Wait, that's it?
As the audience spends a full half-hour focused and engrossed in watching the movie, only to discover that the truth is this simple, one by one, they fall into deep self-doubt. They can't believe their own judgment and start questioning everything.
They thought the movie was building up to something, but… that's it?
Simple. Plain. Slow.
And even, well… a little boring.
"Michelle."
An unremarkable girl who dutifully studies but is ostracized by the other girls because of her plain looks. They mock her for being good at math as if it's something to be ashamed of. They ridicule her for wearing "grandma's underwear," so much so that she refuses to wear the required gym shorts during PE, opting for long pants instead—even if it means getting scolded by the teacher.
She's too scared to get angry or upset, or even to look back at the girls attacking her. She just wants to run away.
Hurriedly, she leaves the locker room and rushes to the library to help the teacher organize books. Only in the library does she feel calm.
"Nathan."
He's a player on the school football team—handsome, popular, the object of many girls' crushes. But all he can think about is skipping school with his girlfriend to go for a drive.
They manage to get permission to leave school by tricking the administration. But instead of leaving right away, the young couple, full of youthful passion, sneaks off to find a private spot to spend time together.
Everything is ordinary. Even for high schoolers, it's the most mundane kind of ordinary—the trivial, simple daily life that holds no special significance.
There's no draw, no allure.
Most importantly, it's quiet.
When the audience sits in the cinema, they're used to being bombarded with sights and sounds—a 360-degree surround of visual and auditory stimuli. But Elephant isn't like that.
Not only is the imagery simple, but the information it conveys is very limited. There's no soundtrack either. The film is entirely quiet, like a true recording of daily life in a school.
Some documentaries add music to create atmosphere and emotion, but Gus Van Sant does the opposite, completely cutting out music and returning to the pure essence of documentary filmmaking.
Especially with the presence of Anson, who breaks the fourth wall, further blurring the line between fiction and reality. This gives the film an original, raw, and authentic documentary feel.
But the question remains—who wants to watch a bunch of high schoolers living their boring, uneventful lives?
Other than the long, lingering shots that haunt the scenes like a ghost, the film, so far, seems pointless.
Yes, pointless!
This situation is actually quite familiar.
The three major European film festivals are known for this, and it happens often. These festivals are a haven for art films—those that are experimental, groundbreaking, and artistic. But with challenge and innovation also comes risk, and experimentation and art often lead to confusion.
So, people walk into the theater with high expectations and storm out in frustration. It's not uncommon for people to leave halfway through a screening. This kind of scene happens three to five times at festivals every year—it's almost a hallmark of these events.
If you like something, you like it. If you hate it, you hate it. If it's mediocre, then it's just mediocre.
On the festival stage, there's no need for fake praise or polite compliments. Everything is real, and films must prove themselves.
A film about the daily lives of high schoolers?
No way. It's so boring, so tedious, so dry. What on earth was Gus Van Sant thinking?
No wonder Anson is part of the film—he doesn't need to act at all. This is the perfect role for him.
But wait!
Something doesn't feel right.
If this were just a simple documentary about high school life, the Cannes Film Festival's selection committee wouldn't be so foolish. They don't need to kiss up to Gus or Anson. So why did they choose this film for Cannes? And in the main competition, no less? It can't be that simple… right?
The beauty of the European audience lies in their patience and calm. They have a deeper understanding of art.
Despite all the complaints, the Lumière Hall remains silent. No one speaks, and no one leaves. They're waiting for a turning point.
And then, it comes—
Anson pulls himself together, no longer consumed by grief and sorrow. After modeling for Iris, he walks through the hallway and exits the school through a different door.
In the end, he can't stop worrying about his father.
As he steps outside, he lifts his head, scanning the area in the distance to locate his father and the parked car, making sure they're still there.
He catches sight of a girl walking her dog. It's clear this is a shepherd dog Anson is familiar with.
A smile breaks out, and though the camera remains behind Anson's shoulder, hiding his face, the cheerful sound of his voice gives away his true emotion.
"Boomer!"
Anson claps his hands, and the shepherd dog runs over happily, performing a little trick by spinning in place, almost like dancing a tango.
It's in this moment that the imagery shifts.
Slow motion.
The camera, which had been quiet and straightforward—recording the daily life from a purely observational viewpoint, with no embellishment, not even music—suddenly adopts slow motion, slowing down the interaction between Anson and the dog.
It grabs your attention, like a pebble tossed into a still pond.
So what?
Anson's interaction with the dog remains ordinary. But before you can dwell on this thought, Anson notices two figures approaching:
They're wearing camouflage pants and dark jackets, gloves, and boots. They're carrying two heavy bags, clearly not dressed for an ordinary day.
Anson tilts his head and greets them, "Hey, what are you two doing?"
The boy with the baby face glances at Anson. "Get out of here. Don't come back. Something bad is going to happen."
Anson freezes. The two walk past him. He turns and shouts at their backs, "What are you going to do?"
But they don't answer.
The camera follows their figures, capturing Anson's confusion and concern, but it doesn't linger. It abandons Anson and quickly follows the two boys, zooming in on their backs.
They march forward with determination, their camouflaged outfits and heavy bags crunching through the fallen leaves.
The wind howls, and in an instant, the sky darkens. A foreboding tension spreads.
The screen fades to black—
"Eric and Alex."
The film doesn't provide any more answers. Instead, it cuts to another scene, shuffling the timeline and showing Eric and Alex's daily life again.
But the Lumière Hall is now tense. The audience, comprised of seasoned viewers, senses the shift. A slow-motion shot, a close-up, a sudden change in atmosphere—without dialogue, explanation, or plot—the imagery has communicated everything.
The smart ones feel the dread. A few swallow nervously, trying to ease their anxiety.
In the next moment, they are drawn into this surreal daily experience, as if they're truly watching a documentary. They know danger is approaching, but no one can warn the students. They know a tragedy is brewing, but no one can leave their seat.
This is just another ordinary school day.