Névoa Prateada

Hospital nurse Franky (Vicky Knight) is covered with burn scars from a fire 15 years ago when she was a child. She meets troubled patient Florence (Esme Creed-Miles) who tried to commit suicide. She suspects her mother's friend having set the fire and it continues to haunt her.

The film is filmed in the style of 'fly on the wall', or graphic documentary style. And given the subject matter and stated storyline, that's not the best way to do it.

It presents southern English people as common, uneducated, ungracious people with no manners or courtesy and not even able to speak English properly. That for me takes away form the central story and starts to take on the role of a social commentary on the way people live in Britain.

In the first half of the film there are only 2 references to a fire, so rather than Frankie's search for the truth of what happened to her, the first half of the film is nothing but anti-social behaviour, swearing, arguments and graphic, but completely unnecessary lesbian sex.

I'm sitting here at the half way stage still waiting for the story to start and for someone to be able to speak English.

I've given it a 2 and that's more than it's worth.

"Franky" (Vicky Knight) is a nurse who can't shake the effects of a conflagration fifteen years earlier that left her slightly scarred physically but more so emotionally. Partly, that's because she reckons that her mum's pal "Jane" was responsible - but there's no proof. Anyway, unable to hold down any kind of meaningful relationship she cruises through life until she encounters "Florence" (Esme Creed-Miles). This is a bit of a bolt from the blue for her as she falls completely and the two abscond. Their time together is turbulent at times, but it does give them the opportunity to plot revenge. Is that what "Franky" really wants though? Has she just become so hard-wired that she can't learn to move on? Things begin to recalibrate when she discovers that her beloved nan "Alice" (Angela Bruce) has cancer and rather predictably, the histrionics all calm down and the story rather loses it's spark. Aside from a rather odious scene on a bus - which may well be based on true events in London - the rest of this is an unremarkable love story (it's in no way a romance) that follows a bunch of unlikable characters about whom I couldn't care less after about twenty minutes of stereotypical and foul-mouthed characterisations. The acting is fairly visceral, to be fair, but it's presented in pseudo-documentary style some of the time then in a more straightforward form of drama at others with neither really engaging. It's contrived coming of age stuff that's neither original nor vital, sorry.

I am moved to comment on one particular aspect and not the film in general, which was magnificent and has been reviewed well. The night I began watching Silver Haze I paused it about 40 minutes in and left it for about two weeks. It was the Florence character which disturbed me, and when I finally finished the film I felt utterly vindicated for being hesitant at seeing what happens with her. The signs were there early that this is a tragic person--what I would diagnose superficially as having symptoms consistent with borderline personality disorder. She says she's a bad person early in the film, and it brought a tear to my eye. The scene where she flips and tells the woman she's fallen in love with that she doesn't like her anymore made me ball shamefully, because it is so familiar. The splitting, the nature of love/intimacy to a borderline person is fleeting and turns as quickly to disgust as it developed into love. It's unstoppable, and I felt for both of them, especially Florence. It's one thing to be able to walk away from her, it's another to be inside her, feeling that always. Love and disgust are far too fluid for borderlines, this is something inescapable, and it's the reason why we're labeled by others and consider ourselves 'bad people', and why relationships are difficult at best. I am really happy that I watched it and I'm equally happy I left the final 40 for a time when I was better equipped to handle the content. 8/10.

Franky (Vicky Knight) is a nurse who's badly scarred by a fire that happened when she was a child (Knight herself was burned as a child - the scars are real). She believes the fire was started deliberately by her mother's friend, who's now in a relationship with her (Franky's) father from whom she's estranged. Fifteen years on, Franky still dreams of revenge.

In hospital, Franky meets Florence (Esme Creed-Miles), the survivor of a suicide attempt. The two develop a friendship, and later become lovers, though they later break up. Prompted by Florence, Franky's quest for revenge develops into something more tangible.

The rest of the cast have their own stories to tell: Franky's mother, who spends her entire life on the sofa; Franky's sister, who's dabbling with Islam (she has a shawl and a prayer mat, but hasn't cottoned on to the fact that she's no longer allowed alcohol); Florence's grandmother (the excellent Angela Bruce) who has terminal cancer: Florence's brother, who has learning difficulties...

It can't be said that any character in the film is less than three-dimensional, but for me this added up to too many sub-plots and an over-crowded film.

As a depiction of British working-class life it's sharp and observant (without stooping to poverty porn) and the acting is solid throughout - as is the direction.

The ending is not the on the viewer expects, and might leave some disappointed by its slightly ambiguous nature, but I thought it worked well.

It might seem reductive, considering that this is a deeply personal piece of filmmaking but there are shades in here of Clio Bernard, Andrea Arnold, Lynne Ramsay, Alan Clarke (who I think is the most direct companion to this work, from the at-time guttural sensitivity), with other works I'm reminded of including Naked, Mona Lisa, and Nil by Mouth.

This is a film that is difficult viewing for those that find themselves not necessarily refracted in the characters, but in the dynamics, tone, and mood, which can at times feel overwhelming.

The palliative care sequences were particularly gut-wrenching for me, and handled carefully.

The performances are almost feverish, as if dictated by, or caught in, circumstance,-and this does seem like a definitively unique contribution to filmmaking, that will over time, I imagine, be viewed with the same eyes as those that look back on a work like Nil by Mouth.

It seems slightly pointless to try to describe the story as a way into the film, since what this really feels like is delving headfirst into a study of complex dynamics that I don't think someone could have directed had they not gone through them.

There is a deep austerity to filmmaking rarely being done like this anymore.