Author: Daniel Pollock

“If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.”

• W.C. Fields

“Meshes of the After” is an “alternate reading” of a highly influential short film from 1943, Maya Deren and Alexander Hammid’s “Meshes of the Afternoon”, which took a reasonably mundane situation and twisted, distorted and folded it in on itself to create a nightmarish vision of the feminine, the domestic and mental illness. It is considered a high watermark of surrealist American cinema, and has gone on to influence a number of filmmakers, most prominent among them likely being David Lynch.

By stripping this earlier film of its context and meaning, and neglecting to build on its stunning innovation, directors Case & Porter have essentially developed a near shot-for-shot exercise in empty aestheticism, with neon gels and a flawless commercial sheen standing in for originality, ending up not looking and feeling unlike Vance Joy’s “Riptide” music video. 

The film ostensibly follows a young woman returning home after picking up a flower and witnessing a shadowy figure pass her by. As she falls asleep inside, she starts to see the figure in her dreams, and repeats similar actions as doubles and triples of herself begin to stack up. The dream world eventually folds into reality, leaving the viewer, and our lead, unsure of what way is up, both psychologically and literally. 

It could be argued that the original was a reaction to the state of realist American cinema, as well as the burgeoning middle class and the new psychological issues it would bring with it, but I run into some issues justifying why and how this remake relates to the contemporary experience. If there is a renewed relevance in the modern world, why use the same rotary phone as a prop, for example? The same record player? This strips the domestic meaning of the items, and they instead just exist as near pointless objects, empty beyond visual stimulation. It feels like there is a quirky, day-glo phone in the film because it looks cool and there was one in the original, or a knife not because it carries the bubbling menace of suicidal ideation and domestic ennui, but because, well, someone’s gotta carry a knife. It feels lazy and irrelevant.

You could say I didn’t “get it”, but I’m really not sure about that. The film came with a short artist’s statement, which seems to rehash a lot of what made the original special; Case & Porter mention the “modulating presence of recurring domestic objects” and the “illumination of the undulating and malleable experience of the meta-physical”, which are definitely present in Derrin and Hammid’s work, as the perspective of the camera shifts in and out of subjectivity and objectivity, creating a menacing unease. In 1943, exploring the subjective experience of the psyche was groundbreaking and rife with meaning. In 2022, reheating those same ideas without the meaning to marry it to leaves the film feeling limp. 

It is unreasonable to compare the two films as separate entities considering how closely they mirror each other. If you wish to see a piece of cinematic history, I would highly recommend checking out the original and understanding its place not only in film, but in the broader context of 1940s America. As for the remake, while visually colourful and clean, I really find it difficult to justify why a short like this exists, beyond that it will help Case & Porter get advertising gigs. But hey, who am I to judge? Rent in Brooklyn is steep. 

Insincerity breeds impotence – that’s what director Thomas Daneskov’s forest-fumbling crime caper Wild Men wants you to know, with its ensemble of flawed men who would rather quietly destroy themselves living a lie or escape to the bloody mountains instead of, you know, talking to someone. Over a taut 90-ish minutes, this subdued comedy takes a broad look at the fragile masculinity of the modern middle class, and if it doesn’t exactly deliver searing satire, it makes for an enjoyable, thoughtful watch. 

Business drone Martin is camped in the Norwegian mountains, dressed in a shag pile of animal furs, and he’s crying; he’s just left his young, happy family without warning to escape the grind and return to a simpler life as a hunter/gatherer. However, the only animals he can hunt are poisonous frogs, and he’s quickly gathering the attention of local law enforcement after he “robs” a petrol station out of desperation. So when he comes across Musa, an injured traveller with a dangerous background, the two must evade the police as they seek refuge in Guddalen, where people live communally without the trappings of modern life. But will their lies destroy them? And what will Martin’s wife think?

The need for escape is a commonly explored, essential theme in cinema, and Wild Men draws from that great well; from the opening sequences mirroring Wenders’ wanderer in Paris, Texas to the similarities of setting and tone that can be found in Taika Waititi’s adventure Hunt For The Wilderpeople, the film does not shy from comparison. A trio of wonderful tragicomic performances serve as the heart that drives these concerns, namely Rasum Bjerg as Martin and Zaki Youssef as Musa delivering great comedic work individually and together, with Bjerg’s jolly, impulsive effort bringing the majority of the laughs. But it is Bjørn Sundquist’s ageing police chief Øyvind who is the film’s moral compass, navigating through the remnants of his life after the loss of a loved one. Like Tommy Lee Jones in No Country For Old Men, his time has passed and he can no longer make amends, but at least Øyvind can help those following his path before it’s too late.     

It’s also worth noting that the harshness of the wilderness has always been used by filmmakers to draw a deeper truth out of their characters, and here it is used to great effect, as wide vistas of Norwegian forests and rivers oppress Martin with their scope just as much as his limited white collar world did. Daneskov also does well to reflect the insincerity of his main players in the visuals, shooting the film as if a serious Scandi-noir, with cold, harshly lit images of isolated, pensive men and handheld procedural sequences underscoring the silly humour of Martin and Musa’s plight. But much as Martin learns with his attempts at cosplaying as a mountain man, it’s all fun and games until it’s suddenly very serious; cleverly, the tone of the film eventually catches up with the cinematography choices, and the film too begins to live “truthfully”.

Questions are often raised about true masculinity – what is it? When does it become toxic? Wild Men has a crack at these questions – masculinity is true honesty and authenticity, becoming something unsavoury when we hide our true nature from others and ourselves. Solitude can be troublesome and evasive, while community can suffocate, but no matter what we must be true, and we mustn’t shield that from others. It is then that we can be content. And the only one who seems happy with their lot in life and can actually enjoy their free time? The police dog of course – as we find out, the events of the film occur on his day off, doing “dog things”. If only we could all be so sincere. 

When your life is intrinsically linked to death, what kind of life does it become? For some, it can be a livelihood, an inheritance, a reason to get up in the morning. For others, it is something to be rejected at all costs, unless it becomes a type of walking death itself. The characters who inhabit the world of The Wake, no matter where they fall on this spectrum, seem to be in limbo somewhere between the emotions of life and the coldness of death. Director/writer Luis Gerard, in directing his first short since 1998, delivers a strong piece, combining style and atmosphere with a succinct, engaging tale to showcase the experiences of two young boys facing an unwanted future.

Walter is a teenager growing up in a small Canadian town where everyone knows each other, which makes it all the harder to aspire to take on his distant father’s ownership of Carpenter & Sons Funeral Home. Partly as an act of rebellion, but mostly for something to do, Walter uses the knowledge of the recently deceased to rob their homes along with his younger deaf brother. But when the brothers come across something dangerous in one of the houses, it threatens dire consequences for the entire family. 

Tone and mood can make or break a short film, and thankfully, they make this one; sweeping drone shots of the chilling Ontario landscape set the scene for a miserable tale told well, evoking the weighty drama of other atmospheric Frost Belt fare such as Manchester By The Sea or HBO’s Mare of Easttown. Other smaller moments are bestowed with the considerable weight of death – consider a well-worn trope, the intruder hiding under the bed as the resident returns home, which is deployed here, only to be broken up by an outpouring of grief. It is moments like this that stick out so well, with the services of the undertaker colouring the entirety of Walter’s experience. 

Performances across the board are also strong, with special mention going to Robert Fulton as Walter’s grumbly father, delivering his passive aggression with a Richard Jenkins lilt. The sound design is also notably effective, particularly the representation of Walter’s younger brother’s experience as a deaf person, an eternal silence deployed effectively and meaningfully.

A tight, taut thriller with a Shyamalan-esque feel, The Wake doesn’t overstay its welcome, and it makes good on every promise. It is an exercise in atmospherics, which works to elevate the tale towards something more profound, even if other elements of the film don’t necessarily suggest it. A story worth telling of the dark, cold North. 

It Is In Us All: Review. By Daniel Pollock.

What does death bring for us? Is it something profound that connects every living creature on Earth, or simply the final stop on the tour? And how does it intersect with love, with lust, with a connection to a spiritual heartland? It seems that these questions are some of the ones pondered by writer/director Antonia Campbell-Hughes in this interesting yet uneven quasi-thriller, where love, death, grief, ancestry and sex all meet at a crossroads in County Donegal.  

Englishman Hamish Considine works for his father at a multinational production house and is seemingly satisfied, but also appears to struggle with human connection. On a trip to visit his late mother’s family home in Donegal, Northern Ireland for the first time, Hamish is involved in a head-on car collision that kills one of the passengers in the oncoming vehicle, a 15 year old boy. As Hamish recovers from his injuries, he forms a unique bond with the other survivor of the crash, Evan, who introduces him to his slower way of life. But as it becomes clearer that neither are telling the entire truth about the incident, it begs the question: what do they want from each other?

There is a disconcerting human disconnect running through this film from the start, whether it be driven by class, nationality or simply personal differences; from the opening exchanges with a folksy rental car attendant to the gloomy cinematography and constant reminders from locals, Hamish is always established as a rank outsider. This is further reinforced by fellow schoolboy survivor Evan (depicted compellingly by Rhys Mannion), who carries with him a strangely menacing and somewhat ghostly aura as he slowly loses the plot, seeing Hamish as somewhere between co-conspirator, enemy and potential lover. Death brings them together, and pushes them towards an outcome that neither can quite verbalise, but will pursue like moths to a flame.

It feels a little off calling this a primarily queer story, but I think there are elements at least born out of the small town queer experience; moments betwen Hamish and Evan in ice cream stores, beaches and clubs are notably charged enough to be commented on by locals, and the tension between the two based on a shared lie feels loaded with closeted meaning. And yet, these elements all seem to come directly back to death, destruction, a fatal instinct. It’s an easy read to make, though it’s one the film wisely holds back on indulging in entirely. Instead, it maintains an obsession with the unspoken, having our characters fumble somewhat aimlessly as they desperately look for solid ground once more.

But undercutting all of this are a few issues. While the film creates quiet moments of tension and mystery, it often destroys them immediately with expository dialogue, or characters actively describing the subtext. It’s annoying, because the film is infinitely stronger at times when it leaves these moments floating in the air, felt by some but left without comment. A commitment to this more opaque style of storytelling would have seen a stronger overall product. There is also a little trouble with the lead performance from Cosmo Jarvis; he inhabits the space of a Tom Hardy-lite, but lacks a lot of the emotional depth that Hardy’s characters often have pulsating just under his crumbling tough guy surface. As a result, Hamish’s transformation from standoffish corporate statue to snivelling, guilt-riddled wreck is a hard one to track, though is ably guided by Mannion’s supporting turn.   

It seems the word of the day for this film is “interesting” – while it doesn’t successfully drive home everything it sets out to do, and is a little muddled in places, it is definitely an atmospheric achievement, and poses some intriguing musings on death, grief and love. With time, it’s likely that a braver Campbell-Hughes will deliver a more refined piece grounded in the strongest elements of this film: icy photography, detached character interactions, and a deeply repressed yearning for release.

The concept of the double is nothing new in fiction – from Poe and Dostoyevsky in the 19th century to the more recent Paul Rudd vehicle Living With Yourself, it has always held a place in the collective imagination. In each of these, whether or not there’s a feasible reason behind the sudden appearance of a perfect likeness, they generally represent a separate part of the Self – a repression, a shadow, the unconscious mind. In that sense, noted photographer Uzo Oleh’s short film debut Edicius slots neatly into that tradition, though beyond some fascinating visual flair and trickery, it doesn’t do enough to define itself as both a necessary entry into said tradition, nor a wholly successful film in its own right. 

The film drops us into the middle of yuppie lawyer Jason having a bit of a meltdown; we don’t know it yet, but he’s bitten off a touch more than he can chew, with his most recent client mixing him in with London’s underworld. When Jason’s mirror image jumps out of his bathroom cabinet claiming to be his intuition, and tells him that he holds the key to his survival, Jason starts to listen. But in the heat of the moment, he starts to doubt what he has heard. Can he trust himself?

You’re hit with a flood of exposition up top – a byproduct of the film’s taut run time and, presumably, budget. It’s not my favourite thing in the world, but I understand it. Still, finding a more engaging way to share this information with the audience would hopefully be high on a list of priorities for the filmmaker. But from there, it’s interesting enough. The lightly mind-bending proceedings are dry, but Nolan-esque enough to be silly-serious fun, and there are notable moments that will have you amazed, such as a physics-defying mental struggle between the two Jasons, as well as a unique fight sequence full of evocative tableaus. Also of note is Michael Socha’s seamless performance acting against himself as Jason, which is surely one of the hardest things to do in cinema. There’s never a moment it trips the movie up – a testament to all involved. 

Director Oleh also clearly has a refined eye, as the film is inarguably imaginatively shot and tastefully executed, nailing the sparse, drab chic of corporate London. Jason’s apartment in particular has all the warmth of a mausoleum, encasing these two halves of our protagonist in a setting that feels more eternal than a lawyer’s home has any right to.

Still, it just seems a shame to not do much with this impressive composition and rich concept beyond presenting what ultimately boils down to a generic, nihilistic British crime flick. Not that there’s a whole lot innately wrong with those of course, but it is clear that Edicius wants to be so much more, and the concept writes philosophical cheques that the screenplay can’t cash. The appearance and seemingly omnipotent knowledge of the double should raise so many moral questions, and yet, the film eschews these in favour of using it as a plot tool to get from point A to B. 

Look, there’s clearly a lot of skill in Oleh’s work, and he is able to execute a vision with technical and compositional nous, but there just isn’t enough to Jason’s story to justify the existence of this piece. This one may have overall been a close miss, but there’s enough packed into these 22 minutes to be looking expectantly at what comes next.