Director: Antonia Ackermans
Writer: Antonia Ackermans
Cast: Tes Linnenkoper
Running time: 6mins
Despite its brief running time, Float is a micro-fable, involving a very large number of talented people – each deserving of high commendations for their work. I may not get round to name-checking everyone, but the fact is, if you were involved in this production in any way, you should be very proud of what you have helped to achieve here.
Of director Antonia Ackermans’ team, perhaps the most important player is cinematographer Mario Karner, whose composition, camera movements and framing invite us to think more intensively about an otherwise simplistic story.
The minimalistic narrative begins with our nameless protagonist (played by Tes Linnenkoper) standing alone in wintery field, gazing down at her own camera. As she daydreams while staring intently at the machine, enraptured by its potential in the light of dawn, film’s lens gradually closes in on her like some unannounced intruder.
The sudden honk of a car’s horn breaks Linnenkoper’s trance, and she looks up at our lens for one panicked moment – before finding herself in a different scene. She is back in the bustling market square of an anonymous city, with faceless fellow-travellers brushing past her. The look of shock fades, and she begins wandering through the streets herself – but between cuts, we realise that our periphery has been trimmed. The sweeping 16:9 ration which had given us an almost-panoramic scope of the field before has narrowed to a 4:3 – and as a different panic begins to spread over Linnenkoper’s expression, we feel what she feels. In the grey alienation of the city, the walls are literally closing in.
Back at her apartment, our hero collapses into tears. Surrounded by human beings, how could she still feel so lonely? So out of place? The cruel irony is driven home by some of her décor – with art director Jess Walker getting an atmospheric two-for-one out of a neon sign on the wall. It reads “lost in euphoria”, tinging the scene with a gorgeous orange glow, while underlining what is absent from this character’s life. She is a very long way from being steeped in a state of intense excitement and happiness.
It’s a moment of internal conflict many viewers will be able to relate to in some way – a benefit of Ackermans’ story keeping things vague. While that means Float doesn’t explicitly go out of its way to say something daring or original, it does present a universal character and scenario that we can buy into. This character could be struggling to be around other people following a traumatic event – a social animal suddenly tormented by the one thing they have evolved to seek out above all else. They could alternatively be going through the motions chasing somebody else’s dream – badgered out of living in service of their imagination or desire for creativity, by economic norms or the expectations of friends and family to live a ‘normal’ life in the city.
Whatever the turmoil this character finds herself in, Linnenkoper does a first-rate job of emoting her way through her journey. Her sobs are devastatingly believable, while Ackermans resists the temptation to lean into them melodramatically. In lieu of a dialogue-driven script, there would probably have been pressure to lean into giving us a silent-era reaction shot at every turn – and it is for the best that this has been resisted, allowing us breathing space to come to our own conclusions, and feel what we need to feel during the story.
Then, things take a turn toward the fantastical. After the character’s lowest point, she spots another source of glowing orange light. Peeling back the curtain of her room, she finds a bioluminescent butterfly – beautifully animated by Tatjana Theur and Chantale Eglin. The animation style itself is striking, because it goes out of its way not to feel part of this reality, while the butterfly still carries weight and presence within the surrounding environment. It must have been a nightmare to do in an independent film (mixing live-action and cartoons is enough of a nightmare for massive studios), but I think it was worth it.
The butterfly resembles a shimmering chalk-drawing; but at the same time, its glow bounces off the very real concrete and wood it flitters across, as it leads our character out of her house – back into the light of the dawn. It is the meeting place between dreams and reality; a necessary incursion of fantasy into the everyday, to help us structure and cope with the cold and often cruel world around us. And as Linnenkoper follows it, the aspect ratio quietly begins to widen again, broadening her horizons, giving her space to breathe, and perhaps allowing her to explore her emotions, and her will to create – in spite of the expectations of the concrete desert she has left in her wake.
As the film builds to its finale, the score of Eric Huergo also comes into its own. At various points on the journey, it has verged on the obvious; a succession of twinkling tunes evocative of a butterfly in flight, but arguably a little on the saccharine side. But while things seem to be looking up in the end, Huergo’s score suddenly inserts a little warning into proceedings. An ominous synthetic bass tone echoes and reverberates underneath those first twinkling tones, sculpting a sound environment which reminds us that even in this fable, things are not as simple for this character. She cannot simply find herself for everything to be fine. There will be hard work along the way, struggles, set-backs and relapses – amid a world that may still not be supportive of her needs.
This short film should be held up as an example of modern silent filmmaking. Creating a story without the luxury of falling back on spoken dialogue comes with many pitfalls; not least the temptation to patronise your audience. But Ackermans has brilliantly marshalled her talented team to produce something that make a complex and evocative film, that suggests producers should sit up and take note of her and her team. These artists deserve trust and support with whatever they choose to do next.