Waylines - Issue 5

  What should a reader do after reading this?

  Forswear all martial arts movies. Compared to the novels, all the martial arts movies are utterly worthless

  https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/344123031/waylines-magazine-year-two

  We talked with Christopher Frey about his mesmerizing short film Explosions, now screening in the September issue of Waylines. Here’s what he had to say.

  What was the inspiration behind Explosions, the story behind the story?

  I wanted to create an inexplicable scenario- something that would seem foreign and create a sense of wonder.  I was also referencing Christian eschatology; namely, the Rapture.  The Rapture is a term used to describe Christ’s supposed return to earth, where people will literally ascend to meet God, while others will be left behind.  I wanted to infuse the piece with this notion, as well as elements of Eastern philosophy and theology, especially the idea of a non-violent, transcendental “Explosion”.  An explosion of the inner self as opposed to the body.  I was also interested in the power of iconography, both religious and secular.  One of my aims was to fetishise certain objects (such as streetlights) to the point where they would transform from objects to icons.  Unlike certain established icons, I wanted to leave the “meaning” of these newly created icons open to interpretation.

   

  We heard you handled many roles making Explosions. Just what exactly did you do (and how was it juggling all the roles)?

  Yes, that’s true. I wrote, produced, directed, edited, did the majority of the visual effects and colour graded the film. I composed and produced the music too. It was very challenging juggling the roles, but I wanted to see how much I could do myself, and didn’t have the budget to hire people to fill these roles so didn’t really have a choice!

  How did you create the unique and inspiring visuals in Explosions?

  My talented cinematographer Edward Goldner shot the film on the Red Epic camera.  I used After Effects to do all the compositing and vfx, and Cinema 4D for the 3D.  One particulary tricky shot was composited in Nuke by my friend, lead compositor at Iloura Dominic Hellier.  The actual explosion effects were created by Iloura 3d artist Chris Gray using 3D Studio Max, and were rendered using Krakatoa which can handle very large particle simulations.

  We shot most of the film in a large studio against green screen. For the floating shots, we had the actors suspended high above the ground on wires. A portion of the film (the driving sequence) was shot in camera on location in an industrial area of Melbourne, and some of the vfx elements were shot in my backyard.

  How long did it take to create Explosions? Are there any juicy production tales you’d like to talk about?

  We shot over 5 days, and the post production took approximately 6 months.

  The shoot went quite smoothly, so no juicy stories unfortunately. Just many late nights working in front of a Mac.

  Why do you want to tell visual stories? Why did you become a filmmaker?

  I have a background in short drama and music videos. I find film-making to be very addictive, and extremely challenging. Having said that, it is a rather bourgeois job. I must admit I’m more in awe of doctors and people working in humanitarian aid than film-makers.

  In addition to being a filmmaker, we heard that you are a musician as well. Would you like have a music career, or would you like to use your musical skills to enhance your visual story telling?

  I’m happy to apply my musical skills to my films at this stage, although I am hoping to produce a follow-up to my debut instrumental album “A Lost Signal. Found” at some stage when I have the time.

  What has influenced you most, as a filmmaker?

  Too numerous to mention…Everything!!!

  What are you currently working on?

  I’m currently in pre-production on my next short film “Suitcase.” Here’s a link to the crowdfunding page: www.pozible.com/suitcase

  https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/344123031/waylines-magazine-year-two

  Laszlo tried to imagine the body laying before him as nothing but a carp. Or maybe a large sardine. Anything but a rusalka.

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide their trembling as he approached the long, wooden table. In the flickering gaslight the rusalka’s skin was a translucent map of chartreuse veins, her pale eyes shone like green fire. His brother, Nikola, buckled straps around her arms and legs. Her webbed hands stretched sharp nails to claw him. Her mouth screamed, white teeth bared, tongue flexing. Luckily, Nik was prepared and wore earplugs to mute the siren’s deadly song. Laszlo, however, didn’t need them.

  You cannot ruin this surgery again, Nik used his hands to say in the sign language he and Laszlo had created.

  Laszlo nodded and unfolded his leather pouch of medical instruments. The scalpel felt light and cold in his grasp. He turned to his still thrashing rusalka. She was no different than the rest of her kind, a vengeful water nymph who took pleasure in luring men to their death. Rusalki voices poisoned the minds of men, rendering them helpless to their will. For as long as sailors murdered the nymphs, they’d keep claiming their souls. But not my soul, thought Laszlo, placing a hand on his churning stomach as if to silence its protest.

  He filled a ceramic basin with water and set it on the operating table inches from her head. Gathering her mass of wet, silvery hair, Laszlo plunged it into the water. He didn’t want her dying just from dry hair. He’d learned that lesson after the first surgery.

  Laszlo selected a glass test tube from the rack on his bookshelf. Inside was a minute section of sea sponge wrapped in copper mesh. It was his newest model of vocal filter, designed to remove the poison from a rusalka’s voice.

  Is that the right filter? signed Nik.

  Laszlo huffed. Yes. What did Nik know of science? He directed the opera, not Laszlo’s treatment of rusalki.

  With the scalpel, Laszlo cut the netting from the rusalka’s face and neck. She then snapped her teeth, inflated her chest, and began to scream. Nik flinched, fearing her scream would force him to jump into the Danube, but the earplugs kept him deaf. Laszlo half-smiled to see his brother squirm. He then clamped a cotton mask over her mouth and nose. Her eyes widened as his steady hand administered the droplets of ether to the mask. After a moment, those eyes closed.

  Please let her live, Laszlo prayed as he inserted the filter onto the end of a metal rod and opened the rusalka’s mouth.

  She better live, signed Nik, if Hungary is to bow no more to an Austrian Emperor.

  Laszlo sat on a wooden stool across from the table where the rusalka still slept, her long hair floating in the basin like strands of silver silk. Her chest rose and fell.

  Nik dipped her sharp nails in a bowl of wax like Laszlo had taught him to, adding a new layer as each one dried.

  When will she wake? he signed.

  When the ether is out of her blood.

  How soon will she sing again?

  Laszlo shrugged. You know we’ve never made it this far before. He leaned back in his chair. The newspaper clippings he’d hung crinkled as he leaned his head against the wall. They were his mementos of the day he became Black Turul.

  The Black Turul will be pleased, signed Nik. She will make the perfect assassin. With the filter, everyone will think she’s harmless.

  I hope the trap works, he signed. Laszlo’s heart sat like iron in his chest. Maybe his disgusting experiments would finally succeed. There was no doubt in his mind that the Emperor would pay his brother a visit. Nik’s recent accolades as the director of the National Hungarian Opera had been all over Buda-Pest’s papers. But none mentioned Laszlo, the crippled violin prodigy turned mad scientist who now hid in the opera’s basement experimenting on rusalki. He shivered, dispelling his self-contempt.

  Laszlo’s gaze fell upon his violin. It still sat propped up against his medical books. Laszlo remembered how it felt in his hands, how the bow would sing the notes to him. Laszlo ran a finger along the strings, wishing
he could hear it once more.

  Nik tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the rusalka. Her fingers flexed, feet wriggling too. The creature’s thin body jerked forward, still restrained. Wide, pale eyes trained on Laszlo. He quickly steadied the basin as her chaotic movements threatened to topple it. Then she parted her lips in song.

  Laszlo could feel the vibrations of her music pulsing through the water. In his mind, he heard her voice in the rhythms, such a pure tone, glistening and crisp like icicles. Laszlo’s grip tightened as if to touch her unearthly tones. His heart thumped like percussion to her forbidden song. It was beautiful.

  Nik suddenly drew him close in a hug.

  Success. Nik’s hands fluttered, nearly jumbling his signs. Her voice is harmless to the naked ear.

  Laszlo blinked, glancing from the rusalka to his brother. The room spun as the fog cleared from his mind. The surgery couldn’t have worked, not after what he had felt. But Nik seemed fine. In fact, he had already lit a celebratory cigarette.

  The rusalka closed her mouth, eyes wide. She knew what they’d done to her. Laszlo stared, watching her lips form rudimentary Hungarian.

  “My voice,” she mouthed, then screamed again.

  Laszlo gaped at her. The operation must have worked. Her voice had obviously changed.

  Get her ready for her debut, Nik signed quickly. We’ll re-open in a month. We have to earn our audience’s trust first.

  Laszlo signed, A month may be too soon. If she doesn’t sound perfect, then the Emperor will never come.

  She sounds beautiful to me. And I’m certain Franz Josef will think so too. It will be the last thought he has.

  Laszlo nodded, glancing at the rusalka. She knew not yet that Hungary’s freedom weighed on her infamous cadence.

  And when you remove the voice filter, it will not kill her or damage her voice? signed Nik.

  The procedure is safe. I assure you that the Emperor will plunge head first from the royal box as if leaping into the Danube.

  Nik grinned, his mouth opening in an inaudible laugh. He removed another cigarette from the brass case in his pocket. It smoldered between his thin, dry lips. Train her well, Lasz. We’re all depending on it.

  Over the following weeks, the rusalka made some progress, learning some of Laszlo’s signing language. Often though, their sessions ended with her refusing to sing.

  As she sneered at him for the tenth time, lips curled, Laszlo turned away. He’d fail his brother, worse, he’d fail Hungary if she wouldn’t sing. Frustrated, Laszlo turned to his only comfort, one he had not touched in years, his violin. Eyes closed, Laszlo drew the bow over the strings. The rich vibrations of Hungary’s anthem had always soothed him. This time, unable to hear them, no comfort came.

  He realized, however, something about it calmed her. She’d stare at him as if entranced, sometimes even humming in harmony. Laszlo knew instantly this was how he could reach her.

  Laszlo entered the laboratory. The rusalka’s thin silver eyebrows furrowed as she bared her teeth. She sat in a chair in front of the operating table, hair soaking in the basin, claw-like hands bound by rope.

  I mean you no harm. Laszlo signed.

  She opened her mouth in song, thrashing against her restraints.

  Laszlo opened the wooden cabinet and retrieved his violin. Grasping the neck, a memory of his mother came to him. The memory of when she had given it to him.

  She taught him his first song on this violin. “Himnusz.” He couldn’t even read music yet. But she’d sing their country’s anthem, and he’d play it back. Together. It was their language. Their heritage. The last burning image from his previous life. He hoped now that this same violin could speak to the rusalka.

  He lifted the violin to his chin. It felt cool and smooth. He brought the bow across the strings, adjusting his angles as the vibrations necessitated. In his mind, he heard what his music sounded like, or used to, before he’d lost his hearing. The vibrations were colors. Graceful swirls of blue for the high notes, green jagged peaks for the flats, and red blooms for the robust melody.

  The rusalka’s eyes were wide ponds of green. Her posture relaxed against the chair, she watched him, her lips parted as if imitating the sound. She observed his every move, leaning in to soak up every note. Laszlo slowly approached her. She motioned to the violin.

  “What is it?”

  Laszlo strained to read her lips. He signed, Violin.

  The rusalka shook her head.

  Laszlo sighed. He’d have to try to talk. “Violin.” His tongue imitated the movement, as if he could still hear.

  “I’ve never heard it before,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

  Laszlo smiled. “Laszlo.” He pointed to himself.

  “Cilka.”

  He tapped his throat and signed, Sing?

  The rusalka’s eyes narrowed. “It hurts.” She spoke slower this time. “What did you do to me?”

  Laszlo frowned. He’d never had to explain the surgery before. “I filt--” he paused. Words tripped on his tongue. “Filtered your voice.”

  She swiped a clawed hand at him. “Why?”

  Laszlo kept his distance. “For the opera.” He rolled up his sleeves and positioned the violin under his chin. “Try to sing now.”

  Her eyes trained on the black eagle tattooed on his forearm.

  “Black Turul.”

  He clearly read her lips. It was the same tattoo his brother had, as all freedom fighters had.

  “You butcher,” Cilka said.

  “Not me.” Laszlo pointed to the headline of the yellowing news page above his head: “Young violinist and brother escape bombing in Buda.”

  The Austrian soldiers came to our town in the night. A bomb fell through our roof. The explosion took my hearing. The shrapnel took my parents. The Black Turul found us, and because of them, we survived. But I don’t do their dirty work.

  Her lips moved slowly. “My family is also dead. The Emperor’s nets strangled them in the Danube.”

  A sour pang pulsed in his stomach. He too had killed her kind. But she could not be as innocent as she seemed, she was a rusalka after all.

  Little rivulets of water snaked around his shoes and he looked up to see Cilka standing beside him, her wet hair dripping down her burgundy linen dress. Her webbed hands were cold, soggy velvet encasing his fingers.

  She held out his violin, wax nails tapping the string. “You sing beautifully.”

  In the dim light, he could see the dark singe marks from the fire, the dents from when he threw it in frustration after not being able to hear. His heart ached as he took the instrument back.

  Hands. Cilka showed him, veiny palms outstretched.

  The rope had worn red raw rings around her wrists. Laszlo bit his lip. If they kept her bound, kept hurting her, she’d never trust him. And if she didn’t trust him, then she’d never finish her training and their plan to kill the Emperor would fail. Laszlo took her hands in his. “If you sing for us, I will set you free.”

  Cilka’s eyes widened. “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Promise?”

  She had learned this word in sign language yesterday. Yes, Laszlo signed. Cilka nodded, understanding.

  With his scalpel, he cut the ropes.

  Thank you, she signed, lips upturning ever so slightly. Sitting back in her chair, she pushed her wet hair into the basin. Her eyes narrowed, lips pursing. Laszlo thought she looked darker somehow. Cilka grinned, showing her teeth. “Ready.”

  Laszlo escorted Cilka on stage, her silver hair disguised under a soaking wet blonde wig. Remember, you will be free. Just sing like you have been.

  Cilka nodded. Through the haze of the gaslights, Laszlo could still distinguish the outline of his brother, tendrils of smoke rising from his silhouette.

  There you are, Nik signed. He turned to Cilka, looking her over from head to toe. “Stand there.” He pointed to the bench placed front and center.

  Laszlo saw dark shadows seated in t
he front row. Shielding his eyes, those shadows were Austrian soldiers clad in their dark blue uniforms. Laszlo drew in a sharp breath as he grabbed Nik.

  What are they doing here? Laszlo signed. You said this was a rehearsal.

  I invited them.

  Why? They’ll kill us once they learn what she is.

  Nik took a drag. How else am I to lure the Emperor here? If they see she’s harmless, they’ll tell him to come see it for himself.

  Laszlo signed, This is not what we discussed.

  I gave you a month. Your time is up.

  Laszlo sighed and nodded. He made his way down the wooden steps and into the pit. It was just a barebones orchestra for rehearsal, a piano, flute, clarinet, and now a violin. The opera’s aged conductor, smiled and placed a hand on Laszlo’s back.