ADOLPHUS

Adolphus began as a visual obsession—the image of a solitary figure in red against a desaturated world. I was inspired by the power of selective color, how a single hue can become a character in itself, a beacon of defiance in monochrome silence.

The film tells the story of Jack, a man dead and trapped in limbo between Heaven and Hell. The entire narrative unfolds as fragmented memories—Jack's repressed past gradually surfacing as he comes to terms with horrific acts he has committed. The audience becomes psychoanalysts piecing together the fragments of his fractured consciousness.

Adolphus employs flashback as a central narrative device grounded in psychoanalytic theory. Following Maureen Turim's framework, the flashback structure mirrors the psychoanalytic process itself: the audience becomes the analyst, interpreting symbolic associations and the "text's symbolic code." The film's use of temporal fragmentation mirrors Jack's internal landscape, allowing viewers to experience his story through layered moments rather than linear progression. Crucially, the audience is not immediately aware that all of it is flashback—that Jack is dead. Like the protagonist himself, viewers gradually realize the truth only as the narrative unfolds, mirroring Freud's concept of the "return of the repressed."

My approach to flashback is positioned within a century-long cinematic tradition: from D.W. Griffith's "switchbacks" in Intolerance (1916), through Citizen Kane (1941), Casablanca (1942), and Hiroshima mon amour (1959), to contemporary works like Manchester by the Sea (2016), No Country for Old Men (2007), and Better Call Saul. Kenneth Lonergan's Manchester by the Sea profoundly influenced my approach—its deliberate disorientation, its delayed revelation of trauma, and its emotional payoff all informed how I structured Jack's journey.

At the film's foundation lies a childhood trauma by the pond: Jack's witness to his father's brutal murder of his mother. This foundational wound explains Jack's present state and provides the emotional anchor that hooks the audience into his journey. As the film progresses, viewers discover that Jack has committed equally horrific acts. The film culminates in a juxtaposition of three senseless deaths—each layered against the others to create an emotional gut punch that lingers long after the credits roll.

In the editing process, I faced a critical challenge: a vital scene that initially felt like it disrupted the film's pace. I nearly removed it entirely, but soon realized the entire narrative collapsed without it. This moment taught me a fundamental lesson—Walter Murch's Rule of Six: when push comes to shove, emotion must come first. Through multiple drafts, I refined the transitions between timelines, smoothing the audience's journey while maintaining the film's rhythm.

I employed strategic techniques to maintain emotional engagement while navigating structural complexity. Using carefully selected backup shots and deliberate shot size variations, I overcame continuity challenges without sacrificing emotional emphasis. I applied principles of elliptical editing—omitting non-essential narrative information and, crucially, the violent acts themselves—to create space for the audience's emotional and psychological interpretation. As Alfred Hitchcock said, "What is drama, but life, with the dull bits cut out." In Adolphus, I omit the most violent acts entirely, emphasizing instead the immediate aftermath—the shock, the realization, the collapse into shame. This choice creates far greater emotional impact than explicit depiction could achieve. Technical refinements—including warp stabilization on key shots—helped achieve the delicate balance between contemplative pacing and narrative momentum.

My work is grounded in cognitive film theory as well as psychoanalytic theory. Adriana Gordejuela argues that humans are naturally "narrative" creatures—sequentiality and cause-effect reasoning are fundamental to how we think. This means the audience instinctively comprehends flashback because it works with human cognition, not against it. I trusted the audience's innate narrative comprehension while strategically manipulating what information I provided and withheld.

On the post-production side, I required practical solutions to overcome technical and narrative issues. I employed elements of editing theory and Hollywood continuity style editing to meet these challenges. When I encountered errors or limited options, I applied theory to fit each specific circumstance. There is a fine line when using flashback and working outside chronology. If you go too far, you confuse the audience and lose their investment. Narrative consistency that suits the content of the action comes first. The narrative device and editing techniques are only utilized to support it and bring it to life.

One of the most important lessons I learned is that great edited scenes usually have a payoff—a moment of clarity or catharsis for the audience. In Adolphus, the big ones happen toward the end. At one point, I use a montage to reflect the fast-approaching realization of what Jack has committed. The audience stitches the events together at the same time. When presented fully and clearly with the dark reality of what he has done, he collapses in shame. The non-linearity plays into this mystery while painting a picture of Jack's tumble into despair.

Jack reaches a subtle form of redemption as he finally comes to terms with what he has done. Redemption must start with that at the very least—with oneself. The film ever so subtly poses this question for the audience to decide: Is understanding and accepting one's darkest actions a form of redemption? The film does not answer this question. It invites the audience into Jack's liminal space to grapple with it themselves.

This film is for anyone who has ever felt the weight of being different, of standing alone, of daring to be seen—and for those who have committed acts they must learn to live with.