Aftersun and the Power of the Camera
Charlotte Wells' awesome debut evokes the spirit of Roland Barthes and the envelopment of memory.
[Article contains some spoilers for Aftersun]
As French philosopher and literary scholar Roland Barthes grappled with the death of his dear mother, he turned to photography.
A passion of his, Barthes focused in to contemplate more deeply the power of memory and time in relationship with the captured image. In his Camera Lucida (1980), he uses a photograph from his mother’s childhood, titled ‘The Winter Garden’ photograph – which is only referred to, and never shown – to excavate beyond the final impression of his mother; one of sickness, and of pain, hoping to find the true nature of her ‘self’.
In his studies, Barthes discovered that the power of an image comes from two differing points of engagement. The first being the details captured within the frame: what you see, what can be deduced. But the second is the stinger. The painful prick of context, the knowing.
When Barthes looks upon ‘The Winter Garden’ photograph, he uncovers the foundational innocence of his mother, her quietly unassuming and kind nature; all the while pained by the knowledge that she is no longer there.
In Aftersun, Charlotte Wells picks up the baton of Bathes’ work, exulting the full power of the cinematic medium.
A largely autobiographical work, Aftersun follows young father Callum (Paul Mescal) and daughter Sophie (Frankie Corio) on vacation in Turkey. The film’s framing device being that these events are past, and are remembered by present day Sophie through home video footage, along with inferred memory as she attempts to fill the gaps of a person she could never wholly know.
What is never explicitly stated to the audience – but is undeniably clear – is that Callum is fighting with depression and anxiety, and this vacation will be the final time this father and daughter see each other.
Wells has stated that part of the inspiration for making the film was looking upon a photograph of herself on holiday with her own father and seeing precisely how young he looked. Impossible to comprehend at the time, but an undoubtedly dizzying perception when grown.
What we know of present-day Sophie is minimal: she has a partner, a child, and, on the day of viewing the footage, is one year older.
My personal inference would be to assume she is now Callum’s age at the time of the vacation – but that is never confirmed. In fact, very few details are confirmed by Wells in her screenplay, instead empowering the visuals to drive audiences towards their own conclusions based on feeling.
And it is ‘feeling’ that drives Wells in this production. She states persistently in her director’s commentary that many shots, and transitions were decided upon for their ability to best capture and communicate a feeling, and elicit a sense of remembrance.
Moments of intimacy caught in reflective surfaces, cross-dissolves from ocean to sky, all work to further the fluid nature of the narrative. There is no bluntness of real-time. Only what the body and mind can recall.
The ethereality of the visual language can partly be attributed to the work of Barry Jenkins – acting as producer – whose greatest impact came in post-production. Jenkins’ own debut film, Moonlight, shares a strong bond to Aftersun, as it tells a tale of self-discovery through time and memory.
Callum expresses an infatuation with movement – be it Tai Chi, or dancing. Working again with personal inference, he seems to use his body to perform a personal exorcism, to shed certain feelings, and as grown Sophie’s mind amalgamates her final recollection of her father, we see dreamy flashes of Callum dancing in a strobe-lit nightclub.
She moves incrementally closer to him throughout these sequences, as she comes closer to her own catharsis, and all this is established in Wells’ focus on closeness. Whether emotionally or physically, the human, loving propulsion between Callum and Sophie is what directs the larger narrative; physical language captured in a frame.
Like Barthes, grown Sophie (and, by extension, Wells) stare deeply at the photographic remains of a loved one that is lost; searching desperately for answers. Colouring this is the gutting reality that this grainy footage is all that can be cherished, and held close. Within its images, memory tessellates; sculpting more sharply the depth of attachment, and feeling.
Charlotte Wells finds grace in her focus, and the fluidity of her narrative, without sacrificing ambiguity for total transparency. Aftersun is a tempered narrative with a crushing emotional climax that in any other form would be dulled.
Memory is a tricky, fluid thing. Its grip can be stifling and misleading. But Wells’ assured vision finds clarity in movement, and inspires awe in its execution.