I saw this film at the Odense film festival in 1993 and it stood out, even amongst all the excellent work there as a unique and brave work of art, daring to follow the narrative of an awakening, a spiritual experience that many of us could well do with having while in our bodies. Using only visuals and sounds, a kind of visceral poem communicated hard to describe feelings and experiences rarely touched upon in such a bleak, yet ephemeral way. I was seduced and then shaken by the strong emotions and aftertaste this piece evoked in me. Unassuming and understated, it's sheer seduction of visual and ambient poetry seeped inside me and before I knew it, I was having this strangely difficult yet delectable experience.
The process of epiphany is communicated in undeniably visceral and metaphorical language. It's not for the literally minded.
In terms of set design and lighting I was distinctly reminded of the photographic work of Jan Saudec in it's crumbling beauty, there was also a Hitchcockian touch in inter-play of the soul's dilemma in relationship and tension with surrounding objects. The insistent back and forth between them heightened an increasing pressure. There was also something vaguely reminiscent of Lynch's "Erasherhead" in the intensely bleak, self contained world created. Paradoxically named, "The Allure of the Threshold" tells the story of a soul's journey into the unknown. In viewing this allure taking place, one cannot help but journey with that soul, performed in almost a liquidly ephemeral way by Suzanne Trimble. Looking as if she stepped out of a painting by 19th century painters Rosetti, or John Everett Millais, Ms. Trimble gives us a kind of unadorned Lady of Shalott (Lord Tennyson). Her seemingly opiate gaze, leads us "through the glass darkly" (Isaac Azimov, Ingmar Bergmen) and we receive the impression along the path of her tortured journey that like the Lady of Shalott, she is, "half sick of shadows". Unlike the lady, however, this heroine's fate is not to escape the tower and suffer the consequences but rather to go through to the other side of the mirror...we are left to decide for ourselves where this is, however the impression of some kind of salvation or epiphany is unmistakable, though of what kind we cannot pinpoint for sure. Much is left up to subjective interpretation.
Minimalist in set design and cast, the soul, which could represent all souls is exquisitely, conveyed, without a single word, rather through ethereal presence, body language, nuance of eyes and facial expression. A ripple of ephemeral processes hard to put into words occur. Ms. Trimble's physicality is languidly transcendent in presence, while she uses her translucent visage as an instrument or medium. The journey into the soul is actually a journey into this remarkable face. It's a face whose classical beauty begins to melt away belying the maelstrom of negotiations swirling behind the mask. Her face seems to fall into Faustian or Edvard Munch like torments then swim through entrancement, questioning the mortal and immortal realms her face at times terrifying as Medusa, other times angelic and vulnerable as a waking dream. It's a gallery of reflections to ponder in a black silent pond.
Director, writer, Bret lama has created a mesmerizing world in this haunted room, a room of the mind or the soul...a place where leaking water, decaying books and strange oozing boxes co-exist incongruously. Everything appears to be ominously alive, sounds and vibrational tones seemingly pulse as much as the visuals which keep moving towards their mysterious conclusion which is not so much an ending but a beginning.
This is the kind of short film that demonstrates how evocative a short film can be. It validates that it's not so much the length or complexity of plot or production value that stays with the viewer as much as it is the power of it's particular language and the visceral experience it evokes in the viewer.
The process of epiphany is communicated in undeniably visceral and metaphorical language. It's not for the literally minded.
In terms of set design and lighting I was distinctly reminded of the photographic work of Jan Saudec in it's crumbling beauty, there was also a Hitchcockian touch in inter-play of the soul's dilemma in relationship and tension with surrounding objects. The insistent back and forth between them heightened an increasing pressure. There was also something vaguely reminiscent of Lynch's "Erasherhead" in the intensely bleak, self contained world created. Paradoxically named, "The Allure of the Threshold" tells the story of a soul's journey into the unknown. In viewing this allure taking place, one cannot help but journey with that soul, performed in almost a liquidly ephemeral way by Suzanne Trimble. Looking as if she stepped out of a painting by 19th century painters Rosetti, or John Everett Millais, Ms. Trimble gives us a kind of unadorned Lady of Shalott (Lord Tennyson). Her seemingly opiate gaze, leads us "through the glass darkly" (Isaac Azimov, Ingmar Bergmen) and we receive the impression along the path of her tortured journey that like the Lady of Shalott, she is, "half sick of shadows". Unlike the lady, however, this heroine's fate is not to escape the tower and suffer the consequences but rather to go through to the other side of the mirror...we are left to decide for ourselves where this is, however the impression of some kind of salvation or epiphany is unmistakable, though of what kind we cannot pinpoint for sure. Much is left up to subjective interpretation.
Minimalist in set design and cast, the soul, which could represent all souls is exquisitely, conveyed, without a single word, rather through ethereal presence, body language, nuance of eyes and facial expression. A ripple of ephemeral processes hard to put into words occur. Ms. Trimble's physicality is languidly transcendent in presence, while she uses her translucent visage as an instrument or medium. The journey into the soul is actually a journey into this remarkable face. It's a face whose classical beauty begins to melt away belying the maelstrom of negotiations swirling behind the mask. Her face seems to fall into Faustian or Edvard Munch like torments then swim through entrancement, questioning the mortal and immortal realms her face at times terrifying as Medusa, other times angelic and vulnerable as a waking dream. It's a gallery of reflections to ponder in a black silent pond.
Director, writer, Bret lama has created a mesmerizing world in this haunted room, a room of the mind or the soul...a place where leaking water, decaying books and strange oozing boxes co-exist incongruously. Everything appears to be ominously alive, sounds and vibrational tones seemingly pulse as much as the visuals which keep moving towards their mysterious conclusion which is not so much an ending but a beginning.
This is the kind of short film that demonstrates how evocative a short film can be. It validates that it's not so much the length or complexity of plot or production value that stays with the viewer as much as it is the power of it's particular language and the visceral experience it evokes in the viewer.
