One of those arthouse films whose every filmmaking effort goes to hide how it is deep down cheap exploitation. It gives up in the end and just turns into classier stalk and slash and I can’t decide if that was for better or worse. As long as one doesn’t try to pretend it does more than titillation under current film festival clothing, not devoid of interest.
A non-imaginary sickness.
There is only two filmmakers everyone needs to keep up in 2018: Wiseman because he chronicles what’s left of western civilized discourse and Diaz because he remains the only dedicated to confront the fascist forces head-on.
He has made Season of the Devil a few times by now, but I’m willing to give him a lot of reiterative leeway because he is struggling with a violent condition that remains static and his small changes remain rewarding.
"We're late, darling, we're late
The curtain descends, everything ends too soon, too soon"
One can't stop history. Come for Vertigo by way of Fassbinder, stays to be complete emotional devasted. Literally physical painful to sit through at times. The best thing about Petzold spare staging, the way his images can both feel charged with history and emotionally naked might have never been put to such good use. Also, Nina Hoss is beyond words (Zehrfeld is pretty great in a tricky role as well);
Literally greatest drop the mic ending ever.
I kinda want to punch people comparing this to Demy in the face as much as I wanted to punch Gosling’s (whose self-absorption is put to great use here even if I’m not sure it was intentional). That said, the anxiety of failure that runs as undercurrent throughout this does stings some. It is half a prick’s wish-fulfillment fantasy and half a manic depressed nightmare of someone afraid to be exposed and the way those disparate parts run together is curious at least.