How in the world of Béla Tarr the familiarity not only becomes unfamiliar, but rather how it shows how any notion of the family, the home, is already uncanny in its nature. As if the question of reality or real-film did not matter, or as if the political was just a cruel joke on an already destroyed attempt at a home. The beauty lying in those long shots, in the sensation of waiting, anxiously, that all finish. What all? The scream, the silence, the innocuous moving in one place. A must for any entity that appeared in the eighties.
3 stars.
No comments:
Post a Comment