The vertical line is blinking and the only thought running around the room, exterior from any kind of mind space is that the black hole created by god is a sex joke. Or instead a point of insertion into the discovery of planetary desire or the foundation of human drive, rather than an example of any kind of creation humour. Perhaps even assigning this idea shows the sickness of the society that physics, chemistry, and biology created, and not the divine one himself. He only dreams of being that funny. Science is the canvas and art is the paintbrush, someone must have said – what if the English language was the canvas and Robert Pattinson was the paintbrush, a tool held onto softly by the warm hands of Claire Denis. That is a simple imagination hovering above a tangible and ultimately pointless object and still, we are dying to know what happened beyond the white light. Prose guessing your way through digital celluloid has about as much meaning as peeling an orange and eating it, only to digest the fruit and then defecate its remains. Actually, it’s closer to peeling an orange, throwing it at someone who does not acknowledge its existence then eating it, before vomiting it all back up over the same person who will continue to ignore your cries for attention. The conclusion to HIGH LIFE has inspired something however, and now staring at the orange, you can only wonder its sugar content and what pesticides cover its skin.
There is a sweetness to the red-carpet photos of Robert Pattinson holding the baby that played his daughter in the film, a sweetness that is doubled when you discover the child belongs to one of his close friends. That sweetness is present in the film but seldom in that imagination hanging over it. It’s not a radical take to note the danger of R Pats in HIGH LIFE, his character Monte is a celibate and a part-time pacifist, which is a much scarier version than the killer he may have once been. The later scenes with his grown-up daughter are like one setting plays where there is a gun in the top drawer, except the upper-class characters haven’t been adulterous, they’ve been floating through space alone for more than a decade. And they’ve been off-camera too, away from prying eyes and a judgemental western audience whose only experience of incestuous stories have been on fantasy television shows and porn websites. It is certainly a twisted thought, and an animalistic brazen view of Monte, who is our unfortunate hero. Denis’ intentions may have been accidentally cruel on this new platform for her output, and yet they are honest and true in Pattinson. She cast him based on his intelligence, the kind of intelligence where Pattinson can deliver with clarity whatever is thrust upon him. This is a total contradiction of course, it is not about clarity, because Denis does not show us the future once they have passed the white light. Under final assessment, the predicted denouement would not indicate an evil, lustful Monte due to the brightness of Denis’ final shot. It is far too heavenly.
Death for Monte would be a release, whilst death for his daughter would be a strange beginning. With this explanation her journey into the world would be a short one, shorter than those flies that are born, mate and perish in a single day. The drifting space shuttle is hardly anything more than a womb, a holding cell before heading into general population. Take solace in the peace and dread the incoming small talk. Monte can keep his daughter’s innocence by guiding her into the sub-molecular hole he’s been avoiding, and it seems she wants it as much as he does. The step of the pier is a peculiar notion and they must know something we do not, Denis pressing down on the naivety of consciousness. Our ego and our need for our feet to touch the ground is questioned when all you can hear is the running of a depleting water supply. This is when the sick jokes and the sick epiphanies about ejaculation and restraint are thrown out of the window. The chances of there being a fuck room in the next level of reality are slim, and it won’t really matter when sexual organs disintegrate as you do. Pessimism, with the white light turning into an infinite black one, is an easy road to go down here. It’s a clear answer and a dull one which is not Denis’ style.
Optimism is misjudged, the poetic potential of a happy ending is rarely visited. Denis’ masterpiece BEAU TRAVAIL enjoys a credits scene that rides the line, bobbing up and down in the middle. Here, she slaps R Pats on the back and tells him to start walking. It is all sensory and emotional. Writing like this only occurs because of the success of the film, and the proverbial pasta is being thrown incredibly hard at the wall here. The orange has become dilute, drowning in a tap water of paradoxical inferences that have a longer reach than what the text is potentially offering. And this is an offer from Denis, and Pattinson and Juliette Binoche, edging her blouse further down one failed attempt at an American accent at a time, trying to collect sperm cells as the writer, director throws them all onto the table, not carelessly but with an accuracy that could cut through an eight inch wall with a side of A4. Plotting is a nuisance and cinema is a distraction, the white light theories shattered when the income peaks at one point two mil, leaving the discourse in disarray, colliding against familiar enclosed walls. Would it be cliché to say that none of it matters when the maker cuts to credits?
‘I think you’re foxy and you know it.’
‘I think the painful doom that is meandering towards Earth is really killing my hard-on.’