Against the deep black blue of the water, velvet dark, the swimming costume elides the torso, the arms. Hands and a head in pale contrast to the hair dark sea, the loch of locks. Bird song and boundless forest, a feel of film. The warmth of sun a memory summoned by the sight of hair on nape, that alchemy of colour by Kodachrome or Ccd enough to find us miles from Venus.
Sensation abounds. The muffle of voices elsewhere, refraction and reflection. The sound of water, the sight of it, waves of waves of waves. Weeds just below the surface, and everywhere the chance to look that small bit deeper. Materiality everywhere. Red of cloth and round of glasses, the push of plastic and pliant flesh against the giving stems of green grasses.
Caitlin McMullan's film is a delight. Leveraging Kirstin McMahon's camerawork and Joe Howe's sound to create something as much.
Sensation abounds. The muffle of voices elsewhere, refraction and reflection. The sound of water, the sight of it, waves of waves of waves. Weeds just below the surface, and everywhere the chance to look that small bit deeper. Materiality everywhere. Red of cloth and round of glasses, the push of plastic and pliant flesh against the giving stems of green grasses.
Caitlin McMullan's film is a delight. Leveraging Kirstin McMahon's camerawork and Joe Howe's sound to create something as much.
- 4/29/2022
- by Andrew Robertson
- eyeforfilm.co.uk
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