DVD Level Five

3 Star

A late ‘90s vision of the increasing significance of communication and the dissemination of knowledge through electronic networks, Level Five examines the nature of personal and collective memory in the form of a video diary and amalgamated film footage.

"The film examines the potentially distorting role of memory."

Enclosed in a room with her computer, in the absence of her dead lover, Laura continues his work creating a computer game to re-enact the Battle of Okinawa, the last battle fought in the Second World War. Communicating through her computer, Laura compiles interviews with witnesses, newsreel footage, media commentary, extracts from contemporary writings and footage of modern day tourists visiting the tunnels and caves where tens of thousands of Japanese soldiers and civilians lost their lives, many by committing seppuku (ritual suicide).

The game’s object is to work up through the different levels to level 5, but Laura encounters unexpected obstacles within the game. She draws a parallel between the stubborn wilfulness of material objects – the odd socks that disappear overnight, seemingly stolen by a monkey, or the teaspoons that vanish when coffee is prepared – and the game’s inexplicable obstinacy. Whenever she attempts to alter the course of the Battle, an error occurs or the system crashes. The game appears to have a will of its own, rejecting any attempts by the player to alter the historical course of events, so that the player’s only option is to immerse himself in the experience of the Battle created by the accumulated footage. This enables the Battle to be repeatedly experienced, offering a redemptive possibility that the uncomfortable lessons of the past can be assimilated and accepted by a modern day population who would prefer to forget…

The film uses various devices to make the viewer aware that each piece of footage is an artifice, acting as a metaphor for the way in which we formulate and recall our own memories as oblique and partial narratives. The scenes with Laura are shot on video, giving a sometimes uncomfortable intimacy, particularly as her mental state seems to deteriorate into paranoia and obsession, as in the bizarre scene where she addresses a soft toy parrot at some length. The film projects its world view through the computer and is essentially contained within one room – there’s only one scene with Laura shot externally, and the interviews, commentaries, and Laura’s own memories of Japan are shown as footage viewed through the computer. This electronic channelling of external ‘reality’ draws us in to Laura’s fixation on Okinawa and her fear that the strangers she talks to on the OWL network (Optional World Link – a version of the world wide web) have somehow learnt the intimate secrets of her life and may be intent on destroying her.

The computer graphics and music are jarringly anachronistic, making it hard to believe this was made just a few years before The Matrix with its big budget effects, when it’s more suggestive of ‘80s futuristic visions, such as the first of the Terminator trilogy. But the shrill clunkiness of the computer works as a distancing mechanism – instead of the seductiveness of attractive, hyperreal graphics, the harshness of the computer’s synthesised speech and trippy visuals acts as a constant reminder that these images are artificially projected, and may or may not be benign or faithful to reality.

The film examines the potentially distorting role of memory, both how we deal with memory as individuals and the way in which collective memories are created. It goes over the history of the iconic image of US Marines raising the American flag at Iwo Jima, a photograph now notorious for having been staged after the event as a powerful piece of propaganda. Is the manipulation of media for a benevolent purpose – such as the footage of a man on fire, cut before it becomes clear that he survived the flames – justified in order to deliver a more powerful anti-war message?

The film raises the question of what the consequences of constant observation can be.

Even more presciently in this age of YouTube and camera phones, the film raises the question of what the consequences of constant observation can be. A newsreel shows Okinawan civilians plunging to their deaths from the cliffs of the island. One woman, when viewed in slow motion, can be seen to turn towards the camera. Would she have jumped, the film asks, if the camera hadn’t been watching? The presence of this eye upon her turns the cameraman into a hunter, aiming at his prey.

The ending sits oddly with the main body of the film, shifting from its wider perspective on the interpretation of world events to Laura’s reflections on her own relationship, and how these will inexorably fade and become blurred. The muted optimism that Laura places in the process of uncovering and sharing the stories of Okinawa is superseded by a pessimistic meditation on the inevitable marring of love by misunderstanding, despair, jealousy and deceit. The voiceover that provides periodic narration and ends the film is a framing device which further distances the viewer from any notion of the film as a simple narrative. The video diary becomes a piece of forensic evidence that only partially explains the mystery of Laura’s situation and leaves uneasy questions regarding our own relationship with technology and the narratives that we tell.

A postmodern meditation on the nature of memory, reality and history, with some disturbing insights on how modern technology jars with our essentially primitive nature, Level Five’s poetic fusion of montage and mystery is challenging but rewarding. However, its determined unprettiness and fractured structure don’t make for easy viewing. Perhaps more thought provoking than enjoyable.