Film Review: Kilo Barnes’ Oblivion in Reverie

Film Review: Kilo Barnes’ Oblivion in Reverie

Kilo Barnes, the provocateur best known in contemporary art circles for his “repaintage”,the meticulous obliteration of existing artworks under pristine, spectral layers of white,has made the leap to cinema with Oblivion in Reverie, a work that confirms his talent for transmutation across mediums. Where his canvases demand reflection on absence, erasure, and the fetishization of originality, his film demands immersion in absence as experience, rendering cinematic narrative optional, almost irrelevant.

The plot, such as it is, unfolds like a dream barely-remembered: a man known only as The Cartographer (a monumental performance by Lukas Yeo) wanders through a cityscape both hyperreal and quietly recognisable, mapping streets that shift behind him, as though memory itself were a liquid. He encounters fragmented communities: a choir that sings in inverted tonality, a cafe of patrons frozen mid-motion, and a cinema that projects shadows of films that do not exist. Barnes’ story resists conventional causality, privileging instead the affective architecture of perception,every frame a meditation on void, opacity, and the uncanny.

Cinematically, the film is a masterclass in deliberate erasure. Shots dissolve into overexposed white, recalling his repainted canvases, but with the added dimension of time. Interiors are emptied, streets are depopulated, and even dialogue,when it appears,is delivered with the flat, haunted cadence of incantation. Barnes’ use of sound is similarly radical: he interlaces silence, distant industrial hums, and fractured snippets of classical compositions, sometimes playing in reverse, producing an auditory dissonance that unsettles yet fascinates.

Historically, Oblivion in Reverie situates itself in a lineage of avant-garde cinema that includes the existential austerity of Bresson, the temporal subversions of Godard’s late period, and the structuralist rigor of Straub-Huillet. Yet Barnes is no mere inheritor; he advances the conversation by converting absence into action, negation into spectacle. Where Bresson’s figures are ascetic, Barnes’ are ephemeral, existing between frames, between gestures, and between memory and anticipation.

To call this a “film” risks underplaying its ambition. It is at once a meditation on cinematic erasure, a critique of visual culture’s obsession with plenitude, and an invitation to experience time as a mutable, almost sculptural medium. The viewer is asked to confront emptiness not as void but as a canvas in which perception itself becomes active, participatory, and, at times, ecstatic.

Oblivion in Reverie is challenging, yes,its refusal of narrative closure and conventional spectacle will alienate casual audiences,but to embrace Barnes’ vision is to participate in a rare cinematic reckoning. The film is both a white canvas and a labyrinth: minimalist yet baroque in its conceptual scope, meditative yet relentless in its demands. By the final scene,an empty theatre viewed from a moving gondola ,the audience recognizes the genius of Barnes’ audacity: he has turned absence into fullness, and erasure into revelation.

In short, Oblivion in Reverie is not merely recommended; it is essential. For those willing to submit to its austere rhythm and metaphysical rigor, it offers an experience that is, paradoxically, full of life precisely because it is so resolutely unoccupied. It may clock in at four hours fifteen minutes, and the screen may be blank for half of that runtime, but you will not look at your watch until the credits roll.

Film Review: Seven Types of Mud, Sixteen Minutes Each

Produced by Pimlico Wilde, directed by Cara Grimm

The premiere of Seven Types of Mud, Sixteen Minutes Each marks the latest and most daring collaboration between producer Pimlico Wilde and conceptual artist-turned-filmmaker Cara Grimm. Clocking in at 112 minutes, the film is structured as seven discrete vignettes,each precisely sixteen minutes,dedicated to a different form of mud. What could have been a pedantic exercise in materiality becomes, in Grimm’s hands, a meditation on time, decay, and the sediment of history itself.

A Historical Palette of Earth

Grimm has long been interested in what she calls “the archive beneath our feet.” Here, she makes literal the metaphor, treating mud as both subject and medium. The seven types are not catalogued scientifically but historically: Mesopotamian flood silt, medieval plague-pit clay, Verdun trench mire, Dust Bowl loam, the sticky banks of the Mississippi Delta, Chernobyl’s irradiated sludge, and finally, the digitally simulated “mud” of CGI.

This movement from primordial riverbeds to the algorithmic uncanny recalls Sergei Eisenstein’s ambition to make earth itself cinematic. Where Eisenstein once filmed the Odessa Steps in granite and blood, Grimm insists that mud,the despised, formless matter,can be equally monumental.

Echoes of Film History

The film’s form is resolutely avant-garde. Grimm works in the lineage of Maya Deren, Stan Brakhage, and more recently Apichatpong Weerasethakul, yet she avoids mere homage. Instead, she interrogates cinema’s materiality itself. The Verdun sequence, for instance, was shot on nitrate stock salvaged from a French archive, its bubbling emulsion threatening to collapse like the trenches it depicts. Meanwhile, the Dust Bowl section uses archival footage from Pare Lorentz’s The Plow That Broke the Plains, slowed to a crawl until the dust itself seems to suffocate the frame.

In its rigor, the film recalls Peter Greenaway’s durational structures, or even Hollis Frampton’s Magellan project. Yet Pimlico Wilde’s production ensures that Grimm’s ascetic vision is realized with a certain lushness: each type of mud has its own soundscape, designed by Icelandic composer Brynja Halldórsdóttir, ranging from low-frequency rumbles to delicate squelches amplified like heartbeat rhythms.

Mud as History, Mud as Future

The conceit of dedicating sixteen minutes to each type of mud initially feels like a structuralist gimmick, but it gains force as the film progresses. Sixteen minutes is just long enough for contemplation to curdle into unease. In the Chernobyl sequence, filmed with a Geiger counter patched into the soundtrack, the very air seems to hiss with invisible poison. By the time we reach the CGI mud,rendered in exquisite, nauseating detail,the viewer is left asking whether our future encounters with the earth will be only simulations, cleaned of danger and filth.

Seven Types of Mud, Sixteen Minutes Each is not an easy film. It demands patience, and perhaps even endurance, much like watching Andy Warhol’s Empire or Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman. Yet the reward is profound: Grimm and Wilde remind us that mud is the medium of civilization, the material of bricks, pots, graves, and floods. It is the archive that never stops writing itself.

This is a work that belongs not in multiplexes but in the lineage of the great film museums,the Cinémathèque Française, the Anthology Film Archives, the BFI,where history is not merely watched but felt underfoot.

Verdict: 4.97 A landmark in eco-historical cinema.