| Review |
Candy Apple Red Gets to the Core of Trust
By Christian Nelson, UW DAILY intermission
Candy Apple Red. On the surface, these words evoke
the innocence of a carnival, fresh fruit on a hot
summer’s day or a sleek new sports car. Buried
beneath, however, lay more sinister connotations
relating to danger and sexuality. Perhaps these are
just the result of a circular influence within
society – consider such sweet sounding horror flicks
as Candyman and Valentine, as well as increasingly
colorful, Victoria’s Secret-style cosmetics
commercials – but they exist, nonetheless.
Likewise, the short film Candy Apple Red, by first-
time director Rebecca Pauline Johnson, manages to
combine these seemingly disparate elements, with all
of the worst that the words imply elevated to a place
of prominence above anything at all sentimental.
Danger and sex exude from every frame of film and
each second of the score, compelling the audience to
watch as the bizarrely tragic events unfold.
Depravity is not all this work has to offer, though.
As the opening and closing display of the word’s
definition perhaps all too clearly suggests, trust,
or lack thereof, is at the heart of Candy Apple Red.
It invites the audience to question who they put
their faith in and points out how quickly that
valuable commodity can be given – and taken – away.
Stylistically, the film is consistently voyeuristic
throughout, as we watch Christine (Courtney Tripp)
run from some subconscious danger in her dreams and
follow Nick (Bryan Costanich)--who glances quickly
over his shoulder at us every few seconds--on his way
to work. Later, the camera looks out from behind a
mirror, in an interesting and revelatory scene in
which the two female leads apply lipstick. There is
also some great, haunting slow motion work done in
the night club and a lovely – albeit slightly cold
and unsettling – shot of Vivian (Felicia Elena
Banegas) silhouetted against a window.
Although the sound quality is sub-par this presents
no problem as there is minimal dialogue and the story
unfolds amazingly well through images alone. By the
end, when the blood starts to flow, it is clear that
the victim’s pain is not limited to the physical.
Along with the human flesh, so too has an unlikely
trust been pierced, and a not-so-innocent faith bled
dry.
By Christian Nelson, UW DAILY intermission
Candy Apple Red. On the surface, these words evoke
the innocence of a carnival, fresh fruit on a hot
summer’s day or a sleek new sports car. Buried
beneath, however, lay more sinister connotations
relating to danger and sexuality. Perhaps these are
just the result of a circular influence within
society – consider such sweet sounding horror flicks
as Candyman and Valentine, as well as increasingly
colorful, Victoria’s Secret-style cosmetics
commercials – but they exist, nonetheless.
Likewise, the short film Candy Apple Red, by first-
time director Rebecca Pauline Johnson, manages to
combine these seemingly disparate elements, with all
of the worst that the words imply elevated to a place
of prominence above anything at all sentimental.
Danger and sex exude from every frame of film and
each second of the score, compelling the audience to
watch as the bizarrely tragic events unfold.
Depravity is not all this work has to offer, though.
As the opening and closing display of the word’s
definition perhaps all too clearly suggests, trust,
or lack thereof, is at the heart of Candy Apple Red.
It invites the audience to question who they put
their faith in and points out how quickly that
valuable commodity can be given – and taken – away.
Stylistically, the film is consistently voyeuristic
throughout, as we watch Christine (Courtney Tripp)
run from some subconscious danger in her dreams and
follow Nick (Bryan Costanich)--who glances quickly
over his shoulder at us every few seconds--on his way
to work. Later, the camera looks out from behind a
mirror, in an interesting and revelatory scene in
which the two female leads apply lipstick. There is
also some great, haunting slow motion work done in
the night club and a lovely – albeit slightly cold
and unsettling – shot of Vivian (Felicia Elena
Banegas) silhouetted against a window.
Although the sound quality is sub-par this presents
no problem as there is minimal dialogue and the story
unfolds amazingly well through images alone. By the
end, when the blood starts to flow, it is clear that
the victim’s pain is not limited to the physical.
Along with the human flesh, so too has an unlikely
trust been pierced, and a not-so-innocent faith bled
dry.
