The non-narrative, experimental short film Erpe-Mere is a unique study of the native village of the filmmaker, Noemi Osselaer. Her film begins with a series of impressions, paced by the timelessness of a dusty summer day in the Flemish countryside: tractors driving out, quad bikes racing between trees, farmers working in the fields, cows grazing in the meadow. Nothing hints at the nightmarish stream-of-consciousness that ensues a few minutes later, kick-started by a girl going to sleep in her tent.

The twenty-minute psychedelic exploration of the landscape of Erpe-Mere is unpredictable. Osselaer puts out her feelers on two levels: visually and acoustically. We get to see many things, mostly in the dark of night: insects in close-up, corn fields, country roads. Cows are always present, one way or another: the stalls remain empty at night and the cows graze undisturbed outside. And if they’re not in the frame, you can hear them moo. 

Osselaer deliberately brings her soundscapes to the foreground: along with the mooing cows, we hear the rustling wind through the trees, chirping crickets and croaking frogs. The film seems to bask in the glow of a hot summer night but the dream (or nightmare) distorts sounds that, though still recognisable, are amplified and warped as if drawn from an uncanny, parallel world. It’s still a balmy summer night but it has a strange and ominous undertone. 

The way sound and image, or rather soundscape and visual collage, are merged plays a key role. The transformation of the charming Flemish countryside has an alienating effect, with an eerie, and at times even humorous, vibe. Osselaer’s slow pace gradually builds toward a hypnotic, psychedelic climax, and it never stalls along the way.