Wavelength

Wavelength stands tall as being one of the more beautiful animated short films this critic has ever seen. It’s quite the transcendent fusion of poetry and design; combining evocative words with moving, textural visuals. This masterpiece is only a little over three minutes in runtime, and yet in that short span, the filmmakers craft such an emotional and complete expression.

We begin our illusory story in a train station. The virtual camera flows through layer upon layer of silhouetted personages. Meanwhile, we hear layered, fragmented sounds of each different individual living out their story. There’s a powerful loneliness to these dark figures, and yet – rather incredibly – a genuine beauty to this cacophony of activity within the mellow, abstract station space. As if we’re viewing the world in its unfiltered, all-encompassing state.

Immediately, the piece sets up its themes through the hypnotic voiceover: experiencing the world through a ‘Wavelength’ -- specifically linking with the sensory experience of another person and drowning out the rest of the noise with a singular focus. In the short’s latter part, the narrative shifts to subjective descriptions of what happens when such a wavelength is absent from one’s life – like following a breakup, for instance.

The animation throughout is astonishing. There’s a soft, hand-drawn, painterly evocation about it, despite some of its digital construction – and this is emblematic of the attention to detail present in Wavelength. There’s a great amount of depth in every frame; and, as someone who has become slightly desensitised to the ossified state of desaturated dramatic short films, the colours here felt cinematically rejuvenating. Whilst the graphic style does not, on its surface at least, appear to take after anime – there is most certainly something of the work of Miyazaki to be found within these tranquil, mediative compositions.

Some of the themes touched upon here are ambitiously complex, especially considering the animation’s short runtime. But that’s exactly why a poem is a poem and not a novel; there’s an elegance here in the rhythms of speech combined with the film form which any audience member can find light, appealing, but also psychologically engaging. The film – in addition to evoking feelings and textures through audio-visual means – is encouraging you, the viewer, to consider your own environment and your own surroundings; its unique patterns and ways of being.

This all feels like such a collaborative, egoless effort, since no one element of its construction holds priority over another. Sure, it’s a stunning work of animation; and yet, were I to close my eyes while watching, I would find an equally fascinating experience in isolating the words and soundscapes carefully crafted by the writer and audio department. What’s then masterful is the fact that the animation team has created something that can also stand apart as a successful piece of art – even without said audio. What a moving effort from animator and art director Holly Warburton, creative lead Kate Auster, writer Benjamin Verrall, voiceover artist Lily Manning, composer Jack Ledger-Dowse, sound designer Thomas Dalton, and the rest of the team. Very rarely have I witnessed such a short work wherein each element combined creates such harmony.