In lieu of our own description or commentary, here are some words about this movie from Phil Coldiron’s recent Cinema Scope essay on the work of experimental filmmaker Mary Helena Clark:

“And then come those eyes. Whose? They gaze from the same black frame, now grown lively with the ghostly signs of expired stock. Moment by moment they seem to float in and out of register with the surface of the image; put another way, they’re stuck in a flux between seeming to be the eyes of someone dressed like a ghost, i.e., wearing the frame like a bed sheet, and the eyes of an actual ghost—remember, any good film image is some kind of haunting (any bad one too). There appears to be a problem here though: ghosts, generally speaking, are all psychology: a shade hangs around because there’s something, a memory, that it just can’t forget. But Clark’s film has not suddenly erupted into an odd structural psychodrama about the psychic pain of the 16mm filmstrip. The apparent trouble here resolves simply enough though, because ghosts don’t exist. This isn’t a referendum on whether or not you, personally, believe in ghosts; that’s none of my business. But a ghost, ontologically, is always on the side of the haunted: if I’m haunted, it’s because you’re not here and I still am.”