To have found a documentary, then, shot entirely on 70mm in 25 countries has piqued my interest to say the least. And to have watched a clip from that film, albeit streamed through Vimeo on a tiny screen, was an experience not unlike watching Planet Earth for the first time. Samsara, it seems, follows a similar format to documentaries such as Bodysong (2003) and the Qatsi Trilogy; Koyaanisqatsi (1982), Powaqqatsi (1988) and Naqoyqatsi (2002). Though I find this format to be a welcome change from the sensationalist, and therefore popular, Michael-Moore-ish style of documentary filmmaking, it does require one to engage with the imagery more than perhaps any other style of filmmaking. To me, it reflects something of the silent era, particularly the Soviet approach of the 1920s - every image heavy-laden with commentary, allusion and symbolism."Can you put this video into words?" is the challenge posed by True Activist, a website dedicated to film news. It is a question few writers manage to shy away from, especially writers drawn to the subject of film. So, let's give it a bash.
The clip presents us with a process, one that defines us as a consumerist species. It starts with chickens being plucked up in a factory by a vehicle not unlike a small harvester. Cut to the chickens pouring into boxes, which are neatly stacked away into shelves from whence the chickens are killed, their intestines scraped out and their parts separated and packaged, all in some sweat shop populated by scores of purple-and-blue-clad factory workers. At a higher frame rate (slo-mo), we catch a glimpse of a pair of Mongolian-descended eyes peering over a mask, contemplating, we believe, everything. A few moments later, she senses the camera on her and her brief brush with her own humanity vanishes.
The clip transports us to a colossal turntable, where the udders of a great circle of cows are being sucked dry. Next, we see gargantuan gilts laying pinned down on their sides, each assigned ten or so piglets who suckle them. Inevitably, the film cuts to giant porcine carcasses hanging from a rail, moving from worker to worker as they are gutted and their innards removed and discarded..
In true Eisenstinian fashion, a remnant of Soviet-era technique, the film then offers a juxtaposition. We witness the life of the predator in time lapse, scavenging the spoils of the aforementioned processes, inside a Costco, which eerily resembles the factories from whence everything came. Pile upon pile of meat and dairy are placed on the conveyor belts that carry them to the cashiers, obese mall rats cram mouthful upon mouthful of junk down their throats, until the sequence ends with a shot of a man's belly being prepped for liposuction.
The film's message is in no way ambiguous. In fact, like the Soviet-era films, one might criticise its style for being too obvious and for underestimating its audience's intelligence. But the fact remains, though we suspected the circle of life in the 21st century to resemble something like this, my guess is that we never considered that it might be quite so inhumane. Never before have I seen human greed portrayed in such a frank, objective and brutally honest manner. One hopes that films such as these might change the world, but in reality we know that they appeal only to a niche market - intelligent films made for intelligent people - but the saddest fact of all is that no matter how intelligent its audience, every member of that audience is in some way guilty of the film's accusation. One might even go as far as to to say that the filmmakers themselves were driven to a great deal of introspection in the making of it.
Films such as Samsara play a very important role in archiving human history. They should shape it, but if we're honest, they only observe it. What we do with their observations is what really matters. One only wonders when our observations will lead to action.
Hanfred Rauch
www.hanfredrauch.com
