I wish I could say no persons were harmed in the
making of this film, but that would be a lie.
The director was stabbed with a fork. Then, in addition to sustaining
some scrapes and bruises from a particularly physical scene, the lead actor was
admitted into a mental institution shortly after filming.
Now, make no mistake, I say this not with
derision, but with understanding. I myself have stayed at so many mental
institutions in my adult life, I could probably rate their menus for Zagat’s.
(By the way, don’t ever order the macaroni and cheese at Rush in Chicago.
Sometimes they make it with decent shell noodles, and sometimes they just make that powdered-cheese shit from the
box. You won’t know until you get it, and by then it’ll be too late.)
It’s kind of an interesting story how I was given
an advance viewing of Loon to begin with, and I suppose we have the
late-and-great Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd to thank for that. It was through a
Facebook group dedicated to the music of Syd that I first began talking to the
film’s creator and director, Fabrizio Federico. I’m not sure exactly why he
decided to accept a friend request from a weird American blonde girl on the
internet who wears too much eyeliner in her profile pictures, but for some
reason he did – and here we are.
At first I didn’t even think that was his real
name. I thought it resembled that of Italian filmmaker Federico Fellini so
closely, it had to be pseudonym. But no, to the best of my knowledge, Fabrizio
is indeed a real person. If anything he’s the Anti-Fellini, about as far away
from the chic and scintillating high-society classics as a filmmaker could
possibly be.
When I viewed his previous works, I got the impression that – and I mean this in a good way – they were filmed on an acid trip (which is no surprise, considering how I found him on a Syd Barrett page.) It didn’t take me long to find out that Fabrizio abhors any kind of imposed structure. He won’t even use scripts, which to me (with my stringent, classically-trained literary sensibilities) was unthinkable. Quite honestly, I never would have thought a completely improvised film could possibly be as good as Loon is.
The opening credits feature a jarring, discordant
instrumental theme by the band Mao. Actually, the band recorded the entire
musical score at Aleister Crowley’s allegedly-haunted Boleskine House on the
shores of Loch Ness, wherein Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin also resided for some
time. Even if you’re not the kind of person who believes in ‘vibes’ or
‘energy’, the otherworldly background themes will seem to echo from whichever
spirit realm you may or may not believe in.
From the first scene – which turns out to be an
idle teenager’s experiment with autoerotic asphyxiation – you will be
uncomfortable, even disturbed. And you should be. That’s the whole point. Then,
after the first few nightmarish images, you’ll be introduced to an 18-year-old
English kid named Charlie.
The interesting thing about Charlie is that he
is, with no disrespect, psychologically afflicted in real life as well as the
film; but he plays a fictionalized version of himself as he goes about his normal(ish)
routine. Actually, none of the characters were professional actors. They were
just people in Charlie’s everyday life who consented to being filmed in their
natural habitat, you could say.
But then isn’t it just reality TV? Or a
documentary? Well, no. I believe (and correct me if I’m wrong) that reality TV
is often carefully scripted, rehearsed, and molded unto what the intended
viewers supposedly want to see.
For that same reason, most documentaries are
meticulously edited to make some thesis statement, usually in order to appeal
to an audience of a certain ideology, usually political.
No, Loon has no target audience. It has no point
to prove, no statement to make, and no didactic school of thought to promote.
The film exists only to offer a glimpse into one man’s troubled mind, so that
his screams don’t die unheard. It recognizes no politics except for maybe
Thomas Hobbes’ state of nature.
Still, the background track resounds with
newscasts from the recent terrorist attacks on British soil, grounding the film
solidly in the present. Doom-saying news anchors, as they calmly describe acts
of violence and disorder, merely echo the pandemonium raging in the confines of
Charlie’s mind. The macrocosm is marginalized, and the microcosm is brought to
the forefront. To put it simply, compared to Charlie’s drawn-out mental
breakdown, global terrorism is merely an afterthought.
In contrast, the film has its lighter moments. It
features the comical Dismaland, an amusement park parody of Disneyland that is
actually a large-scale art installation. It features frowning personnel, bleak
scenery, and underwhelming rides such as a spinning mobile home. And yes, this
is a real-world place that actually exists. It also concretely illustrates how
even the happy-ish moments in Charlie’s life are laden with despair.
Still, Charlie proves himself to be endearing,
even adorably charismatic. You may laugh and shake your head at his antics or
deride his immaturity; but you might also secretly hope that he’ll succeed in
his naïvely unrealistic pursuits.
At first, it might seem like the antagonist is life itself - until it takes
the form of Charlie's psychopathic nineteen-year-old cousin. I'm told she's also a psychopath in real life, which even further blurs
the distinction between the film's characters and the real people involved. In
the story, Character-Charlie's feelings for her are anything but appropriate.
Unfortunately, she is too preoccupied with dildos of a certain ethnicity (also
a true-to-life detail) to reciprocate the attraction, leaving Charlie
frustrated and unfulfilled in nearly every aspect of his life. Still, his
youthful enthusiasm is undeterred. Perhaps it's a fortunate coincidence that
the entire film is shot in black-and-white, and therefore uncannily reminiscent
of another monochromatic character named Charlie. There's something sadly
Chaplin-esque about our Charlie's doomed optimism, oblivious to the cruel joke
that the universe itself seems to be playing on him.
Unfortunately, the real Charlie's misfortune didn't just end when they
finished shooting. I don't know the exact details of his real-life condition
(into which Fabrizio never inquired, in order to remain impartial and
unprejudiced while filming). Even if I did, I wouldn't disclose the nature of
his illness out of respect for Real-Charlie's privacy and that of his family.
If you're an especially sensitive person, I suppose you could argue that the
entire film is unethical and exploitative of mental illness. Yet, speaking as a
mentally ill person myself, I don't think that's the case. All who participated
in this project did so of their own free will, and knowingly consented to be
filmed. (Except for the guy who stabbed Fabrizio with a fork; he was left out
as per his own forcefully-expressed wishes.)
That being said, I'm going to break my own taboo on emotional
involvement to say that I really am concerned for Real-Charlie's well-being.
I'll say what people are supposed to say; that I wish Charlie the best in his
treatment and recovery, and extend my sympathy to him and his family; and I do.
But anyone who's really been through hell knows those words don't mean shit. No
amount of encouragement and well-wishing will ever be enough to free someone
who's being held captive by their own mind. I doubt Charlie will ever read this
in real life, and even if he does, I'd be the worst possible person to offer
any kind of advice on dealing with demons I can barely deal with in my own
life. All I could tell him is the same thing I tell myself: Never stop fighting.
When life kicks you down, get up and kick it right back. (Of course, I haven't
lived long enough to tell if that actually works, but I suppose I'll find out
eventually).
All subjectivity aside, however, I do believe this is a film of
considerable merit. It's as brilliant as it is dark and melancholy. I don't
believe anyone's made a better film on a budget of £100, which translates
roughly to $200. Yes, two-hundred dollars, you read that correctly.
"Perks of working with real people," the filmmaker told me.
"I just paid for the food and they were happy."
Other than that, he wouldn't reveal much about the film itself. When I
asked him if my interpretation of the Ouija Board scenes was correct, his
cryptic reply was, "It's multi-layered, so anything goes."
I still think my theory is the best possible one, and anyone who thinks
otherwise can fight me with the nearest kitchen utensil. (No, I'm just being
facetious; don't actually do that.)
Regardless of my personal interpretation of the story, it took me a while
to characterize the nature of the film as a whole. It exists as neither
completely real nor as a work of pure fiction. So far, I've observed similar
habits only in other Millennial writers who insist on throwing time-honored
conventions in the garbage and setting them on fire, for better or worse. The
most fitting term I could give it is Oblique Realism, for the way it rides a
thin, crooked line between reality and fiction.
And no, that's not actually a thing. But maybe it should be.
That being said, I’m not sure who would be more qualified to give Loon (as in, British slang for a crazy person, not the bird) a proper analysis: a professional film critic, or a licensed clinical psychiatrist. Instead, you’ll have to settle for the perspective of a twenty-something female writer of horror-fantasy fiction, so I hope that won’t be a problem. (But if it is, I don’t apologise.)
Film Review by
A. Tamara Ware
