Laugh, because crying’s too easy
Responding to Mind Tricks by Robert Hatton and Mint by Sheyamali Sudesh
Be honest: do you tend to notice the comedy or the tragedy in a given situation? Your answer says a lot about you. As we continue to experience a paradigm-shifting catastrophe on a global scale, to some it may seem indelicate, even misanthropic, to crack a joke or look for attendant ironies. To others, and I would giddily include myself in this faction, it’s the most natural reaction in the world. It seems we can add filmmakers Robert Hatton and, perhaps even Sheyamali Sudesh to this group.
Hatton’s Mind Tricks arrived on Fringe of Colour Films this week; a well-composed, visually pleasant and, best of all, charmingly funny piece of work. With grinning silliness, Mind Tricks seeks out the gaps in our global tragedy through which we can, mercifully, find something to laugh about. Of course, this can be taken literally — the simple decision to continue being funny right now demonstrates a dedication to finding the comedy within tragedy — but the film also possesses intriguing subtleties that reimagine the art of comedy and the comedy of art in a fundamentally changed creative world.
Naturally, the most important thing about comedy of any kind is that it’s funny and it’s a very hard landing to stick in the limited, domestic settings most all comedic performers find themselves in currently. Many have turned to podcasting and voice work, while some like Dave Chappelle have convened socially distanced shows, though the live effect in these scenarios cannot truly compare. Though comedy may still be able to bring us together literally and figuratively, it is an even more daunting task than usual to produce something that unflinchingly embraces the reality of our situation and manages to actually be funny.
Hatton’s film is openly clownish; charming jazzy beats provide the soundtrack to a snappily edited montage in which he tries to learn telekinesis over the course of quarantine. He squints and strains at his phone, trying his best to make it move at the breakfast table and while pacing the halls of his flat. It’s crisp, it’s clear. The whole exercise is about a minute long, a gloriously compact piece of work. It reminds me of the shows you might catch in a minuscule venue at the Fringe, which could be wonderful, but are also so brief that even if you come to regret what you’ve signed up for, it will be over soon. Thankfully, the length Hatton chooses is perfect for the joke, and maintains its welcome, finding the levity in levitation and ending at the right moment.
Sudesh’s Mint also struck me this week, a poetic film that initially resembles a piece of art. An emerald background surrounds what appears to be a crisply defined mojito, with sparkling bubbles and elegant mint leaves adorning the top of the frame. An arresting soundscape fades in, a rich collection of fizzes and pops that enmesh the viewer within enough haptic atmosphere to make Vivian Sobchack blush. Her theories of the extra-visual involvement of the body in the act of watching a film have rarely felt so useful — in true haptic fashion, the audience is encouraged to act as both viewer and listener as the aural details efficiently suggest that you are situated within the beverage itself. Subtitles might imply two figures jovially speaking to each other about the desires of the mint plant. The dialogue is speckled with amusing asides and idiosyncrasies here and there that provide relatable comedic tics among the surreal visuals — in fact, just the audacity to set a short film inside a mojito is worth a few laughs in itself.
The work of both Robert Hatton and Sheyamali Sudesh are charming and they manage to incorporate themes of isolation and rupture into their work. As amusing as Mind Tricks is, it is also a strikingly solitary piece of work. Hatton writes, directs, edits, stars, and provides visual effects, while the structure of the film itself infers an extended period of isolation and inertia. Mint, beneath its poeticism and idiosyncrasy, finds familiarity between the foregrounded flora and our collective situation. As the silent voices ponder, the viewer is encouraged to think on the same questions themselves — would we personally prefer to brave the environment out there, or make peace and find solace within the spaces we know in here?
Sudesh’s metaphor of the locked-down living space as a greenhouse is just as inventive as it is beautiful. Again, we can individually choose to see the comedy or the tragedy of the situation: is the mint plant trapped in its pot by its roots, or safe and growing in an incubated haven? Is Hatton’s isolation driving him into delusion, or allowing him to master new skills that amend what was previously thought possible? Are we ourselves surviving a nightmare, or waking up from a dream?
The best part is, we decide. And with these films, we get to decide from a place of amusement, rather than horror, resentment, or anxiety. They are exemplary pieces of COVID artistry — short, minimalist, and solitary, demonstrating their creators’ ingenuity while making do with our fractured, isolated state. They find slivers of levity amongst the catastrophe, and artfully encourage us to do the same.
