Thin Watermelon

Nathan Fielder's short film "The Watermelon" is a masterclass in minimalistic visual storytelling.

Through the use of a single prop, a watermelon slice, Fielder manages to convey a profound sense of ambiguity and introspection.

The camera work is deliberate and measured, slowly revealing the slice to be paper thin, as if to suggest a fragility and transience to the human experience.

This evocative imagery invites the viewer to contemplate the fleeting nature of life and the ephemeral quality of existence.

The simplicity of the film's concept belies the complexity of its emotional impact, making "The Watermelon" a triumph of artistic expression.

Perhaps unbeknownst to even the man himself, 'Thin Watermelon (2010)' encapsulates everything about the ambitions and abilities of Nathan Fielder in the span of a seemingly inconsequential minute. After presenting us something we've all seen before in the format we've so often seen it, he subverts expectation by simply twisting our perspective and giving us a glimpse of that which we're used to from an angle we're entirely unused to seeing it from. Exposing the flimsiness of conventions we're so comfortable with, communicating the difference between what we think we see and what we're actually seeing, while also blurring the line between reality and fantasy and presenting it as the apparent truth is what Nathan has continued to do throughout his entire career, in increasingly ambitious ways. The watermelon isn't thick, it's thin; its substance is illusory. Yet, its lack of substance isn't just the joke, it's the substance itself. Furthermore, the presentation of that lack of substance is as tightly controlled as it always is. Nathan isn't circumventing the artifice of reality television, he's simply using it in a different way, weaponising it for his own comedic yet often surprisingly poignant purposes. He widens the lens, but he doesn't give us all the context. He's still keenly aware of the camera; the joke wouldn't work if he wasn't. We accept what we're shown as the truth, despite how obviously flimsy it is, and trust that because we've been given a peek behind the curtain, we've been shown everything there is to see. We haven't, though. Behind the curtain is another curtain, and behind that perhaps even another. We only see what he wants us to see. Once he's subverted our expectations, Nathan forces us to sit with a broken illusion for longer than we're comfortable, for longer than the laugh caused by the shock of the reveal itself. As the delicate unreality presented to us wobbles in the wind, constantly under the threat of even the tiniest unintended movement sending it toppling to the ground, things get a bit awkward. But rather than be afraid of that, Nathan thrives from it. He refuses to cut when we expect, refuses to provide the relief of a tight edit. We laugh and we laugh, but something is off. Where's the line between fantasy and reality? Does that line even exist? And just when we're ready to truly ponder these questions, Nathan does the whole thing all over again. At least, he does in his work that isn't only a minute in length. In fact, he does it again and again and again, minute by minute, moment by moment, until he's crafted an impeccable tower of thin watermelons so tall that it's no longer as fragile as its individual slices. He's creates an episode of television unlike any other. And he keeps doing it. The joke always works, the reveal is always unexpected, and the realisation that fiction constantly permeates fact is always as thrilling as it is disconcerting. Nathan is the Wizard of Oz (and loneliness), an awkward little man hiding behind a larger-than-life myth based solely on illusion. He's arguably a genius, a masterful manipulator of media, an uncompromisingly unconventional comedian...

Or maybe he's just a man, standing alone, holding a slice of thin watermelon, hoping against hope that it won't break off and float away in the wind.