Issue 9: BODIES OF WATER (January, 2024)

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THE EDITORIAL TEAM CHIEF EDITORS Ziqi Xu Russell Shen Siwen

EDITORS Sabastian Gilling-Ulph Hank Cao Chloe Wang Jingyi Harrison Manders

EMAIL thefilmdispatch@gmail.com

WEBSITE https://blogs.ed.ac.uk/thefilmdispatch/

INSTAGRAM @the_film_dispatch

GRAPHIC DESIGNERS Henry Guo & Qiao Zhang

X @thefilmdispatch

SOCIAL MEDIA Shirley Lin & Rita Xu

WEBSITE MANAGER Sihao Pan ACADEMIC STAFF ADVISOR

Dr Hoi Lun Law page 2 / BODIES OF WATER

TO THE READER Dear readers,

It is with great pleasure to introduce you to the 9th issue of The Film Dispatch—Bodies of Water. From the oceans that form most of Earth’s surface to the water that makes up most of the human body, water is the element that, more than any other, ties human beings into the world around us. To explore the cultural and philosophical implications of this fact, Bodies of Water focuses on reviewing and rediscovering the fluid nature of cinema. Diverting forms of aqueousness not only encourage us to reflect on the diffusion of images, but also invite us to revisit the matters shaped by fluid water systems.

The articles you are going to read respond to various topics about identity, body, gender, etc. Some analyse representative oceanic films and open up a progressive and panoramic space for you to re-examine the water significance in them. Some explore the relationships between past and present, reality and phenomenon to identify their positions in shaping human emotions and perceptions. Some discuss the experiences of migration and dispersal and the deep emotional politics these experiences suggest. Some even emphasise the non-human alliances of life across species and even planets and re-evaluate the meaning of thinking beyond human-centred and nation-based narratives.

We believe that Bodies of Water should not be seen as an abstract concept that only exists in and of itself but rather as a presence imagined, created, sustained, and recreated by human beings constantly shifting their relative positions.

On the basis of this argument, we advocate for the significant contribution of cinema in reconstructing this world and call on you to be sensitive to the ways in which images constitute and permeate life itself, and their potential to deliver dissents.

We wish you the best in enjoying your upcoming reading journey.

Your Chief Editors, Ziqi & Russell

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CONTENTS The Editorial Team

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To the Reader Ziqi Xu & Russell Shen

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The Swimmer (1968) Review Maria Petraki

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Watership Down (1978) Review: A Journey of Fragility and Perseverance Sebastian Gilling-Ulph

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Oceanic Posthuman Cinematography Decentralising Humanity: The Beach Scene in Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin (2013) Yufeng Li

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How Bodies of Water Made Aftersun (2022) Petrina Shek

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American Girl (2021) Review Aurora Fu

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Galaxy Express 999 (1979) Review Katherine Heller

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Arrival (2016) Review: Dreaming the Language Murphy Ling

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Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) Review: A River of Memories Sebastian Gilling-Ulph

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From Andrei Tarkovsky’s mesmerising water imagery to the adventurous fantasy of the Moby Dick adaptations, the fear of the sea evoked in Jaws (Steven Spielberg, 1975) and the stormy waters of Cape Fear (Martin Scorsese, 1991), the concept of water has intrigued the imaginations of writers and filmmakers alike. Its expanse and depth, its movement and fluidity, its capacity to soothe and to destroy, render it an invariably malleable symbol.

Likewise, the ‘body’, with its multiple and contrasting connotations— strength and fragility, innocence and sensuality, youth and ageing—has

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been explored in cinema time and again. The Swimmer (Frank Perry, 1968) is a film that combines both of these concepts, tracing the change from their harmonic co-existence to the opposition that soon emerges.

Faithfully keeping to John Cheever’s short story of the same title, Frank Perry shapes the film into an allegorical tale of man’s disillusionment with the passing of time, conveyed through the iconography of the ephemeral nature of the body and the eternal element of water.

Set in an affluent suburban town in Connecticut, The Swimmer tells the story of a day in the life of Ned Merrill (Burt Lancaster), as he decides to swim from one pool to another—a journey along the ‘Lucinda’ river, as he names it—to reach his family home. As he embarks on his adventure, his encounters with neighbours and old lovers uncannily force him to confront his past and his own reckless self.

Ned’s simple, puerile declaration at the start of the film is the sad jest that runs throughout the film: ‘I am swimming home.’ He has no home; the conversations with his neighbours drop hints that he is divorced and that he has relocated to another house. The viewer partakes in witnessing Ned’s futile adventure, suggested by the director’s emphasis on a third-person perspective: the melancholy non-diegetic score that foreshadows his sorrow, the birds’eye-view angle that introduces the

character and creates detachment at the end, all anticipate Ned’s slow undoing. The cerulean blue, prominent in most of the film’s shots, becomes associated with Ned’s illusory perception of reality, his naivety and idealism: ‘You see, if you make-believe hard enough that something is true, then it is true for you.’ The colour connects Ned to the embryonic state symbolised by water and to the utopia and freedom linked with the sky (Figure 1). Adding to this, the dreamy, dramatic music score whose youthful energy no doubt derives from its then-first-time film composer, 24-year-old Marvin Hamlisch, completes the sense of illusion.

Ned’s reverie culminates with Julie’s acceptance to accompany him on his adventure, and the water acquires the additional symbolism of a realm of love—towards the end, Ned will attempt to seduce Shirley Abbott (Janice Rule) by pulling her with him in the pool.

Figure 1: The reflection of Ned and Julie on the water’s surface, as they are about to dive in and begin their journey. The blue of the water and of the sky meet in one shot.

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As he and Julie dive into the first pool together and their journey begins, the score begins to play in the background, sparking an exultant feeling. The frame is soon filled with a range of abstract, kaleidoscopic, hazy images of light softly glowing, and the effect is enhanced through zooming it, panning, and dissolves— as if the light were viewed from underwater or through the swimmer’s eyes after emerging to the surface (Figure 2). While Ned and Julie’s dialogue unravels in the background as they walk in the forest, similar blurry, prismatic images are shown, this time of nature. The camera slowly zooms in and out, momentarily stopping, panning and tilting, as if we were spying on the two, eavesdropping. The unsaturated colours convey the effect of the soft morning light on the eyes, while the frame is occasionally split with the razor-sharp lines of the sun rays. The cluttered canvas of light, foliage, and the two wandering silhouettes, enhanced by the fluid transitions, imitate something of the playful reflection of light on the water’s surface.

minimalism represent the opposite side of the spectrum from the materialism of the Connecticut residents.

In inviting women to join him in his journey, he is inviting them to embrace the simplicity of his worldview.

As Ned and Julie emerge from the wilderness holding hands, they are the two Protoplasts who roam amid the dense verdure of paradise; an allegorical portrayal of the experience of innocence and love.

Figure 2: A selection of shots from the first half of the film, showing

Ned wants to experience the beauty and thrill of being close to nature with his whole body; his sense of self is linked to his physicality. He depends on his body, on its good shape and strength which attest to his youthfulness and virility: ‘I’m still fit, I’m still athletic, I’m still good old boy Neddy Merrill.’ Most importantly, it is his vehicle for exploring the world (‘I am an explorer’) and in many ways, Ned’s simplicity and

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the interplay between light, shapes, and shadows in particular.

As the film draws to a close, the temperature decreases, the water gets cold and Ned’s robust, athletic body begins to shiver; the water has drained the hero of all his energy.

The increasingly dark close-up shots express Ned’s fear and tiredness.

‘Neddy Merrill is not a real person, but an allegorical cipher of a deeper, disturbing malaise’, as Valladares (2019) notes. Soon, the darkening clouds follow the hero down the path of this unease that ends in despair. In the final scene, the rain does not so much cleanse as weigh down on the character—the high angle wide shot at the end presents man at the mercy of nature: with his head bowed, his back curved, his limbs bent and drawn up to his torso, Ned is helpless and alone. The water has completed its eternal cycle with the precipitation, just as Ned has metaphorically completed his own life cycle. Time has passed, the body has succumbed to nature, and the quixotic explorer faces the futility of his mission.

Reference Valladares, C. (2019). Body politics: Burt Lancaster and “The Swimmer.”

Notebook.

The Swimmer can be viewed as a film that speaks to the viewer on a deeper, more primal level, through the transcendental symbols of the body and water. It addresses the universal ideas of youth and age, love and innocence, taking the audience for a dive into the depths of their own hidden fantasies and perception of life.

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Watership Down (1978) Review: A Journey of Fragility and Perseverance

By Sebastian Gilling-Ulph

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Watership Down (Martin Rosen, 1978), to those who have heard of it, might recall horrific images of rabbits being snuffed out, blood and violence splattered across the screen and an anxiety-inducing watch as you following this group of rabbits, seek out a new warren in their arduous journey of survival. There is certainly a poetic pain that must be endured when watching this film so that you may be rewarded by a gorgeous philosophical experience built by striking artwork, evocative music and Shakespearean performances that bring this story to life. This is not a story about death, but a story of life.

Originally a novel by Richard Adams, published in 1972, we travel on a journey with a group of rabbits led

by Hazel, voiced by the legendary John Hurt, as they flee their previous warren as it is destroyed by man. It is Fiver (Richard Briars), who warns them with his precognitive visions that bleed on screen through the

stark animation. Although these rabbits are stylised in a far more realistic fashion than perhaps other more fluffy and jovial bunnies, there is a harsh expression present on their faces, an almost human quality that captivates and draws us in. I cannot help but identify with these fragile creatures, who through their trials and tribulations must struggle and persevere. They eventually reach the titular hill the story gets its name from, a hill which its real-life counterpart I grew up fairly close to in the English South Downs. They must battle a rival warren led by the tyrannical General Woundwort (Harry Andrews) whose officers hunt down and mark rabbits, leaving dripping scars and torn up ears to all deserters and traitors under his totalitarian paw. Aided by a black-headed seagull named Kehaar (Zero Mostel), this tenacious group of rabbits never lose hope due to the leadership and inspiration from Hazel and eventually succeed in taking down the general.

Although the film’s animation lacks the smoothness present in the Disney films that came before it, it makes up for in the fluidity between the myth and the reality that dance with each other on screen. Adams created an intriguing mythology to serve as a backbone to the setting and throughout the film, the gods and beings of those myths frolic on the edge of truth.

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We never witness any physical interactions but their effect on the characters is ever present especially on what is considered the musical highlight of the film. I should say that the soundtrack is beyond phenomenal, tugging at heartstrings as the various motifs lap around and evoke such an emotional response in one of the most memorable scenes, we hear Bright Eyes performed by the renowned Art Garfunkel. This happens when Hazel is on the verge of death and we follow the caprioles of the mythical black rabbit of death ebbing in and out of Fiver’s visions. It is a soft sung song with poetic lyrics open to interpretation but to me evoke this dreamlike quality of death.

This sequence is a testament to the film’s ability to portray the harmonious relationship between cognitive, spiritual and physical.

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I myself have read the book, which I would highly recommend on its own, but director Martin Rosen’s adaption perfectly sheds away some of the side plots to bring about the true crux embodied in narrative. This theme of hope and perseverance in the face of death, the beautiful depiction of the fragility of nature and that home is vital and worth fighting for. I will admit there is bias I have towards this film as the iconography is so true to the south of England, I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia overtake me, pulling me back to my own childhood days in the countryside as the nature is captured so vividly in the animals, backgrounds and the occasional farmer with a buttery thick accent.

Though of course, I feel that there is a transcendence that takes place that anyone may experience. There is such a humanity present in the culture of the rabbits which is undoubtedly supported by the voice cast, many of whom were highly trained theatre actors, giving a capturing performance that reels me in.

There is also a societal structure that plays a deep part such as the warrens having leaders with officers below them. There is a rich religion present that guides the rabbits’ actions and shapes how they view the world. A world which at first may seem to be built on fear as some religions are claimed to be but again, I find this message of a hopeful indefatigability. In what is a breathtaking opening we watch the mythology of the world play out and we hear God’s words on the creation of the rabbit,

“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.”

I find myself compelled to take these words to heart, especially after suffering through Hazel’s journey. It is an inspiring message of endeavouring hardships in what is an ever-growing harsh world around us.

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Something to note about this film for those who haven’t seen it is that despite the dark nature and imagery, it was considered a children’s film with its initial U rating turned to PG only as recently as 2022 with some referring to it as having scarred a generation. I remember as a child watching it and being haunted by the macabre scene as the rabbits are trapped and suffocated in their burrow. Bloodshot eyes staring at me, gasping desperate voices as their spirits leave their bodies. This was no Peter Rabbit. A review of this film must address who exactly is this meant for and it is difficult to answer that, as although this may not be entirely appropriate for children, the animated format of this film can deter an adult audience. I find that it is a stimulating piece of art that transcends any sort of age barrier and is absolutely worth seeking out if one wants to explore the nature of existence through the humble lens of a fragile yet brave little rabbit.

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Oceanic Posthuman Cinematography Decentralising Humanity The Beach Scene in Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin (2013)

By Yufeng Li

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The ocean, being the Earth’s largest body of water, serves as an ideal subject in posthuman cinematography.

It highlights humanity’s insignificance in nature and emphasises nonhuman elements.

‘Posthuman’ and ‘posthumanism’ are gaining popularity in contemporary cinema.

As a critique of traditional humanism, especially anthropocentrism, posthumanism aims to decentralise humanity and promote equal treatment of humans and nonhuman elements. In the context of films, posthumanism can be reflected through posthuman cinematography de-emphasizing human characters while highlighting nonhuman aspects.

The ocean, as the largest body of water on Earth, is often used as a metaphor to illustrate how insignificant mankind is in nature. Similarly, in posthuman cinematography, the ocean serves as a prominent

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nonhuman element that shifts focus away from human aspects in a film. For example, Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin (2013) features a beach scene depicting the ocean swallowing up a couple.

In this episode, posthuman cinematography is portrayed through the frequent use of extreme long shots to decentre humans in the mise-en-scène. According to Ágnes Pethő, discussions on posthumanism usually include the loss of the human perspective (Knowles & Schmid, 2021, p. 41). In Under the Skin, the extreme long shots depict human characters as a fraction of the frame.

Figure 1: The wife is desperately struggling in the ruthless ocean waves.

Figure 2: The husband and another rescuer attempt to save the wife, but their efforts are no match for nature.

For instance, in shots showing the couple struggling in ocean waves, humans are barely visible compared to the vast body of water (Fig. 1 and Fig.2). Throughout the entire episode, there are no close-up shots focusing on human characters, preventing us from seeing their facial expressions as the camera maintains distance. Consequently, these shots position the ocean as the dominant subject while marginalising humans. Unlike anthropocentric cinematography which places excessive emphasis on humans within frames by defining shot sizes (close-up, medium shot, full shot) based on how much space a focused human character occupies on screen, posthuman cinematography does not treat humans as focal points but pays greater attention to other nonhuman aspects.

In Under the Skin (2013), posthuman cinematography is objective and emotionless, effectively addressing this film’s theme

that humanity constantly encounters unknown external threats (in this case, the threat is a mysterious alien species hunting humans for meat). Its emphasis on the ocean captures the power and immensity of such a water body, reflecting the posthuman notion that, ‘We have now come to accept that we are no longer the centre of the universe and (for most of us) that we are no longer the centre of the natural kingdom’ (Hauskeller et al., 2016, p. 6).

References Knowles, K., & Schmid, M. (2021). Cinematic intermediality: Theory and practice. Edinburgh University Press.

Hauskeller, M., Philbeck, T. D., & Carbonell, C. D. (Eds.). (2015). The Palgrave handbook of posthumanism in film and television. Palgrave Macmillan.

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How Bodies of Water Made Aftersun

By Petrina Shek

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Centred on a father and a daughter’s last trip to Turkish islands, seeping in non-ambient sounds of waves in every frame, and imbued with melancholy and nostalgia, Aftersun (Charlotte Wells, 2022) is the perfect embodiment of bodies of water in cinema. Aftersun amplifies the unspoken words and feelings, with layers of symbolism reflected on that still blue surface. In this article, I will explore three main motifs of water in this film: water as immersivity, water as queer possibility, and water as safe haven, respectively. Combining theory with noticeable scenes, I will present how the medium of water has made Aftersun.

Water as Immersivity The most successful films are often those that engage people the most, by creating an immersive experience in which audiences subconsciously insert themselves into the characters’ situations. There is no better way to achieve this immersivity than portraying the characters in water, as Aftersun often does. When immersed in water, one’s sensations are naturally heightened. In other words, films tend to ‘enwater’ the audiences—by ‘flooding’ the screen, the separation between the physical screen and the audience is reduced, as audiences feel like being immersed in the water as well as the characters. Aftersun masterfully applies bodies of water as a way of letting audiences dive into its world, which I would illustrate through two scenes below.

they both dive in and the screen is ‘enwatered’, Sophie takes the camera from Calum and points it at him. In the next shot, Calum looks distant and uneasy. Just as being submerged into water limits all senses—you can’t breathe, you can’t hear properly, you can’t move freely, you can barely open your eyes—the focus is hard to grasp, mirroring Sophie’s longing to understand Calum throughout the movie, but these attempts are always muffled by bodies of water. The immersivity of water is further seen through the scene where Calum looks for Sophie in the middle of the night. In a wide establishing shot where Calum slowly walks towards the beach, the ocean is of the same colour as the night sky, making the darkness all-encompassing. This all-encompassing emptiness resembles Calum’s struggle with depression, as audiences are drawn into the void like Calum. In both scenes described above, bodies of water act as the branch between cinema and reality, by ‘enwatering’ the screen, audiences can’t help but immerse into Calum and Sophie’s story.

When Calum (Paul Mescal) and Sophie (Frankie Corio) first arrive at the hotel, they spend a day relaxing by the pool. As

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Water as Queer Possibility Besides enabling the cinematic nature of immersivity, bodies of water are also employed as queerness possibilities in Aftersun. Here I would like to briefly introduce the term queer ecology, a recent field of study dissecting how sex and nature intersects. Nature, secluded by physical boundaries of waters, has been a popular site of exploring queerness, seen from recent popular films like Call Me by Your Name (Luca Guadagnino, 2017) and Portrait de la jeune fille en feu/Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Céline Sciamma, 2019). This is due to the historical connotations of queerness as ‘unnatural’ and ‘primitive’, therefore are only allowed in the wilderness without societal judgement. The wide variety of sexualities in the animal kingdom also contributes to the association between queerness and nature. In addition, the fluidity (of water) is often seen as an important theme in queer theory. Although this is not a major theme in Aftersun, notions of nature and fluidity are deliberately applied to hint at Calum and Sophie’s queerness.

There has only been one explicit discussion of sexuality between Calum and Sophie, taking place at the hotel restaurant, when Sophie inquires Calum about his new partner. Calum shies away from the conversation, but still shares some details about his sexual relationship. Another implicit emphasis on queerness occurs when Sophie is locked out of their hotel room, unexpectedly witnessing two men making out in the corner. This is her first visual encounter of queerness, further allowing her to learn

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more about Calum. In hindsight, Calum and Sophie are both queer in terms of their homosexual pursuits, but are also queer by their positionality—an unusual dynamic between the young father and mature daughter. Calum and Sophie formed their private space through seclusion by water, in addition to their ‘holiday mood’, curated a safe platform for them to reveal themselves to each other. This is partially what makes Aftersun so emotionally devastating, as Calum and Sophie could have further exposed their vulnerabilities in this mutual safe space, but didn’t do so. Aftersun makes use of bodies of water to hint at Calum and Sophie’s queerness, sexuality and society wise, setting the atmosphere of melancholy, regrets, and grief.

Building on queer possibility, bodies of water constrains Calum and Sophie physically, and this seclusion creates a safe haven where their last trip takes place. Bodies of water are literal boundaries between nations and countries, while this isolation can be applied in the horror genre such as in The Menu (Mark Mylod, 2022), it is a resort for those who feel secluded in the world. In Aftersun, it is only in this setting away from their homes and everyone else, that Calum and Sophie can interact with each other genuinely.

The magic of bodies of water in terms of unmasking characters can be seen through Calum and Sophie’s scuba diving trip.

While travelling on a boat surrounded by blue waves, Sophie apologizes to Calum for losing an expensive mask, implicitly acknowledging and accepting his financial situation. Calum is stiff for a moment, but comforts Sophie back, by hugging her close, speechless. As they are floating in the wild waters, Calum and Sophie exchange one of the most beautiful moments in the film, where they acknowledge each others’ vulnerabilities and the love they share, only accentuated through non-ambient sounds of waves. This is more apparently shown through Calum and Sophie’s conversation further on in the film, where Calum ensures Sophie that she can talk to him about anything. Audiences are not given a close-up of this conversation, only hearing it from afar, demonstrating a safe haven where even the audiences cannot interrupt this intimate moment (this is similar to the last scene in Lost in Translation (Sofia Coppola, 2003). The vast ocean created a safe haven for Calum and Sophie, leading to Calum’s genuine expression of

his love towards Sophie, which he was

Water as Safe Haven reluctant to express in other parts of the film. Bodies of water created a safe haven for two lost souls to finally connect, unveiling their usual disguises.

In conclusion, Aftersun intentionally applies bodies of water to convey immersivity, elucidate themes of queerness, and creates a safe haven for Calum and Sophie.

Aftersun devastates us by submerging us into bodies of water, leaving ripples in our minds.

References D’Aloia, A. (2012). Film in depth. Water and immersivity in the contemporary film experience. Acta Universitatis Sapientiae, Film and Media Studies, 5, 87–106.

Mortimer-Sandilands, C., & Erickson, B. (2010). Introduction: A genealogy of queer ecologies. In C. Mortimer-Sandilands & B. Erickson (Eds.), Queer ecologies : Sex, nature, politics, desire (pp.1–48). Indiana University Press.

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American Girl (2021) Review

By Aurora Fu

Meiguo Nühai/American Girl (Feng-I Fiona Roan, 2021) is a gripping film about the immigration and counter-immigration of a Taiwanese family in the early 20th century, which also reflects the life experiences of its director, Fiona Roan and can be seen as a turning point for her to rewrite the past and move on.

Taiwan, one of the Four Asian Tigers, experienced a surge in immigration in the 1980s due to the benefits of its good economic circumstances and this is what serves as the background of American Girl, where Fangyi Liang (Yuting Fang) immigrates to the United States in the 1990s. The story starts when her mother, Lily (Jiaxin Lin), is diagnosed with cancer, the family has to return to Taiwan to seek help from her father Huay

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(Kaiser Chuang) and to save money.

When Fangyi returns to Taiwan, she experiences severe cultural shock as an outsider, and her feelings of unease and loneliness are transformed into her complaints about her mother’s illness which forces her to go back to Taiwan, causing the relationship between mother and daughter to deteriorate. However, following the SARS outbreak and her sister Fangan Liang’s (Pintong Lin) hospital quarantine, the family eventually come to understand that, even in the midst of their constant moves across the globe, anywhere with family can truly be called ‘Home’.

This film, in my opinion, is more of a family drama with a theme of moving than an immigration film. Every member of this family is moving.

The mother departs with an American dream, which is later dashed by cancer; the father, in order to pay for the family’s enormous expenses, frequently makes business trips from Taiwan to mainland China; Fangyi, the elder daughter, leaves home twice, while Fangan, the younger daughter, is a true diaspora. Every movement influences the substances that maintain the stability of the family home, causing everyone in this family to experience unexpected sufferings. Under such circumstances, the individuals’ subjective emotions are revealed as loneliness and anger, and the status of familial relationships is depicted by quarrels and misunderstandings by the camera.

In contrast to the superficial culture

shock, the director focuses on each individual’s reactions and choices.

This insightful writing exists in the entwinement of life, family, and social structure in the chaotic state of moving and meticulously embodies the patterns of love for typical Taiwanese families.

Accepting the mix and flow of cultures may be a common solution to the theme of moving; however, for Taiwanese Society, being with family is the preferred solution. That is why I prefer to call this film a family film. The elder daughter in American Girl, Fangyi, experiences migration twice, thus for her, moving is always a departure as well as a return, and leaving home is always the same as returning home. The family space, as a component of the mobile space pulled by other spaces, is ultimately able to be recognised as significant

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and preserved by family members when the force of the national scale pushes them out of the floating shadow of the moving in this film.

Fangyi does not become an American girl after all, as there is a scene in which she eventually finds her beloved horse in Taiwan as well, but she is never able to take the reins, echoing the constraints placed on love in an East Asian family.

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Galaxy Express 999 (1979) Review

By Katherine Heller

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On the 12th of November, I had the pleasure of going to The Cameo to see Ginga Tetsudo Suri Nain/Galaxy Express 999 (Rintaro, 1979), which was showing as part of the Scotland Loves Anime festival. Interestingly, it was noted in the film’s introduction,

by Jonathan Clements, that this may actually have been a UK premiere, even though the film was released in Japan over forty years ago. However, despite being significantly older than the other films being premiered at the festival—including Yoshimi Itazu’s charming Hokkyoku Hyakkaten no Concierge San/The Concierge (2023), which I also greatly enjoyed—Galaxy Express 999 (1979) still raises themes relevant to today.

Galaxy Express 999 (1979) was directed by Rintaro and is based on the manga of the same name by Leiji Matsumoto. The manga had already been adapted as a television anime series, beginning the previous year, and another title by Matsumoto, Space Battleship Yamato, had been adapted into both television and feature length anime. However, the 1977 Space Battleship Yamato film was created by combining sequences

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from the television series (although there were also portions of new animation). At the time of Galaxy Express 999’s release, it would have been incredibly difficult to stage a dedicated anime film festival like Scotland Loves Anime, as it was still early days for anime being seen as a legitimate format for cinematic expression. ‘Cinematic’ is the perfect word to describe Galaxy Express 999 (1979). It is a space opera of epic proportions, with expansive visuals, a soaring score and, most importantly, a clear discussion of themes relating to human identity.

The story of Galaxy Express 999 (1979) concerns an orphan named Tetsurô (Masako Nozawa), whose ambition is to travel to the far-off Andromeda Galaxy in order to replace his human body with an impossibly strong, immortal mechanised one. He wants this body in order to avenge his mother (Miyoko Asô) by killing the powerful Count Mecha (Hidekatsu Shibata). In order to reach the Andromeda Galaxy, he must ride the titular space train, which stops at several planets on its journey. He manages to get a ticket

for the train by accompanying Maetel (Masako Ikeda), a mysterious woman with a certain resemblance to his late mother.

Conflict between the human spirit and the limitations of the human body is a common theme in science fiction, steampunk, and cyberpunk narratives, and is explored extensively in later anime features such as Ghost in the Shell (Mamoru Oshii, 1995). However, it would be foolish to continue to overlook the exploration of this theme in Galaxy Express 999 (1979), and the film’s impact on these later works. The juxtaposition of futuristic technological elements and the old-fashioned Miyazawa Kenji-inspired steam train (as well as the stylised, art deco-esque appearance of female characters such as Maetel) create the perfect stage on which to tell a story of the fluid links between the human identity and the human body. It becomes clear through the film that while a human soul can exist separately from a human body, the connection between the two is what defines the human experience and forms the basis of each character’s identity.

The portion of the film that relates most literally to the theme of ‘bodies of water’, is that relating to the planet Pluto, one of the stops on the train’s journey. On Pluto, an incredibly cold planet far from the sun, Tetsuro comes across a space of interrupted human life. When one receives a mechanised body, their human body is interred in a ceme-

tery-like space on Pluto, frozen in the ice underfoot. The use of ice here emphasised that the bodies are being preserved, as opposed to simply buried. They are frozen, waiting for that ice to be melted back to water.

The cemetery is guarded by Shadow (Toshiko Fujita), who exchanged her human body for a mechanised one.

She chose for her new body not to have any facial features, as nothing could compare to the beauty of her human face. Shadow acknowledges the possibilities offered to her by her mechanised body but cannot draw herself away from her human body.

The theoretical freedom of mechanisation becomes futile when her identity always flows back towards her original body. These ideas of the limitations of idealised convenience and the virtues of the transient human self are revisited at the conclusion of the film.

At the present moment, it is rather difficult to watch this anime epic from the UK—as I stated at the beginning of this review, what I saw was actually a premiere! However, I would be very surprised if a Blu-ray release was not due to pull into this station very soon.

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Inspired by the alien species Heptapod and their language, linguist Dr. Louise Banks (Amy Adams) gets into a non-linear experience of her past and her future, and finally solves the myth of the Heptapods’ arrival.

Arrival (Denis Villeneuve, 2016) is a bold sci-fi film without the typical advanced weapons, fighting scenes and futuristic concepts as seen in the genre, but instead, the film is filled with interactions with the aliens and the suggestions to their mysterious purpose.

though the audience wouldn’t understand this without the given context of the side effect of the alien’s language. Only through learning the Heptapods’ language can Louise think without temporal boundaries, and as the audience also looks beyond those boundaries, they gain the knowledge of Louise and Hannah’s mother-daughter relationship. This non-linear narrative assists in setting up the uncertainty of the film and the spatial arrangement is also beset with doubts as seen with the arrival of the Heptapods. Their giant eggshell-like spacecraft hovers over a plain in Montana, against the vast greenness and military barracks, an eerie etherealness between nature and the artefacts is thus conveyed through massive wide shots. The visual language of overbearing ufos, alongside a seeming threat, exaggerates the conflicts and crises. What’s more, the split understanding of the Heptapods’ purpose on earth lingers and provokes different reactions across countries, which leaves us, the viewer, confused towards these beings.

Uncertainty permeates the temporal and spatial construction of the film. The apparent flashbacks Louise spends with her daughter, Hannah (Jadyn Malone & Julia Scarlett Dan), are played at the start of the film, but are in fact flashforwards,

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To explore the non-linear experience and the supernatural uncertainty, the film delves into the exterritorial creature’s fluidity and how the fluidity affects humans. The appearance of a Heptapod is very similar to an octopus or a squid, evoking imagery of floating aquatic life. The squidlike alien with star-shaped tentacles flushes out ink to form a circular signal, which stands for a full sentence.

The ink that it ejects with both tentacles is dark and floats about, the tiniest extension on each character can stand for different meanings,

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marking the indivisible trait of the character and the sentence. It is a fluidity that contains all meanings, and by its dispersion, it is open to all creatures. After a dedicated study of the language and a meeting with two Heptapods, charmingly nicknamed Abbott and Costello, Louise masters the language and the temporal structure within, connecting the dots of her scattered memories of a daughter she is yet to have. Through Louise, we observe a know-it-all recognition mode that has appeared in many sci-fi predecessors, but it’s in a pri-

vate, fixated, everlasting maternal love that we become deeply touched.

Therefore, the fluidity asserts the uncertainty of the film but also reminds us of what universal certainty we behold.

Progress in the decoding of this alien language, bestows Louise with a personal awakening. She goes on to study the Heptapod language and writes a book to spread information about its non-linear temporal mechanics. She also stands for the circulation and reflection of knowledge, which echoes the Heptapods’ request for her to use their ‘gift’. It’s a nonzero-sum game, as the aliens are offering these tools so that humans will return the favour in 3000 years. By understanding her see-it-all ability, Louise helps countries come together

through the alien crisis. It’s easy to recall French sociologist and anthropologist Marcel Mauss’s views on gifts, which regard exchanging gifts as a connecting approach to society, and that receiving a gift is receiving a part of the giver’s soul. In Arrival, the fluidity of the Heptapods is contained in their gift to humanity, and as the receiver of the gift, Louise is transformed into a medium between two civilizations, two species and two different temporal continuities, which suggests the ideal of utopia and internationalism. The philosophical connotation is thought-provoking and leads us to think whether it should be peace or war that permeates all time and space.

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How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.

—Alexander Pope

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This eloquent quote is spoken by Kirsten Dunst’s character, Mary, when she is discussing the philosophical aspects of ignorance with her boss Dr. Mierzwiak (Tom Wilkinson) who performs mind altering surgeries on patients whose memories plague their psyche. These words may praise the notion of ‘Ignorance is Bliss’ but director Michael Gondry’s tale of love in this film paints another picture. It is an exquisite exploration of the price that is paid in the pursuit of ignorance, the mourning of oneself, and the acceptance of flaws.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Michael Gondry, 2004) is at its core a love story between Joel (Jim Carrey) and Clementine (Kate Winslet) but what marks this as unique is that we witness their relationship played out in reverse. After one too many spats, Clementine decides to take on a procedure to erase Joel entirely from her mind, Joel in return after talking to her and

being treated like the stranger she perceived him to be, elects to also undergo the procedure. What transpires is a montage of memories that ebb and flow between the psyche and real world as we explore Joel’s mind in surreal construction. To reach the core of his memory of Clementine we experience all the pain and contempt they had for each other but eventually the serenity and joy are explored in a chaotic mindscape and Joel comes to regret his decision, yearning to cling on to love sick days they once shared. Despite this, there is nothing he can do. The procedure goes forth.

But in a gorgeous twist of the film as we bend through time and space, the opening scene where the two of them meet on the train is in fact after the surgery. They have found each other again in their worlds of ignorant bliss. Then, in what I find the most heart wrenching moment of the film, their past is laid out bare, all the odium and discontent but also the love and adoration.

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The film remarkably lays out this narrative by flowing between the past and the present, reality and imagination, slowly building the puzzle of the couple’s relationship. There is a particular attention to detail in the effects and cinematography used to convey the world of Joel’s mind: soft blurs, shifting from harsh lights to dim crevices, locations folding in on itself in an abysmal loop. Joel looks at himself within his own mind, he regresses into a child and he struggles to make sense of his psyche. The music by Jon Brion plays its part in what I find is one of the most unique soundtracks put to film where we hear a playful rhythm of notes played in reverse with a bittersweet piano melody waltzing on top for the main theme. Other tracks that captured me include ‘Showtime’ with its disorderly tension fiddling the eardrums and ‘Phone Call’ a somewhat early iteration of Lofi, with sweet acoustic guitar, mild string quartet and relaxing static cloud that hangs over the piece, evoking a sense of reverie.

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Primarily written by Charlie Kaufman who has never shied away from the psychological drama such as Being John Malkovich (1999) or Anomalisa (2015) to name a couple, this film is another testament to his filmography. Due to the somewhat unorthodox approach he takes to the narrative, we are thrown through a whirlwind aware of the fabricated nature of the film and it incites a self-reflection. Why do I feel a connection? How come I see so much of myself here? As we submerge ourselves into this deluge of memories, the carnival of misery from relations performs for us washing over into our real lives. It is not just the protagonists that bring this about.

When Joel enters the waiting room of the clinic, all around patients carry mementos of their burdens. It is a shared experience of humanity, the burdens of our past. The regretful choices we have made, the grief felt when losing a loved one and the harrowing feeling of heartbreak. Not only are we taken on a self-reflexive

journey, exploring this relationship through a crumbling carousel of fantasies, but we are invited to look at ourselves, our past; maybe there is someone there we wished not to remember.

It is easy to say, ‘live life without regret’ and I do not deny that the phrase is a particularly powerful philosophy to subscribe to. However, to accept and grow from those regrets, one must take on a challenging endeavour. This film teaches us that while it may be difficult, it is not impossible. If anything can be taken from this film, it is that our past defines us, it is a part of our soul and should not be disregarded, cut out or burnt away no matter how painful. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a film that you can only

experience for the first time once.

Hypocritically, I wish I could erase this film from my mind, so I can keep experiencing the metanoia effect it had on him. But like Joel and Clementine, I accept what has transpired and I will be cultivated from it, changing how I personally look back on my past. Memories are here to stay and I will cherish them just as I cherish this experiential piece of cinema.

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It’s going to be gone soon.

Joel: I know.

Clementine: What do we do?

Joel: Enjoy it.

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The Film Dispatch is supported by the Film Studies programme at the University of Edinburgh. To find out more about postgraduate study in film in the School of Literatures, Languages and Cultures, please visit: https://www.ed.ac.uk/literatures-languages-cultures/film

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