Director: Yujia Tan
Writer: Yujia Tan
Cast: Sissi Sam, Hui Zhi, Xuzhen Zhang
Running time: 35mins
Consisting of four long-take shots of the fraught rehearsals of a doomed theatrical show, LOST is unapologetically a filmmaker’s film. While the core story of this offbeat horror initially centres on an analogue production, it becomes increasingly apparent that the creeping sense of dread was inspired to some extent by the (often loathsome) process of making a movie. So, while fans of more conventional horror might be confused as to what exactly they’re supposed to be afraid of in this film, for anyone who has ever picked up a camera will understand that the horror is the film.
We join on-screen director Cui Yun (Sissi Sam) during the first day of rehearsals, during which she struggles to get through to two actors who – for varying reasons – don’t genuinely share her enthusiasm or vision. Xiao Xiao (Hui Zhi) initially seems to be the bigger problem – a preening starlet who can’t keep her mind on the script until the production confirms a descent makeup artist to take care of her on the big day. But it is Da Fu (Xuzhen Zhang) who gradually grows into the most insidious and unnerving tormentor of Cui Yun – as it becomes increasingly clear he has taken on the project as a means to get closer to her, and hopes to leverage the stress of the approaching premiere to leave her with nowhere else to go.
Directors and producers in the audience will have already felt chills run down their spine at the mention of dealing with actors alone. But into the mix, real-writer-director Yujia Tan also introduces a seemingly supernatural element that artists will also be grimly acquainted with: the clock that seems to jump forward at random intervals. Just as the actors seem to be getting into their flow, building an atmosphere, the lighting technician downs tools and insists it is closing time. Three hours seem to have passed in only a few minutes. As the clock to the big day ticks away, Yujia Tan finds a number of innovative-yet-minimal tricks to convince us of this – including stealthily swapping out a glass of ice Cui Yun is using to nurse her migraine with one filled with lukewarm water – and these effects, as well as the narrative device, pare especially well with the long-take format.
Because each take is continuous, even though the camera has moved to skilfully disguise where a stagehand is repositioning props, we live it like we would in our own home. Hang on, I could have sworn I left my keys on the counter before I turned away… At the same time, we feel every second tick by, every tense pause, every sigh, every correction and re-tread of a botched line. Time is moving by at its naturally excruciating rate, and yet it is also moving by at a canter. That’s a twin nightmare everyone knows, if they’ve working a job they don’t enjoy, while also facing deadlines within it. And while people might enjoy the before and after of making a film, the grim mid-section is not something that anyone but the most committed sadist is into.
The film’s ending does veer a little too far into knowing self-parody, giving into the modern obsession many films now have of fully breaking the fourth-wall. Personally, I would have preferred the exact causes of what is going on to be left a little more ambiguous. But naturalistic unrealism is hard to pull off – and even harder to satisfactorily tie up when delivered as part of a narrative – so this is a pretty minor point from where I am sitting.
Instead, I would like to sing the praises of the people who brought this unique and hellish vision of exasperated creativity to life. Actors Sissi Sam, Hui Zhi and Xuzhen Zhang are each excellent in their respective roles, gradually unfolding as three-dimensional characters from the caricatures we encounter in the film’s opening scene. The subtle score of composer Han Jingrui manages to steadily build tension without becoming overbearing – helping us to understand what the characters are feeling, without insisting too heavily that we feel the same. And camera operator Hu Zelin does an amazing job bringing Tan Yujia’s cinematography-cum-choreography to life.
But perhaps most importantly, Tan Yujia deserves credit for writing not one, but two accomplished scripts in such different styles. The ‘real’ one for LOST is naturalistic and does very well to subtly imbed recognisable everyday fears into proceedings. Meanwhile, the second script for A play that can never premiere has a measured, foreboding tone, with dialogue that is willing to utilise more wordy prose to plant grander, less grounded fears in the back of our mind, to interplay with the real.
In LOST, Tan Yujia has crafted something unique, which finds quiet and gradual ways to leave general audiences feeling off-kilter, and filmmakers and other artists feeling like they’ve just woken from an anxiety dream. Patient and clever, it is one of the finest horrors IFL has been sent in five years, and I am excited to include it as part of our Halloween showcase this October.