The Florida Project
It’s hard to properly verbalize the momentum that builds over the run time of The Florida Project. There’s an initial instinct to describe it as gentle, following along a sometimes meandering plot that’s so deeply realistic as to feel like an act of voyeurism. You’re watching something that’s altogether too private to be on screen. But it’s not gentle.
It’s hard to properly verbalize the momentum that builds over the run time of The Florida Project. There’s an initial instinct to describe it as gentle, following along a sometimes meandering plot that’s so deeply realistic as to feel like an act of voyeurism. You’re watching something that’s altogether too private to be on screen. But it’s not gentle. There’s a pervasive sense of dread from the opening shots of the movie that keeps becoming more realized. This driving purpose that is so central, and so unwavering, that anchors the characters and events as well as a traditional plot could.
Navigating the highway-side playground that Moonee takes ownerships over and having it related to you through her own sense of wonder and naivete, you’re forced to confront whatever judgements may be informing the underlying feeling of discomfort. As the lives of the adults around her begin to shade the story, that unease is better justified.
The events build slowly as the reality faced by Moonee’s mother Halley becomes revealed, and a shape of the outcome becomes clear and unavoidable. Despite the pacing, the momentum is still not gentle. It’s happening in the peripherals. Building to a point of tension that releases with concussive force upon an audience that were aware of what would take place, but still shaken by the emotional stakes presented. It’s a kind of magic act.
As Halley ascends the stairs to her and Moonee’s third floor motel room, a disaffected look creeps across her face. It’s hard not to feel that the breakfast she just stole away for her daughter at a neighbouring hotel was a knowing last moment of joy. Allowing Moonee some rare indulgence spent with her mother. She, just like us, was aware of what was coming. The Department of Children and Families has returned to her door, Willem Dafoe’s Bobby unable to keep each world protected from each other any longer. The following scene is a culmination of all of the unspoken moments of sincere empathy that The Florida Project manages so seamlessly.
Having moved past the kind, hushed tones of the adults around her, Moonee lashes out against the DCF agents trying to separate her from her mother. The camera stays low, directed exclusively on Moonee and rendering the adults around her faceless and disproportionately large. Her intelligence and sharp personality are magnified as she’s quick to understand the reality of the situation. Her attempts to escape are intercut with Halley packing a to-go bag for Moonee, which quickly elevates to a screaming match of its own. DCF agents hover around the door to the single motel room, leaving Haley cornered as the camera pushes in to tighten the frame around her.
They play the characters as near mirrors of each other, making explicit what had been more quietly displayed throughout the film. Moonee, only six, is taught to be guarded. That relationships are fleeting and that in a world where it’s not always clear who to trust, it’s better to keep distance than show vulnerability. Beautifully, there isn’t blame placed on Halley. As a silent observer, the camera displays the profound hurt these characters carry with them. There is so much weight suggested in watching mother and daughter resort similarly to anger, to ferociously defend themselves and the single reliable relationship they both share. It’s a complex portrayal of trauma, opening the viewer to the potential realities of Hallee’s own childhood, and seeing how it manifests itself and is passed through generations.
Shared moments between Halley and Moonee can be recontextualized and viewed with greater clarity. The scenes where Halley’s role as an adult becomes lowered and she is allowed to play freely with her in the aisles of a store or out in a rainstorm. That she deeply requires the release of these moments, devoid of responsibility, viewing them how Moonee sees so much of their novel surroundings. She’s doing what she is capable of for her daughter.
This confrontation stands as the penultimate scene in The Florida Project, and exemplifies Director Sean Baker’s humanist approach to filmmaking. It’s rich with empathy, and ultimately trusting that these moments of impact shown through the movie will be understood by the audience. The emotional triumph of the finale is substantial, treating its characters with such heart against a world that is represented with disdain.