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Tie the saw, will you?
There is almost no dialogue in Jonny Phillips' Woodwoo (2013). Half of what there is is swearing in the taciturn idiolect of men on a job—in this case, trimming branches from the massive, ancient oak tree whose silhouette in autumnal pre-dawn mist is the first image onscreen in the thirteen-minute film. The plot concerns a near-accident at work; the acting and above all the cinematography make it a numinous encounter. It's a three-character vignette and only two of them are human.
The key is the title: the woodwose is a medieval denizen of the wildwood, a feral, hirsute, less directly vegetal cousin of the green man whose mouth of leaves sprouts all over the churches of England. Of our two tree surgeons, that certainly isn't going to be Jeff (John Kirk), the businesslike grounder who hauls the severed branches off for chipping until his efficient partner almost drops one on his head, after which he disgustedly goes for a tea break that's actually an excuse to make a phone call behind the wavering smolder of a damp wood fire. It might be John (Phillips, who also wrote the script), the world-weary climber who spends most of his breakfast at a greasy spoon rolling his own and gazing across the fluorescent-lit table with an expression too tired for contempt. He has a long-nosed, sharp-jawed, greying-bristled face, lanky as a fox's without a trickster's spark; he stares as indifferently at the car's shadow racing the yellowing verges and his own reflection in the dust-smeared side mirror as they drive. Like a reverse Antaios, he seems most himself when off the ground. Braced in his web of safety-orange rigging, he's all at once simultaneously focused and open, not careless of reach and distance but natural with them; he looks so much younger catching the light in his eyes that are the same thin-split blue as the season-paling sky. And yet even if his work is a vital part of arboriculture, that snarling chainsaw and those lopped and smashing branches register him as an imposition from the industrialized world, not a reversion to the wildness of it. It is not until he is put in the position of the tree itself—immobile, vulnerable, intensely alive—that we see him, even when he was at his most secure in that cradle of leaves and light, smile.
The oak itself is the third character, of course, filmed by Andy Parsons with such appreciative attention that it becomes impossible not to imagine its late-curling leaves, its wet twigs, its corrugated and moss-blushed bark as sentient, as aware of John as he is not of it until an all-too-common coincidence of human inattention and the laws of physics forces him into sympathy. Woodwoo is not a horror film or even perhaps a thriller beyond its essential jolt of adrenaline, but with machinery like a chainsaw and a woodchipper in play, it's not clear how turnabout the moral of this story is going to be. It's much more on the slant, I am pleased to report, and it manages to make a fallen-leaf's-eye shot of dew-pearled grass and the vibrancy of sun through green yet turning oak leaves look miraculous without in any way risking perfection. It permits us to recognize our equally imperfect protagonist's face as beautiful, too, as perhaps it always was or now has become. The score by Guy Sigsworth holds off until it has something to contribute. The last shot does not come full circle, but it shouldn't.
I spent a lot of my childhood in water, but I also spent a lot of my childhood in trees, and the best compliment I can give this short film is that for all its day-in-the-life-changing plot, it captures beautifully the sense of lift and labyrinth and rootedness that always made me want to climb until the branches could no longer bear my weight; that is a wonderfully spatial experience to convey through some flat pictures I watched on my screen. I should remember to watch short films more often. I very often enjoy them when I do. This epiphany brought to you by my arboreal backers at Patreon.
The key is the title: the woodwose is a medieval denizen of the wildwood, a feral, hirsute, less directly vegetal cousin of the green man whose mouth of leaves sprouts all over the churches of England. Of our two tree surgeons, that certainly isn't going to be Jeff (John Kirk), the businesslike grounder who hauls the severed branches off for chipping until his efficient partner almost drops one on his head, after which he disgustedly goes for a tea break that's actually an excuse to make a phone call behind the wavering smolder of a damp wood fire. It might be John (Phillips, who also wrote the script), the world-weary climber who spends most of his breakfast at a greasy spoon rolling his own and gazing across the fluorescent-lit table with an expression too tired for contempt. He has a long-nosed, sharp-jawed, greying-bristled face, lanky as a fox's without a trickster's spark; he stares as indifferently at the car's shadow racing the yellowing verges and his own reflection in the dust-smeared side mirror as they drive. Like a reverse Antaios, he seems most himself when off the ground. Braced in his web of safety-orange rigging, he's all at once simultaneously focused and open, not careless of reach and distance but natural with them; he looks so much younger catching the light in his eyes that are the same thin-split blue as the season-paling sky. And yet even if his work is a vital part of arboriculture, that snarling chainsaw and those lopped and smashing branches register him as an imposition from the industrialized world, not a reversion to the wildness of it. It is not until he is put in the position of the tree itself—immobile, vulnerable, intensely alive—that we see him, even when he was at his most secure in that cradle of leaves and light, smile.
The oak itself is the third character, of course, filmed by Andy Parsons with such appreciative attention that it becomes impossible not to imagine its late-curling leaves, its wet twigs, its corrugated and moss-blushed bark as sentient, as aware of John as he is not of it until an all-too-common coincidence of human inattention and the laws of physics forces him into sympathy. Woodwoo is not a horror film or even perhaps a thriller beyond its essential jolt of adrenaline, but with machinery like a chainsaw and a woodchipper in play, it's not clear how turnabout the moral of this story is going to be. It's much more on the slant, I am pleased to report, and it manages to make a fallen-leaf's-eye shot of dew-pearled grass and the vibrancy of sun through green yet turning oak leaves look miraculous without in any way risking perfection. It permits us to recognize our equally imperfect protagonist's face as beautiful, too, as perhaps it always was or now has become. The score by Guy Sigsworth holds off until it has something to contribute. The last shot does not come full circle, but it shouldn't.
I spent a lot of my childhood in water, but I also spent a lot of my childhood in trees, and the best compliment I can give this short film is that for all its day-in-the-life-changing plot, it captures beautifully the sense of lift and labyrinth and rootedness that always made me want to climb until the branches could no longer bear my weight; that is a wonderfully spatial experience to convey through some flat pictures I watched on my screen. I should remember to watch short films more often. I very often enjoy them when I do. This epiphany brought to you by my arboreal backers at Patreon.
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I haven't watched "Woodwoo" yet but it sounds like I should.
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Got it in one! (Especially since Firth wrote the other. I'd be curious about that no matter what.)
I haven't watched "Woodwoo" yet but it sounds like I should.
I really liked it. I'd love to see what Phillips does with a feature.