One horizontal film of a single day in one person's life, from first light to night, made of 12 numbered shots joined by hard cuts. Copenhagen in high summer: pastel courtyards, canals, cargo bikes, a very long day with low bright sun. Crisp saturated Fujifilm color with cool shadows and fine grain, the same in every shot, while the light moves with the hour. Mostly locked-off, square-on wide shots with deadpan comic timing, the action playing out inside the still frame. No speech, captions or on-screen text. He is man, an adult. The face never changes. Never looks at the camera. From shot 4 to the last shot he never changes clothes: the same shirt and pants stay on all day and into the night, at work and at home. The shirt stays perfectly clean, with no mark on it, until shot 11. His cargo bike is always the same old wooden one, with its box in front of the handlebars and the same small brown wire-haired dog sitting in the box. Shot 1, first pale pink light, a tiny bedroom: In a faded navy tank top and grey sweat shorts, he lies flat on his back on a mattress on the floor, awake, with the small brown wire-haired dog asleep on his chest. He slides the dog off without waking it. Shot 2, first low sun, a narrow kitchen: In the same faded navy tank top and grey sweat shorts, barefoot, he shakes a plastic protein shaker hard. The lid flies off and pale shake sprays over his tank top and the wall. He stops and looks down at himself, expressionless, as the dog licks the floor. Shot 3, early morning, wide, an outdoor park with a bright red rubber ground: In the same stained navy tank top and grey sweat shorts, he does slow pull-ups on a metal bar, while beside him a very old man in a purple tracksuit does tiny arm circles. Shot 4, morning, medium shot with his whole face in frame, a bare room: On a low shelf beside him sits a neat stack of identical folded white shirts. Bare-chested, in pants, he takes the top one, shirt, pulls it on, then inspects the front closely and flicks away one invisible speck. Shot 5, bright morning, full figure head to toe, a pastel yellow courtyard: He wears shirt, pants and shoes. On foot, he walks beside the cargo bike, pushing it out through the gate by the handlebars, the dog sitting upright in its box. Shot 6, morning, wide, a dry cobbled street lined with parked bicycles and pastel houses, seen from the pavement: He wears shirt, pants and shoes. He rides the cargo bike along the street, with the dog in the box and its ears flying. He lifts both feet high off the pedals as the wheels roll through one shallow rain puddle in the road, and a little spray falls just short of him. He and the bike stay on the street the whole time. Shot 7, late morning, low close detail on an oil-stained concrete floor: shoes step carefully around a black pool of oil, the wide hems of pants lifted clear by one hand. Shot 8, flat bright noon, wide, a cluttered bicycle workshop hung with wheels: He wears shirt, pants and shoes. His bare hands, with no gloves, are black with grease to the wrists and held far out from his body like a surgeon's. A tall woman of about fifty with a long grey braid and a leather apron tosses him a dripping chain; he catches it with straight arms, far from his chest, and breathes out. Shot 9, slow afternoon light: He wears shirt, pants and shoes. He sits on an upturned crate in the open workshop door doing nothing, looking out at the canal, pinching a sandwich between two fingertips with his arm stretched away from himself, the dog beside him staring at the sandwich. Shot 10, gold evening light, wide, a quiet street of long shadows: He wears shirt, pants and shoes. He rides the cargo bike home with both hands off the handlebars and his arms hanging loose, the shirt glowing spotless in the low sun, a big bunch of red tomatoes in the box beside the dog. Shot 11, blue dusk, a courtyard with one long table under a string of warm bulbs: He wears shirt, pants and shoes. He comes through the gate as his little niece of about four, with brown pigtails and blue dungarees, jumps down from the table and runs at him, both her tiny hands dripping red tomato sauce. He freezes, then raises his arms and backs slowly away, too late, as she hits him. Shot 12, night, the same courtyard table under the bulbs: He still wears shirt and pants, now with two tiny red child-sized handprints low in the middle of the white shirt. He holds his niece on his hip and looks down at the handprints, then starts laughing for the first time all day, as his sister, about thirty with short black hair and a mustard yellow dress, holds out one napkin, far too late. do not add sound-effects match cuts to the beats
Astria