Review: MIFF ‘10: Sweetgrass, My Dog Tulip
Sweetgrass
Dir. Lucien Castaing-Taylor
Sweetgrass is a relatively straightforward observational documentary that depicts the intense working experience of a troupe of old-style American drovers as they herd a massive flock of sheep through picturesque mountain ranges to graze on the pastures there. Shot on what looks like standard DV transferred onto 35mm, the film’s beautiful cinematography makes up for its low resolution with inspired compositions that emphasise the vast number of sheep in the troupe’s care (most comically when they are paraded in their thousands through the street of a nearby town). Many shots throughout the film are framed to apprehend the bizarre herd behaviour of the animals and the phenomenally abstract assemblages and patterns they form as they are fed, mustered and driven through the countryside, chaotic yet contained. The low resolution actually comes into its own much later in the film when wild predators in the night begin to cause panic in the expedition, as scenes of the farmers shooting blindly at grainy, distant figures in the night intermittently lend the film the frantic, paranoid quality of The Blair Witch Project.
We are only given a passing chance to identify with the humans. Two drovers, Pat and John are singled out as the key human characters of the film, after fighting between groups of sheep-dogs gives cause for the expedition to be split up. Pat and John are initially revealed through scenes of them snoozing, setting up camp and commanding the animals. Later we begin to spend more time with them in the camp, hearing their thoughts regarding the health of the expedition. Pat is a somewhat taciturn old man, a seasoned cowboy who seems to stoically accept any challenge that befalls the expedition. John is much younger and, whilst as stoic as Pat about the job at hand, is much more prone to stress and worry. Late in the film John begins to lose his grip on the reigns of composure and sanity as he hurls violent and resentful abuse at his recalcitrant flock while driving them up a hill. It is during this late scene and the following, when John sobs on his mobile phone to his mother about the terrible strain being suffered by his horse and his dog (in what feels for a moment like an unwelcome incursion of reality-TV-style histrionics into the films de-dramatised observational mode), that the contemplative and detached tone of the film begins to break down.
By choosing not to reveal the strain on the health of the animals and the cowboys gradually through progressive visual documentation, and by allowing its factuality to suddenly and loudly burst through the film’s beguilingly calm, contemplative surface, the filmmakers shock us into realising that what we might have been casually observing – a heroic journey across an idyllic landscape – is highly problematic, and that the people and animals before us are not merely stoic figures aesthetically framed to elicit a myth or ideal of man versus nature, but beings who are internally striving and suffering, whose surface does not reveal all about their character (John’s cowboy image giving away to the voice of a frightened child), and who fully inhabit the experience we spectators are only observe from a comfortable distance.
This might serve to remind us as spectators that the cinematic image – even in its seemingly least affected mode – literally flattens out whatever slice of life it purports to reproduce for us, sacrificing the dimensionality of living experience in favour of the production of iconic images that either affirm or recapitulate pre-existing, perhaps pre-cinematic, ideas about the workings of the world. It was these moments in Sweetgrass, when such questions regarding the filmable and the unfilmable were dragged crying and screaming to the film’s surface, that constituted for me the key revelatory experiences to be taken from the film.
- Alifeleti Brown
My Dog Tulip
Dir. Paul Fierlinger & Sandra Fierlinger
The festival guide informs potential viewers that Paul and Sandra Fierlinger’s animated feature film My Dog Tulip is a film to be taken seriously; that it is an ‘animation for adults.’ If the short film is the middle child of cinema—always forgotten, mistreated and unacknowledged for its effort—I think animated feature films must be the youngest child. Whilst they may get some attention, animated features are constantly patronised, rarely taken seriously and frequently forced to associate with annoying children. Unfortunately MIFF’s initial assertion that My Dog Tulip is designed to appeal to adult sensibilities simply perpetuates this belief.
My Dog Tulip is a charming film that appeals to both intellect and instinct. The premise: a middle-aged Englishman unexpectedly finding himself enamoured with an Alsatian. The aristocratic J.R Ackerley, who had been searching his entire life for the ideal friend, rescues the canine from a working class slum and immediately emphasises a class division that spans almost the entirety of the film. The slum is never mentioned again but is represented through the mongrel dogs that incessantly attempt to mate with Tulip whilst she is on heat. In the final act of the film, however, Ackerley allows Tulip to mate with a mongrel after his attempt to ‘marry’ her with a number of purebred dogs goes awry. Yes, this film does engage with the clichéd storyline of the beast that ultimately changes the views of the man. But this is done in a way that minimizes cringe and maximises laughter and enjoyment—perhaps it has something to do with the animation.
The animated imagery of this film has a hand drawn feel to it making the individual images almost graspable. It reminds me of the sketches of old men which I guess connects the images to the voice of the narrator, the heart of this film. At the most humorous of times in this film, the imagery mirrors a lined piece of paper and the action consists of mere stick drawings of anthropomorphised dogs and people going about their daily routines. At times the colour palate is almost vividly dull, clearly echoing the life of the protagonist prior to ownership of the dog. Once these kindred spirits are together the colours brighten and movement within the frame becomes more dynamic.
There is a hymn at the heart of this film. It is sung by a choir that mysteriously appear as Ackerley takes his dog to do her ‘business’ on the dirty banks of the River Thames. They harmoniously sing: ‘Human beings are prudes and bores. You smell my arse, I’ll smell yours.’ Perhaps it is true that ‘unable to love each other, the English turn naturally to dogs.’
- Whitney Monaghan
