Bill Morrison’s
Decasia (2002) is composed of deteriorated black and white found footage. The form and the content of the
film are perfectly married—the actual images shown depict dark decaying
subjects while the film itself is in a state of decomposition. It opens with a
scene showing a lab where film is processed.
The room takes on the feeling of a morgue; the film
developer’s gloved hand reaches into the tank to delicately lift a strip of
film as if he is performing an autopsy on an operating table. In this piece, the film itself is
treated as a decaying body, along with all the others shown. Visually the film is stunning—the
imagery is distorted in a unique and poetic way.
Much of the imagery has a very painterly quality to it, as
if turpentine has been spilled on to the frame, diluting and blurring the image
into spots. Some of the footage
could even pass as hand painted.
There is one particular sequence where men in parachutes are falling
from the sky, into an ambiguous landscape. The contrast in the image and the softness of the clouds is
reminiscent of ink paintings.
The
darkness of some of the more violent images is heightened by the intensely unsettling
soundtrack, which features a cacophony of dissonant un-tuned pianos. The music is loud through out the film,
reaching even louder crescendos at points, with violent and wild violins,
pushing the film into the realm of horror at some moments.
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