Soundwaves
are a strange phenomenon. Even when they are pitched beyond our auditory range
as humans, we are still affected by them. That is why the fuller spectrum of
sound from vinyl records sounds so much better than CDs. It is also how we
subliminally picked up on the news Paul McCartney died in 1966. More ominously,
something embedded in a series of mixtapes might have triggered something
apocalyptic in A.T. White’s moody and mysterious Starfish, which screens in Brooklyn next week, as part of its
roadshow.
Aubrey
Parker has come home for the funeral of her best friend, Grace, whose death is
a source of tremendous guilt for her. Frankly, she harbors many, many regrets.
To wallow in her misery, Parker breaks into Grace’s apartment, but her descent
into depression is interrupted by something absolutely monstrous, in a genre
kind of way.
It
would be spoilery to get too specific about what happens in Starfish, even if we could explain it
with confidence. The truth is, White deliberately maintains a great deal of
uncertainty, which can be annoying, but works surprisingly well in this case.
Regardless, it seems there is some kind of signal occurring, most likely originating
from a source beyond our comprehension. However, that signal has been recorded
and played back in a corrupted form, which has caused the current hideous state
of things. Or so Grace hypothesized.
She
was well versed in whatever theories regarding the signal. Apparently, she stashed
recordings of it in seven locations that held tremendous personal significance
for her and Parker. Collecting and compiling those mixtapes could be the key to
everything, but the process will repeatedly send Parker down rabbit-holes of
her memory and subconscious.
There
have been a number of previous films that used uncanny signals as their
Macguffins (several of them have been called The Signal, or a close derivation thereof), but White’s use of
mixtapes gives Starfish (a rather
misleading title) a distinctively low-fi analog vibe. He also adheres to the
mixtape aesthetic stylistically, incorporating a wildly cool animated sequence
and a sure-to-be-divisive self-referential scene that either makes or breaks
the film for viewers who can make up their mind on it.
Yet,
somehow, White keeps us disoriented, but completely locked in every step of the
way. His command of mood and texture, as well as Alberto Bañares’ hazy,
otherworldly cinematography are the real stars of the film, but Virginia
Gardner deserves credit for hanging tough with them. As Parker, she
convincingly alternates between states of general freaked-out-ness and grim
resolution. Although Christina Masterson only appears briefly as Grace, her
presence is also felt acutely throughout the film.
