By Sarah Musnicky
Looking back to the past can be like sifting through foggy shores. It's muddied, and when trauma is involved, it can skew our perception of things or erase them altogether. This seems to be the journey of Cole Doman's Joseph in writer/director Matthew Fifer's HAZE (2024). This journey back home opens a can of worms that offers less healing and more pain than anything.
Joseph returns home, presumably on a freelance assignment. A mass suicide is his initial focus of research, offering both himself and viewers a deep dive into the town's sordid history. A former host to an active psychiatric institution, the town has gone by the wayside. More mysterious deaths occur the longer Joseph stays in town, and they may or may not be connected to the secrets the town hopes to keep buried.
Under the surface, Joseph is dealing with his own demons. Homophobia is rampant, and it is heavily implied that homophobia impacted his experiences in the home growing up. Nor has the homophobia left the town. Shame and guilt wrack his body, even in the throes of passion, with repression playing a heavy part in his psychological journey. This internalized battle is clearly reflected in Doman's expressive face and body language, painting a clear picture of Joseph's headspace in each scene.
The looming harbinger of the asylum and its memories is forefront. Joseph can't escape what it represents, even within the safety of his silent boyfriend, Luke (Brian J. Smith). They wordlessly connect with one another, but the threat of discovery is always present. Reduced to hiding in the shadows, they can never truly be free of the town's bigotry and hate.
This becomes clear with each appearance of Mr. Foster (David Pittu). He seems innocuous at first. Innuendo disguised with a layer of friendliness radiates in their initial exchanges. As time begins to slip away from Joseph, and he continues to undercover more unsettling facts, the friendly facade starts to crumble. Much like the asylum, Mr. Foster's appearances are a reminder of not only what Joseph tries to deny but also how deep the homophobia runs.
The cinematography crafted by Eric Schleicher creates an otherworldly sense throughout HAZE (2024). As Joseph becomes overwhelmed, the lens embodies the title, the blurring of time becoming visually personified with the steady blur between reality and memory. Quick edits with snippets of scenes exemplify this blurring of realities. It is a visual mad buffet of the senses. But when a scene treads in stillness, Schleicher's camera, particularly in the long shots, is captivatingly beautiful.
The biggest surprise is how short the runtime is. At one hour and sixteen minutes, HAZE (2024) moves as slowly as molasses. It could be argued that it reflects the stasis Joseph is trapped in, but that is generously a stretch. What remains in the end is clarity, even if its overall execution tumbles towards the film's final moments.
Fifer's HAZE (2024) is thoughtful. It tackles the all-too-real impact of homophobia on both an individual and communal level without getting lost in the weeds. The haunting impact spans generations, with tragedies around every corner. While the final 10 minutes stand on shaking ground, the credits remind us of what has been lost in the process.
HAZE (2024) had its international premiere at the 2024 Fantasia International Film Festival.
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