Starfish

Director: A.T. White
Starring: Virginia Gardner, Christina Masterson, Eric Beecroft, Shannon Hollander, Elias Brett, Tanroh Ishida
Running Time: 100 min
Rating: NR

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★)

After experiencing 2019's sci-fi cosmic horror fantasy, Starfish, it occurred to me that every filmmaker could do a lot worse than aiming to either succeed or fail in the painfully original way writer, director and composer A.T. White does here, while acknowledging just how difficult that is. But it might be a good thing that few would likely attempt it since that would muddy the waters and make this seem a little less unique. You feel like it should come accompanied with some kind of warning, if not a seatbelt and an airbag, since there's really no way to fully prepare yourself for what's ahead if you're going in cold. 

Attempting to watch it casually is a fool's errand, as the realization hits merely minutes in that it shares more in common with Southland Tales, Under the Skin or last year's equally polarizing but brilliant Under the Silver Lake than the apocalyptic Cloverfield clone some expected going in. You watch it once knowing you won't extract a damn thing, it lingers, then you return for a second viewing that still provides little clarification. Until you discover that's okay. The plot's beside the point because that's not where the movie resides, instead occupying a specific mood, time, and headspace that isn't easily definable.

For many, this will represent the exact type film they detest most, groaning about its deliberate pace or failure to congeal into something that resembles what we'd expect from a traditional narrative. More will complain that it isn't horror, much less sci-fi. All these criticisms, while completely subjective, could just as easily double as compliments, further proving the film's almost aiming too high to warrant classification. It's almost as if White had so much to say that it couldn't be contained and he just started bleeding emotions and images all over the screen. 

Upon an initial viewing, it seems to lose its way a little bit toward the midway point before triumphantly circling back around again at the end for a victory lap. But loses its way from what?  It's sort of difficult to even qualify what that means. In an unbelievable feature debut, White puts himself out there, turning genre conventions on its head with a tone poem that contemplatively explores the grieving process in a manner not quite seen before. Regardless of where you land on it, there's no question we're all better off having been invited in, visually wrestling with concepts and ideas that are still difficult to shake long after the credits roll. 

Aubrey (Virginia Gardner) is reeling from the death of her friend Grace, hauled up in the latter's now vacant apartment with only reminders and memories left of their time together. But when she starts receiving mysterious radio transmissions from an unknown source alerting her of the end of the world, the only clues to unraveling its meaning come from a disembodied voice on a walkie talkie and a single cassette left by Grace labeled, “This Mixtape Will Save The World.” Appearing to be the last person left on earth, Aubrey is sent on a mysterious scavenger hunt to retrieve the rest of the tapes and piece together the signal, all while contending with monstrous, alien-like creatures quickly closing in on her. But to potentially save the world, she'll first need to confront and process her own debilitating grief and guilt.

The business of the tapes, signal and impending destruction of the world could be viewed as entirely metaphorical, or not, if you choose. But it is very much the end of Aubrey's world, at least as she knows it, grappling with not only Grace's death, but a past mistake she'll have to face head-on that caused her whole life to unravel. It's essentially about her depression, even if the other elements can exist on whatever literal or imaginary level the audience wants them to. White mostly keeps the more obvious horror tropes at arm's length with few exceptions, giving us only the briefest glimpse of these creatures, while still managing to wring genuine terror and dread are from Aubrey's situation. 

Cinematographer Alberto Bañares creates this ethereal atmosphere that never really lets up when paired with White's hypnotic, transportive score, invoking a captivating indie music video sensibility often strived for but gone unrealized in lower budget mind-benders. It's distinctive look and style is displayed most prominently during the opening half-hour in arguably the film's strongest section, a nostalgia trip wherein Aubrey explores the contents of her deceased friend's apartment in a sad, soul-crushing stetch of story sure to test some viewers' patience. You'll know immediately whether this is for you, but if it is, it's a lot easier to fall down the rabbit hole, ready to go wherever she's taken next. 

Featured in every scene and carrying the entire movie on her shoulders with hardly a screen partner in sight, Marvel's Runaways and Halloween 2018 star Virginia Gardner is given the ultimate test and pushed past her limits in a role that most actresses on a similar career path wouldn't dare go near, lest their agents drop them for taking it. This performance reveals her hidden depths as an actor, somberly appealing not to others (with the exception of a sensational Christina Masterson as the deceased Grace), but her own character's sense of  hopelessness. Nothing is spelled out for us, as Gardner must subtly and silently provide the pieces that form the puzzle that is, or rather was, Aubrey's existence up until now. 

Clad in an iconic Princess Mononoke-inspired wolf headress, carrying a tape deck around her neck and Grace's pet turtle, it's when Aubrey leaves the apartment that we're immersed into the film's most baffling territory. The nuts and bolts of the plot don't stand up to any kind of scrutiny, but I'm not entirely sure they're supposed to. As she travels to the various locations collecting clues, inventive detours are taken, such as a trippy anime sequence, a face-melting ex-lover and a third-wall breaking moment where she's on the set of this film in a surreal meta scene that would seem outrageous in any other context but this one.

In order to survive, Aubrey will need to process her imense loss, overcoming innner monsters that include a past act of infidelity, heartbreakingly realized and soundtracked in the film's concluding act. Cripplingly sad, visually arresting and impeccably acted with a mesmerizing lead performance, Starfish makes a great case for reading between the lines and just letting go, surrendering yourself to the world the film creates, flaws and all. It's hard to disagree with anyone who thinks there's a masterpiece nestled in there somewhere, frustratingly struggling to break through to the surface. And after a few more viewings, I'm still not discounting the possibility that maybe it will.