There have been many great movies made in the past few years, but none that I’ve seen reflects as comprehensive an act of creation as does “A Ghost Story,” from the director and screenwriter David Lowery. It is a simple story of a house and its haunting: a young couple, played by Rooney Mara and Casey Affleck, live in a small house in semi-rural Texas. (Their characters are not named throughout the film; in the end credits, the woman is called “M,” the man, “C.”) Early in the film, he dies in a car accident; after she observes the body in a hospital morgue, the young man rises in the form of a classic, nearly parodic ghost—a white sheet with two eyeholes. He leaves the morgue, returns to the house that he shared with the woman, and takes up residence there. This narrative hardly seems stocked with sufficient incidents to fill even a short film. But under the direction of Lowery, whose previous films include the historically resonant modern Western “Ain’t Them Bodies Saints” (which also starred Mara and Affleck) and the tender, tactile remake of “Pete’s Dragon,” “A Ghost Story” is a quietly grand romantic mystery, a metaphysical vision of love that is inseparable from Lowery’s wildly inventive yet controlled way with the very stuff of movies: movement, performance, space, time, light, color, reflections, effects, talk, sound, and, for that matter, silence. The film, which pulls an epigram from Virginia Woolf’s story “A Haunted House,” is a jewel-like novella written directly onto the screen in images.
“A Ghost Story” ’s fiercely audacious originality is on view from the start, before any ghosts make their appearance. When C and M sit together, yet apart, in the sparely furnished living room, each using a laptop computer, Lowery uses the simplest of devices—focus, keeping C sharply in the foreground and M in the background—to suggest the distance of intimacy, a vague self-absorption that will, of course, eventually become clearer. Soon it’s apparent that a change is about to happen, because M is doing a major cleaning, which Lowery captures in a single ingeniously conceived and deftly realized image: a tilt of the camera down from the sky to a house sitting on a broad swath of unkempt grass. The camera tracks horizontally as M drags a chest laboriously from the front door of a small one-story house, toward the camera, as it passes at a tightly measured lateral glide from one side of the bare path to the other; she deposits it curbside with a pile of other garbage, and the camera then reverses course. The simple movement of the image along with that of the woman is “unmotivated,” which is to say that it’s not done to follow her movement, to emphasize her particular gesture, or to reveal any additional narrative details. It makes the moment feel as if it has its own distinctive identity and, moreover, makes each of the elements of an apparently unified frame burst forth in its own disparate identity.
The multiplicity of elements in a single frame—the seeming miracle of things being together in the same time and place—is one of Lowery’s decisive visual themes. When the couple is together in bed at night, a seeming slam of the strings of the pair’s upright piano by an invisible visitor leads to a twilight prowl that Lowery again controls with precise focus and delicate shadow. When they return to bed, the result is an exaltedly intimate nuzzle in a single shot that has a tightrope walker’s tensely thrilling uninterrupted duration. (Lowery’s control of time throughout the film is exquisite.) The interruption comes with another image, in daytime, of the front of the house;
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Lowery pans very slowly from it toward the street, where two cars sit silently, having catastrophically crashed; one of them contains C, who is dead. After M goes to the morgue to observe the body and leaves, the sheet rises with a jolt and then makes its way, seemingly invisible, through the hospital. The ghost passes in silence through vast fields and eventually reaches the house. Existing in an alternate realm of time, the ghost also has a tempo of its own, a phlegmatic, nearly shuffle-like glide that seems to temper the tempo of the entire movie—as if the movie itself were haunted, inhabited by this practical, ever-so-slightly yet overwhelmingly comical, silent ghost, who’s invisible and inaudible to the living.
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