Hidden Flick: Night and Day

I carry the same thought patterns into my admiration about what I call a Hidden Flick—the film that isn’t anywhere near the mainstream or listed anywhere but it somehow was worth the effort I took to bumble my way into finding it. Sometimes, this happens purely out of coincidence or because I’ve flagged something in Netflix and another similar choice is offered. Most of the time, it happens because I tend to trust artists that want to say something completely original on the screen, are not quite sure how they are going to do it but, you’re pretty damn sure, as a viewer, that you’re going to have a hell of a time watching it. I plan on writing about those treasures—sometimes lost; often, just wandering in the cinematic back lot—for the site hoping that you will enjoy these recommendations and begin your own little adventures finding those other bits of gold.

Case in point, the title of this piece is referring to Night Watch and its sequel, Day Watch, which are two Russian science fiction films that are part of Sergey Lukyanenko’s trilogy of novels about the battle between the forces of light and dark, time and space, and the whole notion that a film has to progress in a linear fashion with comfortable images that tell you exactly what is going on. This isn’t always the case but what happens, is that often you are shocked by amazing brain-searing scenes of apocalyptic activity which only appear to transpire if you are willing to go along for the outrageously wild ride (or you’ve cracked the seventh level of the seventh chapter of that really heady post-21st century 4-D video game). Sound familiar? I call it the McConnell Factor—that “what crazy image can we come up with if we keep pushing ourselves?” idea—and I’ll apply it to a Hidden Flick while showing that one can bring a lot of that thinking right back home to music. After all, one just never knows if the needle will run down to the end of the record and another Train in Vain will blast out of nowhere.