Perhaps most art, at some fundamental level, is about the process of its own creation, if for no other reason than that it bears the indelible claw marks of the hands that made it. Walden, for instance, is not just about Thoreau’s experiences in nature, but also about the assembling of those experiences into the book itself. And Virginia Woolf’s experiments in her novels with extended interior monologue suggest that, maybe, that’s what her novels are really about: their composition through a particular mode of consciousness. While there are no lack of theories about what Upstream Color is about or what it all means, the fact that most of these readings don’t cancel each other out, but rather exist simultaneously, is suggestive of the particular power of this film.
This film cannot possibly be loudly enough applauded.