TURRET provides emphatic support for the old idea that nothing is more complicated than what seem to be the simplest things. Even after repeated viewings the tricks it employs are nearly impossible to comprehend — precisely because they are so straightforward. Nothing more is shown than the leisurely dance of a row of vertical visual elements, the gentle rotation of light-colored wooden slats in a black space. They move toward each other without stopping and without any recognizable order — some of them are blurry, others almost hyperrealistically sharp. Even if the opposite, at first glance, seems to be the case, TURRET is a wholly representational film, though its color and motif have been reduced to such an extent that the spectator could easily think it abstract.
On five uniformly rotating turnstiles the filmmaker mounted four window casements each, and their photographic plasticity leaves no doubt that they are physically real: Grooves, grain, signs of age and minor faults in the wood are visible. Optical illusions are produced: The depth of the space in which the objects move is not immediately obvious. And the camera’s slow, barely perceptible retreat is revealed by reflections in the windowpanes. In addition, the growing distance from the action creates a sense of deceleration. TURRET represents a CinemaScope film study of space and area, light and movement to the accompaniment of a mono soundtrack’s white noise. This work is both closely related to Austrian electronic avant-garde and is also its antithesis, as an analogue and extremely concrete reproduction of an imaginary digital abstraction.