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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
Somewhere between the nickelodeon and the neutron bomb, cinema gave birth to a bastard child named Balling the Junk, and then promptly stuffed it in a crawlspace for a hundred years. That the print survived is a miracle of entropy; that it sings is a miracle of art.
The film opens on a horizon of sheared-off shipping containers, their corrugated skins flapping like gills. A hand-cranked camera, held together with gaffer-tape and prayer, tilts down to reveal our protagonists: Juno, reed-thin and hatched from a Dietrich silhouette, and his brother Voss, a slab of sinew who looks like he bench-presses transmissions for breakfast. They sift through mountains of discarded cinema—warped posters, moth-eaten costumes, reels blistered into fetal curls—hunting for a single canister rumored to contain their mother’s final performance.
Director Odette Valaquez shoots the junkyard as if it were a cathedral built from the bones of forgotten dreams: every close-up of rusted gears feels like a Stations of the Cross for cinephiles, every long shot of fog rolling off scrapheaps evokes Tarkovsky’s Stalker reimagined by a fever-pit circus.
But Balling the Junk is no mere elegy for celluloid; it’s a full-contact sport. Midway through, the brothers stumble into a subterranean fight club where brawlers duke it out on a stage carpeted with 35mm strips. Projectors blast fragments of melodramas onto their sweaty torsos, turning each punch into a collision between narrative and flesh. One contender’s ribcage becomes the silver screen for a fleeting kiss; another’s split lip splatters crimson across a Keystone chase. The audience—masked, smoking, betting in extinct currencies—howls for blood and continuity.
Sound? Forget sound. The silence here is so thick you can taste its dust. Every splice, every scratch, every missing frame screams louder than any talkie could.
Enter the blind archivist, Madame Irbis, eyes milked over like vintage title cards. She trades memories the way card sharps trade aces: a childhood birthday for a lock of hair, a first kiss for the echo of a scream. Her lair is a catacomb of mason jars, each containing a curl of nitrate labeled in Braille. When Juno hands her a snippet of footage—his mother in feathered headgear, twirling beneath a shattered skylight—Irbis rubs the strip across her cheek and weeps silver halide tears. In that moment the film achieves what few silents ever dare: it makes the medium itself a character, a fragile, flammable ghost hungry for resurrection.
Voss, meanwhile, grows addicted to the fights. Not for money, but for the moment when the projector’s beam tattoos a dying cowboy onto his pectorals, when he becomes the celluloid hero he could never be in stale daylight. His biceps become a migrating cinema, a living Yankee Doodle in Berlin parade of broken myths. Each bout erodes his grasp on the original mission; he begins to suspect that the rumored final reel is not a rescue but a death sentence—an ouroboros strip that will swallow whoever threads it.
Valaquez repeatedly cross-cuts between the brothers’ quest and surreal tableaux of urban decay: a Ferris wheel sinking into a swamp, a ballet corps of mannequins pirouetting through a burning loft, a marquee whose bulbs flicker Morse code for “abandon hope.” These aren’t indulgent art-house detours; they’re the film’s nervous system, synapses firing warnings that memory and metropolis are co-authored nightmares.
Act three detonates inside the condemned Starlight Drive-In, its screen shredded to lace by a century of hurricanes. Here the brothers confront the mute contortionist, her body folded into a perfect 8-shape, face painted like a China doll with nitrate burns for eyes. She offers them the fabled reel—but only if one of them volunteers to be spliced into the footage, to live eternally as a repeating frame. Juno, ever the poet, volunteers, believing he can rewrite the past from inside the strip. Voss, realizing the cost, attempts to destroy the reel with a sledgehammer made from a camera crank. The ensuing scuffle is shot in stroboscopic single-frames, each flash revealing alternate outcomes: Juno trapped inside a loop of his mother’s laughter, Voss crucified on a strip of perforated negatives, both of them melting into a puddle of emulsion that reflects the audience’s own faces.
The final shot—achieved by literally baking the negative until it bubbles—shows the drive-in screen collapsing outward, as though cinema itself is vomiting its history into the night. The last thing we see is a child’s silhouette (Juno? Voss? Us?) staring at a horizon of burning film reels that look, perversely, like a field of sunflowers.
As Juno, Nils Althaus moves like a marionette whose strings are made of sprocket holes: every gesture quivers between grace and seizure. Watch the way his fingers tremble when threading a projector, as though afraid the machine might bite. Opposite him, Bruno Díaz’s Voss is a monument of wounded granite; his eyes carry the weight of every discarded reel ever shredded. When he finally weeps, the tears look like melted celluloid—viscous, iridescent, impossible to wipe away.
Cameo glory arrives in the form of vintage stuntman turned centenarian, Horace “Buster” Keel, who shows up as a ticket-taker at the drive-in, face like a roadmap of forgotten genres. He utters no title card, yet his wink at the camera feels like a secret handshake across a century of cine-mythology.
Production designer Tzvetanka Karakasheva scavenged actual decommissioned film labs from Sofia to Gdańsk, shipping rusted benches and acid-eaten rewinders to the set until the soundstage itself smelled like vinegar syndrome. Costumes are stitched together from discarded film posters: one jacket flaunts a fragment of The Scarlet Pimpernel’s cape, another skirt swirls with the thousand-yard stare of Caravan of Death. The palette is bruised metallics—gunmetal, verdigris, dried-blood sepia—punctured by neon orange safety vests that glow like radioactive guilt.
Editor Mirjana Lukić cuts like someone playing Russian roulette with frames. Shot lengths vary from 47-second glacial pans to subliminal three-frame punches that feel like paper cuts on the retina. The film’s heartbeat is irregular: you’ll be lulled by a languorous tracking shot across sleeping projectors, then whiplashed by a flurry of 18-frame montages that splice boxing gloves, butterfly wings, and ledger entries into a single breath. Yet every rupture lands with cruel logic, mirroring the way trauma collapses chronology.
Compare this to the comparatively stately melancholy of Storstadsfaror or the urbane slapstick of Hits and Misses; Balling the Junk refuses the cushion of genre, preferring to grind its gears against the teeth of pure experience.
Although nominally a silent, the film toured with a live trio scraping metal sheets across phonograph pickups, generating drones that feel like tinnitus of the soul. The closest analog might be the atonal wails in La llaga, yet here the noise emerges from the very apparatus of cinema: projectors wheeze, take-up reels clatter like broken teeth, and when the nitrate finally ignites (yes, the print is designed to combust in controlled spots), the audience hears the crackle of history immolating itself.
At its core, Balling the Junk is a treatise on obsolescence: bodies, stories, cities, entire mediums devoured by their own afterimages. It asks whether forgiving the past is possible when the past is literally flammable. It wonders if cinephilia is necrophilia with better lighting. And it suggests that every family is a corrupted reel, frames missing, splices visible, the final shot always already scratched.
Yet the film is also a perverse love letter to resurrection. The very act of watching this battered print—knowing it might disintegrate mid-screening—mirrors the brothers’ foolhardy faith that cinema can reassemble a shattered life. In an age of cloud storage and 4K restorations, Valaquez hands us a carbon arc candle and dares us not to burn our fingers.
Since its surprise discovery in a sealed Budapest vault, Balling the Junk has become the stuff of bootleg legend. Prints circulate like samizdat, each showing bearing fresh scars: vinegar burns, mildew blossoms, frame-line fungus that looks like neuronal maps. Festival curators have taken to screening it in decommissioned factories, the audience wearing nitrile gloves, clutching fire extinguishers like rosaries. Some viewers report dreams in which their childhood homes are projected onto their sleeping spouses; others claim they can no longer watch digital movies without hearing imaginary projector chatter.
Call it the anti-Million Dollar Dollies: where that confection glides on champagne fizz, Balling the Junk ruptures spleens. It is cinema’s autoimmune disease, turning the medium’s own DNA against itself until what’s left is neither documentary nor fiction but a new genre: necrotic autobiography.
And still, the final paradox: for all its savagery, the film is intoxicatingly beautiful. One shot—of nitrate flames reflected in Juno’s dilated pupil—deserves to be framed in the Louvre, right beside the burnt remains of the Mona Lisa. Beauty here is not consolation; it’s bait, luring us toward the precipice where love and annihilation kiss.
So tread carefully, dear viewer. Bring no popcorn; the film will eat it, then eat you. Bring no dates; you’ll leave solitary, your pupils perforated by afterimages. But by all means, bring your soul—preferably on a take-up reel. Balling the Junk is waiting, sprockets hungry, ready to splice you into its endless, blazing loop.
IMDb —
1923
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