Ballast

Being caught up in the fascination of a country like the US, enveloped in its own uniquely captivating and multi-faceted cultural quilt, it’s all too easy to forget how frayed the string that holds these somewhat disparate states together has actually become. Perhaps the expected herald of a new dawn under Obama will incite the appropriation of a new method of soothing America’s societal afflictions. In a country that dominates the geographical map with all the bravado of an almost neatly rectangular continent, it is less than unusual to uncover a widespread fabric of incongruence; to whichever degree of severity it manifests itself in various regions. As the title to Ballast pierces the screen in the opening couple of minutes of this film, with a Mississippi Delta township as its backdrop, the recollection of the desperately despairing side to America is instantaneous. These are the towns that constitute its fetid, heaving guts; far removed from the shrink-wrapped gleam and gloss within which the two coasts are so often packaged for the zealous, sun seeking North American holidaygoer. This is a territory where scraping the barrel is not just an airy maxim or vaguely gloomy turn of phrase, but an altogether necessary expedient; and crucially, one that has held a vicelike grip on its population for so long that there is an almost disturbing zombie-like acceptance of the endless torment, an ethereal surrender to the spirit of defeat.

It is evident therefore, that an attempt to mould any kind of image under this blueprint poses an inevitable challenge, not only in capturing this less than sprightly embodiment, but given the more economical dialogue that follows, creating a film that provides a sense of the compelling without resorting to blockbuster shock and awe procedure or violating the honesty of the script. The story of a single mother, her adolescent son, an estranged uncle and a shrouded suicide, forms the root of a story of familial entanglement, aggravated by the stagnant air with which their relationships with each other appear to rapidly evolve. By making the dialogue minimal, swathed in muffled southern drawl, and removing any musical score, the aforementioned challenge is made all the more complicated. But while the film manages to effectively stay true to the script, captured untouched in its essence with a degree of the stark and austere, it is unfortunately little compelling. Despite the fact that austerity promotes the most rounded kind of realism, it is not a filmmaking escape route or a bypass for the creation of context.

When a story needs to be told, and told in the forceful manner that a story with poverty and squalor at its axis dictates, simply giving that story a pulse and the room to direct its own current is not enough. Setting store by the strength of a script in its vegetative state is always undeniably bold, but it is unfortunately a tricky and exact science. Laconic dialogue can create moments of real poignancy, but when the filmmaking experiment can potentially come face-to-face with a portrait of its own downfall, is when the desire for a story free from blemishes overrides the need for character development, and the subsequently essential flowing character arc. Lamentably, this is where Ballast more regularly stumbles and while the film remains a noteworthy attempt, Lance Hammer needs to start shaking up the test tubes if his story is to be given the stability that it needs to bring these aforementioned elements to the fore.