Still Life

I just finished watching the most extraordinary movie--from the U.K.--called Still Life.

John May, 44-years-old, works for a department that investigates deaths of people who have no family or friends.  He keeps meticulous records of these people, based on what little he can gather in their houses--photographs, jewelry, letters, record albums, etc.

When it's clear that the person has no one to attend the funeral, John May writes the eulogy and plans a funeral, himself the only one present but the priest or rabbi.  At home, he keeps a scrapbook of all the many people whose funerals he's created.

This movie moves so slowly that it almost puts you into a trance, yet it's quietly compelling to watch.  I found it intriguing to watch this lonely man (also without family or friends) walking or riding the train, eating alone in his sterile apartment, moving meticulously, almost expressionless, as he did his job.

Clearly, his work was more than a job.  It was his life.

The photography and music create a film-version of a still life painting.  There are rarely more than two people in a scene and the conversations are deliberate and sparse.  The street scenes and landscapes are sparse, often symmetrical, and fascinating.

Rarely do I see a film I want to see again right after it's over, but this one is one I'll see again.  Not tonight, but soon.  Of course, the plot won't surprise me, but the effect of watching was that it took me  into a place of stillness like no film ever has.