to see Kill Bill: Vol. 1 [Quentin Tarantino, USA, 2003]. I instantly became obsessed with the editing, shot choices, and Tarantino’s ability to create drama through referential satire. I didn’t know how to put what I just said into words back then, but let’s just say I was inspired. I now see I was drawn to films that were thoughtprovoking, funny, and entertaining.

MP: As a movie about filmmaking, is there any aspect of self-satire in Staff Pick – that is, does any character in particular contain aspects of yourself? Did the production process of Staff Pick end up mirroring the content in any funny or unexpected ways? MD: Chasen Bauer (co-writer) and I created characters that were a jumbled cocktail of personal experiences, moments we’d seen first-hand, or stories we’d heard from other people. The character that contains the most aspects of the current me is Rhett from the first reality: where he’s a newly self-proclaimed bisexual, timidly advancing on an experienced gay man. I recently opened up, and have been identifying myself as non-binary and pansexual. The quarantine daze presented a lot of time for thinking, allowing me to reflect on my true self. This was a scenario that I felt wasn’t seen much on screen, but happens often. The final opening scene wasn’t an accurate depiction of any past moment. It’s more of an emotion of something I have inside remixed with Rhett’s character arc. There was this one moment on set where the “metaness” got even stranger. It was when Rhett, played by Max Baumgarten, would say his line, “Cut!” revealing to the audience that we were once again on another film set, and then me, the actual director calling “Cut!” It honestly felt like we all were in another scene because of all the layers of the film. The actual DP was shooting our actor DP, who was shooting Rhett directing, while the actors were playing actors. People were saying, “Cut” left and right. It was super trippy and out-of-body; almost like I was on mushrooms, but I was completely sober.

It’s more of a toxic frequency that comes from the modern “Art Boi” – a man who is sensitive, but only through their art. Where their emotional intelligence is very low when it comes to actually being able to express their feelings in person. It’s like a new breed of toxic man; more covert – where he is self-aware of the current toxic climate, but is having trouble handing over the reins to the new wave of power dynamics. So these men use more subtle techniques to win arguments or take advantage of situations. They say they are ‘in’ for the cause, but are actually just using people to get what they want. They are also very egocentric – they act like they are listening, being open, but deep down they actually always think they’re right and won’t budge on their agenda. There is never a thought in their head that they may think they may be wrong. They don’t have the capacity for compromise, and ninja-bulldoze over the empath.

MP: What does toxic masculinity mean to you, and do you think it is negatively impacting the film industry? How do you think men can avoid this trap when making movies about themselves and their experiences? MD: To me, toxic masculinity is about the abuse of power between the abuser and the victim(s). And it’s usually a man taking advantage of a woman to feed his own self worth. Due to the modern climate, we are all aware of this abuse culture. But for this film, I wanted to put a mirror up to a certain niche of toxic masculinity that I see often within the film community, or any art community for that matter.

and its originality. Well, I flat out disagree. I just think we’re losing grasp of why we tell stories. Often I feel modern writers focus more on the ideas than the themes, when in fact the themes are the glue that hold the plot together. Great films are a combination of, “I’ve seen this before,” and, “This feels new.” I can relate while also being surprised. The two women at the end represent a certain type of individual who enjoys talking more than doing, the individual who chooses the party over finishing the script. To me it seems that filmmakers are focusing more on the film package rather than asking, “What are the themes of my story?” They are focusing on how they can make it as filmmakers instead of focusing on the work. MP: Another issue that the film highlighted was the idea of a successful film (or one that does well in festivals and streaming sites) being one that ‘ticks the boxes’ so to speak – that touches on as many trending issues as possible, without necessarily dealing with them in-depth. What can filmmakers do to avoid tokenising experience like this, while still achieving popularity and garnering viewer’s attention? MD: I believe a filmmaker should follow their taste and passion while simultaneously looking ahead, past the pulse towards undiscussed topics. It’s a bit of a gamble but that’s how an artist’s voice is recognised, not by just playing it safe. If a film falls flat then that is just a lesson on how to improve, what to not do again on the next round. I feel too many filmmakers are following the trending topic, but once the film is made the topic has already passed. Audiences are then feeling bored because they’re just watching the same theme over and over again. No one is taking risks.

Currently, if a man makes a movie about himself, it should be self-deprecating or brutally honest. Staff Pick only works because it’s making fun of itself while simultaneously having empathy for the character’s plight. It’s not the protagonist’s fault; he’s a result of an environment that trained him this way. He can only play in the playground his psyche understands. That’s why males are having such a hard time transitioning currently. Because they don’t know where to go next so they lean on their past societal training.

MP: And, last but not least, what movies would you recommend to viewers who’ve enjoyed Staff Pick? Were there any in particular that inspired it?

MP: I loved the final scene of Staff Pick, in which the two writers trying to generate ideas always find themselves running up against clichés. Do you think there’s a chronic shortage of original ideas in film today? Or rather, do you think filmmakers can confuse good ideas for well-made films?

MD: I highly recommend Hal Ashby’s Shampoo [USA, 1975], Mike Leigh’s Naked [UK, 1993], and James L. Brooks’ Broadcast News [USA, 1987]. All three of these films have great satirical commentary on the male ego. I would say most of this film’s inspiration comes from Shampoo.

MD: I love this question. I think it’s both. A lot of filmmakers will argue that there is a limit to storytelling

Staff Pick is available to watch at www.framelight.org/fltv

Like I Said

Jolyon White, UK, 2021

all centres and masochism are two concepts that have often been united: the endless waiting, the terrible music, and the unbearably scripted friendliness are something many of us have experienced. Joylon White’s dark comedy uses this classic combination to throw light onto the increasingly insidious relationship between consumers and corporations in this well scripted and brilliantly acted short.

Like I Said opens with John Owen, a middle-aged man brought to the brink by an endless automated message. Although there seems to be light at the end of the tunnel when he is finally put through to call centre agent, Hailey, the horror is just beginning. One of the main strengths of this film is the portrayal of John and Hailey, played by Jonathan Rhodes and Jasmine Embrechts respectively. Rhodes fully embodies his character’s pain in a way that is both excruciating and hilarious, while Embrechts is brilliantly infuriating as she expertly treads the line between deferential and diabolical.

In the wake of the Cambridge Analytica scandal, we’ve been told of the dangers of online life on an international scale, but this short gives a warning that really hits home. Thanks to a combination of an excellent script and fantastic acting, Like I Said offers a thoughtful snapshot of modern life that is at once comic and unsettling. Above all, it brings us the great dissembling of every Karen’s manifesto: no, you cannot speak to the manager and no, the customer is not always right.

However, like most great comedies, this film is not just funny. The gradual realisation of John’s selfmade vulnerability is truly terrifying in an age where a huge number of people depend on a small number of corporations on a daily basis. Although we are unlikely to be in the exact same position as John, the film highlights the dangers of relinquishing our privacy in favour of convenience. This sense of unease is greatly aided by the soundtrack – the sudden jitter of scratchy cellos gives the impression of something scuttling between the walls, even if it is just the Internet cable.

Sally Roberts

n Joe Pettit’s unsettling Rattle, the familiar landscape of a suburban summer plays host to an exploration of the psychosexual anxieties of four teenagers. Playing with distortions in vision and temporality, the film reveals little by way of plot, but is generous in conjuring an atmosphere of paranoia, and complemented by an evocative score. The action is split between the home of a young girl named Ellie, and a field near the woods, where three boys have set up a tent in expectation of a party.

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Rattle

Joe Pettit, UK, 2019

When Ellie arrives at the scene, two of the boys have already disappeared into the forest. The film bristles with the mention of a sexual assault that is remembered but not seen, and a series of bizarre events materialise from the sour taste left by the crime. Nodding undoubtedly to the gaps that trauma leaves in the memory, the dullness of suburbia is shot through with a deathlike quality. Thoughtful camera angles give some scenes a sense of detachment through which we question their relation to the wider film, such as one instance in which Ellie, passed out in her bedroom from a high, could be mistaken for a corpse. Taking on a life and significance of their own, these shots elevate reality to something anxious and dreamlike. At times, however, they trouble an understanding of the film to a difficult degree. Like Claire Oakley’s caravan-park psychodrama Make Up [UK, 2019] and to a certain extent Rose Glass’ horror Saint Maud [UK, 2019], Rattle deploys the phenomenology of the mundane experiences of British youth – in this case field parties, sneaking out of parents’ houses, and all-too-fleeting highs – to explore repressed and aggressive sexual desires that underlie efforts to fit in with peers and to society. Suppressed by the characters, these feelings find expression in the intensity of the environment – in the full summer trees that seem too loud and too close, in the long grass sticky with cider and dew, and the harsh lighting that paints the world in the washed-out colours of a hangover. While all three of these films could be charged with using a sense of the uncanny as a crutch, Rattle does succeed in casting a rare and sensitive eye on a world that for many is simply ordinary, illuminating its strangeness from within. Mia Parnall

Anna

Dekel Berenson, Ukraine/UK, 2019

n a small town in Eastern Ukraine, the lights flick on in a dark room as if the final song at a school disco have just finished, and if it weren’t for the rows of hanging, headless corpses, you’d be forgiven for thinking that it was just this.

like the opening scene in the pork plant, at a party arranged by the love tour, American men awkwardly peruse a row of stationary women, who ogle them back for different reasons. Berenson does well to ensure that the objectifying gaze is not only directed at the women, but the men too: both parties wield their own particular power and feed off each other’s mutual desperation.

Anna, an overweight single mother and factory worker, enters the storage unit and notes down the numbers of the hanging lumps of meat, so dislocated from the idea of sentience that it seems wrong to call them pigs. As she chucks the sliced slabs of flesh into tubs, you can hear the thwack of cold, slimy flesh; you can almost smell the dried blood and disinfectant. It is no wonder then, that when a ‘Foreign-Love Tour’ brings a busload of American men into town, she jumps at the chance for a different life.

This is particularly evident in the three-way conversation between Anna, a deftly tactful translator, and a bumbling Texan trucker, who is wonderfully characterised as both pitiable and repulsive in equal measures. Thanks to some

Predictably, director Dekel Berenson makes the most of the meat-market analogy throughout the film. Much

fluorescence on Anna’s teenage daughter’s cheap, sexualised clothes and the blood red lights of the party.

nimble scripting on Berenson’s behalf, the conversation oscillates between confusion and understanding in a comic break from the overall disheartening tone of the film. Thankfully, the translator brings a slight glimmer of respect and humour in a world that otherwise pushes the limits of bleak.

The final shot of Anna is the unhappy ending that could not be avoided. In keeping with the short’s sense of desolation, nothing has changed; no one has won. But this does not necessarily mean despair: even though Anna must return to her life of lifeless flesh, it’s a small relief that she chooses the dead pigs over the live ones.

Indeed, if bleak is this film’s aim, it certainly triumphs. The inescapable drabness of the characters’ lives is successfully portrayed with scenes laden with greys, whites, and more greys. The only escape from this stark palette are the no less depressing bursts of

Sally Roberts

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Polly

Faramarz Gosheh, Sweden, 2020

olly is a poetic exploration of polyamorous love, following four protagonists as their relationships develop and hints of disharmony arise within the group. A sparse, omnipresent narration briefly introduces the scene, before retreating to leave a narrative driven by silent performances, contrasting colours and edits, which dance with the characters between domestic life and the great outdoors.

Opening in a claustrophobic, low-ceilinged room with peeling wallpaper, bright sunlight is dyed a sickly yellow by the thin curtains. A picture of a vase overflowing with flowers, a mirror, and two candlesticks adorn the walls. Immediately, this setting is juxtaposed with bright blue skies and countryside, and as the quartet wade through a waist-high sea of green crops we are told: “Love is not about what we should do, it’s about what we want to do. And, do I really want to be satisfied, with only one love?” The unity of the group is emphasised through their body language and costume: open in their affections, they dance together and stand as one in identical green gowns, existing in harmony with the nature around them, rolling their heads in unison… until they eventually fall out of sync and the crops they laughed through are reaped.

Gently underscored by an empathetic soundtrack, emotive performances from Daysury Valencia, Sebastian Theodorsson, Jamaine Taylor, and Jesper Cameron demonstrate the complexities and conflicts of relationships as they move from an isolated home into a wider community. Associations with the theme of love are drawn between interior and exterior settings by colour-matching the pale pink light of a lamp with the hue of the sky and atmospheric mist in the dark of the woodlands, only to vanish with the arrival of a child. From one exquisitely composed frame to the next, this film touches on themes of love, power, jealousy, nature, and family. Directed by Faramarz Gosheh and shot by Mika Aberra, the vivid and varied visuals weave through different environments with ease. From the peace of floating alone in a lily pond to the ties of a hippy-like community, the result is a visual poem that tells without words and captivates with its subtlety. Wendy Brooking

Somehow

FLTV

Misa Nishihara, Japan, 2018

Bond film. In these scenes, sex is so much more about power and domination than it is about connection. Ironically, the permeable sensuality in Somehow seems more realistic than in any of these live action romps.

n the vast majority of feature length films, five minutes is far too long for a sex scene, let alone a sexual fantasy. However, Misa Nishihara’s animated short, coming in at just under five minutes, is anything but cringe-worthy.

The silence in the film – interrupted only by intermittent clips of panting – contributes to this pared back portrayal of intimacy. Although heavy breathing is not a traditional ingredient for a successful film, the authenticity of this soundtrack lends this short a striking physicality. Unmarred by over-theatricality, it strips back to bare, non-performative sexuality. Paradoxically, Nishihara manages to capture the human body in its most natural form without a single human actor in sight.

The film shows a line drawn lifeguard daydreaming about a former lover. It is Nishihara’s use of lines that really makes this short; the interlocking, uniformly black lines intersect and interlock as sensual shapes morph and twist on the screen, giving the impression of a physical fluidity between people and objects. Here, Nishihara really makes the most of the animated form, as the permeability of shapes would not be so effective in a live action film.

Somehow thus offers a kind of honesty that is so seldom found onscreen. It is explicit and chaste at the same time, showing sex not as an elaborate choreography but as a dissolute experience of sharing, which, if you think about it, is pretty impressive in four minutes and fifteen seconds.

This sense of transpersonal intimacy creates a quieter, gentler expression of sexuality that is a breath of fresh air from the glut of scream-a-thons as seen in Netflix’s new series You [USA, 2019–], Fifty Shades of Grey [Sam Taylor Johnson, UK, 2015], or pretty much any James

Sally Roberts