LFF 2021: Natural Light
LFF Writer and director Nagy Dénes' feature-length debut Natural Light is an incredibly tough and contextually unredeemable feature. A film that takes all the air of humanity out of its bubble and suffocates its audience – quite poetically so – showcasing the horrors of man and the terror of warfare, resulting in a harrowing albeit compelling study.
At no point is Natural Light an easy watch, both thematically and narratively. Nagy Dénes often tests his audience by giving little brevity or pause to reflect or even attempt at internalising what is on-screen, via little dialogue taking precedent or a lack of clarity within the narrative. The latter of which is curated in a fever pitch and dream-like landscape, aesthetically produced in the literal fog of war. It perfectly, and quite profoundly, builds a foundation of depth and immersion to craft unison of the tragedy of the central character on screen. The camera follows the lifeless both in the background and as the central character unfolds on screen; a personal trajectory of internal weight that is carried and slowly but surely is buckling this person the audience is witnessing crumble.
Torturing and utterly terrifying iconography from the director of photography Tamás Dobos, who captures the intensity of the moment – as well as the scope and scale of the war in general – in constantly atmospheric and, more importantly so, cold brooding imagery. Bullets fly in the night and bodies dangle from tress as warnings of what lurks in the abyss. With what is essentially a silent protagonist, Natural Light almost depends solely on the imagery and iconography, expertly envisioned by production designer Márton Ágh by dictating mood and, ultimately, direction – of which it does ever so effectively.
Dénes' film is a passive experience like the character on screen. Crafting terrifying images and almost a silent fragility of experience is caught in seeing devastation in each frame, albeit captured in an almost calm and mundane manner that is allowed to flow and take weight from editor Nicolas Rumpl. This permits the feature to manipulate the viewer somewhat in an oxymoronic and intoxicating relationship of mood and visuals.
This is ever so apparent in the use of the feature’s score that is so subtle and quaint; viewers would be forgiven if they did not notice it at all. It very rarely romps or raises its critical voice but perfectly crafts spirit and call in the background, affecting to the point of devilish and almost subconscious content.
Nevertheless, for all the aforementioned positives, these elements ultimately craft a difficult tonal and thematic experience. In one aspect, due to the unflinching silence and lack of direction, and the other, the more visceral approach to this story. These two elements are crafted in layers, undertones, and participation from the viewer allowing themselves to be taken on a journey. However, for audiences less accompanied to the art-house demographic, they will undoubtedly suffer to centralise their commitment to such a complex feature. That being said, those who are on the same path are treated to a stirring and often brilliant produced feature that effectively says so much without actually saying anything at all, providing a strong foundation for director Nagy Dénes' to build from in what looks like a promising career.
