The future crashes in like a tidal wave, yet the past has not fully passed.
Charlie Kaufman and Eva H.D. mold an endlessly poetic short film that quietly captures the oniric experience of life and death.
Written by Xiaoyi Wang
“At some point in life, the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough. No record of it needs to be kept, and you don't need someone to share it with or tell it to. When that happens — that letting go — you let go because you can.” — Toni Morrison
Athens, a city filled with phantoms of the past. A young woman takes a Polaroid of a young man. Two strangers—a photographer and a translator—who have just died meet in the afterlife. In the wake of their regrets and longings from their peculiar lives, they wander the city together, searching for consolation in the aftermath of life.
The moments are gone, their lives written, chapters closed. No matter what they thought of the past, it was what it was. Looking back at their broken lives, now in death, their age is forever frozen. This time, they are to grieve their own life, all the moments that fleeted away, every choice, every word, every longing, every love, every sunrise, and every moonfall alike. As ghosts, they are freed from the agony and alienation that once overshadowed their lives; suddenly, life itself is enough.
Directed by Kaufman and written by the poet Eva H.D., the film is an endlessly poetic short piece that quietly captures the oniric experience of life and death. It is always intriguing to see the presence of a camera in a scene, as if a painter is painting within a painting. One character takes a photo, perhaps trying to capture the moment—but the moment is already dead and gone. As ghosts, the city of Athens becomes quieter. The camera, suggesting an act of observation, invites the audience to observe with them, to take in the little things that make up life. The cinematography is deeply beautiful, turning the ordinary—even mundane—things that go unnoticed in life into something beautifully alive.
The breath of the film is profoundly melancholic, overflowing with regret, but also slowly and gently replaced with acceptance. The collision between visuals and narration is a banquet of sadness. The editing allows us to skip or slip in and out of existence. You are never quite sure what the next cut will be: feet in salt water, sitting in a movie theatre, or a flashback to a scarring memory from when the heart still beat. The two ghosts don’t speak throughout the film; they don’t need to, for each other’s presence is enough. The elegant narration becomes a series of statements, shaping and molding the very existence of this world. Sometimes it echoes the visuals, and other times it becomes paradoxical. Every second, you breathe through the afterlife of the ghosts—inhale the air of Athens, exhale the longing and pain that once resided in life.
Returning to the Toni Morrison quote that opens the film, its idea seems frightening at first. But deeper and deeper into the film, you come to terms with it alongside the two ghosts: to let go. All the photography, painting, writings—the scrapbook of life—are, at their core, a part of living. This opening quote is perhaps the best summation of the film.
The strangest thing I felt after watching this 27-minute short is that it didn’t feel like 27 minutes. Time is paused, floating between two infinities. Momentary yet perpetual. It’s easier to approach this short as a fine art piece—a surreal experience. Imagine yourself afloat at sea, gently pushed by the waves. Simply stand side by side with the two ghosts, quietly exist, or better, be non-existent for a while, and remember the poetic, bizarre, and oniric presence that was life.
How to Shoot a Ghost premiered out of competition at the 82nd Venice International Film Festival and is expected to be available to stream on Kanopy. The release dates have yet to be announced.
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