Fire Lily

Phil Dunn’s latest short film Fire Lily is a symphony of music, dance, poetry, and evocative imagery. There is little in the way of a conventional story here — it is a visualisation of the idea that something beautiful may arise from destruction, much like the film’s titular flower. And there is no better time to evoke that idea than 2020, the year of a global pandemic, the eruption of Black Lives Matter protests, and one of the worst wildfire seasons in recorded history. It is a recent time, yet one that feels untouchable — almost misplaced — siloed in our collective consciousness like a global trauma. It is this period that Dunn’s evocative film reckons with, asking how we can move on from so much pain.

It would be untrue to label this film as plotless or characterless, but the two are abstracted in service of loftier ambitions. We open with contemporary dancer LeRoi (Nehemiah Spencer) rehearsing in Cleveland. As he begins his walk home LeRoi finds himself, quite naturally, walking a few steps behind Carlyn (Ashley Cole), a well-intentioned but worried white woman. Carlyn calls her husband, who in turn asks his police-officer friend Paulie (Al Lafleur) to check on her. And when LeRoi and Paulie eventually collide, an otherwise innocuous situation becomes the catalyst for a spiritual reckoning of metaphysical proportions.

Each character is a synecdoche of their social group. LeRoi is the innocent black man, translating his pain into his art while being forced to be both educator and victim to Paulie, a man trying to understand the violent world around him. Carlyn, meanwhile, is a scared white woman, justifiably worried about being followed home but seemingly unaware of the power her words carry. It is a clearly understandable dynamic, although one that comes at the expense of character depth; these are people defined almost entirely by what they represent. Indeed, none of them speak beyond some muffled, pleading cries from Carlyn towards the end, with all other communication conveyed through body language alone.

What I have kept from you so far is the film's major flourish: an extended, ethereal contemporary dance sequence performed over a poetry piece, the true raison d’être for the film. The dance dominates the second half of the film, once all our characters meet. It explodes onto the screen, pushing its way forward, demanding to be seen. It is a gorgeous sequence full of talented dancers (Spencer most of all) and vibrant videography, as the dark silence of reality gives way to music, light, and movement. This, Dunn posits, is how we can heal the world: through art, the great societal unifier, allowing us to understand one another. It is a lovely message, though somewhat juvenile, given the mature material it is presented through. While the film's message is profound and earnestly made, it fails to be wholly convincing, with its removal from reality working as much against it as for it.

There is a lot to admire about Fire Lily, from its talented cast and wonderful cinematography to its breathy, choral-infused score. If only these elements had coalesced into something a touch more specific, with characters and ideas afforded the same detailed attention as the film's visual flourishes. Nevertheless, it is a moving work by Phil Dunn, one that might just leave you with a little more hope for the world. And that kind of art is well worth celebrating.