Imagine the scene: a cramped production office in Prague, 2023. A first-time director, Lena Vrbová, slides a single page across a mahogany table to a bewildered financier. On it, three words: “Fly. Makes. Movie.”
Did Vrbová exploit the fly? She never harmed it. She never trapped it. In fact, she confesses to becoming obsessed with its well-being. She named it “Ferda.” She stopped using flypaper. She left windows open. filmy fly movie
“The irony is that I became its servant,” she admits. “I would arrive each morning, and Ferda would be waiting on the Bolex. It wasn’t directing him. He was directing me. I’d see that he had knocked the camera over, or that he had dragged a piece of lint across the lens as a kind of filter. My job was simply to reload the magazine and wind the spring.” Imagine the scene: a cramped production office in
“I reviewed the footage at the end of the first week,” she recalls. “There were 2 minutes and 40 seconds of absolute nonsense. Shaky, vertiginous pans. Extreme close-ups of what looked like a textured, amber landscape. Then, a shadow. A blur of iridescent green. I thought the camera was broken.” She never trapped it
The film’s origin is as organic as its protagonist. Vrbová, a documentarian known for her meditative studies of decaying industrial sites, had been awarded a residency at the abandoned Barrandov Studio Annex in Prague. The Annex, a ghostly cathedral of peeling paint and broken chairs, had been home to Czech New Wave classics in the 1960s before falling into disrepair.
More importantly, the film has sparked a new subgenre: “Accidental Animal Cinema.” In the past year, we have seen Spider Edit , a feature-length web series of a cellar spider repairing its web in stop-motion; The Mouse and the Steadicam , a shaky, terrifying chase through a Kansas grain silo; and Ants in the Edit Bay , a political allegory set entirely inside a discarded iMac.
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