Criterion Sunday 184: “By Brakhage: An Anthology, Volume One” (1954-2001)

This compendium of short films by the American experimental filmmaker Stan Brakhage spans the range of his life, from his earliest works to after his diagnosis with the cancer which would claim his life in 2003. It was joined by a second volume some years later (as spine numbers 517 and 518), meaning this early instalment was retrospectively retitled as “Volume One” at that time. I present thoughts on some of the films below.

Desistfilm (1954) is my introduction to Brakhage’s work, like some kind of hepped-up beatnik film about a house party set to a hard-edged droning soundtrack, as people’s relationships break down. Wedlock House: An Intercourse (1959) takes glimpses of early married life, but edits them together with fades to black in flickering light and comes across as nothing so much as a Lynchian dystopia of nightmares, with negative-image graphic sex interpolated. It doesn’t exactly paint a pleasant portrait of marriage.

Brakhage’s most famous work, though, probably remains Dog Star Man, made in four parts with a prelude (so: five separate short films). As a whole it’s a fevered rush of images, or at least that’s the sense that Part IV conjures, though the Prelude sets up the basic imagery of the title, where the “man” is both Brakhage himself, and also his newborn baby, and the “star” seems more like a solar plexus of body imagery and film manipulation effects. It’s all quite affecting in its way, but perplexing too. Part I has the most sustained sense of narrative, as Brakhage journeys futilely up (or along, depending on the camera angle) a snowy slope like a deranged Sisyphean hunter figure with his dog. Part II introduces the baby imagery more fully, with this and the remaining parts being relatively shorter.

Possibly the most distinctive film, both integrated into his oeuvre but also standing apart by virtue of its extreme subject matter, is The Act of Seeing with One’s Own Eyes (1971). I don’t really know how to ‘rate’ this, but for all that the subject matter may be gruesome (footage taken during actual autopsies), I found it difficult to take my eyes off the screen, because to do so would seem somehow disrespectful to what Brakhage is filming here: the very substance of physical being itself. I suppose at a metaphorical level this could be construed as another film about the technical aspects of filmmaking — editing and deconstructing — but yet it’s really, really not: it’s the literalisation of some kind of metaphysical consciousness that doesn’t simply reduce once-living beings to cadavers, but finds some kind of transcendent purity in our essential form. This is supported by the formal means Brakhage uses, the occasionally occluded camera angles, the complete lack of sound, the structure moving us gently from coroners measuring things into the more macabre material. I wouldn’t call it disturbing exactly, though not everyone would wish to sit through it, but it certainly makes all other filmed images seem a little unnecessary.

At the other end of the spectrum of life, Window Water Baby Moving (1959) films Brakhage’s wife giving birth to their baby daughter (or is that a spoiler?). It has a lyrical quality to it, to the colours and textures, that carries it through the bloody and painful aspects of what’s taking place, seeming to communicate at least something of what’s special to it. From the same year, Cat’s Cradle is riven with blood red textures, of sensuality perhaps or something more eerie… and a cat. Family figures in a later film, Kindering (1987), in which odd contorted images of children playing in their backyard create a strange, slightly creepy effect. With I… Dreaming (1988), he again hints at a dark loneliness, something that seems to have been taken up by Lynch when I think about the spaces of void (or I believe that’s the word he writes most often over his film here), but it doesn’t entirely work for me.

There are a few films which continue to explore the textures of filmed matter. In Mothlight (1963), the light of the camera passes directly through the biological material of a moth and its world, creating patterns and textures directly on the film. Returning to similar ideas, The Garden of Earthly Delights uses plant ephemera, and sort of achieves something of the same effect.

Sometimes the experimentalism of Brakhage’s films comes from the sense of the editing, but in The Wold Shadow (1972), it feels more like he’s experimenting with effects in the camera, or using a static image of trees in a forest as a base for improvisation on the theme of colour and light. It’s fascinating. More perplexing is The Stars Are Beautiful (1981), in which Brakhage recounts various creation myths relating to the stars, while his children (I am guessing) clip a chicken’s wings. I guess those birds won’t be getting anywhere near the stars.

There are also a large number of colour films, painted and collaged, but the first on the set (1987’s The Dante Quartet) isn’t my favourite. However, it has (unsurprisingly, Dante-esque) headings to its sections. Somewhat a precursor to that is Night Music (1986), thirty seconds of colour, big and bold. Meanwhile, the colours just seem a little more dissipated in Glaze of Cathexis (1990), though it’s the film of his which sounds most like the name of a black metal band (yes, it turns out someone has taken it for such), while Delicacies of Molten Horror Synapse (1990) sounds like the title of that band’s first album. Once again, it does some lovely things with colour and light, as you’d expect. A few years later, Study in Color and Black and White (1993) is more dark than colour, more black than white.

Having watched a series of Brakhage’s short experiments with light and colour hand-painted directly onto film, the 10+ minute running length of Untitled (For Marilyn) (1992) suggests it might somehow be wearyingly epic by comparison, and yet this ended up being the one I most loved (alongside Lovesong). It has the textures, the colours, the feeling. It’s the whole package, and is dedicated to his wife. Black Ice (1994) is another of his films which, when watched alongside some sludgy doomy metal (as I was doing, given most of these films are silent), starts to feel like a crack in the cosmos, through which snippets of light and colour seem to make their way. Cosmic shapes appear in Stellar (1993) as well, extensions of Brakhage’s work with painting on film, and perhaps these are just suggested by the title, but there is a sort of harmony of the spheres to it all.

In Crack Glass Eulogy (1991), after a long run of his colour and light films, seeing filmed images seems rather a novelty. It has a spare, haunting, elegiac quality, like night vision, like surveillance. By the end of the decade, though, in The Dark Tower (1999), the darkness threatens to overwhelm everything else, perhaps suggestive of his failing vision. Likewise Comingled Containers (1996, which Criterion’s sleeve notes correct to “commingled”) feels like a blend of photography (water imagery) and the filmmaker’s manipulations of light and colour in a way that is rather more productive than some of Brakhage’s other works, but with a similar undertow of darkness.

The final film on the set is the most recent one, Lovesong (2001), made only a couple of years before Brakhage’s death from cancer. What I like most about this film is that it feels like a pure expression of paint on film. It seems so fresh, wet and glistening on the surface of the celluloid. It’s a film that has hundreds if not thousands of individual artworks, any one of which could be framed, but together seem beautiful and mysterious, like so much of Brakhage’s work.


FILM REVIEW: Criterion Collection || Director/Cinematography Stan Brakhage || Seen at a friend’s home (DVD), London, over Sunday 25 February, 4 March and 11 March 2018

Desistfilm (1954) | Length 7 minutes
Wedlock House: An Intercourse (1959) | Length 11 minutes
Dog Star Man (1961-64) | Length 75 minutes [1001 Films]

The Act of Seeing with One’s Own Eyes (1971) | Length 32 minutes [Rosenbaum 1000]

Cat’s Cradle (1959) | Length 7 minutes
Window Water Baby Moving (1959) | Length 13 minutes
Mothlight (1963) | Length 4 minutes
Eye Myth (1967) | Length 1 minute
The Wold Shadow (1972) | Length 3 minutes
The Garden of Earthly Delights (1981) | Length 2 minutes

The Stars Are Beautiful (1974) | Length 19 minutes

Kindering (1987) | Length 3 minutes
I… Dreaming (1988) | Length 7 minutes
The Dante Quartet (1989) | Length 7 minutes
Night Music (1986) | Length 1 minute
Rage Net (1988) | Length 1 minute

Glaze of Cathexis (1990) | Length 3 minutes

Delicacies of Molten Horror Synapse (1990) | Length 9 minutes

Untitled (For Marilyn) (1992) | Length 11 minutes

Black Ice (1994) | Length 2 minutes
Study in Color and Black and White (1993) | Length 2 minutes
Stellar (1993) | Length 3 minutes
Crack Glass Eulogy (1991) | Length 7 minutes
The Dark Tower (1999) | Length 3 minutes
Comingled Containers (1996) | Length 3 minutes

Lovesong (2001) | Length 11 minutes

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LFF 2016 Day Eleven

Saturday 15 October, the penultimate day of the London Film Festival, and another heavy one for me, with four films. Two of them were archival restorations, so a bit of guaranteed classic status in amongst the new works.


Daughters of the Dust (1991)Daughters of the Dust (1991, USA, dir./wr. Julie Dash, DOP Arthur Jafa)
It’s quite an achievement this film, but it’s not one that goes in for a straightforward narrative or overt central character. It’s about a whole family, if not an extended community, who are — at length — preparing to leave their home on an island in South Carolina in 1902. And it’s about their stories, and memories, and inherited customs. But none of this is presented in a particularly linear way; instead there’s a flow of characters and images (strikingly beautiful at times), and an accretion of scenes illustrating their lives. It’s not perfect either — the score sadly hasn’t dated very well at all, a wash of post-80s synths that doesn’t always add to the drama — but for the most part it’s excellent and singular. [****]


Park (2016)

Park (2016, Greece/Poland, dir./wr. Sofia Exarchou, DOP Monika Lenczewska)
I can already see the reviews of a few people calling this film “boring” and “overlong” and… well, it would be disingenuous to claim I don’t know what they’re talking about, but as far as I’m concerned films that get those labels — or at least films which aren’t superhero movies — tend to be just my kind of thing (see also: “self-indulgent”). It’s a film about a bunch of disaffected young people congregating amidst the detritus of Athens’ Olympic Park; their lives are going nowhere, so yeah, it’s fair to say there’s plenty of boredom and entropy. The two characters who come to be central, Dimitri and Anna, just mooch around, fight, fuck, dance, nothing special. But I thought it was compelling in its atmosphere of dereliction and dead-ends, a clarion call from a certain precarious position in a decaying society. [***½]


Born in Flames (1983)

Born in Flames (1983, USA, dir./wr. Lizzie Borden)
This is a film that comes from a specific time and place (New York in the early-80s) and perhaps some choices might not have been made today — bombing the WTC seems most obvious — but there’s still an enormous amount that retains both relevance and power 35 years on. Most notably this is an expression of intersectionality in practice avant la lettre, giving strong central roles to women of colour and criticising some of the viewpoints and privilege expressed by white feminists. That’s just one aspect; I liked also the way that its imagined socialist revolution (shades of Bernie brocialism?) hasn’t materially altered the patriarchal power structure, leading to calls for continued feminist insurrection. It’s all made in a sort of pseudo-documentary collagist agitprop style that is perhaps born of its extended genesis (filmed over five years) but works admirably. A lo-fi no-wave independent feminist masterpiece of sorts. [****]


Moderation (2016)

Moderation (2016, UK/Greece, dir. Anja Kirschner, wr. Kirschner/Maya Lubinsky/Anna De Filippi, DOP Mostafa El Kashef/Dimitris Kasimatis)
There’s a certain category of experimental filmmaking whose films seem more tailored to an academic appreciation, by which I mean that they are clearly carefully thought out in terms of thematics and ideas, but express themselves visually in ways that don’t always hold the casual viewer’s attention. Or maybe I was just coming down off three other films, because there was plenty in it to like, intellectually speaking. It’s a disquisition of sorts into horror cinema, without ever quite being a horror film — though it certainly flirts with generic elements both in its film-within-a-film story of strange sand-spewing pods, as well as in some of the apartment-bound scenes with actors encountering creepy poltergeist-like activity. The film is structured around a woman director and her screenwriter (Maya Lubinsky and Anna De Filippi), who are in a relationship, talking to prospective actors for their mooted horror film, and these extended scenes form a key part of the film. Indeed, storytelling, whether in dialogue by the actors or as an exercise of artistic creation dramatised between the two women, is very much the film’s most sustained theme, with horror just a heightened form of that basic need to tell stories. Also, there’s one scene where the Egyptian actor Aida’s pink hair and turquoise eye shadow perfectly matches her floral print dress, and it’s gorgeous to behold. [**½]

Criterion Sunday 69: Le Testament d’Orphée (Testament of Orpheus, 1960)

Jean Cocteau’s final film is often apt to be dismissed when compared with his earlier mythologically-hued triumphs like Orpheus (1950) or Beauty and the Beast (1946), but that would be a mistake, because for me it feels like one of his most essential, if not personal, works — and not just because he takes the central role. Once again he reconfigures the Orpheus mythology, with Cocteau as a time-travelling poet, and the stars of his previous film (not to mention celebrity friends and admirers like Pablo Picasso and Jean-Pierre Léaud) showing up in cameos. He utilises all his favourite filmic tricks and tropes, with mirrors-as-portals and living statues and struggles against gravity and painted eyes, but most notably the ripped petals on a flowing leaping back into place thanks to reverse photography. Criticisms of it being self-indulgent may not be inaccurate, but they’re beside the point, for what else should this be if not self-indulgent. It’s a freewheeling, loosely-structured paean to poetic indulgence, and should be celebrated as such. It’s certainly a fitting end to Cocteau’s long and varied career.

Criterion Extras: There’s are some texts by Cocteau about the film, as well as a medium-length film La Villa Santo Sospir (1952), made at a prominent location in Testament, the home of one of Cocteau’s patrons, filled with his artworks. Cocteau tries out some of the techniques he would use in the later feature, particularly the reverse loops of flowers regaining their petals, as well as talking at length about his pieces of artwork for the home. It’s fascinating mainly as notes towards the later work, a film in miniature about Cocteau and his artwork.


FILM REVIEW: Criterion Collection
Director/Writer Jean Cocteau | Cinematographer Roland Pontoizeau | Starring Jean Cocteau | Length 80 minutes || Seen at home (DVD), London, Sunday 13 December 2015

Criterion Sunday 67: Le Sang d’un poète (The Blood of a Poet, 1932)

Looking back, it feels like there was a real moment in the late-1920s and early-1930s when cinema was the new and exciting form which artists in France wanted to explore, and so we see a number of films by people like Fernand Léger, Man Ray, Marcel Duchamp and of course Salvador Dalí (whose 1928 film Un chien andalou was directed by Luis Buñuel), all better known for their non-film work. Into this fray entered Jean Cocteau, himself at this point better known as a poet, novelist, playwright and librettist, to which he later added designer and artist. As one of his earliest film works (completed in 1930 but not screened to the public until 1932), The Blood of a Poet has a lot of similarities with the other avant-garde work being done around this time, trading largely in the symbolic in its four part structure. There’s the poet (one of many self-portraits throughout Cocteau’s career) and the statue in the first half of the film, boys having a lethal snowball fight, and finally a card player and the dead boy, in which death seems to be returned to the world of art, as the statue makes its reappearance. It’s a film filled with inventive use of sets and staging (favourites include plunging into the mirror/pool, looping images backwards, and having characters move through corridors as if resisted by some unseen force, a trick apparently done by attaching the scenery to the floor and shooting from above). If it never quite coheres in a straightforward narrative way, that’s hardly any discredit to the film, which works far more effectively at an oneiric level, looking towards Cocteau’s later films in this ‘Orphic trilogy’ as well as his fairytale masterpiece Beauty and the Beast (1946).

Criterion Extras: The most substantial extra here is a 66 minute documentary Jean Cocteau: Autoportrait d’un inconnu (Jean Cocteau: Autobiography of an Unknown, 1985, dir. Edgardo Cozarinsky), which largely uses clips from Cocteau’s films in conjunction with a filmed interview to give an overview of his life, although it sticks largely to his artistic career, which was long and varied after all. The film retains an element of Cocteau’s customary opacity, but is engaging all the same. In addition, there are some behind the scenes images of Cocteau at work with his actors, as well as a transcript of a lecture he gave at a screening of the film.


FILM REVIEW: Criterion Collection
Director/Writer Jean Cocteau | Cinematographer Georges Périnal | Length 55 minutes || Seen at National Library, Wellington, Wednesday 25 April 2001; and NFT, London, Thursday 4 March 2004 (and more recently on DVD at home, London, Sunday 13 December 2015)

Lotte in Italia (Struggle in Italy, 1971)

It feels like a difficult thing to come to this film, however much of Godard’s 1960s output you’ve seen (or even Tout va bien or his later work from the 1980s on), because it’s so much a part of a movement and a heavily-politicised time in both his life and that of cultural institutions in Western Europe. What we have here is Godard (with his occasional collaborator Jean-Pierre Gorin) working within the “Groupe Dziga-Vertov” collective (named for an important early Soviet filmmaker and theorist), making agit-prop pieces seeking to contextualise and free the worker from a bourgeois framework. Needless to say, too, it’s all very densely allusive and, as has long been Godard’s way, anchored very much by written and spoken texts (here, in Italian with another layer of French translation). The film is structured in three parts with Paola (Cristiana Tullio-Altan) seen first in various situations attempting to espouse a radical ideology, in the second part learning how her actions are framed by bourgeois ideology, and in the third reintegrating her actions with reference to the means of production. Or at least, this is what I think is going on, but it would probably require someone with a sustained understanding of the political struggles — and perhaps a few more viewings — to articulate it more meaningfully. In terms of this progress of thought, there’s a lot of to-do about the black leader which breaks up the various scenes of Paola at the start, later replaced by images of workers in factories, while the voiceover draws attention to the artifice of the film itself. Throughout, faces are largely eschewed in favour of showing actions, with the camera (this work presumably done by Godard and Gorin themselves) tending to frame body parts. It’s a provocation, of course, but it marks a stage on Godard’s filmic evolution.

Screening alongside this film are the Ciné-tracts made by Godard, from a series of 41 three-minute silent black-and-white short films intended to be distributed cheaply around the country and to prompt a dialogue about state power and control. Although unsigned, Godard’s shorts have been identified and take the form of slyly punning text written on a collage of still photographs showing dissent and activism. Standing apart from these is Ciné-tract numéro 1968 (credited to Godard and artist Gérard Fromanger), which simply but effectively films a painting of a French flag in which the band of red paint slowly leaks across the flag like blood, vividly coloured and graphically striking.


RETROSPECTIVE FILM REVIEW: Jean-Luc Godard || Seen at BFI Southbank (NFT2), London, Tuesday 16 February 2016

Lotte in Italia (1971)
Directors/Writers Jean-Luc Godard and Jean-Pierre Gorin [as “Groupe Dziga-Vertov”] | Starring Cristiana Tullio-Altan | Length 62 minutes

Ciné-tracts (1968) [#7-10, 12-16, 23, 40]
Director/Writer Jean-Luc Godard [uncredited] | Length c33 minutes (3 minutes each)

Ciné-tract numéro 1968 (1968)
Directors Jean-Luc Godard and Gérard Fromanger | Length 3 minutes

LFF: Exotica, Erotica, Etc. (2015)

BFI London Film Festival This film was presented at the London Film Festival, introduced by one of the programmers and the filmmaker, who returned afterwards for a Q&A session.


Only last week a film was released to British cinemas about sex and container ships with Odyssey allusions (Fidelio, l’odyssée d’Alice), though that was a narrative film, whereas this one is very much in a more artistic vein, having developed from a long-standing photographic project by Greek director Evangelia Kranioti. The title of this evocative documentary may perhaps be a little bit of misdirection, but it’s not entirely inaccurate, as it follows a container ship on its route around the world in a series of elliptical images overlaid with voiceover commentary and appearances by a fascinating woman in Brazil, Sandy, who used to be a sex worker in this particular environment. The imagery, then, is gorgeous and transfixing, with plenty of wide shots of the ship out in the ocean or plowing through ice, or its crew on land in various exotic ports. Their interactions with sex workers are seen only obliquely, with most of the commentary on that point offered by Sandy, who is transported into a trance-like state by her recollections. A fascinating document of a way of life that can sometimes seem strange to those of us land-bound viewers.


FILM FESTIVAL FILM REVIEW: London Film Festival
Director/Writer/Cinematographer Evangelia Kranioti | Length 73 minutes || Seen at BFI Southbank, London, Tuesday 13 October 2015

The Gold Diggers (1983)

I’ve been reading B. Ruby Rich’s memoirs and essay collection from her time in the 1970s and 1980s as a feminist film critic (Chick Flicks) and as she discusses Sally Potter’s breakthrough film work, I thought it timely to watch her first feature, much though I’ve had the DVD on my shelves for the past five years. It wasn’t exactly a success at the time, and looking at it you can understand why: it defiantly avoids anything commercial or saleable. It’s a deeply impenetrable film with a dissociative editing style that seems to hint at many issues and flirt with many different genres, to the extent that it’s generically unclassifiable. Comments on the packaging call it a sci-fi musical, though it doesn’t have any song setpieces and it’s sci-fi to extent of making our world seem alien. You could add in period drama to the mix pretty easily (the Icelandic landscapes and scenes of panning for gold, along with some ballroom costume sequences), but perhaps it could be called a psychodrama of identity, and what it means to be a woman within the recursive forms of filmed illusionism. I mean, perhaps? I don’t even know for sure, but I do know that I’ll need to watch it again to get some sense. In the meantime, for those looking at it but not following along easily (as I was), it’s a gorgeous film to look at, with some of the most spectacular black-and-white images from any film, thanks to its cinematographer (and Chantal Akerman collaborator) Babette Mangolte.


FILM REVIEW
Director Sally Potter | Writers Lindsay Cooper, Rose English and Sally Potter | Cinematographer Babette Mangolte | Starring Julie Christie, Colette Laffont | Length 89 minutes || Seen at home (DVD), London, Wednesday 19 August 2015

Manakamana (2013)


NEW RELEASE FILM REVIEW
Seen at BFI Southbank (Studio), London, Saturday 3 January 2015


© The Cinema Guild

There are a lot of things that can be good about this kind of structural filmmaking. In the case of Manakamana, which takes the form of 11 shots of just over 10 minutes duration each, it’s in the faces and behaviour of its subjects. These are people who are travelling either to or from the eponymous temple, located on a mountaintop in Nepal, and which is primarily reached by a cable car. The film’s 11 unmoving shots are all from within one of these carriages, and there’s little enough to say about the form beyond that — in its rigorous and spare way, it’s reminiscent of the nature-focused pieces by US director James Benning, like Ten Skies or 13 Lakes — but this kind of rigorous formalism finds its fascination in the unexpected. The first two journeys (an older man and a boy, and a woman carrying a basket of colourfully decorated cloth) have no talking in them, so we can observe the view outside more carefully. Thereafter we get increasingly chatty travellers, including an older couple (reprised at the end), a trio of elderly women and of young metalheads, another single woman, a woman and her elderly mother, a pair of American tourists, and a pair of musicians who strum away on their sarangis. You find yourself becoming attentive to details, like surprise animal appearances, and the way the older women enthusiastically eat icecreams, not to mention the throwaway references to the importance of the temple, and the way people used to reach it, along with observations about road-building and housing in the area. This kind of project can be initially uncomfortable, but it’s not long until you get into the film’s pace — and when you do, there’s plenty to like here.


CREDITS || Directors Stephanie Spray and Pacho Velez | Cinematographer Pacho Velez | Length 118 minutes

LFF: Adieu au langage (Goodbye to Language, 2014)

In writing about the most recent film I’d seen of director Jean-Luc Godard’s (Film socialisme, 2010), I tried to convey a sense that assigning a star-rating to it was largely futile. Godard’s practice by this point is increasingly experimental and beyond the bounds of conventional film narrative, moreso even than in his 60s heyday. So those who’ve seen anything he’s done in the last ten years won’t be surprised by Adieu au langage, just as it’s likely that those who only know him from his 60s pop-cultural pomp will recoil in horror. There’s still some of the same playfulness at work, such as when the film’s title pops up periodically as “AH DIEUX / OH LANGAGE”, or the repeated footage of a cheerful dog (Roxy, the real star of the film), or the title card with the word “2D” in the background and “3D” looming out front. For indeed, this film is in 3D, but pushed to its limits as grainy handheld video footage butts up against recycled film clips and more studied compositions. What narrative there is features a couple who fight and bicker, both of them often in a state of partial undress, but it’s very much just telegraphed hints towards Godard’s themes at this point. There’s a two-part structure, “nature” and “metaphor”, and the mood (as the most recent Godard films have been) is strongly elegiac — a goodbye not just to words but to a filmic language too, perhaps. You may love it, you may hate it, but you will probably still feel provoked and more than a little confused.


© Wild Bunch

BFI London Film Festival FILM FESTIVAL FILM REVIEW: London Film Festival
Director/Writer Jean-Luc Godard | Cinematographer Fabrice Aragno | Starring Héloise Godet | Length 70 minutes || Seen at BFI Imax [3D], London, Monday 13 October 2014

My Rating 3 stars good

The Arbor (2010)

FILM REVIEW || Seen at home (Blu-ray), London, Saturday 7 June 2014 || My Rating 3.5 stars very good


© Verve Pictures

I recently watched the 1987 film Rita, Sue and Bob Too, because I’m a huge fan of director Alan Clarke and had somehow never got around to it, despite it possibly being his most successful film commercially. It’s billed as a comedy, but it feels of a piece with his other films, which often deal with the violence and degradation inherent in state-sponsored systems of control. The nominal plot involves two teenage girls in Bradford (to the north of England) having a fling with an older married man, but really it’s about the way that working class lives are affected by living on a vast council estate, socially engineered (it seems) to entrap its undervalued residents. While watching it, I flicked over to Wikipedia, as you do, to read up on the film’s background, and there came across the page for Andrea Dunbar, its screenwriter and author of the original plays on which the film was based. Even in the broad strokes of this short entry, it makes for unhappy reading. Dunbar died only a few years after the film, at the age of 29, while her heroin-addicted daughter Lorraine was later imprisoned at much the same age for causing the death of her baby. It’s these events which form the basis of Clio Barnard’s The Arbor, an experimental blend of documentary and staged scenes.

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