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“The Creeping Garden” is a feature length documentary exploring the work of fringe scientists, mycologists and artists, and their relationship with the extraordinary plasmodial slime mould.
Note: I will use the term “slime mould” quite a bit in this article, so I’ll count the number of times I say it, and you can then multiply it by roughly 10, to get an idea of how often it’s pronounced in the documentary.
The synopsis makes it seem like a rollercoaster ride, doesn’t it? Who wouldn’t want to spend 80 minutes watching plasmodial slime mould (1), when the visceral experience of drying paint/growing grass is a paintbrush/seed away? But don’t scrub this slime mould (2) with bleach quite yet. In their odd little documentary, “The Creeping Garden,” directors Tim Grabham and Jasper Sharp manage to morph what could have been a contender for “Most Boring Film Ever” into a sometimes-fascinating, probing study of the fungus/animal that plays more like science fiction than your average, run-of-the-mill plasmodial smile mould (3) doc.
“I’m mainly looking for mushrooms, with a sideline of slime moulds (4),” says Mark Pragnell, an amateur mycologist. Feeding on decay, found on rotten logs, yellow/white/gray/purple, furry and bean-like and viscous and crusty, constantly morphing and oozing, the slime mould (5) is a sight to behold. As one of the scientists’ states, “the slime mould (4) is not animal, not vegetables, not fungi.” It can survive vacuum and radiation. Quite the organism – any science fiction buff will surely geek out on the sheer peculiarity of the subject matter.
There are awe-inspiring, stop-motion shots of slime mould (6) making its way through a rat-like maze to find a pile of nuts, along with a plethora of gorgeous, magnified images of colorful slime mould (7), supplemented by Jim O’Rourke and Woob’s drone-like, minimalistic score. Those shots are reminiscent of films like “Under the Skin” or “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”: highly artistic, bringing to mind human veins and butterflies and death.
There are quite a few interesting tidbits along the way. The primary focus of the doc is examining whether the slime mould (8), does, in fact, exhibit behavioral patterns or is functioning based purely on mechanistic responses. A “human experiment,” with folks tied together and acting like slime mould (9), examines parallels between human problem-solving skills and those of slime mould (10). Slime mould’s (11) way of “branching out” gets compared to motorways, a scientist stating that “it imitated Roman roads in Italy – a perfect match.” A piano is even plugged into a slime mould (12) petri dish, to gauge its responses to music. Whether or not it is, in fact, sentient, the slime mould (13) does like pasta, while “oats are its favorite”; a scientist uses a variety of food products to “coax” the slime mould (14) in a specific direction.
Amongst the few slime mould (15) scientists in this world, the ones on display exhibit passion, intelligence and, of course, quirks that come with the job. “I haven’t spent a lot of time observing dog penises,” one scientist comments dryly in regards to a slime mould (16) whose name derives from that canine organ. Another scientist takes her slime mould (17) on holiday with her to keep it “fed and happy.” The aforementioned amateur mycologist even admits to getting strange looks from people – a lone man, studying decaying logs in the deep woods, can seem quite odd to those unaware of slime mould (18).
As a film fanatic, the most fascinating part of the doc to me was how slime mould’s (19) “pulsing, rhythmic movement” led way to the earliest forms of cinema, viewed through a kaleidoscopic prism of slides and microscopic time-lapse (back then called “time magnification”). I am currently seeking out 1931’s “Magic Myxies,” shot by lead naturalist/filmmaker Percy Smith, as it is clearly the trippiest thing from the last Century this side of Luis Bunuel’s “Un Chien Andalou.”
Of course, a film dealing solely with slime mould (20) can’t go without its tedious passages, such as one of the scientists literally reading a book on screen, or the recurring shots of poorly-rendered molecules floating through vacuum. “The Creeping Garden” does stretch out its length; it could’ve been a stellar short. Quite pedagogical, it’s not exactly edge-of-your-seat entertainment either, or a “must watch” – no one (unless they have a particular interest in mycology) is going to drag you out to see “that latest flick about slime.”
Since I mention pedagogy, what DOES “The Creeping Garden” teach us, exactly? That slime mould (21) emulates road structures and/or human patterns? That we could learn from it? The doc’s message is a little ambiguous. Yet it does transcend its nerdy roots and, at times, becomes an artistic look at the odd things that surround us, the mystery of nature, and how little of it we still understand.
PS: For an entertaining – and heady – look at human’s literal fusion with nature – and slime mould (22!) – check out Alan Moore’s brilliant graphic novel “Swamp Thing,” an epic rumination on how the natural world is all connected through a consciousness we don’t have the capacity to grasp.
Now available on a 3-Disc Limited Edition Blu-ray & DVD
