The 15:17 to Paris

Not really a movie, but a conceptually remanufactured reality. Calling it a reconstruction diminishes how truly alienating this thing actually is or how deep the rabbit hole goes (layers thick), and yet I found it exhilarating to watch these young men retrace their steps (all the way back to middle school) up until the traumatic event, to then see them fuse and melt with the footage of their honoration. Flashes of Kiarostami, glimpses of Herzog. Eastwood offers an alternative to the patriotic fare surrounding such true life adaptations, (maybe because most of it plays out in Europe, borrowing its sensibilitie) and gives us scenes upon scenes of life drifting by, meandering from change to change, and ordering gelatto without it tying into something larger. This is not that. This is reality. Except when you put reality on screen as is, but treat it like a film, a weird discrepancy happens between remanufacturing that reality and reality itself.

Anyway, I’m glad this was this and nothing else, because I love it for all its conceptual experimentation.

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