Two Years at Sea (2011)

I went along to the ICA to see Ben River’s, Two Years at Sea, a work of art shot entirely using 16mm monochrome and a hand-operated Bolex camera. The old cliché that film can transport audiences to other worlds felt particularly poignant in this case. As I emerged onto The Mall after the film and was greeted by cars, voices and noises, the environment felt alien and almost shocking.

River’s film follows the life of Jake, a bearded and ageing hermit, living in the Scottish Highlands. The film contains no dialogue and no narration. The only sounds come via Jake’s daily activities and from the very occasional words he mutters to himself. When he showers, we hear water, when he walks through the snow, we hear the crunch as his feet touch and leave the ground and when he plays a record on his old player, we hear music. The lack of any dialogue or narration is at once troubling as it seems not to provide answers or context, but at the same time is rewarding as the sequences of Jake going about his daily life provide the sense we are being given an intimate and honest insight into the life of this unique character. Jake’s behaviour suggests he has become so comfortable within River’s presence he can behave as though the camera were not there.

My natural response when watching this film was to look for answers to explain and contextualise what I was seeing but Rivers has no interest in explicitly helping his audience out. Throughout the film, I looked for clues to discover who Jake is and why he lives this isolated existence. Multiple long static shots of Jake, his possessions and the woodland that surrounds him, gave me time to think and to question. Who are the people in the photographs he gazes at? Are they family or friends? Where are they now and have they abandoned him?

While the film’s lack of obvious answers and motives for Jake may seem frustrating I took myself back to the idea of art generally and the fact it can not always provide answers. Using this way of thinking, I instantly thought of David Lynch and his films. Many of Lynch’s films don’t always have a coherent structure or ‘make sense’. They, like all great films, should be considered as works of art. Art means different things to different people. We may collectively love a piece of music or a painting but each work means something to us individually and we will see or feel it in a way that is unique. Ben River’s film, like all art, can best be enjoyed and personally understood if it can wash over you, the experience of seeing it seeping into the subconscious.