Tidal is a seven minute film that is part of Vesperal, a French indie project run by queer performer and artist Ursinae, “aiming to explore visual poetry and porn.” There is no verbal language in Tidal, but poetry can take many forms and the cosmic sensuality of the cinematography is, for sure, poetic. For me at least, the most distinctive shot is the first one, where the actor’s hair, floats like tendrils of red sea weed, down her breasts. Quickly, the vision moves to the tattoo of a black spider on the wrist of someone whose hands enfold the woman’s face—Solwenn’s—the only face in the movie. The camera blinks on and off as hands—there are ten—move more assertively over her undulating body, and with her response intensifying there is a flash to the ocean, and the tide, ebbing and flowing, in seeming accompaniment. Sounds increase as the arousal heightens, like loud whispers, like the inhale and exhale of deep breaths—not Solwenn’s—while the hands caress her body, the fingers finding their way. A choralesque background reminds me of the beginning swell of voices in Carmina Burana, but they are softer, mimicking the echo you get from holding a conch shell to your ear. The woman’s movements mirror the waves, and her orgasmic release is “soft” and in synchrony with the comings and goings of the ocean, the ten hands coming to stillness on her stomach.
Tidal is about letting go and about connection, a respite of sensuality during this period of coronavirus distance and quarantine. A brief, visual poetry, this film offers us a meditation on the wonders of Touch.
