Nearly 100 years ago, Frederick Law Olmsted Jr. and Harland Bartholomew designed a master plan for the city of Los Angeles, drawing a ring around the river at its heart. The plan addressed their concern about the rapid urbanization of cities in the West, which was frequently pushing nature to the outskirts. By centering the river and allowing it to move freely amid fields and wetlands, the planners envisioned a public green space where distant neighborhoods could come together as one.
But the plan was quickly dismissed as out of step with the industrialist vision of the 1920s and 30s. Then, in 1938, after a devastating flood, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers began to build concrete channels that separated the river from its ecosystem and continue to confine it today. Copies of the original plan still exist, one of which sits in the Los Angeles Public Library, where it fell into the hands of the artist and video game designer Alice Bucknell.
A still from The Alluvials [Image: courtesy Alice Bucknell]
For Bucknell, the plan served as an essential bridge to the past, and it laid the groundwork for their visionary project, The Alluvials, a computer-generated, speculative fiction world, accessible through both a film and a video game. The Alluvials, which reimagines L.A. through the lens of water and the natural world, brings the lost dream of the Olmsted-Bartholomew plan to liferemixed as a private development known as Next LA, where the river has been transformed into a teeming wetland filled with iridescent beams of light. A series of ethereal voices guide the audience through a climate-stricken Western water system, from the dried-up basin of the Hoover Dam to the fire-torn Malibu coast.
Like the plan that inspired it, The Alluvials issues a warning about where society is heading. In the midst of its eco-surrealist imagery, Bucknell offers a stark picture of the future: a deserted downtown, near-total drought, and corporate control over the remaining water resources. But by infusing this dystopian landscape with alternative histories, from the Olmsted-Bartholomew report to an Indigenous sacred site, Bucknell presents a compelling vision of what Los Angeles might have been and what it could still be.
The film version of The Alluvials is divided into seven chapters, and the video game contains interactive versions of four of them. The film opens with aerial shots peering down into the city, which has become half desert, then cuts rhythmically through the regions aquatic ecosystems, each rendered in the digital universe with a neon tech-noir aesthetic. Along the way, viewers meet a cast of familiar characters: the celebrity mountain lion P-22; the Lassen pack of gray wolves from Northern California; and El Aliso, a sycamore tree that once served as a meeting place for leaders of the Kizh-Gabrieleo Tribe, the original occupants of the Los Angeles River Basin.
Bucknell was walking the streets of downtown L.A., a few blocks from the design school SCI-Arc, where they teach, when they stumbled upon the plaque for El Aliso. The memorial was created by members of the tribe in 2015 to honor the tree, which had long served as a place of worship and gathering. Set into concrete by Highway 101, however, the story all but disappearsmaking it precisely the kind of the history that Bucknell felt was important to center in their work.
In The Alluvials, El Aliso grows tall in the reforested earth of Next LA. The sycamore tells its own story to players: how it lived for more than 400 years, witnessing waves of colonization and shading lush wineries before it was felled to make way for commercial development. In front of the tree, the memorial plaque hangs, embossed as an enormous hologram, like a curators introduction to the work of a venerated artist. In this fictional world scarred by climate disaster, El Aliso appears like an oasis, a momentary glimpse into what a worthy burial might have looked like, and a reminder of the many stories that 400-year-old trees can still tell. Bucknell amplifies the power of El Alisos story by bringing this nonhuman being back to vivid life.
Stills from The Alluvials [Image: courtesy Alice Bucknell]
The artist also celebrates the long history of the yucca moth, which is often outshone by its iconic companion, the Joshua tree. In the dried-out upper basin of Hoover Dam, The Alluvials recounts the symbiotic relationship between the yucca moth and the Joshua tree, describing it as an entrancing love story that dates back more than 40 million years. The depiction is not only uplifting, as it casts a flurry of white moths like snow against red rock; it is also a reminder of how complex relationships can be sustained throughout many ages of the Earth.
The Alluvials universe is at its most powerful when viewers are completely immersed in the ambiguity of time. Racing along the lush L.A. River, you can’t tell if you’re deep in the future, experiencing the artificial paradise of Next LA, or deep in the past, exploring the imagination of Olmsted and Bartholomew. By the same token, the spell is broken when the script too closely resembles the modern day. In a later chapter of the film, for instance, viewers learn that Next LAs private water developer puts mood stabilizers in bottled water to combat chronic anxiety over constant wildfires. Its a satire that hits too close to home. Zooming out, however, Bucknells signature cyberpunkfrom the beating electronic score to fluorescent animal silhouetteslargely erases time altogether.
Staring up at the dense galaxy of animated stars, I almost wished I didnt find it so beautiful. Born in the mid-1990s, I remember the precise years when my peers began to diverge into those who spent more time offline, lacing up boots and heading outdoors, and those who found greater fulfillment in the community and self-expression found in cyberspace. Both worlds offer their own comfort and sense of control, and sometimes I dont know which I find more breathtakingthe natural cathedrals of mountains and oceans, or the technologica systems made possible by generations of human hands and minds.
Throughout The Alluvials, particularly on the banks of the river, I felt grateful to live in this age of the Earth, when one person can so completely render their imagination into an immersive experience that others can enjoy. Whatever the limitations of the human world, whether bureaucracy or debate, artists can overcome them and create wonders that never made it into reality. This work goes hand in hand with advocacy; in the development of their game, Bucknell worked closely with the nonprofit Friends of the LA River, which for decades has worked to build more connected green space along the river.
A still from The Alluvials [Image: courtesy Alice Bucknell]
Some critics may be quick to dismiss The Alluvials for its style or poetic flourishes, but they cannot deny its broad appeal to a growing audience. The film and game have been featured at over a dozen exhibitions and festivals, from Los Angeles to Madrid, and Bucknell continues to offer access to both by request via their website.
Computer-generated worlds are steadily eclipsing traditional storytelling formats like books and magazines. In this context, Bucknells work stands as a compelling contribution to Californias climate fiction, echoing the legacy of the speculative fiction of Octavia Butler, who first offered scenes of a fire-torn California to the popular imagination back in the 1990s. But times have changed; Bucknell and other artists of the 21st century no longer have to imagine what that future might look like. Their task is much harder: They remind us that, to paraphrase Butler, looking into the future is still, as much as it was before, an act of hope.
This story was originally published by High Country News.
