water

Fire replaces water as the elemental character in James Cameron’s “Avatar: Fire and Ash.” It’s even weaponized by Varang (Oona Chaplin), the ruthless leader of the volcano-dwelling Ash People, in their war against the rest of the Na’vi tribes.

“After figuring out water in all its complexity in [‘The Way of Water’], we focused on fire,” Cameron said about his VFX Oscar front-runner. “Fire is very much the same — you have to be very observant of [this] in the world. This is where having an understanding of physics — which I do — helps, and this is where a lot of real-world photography and reference comes in handy.”

Creating more realistic-looking fire in CG required Cameron to apply his understanding of fuel and how it burns, including flow rates, the interaction of temperature gradients, the speed of an object that’s burning and the formation of carbon and soot.

In essence, fire became the centerpiece of every scene — and a character with its own escalating drama. That’s where the VFX wizards of Wētā FX in New Zealand came in. They developed Kora, a high-fidelity tool set for physics-based chemical combustion simulations. Kora increased the scale of fire while providing more artist-friendly controls. The film contains more than 1,000 digital fire FX shots, ranging from flaming arrows and flamethrowers to massive explosions and fire tornadoes.

“Physical fire is really hard to control, so we had to come up with how to bend the physics towards the direction that Jim was giving it,” said Wētā senior VFX supervisor Joe Letteri. “Because he was very specific where he wanted the fire, what kind of speed, rate, size, how much or how little energy. He very carefully crafted every component, guiding your eye across it.”

“Fire serves two roles,” added Eric Saindon, a VFX supervisor at Wētā. “There’s always a little bit of low fire going on during quiet moments, but then you get fire that becomes much more destructive whenever there’s an attack sequence.”

In the film’s best scene, where archvillain Col. Quaritch (Stephen Lang) and Varang meet for the first time in her tent, fire takes on a more subtle, mysterious quality. She gives Quaritch a trippy “truth drug” to ascertain his real agenda, seductively playing with fire with her fingers like a sorceress. The scene turns surreal with camera distortion and zoom shots to convey his hallucinatory point of view.

Then Quaritch surprises her with his superpower: the truth. He proposes a partnership to provide his military weaponry so she can spread her fire across the world and he can rule as her co-equal. “In a strange way, they become the power couple from hell,” Cameron said. “He wins her over by sharing his vision.”

The physical properties of fire drove much of the visual effects work in “Avatar: Fire and Ash.”

(20th Century Studios)

Meanwhile, the subtle flicker of fire with cool blues around the edges of the flame is like a magic trick. “She knows it’s about theater, so she presumably has some kind of a gel or makeup that’s on the tips of her fingers so that they just don’t burn away in the first few seconds,” Cameron continued. “She’s able to dip her fingers in some kind of inflammable oil and light them and have them burn like candles. Of course, in his mind, it’s all enhanced much more due to the hallucinogen.”

Cameron praised both actors in the scene, but singled out Chaplin’s performance for the force she brings to Varang’s shamanistic authority. “She understood how the character would manifest her power psychologically and how there was a flip in the scene, where the flow of power runs the other direction at a certain point.”

The director also commended Wētā’s facial capture animation team for achieving a new level of photorealism, thanks in large measure to more realistic muscle and skin movement. “The way Oona’s performance comes through so resoundingly in the character is a tribute to a lot of R&D, a lot of development in the facial pipeline. But I think it really demonstrates how the idea of CG as a kind of digital makeup really does work. What I’m proud about in that scene is that it’s a culmination of an almost 20-year journey in terms of getting exact verisimilitude in the facial representation of the characters as an extension of the actors’ work.”

“It was really fun showing Varang to Jim because he knew what he had in the performance,” added Dan Barrett, a senior animation supervisor at Wētā. “And he included Oona’s idiosyncrasies in the final animation. He was very respectful of the performance.”

In fact, Cameron argues, Chaplin’s performance as Varang is Oscar-worthy. “It may be counterintuitive, but I would argue that it’s a more pure form of acting,” he suggested. “Now, you may say that it’s cheating in terms of the cinematography in the sense that the cards are stacked in our favor because that perfect performance will always be there and will be repeatable as I do my different camera coverage. But it’s not cheating in terms of the acting.”

Cameron has recently been more proactive in demonstrating how the performance-capture process works to academy and SAG-AFTRA acting members so they can better understand it. “It was just us, working on capturing a scene, and I even wrote new scenes so it wasn’t a made-up dog-and-pony show. And they were blown away,” he added.

The crumbling cliff edge is just metres away. An automatic blind, which I can operate without getting out of bed, rises to reveal an ocean view: the dramatic storm-surging North Sea with great black-backed gulls circling nearby and a distant ship on the horizon. A watery gold sunrise lights the clouds and turbulent grey water.

I’m the first person to sleep in the new Kraken lodge at Still Southwold, a former farm in Easton Bavents on the Suffolk coast. It’s a stylish wooden cabin, one of a scattering of holiday lets in an area prone to aggressive coastal erosion. The owner, Anne Jones, describes the challenges of living on a coast that is rapidly receding in the face of climate-exacerbated storms: the waves have eroded more than 40 hectares (100 acres), and the family business “is no longer a viable farm”. Instead, it is home to low-carbon cottages and cabins, “designed to be movable when the land they stand on is lost to the sea”. The latest projects include a sea-view sauna and a ‘dune hut’ on the beach for reflexology treatments “with the sea and waves as the backdrop”.

By train, bus and on foot, I’m here for the beaches, marshes, heathland and villages. Arriving at sunset, Still Southwold feels wild and remote, with lapwings flapping through the twilight like huge bats, but Southwold pier is just an easy 10-minute walk away. Heading to the bus stop next morning, I notice plumes of spray behind the beach huts. Waves are crashing over the concrete promenade near the pier. There’s a contrast between the brightly painted row of huts, with their candy stripes and stained-glass dolphins, and the heaving, uncontainable ocean behind them. It’s a worrying sign, as the path I’ve chosen today is only walkable at low tide. Erosion means the official coast path between Lowestoft and Southwold has been mostly rerouted inland and the soft cliff edges are perilous.

A 20-minute bus ride from the end of Pier Avenue brings me to Kessingland, a village just south of Lowestoft. Heading for the coast, with supplies from Bushells Bakery, I soon reach Rider Haggard Lane. The author of King Solomon’s Mines, H Rider Haggard, spent several summers in a holiday home on the cliffs in Kessingland, where he was visited by his friend Rudyard Kipling. Haggard planted marram grass to stop the sea encroaching and, climbing down steps on to the beach, I find there’s still a wide marram-grass-covered band of shingle. The sandy cliffs include layers of clay and fossil traces of steppe mammoths, hippos and sabre-toothed cats.

At the far end of the beach, near flood management works, a Natural England sign warns that the beach-walking route from here to Southwold is impassable near Easton Bavents. The owners of Still Southwold give visitors a code for a gate between their clifftop farm and Covehithe Beach. I press on, looking warily at the mess of washed-up kelp and driftwood that winter waves have hurled on to the land.

A hardy hiker is heading the other way in shorts, with a battered rucksack. He’s one of only three people I meet all day, and I check the state of the beach ahead. Is it safe? Is it walkable? “There’s a storm surge,” says the hiker. “The tide’s been much higher than expected. The wind’s from the north and the North Sea’s wider at the top than the bottom – it’s like someone blowing on a teacup.” The image stays with me all day, intensified by the milky-brown colour of the water, as the giant-tea-cooling waves roll into the sandy shore.

Benacre Broad is unexpectedly lovely. A loop of woods and marshes surrounds a beautiful and fragile lake, cut off from the sea by a shifting bank of sand and shingle, decked with salt-bleached roots and tree trunks like a natural sculpture garden. The coast here has retreated more than 500 metres in the last couple of centuries, and salt water now often breaches the bird-rich lake. I eat my sandwich in the sheltered bird hide, listening for resident warblers in the reeds, but hear only the roar of the sea.

The atmospheric ruins of a huge medieval church stand on the cliffs above Benacre. St Andrew’s, Covehithe is now just the tall 14th-century tower and a smaller thatched building, under decaying arches, with the old octagonal carved font inside. At the end of the lane from church to coast, a red warning sign says “Footpath Closed” where the old coastal path ends abruptly on the collapsed cliff edge.

Later, the warm bar of the Swan in Southwold is extra welcome after a chilly day on windswept beaches. There’s port-laced mulled wine on offer, as well as creamy Baron Bigod brie from the Fen Farm Dairy or slow-cooked Blythburgh pork with apple.

Next day, I meet friends in the scone-scented Bloom cafe on Southwold High Street and we stroll across Southwold Common to Walberswick. We’re following a section of the nightjar waymarks of the Sandlings Walk, a long-distance hike through surviving fragments of heathland between Southwold and Ipswich. Since medieval times, 90% of what was once a continuous stretch of Suffolk heath has been lost.

The last autumn colours are glowing across Walberswick Common, with its bracken and birch trees. We head back along boardwalks by the Dunwich River, remembering the drowned town of Dunwich not far away under the waves, a kind of Suffolk Atlantis. The wind has dropped today and the marsh is full of noises: the sudden trilling of a Cetti’s warbler and the rare song of a bearded tit from the miles of whispering reedbeds. We cross the Blyth estuary by rowing boat ferry for lunch at the harbourside Sole Bay Fish Company, before heading back towards Southwold as the sun sets.

Accommodation was provided by Still Southwold (cabins from £617 for three nights) and transport by Greater Anglia (singles from Norwich to Lowestoft £10.10, advance singles from London to Lowestoft from £17).

When three young girls die from leukaemia within a year in a Mexican town, the authorities insist that the water is not contaminated. A teacher and local mothers demand answers and form an action group to investigate the cause. When they team up with a scientist, they find out their water is highly radioactive.

Corporate agriculture for export has depleted the aquifers, leaving behind an ancient layer of groundwater that is poisoning their town. This revelation prompts national outrage and leads the government to cut off the town’s water supply, while some officials still claim that the water is safe.

As the community turns against the women, they face a difficult choice. They must either give up their activism or keep fighting for clean water and environmental justice.

The Age of Water is a documentary film by Isabel Alcantara Atalaya and Alfredo Alcantara.