This movie is really stupid. Split fans should love it.
Vaguely heartbreaking, but also too oddly specific to be taken as more than the sum of its characters' poor decisions. Haigh still strikes me as something of a filmmaker in progress, and as much as I respect his decision to resist visual poetry and anthropomorphism here the ultimate narrative is too deeply embedded with allegorical quest overtones to feel fully served by the lived-in, realistic approach.
Hitchcock’s masterwork, better than any other, reminds us of two truisms of cinema: to look is to remember and to remember is to impose. The hypnotic spirals that haunt every facet of the visual design and even the trademark dolly zoom effect take us deeper into the image, to the point that it threatens to swallow us, much as the past threatens to engulf Scottie. Of course these geometrical chasms are metaphorically vaginal, making Vertigo the great masterpiece about sexual…