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It is rare to find a film with an overt agenda, or pointed social commentary that does not cause at least some polarisation, especially since viewers seldom wander into a cinema with the intentions of facing a reality extremely close to home. Yet, with Frank Berry’s directorial debut, I Used to Live Here, we have an exception to this case.
Looking at the impact of suicide on a normal community in as raw a manner as you can get, the story, upon first glance may seem like quite a daunting experience to sit through. However, by acknowledging the fact that depression is a universal issue, Berry has delivered a relatable agenda-driven work that will touch many, and antagonise none, helping to widen discourse on the topic.
Bypassing a preachy tone in favour of one that grabs the attention of its viewers from the outset, Berry’s first work of fiction presents a series of loosely interwoven stories that are simple, relatable and play out in a manner seldom seen onscreen. It should come as no surprise that Berry and his cinematographer, Colm Mullen, were previously documentary filmmakers, since the lives that they chart here could deceive audiences into believing that they are flies on the wall to actual encounters. Add to this the fact that most of the performers are non-actors, all residing in Tallaght, and very quickly, it becomes clear that while there is a script involved, the words and emotions witnessed are not based upon a total fabrication.
Owing its origins to an Irish Times article, entitled “Breaking the Ripple Effects of Suicide” by Tony Bates, I Used to Live Here follows the lives of Amy (Jordanne Jones) and Dylan (Dafhyd Flynn), two very ordinary teenagers living in suburban North Dublin. Their close relationship however, takes an unfortunate turn onto a rough path once a local boy commits suicide, causing cracks to surface throughout the community.
The tragedy, for a split second, manages to bring many of the local people together. However, once the trauma starts to sink in, his death leaves many standing despondent under one inescapably vast, dark cloud. The shock incurred sets off a series of events, some showing the viewer how one can be attracted to suicide since it can overcome the sense of invisibility that a person feels, while also explaining how people can end up somewhat blind to the suffering of one individual by looking in the wrong place.
The latter is brought to fruition onscreen by Mullen’s impressive cinematography skills, as he maneuvers like a man dancing to the rhythm of conversations, or more importantly, seeking out ways to show Tony Bates’ original argument without a need for words. He weaves about each scene, either shrouding certain faces, or tricking viewers into focusing on the wrong characters, hence, taking attention away from those actually at risk of contemplating such dark thoughts.
When these elements come together, the end-result reveals a heartfelt labour of collaborative love, produced by a community who are neither afraid to say exactly what they mean, or mean what they say. The sheer honesty of the storyline would reach out and affect audiences alone, regardless of how it may have been presented visually. Yet, since the cinematic techniques and aesthetics are equally admirable, the resultant reaction is one of overall amazement. This is a film that the Irish film industry can genuinely be proud to call is one of their own.
