by Remilekun Jordan
The hallowed world of Eniola Busari’s short film resides in the composition of objects. A dirtless world in a room meticulously arranged. Before that, her film opens with a dictionary definition of the word threshold, and it’s in that fashion I state a brief etymology of the word object; the word is derived from the Latin word Objectus — which means to throw or to put against something.
Hence the opening shot of the film; shoes, arranged — a well-laid bed, counterparts complementing every item placed, every item blocked. It’s simple yet impressive when you recall the fact that Eniola Busari doubles as a production designer for her film.
Threshold embodies that etymological origin as it throws us into the mind of a writer writing against a deadline for what is possibly a culture magazine whilst forging relationships with curated personalities on the Internet. A deft understanding of cyber anxiety is what keeps this film narratively compelling, with little to no dialogue beyond text threads and the varying countenances each text evokes. Whether by fluke or intention, the use of natural and artificial light in Threshold becomes representational of reality and the dopaminergic ruse of the internet — a system we all are part of actively as our lives have become indivisible from the landscapes of cyber-space.
We have Samuel Olusegun Ogundeyi to thank for the sound and light of the film, which visually underpins the deceptive coziness that conceals the anxiety stirring within. Digital dualism is rendered moot here; the Internet is real life, and real life is questionable, inscrutable, and unbound to the logic of linear narratives.
Bedside lamps of neon-esque colors enliven the room in a manner reminiscent of Nicolas Winding Refn’s Only god forgives. But unlike Only God Forgives, brutality is replaced with pity for a character that is no different from the incredulous audience.
At the end of Threshold, everything is as before — only this time, the relationships forged online have been unceremoniously severed alongside the delusional solace the character seeks in the recesses of the internet. Accounting for the lack of ingress into Busari’s philosophy as a filmmaker, you can tell that there’s a stern refusal to conform or fall into the traps of exposition.
Her work thus far is grounded in the simplicity of realism and how objects —technology especially — are simply a cinematic totem. If there was ever a filmmaker to make a period piece about our present, which shall become the past in the future, Eniola Busari would be the one to call, and we should all bide our time till she reaches her filmmaking threshold.
