Nest
Nest, in its execution and existence, is simple like the best of things typically are. Nest is an Icelandic movie on the assembly of a tree house over a period of a year compressed into a twenty-minute film. It’s also shot stationary, the camera affixed in one position for its entirety as the seasons pass by in their extremities. We witness three children play the way children don’t tend to play these days and although I was reading the subtitles, the soft Icelandic weaved between the construction felt natural and for a while, I almost forgot I wasn’t fluent.
For a great portion of the film, you are watching the weather. You are watching nothing but nature as it does its natural thing. The director even cuts the shots short as soon as you’ve got the picture of what’s going on. It’s a glorious way to edit. Giving enough information to understand but making sure it doesn’t overstay its welcome. I watched 90% of it with a tear in my eye. There is something so profound about such gentleness. About such simplicity. To watch the birth of joy over so little in a world that is becoming too much. To watch children have terrible ideas and have the freedom to execute them is a wonderful thing. As children, you are supposed to make the dumbest of mistakes. The most baffling of decisions. But it appears to be coming less with every iPad upgrade.
Nest evens gets a ‘wow’ out of one of the children over the bridge the other two built. We’re talking about the pinnacle of riveting tv here. But that’s another point. We are so deep into the era of CGI and technological cinema we lose a lot of magic along the way. Nest is what you can do with a 35mm camera, an old pole and a family with love at the centre. Nest is the evidence that a stripped-back life isn’t lesser.
I will see you at the weekend for a poem about cassettes. Until then here is a dope song. A proper classic.