Trigger Warning: The World Drops Dead involves both suicidal ideation and execution that may be difficult for sensitive viewers. Additionally, be advised that this will be discussed in the following review.
God is Silence — this is the title of the book that sits on the bedside table of Claire (Yumna Jane) as she is awoken from her slumber by the sounds of her cat. It’s a peaceful moment broken by one of nature’s creatures who mistakes a bookmark for a toy. This sequence is emblematic of The World Drops Dead, the latest project from actor/writer/director Brandon Colvin (A Dim Valley), as the camera direction is motionless, the activity coming solely from within the space — a choice that creates a sensation that silence, stillness, is the connection that binds us. Having its Georgia premiere during Atlanta Film Festival 2025, The World Drops Dead exists in the ethereal space of philosophy and religion wherein ideas instead of direct statements propagate, and is executed in a slow cinema format that will test audiences’ ability to remain engaged just as the central character is tested.
Of her immediate family, Claire (Jane) feels most connected to her father, Mark (Colvin), a notion she tries to share with him as the two share a meal and is disappointed at his slight rebuking. It comes because Mark recognizes within himself an absence that brings on a heavy sadness, something which he’d prefer not to share in common with his daughter. So heavy is the weight, Mark takes his life after a weekly religious meeting, bringing himself some kind of peace while sending his family into a spiral that propels Claire down a path from which there may be no turning back.
Yumna Jane as Claire in THE WORLD DROP DEAD. Photo courtesy of Atlantic Film Festival.
For the uninformed, slow cinema is not the same as a slow burn, though there is some overlap. A slow burn is a narrative that builds over the run of the narrative until it explodes in the climax — sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically. Slow cinema, however, is a film that’s comprised of stillness and contemplation. This doesn’t mean that nothing happens, it means that the total construction from narrative to performance to technical approach centers on minimalism, simplicity, and observation. A great example of this is James Benning’s Allensworth (2022), a documentary in which Benning traveled to the California town that was once established and occupied by African-Americans and spends the run time primarily recording a different building in the town for five minutes apiece in a different month of the year. This forces the audience to take in the location, the space that it exists within, and ponder what was and what could be. For Colvin, the use here presents in the absence of panning shots, opting instead to use edits and cuts to connect moments within a scene in order to constrict movement and ensure audience focus on specific aspects. The camera doesn’t pan from Clarie sleeping on the couch to show the cat by the nightstand, it cuts, using the natural connective tissue of storytelling to fill in the gaps that Colvin doesn’t show directly. In this opening scene, there’s enough information being presented that anyone can understand the context. As the film progresses, however, the lack of stated information creates a greater sense of miscommunication, or, at the very least, the chance of it. Considering the content of the narrative, as understood, this ends up hampering audience engagement.
For instance, the book we see, God is Silence, is a 26-page pamphlet written by Pierre Lacout and published in 1973 by Friends Home Service Committee. The spiritual book, published by an extension of the Religious Society of Friends (also known as Quakers), and its inclusion in the scene not only establishes the belief system of Claire, but also that of her family as she informs the cat that the book belongs to her father. This is the first clue that World is religious in nature with the second being the sign which reads “Asa Greek Friends Meeting” which Colvin shows before presenting the congregation in prayer. General audiences can easily grapple with a book like Lacout’s being shown to us, inferences aplenty can be made about the power of listening inside and outside of one’s self in order to make connection with the spiritual part of existence, but, if one isn’t aware, for instance, that the term “Quaker” began as a derogatory term used to describe members of the Religious Society of Friends and was then reclaimed for themselves, then the sign, which uses language members of the Religious Society of Friends would recognize means nothing, as does the sight of several people sitting in silence (their eyes either in rapt focus or physical positioning suggestive of sleep). This isn’t to suggest that Colvin should inject more dialogue into World, that would diminish the apparent intention of the directorial/narrative choice. It’s moreso to acknowledge that audiences will get far more out of the film if they come to it with an awareness of the spiritual material specific to the Religious Society of Friends community. Because of the approach, one is left to grapple with the little bit that Colvin makes plain against the esoteric.
What Colvin makes obvious is painful in its depiction and the choice to utilize minimalism in the camerawork only amplifies the disquiet. Using a mid-long shot setup, Colvin has us observe Mark’s suicide in near-full as Mark sets up the circumstances leading to his death. The few times that Colvin cuts away are to show us a close-up of Mark’s right hand which Mark places under his right leg, an indication of awareness of the impulse to save himself, an indication of a plan to prevent moving on the impulse. Smartly, cutting to this angle a few times during the long sequence helps in blocking (in scene terms) the moment that Mark is found, which is important in terms of who does the finding and that individual’s reaction for the remainder of the film. The blocking matters because Colvin constantly leaves room for interpretation, so seeing the face of the character as they discover Mark creates specificity whereas the absence creates possibility that can be far worse in the mind of the audience. On the one hand, it’s an act of gentleness by the filmmaker whose work in this scene is already uncomfortable to view for the audience until one starts to realize the absence of sound; on the other, it’s another in a series of acts of violence that occurs (bloodless, though they may be) throughout the film. God is silence, remember, so Colvin, intentionally or otherwise, creates a correlation between the silence at Mark’s end and the meditation that one partakes in to connect with the Almighty. It’s a connection that Colvin pushes further into the interpretative with Claire and her reaction to the loss of her father.
One can find the spiritual anywhere, if one remains respective to the energy. But reception isn’t the only element that factors into the energy one receives, it’s also the energy one puts out. In the case of The World Drops Dead, one interprets the minimal narrative as one of a struggle of internal imbalance against that of spiritual fulfilment. Or, put another way, upon the absence of a sense of spiritual connection, all that remains is the self, and what if the self is unhappy? Does this create a loss of direction (an aspect Colvin makes manifest via the literal inclusion of a compass) that one seeks to rediscover through psychology assistance, or is the only route silence in the Shakespearean sense? That way implies a state of peace having moved onto the afterlife, perhaps even wrapped in the presence of the Maker (who is silence) which sounds well and good; except what of the wake left on Earth? That is not silence: it’s disruption, it’s chaos, it’s discord. Colvin makes sure to highlight this as it relates to Claire and her remaining family, but the space of the minimalist approach is so vast that one starts to lose the intention of Calvin’s story. Or, at the very least, one starts grappling with it in a way in which motivation is lost due to a lack of clear meaning. For this reviewer, there’s clear technical precision and intention at work, a raw performance from Jane that’s impressive for someone so early in their career, and a boldness to tackle complex issues regarding the crossroads of mental health and faith; however, one struggles amid the ambiguity to reconcile the connotation of the total narrative. Is grappling enough? Is the quest what matters? There is, perhaps, too much silence to distill it all together, but it does compel one to try.
Screening during Atlanta Film Festival 2025.
For more information, head to the official ATLFF The World Drops Dead webpage.
Final Score: 3.5 out of 5.
Share this:
Categories: In Theaters, Reviews
Leave a Reply