This movie's core lies encased in a thick, thick layer of artistic sludge. Our insights are like electrons flying into the bubble chamber, leaving a maze of trails but all dying out of energy amidst the mile-deep liquid hydrogen... The director exhibits a style that is like dead realism -- images are still, stimuli are severely minimal; shots are distant and featureless, making every one an exercise in visual sifting; eyes sift through dead objects and dead colors searching for the subject. Nothing is given away. It may remind one of Tarkovsky, and the experience of struggle in visual and symbolic interpretation. Thematic clarity is as elusive -- there may be no continuous idea portrayed through the stream of images. There is relative continuity in the characters, but regarding message our vision is again obstructed. Yet one doesn't doubt that there is artistic quality and talent hiding behind. The poetry feels authentic -- everything feels authentic.
[The camera is often at a distant stationary point, like I recall in Stalker, but while Tarkovsky is strong-armed and philosophical this is a dead poetic; empty Thai still-life contrasts with the passion of Russian orthodoxy...]
I liked this film as I like Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. I found the meditative style pleasant, and the poetics pleasant also. I can sense a cultural and artistic barrier; I need more experience with this filmmaker, because it feels rare not to understand the artist's purpose. I feel confident in my understanding of the film itself, insofar as it can be understood, and satisfied with my level of enjoyment, but I cannot say I understand the artist as an artist; thus I am motivated.
Shots are still, blank, lifeless, packed uniformly with depleted subjects in their own forgotten stories: these visual cemeteries flow together in a thick wash counterpointed by language of mysticism and paranormality; this is an original filmic experience.
3/4
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