Weight of smallest movements, grown out in excess. Disabled brother's nerves, he waits for you for hours. The shove of her into the car, attitude and introversion in body. Melodrama tones, short cuts, a desperation indicative of weak men unformulated in military service, unformulated in the singular goal of attainment and wealth. In his dying breath is a vector of clear sky constellations, available only in manmade glass.
In the night sky the factory grey in the day is a beacon of nothing, windows filled black, bodies removed from the street. It ripples, sinks beneath the water, an impossible angle; just like the diorama she walks out, the empty back of the studio lot, her fake smile and her fantasy of love. Life of fantasy and feeling, of keeping those beyond you surviving; the disused financial symbol princess in the room. Bachelorette to wife coiffure to modern geisha…
Barely art, the absolute bare level that constitutes what we’d call a “movie” and have it still be art. It’s hard to find any meat that justifies this over simply being a shinier variant of the vampire blockbuster, something that once came in fine line around two decades ago — Nosferatu is always film first, horror second. Robert Eggers makes it entirely horror, art walked upon the floor, covered in the muck of his incredibly dark masturbation session. Identity tossed…
Everything that is told of what this movie does for others is exactly what it did not do for me. What is not touched enough in how this film is considered is just how much of it is tied to its didactic nature, and this is because it is sorely, weightfully lost in its way of making substantial images. It's not exactly that there is nothing to grab at, to be a film of such acclaim, I feel there must…
