They report to a figure called Logo whom they contact via rotary phones and converted telex machines. There is a time line with a projected end and they run into funding problems and technological setbacks as they also treat the Paris mansion they work in as a kind of student share house. When their regular drug dealer, young Samantha, moves in, things are further complicated by sex and hallucinogenic sorties that include a plant with a vulva for a mouth speaking in their mother's voice.
All of this is couched in old technology. The time setting is never stated. Their computer equipment looks like its from the '80s and the phones are all old timey and the cameras they use to record the experiments are vintage video. This also seems to be how they shot the film. While its shown in scope (around 2.35:1) the image is almost entirely in low light and plagued by a haze of video noise. The intimacy of the hooting also suggests old video as it was probably 4X3 cropped to scope. This means that we follow these figures through visual distress and that seems intentional. Most of this film is a series of conversations and most of those are delivered without a character to play the Watson to explain things to. In essence, it's like a grimy version of Primer.
And yet, with all these hurdles for the viewer, She Loved Blossoms More remains compelling and poignant to the end, telling a story of grief and denial in families and the results of not getting to say the important things before the time is closed. The final line of dialogue brings this full around to the horror of the situation. This is a film that wins you through its difficulties but makes the winning stroke count.
The screening was at Hoyts. This is a plus for me as it means I can go to the island of seats in the front where there is a gap between them and all those behind. I was late enough to find that row either taken or squeezy, so I went to the very front. And then a steady trickle of latecomers came in and, most other seats taken moved into the forward areas including the row behind mine. A woman came in and sat near behind me but she kept to herself. A giant sat on the aisle seat of the row behind and, having been found in bullrushes where no seating etiquette was afforded him, shoved his barge sized boots into the seat in front, every time he moved them my row shook. I debated whether I should repeat my performance of previous years and ask them to stop or, if they prefer, I'd sit behind them and continually kick their seat. Then I realised he wasn't going to be doing it all the time and left it: this was my final screening of a festival where audiences proved to be among the most entitled I've witnessed, I just decided to weather it. There was no guarantee he would comprehend what I was saying and I would be missing minutes of a film that was hard enough work giving it all my attention.
Then the friend of the woman behind me turned up about an hour in and started whispering audibly every few minutes. That only took a stern look but compulsive people forget that they've been cautioned. People kept wandering in, thudding to their seats after surveying the choice in gormless darkness. Something happened well behind me which engendered a burst of loud voices. I concentrated and got to the end. When the credits rolled, which were stylish and worth seeing, I got up straight away and wove my way in through the already dense column of people moving out. The foyeur, the escalators around the corner where no one else seems to go. Out to the street and past the tram stop works and through the narrow channels of the footpaths, plugged with people in Saturday mood. Then finally across Victoria Parade to the cooling Carlton Gardens. I shook my head of the monster folk and strolled more easily, knowing I'd already prepared dinner and would run a bath with a mai-tai beside me. Getting too jaded for this.
No comments:
Post a Comment