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In the summer of 1916, James Hive-Maker returned to his home and business, a bee-farm north of London, to supervise the season's work, and check on his hives.
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Twisted darkness separates place and place in this film, a road movie punctuated by long nights spent tied and drugged in the trunk of a car. When the trunk door opens (or the lens cap comes off the camera again), you can only see the hand of the person who has the keys and drives the car, which is fine, because the morning light is a bit bright. Past the suddenly-gone hand, past the bubbles or bees which cloud your sight, at the bottom of your eye frame, a father walks his son in front of a white house sided with long continuous pieces of lumber... an Eastern house, somewhere north or south. Where are you? Someone else's childhood? Why were you brought here? And what is blurring your eye, exactly? Stars from the sky, a multitude of ghost-like snow-blobs, ascending in front of a tree revealed by the sudden disappearance of the cameraman's hand, a hand which has left with its anonymous owner, releasing you to an accidental loneliness in an unidentified place. Actually, you know where you are.. at James Hive-Maker's house. You came here of your own free will. But where were you before this? Just a few seconds ago, wasn't it some other planet? Can't you remember the crowd rushing towards you, the greetings, concern about your condition... one of the villagers took you home, fed you sticky food, and nursed you back to your current state of pre-health? Sometimes your host, in company with visitors who came to the house for that purpose, asked questions in an off-hand manner about the technology you used to transport yourself here.
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03:42
