It’s a Jungle Out There
A tight crop of Giulio’s face, his mouth slightly ajar. He breathes heavily, the blurry background reflecting the soft focus in his dreamy gaze. Giulio is the catalyst for transformation, a medium for his brothers’ energetic resonance.
“It is a green hollow where a stream gurgles,
Crazily catching silver rags of itself on the grasses;
Where the sun shines from the proud mountain:
It is a little valley bubbling over with light.”
Enter Angel, dragged by a dark figure. You embark on a cinematic journey, a narrative of human mutation in the jungle of life. What is human life? What is the journey on which we embark?
A strong arm grasps the back of his head, holding his neck in place. The light shimmers through the dark foliage, the thick air nearly wet, clinging to the skin, his eyes heavy.
A hand reaches out; a fire burns at the edge of the frame. The torch leads them on to something more, something undefined. A form stands beside Angel, perhaps a transformation of Angel himself. Is the body an echo? Is it transitory?
“A young soldier, open-mouthed, bare-headed,
With the nape of his neck bathed in cool blue cresses,
Sleeps; he is stretched out on the grass, under the sky,
Pale on his green bed where the light falls like rain.”
Scene 2: Carlos lies at the foot of an enormous tree. Dark shadows fall around his sunken, listless body, vines climbing down toward the jungle floor. The lines of his flesh twist and snake, seemingly one and seemingly many.
Zooming in on Carlos’ face, you see a second face, blurred and sliding into darkness, the quality of mutation left sticky between their fingers. Anatomy is a dream state and we are the dreamers.
Dancing between the dream world and the day, Carlos face emerges in the dim jungle light. Fingers appear, carefully grasping at branches, a faint residue of sweat on a tired brow.
Stillness. Figures retreat into the darkness between trees, under branches. The light seems to retreat as well, as if drifting. Seamless. And like a curtain fall, the light rises again. The whole house captivated.
“His feet in the yellow flags, he lies sleeping. Smiling as
A sick child might smile, he is having a nap:
Cradle him warmly, Nature: he is cold.”
Scene three: Blaine’s eyes gaze upwards, the filtered light dances over his shimmering face. Shadows play on his skin. The light is blue; ethereal. His eyes are calm; soft.
The light changes. Golden warmth radiates from his upturned face. The light transforms him, creating a reverberation of his very existence. A reiteration. A ripple. A returning.
A hand reaches beyond him, ushering him in to what will be. The light too has shifted, gathered form and become solid. Tangible. A fire crackles to his left. A mysterious landscape lit behind him. A gentle movement forward.
“No odour makes his nostrils quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
At peace. There are two red holes in his right side.”
(A quiet refrain. Blurred.)
Quotes from Arthur Rimbuad Poem, “Soldado Durmiente.”