In a Darkness Swallowed, time is never constant: lines, shapes, and dots of organic matter, light, water, and darkness itself move in unsteady rhythms. Spaces between the notes of the soundtrack are sporadic and sounds vary from distorted tribal beats to hurried humming and whirring.

Experiencing this somewhat abstract expressionist film, I found my mind wandered in and out of focus--not because I was bored, but because viewing became a meditative experience. Coherent, verbal thoughts melted away during moments of frenetically quick time-lapsed shots or the languid panning of uncomfortably organic close-ups. Bromberg’s imagery tapped into what Gerry Fialka discussed in his lecture earlier this afternoon at Work Gallery. He mentioned a quote that said something like “Experimental film outs our inner dialogue.” It's as though experimental film can reach into the spaces between our more wordy and structured thoughts--like doing laundry, analyzing a situation, or responding to bodily needs and desires. Bromberg's film taps into these spaces, which we rarely vocalize, and carries the viewer into an alternate sense of time.

In the discussion afterwards, Bromberg shared some fascinating background on the making of Darkness Swallowed. She explained that when panning--such as with her husband's resin-based sculptures, which created the very organic forms--she could barely breathe because the movement of the camera on the tripod had to be so delicate. She had to remain incredibly still as she panned only a few inches, though it seemed like a greater distance on the film. She also touched upon her pacing of the film, stating that "It's about time slippage," and "My experience of the journey through the womb." She also emphasized that she wants viewers to have their freedom to see the film as they see it for themselves. I didn't catch any womb travel for myself, but the time slippage was inescapable for me--when the film finished, I couldn't figure out if ten hours or ten minutes had passed.