It took an unexpectedly long time to develop the look of the story’s main character. I wanted to play her myself, but I also wanted her to look as little like me as possible. Through trials with wigs, makeup, and costumes, the appearance of the final protagonist—the host—gradually came to life. I wanted her to carry a touch of magic. I allowed myself what the medium of film so generously offers—the ability to heighten, blur, or colour the ingredients of reality.
The plants, the choice of black and white fabric, and even the film’s title all reference the iconography of the three stages of a woman’s life—maiden, mother, and crone. Baby’s breath as a plant and the sheer white fabric on the curtain. The mother-in-law's tongue leaf and the sheer black veil referencing mourning. The three archetypal stages might seem to be somewhat meaningful at first, especially from a so-called common-sense perspective. But simplification often leads to dehumanization. These three categories are hollow containers, and once they are imposed upon you, they carry consequences. The maiden is “pure,” modest, girlishly young, and naive. The mother is “in full bloom,” fertile like Venus, immodest, beautiful, yet aware she is beginning to lose her shine, and therefore pliable. She walks a fine line between sex symbol and shrew. The crone may be wise, but she is considered spent, without desire, without ambition. Each of these fictional archetypes represents a person who is only a step away from becoming an obsolete member of society: the maiden is frigid, the mother is a whore, and the crone simply floats in a vacuum, waiting to die.
A pale lavender-blue satin curtain transitions at the bottom into layers of organza and tulle—white on the left, black on the right. In front of the curtain, a red-haired woman around forty sits on a chair. In her hand, she holds a sprig of baby’s breath (called the bride's veil in the Czech language) with a single leaf of dracaena, also known as the mother-in-law's tongue. Mud slowly crawls across the floor around her feet.
The mud also plays a crucial role. It consumes and spits out, clings and crumbles, conceals, weighs down, and flows. In previous years, I found mud to be a compelling metaphor for the cycle of life and death. It is a mixture of water and soil, enriched by the decay of organic matter. Dead organisms decompose into a nutrient-rich slurry that nourishes plants, protects animals, and provides building material for people. And yet, mud first evokes associations with filth, being stuck, slipping, unpleasant texture, dull color, and a smell we’d rather avoid. We instinctively connect it with misfortune, inappropriateness, and discomfort.