SHORT FOCUS - Issue 6 by framelight

SHORT FOCUS

The world’s premier short film journal.

Issue 6

‘Dimanche’ Jan-Mar 2022

www.framelight.org

#shortfocus @framelightorg

It’s a new year and along with it comes a brand new issue of SHORT FOCUS magazine! This is, of course, a busy time for reflection as we

look back at our achievements and setbacks, whilst formulating our plans for the year to come. It seems apposite then to celebrate our first issue of 2022 by discussing many of the films that we featured in last year’s festival programme. For us, Short Focus Film Festival is more than a singular exhibitive gesture; it is a statement of our vision for the future cultural landscape, an expression of our belief in a world that will continue to strive for originality and embrace innovative voices. It can be all too easy to perpetuate cynicism and bemoan the demise of artistic fertility within this rapidly developing social media age, rather than challenge it. But challenge it we must. It is for this reason that we have chosen to feature in this issue many of the films from our most recent festival, in order to multiply the number of platforms from which these (and many other) films can be discovered, to reciprocate their creators’ efforts with intelligent and honest discourse, and historicize these important artefacts for the annals of film history for generations beyond our own. We believe in the power of short film. Editor: Dean Archibald-Smith Creative Directors: Dean Archibald-Smith, Aya Ishizuka Contributors: Natalia Brammen, Wendy Brooking, Giulia Carbonaro, Shane Farrell, Juliette Howard, Matthew Procter, Madeleine Raven, Sally Roberts, Hope Smith, 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.

Clown

Shane O’Neill, Republic of Ireland/UK, 2021

he American film critic and theoretician, Bill Nichols, once said that non-fiction stories could be about almost anything. They don’t need to be about big important topics to be big, important stories. The filmmaker’s curiosity is often the most vital indicator of a successful film. Shane O’Neill, an experienced writer and director, undertakes the task of shedding some light on a professional clown’s fascinating world.

Clown is a heart-warming and stylised documentary that uses animation and dramatisation elements to create a unique depiction of one of the most misunderstood and stereotyped professions. The film follows Mattie the Clown, an entertainer on the verge of retirement, who reflects on his journey and nearly 47 years on the clown scene. It opens with a series of close-ups, including Mattie putting on his clown attire. This creative decision invites the audience to concentrate on Mattie and view the world through the prism of his heavily made-up face. It also sets up the film’s tone by creating a more intimate portrayal of the clowning community’s world. Non-fiction filmmakers often rely on animation and dramatisation to fill in the gaps of archival materials and to tell compelling stories. It is a technique that has been adopted with a varying degree of success. It can be easily overdone and, as a result, take away from the overall impression of the film. However, Shane O’Neill does it with phenomenal mastery. It is especially apparent in the scene in which analogue photography is paired with 2D animation, emphasising the relationship between the past and present whilst depicting Mattie’s journey. What’s more, the story is complemented by clever editing (evident in the sandwich-making sequence) and music, which perfectly reinforces the film’s tone. In Clown, nothing is superfluous. Shane O’Neill’s experience and craft shine through each component of the film. It is generally accepted that the fundamental purpose of a documentary is to inform and educate. However, Clown also challenges its audience’s outlook by portraying a person who is unapologetically true to himself and refuses to conform to social norms, proving that being funny is, indeed, a serious business. Natalia Brammen

Fargate

Sally Cancello, UK, 2020

n light of International Women’s Day, it is time that we paid more attention to our female directors, creators, actresses and all behind-the-scenes crew. Fargate boasts a significantly female-led cast and crew, with director Sally Cancello at the forefront of both. A director who has made a name for herself in the comedy shorts genre, winning an award for a film she made in the space of a week, she has been excelling in her career since.

Fargate follows a family’s hilarious miscommunication. The mother, Maureen, is chasing her daughter, Kelsey, who she believes is going to rob a bank. Cancello set this in her hometown with the desire to show the northern working-class. The film strikes some comical notes and addresses the importance and franticness of family life. The character building works well, they are developed and an overall understanding of them is gauged quickly. The direction, especially of the relationship between Maureen (Gillian Waugh), and her mother, Ethel (Rita May), is effective and believable. There’s light banter with concerns being shot down by Ethel who has classic comedic timing, acting as the relief of the pair with her slight obliviousness of what is actually going on. The direction and relationship building are supported by clever and clear cinematography, with leader Robert Beck behind the camera, creating the right shots to capture emotions and surroundings. Occasionally the dialogue feels more forced than natural, and the editing at times lacks the ability to feel snappy, but that shouldn’t diminish from the moments where editor, Dave C. G. Hare, gets it right. The score is integrated very effectively, the rock undertones and heavy drums mashed with guitar really propelling the narrative forward. The music (written by Helen Boulding and Jonas Persson) accurately represents a family on a mission, in spite of their innocent concerns and sweet décor. Fargate showcases a growing directorial talent, with a fully capable crew behind her, and whose comical passion is clearly visible in her clever writing and captivating storytelling. Cancello has created a lighthearted and engaging short film representing working class northern women, which displays the concerns and support of a family experiencing laughable miscommunication. An extremely relatable film, where we are easily able to see a small part of ourselves on screen, it is no surprise the short has won a wide range of awards. Hope Smith

aturated with stylistic similarities to science fiction cinema new and old – from Blade Runner [Ridley Scott, USA, 1982] to Ghost in the Shell [Rupert Sanders, USA/India/Hong Kong/China/ Canada, 2017] and everything in between – Venus nevertheless possesses a striking level of intrigue and unpredictability, brought together in a visually stunning triumph of short film-making. A blurring of nature and technology is immediately established as an underlying theme to the cyberpunk short, drawing our interest with the fluttering glitch of a ladybird into unnatural colours. Sitting amidst boundless fields of purple flowers, Iris (Phoebe French) is captivated by the small insect; it’s a vibrant and tranquil reality, virtually supported and too idyllic to last.

Venus

Andrew McGee, UK, 2021

Following the grief-driven efforts of her mother (Abigail Moore), Iris is jolted back to life in the unfamiliar and, indeed, inhuman body of a defence model Cyntech Dollee (Margaret Clunie). A repetitive pulsing underscores the Frankenstein-esque process, an unnatural heartbeat as technology installs her consciousness back into the real world and she is swept away in a flurry of pixels. To survive, she must walk the dark, rain-soaked streets in search of ‘Venus’ under the flickering glow of blue and pink neon signs.

Aptly named for the Roman goddess associated with love, fertility, femininity and cultivated fields, the film maintains the association in a turn towards themes of prostitution and victory. Skilfully written by Andrew McGee and Tara Shehata, the dialogue hints at the structure of a wider dystopian society, in which Iris and her mother are class zero citizens. The cinematography and editing demonstrate range, contrasting a capacity for subtle emotional engagement with the overt manipulation of colour and animation.

Whilst brief appearances from the supporting cast help to contextualise the plot and deliver a peak into urban life in the futuristic society, it is Clunie’s performance as a trapped soul at odds with her body that drives the narrative forward, striking a fine balance between empathy and ambiguity around her character. From stumbling disorientation to fierce defiance, Iris’ journey is at once captivating and traumatic.

Touching on a wide range of issues in under fifteen minutes, Venus is an exquisitely-crafted glimpse into an urban dystopia about which many questions remain unanswered. From the relationship between technology and perception to Iris’ uncertain future, we are left wondering and wanting to learn more. Wendy Brooking

Dimanche

FLTV

Fatty Soprano/Shawn Vasquez, Canada, 2021

n Dimanche, Fatty Soprano and Shutterr are at their dazzling, beguiling best. This entrancing short is intensely atmospheric, with characteristically stunning cinematography from Shutterr and a complicated, multifaceted narrative that feels enormous and far exceeds the brief runtime. Filled with sensitivity and a rejection of simplicity, Dimanche manages to create a film that lulls the viewer in while challenging their perceptions about femininity and womanhood.

Dimanche focuses on a conversation between two young people: a girl on the verge of eighteen, lost and confused in the world of her own sexuality, and her sibling who is discovering their gender identity through wearing make-up and feminine clothes. The older sister does all the talking, trying to unravel her thoughts on a classmate who has had breast implants while applying makeup to her sibling who remains silent. The younger sibling listens intently, allowing their sister to transform them as she speaks. Ultimately, however, the trancelike atmosphere is broken as the siblings’ father comes home and flexes a belt with terrifying menace. As is to be expected from Soprano and Shutterr, Dimanche is dripping with atmosphere. The cinematography is intimate and dreamlike, utilising strong colours and a soft focus to create a nostalgic and surreal feel. The bedroom setting is its own universe, filled with emblems of American culture, which is at odds with the French-Canadian film. The copies of The Great Gatsby, The Grapes of Wrath and an issue of The New Yorker all stand out like gravestones, obsolete pillars of a masculine culture that is no longer relevant. The femininity of each protagonist is consolidated by the music, which is simple and affecting, emphasising their youthful innocence, and making the sister’s obsession with her sexuality all the more heartbreaking. Soprano and Shutterr’s ability to draw the audience close through music, cinematography and incredibly natural direction is in full force, crafting subtle pockets of emotion that elevate and strengthen the film.

There is a tendency, in contemporary culture, to simplify and reduce the experience of womanhood to a set of arbitrary characteristics. Dimanche dismantles this reductive mindset in its intertwining of the two protagonists’ experiences. The older sister is perplexed by the aesthetic superficiality of sex, unable to measure her own sense of self-worth without obsessing over the size of her breasts. This obsession is legitimised by the seemingly positive impact of her classmate’s breast implants, corroborating the idea that a woman’s worth is measured by their physical characteristics. Conversely, however, her younger sibling is seeking solace in the aesthetic elements of womanhood. Make-up and women’s clothing seem to validate their existence, representing an ability to escape the constraints of their own gender and create something truer to them. While they are performing womanhood in the way it is “supposed” to be performed, the final scene illustrates the threat of fatherly violence for doing exactly that. There is no way to win for either of the two protagonists – womanhood under patriarchy is a paradox. This is Soprano and Shutterr’s crowning achievement with Dimanche - creating a film about young womanhood, which does not fall into any traps and refuses to oversimplify, instead emphasising compassion and sensitivity towards its subjects who are trapped within a system they did not choose to enter. Will Whitehead

at before a bay window, exposed to the glistening lights of Moscow and listening to the kind of music you’d expect at a beachfront bar in Marbella, a teenage girl manipulates selfies to enhance her personal image to appease her online followers. Roma Glova’s deleve is an effectively concise examination of one aspect of modern culture that those of a particular age group – which the titular Eve falls into – can not seem to break free from.

deleve

Roma Glova, Russia, 2020

Opening the film with a shot that wouldn’t look out of place in an Ari Aster film, the camera dollies in to Eve as she scrolls through various social media feeds without paying sincere attention to any of them. Her speaker plays music and lights up the room like a nightclub whilst her pet rats squeak through the tunes. Eve strikes a number of poses, taking a selfie of each before attempting to edit her own facial features. Her smartphone malfunctions, and this is when things take a turn for the unusual. Even though the age of selfies and vain image editing is relatively young, this is a premise that is already on the verge of becoming cliché. ‘Technology hindering humanity’ has been done in many forms, with Disney Pixar’s WALL·E [Andrew Stanton, USA, 2008] being the first to come to mind and, coincidentally, also featuring a character called EVE. However, the execution of deleve is where Glova’s work shines. Clocking in at a brisk 2 minutes and 15 seconds, this straight-to-the-point sci-fi horror is well paced with an ending that conveys its point exactly as intended. The cinematography by Robert Sarukhanyan is crisp with some beautiful shots, enhanced by the decision to shoot on film rather than digital. This choice is aesthetically pleasing, intentionally highlighting the differentiation between the real and digital worlds. The film was cut by Glova himself, who does an excellent job of creating an increasing feeling of unease as Eve’s night grows stranger, topped off with a creepy sequence involving the white rats that harks back to the much-lauded opening titles from Zack Snyder’s Dawn of the Dead [USA/Canada/Japan/France, 2004] remake. deleve is a story that takes few risks, but this compromise allows for a clearly talented production team to deliver it in style. Despite its very short runtime, it succeeds in making the audience think about what they’ve seen even after the credits roll. Production design, cinematography and direction are creatively intriguing and sole actor Mila Ershova delivers an appropriately subtle performance, bringing together a film crafted with purpose and care. Matthew Procter

INTERVIEW Roma wasn’t built in a day – In conversation with Roma Glova, director of deleve. The following interview is a transcribed excerpt from a Q&A session as part of Short Focus Film Festival 2021. Dean Archibald-Smith: Congratulations on your film being selected for Short Focus Film Festival 2021. For me, personally, I think it’s an excellent inclusion in our programme. deleve really reminds me of the reason why I enjoy short film in the first place: it takes a simple idea – it’s an entirely wordless film – but delivers an extremely powerful message. For those who haven’t seen the film, how would you describe what it’s about? Roma Glova (pictured): I’m very happy for your words, it’s very important for me. As you know, the best description for my movie is the description that you wrote! I mean you did the whole job for me! DA-S: Actually, the accolade should go to one of our contributors to the festival, Sally Roberts, who helped to co-write our programme. RG: Thanks very much. So my movie is about the problems that teenagers and people my age have. You know, Tik Tok, Instagram, all this social media, how it really effects our lives. So, I thought about it and some ideas came [to me], and that’s how it happened. DA-S: So did the idea for the film come from your own experience and feelings about social media? RG: Yeah, that’s right. I installed the Tik Tok application, for example, and I deleted it a couple of times because I hate it, and then I love it, and then I hate it! It’s very interesting to explore, but it’s eating my time. I can lose my life sitting in front of my phone. That’s a big problem for me. I look at teenagers and other people, they [spend] all their life in front of their phone. That frightens me.

DA-S: Yeah, I think that is a very common fear nowadays with the amount of modern technology that we have, and different forms of social connections. There is also an interesting relationship between the film’s form – the way that it’s shot – and the content of the film. What I mean is, the film is a comment on modern culture and our obsession with social and digital media, but it’s actually shot on Kodak film and has an almost vintage quality to it. Was that something that you wanted to explore specifically? RG: Yeah, that was the idea. It was a very strange feeling I heard from other people who watched my movie. They saw very modern things [like an] iPhone, but the atmosphere is like old movies, with the noise on the film. It is 16mm not 35, so it’s a very strong noise and strong grain. And that creates a unique feeling when you see some very modern, contemporary things within a retro atmosphere. Something happens when you see it. I thought about it myself and I heard about those feelings from other people. It was one of the good ideas we had! There is one moment, one shot that is made from the iPhone – a vertical video – and suddenly we feel difference, you know what I mean? DA-S: Yes, absolutely. The contradiction there between the noise and grain of something very physical within the film is juxtaposed really nicely with this idea of being able to capture something almost infinitely in a digital context. The film operates quite comfortably within the horror genre. Do you have your own roots within the genre and do you think it’s an area you’ll continue to work in? RG: My second, very short movie will have the same feeling, maybe the same atmosphere, and a very similar form, and you can call it horror too, I think. But I like horror very much, and I love very short horror. There aren’t many movies that can impress me right now because I’ve seen too much, but I love horror. I think it can be a very clever genre, and as I love it I think I will do some more things. But I think about horror, not as something that scares you only with monsters and beasts. For me, it is more about the horror inside – mind horror, if you know what I mean. That’s horror for me, not the beasts, not the scary clowns... Well, I love the scary clowns! But my thing is... I can tell you – I thought about Black Mirror [UK, 2011–2019]. Some parts of Black Mirror are like horror, very scary, but there are no clowns or monsters.

DA-S: Yeah, it’s more like an internal horror or the horror of the everyday things that we are familiar with, not so much the supernatural things, which can be scary but have maybe been explored a lot more. But yeah sometimes the horror can just come from within, from experience, and from the things we already understand but just looking at them in an alternative way. Much of your previous work has been for music video. Is deleve your first narrative short? RG: Yeah, it was a very long way to do my first narrative short. But right now I am in the middle of creating [something], I have done the editing for my next, very short movie called bath. I will send it to your festival! DA-S: Yes, please! I’d love to see it. RG: They’re going to be the same, like brothers I think – 16mm, similar atmosphere... It will be my second movie, and then we’ll see... DA-S: That connects quite nicely to my next question really. I mean, your films appear to deal with fairly dark and often serious social themes. Do you see your films as having a particular style, tendency, or purpose even? RG: Let me think... During my life I’ve done only commercial work, and it can be as dark as I want it to be. But my feeling about my life is not dark, I’m a very happy person. I can say everything is really okay in my life, but I think about surrealism or maybe magical realism, a painter, or movies... For example, I like David Lynch very much – he’s my favourite director. I have the same feeling about the world, I think. Sometimes it’s dark, there are many dark things inside that we don’t see. That’s why I think my movies can be dark, and would be dark in the future. But, as a person, I’m not a dark person.

DA-S: No, I don’t think it says anything about you or the things you’re preoccupied with, but I do feel like your films are trying to deal with something to maybe try and get to the truth of something within those themes. I think there is some continuity – at least with some of the work that I’ve seen – where the themes that you are tackling are darker, domestic, or social, but trying to arrive at a truth that is more than just darkness. RG: I hope so, yeah. But, I can say comedies, for example, are not my movies, you know? I like to watch some comedies but I don’t think I’d like to create a comedy. DA-S: So, we should expect bath from you soon. Do you know when that might be finished? RG: I hope very soon. DA-S: How far into this new film are you? RG: It is already edited. Right now I am doing some CG, cleaning some little things, then there’ll be some colour correction, and we’re writing music, so I think it will be done in October [2021]. I hope so. DA-S: I hope so too. I’m very much looking forward to it. Please keep in touch and send us your film when it is finished. Thank you so much for joining me, it was a pleasure meeting you. Thank you again for such a wonderful short film and we look forward to screening it next week. All the best to you, Roma. You take careW and we’ll speak again soon. RG: Thank you very much, thanks for you festival. You can follow Roma Glova via Instagram @romaglova

oming-of-age summer films invariably conjure up images of sun-bleached hair, timid first love, endless boredom, and hours on end spent with unforgettable friends. A Knowing of Loss begins on the same wavelength, as a group of families bathe in a wild river, swing from a dried-out rope, and eat fresh watermelon in their swimming trunks. But this story stretches far beyond the concept of a formative period in which meaningful friendships or fresh points of view are forged, instead forcing our young protagonist, Max, into a sudden (if rather understated) loss of innocence.

A Knowing of Loss Marc Puig Biel, Spain, 2020

Max spends his summer at home, swimming with his friends, ankle-deep in mud playing football, or riding his prized motorcycle under the hot sun. His attention is first piqued when his father fails to return home for dinner, aroused further by the family car discarded by the side of the road whilst he is out biking alone. Max grows suspicious, channelling his anger into repairing his motorcycle, gradually spending more and more time away from the house, where his mother awaits with a pasta casserole.

In A Knowing of Loss, the summer months are the cruellest, during which the sweltering heat makes adolescent Max – still uncomfortable in his own skin – more restless and irritable. Biel’s cinematographic attention to detail is beautiful. In such a minimalistic film, small elements such as a fly – left to explore Max’s arm in his contentment, only to be cast off angrily when he begins to suspect foul play – carry a graver meaning, as indicators of Max’s plight.

His friends notice it, as do his parents, who attempt in their individual ways to put him at ease: his mother by apologising for not being able to travel during the summer, blaming a lack of money; and his father, by suggesting they buy him a new motorcycle, further stretching the apparent gap already established between them.

Max is drowned, lost in what he doesn’t understand, what he overhears, what he sees at a distance. Biel refrains from offering up too much information, highlighting the uncertainty behind the parents’ whisperings downstairs, and adding an abstract quality to the film and to Max’s beliefs. Quiet and brutal all at once, A Knowing of Loss is, in the end, the tale of the harmful impact the lack of communication can have on a boy who has yet to come of age. Juliette Howard

The Fell Runner

Alex Simpson/Phillip Suddick, UK, 2019 44

lex Simpson & Phillip Suddick’s short film poetically explores personal battles and unity in the relationship between humanity and nature – all within the sport of fell running. The Fell Runner follows Calum Tinnion in contemplation and training as he scales and descends the picturesque mountains of Cumbria, Northwest England. As audiences gaze upon Tinnion navigating streams and steep mountain paths almost in a state of reverie, Simpson and Suddick’s work breathes life into the vast landscape the runner and film traverse alike.

The Fell Runner intercuts sequences of super 8mm film with intimate close-ups of Tinnion driving or in thought, and immense overhead bird’s-eye drone shots. As a result, the film contrasts and highlights the minuscule reality and size of man compared to his surrounding landscape. In conjunction, the overall cinematography and colour grading creates a warm and sentimental tone throughout the film, adding to the welcoming and harmonious feel of the piece as Tinnion recounts the difficulties of fell running, yet also the therapeutic feelings it imprints. The film does feel unfocused at times, with the dialogue (filtered through a telephone effect) and accompanying visuals akin to a stream of consciousness in comparison to the carefully planned and executed cinematography.

Simpson and Suddick’s short film is a sentimental and visually engaging snapshot of one fell runner’s pursuit of personal success. Through its direct focus on the interconnectivity between humans and nature, The Fell Runner showcases the reliance on one another for purpose and liberation, as Tinnion himself notes, “I’m a different person after I run. Always happier.” Shane Farrell

Rimi

Nischhal Sharma, India, 2020

he sound of birds singing guide us through a symphony of apparent domestic bliss, a calmlooking, clean-cut interior dotted with pots and pans, mugs, and glasses. The scene could be mistaken for an ode to domesticity, but the emptiness of the house itself is harrowing. The house is waiting for Rimi, who we meet lying in bed with her eyes wide-open in the early hours of dawn, stealing a few moments to herself before taking on the burden of duty of running the place and taking care of everyone who lives within it.

Rimi, an Indian housewife and a mother of two, hardly speaks for most of the film. Essentially, because neither her husband or her teenage kids ever ask for her opinion, what her family demands of her is simply that she cooks, cleans, and attends to their needs. We follow Rimi, unheard and unappreciated, while she moves within the confines of this beautiful house, which quickly starts to feel more like an oppressive prison, as the repetition of domestic tasks reveals itself to be exhausting and unrewarding. That is until Riya, a new friend of Rimi’s daughter, enters the space, piercing through the isolation that surrounds the woman and makes her invisible, and stirs the awakening of a long-forgotten passion and thirst for freedom that Rimi had left behind.

While the ending comes to a predictable conclusion, this is not necessarily a flaw in Nischhal Sharma’s writing, as the story develops in a way that appeals to the logic of the audience. A great deal of attention is given to creating a blissful looking, comforting domestic world within which the viewer can lull themself, which makes even more powerful the later shattering of the illusion of happiness created by that same environment. The simplicity of the idea feeding the film’s plot conveys without ambiguity a criticism of the situation Indian housewives often find themselves in, torn between their dreams and desires, and the expectations imposed upon them by a conservative view of womanhood within a patriarchal society. Self-empowerment might not ultimately be enough to free Rimi of the weight of systemic gender inequality and widespread misogyny, but that remains a challenge beyond this film. Giulia Carbonaro

n innocuous and almost childlike conversation between two friends turns into a dark stupor as they finally reach their destination hidden deep inside a forest. Paul Ashton’s Shallow is a darkly tongue-in-cheek provocation of what we commonly assume to be the makings of a ‘good’ person – explored by way of an unexpected deep dive into the mostly forgotten canine Disney superhero, Air Bud [Charles Martin Smiths, USA, 1997].

Shallow

Paul Ashton, UK, 2021

Larry and Barry casually engage in light-hearted and sometimes gossipy conversation, the kind normally enjoyed over a few pints in the pub, but these two instead carry shovels through the woods. There are hints from the very beginning that what we’re looking at isn’t just a happy day trip outside of the city for the two men, as ominous music creeps in from the very first scene opening on the deadpan face of Michael Shon (who plays Larry).

Shon plays his character as intense and brooding, whilst Joe Johnsey as Barry is the more cheerful, non-threatening, gentle giant who, wistfully listing off franchise sequels and superhero showdowns, bring the audience’s guard down in defiance of the gloom intimated by the sinister screeching of the string score. The tension throughout the film intensifies and then dissipates in unexpected moments of tenderness, revealing the two to be glimmering beacons of non-toxic masculinity, men in touch with their emotions, openminded, and supportive.

The set-up, together with the title of the short itself, feels like something of a nod toward the macabre Shallow Grave [Danny Boyle, UK, 1994] but, unlike its iconic predecessor, Shallow isn’t about the protagonists turning on each other, but rather the story turning the expectations of the viewer.

The cinematography is beautiful, the woods stunningly captured in their peaceful eeriness. But the real strength of the film is in its dialogue, which is as funny and witty as it is believable. As viewers, we rarely expect a character who performs community work or congratulates a friend adopting new gender pronouns to be anything less than a good person – and it is through the subversion of our expectations that Shallow intelligently manages to dig deeper into the heart of larger cultural issues. Giulia Carbonaro

Original Sin

Paolo Sinigaglia, Italy, 2020

runk and jealous, a man enters his wife’s painting studio unveiling one of her canvases, which depicts a man embraced by a fire and the outline of a woman. The man penetrates her world and her mind in a desperate effort to understand her. No doubt this is the aim of Original Sin: an invitation to inhabit the minds of two creative people, solely from the perspective of their art.

Communication is limited in Adamo and Cassandra’s relationship – tortured by their bond and their work, they talk about anything but what is bothering them. Adamo is a struggling writer, overwhelmed by his inability to sell off his novel, a psychological analysis of human selfishness. Cassandra is a painter, determined to “win over” curators and project her art into the world. Their relationship is fractured, marked by suspected betrayals, an obsession with their respective projects, and an apparent inability to understand and work with one another. Adamo imagines an affair, but Cassandra’s hollow gaze betrays nothing. Caught in a whirlwind of jealousy and confusion, the two bring their relationship to breaking point.

Lighting is especially important to Original Sin’s atmosphere: Adamo returns home to a dismal living room, lit only by his partner’s cigarette; flames crackle in the house’s fireplace as Cassandra is fondled by an anonymous figure. Is it a flashback or a hallucination? More importantly, whose is it? Sinigaglia’s tale repeatedly tricks and deceives, questioning constantly what it has previously established as fact. What we believe to be Adamo’s reality is Cassandra’s fiction, what is apparently a hallucination turns out to be the truth.

The premise of Original Sin is simple, and yet the fairytale tone of the narrative, not dissimilar at times to Tale of Tales [Matteo Garrone, Italy, 2015], gives it an almost supernatural air, so that neither of the protagonists – elegant, mysterious Cassandra, and sensitive, tortured Adamo – can be trusted. The theme and title are, of course, in reference to humanity’s first wrongdoing, the consumption of the apple, an archaic story that has pitted Adam against Eve, man against woman for centuries. In the end, the question that remains – which Sinigaglia’s film exploits greatly through fantastical settings, illusionary atmospheres, and its characters’ preoccupations – is who is to blame? Juliette Howard

Bohemia

n a rooftop above the bustling streets of Los Angeles, bohemian artist Paul (Jordan Rountree) is awoken from his outdoor slumber by the sound of passing police sirens. He descends into an alleyway where he meets a young woman, with the pair striking up a conversation. Samuel Kaperski’s Bohemia aims to examine the exploitation of human kindness.

Samuel Kaperski, France, 2019

‘The Woman’ – played by Gabriela Ortega – invites Paul back to the apartment for a smoke and some company but immediately, red flags are raised and noted by her new acquaintance. When Ortega’s character finds herself in a predicament, the helpful Paul offers to get her out of a sticky situation by driving a rental car back to Santa Monica. However, he soon realises that he should have paid better attention to the signs that something wasn’t quite right.

Bohemia does an excellent job of setting up the two main characters and quickly developing their friendship. The decision by Paul to join the woman at her apartment so quickly after their initial encounter feels believable thanks to some well-written dialogue from Kaperski, convincingly performed by Ortega and particularly Rountree, who showcases an impressive range of emotions. Some subtle shot direction also aids this, with close-ups of Paul’s genuine delight as the woman compliments his art show. However, the film’s pacing is a little uneven. Almost two-thirds of the 12-minute runtime are spent setting up Paul’s journey to Santa Monica, and whilst the film is intended as a completely standalone story, it feels as though it is the first in an episodic series of shorts.

Cinematographer Chad Marksusson takes full advantage of the Arri Alexa for the most part, with some wonderful shots of Southern California’s almost-tropical beauty during Paul’s drive, countering the urban settings of downtown LA seen from the rooftop. Between these two scenes we are taken inside the apartment, which doubles as a photography studio. This environment doesn’t quite share the same inspiring charm of the outdoor shots, and what is meant to be a pivotal moment is let down slightly by lesser lighting and location.

Bohemia is an interesting story that follows a genuinely likeable protagonist as he muddles his way through an increasingly strange day. Accomplished acting performances effectively carry the dialogue-driven plot forward and, whilst it quickly becomes clear that something isn’t right, the film leaves you wanting more beyond the end credits, for better or worse. Matthew Procter

Cornflakes Are Rubbish Charlotte Nind/Jacob Bacon, UK, 2021 FLTV

he opening shot of Cornflakes Are Rubbish immediately draws questions from the film’s audience. Said audience could be forgiven for underestimating what is about to unfold over the next 6 minutes and 32 seconds from the short’s title card, a grimy-grey background beneath spaghetti letters spelling out the film’s peculiar title. Moments later, co-director and lead actor Jacob Bacon’s character awakens in a field beneath a burning yellow sun. What it means is never definitively answered, but Bacon and Charlotte Nind’s experimental outing is equal parts confusing and captivating for many reasons. As is often the case with experimental films, Cornflakes Are Rubbish only loosely follows a plot, which is by design difficult to decipher. An unnamed man and woman, played by directors Bacon and Nind respectively, live together and undertake a series of increasingly bizarre rituals whilst, hidden away in a secluded building, a mysterious floating artefact ominously emits indistinguishable whispers.

Experimental films often live or die on their creativity and it’s fair to say that Cornflakes Are Rubbish absolutely stands strong in this regard, showcasing the talents of all involved in every facet of the production. The cinematography (also by Nind and Bacon) is inventive, with an array of mind-boggling shot types, a Wes Anderson-like colour palette (if he did horror), and multiple switches from shooting static to handheld, combining to create a wonderfully vivid – but also unsettling – depiction of these characters’ mystifying lives. At times, it does feel like a music video but in this instance, within this genre, it works. On the subject of music (and sound in general), this is where Nind and Bacon’s film excels. A singular piece of music, scored brilliantly by Sol Moulang Lewis, runs throughout and ties together each of the eccentric scenes, cranking up the intensity several notches, and hammers home the creepy visual aesthetic. The sound design and mixing by Lewis along with Kipras Varanavičius are also impressive. The audio compliments the visuals to ensure the film feels like a horror, a thriller, and a thoughtprovoking piece of art in the appropriate moments.

Cornflakes Are Rubbish is a strange film, but that’s the point. Its baffling nature is what makes it so intriguing and succeeds without question at keeping its audience engrossed from start to finish. Viewers will most likely be left wondering what it all means, or perhaps they will extract some meaning from what they have seen, but one thing is for sure: they won’t forget this short film in a hurry. Matthew Procter

Yuluu

Fatima Kried, UK, 2021

uluu is strikingly simple at first glance, but this downplays the use of animation techniques to present a child’s view of war and violence – in this case, an apt choice. The film feels like a child and adult talking to one another, though through different mediums of communication. The child tells the adult what they see, but they do not understand, and so violence is represented through shapes and colours. The adult attempts to provide context, although still with uncertainty.

Yuluu is diffused with a childlike innocence, directly in contrast with the matter-of-fact voiceover provided by Hind Kammourieh, which adds maturity and depth. During moments of clarity, when a child’s lens cannot be used to filter the sound of gunfire, the bright red/ pink/brown colour palette fades to the most basic of tones. Even then, fireworks are used instead of guns. The audience doesn’t actually see a single weapon being fired. While also being shrouded in memory, this accessible animation uses basic lines and shapes to make a big statement.

This use of colourful shapes to display frantic movement is striking and shows that animation is far more accessible than one might think. With just a few squares and asymmetrical blotches, director Fatima Kried effectively portrays anger, grief, and panic.

Music is used superbly to provide cultural and situational context. Though for the first few moments, this could be a film about a happy childhood memory, the music belies this and sets the audience on the edge of their seats. Purely instrumental, the music provides a sense of foreboding and anticipation of things to come. This film feels like a prelude. One must wonder if Yuluu is part of a series, or open-ended for a reason.

Kammourieh’s speech is succinct enough that the subtitles do not overwhelm the animation aspect of the film, thus balancing the two elements well. Kried has done a pitch-perfect job of balancing child and adult, light and dark, music and animation, to create a striking snapshot of a family’s journey and a new beginning. Madeleine Raven

Apocalypse Notes Pierre Gaffié, France, 2020

he post-apocalyptic sub-genre in film has been popular among various audiences going back to the earliest days of cinema. They tend to follow a similar narrative, where Earth’s civilisation is on the verge of, or has already collapsed. The subsequent dystopia is usually caused by climactic and nuclear disasters, or resource depletion. However, in his short film, director Pierre Gaffié initiates a discussion around an entirely different issue. He asks: “what would happen if, like polar bears, music were about to disappear?” The answer to this question is more complex than it may seem.

What is interesting is that music is not only the main subject of this short, but it also takes on the role of a kind of supporting character, pushing the narrative along. Consistently present in the background, it does become a somewhat irritating distraction. Gaffié’s choice of music to underscore drama is rather unusual. It has an almost jingle-like sound to it, which doesn’t always match what is happening on-screen. It is especially conspicuous in the scene where Thomas begins telling Jeanne about his discovery.

Apocalypse Notes (with its exclamatory tagline “music is in danger!”) is an 8-minute, French philosophical film about a world on the verge of a musical apocalypse. It follows a young and passionate musician Thomas, who tells his fiancé, art student Jeanne, about what he has recently learned. He confesses that music is over as there are only 34,000 melodies that have not been composed yet. Ambitious artists determined to create great things, Thomas and Jeanne struggle to comprehend what this news means to them. The characters complain that people have been wasting music for centuries, using it to earn a living rather than as an art form.

In retrospect, it seems that the film might have benefited from completely removing the music and allowing its audience to focus on the dialogue. Overall, Apocalypse Notes is a technically well-made film that will undoubtedly leave its audience wondering whether there is a point in creating anything if originality is unattainable. Natalia Brammen

Poster design: Scott Woolston