“The sensory experience of Krakatoa is one that anybody who sees it is unlikely to forget.”

1883 saw the largest volcanic eruption ever recorded, when the volcano Krakatoa between the Indonesian islands of Java and Sumatra exploded. It is said to have been the loudest sound ever heard, and it affected the rest of the world for weeks. What if something like that were to happen again? That seems to have been the starting point for Carlos Casas’ latest project Krakatoa, which not only screened at IFFR as a film, but was also featured as an art installation. A follow-up to his 2020 IFFR title Cemetery, Krakatoa follows a single man, perhaps the last man standing, as he embarks on a journey to the heart of the planet after another cataclysmic eruption. What exactly his goal is in this mysterious and beguiling film remains a question, but the sensory experience of Krakatoa is one that anybody who sees it is unlikely to forget.

Kesuma (Roni Hensilayah) floats on his bagan (an ingenious fishing contraption-slash-houseboat) off the Indonesian coast. One night, all the fish in his nets mysteriously disappear. Despondent, he repairs his nets and does other chores around his floating home. An enormous explosion catches him off guard, and the tsunami that follows sweeps him off his bagan and into an ocean bathed in red. When he is washed ashore on a deserted island, the landscape is initially barren, but as he starts to explore in search of food and water he discovers a lush jungle. A coconut provides sustenance (in a scene somewhat reminiscent of Lee Kang-sheng eating a cabbage in Tsai’s Stray Dogs) to continue his journey, as a force unseen draws him further inland and towards a cave going down into the Earth’s crust.

What follows is probably best described as Stan Brakhage trying to induce a seizure. Rapidly alternating images of what could either be lava or blood platelets under a microscope, or god knows what else, turn into a minutes-long strobe lamp the size of a movie screen (literally). Descending into Earth’s core is probably a mind-wrangling experience, and Casas lets you feel it. There are other films that have trigger warnings attached to them, but if it ever was warranted it is with Krakatoa. The effect is hallucinatory, and quite frankly invigorating. Finally a director dares to truly experiment again in front of a large audience. Earlier in the film Casas already gave us a taste with the violent immediate aftermath of the exploding volcano, as Kesuma desperately tries to stay afloat fighting a whirling, blood-colored tsunami. It’s a disorienting scene (imagine how it felt for Kesuma), but not even the first sign that Casas is willing to take risks with the audience, as he opens the film with three minutes of swirling plankton at night, swaying back and forth on the ocean’s undercurrent like a swarm of illuminated starlings. The otherworldly images juxtaposed with the calmness of a silent Kesuma (outside of a moment of him softly singing to himself), tending to his vessel or exploring the mysterious island, give Krakatoa an intoxicating and thrilling effect because you never know what to expect next.

Discussing Krakatoa, a film that plays so much with the senses that cinema can explore, without mentioning both the sound design and the cinematography would be a crime. Nicolas Becker, Oscar winner for Sound of Metal, creates a soundscape of gurgling water, rustling wind, and unspecified danger that is so immersive one could almost enjoy the film with closed eyes. For some that might be a good idea in the last few minutes of the film. Closed eyes, however, would deprive them of Benjamín Echazarreta’s gorgeous lensing, which ranges from soothing static shots (the opening overhead of Kesuma’s bagan in particular is glorious in all its colorful symmetry) to violent movement during the film’s ‘action’ scenes. The hazy yellow and orange images in the immediate aftermath, as Kesuma has washed up on a beach, are a realistic depiction of what the world saw at every sunset in 1883. The final image, a wide-angle shot of a large cave filled with lava that frames a small Kesuma against the light emanating from the cave’s opening, at once entrances and shows the puniness of man in the face of nature, a theme that runs through the whole film. With images and sound like this, who needs dialogue? To describe Krakatoa as a feast for eyes and ears would be a bit misleading, as it is more an assault on the senses, but if you don’t emerge from this experience believing in cinema again, I don’t know what to tell you.