About Dry Grasses is the latest film to adopt the point of view of a child, forced to face something beyond their maturity level, as a means of questioning adult assumptions, writes Emily Maskell.
Young characters are at the forefront of a recent trio of films that hone in on the innocent perspectives of children as a narrative device to make sense of the adult world’s painful realities. Eleven-year-old Daniel (Milo Machado-Graner, 14) witnesses the horrors of his mother being accused of his father’s murder in Anatomy of a Fall (2023). Eleven-year-old Minato (Sōya Kurokawa, 12) and Yori (Hinata Hiiragi, 10) face relentless homophobic bullying and assault in Monster (2023). And 14-year-old prodigy student Sevim (Ece Bağcı, 14) accuses her teacher of misconduct in About Dry Grasses. This is dramatically rich terrain for filmmakers, who, by giving power to the naive and limited perspectives of children, can expose adult difficulties.
The backbone of Justine Triet’s crime thriller is Daniel’s inconceivably traumatic experience. The moment in question, that Daniel is forced to revisit time and time again, is when the partially blind preteen returns from walking his guide dog Snoop to discover his father’s (Samuel Theis) lifeless body in the snow. Did his father fall from an upstairs window or did his mother (Sandra Hüller) push him? Much of the film, as well as the unfolding court case, relies on Daniel’s perspective. As the only witness, he holds the power over his mother’s sentencing. However, Triet complicates things with Daniel’s fallible testimony. His youth, and therefore dependence on his parents, exacerbates the intensity of his emotional response.
Anatomy of a Fall (2023)
Daniel’s altered memory calls into question the legitimacy of his account. He thought he could hear his parents’ conversation that day, but when he’s brought back to the crime scene, his testimony is rendered inaccurate. Lodged between his mother and the law, Daniel is forced to (prematurely) grow up. He fights back against the judge’s warnings about not watching the trial for his own protection, demanding to stay in court and hear all the upsetting case details so he can form his own opinion on the matter.
When Daniel takes the stand, he is a young boy pleading for his mother’s freedom. Then, Anatomy of a Fall shifts with a flashback to father and son in a car from Daniel’s perspective. His father is driving him to the vet and warning him not to rely on his ageing dog. In retrospect, Daniel believes his dad was really referring to himself as he plotted his suicide. It’s a deliberate emotional tug from Triet that asks whether the deceased buried messages to Daniel, or if the boy’s mind is whirring to find a way to avoid losing another parent.
Anatomy of a Fall (2023)
Shoplifters (2018) director Hirokazu Kore-eda’s tender psychological drama Monster – a triptych that adopts the point of view of three different characters – similarly highlights the perspective of children, devoting its final chapter to it. Like Daniel, Minato and Yori are forced to reckon with issues beyond their years, coming up against accusations surrounding a teacher’s physical assault and homophobic bullying. A third of Kore-eda’s film rests on Minato’s young shoulders. The child’s existence appears simple, narrowed to home, school and hanging out with Yori. The purity of Minato and Yori’s insular world means disruptions appear all the more impactful, as the dramas of adulthood corrupt childhood.
For instance, Minato’s mother (Sakura Andō) – whose point of view jump-starts the narrative – is deeply concerned about a school fight involving her son, not realising he was not being bullied, but trying to defend Yori from bullies. It is one of a few twists, allowed by Monster’s structure, that demonstrates the importance of interpretation: young characters’ perceptions skew the unfolding story threads and make us reevaluate what came before.
Monster (2023)
This is also true of Minato’s disappearances. He is not running away angry, despite what it seems when we’re anchored in his mother’s vantage point, but spending time with the effervescent Yori with whom he discovers an abandoned train carriage in the woods. They decorate their dreamy hangout spot with homemade planets dangling from the ceiling and colourful animal drawings stuck to the plant-covered windows. Here, they are isolated from adult surveillance and bask in their freedom together.
A queer reading of Monster further elucidates the differences in perspective between children and adults. Yori’s abusive, alcoholic father spitefully claims his son has the brain of a pig. Because of their closeness, Minato assumes he has a pig’s brain too. The boys don’t yet have the language to understand the underlying homophobia. Instead, the idea of a pig’s brain is a terrifying prospect for its monstrous connotations. ‘My brain was switched with a pig’s. That’s what’s strange about me, I’m a monster!’ Minato exclaims to his mother. For Minato, this belief aligns him with Yori, but his mother misinterprets his claim as the result of intense bullying. Each character in Monster has a different view of the situation, but the child’s outlook here reveals the ‘truth’ of dramatic scenarios.
Monster (2023)
While Monster shuffles through character perspectives, About Dry Grasses is fixed on the outlook of disillusioned and balding art teacher Samet (Deniz Celiloğlu). The film follows his uncomfortable relationship with high-school student Sevim in a remote, snow-covered school in eastern Anatolia. With gifts secretly exchanged in the corridors and discreet side hugs in Samet’s office, he develops an inappropriate fixation on his 14-year-old protégée. Things escalate when another teacher finds a love letter in Sevim’s rucksack addressed to Samet during a bag search. When he’s called into the school director’s office and told he’s facing allegations of inappropriate contact with students, it’s not hard to guess who has accused him. Angry and paranoid, Samet expels Sevim from his lesson, quietly punishing her for having written the letter and denouncing him to another staff member.
About Dry Grasses (2023)
Turkish filmmaker Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s sprawling ninth feature gives Sevim’s voice oxymoronic power. Samet is aware of her impressionability, describing her age as ‘pure, innocent and powerful’. The latter rings especially clear: the power of Sevim’s voice isn’t to be overlooked. Though she’s initially bashful, we get glimpses of Sevim growing uncomfortable with favouritism in Samet’s class and the disapproving comments from other students. When the teacher refuses to hand back her love letter, her mischievous investment in their inappropriate friendship shifts into a distaste for his familiarity. Just as Daniel holds power over his mother’s trial in Anatomy of a Fall, Sevim’s accusation endangers Samet’s livelihood and reputation. She is at the centre of his collapsing world. It becomes increasingly difficult to trust Samet’s claims of innocence with Ceylan providing Sevim’s uneasy perspective. Again, the outlook and interpretations of a child rupture the adult world.
About Dry Grasses concludes with a powerful shot reliant on Bağcı’s minute facial expressions. Sevim stares down the camera in a fourth-wall break, her hair blanketed by snowflakes. In her look, she speaks through her eyes; guilt, sadness, anger but then, she raises her chin with pride. Daniel, Minato, Yori and Sevim bring alternative – sometimes simplified, sometimes perceptive – angles on their experiences to the forefront. Anatomy of a Fall, Monster and About Dry Grasses present the innocence of children’s points of view not as a weakness, but as a deeply powerful perspective on the world.
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