Best Film Award, Tropfest 07: ‘An Imaginary Life’ (Steve Baker).

by Simon Sellars

Originally published on Sleepy Brain, 1 April 2007.

On April 7 Channel Nine, accompanied by the still-infuriating-after-all-these-years Richard Wilkins, screened the films from the finals of the Sony Tropfest 2007 short-film festival, which was held on February 18. Tropfest purports to showcase the work of ‘Australia’s emerging filmmakers’ and there’s a big focus on numbers (it’s touted as the ‘world’s biggest short-film festival’, with a live audience of 100,000) but, as far as I can see, not so much attention to quality. I mean, is this really the future of filmmaking in this country: a crop of short films that feature talking dogs, fart jokes, faeces galore, cutesy kids…and sneezes? The Tropfest ’signature item’ — where each entry must feature an action or object chosen by the organisers — always makes for the most embarrassing moments each year the festival is held. In 2007, each short had to feature a sneeze somewhere in the film; wince as even the most promising scenes are suddenly deflated by this most saccharine of human sounds, or are ruined by a character sneezing in a totally haphazard and incongruous manner, thus ruining any tension, humour or romance the filmmaker may have been trying to generate. Imagine if the Tropfest organisers really had a desire to nurture challenging films: why not God as the signature item? War? Murder? Time-travel? UFOs? Uzi 9mm machine guns? Chainsaws?

Poo Joke No. 1: ‘A-Z’.

No, ’sneeze’ it was, and the Best Film gong went to Steve Baker’s ‘An Imaginary Life’, about the loneliness a kid’s imaginary friend feels when the kid grows up and stops believing in him. The mix of animation and Super 8-style footage is nicely done, but the story is hokey, so what’s the point? Anyway, it wasn’t even the best animation in the festival. That title goes to ‘A-Z’ by Zenon Kohler, with its effective technique: cut-out/cut ‘n’ paste photo stills set to a poem about a guy who goes on a ‘meat repulsion’ diet where he has to eat all his favourite animals and winds up a vegan. There are some mild laughs here, including the signature sneeze disguised as a fart…although that little explosion of gas is in itself a very bad omen, as toilet humour appears to be the main preoccupation of this elite group. Actually, you’d be forgiven for thinking that ’shit’ was the signature item. In 2007, Tropfest literally was Crapfest.

Poo Joke No. 2: ‘Bad Yoghurt’.

Take Shaun Beagley’s ‘Bad Yoghurt’, which is ‘about’ a thin supermodel type in a skimpy bikini lounging by a pool. She eats some bad yoghurt then falls about, twirling sexily, an action seen from many angles, before vomiting long and continuously, then collapsing. Then she shits herself and we see all of that, too. Classy. The whole thing, shit and all, looks like an ad, not a short film. Imagine the voiceover (featuring someone like, oh, Samuel Johnson): ‘New X-Brand Yoghurt. So smooth, so gentle — you’ll never shit your pants again’.

‘Counter’ (Michael Noonan) wanted to get metaphysical, but was hamstrung by the Col’n Carpenter-style acting. ‘Fore’ (Duane Fogwell) was another self-consciously weird entry, about a guy on a golf range caught in a time loop. Naturally, he was only dreaming — what a pity. ‘The Grey Cloud’ (Matt Peek/Cam Ford) was an attempt at noir, with the classic ingredients: awestruck kid, femme fatale, double-crossing rival. It looks good (albeit too glossy to be true noir; it’s in COLOUR), but you’ve seen that story a million times.

Poo Joke No. 3: ‘Being Boston’.

‘Being Boston’ (Justin Drape) was about a talking dog (or, at least, a dog whose thoughts we can hear) and features a woman slipping in the dog’s shit. Talking animals and poo jokes — what century are we in? ‘Between the Flags’ (Jayce White) had a good central idea: a Lebanese guy and an Aussie guy, primed for the Cronulla riots, turn up to the wrong beach, discovering they’re the only two there. They proceed to play cricket and bond, but the director severely overplays his hand when the pair find they have virtually everything in common; it’s altogether too trite, too neat, too sappy. You half expect them to start kissing.

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