Post by Capo on Jan 29, 2006 0:13:32 GMT
Frozen
Juliet McKoen UK 2004
In a small fishing town, and estranged woman tries to deal with the loss of her missing sister.
Frozen, Juliet McKoen’s first feature film, is one of those open-ended, ambiguous films with a twist, which, in the light of Brad Anderson’s thriller The Machinist (2004), comes as both a refreshing surprise, considering the British talent at hand, and another addition to a batch of films which, of late, offer bravura in their shaping of atmosphere and are ultimately letdown by a predictable twist—or at least one which, in hindsight, doesn’t surprise.
McKoen’s script lies somewhere inbetween inventive and worn, marred by distracting unevenness at times; but, for the most part, it brims with confidence, and gains heavily from the casting of Shirley Henderson in the role of Kath, the factory worker fixated by her sister Annie’s disappearance. Henderson, blessed by one of those faces which steal almost every picture it appears, is here highly convincing as a vulnerable woman reduced to a child-like frivolousness through her traumatic loss. She is the saving grace, at times, who adds weight to an otherwise awkwardly misplaced scene, in which Kath kisses Noyen, an arc which is treat as if it was almost inevitable.
The bleak cinematography, accompanied by industrial chugs and bassy, distant hums, evoke a kind of modest subtlety in capturing Morecambe Bay, where much of the film was shot. The shots where Kath stands in the alley where her sister was recorded on CCTV on the day of her disappearance have a disorientation about them, with Philip Robertson’s camera swirling around her in an enveloping claustrophobia. In the moments where Kath experiences recurring visions of Annie on the distant horizon at the beach have a cold isolation about them, entirely effective in portraying Kath as a lost soul, at odds with those unconvinced around her.
These painterly images, seeped in blues and greys to accentuate the red coat Annie wears in them, are visually striking and offer the film its most effective moments. They also have an arthouse feel about them, which mark the film as an odd one, in that it blends an accessible enough script with hints of something more ambitious, as if McKoen has been a little restrained in her debut feature, and is perhaps waiting for some kind of critical acclaim to confidently move ahead with her more arresting visual style.
Obvious, knowing references lie throughout to Nicolas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now (1973), with the red coat of a lost loved one making fleeting appearances, and a bleak denouement in which past, present and future become caught up in one thrilling moment. If the final moments resemble a Roeg-like finale too closely (instead of jigsaw pieces fitting together, they very much come apart), this is still a promising debut, an interesting exploration of loss and obsession, with some genuine moments of eeriness—the revelation of what the abstract face on the CCTV footage is is remarkably unsettling.
Juliet McKoen UK 2004
In a small fishing town, and estranged woman tries to deal with the loss of her missing sister.
Frozen, Juliet McKoen’s first feature film, is one of those open-ended, ambiguous films with a twist, which, in the light of Brad Anderson’s thriller The Machinist (2004), comes as both a refreshing surprise, considering the British talent at hand, and another addition to a batch of films which, of late, offer bravura in their shaping of atmosphere and are ultimately letdown by a predictable twist—or at least one which, in hindsight, doesn’t surprise.
McKoen’s script lies somewhere inbetween inventive and worn, marred by distracting unevenness at times; but, for the most part, it brims with confidence, and gains heavily from the casting of Shirley Henderson in the role of Kath, the factory worker fixated by her sister Annie’s disappearance. Henderson, blessed by one of those faces which steal almost every picture it appears, is here highly convincing as a vulnerable woman reduced to a child-like frivolousness through her traumatic loss. She is the saving grace, at times, who adds weight to an otherwise awkwardly misplaced scene, in which Kath kisses Noyen, an arc which is treat as if it was almost inevitable.
The bleak cinematography, accompanied by industrial chugs and bassy, distant hums, evoke a kind of modest subtlety in capturing Morecambe Bay, where much of the film was shot. The shots where Kath stands in the alley where her sister was recorded on CCTV on the day of her disappearance have a disorientation about them, with Philip Robertson’s camera swirling around her in an enveloping claustrophobia. In the moments where Kath experiences recurring visions of Annie on the distant horizon at the beach have a cold isolation about them, entirely effective in portraying Kath as a lost soul, at odds with those unconvinced around her.
These painterly images, seeped in blues and greys to accentuate the red coat Annie wears in them, are visually striking and offer the film its most effective moments. They also have an arthouse feel about them, which mark the film as an odd one, in that it blends an accessible enough script with hints of something more ambitious, as if McKoen has been a little restrained in her debut feature, and is perhaps waiting for some kind of critical acclaim to confidently move ahead with her more arresting visual style.
Obvious, knowing references lie throughout to Nicolas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now (1973), with the red coat of a lost loved one making fleeting appearances, and a bleak denouement in which past, present and future become caught up in one thrilling moment. If the final moments resemble a Roeg-like finale too closely (instead of jigsaw pieces fitting together, they very much come apart), this is still a promising debut, an interesting exploration of loss and obsession, with some genuine moments of eeriness—the revelation of what the abstract face on the CCTV footage is is remarkably unsettling.