A bar stands alone against the unforgiving wind of a snowy night. The lights in the windows are clouded by the muggy interior. Do we go in? Should we try another watering hole? Is it even open? In Sam A. Davis’ atmospheric, smokey daydream, The Singers, a legion of forgotten men stand up straighter to vie for a six-pack of beer and to be see in a different light.
A barfly is desperate for another drop of beer on this quiet, lonely night. The cold is threatning to come inside, and you can feel the chill more and more as men stumble out the front door, their pockets empty but their heads buzzing. The barfly is confident in his singing abilities and offers the bartender a song in exchange for another frosty glass. “I think I’m pretty good,” he says. “It’s sad in here, you know?’
With a request on the table, the bartender requests an old timer if he would challenge the barfly before it becomes a contest in the entire room. Whoever can sing the best will win another drink and one hundred dollars that has been hiding in a collage of one dollar bills behind the bar. You wonder if these men are more excited for another drink or the ability to stretch out their bar tab.
Instead of talking about their health woes or exchange war stories or tell the same joke for the hundreth time, this tavern is energized with the sense of competition. Davis drenches the bar with careful light, the silhouettes of men illuminated by the dingy bulbs above the bar or the spark of a lighter as they light their next cigarette. Maybe they are hiding in these shadows, as their eyes stay turned downwards. On this night, though, the lights blink from each of these men’s spirits. The Singers is populated by non-actors, and you automatically thumb through the karaoke book in your head if you dare to enter the competition yourself.
With each new participant, the bar is raised higher and higher–maybe the sound of singing will bounce off the nearly-empty bottles and drown out the train chugging loudly outside. Davis invites you not to watch but almost participate, and if you don’t sing, you might be tempted to add more cash to the pot at stake. He moves his camera from man to man, and you can almost smell their breath as he creates a surprisingly intimate encounter.
To stand in front of strangers, you must expell some vulnerability. Sometimes we don’t know how brave we are until we are standing up, clearing our throat and letting our song ring through. Davis has made a remarkable film. One that speaks to the courage we don’t know we possess and the talent we have kept hidden all along.
