THE STORY – Hoping to overcome his grief, a New England widower embarks on an absurd but personal journey with an eccentric guru who claims to have the power to fly.
THE CAST – Grant Rosenmeyer, Paul Raci & Lucy DeVito
THE TEAM – H.P. Mendoza (Director) & Jesse Orenshein (Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 107 Minutes
It is always a fascinating endeavor to watch the grieving process unfold. Whether that perspective is from an outside observer or keenly introspective, this method can be a revealing moment of understanding. It’s a personal journey that can take many routes, often surprising in their genesis and profound in their impact. It’s a specific kind of interrogation that can manifest differently to any individual. This process is exposed within “The Secret Art of Human Flight,” a film that takes a unique and intriguing approach to explore the theme of grieving in a realm that is a bit off-kilter from our own natural surroundings. In doing so, it finds a fascinating catharsis within this unusual setting, sparking curiosity and interest in the audience.
At the start of this story, Ben Grady (Grant Rosenmeyer) is engulfed by an unending sadness. He is at a loss due to the sudden death of his wife, a children’s book author who was also his professional collaborator. With her absence, Ben is at a loss. He’s emotionally driftless and is causing concerns for his friends and family, particularly his worried sister Gloria (Lucy DeVito). As Ben finds himself surfing on the internet, he comes across a suspicious corner of the dark web and discovers a man who claims he can teach people to actually fly. Upon ordering the instruction book, he then meets the man himself. Mealworm (Paul Raci) presents himself as a sort of spiritual guide who will not only bestow this skill but also give Ben the space needed to understand where his path forward will head. It’s a cautious alliance that leads to grand revelations unfolding in a unique and engaging narrative structure.
The texture of this world constantly has a strange aura, fixed within a sense of normalcy that has a consistent offbeat undercurrent. There is a hint of a Charlie Kaufman flavor, mixing relatable anxieties in an environment with the occasional moments of altered reality, which is nicely captured in Jesse Orenshein’s screenplay. The narrative is at its strongest when it embraces these characters’ emotional material, realizing that it often takes weird obsessions and peculiar hobbies to navigate the arduous territory that comes with comprehending such potent trauma. It’s a commentary that does get lost in the structure at times, as certain tangents will arise that distract from this concise examination. Whether that be allusions to foul play that brings in a police investigation or extended sequences of tedious drug trips, the storytelling can fall victim to meandering. However, when its focus is on this personal exploration, there is a tender and resonant observation that is quite effective.
It is also intriguing to witness how H.P. Mendoza crafts this world in a manner full of compelling choices. The tone always feels caught within a grounded sensibility that is always on the verge of tipping over into something more surreal. Doing so keeps one on edge as to when events might become even more extraordinary without ever losing the inherent humanity that is so valued to mine even further. The filmmaking finds beauty on a small scale, often embracing such limitations as a way to color these moments with an elegance that taps into the thematic weight on display. The tedium that’s baked into the script can’t be entirely avoided, which does make the pacing suffer, but the directorial skills showcased here are competent enough to sustain those deficiencies while also maintaining a captivating intimacy.
Rosenmeyer is an engrossing anchor to this piece, always being a natural presence in every bit of this chaotic journey. There is an identifiable conflict within this broken man that is expertly represented in his portrayal. The overwhelming sadness that soon evolves into a timid yet excitable optimism is wonderfully captured in his earnest performance. Similarly, Raci also presents a mysterious atmosphere that leaves one uneasy about the implementation of such a figure. As the story progresses, so too does the deep well that exists within this role, allowing for yet more opportunities for Raci to be expressive and enthralling. He has always been able to combine sly wit with bittersweet sadness, which is also represented here. There’s a nice turn from DeVito as a believably concerned sister that she shines as, as well as another alluring performance from Maggie Grace. She plays Ben’s friend, who connects with him by detailing her own struggles of loss. It’s not only a good reminder of this universal experience but also a presentation of a warm and inviting figure that is lovingly rendered in her performance.
“The Secret Art of Human Flight” may be yet another indie drama that focuses on moving on from a great personal tragedy, but its methods are unique enough to keep this analysis more intriguing. The storytelling finds enticing avenues to traverse, reveling in a mood that is delightfully odd while never missing the heart at the core. Some choices do take away from the potential that this piece could have, and those shortcomings, unfortunately, do limit how impactful this study can be. Yet, thanks to warm performances and an engaging premise, this eccentric portrait becomes an absorbing documentation of the hardships that come from letting go and finding a new path to awaken belief.
