As I tried to peek into Roy Andersson's filmography, I was greeted by some of the most unnerving 15 minutes of cinema in recent memory. A synthetic world, completely and utterly devoid of any sentiment, so grounded in its own reality that it, ironically, feels detached. People so absorbed within their empty, sterile rooms that the only thing differentiating them from furniture are occasional, uncomfortable glances back at the camera, irritated by the audience's presence. What was left of humanity…
When he finally reached the peak of the highest mountain, he felt like he was the size of what he saw and in all infinite things he saw in his mother's eyes.
How can something be so infinite in scope, but so deeply personal at the same time? The very definition of "every frame a painting." An almost tangible sentiment in every shot. A definitive benchmark for essay cinema, but at the same time one of the most intimate pieces I've seen in a long time. Perfectly captures the endless life cycle of a family, that somehow, in spite of being incredibly specific, feels universally familiar.
“Foolish deeds are scattered at random. Why listen? Is there sense in what was written? By chance, haphazardly, for poetry’s sake, at the behest of a wandering echo, and because the oldest things carry over into the present.”
Nothing has ever captivated me the way František Vlačil’s magnum opus Marketa Lazarova did, with its avant-garde portrayal of the Middle Ages. Masterful work of cinematography, completely shrouded in mysticism. Juxtaposed visions, somehow all immersed into one. A figure that takes on…