The hortative takeaway of this black horror comedy, straight from the heart of period 80s Euro-cynicism, is: Move on, mother fucker, or else. Wise words, I guess, but any script, however sophisticated, that asks me to ridicule — and worse, accept the punishment of — a character for his grief, however obsessive, ain't gonna get no love from me.

Beautiful flat, though.

(Why was this in English?)

I can't think of a more accomplished, incisive and illuminating director of actors than Lucrecia Martel, particularly in the naturalistic style she's fond of, and there's no better observer and skewerer of a particular set of social mores. This is my Argentina, every frame of this movie says, and instead of being off-putting or condescending, as the tone of most American directors out of Hollywood would take of their societies, the feel here is intimate and painful — the terror of true self-awareness. That this was her first feature still astonishes me. The Chekhov comparisons are not hyperbole.