In the Hillman Curtis’ short film “American Spirit,” I felt like the audience was being prepped for something bad to happen. Black and white images, empty city streets, graffiti, two lost guys, the over the should glance of a stranger taping up a flyer, mumbling words I couldn’t understand (even when replayed three times), running out of cigarettes, dropping the package. The films last scene transitioned to color when a group of happy young children come around a corner from which the leading characters had disappeared. As the kids passed by, running, the camera panned down to the dropped American Spirit package on the ground. The end. But where were they going? Were they going to get there? Were they heading for danger? Was this film about innocence lost? Black and white to color, serious to playful, addicted to free.
“Spinal Tap” was a powerful short film about two friends and the difficulty of supporting someone with whom your friendship is based on fun and light-heartedness. One character is going through the emotions of loosing his dad, while the other tries at first to lighten the mood. His making light of these emotions was portrayed by more than just the words he spoke. It was echoed when he chose to use an accent of a mutually admired movie character, and by his distracted glances as he watched a man and woman in the bar behind his friend. The camera was in tight, nearly between the characters faces, supporting the emotional state of one character, while showing the discomfort of the other.
Curtis’ short films tell much less of a story than many short films I’ve seen. But the “part” of the story he chooses to tell, is told through character development and imagery in a very short time. Every scene is deliberate. Every word is necessary. In the end, I wanted to know more. What happened next? The story of these films felt too short, too vague, too nebulous. But the aesthetic of the scenes, the compositions, the facial expressions, the beauty of the words, the simplicity of the set, felt complete.