screeching container ports, fairy armadillos, advantageous appendages…

Coming in from a bright sunny afternoon, I am temporarily blinded upon entering the Western Front’s dim gallery. Somewhat ironically, I have to rely on my other senses to locate the leather-covered bench facing the two-channel video installation of Cirrus (2025) by Holly Márie Parnell. The work by the Irish-Canadian filmmaker takes its name from slender appendages used by animals to navigate without sight—like moles, who use cirrus to traverse subsurface landscapes.

“Hunger is a wound of desire.”

Decreed by the seemingly harmless guru of a commune nourished by the sun, this statement sets the tone for a film that hungers for connection, yet centers characters that can’t help but seek it in the wrong place. Immediately, the warm and intimate feel of Liz Cairn’s film is set in stark contrast with the uncanny music and ominous narration, creating a sense of unease that doesn’t quite leave you, even when a false sense of comfort permeates the commune and its members.