No Light And No Land Anywhere (2018)

Have you ever found yourself lost in the world that is utterly absurd? Suddenly you fail to recognise anything familiar to orient yourself. In a mirror the reflection of a stranger blankly stares you back. You become dissociated from your physical sensations. You lose the ability to think of what might become of you: you cannot be bothered except when you are gripped with blood-curdling panic from obscure anxiety. Then, in a brief moment of clarity, you wonder: How it comes to this?

Amber Sealey’s third feature film, No Light And No Land Anywhere, follows the cascading descent of a British woman called Lexi (Gemma Brockis) who finds herself adrift in the flat, sunlit senselessness of Southern California. Following her mother’s death, Lexi flees from her deteriorating relationship and boards a flight to LA. According to Lexi, this is a trip she has planned to make: all her life, she has longed to meet her estranged father who abandoned her and her mother when she was a three-year-old. She knows that her father moved to LA and started a new family, only to abandon it and disappear again. He still lives and works for odd jobs in LA. She knows that she has a half sister (Jennifer LaFleur), and she too has not heard from him. She remembers the fateful moment with the tragic attention of a young child: one ordinary afternoon, after making himself a chicken sandwich and eating it, her father steps out of the house as if he was going to have a smoke, and vanishes. As she embarks on the journey to see him face to face, ironically, she is following his example. Judging from a string of angry text messages from her ‘ex’, the departure was at once unexpected and unannounced: like her father, Lexi walks out of her life in London with little or no warning to her friends and her partner. To make matters worse, Lexi does not know what to do with herself except following a thin thread that might lead to her long-lost father. Whatever comes of her quest, it is the only excuse Lexi has of her existence now.

No Light And No Land Anywhere is an intensely engaging indy cinema directed by Sealey and co-written by Miranda July. Intriguingly, it is rife with clichés yet not being plagued by it. Understanding the reasons why it is so should help us grasp what sets this relatively short feature apart from countless films about a woman on the razor’s edge. The film begins by showing Lexi following a standard reaction to a break-up and a mid-life crisis. She is a sleepwalker who runs away, eats junk, and gets herself laid. Yet, as careless and desperate as these actions are, they do not tell us anything about who she is. Lexi, in her confusion and dissociation, does what everyone is permitted to do in her situation. In this sense, the argument must be made with the Form of Life that is founded upon the principle of instant and compulsive gratification of desire regardless of its origin, its nature and the implications of its appeasement. Quite fittingly, Lexi’s story unfolds in the sun drenched LA, which is devoid of the intense urgency of West Berlin, or the poignant contrast of light and shadow that characterises the street of Manhattan. Not dissimilar to Jarmusch’s Florida, Sealey’s LA is a flat giant screen filled with white noise of eternal sunshine that turns every living soul into a ghost who randomly appears to and dissolves into the surface of our already compromised consciousness without a trace.

One might consider that such an observation of LA too is a cliché. It cannot be denied that LA, and America for that matter, has been characterised as a modern wasteland on many occasions. Then how this 70 minute miniature leaves us with a lasting, and deeply satisfying, affective experience? Firstly, what makes this feature different from others comes down to Sealy’s unflinching commitment to the protagonist, Lexi, whose journey traverses LA in its most mundane light. This directorial decision is quite justified, for Lexi is a forty-something who fled from her life with little or no possession and hanging by a bare thread of hope to find someone who dealt her and her mother a cruel blow with a grotesque nonchalance. Our protagonist is neither a celebrity, an heiress, nor a fugitive: the only thing she can call her own is an emotional burden forced upon her at the tender age of three. The austerity of Lexi’s story prohibits the director from staging an artificial suspense and/or a prosaic melodrama: Sealey and Brockis’ commitment to the story is such that they show no regard to how Lexi comes across to the audience. Sealey demonstrates steely soberness that depicts everything as it is. Even the scenes involving sexuality, though graphical, is incredibly realistic in that it represents this animalistic activity in the most unflattering light. Neither Sealey nor Brockis attempt to make an excuse for what Lexi does in this regard: it is utterly daft, distasteful, and unnecessary, and Lexi knows it. Human sexuality represented here has a look and a taste of cake made up of cancer agents mixed with cigarette ash. Admiringly, Sealey resists the temptation to make a pointed theoretical statement by this scene: whilst Sealey does not forget to contextualise the story by aptly situating it in one of the most dysfunctional metropolises, the director makes starkly clear that it is Lexi who initiate these actions. It is this brutal honesty that sets this cinema apart from the rest despite all the clichés. By not treating Lexi as a mere product of our Zeitgeist, Searley was able to cut deeper into Lexi’s separatedness.

No Light And No Land Anywhere also benefits from Sealey’s directorial vision: this is a cinema of process, not of plot. Whilst a ‘standard treatment’ of this story would be to turn it into a comedy, be it a feature film or a TV show, by inventing countless sub-plots and foul-mouthed sub-characters to keep the audience ‘engaged’, Searley has none of it. As one critic noted, the plot is indeed ‘thin’. The problem with this assessment is: it is completely missing the point. As a cinema of process, the plot must be as simple as possible. Artificial twists of plot would merely distract the audience from what is most important: to be fully present with our protagonist in every moment of her journey. No Light And No Land Anywhere thus features a few central characters. To this approach to work, Sealey needed a lead actor who could sustain this aesthetic austerity not by doing but by being, and a cinematographer who could make every object breathe. In this regard, No Light And No Land Anywhere has found a perfect solution. Gemma Brockis is a true revelation. She was tasked with a very difficult role whose presence sustains the entire project. There is not much Brockis can do with the script in itself, yet she manages to inject subtle and silent, yet nevertheless explosive emotional urgency to every scene. And it is Brockis’ presence and performance that reminds me of a certain cinematic triumph, namely, Steve McQueen’s Shame [link]. Whilst Lexi is far and away from the human vortex wherein Brandon (Michael Fassbender) and Sisi (Carey Mulligan) inhabit, Brockis brings some of the urgency and ‘nakedness’ that made McQueen’s contemporary classic so devastating. Whilst the dramaturges of these two features are not comparable, they come from the same darkness and Brockis was able to show it with the help of an excellent cinematography by Catherine Goldschmidt. Whilst Goldschmidt’s aesthetics here is not devoid of poetry, what she produces here is opposite Peter Flinkenberg of Woodshock [link]: No Light And No Land Anywhere, despite named after Rumi’s poetry, is distinctly more Anne Sexton than Sylvia Plath as it should be. As Flinkenberg elevates every shot with such a rare infusion of terror, beauty and vulnerability that speaks so much of Theresa (Kirsten Dunst), Goldschmidt presents the white-out condition that is at once LA in its realistic light and LA as Lexi’s mirror. No Light And No Land Anywhere does not allow Traklian flight of images found in Woodshock or a mesmerisingly complex composition of raw, bleeding, and incredibly rich contrasts that make Shame a singular accomplishment. Hence Goldschmidt’s ability to find poetry in the mundane by breathing life into every detail of a shot proves to be indispensable for the film’s success.

Yet, perhaps the most important feature of No Light And No Land Anywhere is that, despite being a cinema of process, and that process being quite barren and washed-out, Sealey, Brockis and Goldschmidt were fully capable of shifting into a completely different mode, however briefly, when such a move is required. There are moments when Lexi makes real connections with people she encounters. And, more importantly, despite Sealey’s refusal to make a pointed social statement through this cinema, there is an important lesson to be learnt, that is: women need not to punish one another on account of the men who failed them. Despite everything, Lexi shines in these precious moments of enlightenment. And, on such unforgettable occasions, No Light And No Land Anywhere is most compelling.

Woodshock (2017)

Notice: The subjects of the movie reviewed in this article include substance abuse, clinical depression, and euthanasia.


What would you do if you could relate to no one yet everyone wants a piece of you and refuses to leave you alone? What if you are in perhaps ‘well-meaning’ yet unwanted company and would rather be on your own, even if it meant they see you potentially go off the deep-end? If you ever had to ponder such a thought, then you are not alone. Or, at least, this is the thought and the feeling you experience through a grieving young woman in a strangely arresting delirium called Woodshock.

The movie, which lasts only a little over a hundred minutes, is the debut feature of the Mulleavy Sisters, Kate and Laura, who are behind a haut-couturier called Rodarte, whose meteoric rise established them as a new voice for the industry. It is filmed exclusively in Humboldt County, Northern California, which is famous for its imposing redwood forest, ominous summertime fog, and seductively desolate coastline. It is also known for fishing and lumber, yet it has gained notoriety as the epicentre of cannabis culture in North America. Then, I suppose, it is rather unsurprising that the film is unconventionally disjointed just in the way a fever-dream is. Whilst Woodshock in its essence has nothing to do with the conventional narrative which dogmatically relies on plot and character development, let us pretend for a moment that it does, and I shall elaborate on what actually happens on the screen and what must have happened before the story began, in order to clearly see why this is an outstanding effort from the first time directors. It is essentially an exercise in redundancy, yet, given the universal condemnation of this cinema for the perceived lack of ‘coherence’ and ‘substance’, it is a step that must be taken to make a case for this excellent effort from the Mulleavys.

Woodshock intimately follows the descent of Theresa (Kirsten Dunst) in the wake of her mother’s death. In fact, Theresa assisted her terminally ill mother (Susan Traylor) to die peacefully at home in the woodland. Grief stricken and guilt ridden, Theresa refuses to leave her late mother’s home and dwells there like a phantom. She does so despite the nervous discomfort expressed by her significant other, Nick (Joe Cole), who works at a lumber mill. He is a reliable yet emotionally disengaged domestic partner. He is laconic and aloof to the point where it is not clear whether he knows anything about the circumstances of Theresa’s mother’s passing. To his mind, he is the one who ‘takes care of her’, and to this end, all he needs to do is to provide financial security. Listening to her feelings about the experience of letting her mother go seems a completely alien concept to him. The only time he appears to be at ease is when he stays late with his mates at a local pub, sipping beer. It is blazingly clear that he cannot be happier if Theresa could just ‘move on’ from her loss and grieving. Thus, it is not surprising at all that, after a brief introduction, Nick conspicuously disappears from our sight: he hardly engages with Theresa’s world. When he appears, he is only there to nauseate Theresa with his stubborn and self-serving simplemindedness: all he cares about is Theresa’s whereabouts, that is, whether she is ‘cheating’ on him. It is abundantly clear that he has no ability to think of and act on her best interests.

Still, Nick turned out to be half-right in his juvenile suspicion. There is another man who hovers around Theresa like a house fly in search of something to land. The owner of a local cannabis dispenser, Keith (Pilou Æsbek), calls her back to work within what appears to be only a few days since her mother’s departure. Despite his all-too-transparent interest in Theresa, and his obnoxious mannerisms toward women, he has a better picture of what Theresa is going through than her hapless domestic partner. The problem is: it is not that Keith is particularly emotionally receptive towards Theresa. He simply knows what it is like to send someone to the other side, for he has done it quite a few times himself. It is he who provided the means for Theresa’s mother’s death. Whilst Keith’s intention is humanitarian in that he only assists someone with a terminal illness with explicit consent, he completely misreads the situation with Theresa by inserting himself in the middle of a devastating and very personal process of loss. To Theresa’s chagrin, the situation repeats itself: here is another man in her life who tells her what to do without any ability or care to take her feelings into consideration.

It is not that Keith is wrong about euthanasia: like Theresa, the film remains ambivalent on this subject. Rather, it is how Keith talked Theresa into it, and why he made his case, that are in the wrong. It is clear that Keith was overly enthusiastic in his advocacy of his ‘method’ to the effect that he did not realise just how deeply Theresa was ambivalent to the idea, and how she would suffer as the consequence of assisting her own mother’s death. Clearly driven by his desire to be closer to Theresa, Keith pitched the benefits of his 'method' to the point where he may not have been attentive and respectful enough to Theresa’s fear and grief of losing her mother. Selfishness of Keith’s relation to Theresa is plain from the way he insists on keeping Theresa within his orbit despite her reservations. Once Theresa has assisted her mother’s death, he immediately begins to treat her as his de facto accomplice. He confides to Theresa of their mutual acquaintance’s decision to die with Keith’s laced cannabis, thereby asking her not only to keep their secret confidential, but also implicitly asking her to act as an angel of death if an opportunity arises. In fact, by not turning up one day, he puts Theresa in a position to perform the solemn service to the aforementioned acquaintance, Ed (Steph Du Vall); he knew Ed would visit his shop and ask for the item any day, and he purposefully left Theresa alone so that she must fill in for him. Yet, this is not because Keith respects Theresa or that they share deep and implicit trust in one another. Whilst the practice of euthanasia binds them with their dark secret, the confidentiality turns out to be one-sided: judging from the wording of the condolences, another mutual acquaintance, Johnny (Jack Kilmer), learnt what happened to Theresa’s mother from Keith. And it is quite obvious that Johnny is yet another man who wants to be involved with Theresa. Whilst Johnny appears to be less demanding and intrusive than others, his interest in Theresa is unwanted. Yet, none of them are willing to give her what she really needs: being left alone to be face to face with her ‘woodshock’, that is, her existential alienation from the world. It is clear from her monologue at the beginning: Theresa has been a ‘woodshocked’ person long before the story chronicled by the film begins. Her mother’s passing indeed intensifies her estrangement from the world to the point of catastrophe, yet the feeling of deep alienation has been always there. It is what defines her, and how she exists in the world.

It is utterly baffling that practically every critic was unable to discern what I have described above. Judging from their reactions and condemnation of the film, it is clear that they simply could not get anything out of the narrative of Woodshock. They decried the perceived absence of the pretext upon which the story came to life. They could not understand why Nick is almost non-existent. They were appalled by the scene that involves a violent confrontation between Keith and Theresa. In short, they were utterly lost in the woods, and the irony of this phenomenon is not lost on me, for Woodshock is not about euthanasia or substance abuse; ultimately it is an intricate cinematic contemplation on alienation and estrangement from the world. Whilst ‘woodshock’ is a regional expression in Humboldt County that designates the experience of disorientation caused by being lost in the woods, the title represents Theresa’s state of mind well: she is completely estranged from the world, or from Dasein itself. And thus, the unintended effect of critics getting lost and disoriented by this film is despairingly comical. I find it incomprehensible as to why anyone can miss what I described so far, yet it is also vexingly clear as to what went so wrong with them. There are a few reasons why they are so hopelessly wrong about the nature of this cinema and I shall elaborate in what follows.

Those who are hostile to Woodshock are lost because of their dogmatic and blind acceptance of what they see as the golden rules of storytelling, which places primal importance upon an accessible and gripping plot, and character development that keeps the audience at the edge of their seats. If one executes the rules well enough, a movie should be destined for box-office success. Given a chance, it will earn screenings at prestigious film festivals, and might even win an Oscar or two. In short, these rules are there to ensure that a product of financial investment is entertaining and appeals to the masses. According to this philosophy, every film must produce tremendous returns, financial or otherwise. This is no doubt the most fundamental ethos of Hollywood studios, and, given its complete grip of the market, the so-called ‘golden rule’ enjoys the status of absolute orthodoxy. As I elaborated in a three-part article on Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man (which is located in a section called Inside the Leviathan in a page titled Shadowplay), this attitude has a long history in the United States.

From a general historic point of view, this attitude toward storytelling is deeply rooted in American identity; in the name of democracy, Americans express an anti-intellectual attitude toward every aspect of life. American hostility against sophistication and intelligence means: if there is anything that demands even a rudimentary effort from the audience or readers, a story must be pretentious and does not deserve their money. According to their idea, everything must be explicitly explained and they must be entertained in the process. As such, what they call ‘art-house’ movies are not the only victim of their hostility; given the popularity of motion pictures, eventually the application of the rule was extended to music, literature, and, quite literary, every aspect of life. American Form of Life must bend backward to their cherished ‘golden rule’ which states: The masses need not to think; they need to be entertained. Absolutely no effort should be required from ‘people’; they simply sit back and enjoy themselves as life slips by them.

Given the zeal with which Americans adhere to the demand to demolish art and mould it into entertainment, it comes as no surprise that the blue print for the cinematic ‘golden rule’ was first successfully developed and demonstrated by an American: D. W. Griffith’s notorious white suprematist propaganda, The Birth of a Nation (1915), is heralded as the first feature length film in history and demonstrates the power of cinematic language to a great effect. It was also the first box-office ‘blockbuster’, and, at the time of its release, it greatly helped to legitimise the Ku Klux Klan by glorifying its heinous criminal activities and its violent ideology based on a viciously false representation of freedmen as vile and vengeful rapists. Regrettably the said ‘masterpiece’ set the box-office on fire, and according to some, after adjusting the values of currency, The Birth of a Nation could well be the most profitable movie of all time. Whilst a very few contemporary movie-goers know anything about Griffith and his role in the history of cinema, his legacy still lives on as he set the precedence and the expectations for what a ‘good movie’ ought to be. Albeit being blazingly false, the story is clear and accessible; it is based on an undying cliché of the confrontation between ‘good’ versus ‘evil’. Moreover Griffith’s technique of artificially amplifying suspense and grabbing the audience’s attention was immensely innovative and effective in Griffith’s time, and immediately became the reference point of what one might call the nascent classical cinematic grammar which is strictly followed and sometimes improved by the directors of entertainment films. Immensely popular and unimaginably profitable, the standard set by The Birth of a Nation became a creative formula for directors, a business model for producers, and an invisible norm for the audience. And, lamentably, since every art form is commodified for the masses, the consequence of ignoring or challenging such norms is quite severe. And, given the dark origin of this particular mode of storytelling in cinema, the passion with which the juries of taste attack anything they see as blasphemous is unnerving to say the least.

This intolerance for anything intellectually challenging further compromises the audience’s ability to appreciate the intricacy and the complexity of the world and our relation to it. When someone is self-entitled with the sense of righteousness and has already made up one’s mind, there really is nothing from which such a person can learn. It is quite common to spend one’s entire life confined within a solipsistic personal echo chamber and considers oneself ‘free’. Such a person sees everything in black and white, and thus one must have opinions on every imaginable issue, and one must be always ‘right’, even when the experts of the subject and/or the concrete evidence contradict the ‘Truth’. The symptom of cognitive dissonance has been widely and most strikingly evident in the United States for quite some time: somehow many Americans come to conflate their constitutional right, that is, the freedom of speech, with a self-entitlement of mere opinions. Giving a thorough examination of one’s own position is somehow a sign of ‘weakness’, and one’s opinion is judged not by the correctness of one’s argument, but by the degree of fanaticism with which one professes to stand by it. 

It is because the ‘Truth’ for them is a matter of faith, not the result of rational examination. They know the Truth in their heart, despite the fact that their ‘personal truth’, to which they claim their immediate and intuitive access, is a mere variation of pre-existing linguistic concepts, that is, public concepts historically developed within a given Form of Life. Since all concepts are historic by nature, they are contingent, and thus non-absolute. Yet, in such a solipsist Form of Life, they still insist that they know the ‘Truth’ and live according to such a nonsensical claim. It is nonsensical because they do not even know the meaning of ‘knowing’ and what it means to appreciate the limit of human knowledge. Yet, ironically, in such a Form of Life, a discussion like this must be condemned as ‘intellectual gibberish’, and thus the confusion goes on to infinity without any hope of improvement, which might be seen as non-consequential, for they wish no cure in the first place. Therefore, in the land of solipsism, anyone who decides to do anything outside of a set of accepted norms would be publicly and severely punished. 

Fortunately for some of us, there have been quite a few who are willing to transgress such norms to create fascinating works of all kinds, and sadly, for the most part, they are made to pay a heavy price for their contributions. And, by giving birth to Woodshock, the Mulleavys became one of the latests in the list of cultural prosecution. Fortunately, the condemnation of their debut feature does not threaten their creative career. They should be able to walk away from this instance without damaging their reputation as the new voice of the fashion industry. As for Dunst, despite the poor review of the film itself, her own performance has been universally praised, and thus she should ultimately emerge triumphant from this collaboration. This is a rare instance where the uncompromising creative risk taking pays off: whether ‘people’ like it or not, the film is done, and the Troika get away with it. Three women ultimately got their own way.

And what a collaboration it is. Whilst not all original works are great, Woodshock is a truly mesmerising cinematic art. First and foremost, Kirsten Dunst’s performance is absolutely magnificent. She is tasked to carry the entire movie, and she delivers. Dunst is not only captivating; she makes every moment and aspect of the film unbelievably alive. Whenever she appears on the screen, even the faint reflection on the glass pane assumes a life of its own. The degree of intensity Dunst brings to the screen is such that one forgets that it is an actor whom we are following; she literally moves and breathes as Theresa, and as her Geist. Woodshock is a film of great authenticity and immediacy despite, or rather, because of its dream-like nature. With her presence, every frame becomes a strange subjective state wherein Theresa’s thoughts and feelings, which are at once tangible and obscure, become the performer’s as well as the audience’s. Peter Flinckenberg’s cinematography and Peter Raeburn’s score contribute tremendously to create a rare cinematic expression of the mind of our tortured protagonist: it nearly turns Theresa inside out, yet not completely. With all the images of ‘hallucinations’, she remains an enigma and retains opaqueness, that is, a certain degree of impenetrability that is necessary for the maintenance of agency. In short, Woodshock is a piece of near-perfect cinematic art that creates a category of its own.

That being acknowledged, it is not difficult to see some references and sources of inspiration in imagining, drafting, and executing this gem. By casting Dunst as the grieving protagonist, Woodshock appears as the silent sibling of Lars von Trier’s Melancholia (2011). This impression is not completely misguided. In a sense, Woodshock revisits the subject of Melancholia, that is, grieving and depression, and perfected it by presenting it in its pure form without von Trier’s megalomania. Whilst von Trier imagines a personal crisis as the end of the world, the Mulleavys do not. They present Theresa’s descent strictly as it is: a personal catastrophe. As Melancholia enjoys the distinction of being the only movie about Götterdämmerung wherein the world as we know it actually ends and human species go extinct, the inflated overture with which he gives a cinematic expression distracts from the personal, intimate, yet no less serious experience of personal descent to the abyss. In this sense, Dunst and the Mulleavys succeeded in completing what must be for Dunst unfinished business from Melancholia. Woodshock sharply focuses on and captures Theresa’s by no means linear trajectory, with a kind of respect and tenderness which is truly rare. Whilst Theresa mostly remains in her late mother’s home, the poetry with which each moment is expressed makes the viewing experience intimate, yet not intrusive. Dunst spends a lot of time in undergarments, yet the gaze is not sexualised at all. A careful viewer should be impressed by the breathtaking beauty of the harmony between acting, music, and cinematography. One would never have suspected that a film about grieving and depression could be so lyrical and poetic. 

In this sense, Woodshock was the movie which von Trier could never have created; his self-involvement means that he will never be able to truly respect his protagonist, Justine. Despite Dunst’s illuminating performance, the Dane can only see her as a piece in his ‘cinematic masterstroke’. Thus, Melancholia, with all of its captivating artistry and poetry, is an exercise of megalomania: to envision one’s minor apocalypse as the end of the world as we know it not only comes across as too much of a self-indulgence, but also is symptomatic of the Dane’s ‘condition’. What von Trier expresses through Melancholia is nihilism, boredom, and contempt, rather than the genuine grief and depression embodied by Justine. Grief and depression make one feel insignificant, rather than inflate one’s self-importance. Given the context, I suspect that Dunst played a critical role in doing justice to this mode of existence. Woodshock allows the audience an unforgettable cinematic intimacy with existential alienation from the world. It is a moving tribute to Theresa, and countless souls like her, who suffer silently without any respite and understanding from the world that estranges them with its disorienting senselessness. Woodshock is not to be recommended for casual audience looking to be entertained. Yet, by all means, it is a great piece of cinematic art. Hence, regardless of the reviews, we have plenty of reasons to applaud this creative feat. We also have another cause to celebrate: Dunst’s coming of age. She has been active for quite some time, and, despite her penchant for independent movies, she has been mostly known as a dependable performer in entertainment films. Yet, she has been as of late recognised as one of the finest actors of her generation. Her brilliance as Justine in Melancholia was recognised with the Best Actress Award at the Cannes Film Festival, yet, more importantly, playing a clinically depressed character appears to have had a liberating effect. In the wake of Melancholia, she has been consistently showing of what she has been capable as an actor. And she is preparing herself for the next step: directing a feature film. Given her accomplishment in Woodshock, one cannot help but to await with great anticipation for Dunst’s directorial debut, the cinema adaptation of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, which is said to star Dakota Blue Fanning as the protagonist. Despite the enormity of the project, I have every reason to be excited.

Freckles (2016)

Denise Papas Meechan’s Freckles rattles with emotional urgency and intensity of our protagonist, Lizzie (Jenn Halweil), who, like many of us, suffers from low self-esteem and an uninspiring life. And, like many of us, she ‘knows’ the source of her unhappiness, and this ‘curse’ is presumably something we cannot break by ourselves.

Freckles tells us a story about Lizzie, who believes that she is alone, repulsive, and rejected for one reason alone: her freckles. Whilst this premise appears unlikely for a regular viewer, from the subjective standpoint of Lizzie’s, it does not matter from what she is suffering: the only fact that matters is that she is suffering, and we must focus on how much she is suffering, in order to comprehend the danger she faces. And, as Papas Meechan demonstrates, it is a dangerous place to be, for, in this intensely subjective state, the sufferer knows only one thing: one’s suffering. In Lizzie’s world, her identity is singularly defined by her ‘curse’, i.e., freckles, and the entire world is characterised by her suffering alone, which is so intense that it is as if she is the only person who has ever existed with freckles.

Still, what Lizzie suffers seems quite odd. Lizzie suffers from her body-image, yet she is young, lovely, and fit. She does have freckles, to be sure, yet our society is quite 'forgiving' of this particular feature. Several celebrities and supermodels have them, and their freckles are not even ‘photoshopped’. They are even considered 'charming'. Then why freckles? I think this choice by Papas Meechan demonstrates her deep understanding of contemporary American culture. Papas Meechan focuses on the degrading effect of our insatiable demand for ideal female beauty, yet, quite rightly, she also leads us to realise that body-image problems are only part of a larger, and more fundamental, problem. To realise this, it is useful to shift our attention to Lizzie’s co-worker, Margo (Jane Dashow). She is older than Lizzie, and not exactly fit. Yet, she shows no sign of hesitation in her pursuit of, well, ‘happiness’. She dates, she eats what she wants when she wants, and she is absolutely unapologetic about who she is and what she enjoys. In this self-affirming attitude, Margo is everything Lizzie is not.

It is thus no surprise that Lizzie holds Margo with contempt. Lizzie at once envies and deplores Margo. She envies her because she wants for herself what Margo is indulging. Yet she looks down on her because Margo doesn’t ‘know’ that she is ‘unattractive’. Lizzie, despite her self-hatred, probably knows that she is relatively more acceptable in light of contemporary standards of beauty. She is young and fit, so she should be more attractive. Then why in the world, she wonders, is she still a virgin, and yet Margo gives her an earful about her sexual conquest? The only explanation, in Lizzie's mind, is her freckles. To see whether she is right or not, we must examine her encounter with Brody (Antonio E. Silva), on whom Lizzie has a crush. Brody is her neighbour and he is extremely friendly. An extrovert, he is not very intimidated by Lizzie’s lack of social skill. Their brief exchange shows an interesting aspect of Lizzie’s torment; it becomes clear that Lizzie is not alone because of her physical appearance. She is alone because of her self-image. She believes that she is repulsive, and thus her mannerism toward others is painfully awkward. From Brody’s standpoint, it seems that Lizzie does not want anything to do with him.

As the story develops, it becomes clear that the source of Lizzie’s torment is not the freckles themselves; she is suffering from a severe form of paranoia induced by our culture which imposes an impossible ideal of physical beauty. Lizzie can no longer see the world around her objectively, and what she sees, from the negative expressions on the faces of strangers to bizarre cartoons that depict Margo’s private life, are effectively her hallucinations. That being acknowledged, it is important to note that her case is not unrelated to other forms of paranoia bred in the United States. Whilst Lizzie internalised the cultural obsession of physical beauty, there are other objects of obsession which are equally powerful. Take the obsession of: masculinity; guns; money; sex; religion; fame; or political ideology. All of these obsessions induce powerful paranoia, which is underlined by fear, angst, and rage. In contemporary America, we don’t have to look for survivalists in the desert to see evidence of the culture of paranoia. Whilst diverse in subject, there is a common feature to all this paranoia; they are decidedly steeped in violent confrontations. And Lizzie’s story is no different in this regard.

In this sense, this thoughtful film is a perfect companion to one famous glimpse on the culture of paranoia: 'I’m Afraid of Americans' by David Bowie (1997, link). This music video, despite being less than five minutes long, captures the extent to which American culture breeds paranoia of all kinds, and I see a parallel with Freckles so that I cannot help but to treat the two as a pair. Seeing these two pieces together makes us realise that we are all susceptible to paranoia. In Freckles, it is Lizzie, an outcast, who suffers a severe paranoia. In 'I’m Afraid of Americans', it is David Bowie who becomes paranoid of a ‘paranoid’ stalker (Trent Reznor). As Bowie tries to escape from the stalker, he starts hallucinating random gun violence in the streets of America. In this sense, the two works represent two sides of the same story; one from the perspective of a perpetrator of violence, and another from the standpoint of the victim. The parallel does not end here; Lizzie’s monologue, especially at the beginning, reminds us of the emotional intensity and fragility of Reznor’s songs such as 'Hurt’, link (The Downward Spiral). Just like in the best songs by Reznor, her emotion intensifies and is finally expressed as a hell-fire of violent rage, without losing touch with the more tender and fragile side of the sufferer. From this point of view, Freckles shows the making of a paranoid stalker who appears in ‘I’m Afraid of Americans’, whilst the latter expresses Brody’s experience in an alternate universe wherein he narrowly escapes from Lizzie.

It is important to note that, in America, everyone is a potential victim of the culture of paranoia, becoming trapped in their own self-projected image of the world, and can lose the point of humane contact with the world as a result. With complete lack of common ground, the society undergoes a terrible degeneration; the cultural, political, and social disintegration of America has been widely reported for quite some time. Whilst it is perhaps impossible to pinpoint a single reason as to why America can induce such a powerful paranoia in many of us, including non-Americans, it is clear that the culture of contemporary America creates all sorts of obsessions. The excessive nature of the ills that are induced by this culture is utterly devastating, and effectively destroys the ground on which we might develop civil discourse. In this light, Freckles joins the ranks of important statements about our Form of Life. It is a thoughtful contemplation of the human cost of our paranoid culture, and, even though all paranoia won’t escalate to a homicidal passion, this film makes us aware of just how horrible it is to be shut off from the world around us.

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