[Latidonia]

Film: Spring unsung.

Category: Classic film

Running time: 40 minutes


Synopsis:

The movie opens with a shot of a yellow cottage hidden in the embrace of nature. Behind a curtain of tall grass gently swaying in the wind, framed by the leaves of birches standing in its yard, a house can be seen. The weary voice of a man talks, a sense of sorrow apparent in his voice.

"I live a kilometer away from my childhood home. The dirt path that connects it to my cottage is one I have walked, skied, and cycled throughout my life hundreds and thousands of times. Ever since I was a boy, not even four years old, I've known that spring had come, when a great choir of birdsong took over that path. The whistles of songbirds, beeps of pigeons and the chirps of doves so gently filled the air. Ever so often, if lucky, you could hear the rhythmic peeping of an owl. What a wonderful paradise of birds."

A small boy walks down an narrow worn-down dirt path, looking around in the splendor of nature that surrounds it. It is surrounded by aspens so lush, that they almost seem to swallow the path within them. A polyphony of birdsong fills the forest; keeks, peeps and chirps. An owl hidden inside a pine stares right into the camera.

"Most of that path went around a lush thicket. If you wandered into it, you would find a dream-like grove. That grove was like from a fairy tale. At the center of that grove was a pond. It reminded me of an oasis. Within it, lived a colony of otters. Without a doubt, the biggest I've ever seen in Latidonia. A rich thicket of aspen and thin, twisted birches surrounded that grove." As the man speaks, a raft of otters roots around on the shore of a pond so clear the rocks that cover its bottom are visible. "Yet somehow that thicket had room for walnut trees and a great pine tree that rose high into the sky." The foot of a dark pine appears. Indeed, the tree reaches into the sky. Pinecones hang from its evergreen branches.

"The scent of flowers danced in the grove and rich fields of wildflowers grew along the shores of that pond. Those were the meadows of my childhood."

A tender, happy melody of flute and violin begins playing, as a thriving pasture of wildflowers appears, their colourful blossoms waltzing in the wind to the rhythm of that symphony. The young boy from earlier appears, and he begins to sprint through the field. The duet of violin and flute guides the child through the glory of this green meadow, clad in a lavish curtain of purple, yellow and white. Clustered bellflowers, orchids and daisies - the dew on their leaves glimmers in the sunlight of spring. The shot changes to a yarrow rocking in the wind. A small white, a type of butterfly lands on its petals, and the music slowly fades away.

A pair of strong-looking hands appear. These are hands worn down by hard work. Their rugged skin is thick and covered in unwashed dirt from what must be hours and hours of labouring outside. The nails are short and brown with grime. The shot concentrates on these hands for a moment, before panning up. The man is dressed in a checkered flannel shirt. He looks middle-aged, with wrinkles and grooves running down his cheeks and his forehead. His eyes look worried and full of sorrow. He is sitting in a dimly lit cabin.

"My two hands were never enough when I walked into that grove. I wanted to pick all of my favourite flowers. I'd give them to my mother. I'd put them in a vase. A handful of white daisies, a bouquet of purple orchids, a single Dane's blood. Of course, a cup or two of wild blueberries and strawberries as well. One summer, when I was eight or nine years old, I noticed a single lily of the valley blossoming on the edge of those meadows. I couldn't pick that lonely flower. Some summers later, those pastures flourished with a marvelous abundance of those lilies."

He stares at his hands solemnly.

"Some time ago, that childhood path, which sometimes had been carefully cleared of twigs and branches, so perhaps a smaller car could pass through it, was further "developed." Turned into yet another road of the brave new world. Gravel, gravel and even more gravel was dumped on it. Thankfully, no ditches were dug alongside it, but the stones around the path were nonetheless overturned, their mossy side against the ground. The brushes, trees and bushes of that path were pushed aside, their roots facing up like mangled bones. The rest of the ground surrounding that road was tilled black. Suddenly, the familiar people, bicycles and tractors that once used that path no longed belonged to it."

Two trucks power through the gravel road, carrying a several loads of wood, pushing a cloud of dust into the air. Their engines murmur deeply. That familiar path is indeed now wider than before, its lushness now gone. Pebbles and stones surround the dusty road and the ground looks barren and lifeless.

"The landowner of that thicket which hid that beautiful grove started working on it as best he could, in accordance with all the principles of modern forestry and with all the latest inventions. His chainsaw roared and the smell of noxious pesticides flooded from the thicket. Today the grove once so rich in clusters of different trees resembles a tundra. An empty and muddy field dotted by lonely birch saplings, and a lonely forgotten small walnut tree. It's been sheared raw. Even the smallest shrubs were culled."

"Of those birds whose song once signaled the arrival of spring, few remain. A couple of songbirds, a single dove. Despite this destruction of their home, they try to persist and cling to life. But the others are gone. Owls I have not seen for long."

A terrible heap of broken branches, twigs and shattered sticks lay on the ground. The shot pans over this heap, which carries on almost as far as the eye can see. The birdsong that earlier so beautifully filled that path is now much quieter, almost gone. One keek there, another peep there. Otherwise there is just silence, the murmur of engines in the distance.

"Truckloads upon truckloads of pine, birch, spruce and oak lumber and pulpwood were taken from that thicket."

A mountain of thick logs piled on top of one another are stacked next to the road. There are hundreds if not thousands of lifeless logs in those piles, the branches stripped clean from their trunks. The shot pans over these piles, and they seem to carry on forever. When one pile ends, another one starts right away.

"Countless pines, aspens, oaks, walnut trees and birches have been hoarded into mounds, that form a belt half a kilometer long around that road. The state-owned company, Forestry Union Group bought the logs and they were meant to be used for the Pax heating plant. However, they ended up not needing them. Now the trees that were felled a year and a half ago still surround that path, and will, I fear, probably remain there."

The heap of logs has turned to a greenish colour, and the sound of engines is now gone. The new gravel road can be seen in the distance, and a person is cycling through it.

"Beautiful bunches of bright-red berries grew on a large, lush guelder-rose next to the path, on the very southern edge of the thicket. Their brilliance alone was enough to get me out of bed - not to mention those amazing rich meadows hidden within that thicket, veiled in the beauty of wildflowers. There I would go, whenever I was in need of encouragement or joy. And what joy did they bring me." And that guelder-rose was as beautiful as the voice said. Their glossy carmine colour of its berries truly captivates the eye. A splash of colour in the otherwise green landscape. Briefly, we can see the young boy walking in the distance.

"Alas, that guelder-rose was torn down last year. And the lonely grand pine that stood within that thicket, reaching high into the sky? Only a short moss-covered stump remains."

"As for those fields of wildflowers and that clan of otters I earlier described. The path that lead past them was shut away from me for months. I couldn't force myself to see their fate. I just couldn't. For months I caged myself in my cabin, but eventually I had to break out. I got up on my bike, glued my eyes to the road and pedaled as fast as I could. I muttered to myself. "You'll get used to it. It'll get easier."" He pauses for a moment. "Somehow, it did. But my smile never came back."

"That colony of otters is now gone, and those meadows I so fondly remember from my childhood have been uprooted, poisoned and stomped to the ground. A ditch had been dug in their place. Not a single daisy remained. Not a single lily of the valley. Yet somehow my hope persisted. While the grove was lost, perhaps life would somehow return and a few wildflowers could force their way into being on the two, thin green strips that flanked the road amidst the mountains of lumber. I convinced myself that would happen."

"And so it did happen. One June day, as I walked along that road, I noticed that bundles of yellow anemones had sprouted to life next to the road. And, of course, the landowner had on his way through that road carefully poisoned and killed those strips of land with pesticide. Those wildflowers now laid lifeless, wilted and twisted on the roadside. Somehow, I managed to get home. He pauses, and takes a deep breath. I felt that I simply couldn't take it any longer."

The shot pans over the gravel road, the grey corpse-like logs laying next to it in rotting piles. The green strips, those small glimmers of life in that otherwise lifeless modern road, have now turned into a brownish colour, the life drained from them by poisonous gases. Mangled yellow buttercups lay dead on the ground, reminding the viewer of what once was or what might've been. The desolation is palpable. The grove is no longer as it used to be. The foot of that grand old pine tree appears, but no longer does it reach into the sky. Only a stump remains. Those luxuriant, flourishing, lush pastures of wildflowers unimaginably rich in colour have been laid waste to. All that remains is a muddy ditch, where the only signs of the old and the beautiful lay butchered on the ground. The shot concentrates on these dead flowers for a moment, before panning to the pond. Likewise, the otters that once inhabited the pond are nowhere to be seen. The birdsong is completely quiet. The shot concentrates on the spot where the group of otters was playing around before, which is now just black, lifeless mud. The pond has turned murky, and its water is being drained through the muddy ditch. Yet again, the shot changes to the man sitting alone in his ill-lit cabin. He sits there silently for a moment, gets up and walks outside.

A tender melody, reminiscent of that joyful song that earlier played as the child frolicked through the meadow, begins playing. The violin is now much softer and quieter, and the flute is gone, and the boy from earlier is sitting in a row-boat. The water beautifully glimmers with sunlight, and the boy looks around. Old wooden buildings pass by on the shorelines. The opposite shore is veiled in a thick curtain of evergreen pines. The music has a sense of sad melancholy to it.

"In life I have truly loved nothing else than islands, lakes, coves, capes, virgin forests, marshlands, hills, fells, mountains, swamps, streams, trees, animals, birds and flower meadows full of buzzing insects and vibrant life. All else, my friends, my loved ones, books, thoughts, work, family and love, has been supported by nature. Nature has been the pencil which has drawn my life. Without it, everything else loses its meaning, it's outlines. Turns into a formless mist."

We now see the man rowing the boat. It is now much darker, and a cloud of mist surrounds the boat. "The attack against nature are growing more gruesome and vile with each day passing. The siege keeps on getting stronger and stronger. I am curled up in the landscapes and meadows of my childhood, those memories I so fondly hold from those precious times. They are sacred to me. After last spring, all I have left is my own yard. My small garden of daisies, the dandelions sprouting next to my doorway. The few trees surrounding my house. I wish I was younger. But alas, I am not. Time is cruel and keeps on going, no matter how hard I wish I could stop it. But it won't stop. Each morning I have to get up and make it until evening."

The boat goes ashore, and the man climbs out, the ground scrunching under his boots. Mist covers the beach, and the sun has set. The waves strike against the ground, making a gentle sploshing sound. He slowly walks along the shore, staring at the pebbles covering the ground.

"I know nothing good will follow from this. Each article I have written has caused me more trouble than good, both when misunderstood and properly understood. Despite all my efforts and all my writing, nature continues spiraling further and further down towards the point of no return." He sighs. "Yet stupidly, against my better judgement. Despite all my sorrows. I cling on to hope." He pauses. "Maybe, just maybe, I could turn this world into a slightly softer place."

The man abruptly stops walking. A single lily of the valley is growing on the shore.

The shot changes to the little boy staring at the flower.

His eyes look full of wonder.

Languages spoken: Latidonian

Actors:
Narration - Magnus Ansler
Man - Magnus Ansler
Boy - Unnamed

Information:
The Latidonian fisherman and author Magnus Ansler wrote the article, Paradise Lost, into the Latidonian environmentalist magazine, The Circle of Life, in the 1980's. In the text he described the destruction of his childhood surroundings. The film Spring unsung is based on Ansler's article and was produced and published by the Latidonian state TV channel. The film is primarily filmed in the authentic locations Ansler describes in his text, and Ansler also narrates the entire film and appears in it.

Perhaps the most concrete result of the film, however, was the discussion that it spurred into existence. Concerns regarding the destruction of virgin forests and the Latidonian environment in general were raised by citizens and bipartisan politicians alike. As a result, several national parks were established in Latidonia and conservation laws were made stricter.

The film itself has been praised for its beautiful visuals, emotional elements and symbolism. However, it has also received criticism, as some view it as the cataclysm that created the Ecological party, a radical green party in Latidonia which many consider to be extremist. Magnus Ansler himself has been subject to a lot of criticism, as many of his other texts take a much harsher tone than that presented in Spring unsung. Indeed, the original text Spring unsung is based on, was initially much harsher in its criticism towards the Latidonian government, but these critiques weren't included in the film.

Whatever one might think about the Ecological party and Magnus Ansler himself, the film itself is indisputably a visually beautiful classic, which has had a definite effect on the politics of Latidonia for several decades.