A brotherly drama set against the backdrop of a deadly baby trafficking ring, Songlap has far less edge than its one-line premise suggests. Neither compelling enough to work as drama or dirty enough to engage us in its action sequences, Songlap straddles a line between social realist drama and generic gangland tropes.
Set against the gritty streets of Kaula Lumpur, where getting by appears to be a difficult task, Songlap tells the story of Am (Shaheizy Sam) and Ad (Syafie Naswip). We meet them at the start of the film handing over a newborn baby for cash. This is done in a completely matter-of-fact way, suggesting that this is a routine action for them. They have been roped into working for a ruthless syndicate that ruthlessly profit out of human life.
The younger Am starts having doubts about the business after the death of his friend to a heroin overdose — filmed in a particularly depressing kitchen sink-style. For want of a therapist, he starts patrolling the services of a local, older prostitute. Not for sex though. Like Holden Caulfield, the poor boy just wants to talk. Through these conversations and other revelations, such as finding out that his friend’s sister is being used for her body, he has a change of heart, quite at odds with his brother, who blows most of his cash on gambling. By the end, they butt heads while the world around them slowly closes in.
Since the films release in 2011, both Sam and Nawswip have risen to become two of the biggest stars in Malaysia. You can see why. They both have a natural screen presence, even in a substandard film such as this. While working well together, they can’t do much to elevate a messy screenplay, uninteresting digital photography and a mutual enemy that never once manages to convince.
Additionally, the music, featuring tremolo-heavy guitars, breakbeats and indie songs, blankets the entire film in a strange tone seemingly at odds with the seriousness the material deserves. Neither an ironic counterpoint or particularly suitable to what’s happening on screen, it almost completely disconnected me from the action on screen.
While there is perhaps some potentially rich content to mine here, such as the meaning of family, the conflict between money and morality, and the difficulty of living an authentic life in difficult circumstances, directors Fariza Azlina andEffendee leaves one wanting for something far simpler and more unashamedly entertaining. While deserving credit for the darkness and bravery of its subject matter, they cannot give the material the execution it needs to truly sing. Ultimately, the title of the film — a Malay slang word that either means to make something disappear or to launder funds and make them go away— feels apt: a great idea that disappears under a barrage of needless clichés.
Songlap plays as part of the Locarno Film Festival’s Open Doors segment, focusing on South East Asian and Mongolian cinema, running online between August 5th and 15th. You can watch the film by clicking here.
Cloisters, by their very nature, are cut off from the rest of the world. People of faith live there in order to dedicate themselves in service to God without being encumbered by the problems of the modern world. Yet, as governments and countries change, even the most secluded of us find themselves caught up in the events of history.
Isabel Sandoval’s film Apparition takes place in the Philippines, 1971, just before President Ferdinand Marcos devastates the country by putting it under Martial Law. We start as Sister Lourdes (Jodi Sta. Maria) makes her way to the convent, finding herself lost in a dense thicket of trees. Then, like in so many convent-based dramas, we are introduced to the many practices of this space, which functions as a universe unto itself, with its own codes and laws. They seem untouchable, solely dedicated to the Lord.
But Ferdinand Marcos has other ideas. The leader turned dictator of the Philippines is never seen but often heard, speaking on the radio in English as he calmly asserts power over the country, setting into course a series of events that will change the fabric of the nation forever, and even encroach upon this self-contained world.
It’s an interesting choice for Locarno’s Open Doors selection — finding the best cinema South East Asia and Mongolia has to offer— which has barely any new feature films this year, as it resembles, in both tone and content, the Argentinian drama of Maternal. Yet where the much stronger Maternal had an strongly-established aesthetic, using a lot of natural light to match, a lot of Apparition looks cheaply shot, with a strange blue filter used to dampen the striking look of the women’s habits.
Characters are often held at a remove, playing rigid roles (the stern Mother Superior, the Rebellious Friend) instead of being complex people in their own right. The central thesis point is finely drawn, especially by the way this feminine world is violently violated, but it cannot seem to amount to more than just academic criticism, further stressed by the Antonio Gramsci quote (“The old is dying and the new cannot be born. In this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms appear’) that opens the film. Additionally, the pivotal event of the movie is repeated from different angles, showing us how all the nuns are complicit in letting it happen. While sometimes this technique can work, little is revealed here that we didn’t already know, making it a somewhat superfluous filmmaking gesture.
With the Marcos Family still holding considerable sway in the Philippines, as shown in The Kingmaker, the message of Apparition — to speak up when power, both patriarchal and political, is being abused — rings as true as ever. But for a real understanding of how things can go wrong, that documentary, also available online, is a far more intriguing and urgent document.
Apparitionplays as part of the Locarno Film Festival’s Open Doors segment, running online between August 5-15. Just click here in order to watch it.
There are a number of familiar faces in the cast of the Shannon Murphy’s feature debut. Lead Eliza Scanlen was seen in last winter’s Little Women (Greta Gerwig, 2019), while Essie Davis and Ben Mendelsohn are character actors appearing in hits big and small. However, even with such illustrious credits to their name, Babyteeth is a drama that will stand out on any CV.
Scanlen plays Milla, a teenager with a serious illness who falls quite literally into the arms of Moses (Toby Wallace), a 23-year-old who is every parent’s worst nightmare. A drifter who steals and sells pills, Milla’s parents Anna and Henry (Davis and Mendelsohn) cautiously welcome him into their new home, before banning him from seeing their daughter after he is caught stealing. However, as Milla’s health issues increase, they seek out an unusual arrangement with Moses to keep their child happy.
Interspersed with written titles that read like pages in a diary (“The Shower Routine”, “Things Changed”, or simply “Fuck This”), the film begins with an examination of suburban pain. Everyone we meet is nursing some kind of desperation that they don’t talk about. Psychiatrist Henry drowns Anna in pills to counter her moods, while he is drawn like a magnet to new neighbour Toby (Emily Barclay), drawn to the simplicity of her outlook. Anna punishes herself for wasting time in the past, embodied in her refusal to play piano.
As for Milla, she simply wants to be a teenager, to do all the things her illness deprives her of. It’s not hard to understand, as she runs into dangerous situations because, well, how could it get any worse? She sees an escape in Moses, who she sees as fearless. Wallace lets us know that’s far from the case, showing us a man who initially sees her as a mark, then recoils as feelings begin to grow.
The emotional nuance in the script requires exceptional actors to deliver it, and everyone involved exceeds in their role. There’s a dark comedy to how everyone deals with the strange situation that emerges, typified when Moses is caught stealing and Milla declares that she won’t respect Henry if he calls the police. Murphy hammers home the imperfection of her characters, who try to do the right thing and find it’s not that simple.
At the midway point, the conflict eases and this awkward new family takes shape. “This is the worst possible parenting I could imagine” Anna reflects, to which Henry gives a flummoxed sigh. So much of what this film has to say is reflected in terrified looks in the mirror, or trailed off, clumsy sentences. It feels human, and beds you in before hitting you in the gut with a devastating final half hour.
Babyteeth is out in cinemas on Friday, August 14th. On VoD on Monday, December 7th. On Netflix on Thursday, December 31st.
Once upon a time, seeing two stars on the screen at the same time was the kind of technical wizardry that would sell a movie to audiences, such as in the comedies Multiplicity (Harold Ramis, 1996) and The Nutty Professor (Tom Shadyac, 1996). This is no longer the case. Still, two Seth Rogens are definitely better than one.
An American Pickle, HBO Max’s first original movie, offers a unique idea for a story. The year is 1920, and Ashkenazi labourer Herschel Greenbaum (Rogen) moves to New York from his homeland in order to make a better life for himself and his family. Finding The New World less promising than he thought, he accidentally falls into a vat of brine while at his job in a pickle factory, and is preserved for a century. Waking up in the modern day, he finds his Great Grandson Ben (also Rogen), a reserved App Designer living in Brooklyn and in a rut since the death of his parents.
Ben attempts to introduce Hershel to the wonders of ‘the future’, in a charming first act with all the fish out of water comedy you’d expect. Rogen marvels at cabs, virtual assistants, and fulfils his dream of drinking seltzer water. Modern luxuries we have quickly come to take for granted are seen through new eyes. It’s a sweet, well played beginning that nods to the audience at various times and quickly disposes of any scepticism. During a scene where it’s questioned just how any of this is possible, Hershel’s voice-over quickly interrupts to reassure us that “the scientist explained, the science was good, the people were satisfied”.
Events begin to unravel once the introductions are finished and the plot has to go somewhere. The pair fall out over Ben’s ambition, prompting Hershel to start a pickle business that is discovered by Brooklyn’s hipster elite, and makes him a social media star. The film’s second act becomes a comedy about start up businesses filled with on-the-nose observations about modern life. We get jokes about the wavering ethics of trendy communities, internships (which Hershel immediately mistakes for slavery), and the hysteria of online buzz.
For a film with such novel beginnings, it treads a familiar path quite quickly, particularly when a jealous Ben sets up Hershel for failure by encouraging him to express his 100 year old views on twitter. The results lose him his customer base but make him an unwitting Right-Wing star in the style of… well, you know who. It’s skilfully devised and many of the jokes will hit home at this moment in time, but there is a nagging sense that the story could have explored something more substantial.
It all gets back on the track as the final half hour comes back to faith and family, giving Rogen the chance to utilise these great performances which give the film its original feel. As Ben, he is closer to the laid back persona we’re used to seeing from him, but a little sadder. The pressure he feels to live up to family expectations, and the distance from his religion created by his grief is relatable and could bear more exploration. As Hershel, he gets to truly perform. Caught somewhere between Borat and Forrest Gump, this principled innocent is a pleasure to follow both in terms of comedy and drama. When told of Ben’s parents’ passing, he hilariously quips “murdered or regular?” The sincerity of the character also allows Rogen to delve into serious scenes in a way he may not have otherwise been able to do.
An interesting tonal stew, An American Pickle gets lost along the way trying to pastiche trends that already feel out of date. However, there’s an honestly to its message, and the dual performances of its star.
An American Pickle is in cinemas on Friday, August 7th. On Sky Cinema and NOW on Friday, April 30th.
Director Eva Riley examines the idea of family in a perfectly pitched British drama, which can be positively compared to Andrea Arnold’s Fish Tank (2009). Frankie Box stares right into your soul as Leigh, a young girl feeling lost after the death of her mother, and absence of her father (William Ash) who now lives with a new partner in another house.
Her one solace is her gymnastics club. In the build up to the big competition, Leigh can’t seem to get her routine right, with the pressures of the outside world piercing what was once a protective bubble. Then, through her door walks Joe (Alfie Deegan), the half-brother she never knew she had. Forced to live together, his cocky abrasive nature initially repels her, but the two lonely kids soon form a connection, drawing Leigh into his dangerous world.
So much of Riley’s impressive debut relies on what is unsaid, and using every element on screen. We don’t hear a detailed explanation of how Leigh feels, but we see her eyes nervously dart around as the music starts, we hear the chatter of mums at in the viewing gallery, the giggles of her clubmates, all dressed in more expensive gear. Riley creates an environment that requires no audible explanation.
However, we’re not here to examine gymnastics. The main theme is love, or the absence of it in every character we meet. Leigh and Joe are abandoned in their own ways, and unsure what they’ve done to deserve it. Both have formed hard shells that immediately crumble when their father shows the slightest bit of attention, before spiralling into self loathing once he leaves. It’s heart-breaking to watch, and hard to judge either too harshly when Leigh starts to help Joe steal bikes for intimidating boss Reece (Billy Mogford).
This empathy also helps progress a subtle but always present sub-plot, where Leigh’s affection for this new family member becomes blurred. Told in stares and run-off sentences, handled differently it may have been shocking, but in this world it is a symptom of forgotten children who have suddenly found each other. Life and emotions are messy, particularly for a grieving teenager.
Young lead Box is exceptional. There’s no hint of drama school stageyness in her performance, helped along by natural dialogue. Recording every moment in her wide-eyed stares and lost expression, she’s well met by Deegan. A young man who chases after affection like a puppy, his bouncy charisma works when put next to his shy co-star. While the focus is on them, there’s able support in smaller roles such as Leigh’s coach, played by Sharlene Whyte. Delicately played, she wants to nurture her student but is unable to get too emotionally involved, instead helping by turning a blind eye to missed fees and lateness.
Perfect 10 explores gritty, uncomfortable questions with a light hand, showing the people rather the predicament. It’s a great example of what happens when different voices are heard, behind and in front of the camera. It is out on BFI Player and Curzon Home Cinema on Friday, August 7th.
The Algerian Civil War of the 1990s is the setting for director Mounia Meddour’s semi-autobiographical drama. In the capital city Algiers, as tensions grow between the armed police and anti-government guerillas, fashion student Nedjma (Lyna Khoudri), known as Papicha to her friends, plans to hold a fashion show at her university campus. It’s a confrontational challenge to the fundamentalists who want women to hide their bodies that will have lasting implications on the lives of this group of determined young women.
The drama opens by introducing Papicha and Wasilla (Shirine Boutella) as young rebels sneaking out of the university grounds. When their taxi is stopped at a check point, the firearms and the commanding authoritarian voices of the men dismisses any romanticisation of youthful rebellion as the eyes of the two girls convey their fear. While the terrifying ordeal is brief, it will be one of many, and soon the pair are selling dresses they’ve made in the toilets of the nightclubs. This back and forth shift sets the tone for the film, which is a duel between youthful dreams in a violent and oppressive world, where they cannot be separated.
Words are important in Meddour’s drama, and the passion and conviction of Papicha in particular is infectious. We feel her anger and frustration in as much as we reasonably can, having no personal familiarity with such experiences as her own. There are many fiery exchanges where she expresses herself, whether to her friends, or even getting into a heated argument with Wasilla’s patriarchal leaning boyfriend. Yet it feels that the film picks its moments to make statements and to preach against oppression. These verbal protestations are measured to take an emotional portrait of the struggle with repression and adversity, and instil it with ideas.
In one scene Papicha says of the fundamentalist women who invade their rooms on campus, “They’re ignorant people. They abuse religion.” We share her anger, and what the filmmaker does is portrays the inclusive reality of Papicha’s strength and powerlessness, which is truthful to the realities of these hostile experiences when struggling with indifference.
One of the ideas that emerges from the drama is the irony that a devotion to God takes the form of fire and smoke, explosions and bullets, condemnation and bloodied hands. Meddour offers a point of view that religion and scripture need to be emancipated from man’s propensity for cruelty, and our misconception of the need for absolute spiritual devotion. Before our devotion to God is our responsibility to one another, and religion should encourage our empathy, compassion and understanding towards others.
In part based on real events, the memories Meddour shares with us of living under oppression should remind us that basic freedoms are a privilege. We do not have to fear a cold-blooded execution for voicing an opinion or expressing ourselves by some other means. We should not mistake freedom as a human right because in our civilisation it has always been a privilege for some, for others a hopeful dream.
The film is all the more unnerving as we see present day tensions escalate between the American people and Donald Trump. The egregious force used against protesters in Lafayette Square, Washington D.C, and the unlawful arrests by federal law enforcement officers in Portland, Oregon, offer a startling picture of democracy gone awry. Current events in the US penetrate a belief in the resolve of Western democracy to juxtapose itself with authoritarianism.
Papicha is a vital and important film, not only because history should never be forgotten, but by witnessing the struggles faced by Algerian women in the 1990s, the film can transcend time and evoke in us aforementioned values of compassion. The aspirational group of girls and their personal struggles are in a different and more extreme cultural context, but we can discover that we share an emotional and human connection. While politics, economics and religion can put up boundaries, art and film can break these down, and we should allow and encourage it to do so.
Papicha is streaming on Peccadillo Player and Curzon Home Cinema from Friday, August 7th.
The length debut of director and writer Mike P. Nelson has an interesting premise. The US government conducts a reset on society by poisoning the population and leaving those immune to fend for themselves. Its opening scene of high flying military planes oozing a black chemical smoke over the entire US is striking and completely terrifying. There is no reason why. There is no explanation. Just a criminality performed by the leading authority to irk out internal strife. Left or right insurgencies are not discussed. The US has “problems” that have been ignored and allowed to fester for years. Eradication of all causes is the only option left.
Whilst the premise is solid the execution doesn’t quite live up to it. But, we’re not necessarily here to discuss that. The film sits comfortably in the low budget genre of recent post-apocalyptic survivalist dramas that crop up from time to time on Netflix’s recommendations. Film’s such as Cargo (Ben Howling/ Yolanda Ramke, 2007), Into the Forest (Patricia Rozema, 2015), How it Ends (David M. Rosenthal, 2018), and The Endless (Justin Benson/ Aaron Moorhead, 2018) all tap into our fears of life during or after the fall of society. How will we survive? Who will we rely on? The film also shares something with the classic film The Warriors (Walter Hill, 1979) in its premise of traversing the domains of extravagantly dressed gangbangers.
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A prescient story?
Watching The Domestics through the lens of Donald Trump’s presidency and his authoritarian stance against the left in his own country, you can’t help but see that the course of action taken in the film is also in the realm of possibility in his troubled and narcissistic mind. Just a few triggers spring to mind. This is a man who suggested nuking a hurricane and has recently sent militarised police units to quash protests in Portland and other cities. He has also allowed the Covid-19 pandemic (more of which later) to run rampant across the nation with little in the way of sympathy for the dead and their families. Brutalising and humiliating his own citizens is a Trumpian staple of leadership as it has been in his career as a businessman and entrepreneur.
But there is more. In the post-reset world, the survivors have formed bands of survivalist gangs that roam the wastelands between the cities and suburbs. They mostly provoke and pester each other over the limited resources but they also hunt and menace those that might try and cross over their patch of territory. The seeds of this cultish gang mentality are already sewed into the fabric of American culture.
The far right, for example, have fragmented into pockets of hard resistance, nationalism and conspiracy theories revolving around race, gender, guns, and personal freedom. In the minds of conspiracy wonks the US government is already poisoning them from the air through the use of chemical trails and what not. The gangs of survivalists shown here, The Gamblers, The Plowboys, Nailers, and Sheets, have seeds in the current fractioning. Each has a mostly murderous ideology to anything that doesn’t fall into their own slim outlook of life.
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The taste of resistance
Our heroes are Nina (Kate Bosworth) and Mark (Tyler Hoechlin), a young couple of middle class suburbanites, who make the hard decision to drive from the relatively safe environs of white suburbia Minneapolis to Milwaukee where Nina’s parents are living in their own community of safe white and wealthy privilege. Mark has his reservations about the journey, one being that Nina’s dad hates him, but with their marriage crumbling along with society around them, he reluctantly agrees.
During the road trip the couple stumble upon the scavengers and the pockets of civilisation that still exist. When they meet Nathan (Lance Reddick) and his wife and two young children, realisation kicks in that civility and even domestic bliss can still be had. They sit down for a delicious meal and a few glasses of red wine in Nathan’s lovely home. However, all’s not well in this version of domesticity. It soon becomes apparent that the meat served in the dish was cooked human flesh.
The domestic bliss of post-apocalyptic society has soured towards murder and cannibalism. It is a foreboding of what Nina and Mark must become in order to survive and thrive in the new world they now inhabit. As Nathan’s wife, Theresa (Jacinte Blankenship ) informs Nina “there is no happiness out there.” Survival is all that’s left. Eat or be eaten.
There is another lens that one cannot help but view The Domestics through and that is our current worldwide situation surrounding Covid-19. Although obviously made before the pandemic hit, there is a sense now that The Domestics is a timely film. The pandemic has ravaged most parts of the world and forced us, via lockdown measures, into a kind of isolationism we are not accustomed to. We have to rely on those closest to us far more for emotional support. Some of us have had to lean on the governments of our countries for financial aid. Our social circles have shrunk to a handful of family members. During the narrative of The Domestics, we learn that Nina and Mark we’re in the midst of a divorce before the reset happened, and in the aftermath, and with all the institutions crumbling, they have had to cling to each other for support and survival.
Not only that, but in reality, Covid-19 has infiltrated populations not usually affected by these distant diseases. Alongside the great unwashed masses, the middle class and the wealthy have had to lockdown along with us. They of course can reside in relative comfort, work from home and order food. In the case of overpaid CEOs and celebrities, they can laze around their vast estates in absolute seclusion and safety and like some celebrities decided, record bizarre and unnecessary renditions of uplifting songs to ward off their boredom whilst the remaining populace cope with stress and emotional trauma.
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The virus does not discriminate
The Domestics takes place in a US where great swathes of the population have died out and by the looks of it the black smoke that triggered this new version of reality is an equal opportunity agent, just like Covid-19. The disease has taken out the rich, the poor, the famous and the unknown alike.
What The Domestics gets right is showing us the notion that the wealthy and middle class will also have to fight for its own survival. In any world post-Covid-19 or post-Trump the damage has still been done and the changes and challenges are already in motion. Most post-apocalyptic films or films that show society falling apart show the underclass squabbling with each other and raising hell to survive. The titular “domestics” are your office buddies, your professor, your dentist, your veterinarian, your neighbour. Everyone is wrapped up in this.
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Not what the future brings.
We’re unlikely heading towards a world seen in The Domestics, at least not yet, but we’re also not going back to a world before Covid-19 and Trump. The economic ruin is festering already, the resentment felt by black and brown people towards the institutions of the police, education, and culture has reached its boiling point across the Western world. The abuse of indigenous peoples has led to protest movements and demands for land reclamation and rights. Most of us have also had it with neoliberalism and unfettered capitalism and the cretinism of most of our modern elite. There is no turning back time. The game is up.
What The Domestics gets wrong about a post-reset world – and I hope I’m right in this thinking – is the notion that those left to pick-up the pieces will turn on each other and form a society of hunter killers and timid prey. My hope is that in any post-anything world those left will not take this path, they won’t break off into class or ideology based factions and tribalism, but join together and reorder society in an egalitarian manner based on shared resources and shared knowledge. If the pandemic has shown us anything it has shown us that the majority of humans are resilient and in the worst of times, actually caring and decent to each other.
The Domestics is on Netflix in the US, on Amazon Prime in the UK and on various platforms on other countries.
If there’s one filmmaker that epitomises hope in the British film industry, look no further than Cornwall’s native son, Mark Jenkin. Last year, Jenkin’s theatrical debut, Bait, about the timeless conflict of incomers disrupting the austerity of Cornwall’s local fishing community, was heralded by critics and audiences before being awarded the Bafta for Best British Film. As the first-year anniversary of Bait’s theatrical release is set for August 30th, the BFI is releasing four of Jenkin’s short films on August 3rd on the BFI Player’s subscription service.
Like Bait, these short films were shot on 16mm Bolex clockwork cameras, hand-processed with coffee or Vitamin C extracts, and developed by Jenkin from his home studio. The series of shorts offer viewers a glimpse into the creative energy Jenkin has been churning out long-before being regarded as Britain’s most sought-after filmmaker.
Bronco’s House (2015), the first short in the series, is considered a blueprint for Bait. A succession of surreal images of cattle being born and the crashing of the waves along the rocky terrain off the Cornish coast primes the viewer in intense anticipation for the next 45 minutes. Bronco and his pregnant girlfriend are in search of a house to start their new family, but an emotionally distant landlord is holding Bronco back from starting a new chapter in his life. With a series of steely-eyed close-ups on bar patrons, fishermen, and tight-wadded proprietors, one is given the impression that they are watching a revived western in the same vein as Sergio Leone’s Spaghetti Western trilogy minus the gunfire.
Accentuated by the sounds of music artist Discrete Machines, Bronco’s House is a gripping story that sewed the seed for what Jenkin would accomplish with Bait. The stark and ominous aura of Bronco’s House bleeds into Jenkin’s 2019 s Hand, Cracked the Wind. An aspiring poet (Tamla Kari) stumbles across a writing case with her initials engraved on it only to find a poem written by the case’s previous owner. This 17-minute movie plays out like a modern-day version of Goethe’s Faust as the black and white photography leaves room to question whether ink or blood is being spilled on the page.
The Gothic horror of Hand, Cracked the Wind (2019) shifts in the short documentary David Bowie is Dead (2018). On January 11th, 2016 – one day after David Bowie’s shocking passing away – Jenkin took his camera around London filming the hustle and bustle of the city as he narrates entries from his diary. The short is a lovely homage to Bowie’s creative spirit. Jenkin’s unobtrusive camera and stream of consciousness narration resembles David Bowie’s character Thin White Duke’s cut-up method. This was inspired by one of his literary heroes, William S. Burroughs, giving the film a literary edge that would make Bowie and the beat writers smile from the great beyond.
Rounding up the series of shorts is Jenkin’s documentary Enough to Fill Up an Egg Cup (2016). When being interviewed by Mark Kermode at the BFI Southbank last year, Jenkin said that “the camera acts as a catalyst for everyone in the community to give their point of view.” Jenkin gives the Cornish fishing community a voice with the shots of seasoned fisherman looking out at the rising sea levels throughout Penberth entwined with sounds of wind rustling through the trees and striking images of the flowing waterways similar to images of Tarkovsky’s Mirror (1975).
With audio excerpts about the dangers of rising sea levels caused by Global Warming, Jenkin’s camera focuses on the expansiveness of the sea and the uncertainty of Cornwall’s future as Britain’s fishing epicentre. The final shot of three fishing boats sailing into unknown waters, coupled with the a capella folk music of a bygone era, is as moving as it is quintessentially British. The series of shorts from Mark Jenkin is proof-positive that his presence in British Cinema, along with his DIY-approach to directing, is as essential as it is inspiring.
Ever wonder if things may have turned out differently? Would a pithy remark with that boy or girl at the bar have changed anything? This is the power of first impressions, and it is a central notion of Around the Sun.
The film’s lean 89 minutes follows Maggie (Cara Theobold), an estate agent, and Bernard (Gethin Anthony), a film scout, as they walk and talk in a decrepit French chateau. They’re strangers to each other, yet they waste no time with small talk. Their wandering conversations mention everything from ex-partners to existential struggles, but their main topic is Bernard Le Bovier de Fontenelle, a French author who penned Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds while a resident at the chateau.
As Maggie explains the book’s plot – which is a series of celestial conversations between a philosopher and an aristocratic woman – it becomes clear that life is imitating art. Indeed, Maggie and Bernard’s dynamic is reminiscent of Before Sunrise (Richard Linklater, 1995), and this conceit has a share of strengths and weaknesses.
The immediate problem lies with the performances; Theobold and Anthony’s dynamic just feels unnatural and scripted, especially when one or the other squirms to point out they meant no offence. However, the quality is redressed as the multiversal narrative unfolds, which splits and reimagines the story several times, presenting the characters with different traits and energies. This redrawing of Maggie and Bernard sees the actors’ performances come into their own, bolstering our hopes for their romance.
After all, these are characters of resonant, empathetic detail. They’re both wanderers without a calling: Maggie is far too learned for her job, while Bernard dropped law school to pursue a career with the meretricious hope of travel, “you can never just be in a place, you’ve always got to pay attention”. When their dynamic is at its strongest, we have a pair of urbane yet rudderless souls, and whether they will finally elope depends on the audience’s careful viewing of this detailed, erudite romantic drama.
