First-person narrative is sometimes deemed the easiest approach a filmmaker can employ—a common misconception that overlooks the creative effort required to express subjectivity without falling into the trap of self-indulgence. Even harder is the process when the self takes too much space in one’s life. It can become so overwhelming that one feels the need to externalise it by pouring it into images and sounds. Dutch filmmaker Marthe Peters seems to have found softer, more delicate forms to confront the unpredictability of the self.
Peters’ films brilliantly adopt an introspective stance that reaches outward, addressing the Other through the exploration of love and care. Baldilocks, her graduation short, primarily consists of childhood video footage—transient moments of joy and compassion shared with her parents. Through this material, Peters reflects on living in a fragile present shaped by the cancer she survived twenty years ago.
As an extension of these intimate meditations, the follow-up Henry is a Girl Who Likes to Sleep finds the filmmaker once again looking back at herself, this time by orienting her gaze toward her beloved cat, the titular Henry—a chubby white feline with tricoloured splotches on her fur. Throughout the film, Peters delivers a playful voice-over addressed to Henry, drawing comparisons between their bodies, their unique habits and traits, while also questioning the love and affection she may be burdening her cat with. Since she deals with the long-term traces of her childhood illness, the filmmaker admittedly doubts her capacities as Henry’s caregiver, as she sometimes finds herself in a state where even taking care of her own well-being feels tiresome and painful, let alone caring for others.
“I wish I had a fur coat to retreat into,” laments the filmmaker at one point. The spiral curl of Henry’s body echoes in another animal’s anatomy: the snail. Though the filmmaker doesn’t mention it directly, this comparison suggests a longing for a shell to retreat into. Almost like a metonymic extension of her self-described “sluggishness”, she adorns her frames with snails in numerous forms—ranging from real snails placed on the back of her partner’s shoulders and neck, to a snail-shaped blanket that covers a sleeping body. As indolent as these snails might appear, their movements and textures across different environments—on paper, skin, or bed linens—embody resilience and persistence, traits for which the filmmaker also deserves recognition, no matter how discreet she may be about them.
Alternating between digital and analogue formats, Peters’ images seem to tumble out of a cabinet of curiosities, pushed into the frame by an evocative force from the filmmaker’s thoughts. Much like the bedsheets and fabrics pulled and thrown in different directions in one of the scenes, she creates harmony through the layering of ostensibly disjointed elements. Composed of domestic miscellanea—animal-themed drawings, trinkets, and keepsakes—Peters’ haptic vignettes exude a coziness that feels unexpectedly open and welcoming for such a personal film. As the handwritten credits roll, one wishes to stay with these images a little longer—drawn in by their warmth and by this shared desire to reconnect with ourselves.
