About the Film
The Expedition is, first and foremost, an explication of a memory that felt like a dream. Throughout, there's this underlying sense we're headed for a crescendo of movement and sound within it. We see this sort of duel between chaos and serenity, as it plays out in subtle ways with the pacing and visualization of that memory — and also in the metaphorical dance between English and French.
From the Director
~ NOTE ONE ~
I am a purposeful man. I am an honest man. Everything I do has a reason. Most of what I make's not been without thought beforehand: consciously, subconsciously, and unconsciously. As to where I get my ideas, the truth is that it's most often while I'm asleep. I build my stories over time in a sequence of dreams — and sometimes all in one night. I'm a bit of a night owl by nature, but my daydreams often resemble those at night. The same people and things still hold value, and instill love for the world within me. I still view the outer world in movie scenes, because I'm still the kid inside that I've always been. The one who closes the door on his inner child also surrenders his sense of wonder.
I offer an opportunity to experience the sounds and music in this film as I did. What you hear is recorded or isolated from the footage around the places I traveled; painstakingly hand-picked, salvaged, and mixed in to create a sense of audial harmony. These are real people living their lives at this very moment — granted, they're now living them 8 hours ahead as I write this here in Seattle. I think it's fitting all those parents, brothers, sisters, and children are 13 months older now. What have they experienced since then? What have they lost? The first minute of the film houses this sentiment.
People ask me how I'm so easily distracted. Let's consider what goes through my mind instantaneously if I hear the words "Cherry On?" Well: Children run by me saying hello as Billie Eilish sings quietly under my umbrella, but above my new boots. Birds chirp in the English countryside while the waves crash hard in Brittany, and couples of all ages walk down the Quayside past me with a smile. They tell me they're not used to meeting Americans like me. I'm still feeling butterflies from seeing the Northern Lights with my new friend Imad. That wienie dog just kicked sand all over me while we play, but I couldn't care less because he's happy and my cappuccino's warm despite it being frozen out — plus, I left home content from the sound of the seagulls anyway. The train I'm on's passing Sheffield, the hometown of the my favourite band, the Arctic Monkeys, but from two weeks into the future I hear the French accordion player. Will it snow tonight? I can't believe I was just feet away from David Tennant. Still, I have to hold onto my hat as the Circle line whizzes by me playing Pixar's rendition of the La Marseillaise, rendering my childhood romanticisations of Paris — and all in that matter of a moment, at least in my mind, I'm in four places at once. That's what I heard.
The pacing and transitions, interwoven, alternating thoughts of England and France, the color, energy, and abruption of change reflected my thoughts both at the time and now; all threaded between the music that accompanied me in my journey between love, friends & cities.
~ NOTE TWO ~
I also added 4 external recordings from the London Underground & from BBC. Note the 3 tube service messages, namely Phil Sayer, Pauline Cavilla, and Emma Clarke; Phil and Emma mainly being two voices all Londoners will recognize as significant and familiar voices at once. The monotonous tones took me out & away in the mornings, and brought me back home just off the high street at night.
The lovely Audrey Hepburn speaks her piece over a critically emotive moment in "Papa" by Mélanie Laurent. She played a miraculously relevant role in shaping the filmic figure I'd sought in Paris. It was almost poetic, the way we'd talked and laughed chez Zebe — with the reflection of her portrait in the ovular mirror dans l'autre pièce, just beyond the wall. I hadn't planned that bit. From New York to London, her grace seems to follow my path, pas loin, guiding it, pointing with a silk glove — wet from the rain, laced no less with Tiffany diamonds and an assured bit of dirt on the fingertips — underneath, her painted fingernails are spotless. That is what I saw.
— Robert Joseph Suarez
