I don’t normally review short films or visual albums unless they are particularly noteworthy, and my two previous forays into this realm of filmmaking – namely Child Gambino’s groundbreaking video for “This Is America” and Mike Mills’ extraordinary visual album he made in collaboration with The National, I Am Easy to Find – were astonishing achievements, and more than warranted some detailed thoughts, because their artistic merits more than compensated for their shorter length. Recently, another short film that blurred the lines between genres and conventions, titled Anima, was released and once again requires some further thought, because this is simply not an extended music video, but rather an astounding blend of visual and narrative poetry that sees Paul Thomas Anderson, one of the finest filmmakers of his generation, working alongside Thom Yorke, the frontman for one of the most iconic rock bands of all time, to create Anima, a mind-bending masterpiece that is aesthetically striking and thematically fascinating. While it may feature a complete lack of dialogue, and may run at less than fifteen minutes, it is nonetheless an exceptional example of both artists’ prowess in their respective fields coming together to create a memorable piece of short-form filmmaking that compensates for its short length with an innumerable amount of dazzling merits, and a visual style that will leave every viewer in unquestionable awe.

Thom Yorke’s career has never been conventional – Radiohead is a band that has received acclaim for a number of reasons, but most of all, their defiance against conventions and refusal to ever bow down to expectations or simplify their music is amongst their greatest achievements, and while it has made some of their releases quite polarizing, it allowed them to flourish into perhaps the most acclaimed rock band of their generation, precisely because they stayed true to their own vision. Their status as one of the genre’s most eccentric and fascinating acts has allowed them to peddle their bewildering style to an audience that may not always understand them, but can’t quite help from being swayed by their unconventional charms and utter conviction towards their distinctive originality. Various members of the band have launched successful solo careers that continue to allow them to explore the alternative side of music – Johnny Marr’s tenure as the frontman for Modest Mouse has given him the chance to put his talents at the forefront, and Jonny Greenwood has begun a respectable career as a film composer, which brings us full-circle to Anima, as Greenwood’s best work has been with Paul Thomas Anderson, who has frequently made use of Greenwood’s talents in his films. It seemed only logical that Anderson would collaborate with Greenwood’s band-mate, because not only is Yorke someone whose sensibilities are quite aligned with Anderson’s, the musician himself has also ventured into the realm of film (his score for Suspiria last year was astonishing), and it would appear as if the duo were a perfect match. Anderson is a director whose work reflects a deep appreciation of various forms of artistry (and this isn’t even mentioning how Anderson’s earliest work was in the realm of directing music videos for various alternative artists), so it does make sense that he’d be the perfect person to help bring Yorke’s new album to life in the form of this short film, which almost defies all categorization, and proves that when two intensely talented artists work together, the results can be nothing short of extraordinary.

There’s not much to say about Anima in terms of the story, but that doesn’t mean that it is void of any plot, as simple as it may be – the fact is that at only fifteen minutes, it is clear a coherent, well-thought storyline was unlikely, but also wholly unnecessary. In the film, Yorke plays an unnamed man living in a dystopian society who catches the eye of a beautiful young woman one morning while commuting on the train. He goes in pursuit of her, trying to find her in the nightmarish landscape around him, determined to figure out who she is, and why she makes such an indelible impression on him. What follows is an enigmatic, visually-stunning journey through a dreamlike city, which becomes more inescapable and labyrinthine the further the protagonist ventures through it. Anima is very clearly inspired by two different artistic sub-genres: dystopian science fiction and surrealism, borrowing liberally from both artistic schools in its visual style and approach to the storyline. Perhaps the best way to describe the underlying story of this short film is as if David Lynch had adapted Nineteen Eighty-Four ­by paying homage to Salvador Dali’s style – there is a certainly a great deal of Orwellian complexity pulsating through this film, and Yorke’s character being yet another proverbial “cog in the system” has major allusions to Winston Smith and his search for the elusive Julia, who is similarly just another ordinary person in a sea of monotonous, homogenous individuals, yet still stands out in a way that causes the protagonist to go to any lengths to find her. It is not unlike many of the other works that look at similar themes of an individual trying to break out of a homogeneous mass in a dystopian society – but somehow, it manages to still be wildly original on its own terms, proving that this was far more than just a piece of promotion for an album, but a fully-realized cinematic experiment.

Anderson has always been known to be an ardent lover of film, and this is never more evident than in Anima, which sees him exploring some cinematic inspirations in a way he was previously unable to – we’ve already mentioned Lynch in terms of the film’s surreal nature, but that’s only the starting point of what is clearly an attempt to capture the otherworldly weirdness present on Yorke’s album and represent it cinematically. Hardly anyone will pay attention to the story of Anima, with absolutely everything significant about this film being the visual style – this is precisely how it been marketed, and rightly so: for everything that it lacks, it more than makes up for in its lavish, unique style. Anderson, despite being a director with a keen visual eye, has never made something quite as visually-driven as this, and it only shows that should he want to venture into science fiction, he certainly has the capacity to do so. Anima is composed of different images that evoke certain other works – the sight of a multitude of people, moving together in unison, is clearly a reference to Metropolis (which in itself informed almost every work of science fiction that came after it, including Orwell’s novel), and the later parts of the film, set in a moonlit city, brings up memories of various films of the French New Wave and American noir films, where the complex protagonist finally manages to harness the elusive femme fatale and express his innermost desires, where shadows and fog demonstrate. In between, there is a dizzying panoply of stunning images that drive this film, which give it an otherworldly aura. Darius Khondji needs to be included at the third key collaborator, because his cinematography of this film is amongst the most impressive work he has ever done, and ends up lending the film artistic gravitas. Without the visual flair provided by the man who brought life to films such as Delicatessen and The City of Lost Children (both similarly-themed dystopian films), it is difficult to imagine Anima would’ve been nearly as compelling.

Anima is a film that’s success cannot be attributed to a single source and is the rare film that doesn’t only belong to the writer or director, but rather to everyone who collaborates by lending their talents. It is a film made possible by the effective use of several moving parts – Yorke’s groundbreaking music, Anderson’s audacious direction, Khondji’s gorgeous photography, Damien Jalet’s hypnotic choreography and Tarik Barri’s extraordinary projects all work towards making this short film as memorable as it is. It may be short, which is purposeful, as a longer version of this would’ve been too excessive and would cause the film to lose a lot of its impact. Ultimately, Anima is a mesmerizing experiment more than anything else – it may not be particularly noteworthy on its own, but rather serves to be an example of what can be done with cinema. It is highly audacious and quite exceptional in its approach to blending visual style with a compelling narrative heavily informed by silent cinema. I fully expect this short film to be as polarizing as the music it was made to promote – but for those who enjoy the alternative stylings of Radiohead, or the more provocative side of Paul Thomas Anderson’s films, Anima is a worthwhile piece of visual poetry that may not be nearly as profound as it thinks it is, but it nonetheless an interesting experimental short film that serves as a potent reminder that these artists are still very much at the peak of their creativity, and may very well be venturing into a new stage of their careers, where they continue to venture into unexpected places with their inventive and seemingly endless imagination putting them at the forefront of their respective industries. Anima is worth watching for the visual style alone, and every bit of existential meaning and psychological complexity one can derive from the film is just an added benefit of this unique, fascinating visual experiment.