In our tightly cultivated media bubbles, we can be aggressively resistant to forms of storytelling which go against the grain we are used to. But by daring to admit we aren’t experts on everything, and letting other people surprise us, gems like Swimming to Cambodia can move us in ways we never expected.
The ideology behind consumerism encourages every person to see themselves as a manager of the human being in front of them, endlessly critiquing every aspect of their ‘service’. Customer experience culture is built on each individual becoming a ruthless overseer, ready to pounce on every arbitrary and minor ‘mistake’ – but (as is generally the case with actual managers) none of us have a clue how to do the job of the person we now loom over, ready to scrutinise. And that drives us to deliver evermore absurd and illogical notes – just for the sake of seeming like we are in control, by projecting our subjective whims as objective facts, from which no other may deviate.
In the so-called online discourse around film, in an age where everyone is a critic, the term ‘monologue’ has become synonymous with boredom. If someone speaks at length on something – you know, as though they knew a great deal about it, and were passionate enough about the subject to want others to care about it – someone churning out Amazon or IMDb reviews for the sake of showing they have an opinion will automatically condemn it. This could have been time spent on car-chases or explosions.
This is not to say that everyone has to love a good talking picture. It is also not to say there is no merit at all to car-chases or explosions. But rather, the point is, there are tonnes of those – while the consumerist inclinations that make us project our way as the only way help to drown out points of contrast, and merciful escape from the endless, indulgent bombast that we reinforce as ‘a real movie’.
Filmed in 1987, Swimming to Cambodia is, according to some, simply “not a movie”, because it is something that has become unthinkable, cinematically, in this era. It is a feature-length monologue, in which the camera holds on Spalding Gray’s face for almost its whole 85-minute run-time. And yet, without leaving the desk from which Gray delivers his sermon, there is a ‘real movie’ and more in here, if you give it the chance.
Beauty amid carnage
Adapted from Gray’s stage show, and directed by Jonathan Demme, over the course of the narrative, he recounts shooting scenes for The Killing Fields in Thailand, in 1984 – in the shadow of the Vietnam war, and the Cambodian genocide which the US intervention enabled. Artfully weaving together stories from the set, his personal adventures away from the intensity of the production, and the countless, untold horrors just across the border – where the Khmer Rouge (unofficially supported by the United States, as an enemy of Vietnam, and recognised as part of Cambodia’s ‘government in exile’, which sat on the UN until 1989) were then still attempting to reclaim power.
As an American, shooting a movie monetising a nightmare world his country helped create, and cavorting around heavenly “unspoiled” beaches on Cambodia’s doorstep, there might be some readings of this which either take it as an essay on escapism. But Gray’s performance is rich and complex – blending chaotic comedic energy, pensive self-reflection, and bleak recollections of images dredged up from Hell itself – showcasing a growing consciousness of the grim paradox he finds himself in; and daring to explore it, in all its absurdity.
Central to all this, there is a calculated playfulness to everything he says – and while his tone rightfully shifts to reflect the scale of the human tragedy that befell Cambodia’s people, the millions of people slaughtered or starved, every utterance comes with the threat (not always delivered on, but always present) of a sudden, jarring shift in tone – to remind us of the uncomfortable place he finds himself in, where anyone living in the shadow of the American Empire should find themselves – partying and pampering themselves next to the graveyard that underwrites those ‘good times’. Perhaps he’s just fucking with us. Perhaps he is making a point. Probably both.
Either way, seeing the soft-spoken Gray in full flow here, his fluctuating pace and emphasis provoking laughter and discomfort often within the same sentence, it’s hard not to think of a later, much more famous, Demme project. There is a devilish glint to Gray’s eyes, like a cat that’s cornered a mouse, and hasn’t made up his mind what to do with it yet – but revelling in the uncertainty he has provoked in his quarry in the meantime. There is a lot of Hannibal Lecter here – and I wonder if Anthony Hopkins either might have seen this film with Demme before filming The Silence of the Lambs, or if the director simply decided to coach a bit more of Gray out of him.
And while we mostly (except for a couple of small cut-aways to footage of The Killing Fields) remain with Gray, there is also some distinctly-Demme framing which adds a further cinematic edge to the performance. The camera at the beginning descends from above Gray. Initially looking down on him at the beginning, he seems diminutive, while we tower above him, almost a God’s-eye-view – but as the screen’s framing shifts, we find him just slightly above us, leaning forward, confidently. It’s another technique that crops up later in The Silence of the Lambs to explore the changing power-dynamics of a conversation; and it should leave us in no doubt that we are not in control of this one.
That might be the most terrifying thing that a modern audience of consumers could be asked to do – to cede control, and admit someone else might have more passion and insight on a subject than you do, via a monologue. But it is also a liberating experience. It feels truly wonderous to sit in the company of a performer, and not to have to worry about whether or not some misjudged set-piece is about to interject and neuter or undermine every word they have meticulously crafted. And to know that for a time, you’re watching a movie that has absolutely no interest in pandering to what you may or may not think you want – instead dedicating itself towards a message you didn’t realise you needed.
Film clubs
In the streaming era, another aspect of that consumerist impulse to place ourselves as the leading authority on everything, is that we have to procure our own entertainment, constantly. This is of course an illusion, as the almighty algorithm of each platform either cultivates a bubble that shows us more of whatever swill it knows we already guzzled down; or prioritises the content its investors are most concerned with you engaging with.
On either front, sometimes, we would all be better off for going to see something blind. I had never heard of Swimming to Cambodia before last night, when it screened at Supermercator – a fitting farewell for Darren, one of the venue’s legendary regulars, who picked out the film before leaving Amsterdam to embark on a new set of inter-continental adventures. If it were not for trusting somebody else to show me something new, then perhaps I never would have crossed paths with it.
That’s something I think it is worth closing on here. Scrolling through news feeds or flitting through the culture section of a paper (remember those?), it is not difficult to find some new apocalyptic prophecy about the death of creative cinema. Will Hollywood’s mega-merger of Paramount and Warner Brothers mean the next Sinners will never be made? And so on. But the fact is that for decades, films just as innovative have continuously flown under the radar – and continue to do so.
It takes a kind of cultural collaboration that consumerism just doesn’t compare with, to unearth those gems. It takes admitting we don’t always know best, and as with engaging with a monologue movie, trusting in other people’s recommendations, sitting down and daring to be surprised by something that you haven’t been spoon-fed according to the things you already know you like. If you really want, you can still find that kind of experience.
If you are lucky enough to be in a city with a large number of independent cinemas, the kind of event I just enjoyed at Supermercator may well be taking place in a venue near you tonight, or tomorrow. When a festival rolls round, there could be a hundred short films which will move you in ways you never knew were possible – and would never if you only waited for Hollywood to deliver in that way. If not, there will be a local film club, rotating picks for screenings – or, if you are willing to take the chance, there very soon can be such a gathering. But what having the consumer savvy to pick the right thing for yourself all the time isn’t what matters; what matters is trusting other people to enrich your experiences, and to show you – literally, or metaphorically – conflicts, dreams and worlds you have never imagined.