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Walking into Surrender, Jenkin van Zyl’s installation in which a film loops on the wall of a mock-up of a motel room, I found the space was full of other viewers Some were lying on beds – just big enough for two, sheets tucked in, pristine white The atmosphere was strange, informed by the transience and intimacy of the motel room, itself a mirror to one of the locations that appears in van Zyl’s film There was intimacy here, but uncertainty as well The uncanny world of Surrender gets under the skin, hinting at the horror that’s to come   One of the curious things about watching artist films and installations is the ability a viewer has to enter part way through, to engage with imperfect knowledge Surrender, however, doesn’t stop: there are no endings or opening credits At the centre of the film is Grace, a human-rat hybrid, who exists as one half of a pair, a fraught union that van Zyl uses as a springboard for several themes They are referred to as One-Half-of-Grace throughout the film (in each dancing duo, both partners are referred to by a shared name) – the first step Surrender takes in deconstructing ideas of individual identity Snippets of Grace’s thoughts appear on screen in lines of slanted text, akin to intertitles, propelling the narrative forward  Grace first arrives at The Marathon, the competition around which the film revolves, via limousine, in which they fall asleep, as fireworks play on a TV screen The text reveals that entering the competition offers them ‘the chance to redo, to disappear If only briefly’ The spaces in which The Marathon takes place are perfect for disappearing into: motel rooms; deserted corridors Even The Ballroom itself, where the actual dancing takes place, has an anonymous quality to it: a stage with a familiar red curtain (the